Lord John and the Hand of Devils Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    “I have inquired regarding him,” Grey said. “I hear he is a political, but one of no great consequence; a mere time-server.”
    “True, he is nothing in himself. His associations, though, are more substantial. Those with whom he allies himself are scarcely without power, though not—not yet!—in control.”
    “And who are those? I am quite ignorant of politics these days.”
    “Sir Francis Dashwood, John Wilkes, Mr. Churchill…Paul Whitehead, too. Oh, and Everett. You know George Everett?”
    “We are acquainted,” Grey said equably. “The invitation you mentioned…?”
    “Oh, yes.” Quarry shook his head, recalled to himself. “I finally discovered the whereabouts of the hall porter. He had overheard enough of Bubb-Dodington’s conversation to say that the man was urging Gerald to accept an invitation to stay at West Wycombe.”
    Quarry raised his brows high in implication, but Grey remained ignorant and said so.
    “West Wycombe is the home of Sir Francis Dashwood,” Lady Lucinda put in. “And the center of his influence. He entertains there lavishly, even as we do”—her plump mouth made a small moue of deprecation—“and to the same purposes.”
    “The seduction of the powerful?” Grey smiled. “So Bubb-Dodington—or his masters—sought to entice Gerald? To what end, I wonder?”
    “Richard calls the West Wycombe assemblage a nest of vipers,” Lucinda said. “Bent upon achieving their ends by any means, even dishonorable ones. Perhaps they sought to lure Robert into their camp for the sake of his own virtues, or”—she paused, hesitant—“for the sake of what he might know regarding the prime minister’s affairs?”
    The music was starting afresh at the far end of the room, and they were interrupted at this delicate moment by a lady who, spotting them in their leafy refuge, came bustling in to claim Harry Quarry for a dance, waving aside all possibility of refusal with an airy fan.
    “Is that not Lady Fitzwalter?” Buxom and high-colored, the lady now pressing Quarry’s hand provocatively to her breast was the wife of Sir Hugh, an elderly baronet from Sussex. Quarry appeared to have no objections, following up Lady F’s flirtations with a jocular pinch.
    “Oh, Harry fancies himself a great rake,” Lady Lucinda said tolerantly, “though anyone can see it comes to nothing more than a hand of cards in the gentlemen’s clubs and an eye for shapely flesh. Is any officer in London greatly different?” A shrewd gray eye passed over Lord John, inquiring as to what his own differences might be.
    “Indeed,” he said, amused. “And yet he was sent to Scotland for some indiscretion, I collect. Was it not the incident that left him with that slash across the face?”
    “Oh, la,” she said, pursing up her mouth in scorn. “The famous scar! One would think it the Order of the Garter, he do flaunt it so. No, no, ’twas the cards that were the cause of his exile—he caught a Colonel of the regiment a-cheating at loo, and was too much gone in wine to keep a decent silence on the point.”
    Grey opened his mouth to inquire about the scar, but was silenced himself by her grip upon his sleeve.
    “Now, there’s a rake, if you want one,” she said, low-voiced. Her eyes marked out a man across the room, near the hearth. “Dashwood; him Harry spoke of. Know of him, do you?”
    Grey squinted against the haze of smoke in the room. The man was heavy-bodied, but betrayed no softness of flesh; the sloping shoulders were thick with muscle, and if waist and calves were thick as well, it was by a natural inclination of form, rather than the result of indulgence.
    “I have heard the name,” Grey said. “A political of some minor repute?”
    “In the arena of politics, yes,” Lady Lucinda agreed, not taking her eyes from the man. “In others…less minor. In fact, his repute in some circles is nothing short of outright notoriety.”
    A reach for a glass stretched the satin of