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The house steward, Pierce, came in to give the Marquess a letter. “This came this morning by the carter, My Lord.”

  “Very well. Set it down here.”

  Bond glanced at Symington, who nodded.

  “Well. What ship are we talking about?”

  “One of the steamships at Glasgow, Father,” Symington ventured.

  “Hmm. Tell me about it―but leave that woman out.”

  “The construction is proceeding apace; two of the shipyard crews are racing to have the first completed ship. They are expecting to even beat the Spiteful’s record of 200 days to completion.”

  “Two hundred days? What nonsense is this? You cannot build ships at such a pace and have them fit for the sea.”

  Symington looked at his father cautiously. “But these are iron ships, Father. Iron does not rot―so they can be built as quickly as the material is delivered to the yard. There are even gas-lights to be set up in the workshops on the slip for the Antiochus so that the crews may work at night.”

  “Humph! And what is the merit to that? Work all night? I don’t hold with all this modern rush. Look at you. Never in one place for a minute—taking the train here . . . train there. What does the Admiralty say? You must hardly be at your desk for a day’s work.”

  Bond ventured to correct the Old Man. “I believe I told you that we estimate the French will have their steamships ready for sea by August or September. Roberta has to keep her shipyards going flat out in order that ours will be ready for them.”

  The Marquess glared at him, but did not deign to correct him for mentioning his wife. He opened the pages of the Times to look inside.

  Bond tried to see the address on the letter, without success. He looked at Symington, who made the shape of a bishop’s crosier in the air with his hands. Yes, that was all he would need―something from the church would likely be bad news. He had been urging his friends to keep the bishops from unanimity for weeks.

  “I’m expecting a letter from Lord Liverpool, Father. They have received a response from the Americans, so I must begin preparations to get our negotiators to Switzerland very soon.”

  The Marquess looked up from his paper. “Why do you have to go? Do none of those jackasses who work for Liverpool know their way to Bern?”

  “I believe I am the only agent with current knowledge. It is rather a feather in my cap, don’t you think. They have not selected some colonel from the Guard’s Cavalry.”

  The Marquess lowered his paper further and cast a mock prayerful expression at the ceiling. “When I was at sea you couldn’t find a single man with a red coat who knew his way to the heads.”

  They both laughed at their father’s jest. The Old Man had been a civilian aide to Admiral Graves, the fleet commander who had made Yorktown a present to General Washington.

  “Which way will you take them to the Continent?” Symington asked.

  Bond grinned at him. They had already talked about this, but with a bit of luck they might distract the Marquess from his letter until he had left for the morning. Every stolen minute might count when they were up against the man with all the aces.

  He had been making a great show of not visiting his own wife for weeks to placate the Old Man. Even relied upon Symington to write her and keep her informed of the duelling going on. He felt he had more than humoured the bishops and their allies over the mensa thing―acting as if it were in force while he had avoided applying for its promulgation.

  “Swedish Pomerania is the best entry port at the moment. It keeps us as far from Berlin as we can be as we travel overland to Austria. Protecting us from made up diplomatic games―until the Prussians make up their minds if they will enter a new coalition with Britain or else make us a pawn in some contest with Napoleon.”

  The footman arrived with his eggs and ham, and he ate quickly while Symington discussed Swedish neutrality with Father. The ruse worked for a while, but the Marquess pushed his newspaper aside and saw the missive beneath it. He tore open the envelope to read.

  Bond downed his coffee and prepared to leave.

  “No,” the Marquess said. “I have something to say to you.”

  “Yes, Father. About the journey to Bern?”

  “No. What you are going to do before you leave the country.”

  Damn. This sounded as if he had failed. What more could he do? The disinheritance had stalled in the Lords, with the law lords unanimously declaring that nothing could be done until a new will came into force. Which meant until the Old Man died―not soon by the relish which he had found for this crusade against his marriage. The fight had rejuvenated him―he had not looked and sounded so healthy in years.

  The Marquess read from the letter. “The Bishops have come to the conclusion that the mensa et thoro cannot be brought into force by my application.”

  Bond grasped for a hope at that point―but there was more.

  “Only the husband may cast out a wife from his bed and board. So, I want you to apply to the Bishop’s Court this very day, Julian. And to avoid there being any misunderstanding about this, I would remind you that should you fail in this husbandly duty it would immediately activate the instruction I have already given to our bailiffs and estate managers. To wit, that the only income due to you from the Tiverton estate forthwith is that attached directly to the original barony. You may remember that we already discussed how frugal you would find it.”

  Bond tried to put on an unconcerned expression, but he could not make it work. He tried for dignity. “Very well, Father. You may have your fun, but I am not finished with this. I am not without the means of reversing this action.”

  He stood to leave and looked meaningfully toward Symington. He needed Roberta given all the information she needed from Professor Marsh―it was vital that they should stick together in this.

  Chapter Eleven

  Canon Law

  Roberta and Mr. Holmes alighted from the carriage that had conveyed them from the railway station before an ornate gatehouse bearing the coat of arms of the college patron. “Lady Margaret Beaufort,” Mr. Holmes announced, pointing up at the armorial device, “mother of King Henry the Seventh. The College of St John’s founder in 1511. Professor Marsh is the Lady Margaret’s Professor of Divinity.”

  But for the anxiety bearing down upon her, Roberta would have felt somewhat awed by the surroundings; the great university of Cambridge, where her companion had been educated and to where he had brought her for advice upon the trials facing her. She had no expectation of great material assistance, despite Mr. Holmes’ assertion that the professor they were to meet was an old tutor of his. What aspect of divinity had been offended by her marriage to Lord Bond aboard the frigate Medusa?

  They walked as far as the wicket halfway through the gatehouse where an official asked their business. Mr. Holmes stepped closer. “I am a Scholar of the college, Proctor, Symington Holmes; and this is Lady Bond. We have an appointment with Professor Marsh.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes. I recognise you now. Still gambling at cards?”

  “I do not gamble, Proctor. When I play, the outcome is predestined.”

  The two exchanged a laugh before Roberta and Mr. Holmes walked on into the wide quadrangle beyond. “The First Court,” he informed her, “the original buildings of the college. The professor has a suite of rooms in the residences opposite the College Hall.”

  Roberta smiled and nodded her gratitude for the information although she would have rather liked a word or two about the mien and dignity she might expect to meet at the interview. “Is the distinguished professor very aged, Mr. Holmes? I fear that I may find little sympathy for my predicament from a high church dignitary.”

  “That may be the case, I suppose, but his letter to me suggested he would be a quite open-minded adviser. I would suppose him to be no more than sixty, certainly no elderly curmudgeon. There are rumours about his accession to a bishopric in the near future.”

  They crossed the court to reach an iron studded door near the corner whe
re two sides of the perimeter buildings met. Mr. Holmes opened the door and let her precede him inside. It was very dark, but she could make out a staircase before them from the beam of sunlight descending it from a casement above.

  “The Professor lives on the next floor,” Mr. Holmes said as he took her arm to assist her up the stairs.

  Two doors faced one another across the landing at the head of the staircase and Mr. Holmes turned to the one on their left, although neither door bore the identity of the occupant. “I will go in first, if you don’t mind. He may not be expecting a lady, although I informed him I was acting as your trustee.”

  “Very well.” Roberta wondered if, on top of every other impediment to her case, this adviser might be a celibate divine and hardly sympathetic to marital problems . . . although this was the Church of England, was it not?

  A voice from inside answered, “Come in,” to Mr. Holmes’ knock, and he entered, closing the door behind him. The brief and barely audible conversation inside lasted but a minute before Mr. Holmes opened the door again to admit her.

  “Lady Bond, Professor. The wife of my half-brother Lord Bond . . .”

  “Who is heir to the title, Marquess of Tiverton, Mr. Holmes?”

  Mr. Holmes shrugged. “Even that is in dispute at the moment, Professor.”

  Roberta stood a moment at the door to regard the professor. He wore black and white clerical garb with voluminous sleeves and a tight periwig that fringed an oblong face with a prominent nose. His eyes struck her as severe but not austere.

  “Please come right in, Lady Bond. Take the seat to the left of my desk.” He indicated a tall-backed chair to her right at the corner of the desk. As she seated herself, Mr. Holmes took a lower one to the front-centre of the other side. “If you will first inform me of the parties of interest in the dispute you wish my advice upon, I will look into the matter.”

  Roberta gave a brief resume of her family and business, her meeting Lord Bond in the middle of the Channel, as well as an account of the marriage ceremony aboard the RN frigate Medusa.

  This latter seemed to surprise the professor. “Why would one choose such a location to give one’s marriage vows, pray?”

  “I was aboard the Medusa at the request of the Admiralty in order to assess the information gathered by Lord Bond’s spies in the French shipyards at Antwerp, Professor. The intention was that should I find a serious absence of critical information, the spies would return ashore to make another attempt to obtain it.”

  The professor looked from one to the other. “Good gracious.”

  “In the event, Lord Bond arrived with partial information and the news that Mr. Holmes,” she paused to look at him, “and Captain McNab had not been heard from for several days. He urged me to consent to the marriage if I wished to assure myself of all the social proprieties and ecclesiastical prerogatives so entailed therein before returning with him to Antwerp on the stolen passport of the American couple Mr. and Mrs. Gideon Paine.”

  The worthy’s eyes registered deep concentration before he responded. “And you readily consented, or did he apply the pressure of service to the Crown?”

  “Both, I fear, Professor. I became more inclined to the union at that time, but was not oblivious to the call of duty.”

  “But you did not seem of the same mind when we met just over a week later,” Mr. Holmes cut in.

  “It may have been the stress of living under the threat of instant discovery and arrest by the French authorities, or perhaps—” Her words dried up. “I would rather not speak more of the personal issues.”

  Professor Marsh’s expression became apologetic. “I most earnestly assure you that I have no wish whatever to pry into such delicate matters but am afraid that they are most pertinent to the issue at hand, My Lady. Was the marriage consummated?”

  Her voice almost failed her. “Yes, Professor,” she whispered. She looked at Mr. Holmes in some confusion to see that he appeared equally affected.

  Professor Marsh seemed to notice. “What is your part in all this, Mr. Holmes? You did say your interest was only that of an adviser and trustee, but is it of a somewhat more personal nature?”

  Mr. Holmes now looked extremely embarrassed. “I must admit that I do not act in this as an agent to Lady Bond but to her husband, Lord Bond. The Marquess has gone to ecclesiastical court and has obliged Lord Bond to obtain a writ of a mensa et thoro,” he glanced at her, “―and although he may not meet or act for his wife, he does have every wish to protect her as much as he may. I agreed to act for him as a legal trustee for his wife, inasmuch as the courts do not accept any woman as a lawful plaintiff, and I have offered her as much assistance as might be required.”

  “The mensa et thoro is intended as an appeal to canon law by the husband,” Professor Marsh remarked. “It is most unusual for a consistory court to consider the request of the father of the husband—but I believe there may be a prior case.”

  Mr. Holmes nodded. “Yes, but Lord Bond has since been obliged to accept the entirety of his father’s request upon the threatened imposition of severe pecuniary embarrassment. Our first request is to determine if the mensa is thus properly applied in this case. Or whether we may challenge it.”

  Professor Marsh gave a wry smile. “You wish me to find fault with the Archbishop’s court? Luckily, Archbishop Manners-Sutton is a friend of mine.”

  “I would not wish to cause you any trouble,” Roberta said.

  “Ah, but I judge you will be inured to such trouble by the time your problems are settled; much as I regret to have to say so,” Professor Marsh said.

  “The next issue,” Mr. Holmes said, “is the preparation of a plea for an Act of Divorce in the Lords. However, that is a more distant threat, since there is no evidence that could allow such a case to be heard.”

  Professor Marsh eyed her briefly as he made a note in a journal on the desk. “You have no wish to be divorced from your husband?”

  Roberta had to settle her embarrassment to answer this truthfully. “The marriage has afforded me little but heartache, Professor, and even greater anguish for my husband and his father. Since we were together no more than two weeks, I can hardly pass judgment upon the state of its happiness or otherwise.” She could not bring herself to speak of her condition. “I believe I must do all I can to give our union a fair chance.”

  “Do you love your husband?”

  “I admire and respect―”

  “But you do not have strong feelings of love toward him. Did you ever?” Professor Marsh made a further note in his journal.

  “I do not believe I did,” Roberta took a deep breath, “but I was not seeking his approbation in order to make a rich marriage. My father and I have all the money we have ever wished from our enterprises. The title of nobility would have little improvement upon that.”

  Professor Marsh held her eyes. “Then the greatest assistance you can give to the marriage is for you to remain chaste.” He turned his attention to Mr. Holmes. “What about the conduct of the husband? Is he equally chaste?”

  Mr. Holmes looked embarrassed. “Since his marriage? I do not know. I expect his father is keeping him on a tight leash.”

  Roberta knew he had not been. The shame of his adultery with Elise under the same roof, mere days after their marriage, settled in her mind like a black devil. Both men must have noticed her unspoken reaction and looked at her.

  “You wished to say something, Lady Bond?”

  She shook her head and looked out the window, away from them.

  Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. “He did say something about being ashamed of himself when we spoke after our escape from captivity. I did not ask for an explanation, but recall him saying, ‘this marriage business is a double edged sword, I believe’.”

  “What did you understand him to mean, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Only that he had been . . . somewhat . . . cavalier in his affairs of the heart before. The attempted elopement; the suit for breach of promise. I felt he wa
s at last learning to have regard for his actions.”

  Roberta turned from the window to study Mr. Holmes’ face. Lord Bond did love her, then? Could she believe Mr. Holmes’ judgment in such matters? She did not know whether to laugh or cry—was she the one who least wanted the marriage to succeed? She no longer knew her own mind in that.

  “Then we may suppose Lady Bond to have the better chance of bringing such a complaint before court,” the professor said. “Have you any evidence of cruelty against him? A wife must have proof of physical cruelty as well to gain a divorce.”

  Roberta cast the memories of the bites and other indignities from her mind. “No, Professor.”

  “Then, I believe I have learned as much as I need. If the Marquess wishes his son to be free to marry again and produce an heir considered suitable to him, he must continue to plead a civil case in Parliament for a complete civil divorce which will set aside the marriage and all protection for you and any offspring, Lady Bond. The only grounds for that are also adultery.”

  Roberta’s head spun. The ignominy of having Lord Bond’s infidelity broadcast to the world. The bastardising of the child in her womb. These matters deserved her complete protection, but she knew not how to go about any of it. She could not prevent a sob from escaping her lips.

  Professor Marsh rose to his feet and hastened to her side to offer a handkerchief. “If you wish to end the matter, or take a respite from these cruel intrusions into your modesty, I would venture to offer you more comfortable surroundings in my study next door to this room. Mr. Holmes and I will continue the discussions without you.”

  Mr. Holmes half rose. “Yes. I will take every measure to spare you more distress.”

  Roberta dabbed at her eyes. “No. I am able to continue, Professor. I am most grateful to you both, but I must hear all the pertinent information myself.”

  The professor returned to his chair. “Then we will continue when you feel ready. Mr. Holmes, can I prevail upon you to fetch a glass of water from that carafe over there?” He pointed to a closed glass-fronted cabinet on the wall behind Mr. Holmes.