chapter 64

Trolls

The footman opened the door to the main entrance of Chatsworth House to admit the visitor. The big man entered and handed his coat to the butler but glared when the servant reached for his cane. “Not on my watch, sunshine.”

“That’s fine, Smythe,” the duke declared, ever hopeful his deprecating tone would irritate his caller. “We must endeavor to accommodate our guest’s special needs. Whiskey, perhaps, after your long journey?” he asked. “It’s the only drink for such a beastly day. And you must definitely stay for dinner.”

“I’m here to conclude our arrangement, Devonshire,” the visitor replied rudely, “not for anything else.”

The duke’s gaze remained fixed on his adversary. “One whiskey then, Smythe. Nothing for our guest; it seems he’s not drinking this evening. I do believe he’s anxious to proceed.”

“The last time I remember being anxious, Cavendish, was when one of your man-o’-wars chased me up the coast, trying to blow my ass to hell. Anxious,” the man said scathingly, “in the library of a British gentleman?” He looked around. “Although I suppose I should be anxious in your library.”

“Come now, Simon, our latest agreement has worked out perfectly fine for all of us—except perhaps, the Spanish.” The duke shrugged. “But they never were part of our little arrangement, were they?”

“Oh, they were part of it all right, Chatsworth, they just didn’t know it.” Simon Bidwell delighted in addressing the duke in every informal manner he could think of. He stretched. He walked to a bookcase and peered at the titles. “The way I see it, America agreed not to aid Spain in her struggle to keep her South American colonies. We also agreed to recognize preferential trade rights for Britain in Gran Colombia once your boy Bolívar kicks the Spanish out.” He looked over his shoulder at the duke. “Remind me again what we get out of this.”

The butler returned and set the whiskey down on the table next to the duke.

“Come now, Simon, your memory’s not grown feeble, has it?”

Simon transferred his weight to favor his cane, the stories of which even the duke had heard.

Cavendish shifted in his leather chair. “If you recall, we agreed not to interfere with your secretary of state’s negotiations to purchase Florida from the Spanish. Negotiations that included Adams sending an American agent to offer a deal to Bolívar.”

Bidwell sneered, “You knew our sending a man anywhere near New Granada would only drive Bolívar further into the British camp.”

The duke picked up the whiskey glass. “Be that as it may, Mr. Bidwell, you now have Florida. For sugar cane, Caribbean ports”—the duke took another sip of his whiskey—“and another slave state.”

“Don’t patronize me, Cavendish—the only reason the British don’t need slaves is because they have colonies.”

The duke would not be baited by this uncouth American. “As we also agreed, in return for American recognition of Britain’s preferential trade rights with Gran Colombia, His Majesty’s Royal Navy will enforce any future policy President Monroe might announce that prohibits foreign powers from interfering in your hemisphere.” Almost as an afterthought, the duke added, “Oh, I almost overlooked one small item. Lest you forget, Simon, we’ve avoided boarding your slave ships”—he paused—“at least, until now.”

Bidwell stopped and pointed with his cane. “You buy cheap cotton from us for your mills—cotton grown and picked by those same slaves.”

The duke said offhandedly, “That is true. Now, on a related matter . . .” He took another drink. “It was thoughtful of you to send your own son to South America.”

Simon Bidwell was startled. “How did you know that?”

“Come now, Simon, you’re behind the times. Not only do I know that”—the duke sniffed—“but I have it from a reliable source the young man was manipulated into fleeing your country in the first place. Something about an attack on one of your Indian villages. Terrible loss of life, I understand.”

The big man glared, closed one hand over the handle of his cane, and began to twist.

Seemingly out of thin air, Smythe appeared between Bidwell and the duke. “Sir,” he said calmly, “I respectfully request you stay your approach, lower your walking stick, and stand down.” The butler’s hand disappeared inside his waistcoat and stayed there.

“Simon, my old friend, you misunderstand me,” the duke said evenly. “I meant no disrespect: au contraire, my motto has always been ‘the end justifies the means.’ In fact, had it not been for your son, His Majesty’s agent in South America would not only have failed in his mission, but he would not have lived to tell about it.”

Simon Bidwell lowered his cane and relaxed, the menacing stare fled just as quickly as it had appeared. “How certain are you? I had news the boy met his end some time ago.”

“I’d be surprised if there are two Nathanial Bidwells running about down there. In fact, at the moment I believe he’s looking for passage back to the colonies. For some reason, he believes Mr. Adams will obtain a presidential pardon for him.”

Pleased he had taken the American by surprise, the duke continued, “It would be advantageous to us both should your young man find himself mistaken.”

Bidwell unconsciously tapped his cane on the floor, his brow knitted in thought. “What do you mean?”

“I knew you would stay for dinner! Smythe, set another place for our guest.”

Simon Bidwell was wary. This was something entirely new, perhaps the start of another negotiation. He changed tack. “You’re not that much older than the boy.”

“And yet”—the duke gave a dismissive wave of his hand—“here we are.”

“Indeed.”

Cavendish said, “You have slaves and cotton, Simon, but we have mills. I’m quite aware of your humorous efforts to steal the specifications for our machines, but I’m offering you a more straightforward solution.”

Bidwell was quiet for a moment. Then he sat down and said, “You can bring me that whiskey now, Hart.”

The duke winced at the American tycoon’s use of his childhood nickname.