“Thank you very much, Kirk,” Lenox said. The butler withdrew, and the detective inclined his head formally to Disraeli. “You are most welcome, Prime Minister.”
Even to Lenox, a veteran both of politics and of London society, it was no mean matter to welcome a sitting Prime Minister into his home. Not just that, either, but a Prime Minister by himself—a rare informality, a rare solicitude.
“I hope I am not interrupting you, Mr. Lenox.”
“Not at all, my lord. I am sensible of the honor of your visit.”
Disraeli glanced around the study, and Lenox took the chance to look out through the window. He saw the Prime Minister’s carriage outside, the unmistakable seal on its doors, a second carriage behind it, and four footmen lined at the side of the first, shoulders high. The bulletin of this visit would already be cast up Hampden Lane, and from there would escape to every part of London—Benjamin Disraeli, whose cozy weekly visits with the Queen herself were legendary by now, calling at Charles Lenox’s house.
The Prime Minister was too intelligent not to be aware that he was thus bestowing some of his status on Lenox. It was a generous gesture. But generous to what purpose? By what calculation? Lenox was considering these questions as he guided Disraeli toward the chairs by the fire.
“One never stops looking for the books one has written upon other people’s shelves,” the Prime Minister said, scanning Lenox’s as he walked. His tone was rueful. “And their absence always causes a greater pang than their presence does happiness. Ah! But I see my Vivian Grey! Capital, capital.”
Lenox’s mind was moving rapidly, but he had the uneasy feeling that the mind with which he was engaged was moving more rapidly still. “What may I offer you to drink, Prime Minister?”
“Do you know, a cup of tea would set me just to rights—I would be infinitely obliged for a simple cup of tea with lemon. I must dine out after this, you see, and the drinks flow so very freely when Lady Coulter is one’s host.”
“Of course.” Lenox rang the small gold bell on the mantel—he rarely used it—and asked Kirk, who appeared after the barest instant, to bring tea.
Disraeli was dressed in a plain black suit and wore, as was his custom, a gentleman’s silk around his neck—little more than a flat black silk ribbon. This was his typical attire, and savvy. Unlike stolid old Gladstone, Disraeli was known for his love of fripperies. He enjoyed the company of extravagant and gossipy women, salon chatter, and the free spirits (literal and figurative) at a house like Lady Morgan Coulter’s. He kept peacocks at his estate, walking them each morning like pups, it was said; and he had famously won over a reluctant Victoria by bringing her a primrose to their weekly meeting—for some Prime Ministers, a very brief meeting indeed—and declaring it “the gift of the fauns and dryads who would ever be her subjects.”
Such excesses of character demanded a counterweight if one wished to be taken seriously, and Disraeli had placed it in his person: the quiet suit of clothes, the plain black ribbon, the gentle side sweep of hair over his fine, intelligent temples, and his direct, thoughtful gaze.
“I have had your very considerate letter,” the Prime Minister said. “Considerate, intelligent—but hardly satisfying.”
Lenox lifted his hands from his lap a few inches to express his regret. “I can only apologize that our interests should lie in different directions upon this particular matter.”
For just an instant something flashed in Disraeli’s gaze. Not malice, but a private sort of enjoyment. “Perhaps they do not. The trial will commence next week. We have time.”
Kirk knocked at the door and entered. The hot water must have been on from the second the carriage approached for tea to appear so quickly, and the pouring of the two cups gave the detective a moment to think.
“Unfortunately I have various commitments in London at the moment that make it impossible for me to go abroad, Prime Minister,” Lenox said when it was done.
“Yes, I read the letter.”
There was a first edge in Disraeli’s voice. His time was valuable. “While I am most appreciative of your visit, then, I—”
“Stop there, if you would be so kind.” Disraeli took a sip of his tea, closed his eyes for an instant of pure happiness—it was admirable, his apparent ability to set apart a second or two of the present for himself—then put the teacup down and leveled his stare at Lenox. “Let us play it straight with each other, Mr. Lenox. I could send you all over town, to your brother, for instance, or your many other acquaintances in Parliament, to discover why I am so exceedingly eager that you should be away from London during the trial.”
Lenox merely nodded. “Mm.”
“You might find out; you might not. The simple fact is that there is an unhappy amount of tension within my party at the moment. If Lord Kestrel is embarrassed at the trial, my membership is prepared to demand his resignation from the cabinet.”
“I see.”
“And should that happen, the numbers might just—might just, mind you, for it would be a close run, and I would fight it very hard—go against me.”
Ah. So here they were at the crux of the thing: Disraeli was in Hampden Lane because he was anxious that he would lose control of his party. It had little to do with Lenox himself. This was Dizzy’s second term as Prime Minister, and he was now in his early seventies—not old, for he was quite fit, but no longer in the first blush of even political youth.
“Indeed?” said Lenox.
Disraeli—or the First Earl of Beaconsfield, really, since his elevation to the House of Lords a few years before, but nobody, not even Kirk, Lenox realized, called him anything but Mr. Disraeli—said, “You are a liberal, of course, and I am a conservative. You might welcome such confusion in my party—indeed, might see it as an incentive!”
He chuckled at this and Lenox said, murmuring, “No, no.”
“Of course! And why shouldn’t you? I am under no illusion that my position inoculates me against such considerations—the opposite, if anything. Yet I think on some matters, Lenox, you and I are rather close in opinion; and I wonder if you would prefer Mr. Cantwell to hold my office.”
Disraeli looked at him shrewdly; and it was a shrewd point, well scored. For in many respects the Prime Minister was, like Lenox, in favor of what most would have considered liberal policies, particularly the extension of the vote to a greater number of people and protections for the poor. It was primarily in matters of foreign activity (Disraeli was a fervent imperialist) that their beliefs diverged.
By contrast, Cantwell was a hard-liner. He came from business and considered the interests of business first in all matters. Just recently, indeed, he had led the bitter conservative opposition to the reforms that made it illegal for children under the age of ten to work in factories and mines.
“Would my absence make such a difference?” Lenox said.
Disraeli smiled. “With the very greatest respect, can you imagine that I would be here if it would not?”
“I shall rephrase—I would be glad to know why my testimony should make such a difference, Prime Minister.”
“Because you are our former colleague, because you are Sir Edmund’s younger brother, and in particular because you are Lady Jane Lenox’s husband. The embarrassment to Lord Kestrel would be too intense if you were to testify in person. We may just skate by if you write out your testimony. And it will make no odds whatsoever to the outcome of the trial. They’re all guilty as Judas. But if you are there in person—if the gallery of journalists should get hold of your image, your words, your tone—things could be up for us. For me. I need Kestrel.”
“I see,” said Lenox.
There was a famous cartoon of Disraeli and Gladstone. “Can you fight?” Disraeli asked Gladstone in it, to which the latter replied, “No.” Following which Disraeli said, putting up his fists, “Then come on!!!”
Lenox was conscious that his interlocutor had considered every outcome of this meeting, his tremendous acuity studying each shifting angle of leverage. In the same way, when he sat down at Lady Coulter’s table in half an hour’s time, the Prime Minister would know exactly each guest’s practical and social power to a fineness—without ever, Lenox knew, being less than perfectly engaged, perfectly convivial.
He was not quite sure what to say. Fortunately, at that moment, there was a bustle in the front hall. “That will be my wife,” he said.
Disraeli rose with a certain keenness in his eye. “I shall be very happy to see her.” He set down his teacup again. “In addition to what we discussed the other day, I can offer you this sweetener: You shall travel under the Great Seal.”
Lenox’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
Disraeli nodded firmly. It was a meaningful offer. The seal would elevate Lenox’s trip; the Queen and her representatives were conscious about using it as rarely as possible, and there were diplomatic convoys, whole ships full of gentlemen, who did not labor under its imprimatur. It would be like traveling by special passport, and guarantee, if Lenox wished it, a retinue, a meeting with anyone he chose, up to the president himself.
At that moment Lady Jane came in, and Disraeli, his offer made, turned his full attention upon her for the space of three minutes.
Though taken by surprise, she fought him, with her immense capacity of sweet reserve, to a standstill. For his part, Lenox merely stepped back and observed: two great artists of society in furious civil combat. By the end of it, Disraeli had extracted half a promise that Lady Jane would dine at his house within the next few weeks, while she had put forward the case for a friend of hers, Adeline Snow, whose divorce from a conservative politician had left her isolated from London society.
Disraeli looked very satisfied—far more than he had during his conversation with Lenox, which in the end was only a matter of politics, not supper—and after making himself profoundly pleasant, truly pleasant, even Lenox unable to resist smiling at his confidential murmurs about the people he would shortly meet at Lady Coulter’s, not least her infamous sister, Kristin Coulter, the widow of Ruritania, he bade them both a good evening. On his way out he thanked Kirk for the delicious cup of tea; and finally, knowing, with the instincts of a great man, that nearly every encounter he had would stay in other people’s minds for the length of their lives, touched his hat and offered a few kind murmured words to Kidgerby. This young gentleman had been standing stock-still in the hallway ever since Disraeli’s arrival, as rigid as a post, bright red, probably hoping to remain unnoticed, but now, after the door had closed, wore the expression of someone who would, without an instant’s hesitation, have followed the Prime Minister into the very jaws of death.