‘Rubbish, Marchmont!’ exclaimed Lord Francis.
Marchmont! The name struck a chord with me. I turned to take a closer look at my critic, wondering if I could trace any family likeness to the dark-cloaked man who had threatened me at the stage door.
‘It’s stuff like that which leads to anarchy. We see it daily in France; I hope to God we do not see it here,’ the Marchmont boy continued like some little politician on the hustings. Tension crackled between him and his host. I had the impression that they were old sparring partners between whom there was no love lost.
‘Parroting your favourite Pittite phrases, are you?’ said Lord Francis. ‘You’d better not let your father find out. As a friend of liberty, he wouldn’t like to hear that his son’s a dyed-in-the-wool reactionary.’
‘Francis!’ said Lady Elizabeth, scandalised.
‘I think we had better go,’ said Marchmont rising and leading his sisters to the door. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Lady Elizabeth. The music was superb.’
The Marchmonts’ departure was taken as the signal for the party to break up. Pedro and I lingered in a corner, wondering if we should slip out or wait to be dismissed. We had been expecting to receive something for our trouble. I hoped that my audacity in reading my poor stuff to the duke’s children had not lost us our bounty. Pedro would never let me hear the end of it if it had.
When the last person had left, Lady Elizabeth turned on her brother.
‘Frank, do you have to be so rude to my guests?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know why you invited them, Lizzie. Just because Father’s friendly with his father, it doesn’t mean we have to endure them. You know I think Marchmont a prig. You are too polite to say what you really think of his sisters, but I know you don’t like them.’
‘Yes, but to attack him in our own drawing room . . . that’s very bad manners!’
‘And criticising your brother in front of strangers, isn’t?’ he said with a nod at Pedro and me.
Lady Elizabeth blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I did not realise you were still here.’ She nudged her brother. ‘Go on,’ she hissed, ‘pay them!’
Lord Francis strode over to us and bowed. ‘A token of our sincere appreciation of your talents,’ he said, dropping a promisingly heavy purse into Pedro’s hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Pedro.
Lord Francis turned to me. ‘I hope our ill-mannered guest did not offend you, Miss Royal? You did splendidly. Tell me: does all this really happen as you describe it?’
I nodded and smiled into his friendly eyes, thinking how much I liked him. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s even better than she writes it,’ Pedro butted in, trying to impress the young nobleman. ‘We have parties and music, boxing and battles.’
‘Boxing!’ Lord Francis grabbed at the word eagerly. ‘My great passion is the ring! I want to learn how to box but Father won’t let me.’
‘Well,’ said Pedro leaning forward confidentially, ‘Cat here . . . I mean Miss Royal . . . just so happens to be best friends with Covent Garden’s boxing champion. We are watching him in a match on Sunday. For a small consideration,’ he chinked the purse suggestively, ‘we might be able to take you along.’
‘Pedro!’ I whispered in warning. This really did not sound a good idea.
‘Will you? . . . Yes, I might be able to get away,’ said Lord Francis, thinking aloud. He stole a look over his shoulder at his sister, who was now running her fingers over the piano keyboard in a melancholy love song, lost deep in thought. ‘Lizzie’s a bit absent-minded at the moment, mooning over one of her suitors who has done a midnight flit. She’s not as sharp as normal. If I pretend to be ill and get out of church, I should be able to do it.’
‘We’ll meet you on the corner of Grosvenor Square then,’ said Pedro quickly. ‘At ten.’
‘At ten,’ agreed Lord Francis.
‘If you are coming,’ I said sullenly, glaring at Pedro, ‘you’d better dress down a bit, sir.’
‘Right you are, Cat . . . I mean Miss Royal,’ grinned Lord Francis.
SCENE 3 . . . BOW STREET BUTCHER V. CAMDEN CRUSHER
I was not looking forward to the prospect of trying to smuggle his lordship into the boxing match. It was bad enough that I had to pretend to be a boy to pass unnoticed, but bringing along someone who would have no idea how to blend in seemed pure recklessness. I could imagine what fun the lads would have if they found out that one of their lords and masters was mingling with them. Lord Francis would be very lucky to get home in one piece. Pedro didn’t have a clue what he was doing.
I confided my fears to Johnny the next morning over lessons. Having heard from Mrs Reid how Old Carver had undertaken my education, Johnny had insisted on carrying this on. His choice of reading matter was very different from Mr Carver’s solid diet of English greats: Johnny was improving my French so that I could read Rousseau in the original and his idea of English composition revolved around the cream of the crop of the latest political tracts. It was not all hard work, however: at my insistence, he was also giving me lessons in drawing.
We were sketching a bust we had found in one of the airy club rooms on the first floor of the theatre when I raised the subject of the match.
‘I agree: it doesn’t sound a good idea,’ said Johnny, lifting his pencil to measure the space between Roman nose and weak Roman chin of Julius Caesar. ‘But neither do I think it a good idea for you to gad about town dressed as a boy, Catkin.’
I scribbled a big proboscis on my drawing, which made the emperor look as if he had a beak. ‘What were you saying earlier about men and women being equal? How else am I to enjoy equal freedom if I don’t disguise myself ?’