VI
Roderick Dart
Roxhythe clattered through the streets of Delft until he came to a likely inn. There he drew rein, and there he lunched. In spite of his air of leisure he was well on his way again within the hour. By three in the afternoon he was at the Hague.
The Three Fishers was an insignificant little inn on the outskirts of the town, not frequented by the quality, so Roxhythe’s lack of baggage excited no suspicion. A slight sensation was caused by my lord’s request for a private parlour, but when he explained that he was to have a friend to dine with him whom he had not seen for years, it died down. The landlord was impressed when he learnt that the friend was of the Prince’s household and he readily undertook to have Christopher’s note delivered to Mr. Dart.
Roxhythe was prepared to be very much on his guard with Roderick. Christopher had told him that he had been specially engaged by De Witt, but had since become a devoted adherent to William. Roxhythe was a cynic; he had lifted his eyebrows at that. Christopher had assured him that his brother might be trusted with Ashley’s packet; Roxhythe preferred to take no risks. He fully expected to find Mr. Dart an informer, feigning love for the young Prince as a means whereby to worm himself into whatever Orangist plot might be afoot. Roxhythe knew that William was very closely guarded; he also knew that De Witt chose his attendants carefully, and paid them well. He mistrusted Mr. Dart.
Without Roderick’s aid he could not hope to gain entrance to the palace, yet with his aid he might easily walk into some trap. He cast a loving glance at his pistols.
Punctually at seven Mr. Dart was announced. My lord rose at his entry, scanning him closely from beneath drooping lids.
The door closed behind Roderick. He took a quick step into the room, looking all round. Then he stared at Roxhythe and his lips tightened.
He was not very like his brother, except for his eyes which were grey, and as honest as Christopher’s. His mouth was thin and straight; his expression cold and watchful. He was dressed in a plain dark suit, wearing none of the furbelows that were in fashion. His whole appearance was severe.
“Have I the honour of addressing—Mr. Curtis?” His voice was crisp.
“The name will serve,” answered his lordship. “You are Mr. Dart, I think?”
Roderick bowed.
“I am come at my brother’s request, sir, but I do not see him.”
Roxhythe ignored the hostility of his tone.
“Christopher is at Rotterdam, Mr. Dart. ’Tis I who requested your company.”
Roderick’s hand went to his belt.
“Oh, no!” drawled my lord. “It is no shooting matter. Pray, will you not be seated? Dinner will be served in a moment.”
Roderick swung his cloak from his shoulders and laid down his hat.
“I thank you. I take it you have not desired my company for the mere pleasure of seeing me. You are come on business, my Lord Roxhythe?”
My lord opened his eyes admiringly.
“I felicitate you,” he said.
Roderick’s lip curled scornfully.
“On my perspicacity, sir?”
“On your power of recognition, Mr. Dart.”
Roderick brushed that aside.
“I have seen you many times, my lord.” The words bit.
“… One would almost have inferred that I did not find favour in his august eyes,” afterwards remarked Roxhythe.
“I am delighted,” sighed his lordship. “It greatly facilitates matters. Did you know that Christopher is my secretary?”
“I did not. Since when is this, sir?”
“Nigh on a month ago, I suppose. He is not very like you.”
“Christopher is easily led—easily influenced!” said Roderick.
Roxhythe conceived that the news of his brother’s latest venture did not meet with Roderick’s approval.
“Just so,” he agreed. “A most useful boy.”
At this moment the one maid that the inn boasted entered the room with a tray. When she had gone:
“I must apologise for such poor hospitality,” said Roxhythe. “It is the best the inn can afford.”
Roderick seated himself at the table. He unbent slightly.
Until the maid had finally withdrawn, leaving the men to their wine, they spoke of Christopher, the atrocious condition of the roads, or London gossip. It was then that Roxhythe inwardly dubbed Roderick a straitlaced Puritan. His disapproval of his host was very apparent, as was his disapproval of King Charles and his Court. Roxhythe was consumed with amusement.
“I suppose you have moderately good entertainment at the Palace, Mr. Dart?” he asked indolently. “But no doubt you miss the London life.”
“No,” said Roderick. “Whitehall and its customs do not appeal to me. We of the Prince’s household live very quietly. We observe Whitehall and the Louvre from afar, and we do not desire to emulate them.”
“Dear me!” said Roxhythe. “The Prince, then, has no taste for Court life?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Heaven forfend I find not a psalm-singing Quaker for Prince!” thought Roxhythe. Aloud he said: “Why, you surprise me, sir! I had thought so young a boy—and a Stuart—had had some taste for gaiety. Well, well!”
“His Highness, sir, looks with disgust on the ways of his uncle’s Court,” said Roderick deliberately.
“Good luck to my mission!” thought Roxhythe.
“He cannot see that King Charles has any man about him—with one or two exceptions—” he bowed, “—whom he can trust.”
Roxhythe stared at him over the rim of his wineglass.
“Is His Highness then surrounded by men whom he can trust?”
“The Prince his servants are faithful unto death,” was the proud answer.
“His Highness is singularly fortunate,” said Roxhythe drily.
Roderick pushed his chair back from the table.
“Have we dilly-dallied long enough, sir? You have business with my master?”
For a moment Roxhythe did not answer. Then he spoke slowly, his eyes on Dart’s.
“Why, I do not know, sir. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On who your master is,” said my lord.
Roderick looked puzzled. He flushed angrily as Roxhythe’s meaning dawned on him, and half rose in his chair.
“Do you insult me, my lord?”
“By no means,” replied that imperturbable voice. “I was told that De Witt chose you to be one of the Prince his gentlemen. You speak of yourself as the Prince his faithful servant. What am I to understand?”
“I am the Prince his servant.”
“Yet you are not suspect by De Witt?”
“No.”
“You are lucky,” smiled his lordship.
“There is no reason why I should give you an explanation, sir, but you may know that I was engaged not as an informer, but as one not likely to be won over by His Highness. So Mynheer De Witt said.”
“I take it Mynheer De Witt was wrong?”
“Ay. You do not know His Highness or you might understand.”
Roxhythe bowed.
“I am looking forward to making the acquaintance of this Prince.”
“You are a messenger?” Roderick surveyed him critically. “An envoy from King Charles?”
“I have that honour.”
“You want me to bear a packet to His Highness?”
“No,” said Roxhythe. “I want you to help me to gain access to the Prince.”
Roderick gasped at his audacity.
“Impossible!”
“A word I do not know,” drawled his lordship.
“The Prince will not receive you!”
“I think he will.”
“He will require proof of your identity!”
“He shall have it,” Roxhythe drew a heavy signet ring from his finger, and laid it before his guest.
Roderick stared down at the magic initials: C. R. There was no mistaking the ring. For a minute he sat thinking. Roxhythe polished his thumbnail.
“I may take this to His Highness?” asked Roderick, at last.
“You may.”
“And there is no packet to be conveyed?”
“None that I cannot convey myself.”
“I think His Highness will require you to send it!” flashed Roderick.
“Alas! My orders are to deliver it into his hands myself.”
“In that case there is no more to be said. You seem to think it is an easy matter to gain access to the Prince. Pray have you thought how you will do it?”
“No,” said Roxhythe. “I never worry myself unnecessarily.”
“Unnecessarily!”
“You see, I leave it to you,” said my lord sweetly.
“Indeed! Remember, I hold out no hope.”
“I am dismayed,” said Roxhythe placidly.