War Zone

Chapter 1 The Earl of Morden paced restlessly up and down the cabinet room of No. 10 Downing Street. The chairs pushed sideways, papers left disarranged on the table, the ink-stained pens and an overturned sand-box were evidence that the room had recently been the scene of a conference. The afternoon was drawing to a close and in another part of the house Lady Morden was waiting for her husband, a silver kettle at the boil ready for his fa vourite cup of tea. But Lord Morden had obviously no intention of leaving the cabinet room for the moment. Slowly he walked the room, pausing occasionally to stare with unseeing eyes through the long windows which opened into the garden. Once he drew his watch from his vest pocket, compared the time with the hands of the Buhl clock on the marble mantelshelf, then resumed his pacing. He must have waited twenty minutes before the door was flung open and a flunkey in gold-embroidered livery announced: "The Viscount Sheringham, m'lord." There was a perceptible pause after the echo of his voice had died away before Lord Sheringham appeared. Immaculately dressed, his dark hair skilfully ar ranged in the very latest windswept fashion as set by the Prince, he wore a coat of dark blue superfine cloth cut by the great Swartz himself and Hessian boots pol ished with a judicious mixture of blacking and cham pagne until their shining surface reflected the golden rays of the afternoon sunshine. His cravat was a masterpiece, the fit of his breeches almost a miracle-in fact, his lordship was a Dandy. He came slowly into the room and Lord Morden's eyes rested heavily and without relief upon the countenance of his only son. Lord Sheringham's expression was one of fashion able boredom, his eyelids half closed, the corners of his mouth slightly down-turned as if in disdain; but the face which bore this expression was arrestingly handsome. The features were clear-cut and unmistakably aris tocratic, yet giving an unusual and unexpected impres sion of intelligence. Beneath the drooping lids there was a glint of either mischief or fire which somehow betrayed his languid airs and deliberately affected movements. His voice, however, was tuned to perfection to the drawling notes of those bucks and dandies who divided their time between Cariton House and the more fash ionable clubs of St. James's. "You sent for me, Father?" Lord Sheringham asked. "Your message came at a curst ill-chosen moment, for I held the best hand at cards I have had for a week! But imagining that something untoward had occurred -such as your approaching demise or a petition of bankruptcy I hurried here as swiftly as your carriage could carry me." He paused, then continued. "Incidentally, while I think of it, you had best allow me to buy you some more carriage horses at Tattersall's for those chestnuts of yours are damned slow." "Thank you, Armand, but I am perfectly capable of choosing my own horses," Lord Morden replied. "I must apologise if I chose an inopportune moment to de mand your presence here, but as it happens it is of the utmost consequence that I should speak with you im mediately." He walked across the room as he spoke, turned at the window and walked back again. Lord Sheringham raised his quizzing glass, regarded his father through it for a moment, then stood waiting motionless. Lord Morden came to a standstill. "You know, of course, the matter about which I must speak?" "I have a vague idea, Sir." "I thought you would have," Lord Morden said grimly. "The Prussian Ambassador's formal complaint to the Foreign Secretary was brought to the Cabinet meeting and we discussed it at some length." For the first time since he had entered the room Lord Sheringham looked respectful. "That must have been deuced uncomfortable for you, Sir!" "It was a good deal more than a question of my discomfort," Lord Morden replied testily. "Armand, how could you have been such a fool, such a damned fool?" Lord Sheringham's chin went up at his father's tone, but he made his reply slowly and without apparently being on the defensive. "The fellow has no sense of humour, my dear Father, or he would have taken it in good part." "No Prussian has a sense of humour," Lord Morden said, "but that is no excuse for your behaviour." "It was not intended as an insult," Lord Sheringham replied. "Freddie Ainsby and I were discussing food two nights ago at Whites' and I bet him a thousand guineas that I would produce a dinner which was a perfect culinary effort and yet, because of the way it was served at table, would prove completely unpalatable. Knowing my Chef, Freddie accepted the wager and the dinner party was arranged." There was a moment's pause before Lord Sheringham added with a faint smile: "I won my bet. Freddie's note of hand for a thousand guineas is in my pocket at this momnet. We started with oysters, the very best and fattest Colchesters. They were served to my guests in spittoons and were sent away untouched. They were followed by soup of a most delectable and rare flavour, but it was brought to the table in an ordinary domestic ch Lord Morden held up his hand. "That is enough, Armand! I have no desire to heafurther details. They have already been discussed free ly at this very table." Lord Sheringham's eyes rested for a moment on the empty chairs. He could visualise the members of the Cabinet all too clearly-chief among them Canning, the Foreign Secretary, pushing, theatrical, superficially brilliant and devastatingly impulsive. Lord Castlereagh of the War Department, the shrewd Ulsterman with an instinctive understanding of Foreign Affairs; Lord Hawkesbury, the lugubrious Home Secre tary with the longest neck in England who looked as if he had been on the rack three times and saw the wheel being prepared for the fourth. And Spencer Perceval, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons, a cheerful, mod est little man of narrow education and principles, an evangelical of extreme Protestant views.