by Laura Beers
“Thank you, Mary.”
They didn’t speak as Oliver led her towards the entry hall and out the main door. He assisted her into the carriage before he walked around to the other side.
Once they were situated, Oliver picked up the reins and urged the horses forward. “You seem to have retreated into your own thoughts,” he commented, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
“I suppose I have.”
“Anything you would wish to discuss?”
Emmeline glanced over her shoulder at the townhouse. “I must admit that I am still trying to find my bearings in Hawthorne House.”
Oliver chuckled. “It is rather large, but we don’t make use of most of the rooms unless my mother throws a house party.”
“Jane and your mother gave me a tour last night, and I was thoroughly impressed with the library,” Emmeline shared.
“I assumed that would be the case.”
With a side glance at her husband, she asked, “May I ask what occupies your time during the day?”
“I pretty much do as I please.”
“Such as?”
Oliver visibly stiffened. “I frequent White’s and spend time with my friends.”
“Do you engage in any other pastimes?”
“When the situation warrants it,” he remarked vaguely. “I did fail to ask how your meeting with your aunt and uncle went earlier today.”
Emmeline frowned at the abrupt change of topics, but she knew she didn’t want to press her husband too hard at the moment. Knowing that Oliver was still waiting for a response, she replied, “Terribly. My aunt informed me that I am not welcome at their townhouse anymore.”
“That is awful.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I knew they would be angry, but I didn’t truly believe that they would disown me.”
“Unfortunately, their reaction is not completely uncommon, especially amongst the ton.”
“I know, but it still is most unfortunate.”
“I would agree.”
With a sigh, Emmeline turned her attention towards the crowds that had spilled over from the pavement onto the street.
“It will all work out,” Oliver said, drawing back her attention.
“I hadn’t taken you for such an optimist.”
Oliver smiled. “You don’t know everything about me.”
“That is a true statement,” she muttered. “Sometimes I feel I know very little about you.”
“Why do you say that?”
Feeling bold, she replied, “At times, I feel as if you live two different lives.” She let out a puff of air. “I know that may sound ridiculous.”
“Nothing you say sounds ridiculous to me.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Oliver’s voice held no emotion as he said, “I wish I could say that things will be different moving forward, but I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Are you always such a busybody?” he asked with mirth in his voice.
“No, but you bring out this side of me.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps we can discuss things that are much more pleasant.”
“Such as?”
“Would you care to get a cat?”
Emmeline gave him an odd look. “A cat?” she repeated. “What part of this conversation makes you think I would want a cat?”
“It was merely a suggestion,” he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I thought you might enjoy the companionship.”
Emmeline pursed her lips. She would rather have her husband keeping her company than a cat, but she wasn’t bold enough to admit that.
She shook her head. “I do not want a cat.”
“Then what do you want?” Oliver asked, glancing over at her. “Jewelry, perhaps?”
“No. I don’t require jewelry.”
As they drove into the entrance of Hyde Park and joined the procession of carriages, he said, “I want to ensure that you are happy, Emme. I hope you know that.”
“I appreciate that but buying me things won’t make me happy.”
“What will?”
You.
Taking a deep breath, she found courage deep within her as she admitted, “Nothing but the pleasure of your company.”
“That is kind of you to say.”
A tall, dark-haired rider pulled up next to them and said, “Well, if it isn’t Lord and Lady Oliver out for a carriage ride during the fashionable hour.”
“What are you doing riding in Hyde Park at this time?” Oliver asked.
“What else but admiring the ladies?” the man replied, turning his attention towards her. “Although, they pale in comparison to your wife’s beauty.”
Oliver adjusted the reins in his hand. “Emmeline,” he started, “allow me to introduce you to my friend, Mr. Philip Booth.”
Mr. Booth gave her a charming smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Booth,” she replied politely.
“I am going to White’s for supper,” Booth said. “Would you care to join me?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not today. I intend to have supper with my wife and family.”
“Are you still attending the meeting this evening?”
“I am.”
Booth tipped his head. “I wish you luck, then.”
“No luck is needed.”
A wry grin came to Booth’s lips as his eyes shifted towards the carriage in front of them. “If you will excuse me, I need to go speak to Lady Teresa.”
As Booth rode off, Emmeline shifted in her seat to face her husband. “Why did Mr. Booth wish you luck for your meeting?”
“Because he is an idiot.” Oliver smiled.
“I see,” she replied, even though she didn’t see at all.
“You need not worry about me this evening,” he said. “I shall return after my meeting and, tomorrow, we will go visit your father’s solicitor.”
“I would appreciate that.”
Oliver reached over and placed his hand over hers. “Our destinies are intertwined now, and I will strive to be a good husband to you.”
Emmeline brought a smile to her lips. “That pleases me.”
He removed his hand from hers, and she immediately missed the loss of contact. What is becoming of me, she thought. She needed to quell her feelings for her husband before they started to deepen.
Oliver stared out the window of the darkened coach as his thoughts constantly turned back towards Emmeline. His wife. He liked the sound of that. She was an undeniable beauty, but it was how her eyes sparkled when she spoke about something that she loved that drew him in. She was kind, considerate, and beautiful, deep down to her soul.
If he was going to be saddled with a bride, he was glad that he’d chosen Emmeline.
His musings were interrupted by his friend asking, “Did you hear me, mate?”
He turned his attention towards Follett. “No.”
“Pray tell, what were you thinking about?”
“Nothing in particular.”
Follett smirked. “Are you sure you weren’t thinking about your lovely wife?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Pointing towards his face, Follett said, “Because you were smiling.”
“I was not.”
Haskett spoke up across from him. “You were. It was an obnoxious smile that greatly annoyed me.”
“Why was that?”
“Because you looked smitten,” Haskett remarked. “I had a sudden urge to punch you just to wipe that smile off your face.”
Oliver shifted in his seat. “I assure you that I am not smitten.”
“No?” Haskett asked. “It certainly appears that way.”
Frowning, Oliver inquired, “Why am I friends with you again?”
Haskett grinned. “I assume it is because I am the only one who can tolerate you.”
Turning his attention back towards the window, he saw the buildings were huddled closer together and appeared blackened. Men loitered on the na
rrow streets, and he saw an older woman hunched over with a threadbare blanket covering her shoulders, begging in a corner.
“Have you ever been to the rookeries before?” Follett asked.
“Rarely,” Oliver lied. “They are much too dangerous for my tastes.” He was grateful for the overcoat pistol hidden in the back of his trousers and the muff pistol in his right boot.
The coach came to a creaking stop outside of a nondescript building that was in dire need of a paint job. The roof in some spots had caved in on itself. A crude sign above the door read, “Howl Hill Pub”.
“We are here,” Follett acknowledged as the footman opened the door.
As Oliver stepped down onto the muddy road, he saw that his friends were staring up at the building with uncertainty on their faces.
“Is something wrong?” Oliver asked.
Haskett frowned. “This is not how I envisioned the Howl Hill Pub to look.”
“What did you expect?” Oliver questioned. “We are in the rookeries.”
“We’d better hurry inside,” Follett said, glancing over his shoulder. “I fear that we are not safe standing here.”
Oliver walked up the three steps that led to the pub and opened the door. “After you,” he encouraged.
He followed his friends into the dimly lit hall and his alert eyes scanned the crowded room. Long tables ran the length of the room and serving wenches walked around with tankards in their hands.
A blonde woman with a scandalously low neckline came up to greet them. “Can I get ye blokes something to drink?”
Oliver spoke up. “We are here for the meeting.”
The woman gestured towards a door along the back wall. “Just go through that door,” she said before turning to another customer.
“Come on,” Oliver encouraged with a wave of his hand. “You heard the lady.”
His friends followed him as he swiftly navigated the hall and arrived at the back door. He opened it and stepped into the square room. Four round tables filled the small space, and he counted ten men sitting around the tables.
The room grew silent as the door behind them closed, and a stocky man from the front of the room came to greet them. The brown jacket and matching trousers did little to hide the man’s muscular frame.
“Follett,” he greeted with his arms out. “I am so glad that you came.”
“I hope it was all right, but I brought two of my mates with me.”
The man nodded his approval. “Are they free thinkers, as well?”
“They are,” Follett confirmed.
“Then they are more than welcome.”
Follett turned towards them and said, “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Guy Stewart.”
“I just go by Stewart,” the man revealed.
Oliver gave him a polite smile. “I am Radcliff.”
“And I am Haskett.”
Gesturing towards an empty table, Stewart remarked, “You are more than welcome to sit back and drink some ale until everyone arrives. Although, I should warn you that it is rather watered down.”
“That sounds terrible,” Oliver said.
Stewart laughed. “It still gets the job done.”
“That is all I care about,” Follett joked before moving towards the table.
After they were situated around the table, Oliver’s eyes roamed the room and noted the two windows along one wall. If he did need to make a hasty retreat, he had found his way to depart.
A serving wench entered the room with three tankards of ale in her hand and placed the drinks in front of them. Oliver reached into his waistcoat, removed a few coins, and extended them towards her.
“Thank you, Mister,” the serving wench said.
A few more men trailed in before Stewart stood up in front of the room, causing the room to grow silent. “Before I begin, I just want to remind everyone that what we will be speaking of today could be considered treasonous to some.” His eyes grew solemn. “You are welcome to leave if you are uncomfortable with free thinking.”
No one moved to leave, so Stewart continued. “Our mad King George and his misfit son, the Prince Regent, are making a mockery of all of us. They tax us relentlessly, and they use those funds to finance their lavish lifestyles. They live in castles while we live in squalor.”
A man raised his tankard. “Hear, hear.”
“But what can we do about it?” Stewart asked. “Do we just sit back and allow this misfortune to befall us?”
Another man spoke up. “What can we do about it?”
“I propose we march to the palace and have a protest!” Stewart exclaimed. “We can express our displeasure, and the Prince Regent can’t pretend he doesn’t see us. After all, we will be protesting just outside of his windows.”
Follett frowned as he said in a hushed tone, “This is not what I had in mind when I agreed to attend this meeting.”
“What did you expect?” Oliver asked.
“I thought we would just sit around and debate about Whig politics,” Follett admitted.
Stewart walked closer to their table and asked, “Is there a problem?”
Follett nodded. “I’m afraid I am not interested in staging a protest,” he admitted. “It is unlawful.”
“Unlawful?” Stewart asked in disbelief. “And what of the Prince Regent’s spending habits? Is that not also unlawful?”
“I contend it is not,” Follett said. “He is our reigning sovereign.”
“But he shouldn’t be,” Stewart declared. “He is unfit to be a ruler.”
Haskett interjected, “You shouldn’t say such terrible things about the Prince Regent.”
“No?” Stewart contested. “Should we not be concerned that he has treated his wife in a disrespectful manner?”
“It is not our place to say anything,” Follett contended.
“That is where you are wrong!” Stewart exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. “The only way to enact change is to speak up. We must make our opinions known.”
“Do you intend for the protest to be peaceful?” Oliver asked.
“That is my intention, but I can’t speak for everyone,” Stewart replied. “We will march from Templeton Square to the palace and remain there until they are forced to acknowledge us.”
Oliver’s brow knotted. “And if they don’t?” he asked.
“They will.”
“How can you be certain?” Oliver pressed.
Stewart’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are quite the naysayer,” he remarked.
Putting his hand up, Oliver replied, “I don’t want any part of a violent protest.”
“How do you think the Americans enacted change?” Stewart asked, lifting his brow. “Do you think they held peaceful protests until King George finally relented and gave in to their demands?” He shook his head. “No, they fought for their freedom.”
Oliver glanced around the room and acknowledged, “The guards at the palace will hardly consider the few of us a threat.”
“They will underestimate us.”
Before Oliver could respond, the door was opened, and three Bow Street Runners with red waistcoats burst into the room with their pistols drawn.
“You are all under arrest by order of the king,” the tall, brawny Bow Street Runner declared, waving his pistol in front of him.
“Blasted Runners,” Oliver muttered under his breath. “I should have known.” He turned his attention towards Stewart, who was speaking calmly to one of the Bow Street Runners. It was a trap, and they had waltzed right into it.
The Runner turned his pistol towards him. “Did you say something?”
Not wanting to give the man any reason to shoot him, Oliver put his hands up and said, “I was merely commenting that I like your red waistcoats. They are very fashionable.”
“Keep quiet,” the Runner ordered. “I want you to rise slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Oliver rose and followed the Runner out of the back room. He led everyone out the main door
and stopped at a wagon. The Runner gestured towards the back of it. “If you are waiting for me to assist you into the wagon, then you are sorely mistaken.”
Oliver stepped into the wagon and sat in the back. Follett and Haskett came to sit down next to him.
“What is happening?” Follett asked.
Haskett scoffed. “Isn’t it obvious?” he questioned. “We are being arrested.”
“But we didn’t do anything,” Follett replied.
Frowning, Oliver revealed, “Just discussing radical views can land you in jail, and Stewart was behind the whole thing.”
Haskett gave him a blank look. “Why would he intentionally want to be arrested?”
“He wouldn’t,” Oliver revealed. “Stewart set us up. He led us here to discuss a radical protest, knowing what we were discussing was treasonous, and for every arrest, he will collect the blood money.”
“Blood money?” Haskett asked.
“That is what it is called when a Bow Street Runner intentionally sets a trap just to collect the reward money. Each one of us carries a value on our head,” Oliver explained.
Follett groaned loudly. “My father is going to kill me for doing something so incredibly foolhardy.”
“As will my father,” Haskett agreed. “Most likely, he will cut my allowance.”
Oliver let out a disbelieving huff. “I would be more concerned about how we are going to be spending a very uncomfortable evening in jail.”
“But won’t they release us once they find out who we are?” Haskett asked naïvely.
“I highly doubt it,” Oliver replied. “Bow Street Runners are merciless.”
“Blazes!” Haskett exclaimed.
Leaning his back against the rail, Oliver let out a sigh. He had no doubt that Corbyn would get him released from jail, but he knew it wouldn’t be until early tomorrow—which meant that he would be forced to break his promise to Emmeline.
Blasted Runners, Oliver thought again as he crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn’t believe he’d walked right into a trap.
Chapter Ten
Dressed in a primrose muslin gown, Emmeline paced the entry hall as she waited for Oliver to step through the main door. He had promised that he would accompany her to her father’s solicitor, but he still hadn’t arrived home. She felt like such a fool. She had naïvely taken him at his word. Did the man have no shame when it came to lying to her? And why would he treat her so unfairly on her birthday?
