The Silent Boy by Andrew Taylor Page A

inconvenient or unduly onerous.’
    A bribe, Savill thought. He is offering me a bribe if I do as he wishes. He took out a pair of dice he kept in his waistcoat pocket and rolled them from one hand to the other. A seven.
    ‘I had not put you down as a gambler, sir,’ Rampton said.
    ‘I’m not. The dice remind me that chance plays its part in all our actions.’
    ‘You are grown quite philosophical.’
    Savill shrugged. In truth, he kept the dice in his pocket because they reminded him that nothing should be taken for granted, that the Wheel of Fortune might spin at any moment, that everything was precarious. He had learned that long ago in another country.
    ‘Permit me to tell you why I want the boy,’ the old man said.
    ‘Charles, sir,’ Savill said. ‘His name is Charles.’
    ‘Indeed, sir. But pray hear me out. You have had a month to grow accustomed to my proposal. You see this?’ He waved his hand about the room. ‘This house of mine, the gardens, the farms, the house in Westminster. All this, and indeed there’s more. But I have no children of my own – no one to leave this to. Nor do I have any close relations left alive, no one to carry my name into the future. That is why I want Charles. He is Augusta’s son, therefore he is my own kin, my own great-nephew. I wish him to bear the name of Rampton. And is this not the happiest outcome for all concerned? After all, I am his nearest relation, in blood if not in law.’
    ‘No, sir, you are not.’ Savill took up his glass. ‘My daughter Lizzie is his nearest relation. She’s his half-sister.’
    ‘A quibble, my dear sir. She does not even know of the boy’s existence. She cannot miss what she has never had. Nor is she in a position to do anything for him.’
    Rampton placed his hand on Savill’s arm. ‘So perhaps we can come to an arrangement?’
    ‘You cannot buy him, sir, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘I would make him my heir. My adopted son.’
    ‘Then I am surprised you have not brought him here already,’ Savill said. ‘Rather than leave him in such evil company.’
    Rampton took a deep breath and tried the effect of a smile. ‘You must understand that my position makes it quite impossible for me to be seen as a principal in this affair. As one of His Majesty’s civil servants, it would not be fitting for me to have private business with the Count de Quillon and his friends, whose reputations are irrevocably stained by their political and moral degeneracy. For the same reason, I cannot send Malbourne. Besides, the press of business is such that I do not believe I could spare him.’
    ‘I see that no such scruples need restrain me,’ Savill said, resisting a sudden urge to laugh.
    ‘Indeed – as a private citizen and Augusta’s husband, you have every right to claim the boy. My name need not appear in the matter at all. There is another consideration which may sway you – Monsieur de Quillon and Monsieur Fournier hold the papers attesting to Augusta’s death and burial. You must have these. You will need them, not least if you should ever wish to marry again … after all, my dear sir, you are still in the prime of life. And then – what if the Count should refuse to surrender Charles? Only you are in a position to force his hand. Indeed, it is your duty.’
    ‘But why the devil should Monsieur de Quillon wish to retain him?’ Savill said.
    Rampton cracked his knuckles. ‘Oh, as to that – that is part of the difficulty; the Count has a foolish fancy that Charles is his son.’

Chapter Eight
     
    Charnwood is an old house where nothing is correct. All the lines are crooked – the walls, the roofs, the chimneystacks. It stands in a muddy place where it is always cold and raining. At night it is so dark and quiet that if a person screamed only the stars would hear him.
    We are quite safe here, Fournier tells Charles. No one can harm us.
    But nobody is happy here, Charles thinks, even Fournier and the Count, who talk