by Joan Vincent
After giving her aunt a quick hug Maddie followed the girls up the stairs. They waited for her outside their father’s door.
“Now you must not act surprised at Father’s looks,” Maddie cautioned. “Remember he is very ill. Just try to picture him as he was before—” She coughed, unable to finish. Maddie reached out and straightened a collar, twirled back a curl, put off entering. At her sisters’ questioning looks, she summoned a shadow of a smile, opened the door, and shepherded them to the bedside.
Matthew smiled weakly at his girls. “What a ... bevy of beauties ... I have.” He drew in a ragged breath and attempted to raise his hand.
Twelve-year-old Ruth rushed to the bedside and clasped it with one small hand. She glanced back at Maddie who nodded encouragement. Drawing her free hand from behind her back, the young girl offered her valentine.
“My, what ... a lovely ... valentine. Did Aunt Prissy ... teach you how to do that ... cutwork? Kiss my cheek, Ruth.” He brushed his lips against hers when she did as he asked. “Lay your valentine—on the pillow here, so I can—see it.” His gaze lingered on it. “I love you too, Rosebud.”
Ruth hugged his neck and kissed his cheek again. Brushing away a tear, she moved aside.
Helene stepped forward and laid her head on her father’s thin chest as she hugged him. Rising, she placed her red heart-shaped paper over his heart.
“Pretty enough ... to cause the downfall ... of Troy,” he whispered and blinked back a tear.
Maddie gently drew Helene away. She lifted Jessamine and sat her on the edge of the bed.
“Do not look so sad, Father,” the little girl said with prim innocence. “Look what I’ve made you.” Jessamine solemnly offered him two linked hearts. “Twice the love.” She leaned forward and wrapped an arm about his neck. “Sleep well, Father.”
Matthew turned his cheek into the downy softness of Jessamine’s hair. He breathed in her baby sweetness. “Love you too, Jessie mine.”
Maddie picked up Jessamine and balanced her on her hip. She put her other arm around her sisters as they crowded close to her.
“Ladies, you must not worry ... if I do not ask ... to see you ... for a long while,” Matthew finished on a gasp.
The young girls nodded.
“I will be back after I see the girls out,” Maddie told her father.
Giving a ghost of a nod, Matthew summoned a last smile for his daughters. As his door clicked shut behind them the tears pooled in his eyes and rolled down his hollow cheeks.
When Maddie returned to her father she found him very restless. “What is it, Father? Do you need more of Mr. Balfor’s tonic?”
He weakly shook his head and wriggled his fingers until she took his hand. “I am ... sorry, my dear, to leave you ... in such a pass.”
“Father, do not fret.”
“But your dowry ... that of the girls ... Malcolm’s inheritance ...”
Maddie fought back her fear and clung to her love as she tried to comfort him. “Please, rest easy.”
Perturbed herself now that the moment was at hand, she asked, “Do you remember that the barrister came and you signed authority over to me?” She smiled encouragingly at his nod. “That will enable me to keep everyone safe and our funds secure.”
Matthew closed his eyes. When he opened them a glimmer of hope showed in their depths. “You were always a truthful child. Can you ... manage it?”
“I give you my word,” Maddie told him. “I will do whatever is necessary to keep them safe.”
Matthew relaxed. His worry ebbed. His spirit waned. He closed his eyes and began to drift away.
It was just past midnight when Maddie clearly heard the unmistakeable rattle of death in her father’s throat. She clasped his hand in both of hers. Her heart thudded painfully. She prayed for him, prayed that the assurances she had given him would be sound and true and tensely waited.
Matthew drew in a long noisy breath. He held it for what seemed an eternity. Then it came out all in a long slow release.
Maddie dammed the deafening silence that followed. She held her breath as she waited. Her own exhalation startled her.
It cannot be. He is not gone. Her heart protested with a fearful wrench. But his hand lay in hers, limp and cold. The tears she had held for so long poured down her cheeks as she gently closed his eyes. Then Maddie held his hand, laid her head on his unmoving chest and sobbed until there were no more tears. Regaining her composure she turned to prayer. For him. For her. For all of them to be safe.
Aunt Prissy who had entered silently when she heard Maddie’s sobs stood behind her niece and gently clasped her shoulder. “My dear, I am sorry. But he is in a better place, you know.”
Maddie nodded and laid her father’s hand on his chest. She shook her head and used her skirt to wipe her eyes. Then she straightened her shoulders. “We have so much to do before the morn. Please go for Henry. He told me last week that the coffin was ready.”
“Are you certain about this?”
Maddie saw Sanford’s smirk as clearly as if he was in the room. “There is no other choice.” She met her aunt’s gaze with steely resolve.
“Be easy. Everything has been prepared.” Maddie clasped her hands to hide sudden tremors.
“Tell Henry to come and then please come back and help me prepare Father.” She raised her chin wishing she had dared approach the vicar. “There is little enough time before dawn. I wish to read the burial service when we place him in the mausoleum.”
After her aunt left, Maddie placed her hand over her father’s heart. “I will keep my promise.”
* * *
London, England March 1st Late Wednesday Morning
Quentin Bellaport stood on the steps outside the Horse Guards and drew a deep breath. His last official duty as a major in the 15th Hussars was completed. Looking down at his uniform, he thought of the rags he had worn when taken aboard the ship in Corunna.
'Twas foolishness, as my batman Jenks will forever remind me, to have had this one made. Ordering it had been a futile act of rebellion. An act he knew doomed from the start. It didn’t lessen his resentment at his loss of the cavalry.
Not for the first time, Quentin fought the unreality and bitterness of his altered future as Viscount Broyal, heir to the Margonaut earldom. He still grieved deeply for Thomas, dead from influenza before Quentin’s last letter had reached him.
“I see our time in the mountains of Spain inured you to cold and rain.”
The laconic voice broke Bellaport’s bitter reverie. He smiled wryly at his friend in the blue and silver of the 15th. What, he wondered not for the first time, gave Danbury such a latent dangerous air? Certainly it was not his habitual ennui or the satirical twist of those narrow lips.
“Lord Blake, safe and sound I see.” Quentin shook the major’s hand. A hint of a grimace flashed across his features at the movement. “I doubt we shall ever again be as cold as we were during our grand tour through the passes of the Guadiana’s. You appear in good form,” he told the major. “Do you head back to Portugal soon?”
“You look better than when I last saw you,” Danbury returned after a quick assessment of the other’s paleness and the red jagged scar on his forehead. Quentin’s grimace and the awkward stiffness in his stance did not reassure him. “How is your wound from that skirmish near Castantino?”
“Well enough.”
Danbury concealed his irritation at this reply. He did not pursue the question. “Any word on Vincouer?”
“None. He was either killed or taken prisoner at Bembibre.”
“Word will come. Or the lieutenant,” Danbury assured him.
“I wish I was certain of the latter,” Quentin snapped. “If I had not been weak as a drowned cat and trussed to a mule, Goodchurch would have been able to help him.”
“You know better than tease yourself with those kinds of thoughts. Vicar insisted Merristorm went to Vincouer’s aid. It was not at all surprising they became separated in that skirmish. War
is like a throw of the dice. One never knows which way one will fall.
“Speaking of dice,” Danbury continued easily, “Merristorm acted like he wished the chasseurs had put a period to him when he went to Vincouer’s aid. He may yet do himself in with his abominable drinking and whoring.”
Quentin frowned. “Damnable waste of what could be an excellent officer.”
“Part of the reason must lie with his father. What do you know of ‘Hellfire’ Stranton?” Danbury asked with an unusual show of bitterness.
“Not the Marquess Stranton of the Hrycus Club?”
“The one, and hopefully, only.”
“Good lord, the Hrycus Club is worse than the old Hellfire Club from what I have heard.” Quentin was surprised by the scorn in Danbury’s voice. He always wore indifference like a skin but now it had cracked. “Why your continued interest in Merristorm?”
Lord Blake shrugged aside the question.
Seeing the stubborn glint in his friend’s eyes and the mask of ennui in place once again, Quentin changed tact. “Have you seen Goodchurch of late? I wish to thank him for Bembibre.”
“You were quite a sight on that mule.” Danbury’s eyes narrowed with thought. “I have not seen the lieutenant since we returned to London.” A wry smile curved his lips. “Do you find yourself looking about for signs from God?”
Broyal smiled. “A verse for every occasion.”
Danbury shrugged this aside. “Tell me,” he drawled, “is there truth to the rumour you mean to sell out?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Quentin seethed. “My father demanded it with Thomas’ death.”
“Very sorry about that.”
“No more than I,” Quentin replied grimly. “’Tis done.”
Danbury swept him a languid flourish. “Viscount Broyal.”
The reluctant viscount returned it. “And you, my lord, ever the son of a duke.”
“Ahh, but I had the wisdom of being born a third son,” he responded with cynical wit. “Neither Paul nor Reginald are the daring sort. They will die in their beds of old age.” Danbury drew out his watch.
“I must go and finish my business here post haste or be late for an appointment with a very fascinating lady.” He hesitated, then asked, “Are you free tonight? I know a man who may have news of interest to you. Tonight at Whites—say ten o’clock?”
“Ten,” Quentin agreed and flagged down a hackney to return to Grillions Hotel.
* * *
When Quentin entered his rooms, Jenks, his batman cum valet, greeted him with a dour frown. “You were out too long, Major. Begging for a setback, you are. Likely to give your father an apoplexy when next he sees you.” He sighed heavily, ignoring Broyal’s scowl.
“This came from the War Office.” Jenks handed over a missive. “The messenger said you were to come as soon as you got back, sir—m’lord.”
Quentin scanned the brief message with a frown. Laying it aside he asked, “Did you lay out my new garments?”
“’Tis rest you need, not a change of clothes.”
Quentin studied his batman’s battered, gaunt form. A tuft of wispy grey hair stood askew on the older man’s balding pate. A sure sign he fretted too much but there was no way he could avoid the summons. “I will wear the Weston jacket.”
Jenks’ grimace criticized the decision. “Yes sir, Major.” Shaking his head he followed the viscount into the bedchamber.
Quentin cautiously began to shrug out of his dolman. A sharp pain racked him. The sabre thrust he had taken on his right side at a meeting with the French chasseurs at Castantino had still not healed.
Jenks eased the dolman off for him. “I’ll put this aside just in case you change your mind, sir. Now let me look at the wound before you call on Lord Castlereagh.”
“Are you sure you do not want to return to the cavalry, Jenks? There are any number of officers who would be happy to have you.” Quentin glowered as Jenks wordlessly and patiently waited for him to sit on the bed.
“Perhaps you should take a position as a nanny.”
“Nay, it’s just like I once told you. You hang up your sabre. I hang up mine. You’re the only reason I’m not rotting in the soil of the West Indies like two-thirds of the troops lost to the fever while we were there.”
* * *
“Brandy, Viscount Broyal?” Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, Secretary for War and the Colonies, asked after they had exchanged greetings. “How fares your father?”
At the use of his still too new honorary title Quentin frowned. “The earl is well enough. Brandy, yes.” He accepted the glass Castlereagh offered with features schooled to hide the toll of his brother’s death and his worry about how badly his father had taken it.
“Please read through this,” Castlereagh requested holding out two sheets of parchment.
Broyal scanned them both, then pretended to do so a second time to think. He looked up and met the sharp-eyed gaze. “Let me understand what you suggest. You need someone—”
“Preferably you.”
“To go to the area between Dover and Folkestone and call on the men whose names are here noted at the alehouses they frequent.” He lifted the sheet of paper with the list of names. “I am to suggest that I have information to sell. Information the French would be happy to get?” Quentin sipped the brandy. “Will that not get me shot or hanged?”
“You shall be circumspect. Use those fine instincts that I have heard so much about.” Castlereagh paused, then added, “The culprit must be one of the men on that list. Maybe more than one. They all traffic in smuggled goods.”
“Who does not on that coast? One of my lieutenants once told me I could find the best French brandy in that area.”
Castlereagh sat up. “You are known there?”
“No.”
The Secretary relaxed back in his chair. “Will you do it?”
“Why not have the local militia or the Preventive men take care of the matter?”
Castlereagh shook his head. “Captain Medworth was assigned to the area in January. He is an improvement over the last officer, but he is hampered by the general prejudice of the local populace.” He grimaced. “There are also rumours that someone among the Preventives funnels information to smugglers in that area.”
“My father would be very displeased were I to agree.”
“Very little danger involved,” Castlereagh assured him. “I’ll be happy to tell him so. You shall sell the worthless bit of information we give you if anyone nibbles at the bait and report back. Nothing easier.”
Quentin tugged on his right ear.
“For king and country and all that,” Castlereagh continued. “Your father will be proud of you,” he said, that concern dismissed. “I need a man with sharp observation skills and sharper wits. Someone with a disgruntled air. You.” He paused to study the effect of his words and then continued.
“By the by, there is a man in the area who might be able to help you. You may know him—Comte de Cavilon. He has an estate near Ashford.” Seeing Broyal was not inclined to immediately accept the task, Castlereagh waved his hand. “Think on it and let me know in the next day or two.”
Castlereagh escorted Quentin to the door and watched him walk away. His secretary cleared his throat and handed him a note. The war secretary read it and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I shall be gone for a time, not above two hours,” he instructed.
Wrapped in a nondescript cloak, Castlereagh slapped on a battered hat and took up a walking cane. He left his office through a side entrance and hailed a hackney. A short time later he got out in an unpleasant part of the city and faded into an alley.
The Secretary at War was relieved that the poor illumination of the guttering candles concealed the true state of the room he entered. The smell was bad enough. Two men turned to him as he removed his hat.
Recognizing Castlereagh, the elder of the two, Hadleigh Tarrant, nephew of the Earl of Tretain who had proven so useful to the government befor
e he married and left the service, smiled a welcome. He motioned the Secretary to join them at the table.
The secretary took in the two men. Tall and lithe like his titled uncle, Hadleigh had the grey Tarrant eyes and white sprinkled dusky black hair even though only five and twenty. His features, handsome in a severe way, were streaked with grime.
His companion stood in stark contrast. At two and twenty André Lucien Francois Ribeymon, Baron de la Croix, nephew of the Earl of Tretain’s wife and raised as the earl’s son after his parents died during the Terror in France, was almost as tall as his comrade and youthfully lean. He wore his dark blond hair daringly long over the collar of his shirt. The baron’s dress proclaimed him a dandy with form fitting breeches and high shirt points. His features and manner named him a fop. Even now he stood with a quizzing glass raised to his eye, the bright red ribbons attached to it fluttering against the immaculate white of his embroidered waistcoat.
Castlereagh wondered vaguely if he had erred in his judgement of the younger man but the sharp intelligence he saw in the baron’s blue eyes reassured him as well as reminded him of Tretain’s unhappiness with the arrangement.
“We have but little time,” André said, his words tinged by the French accent he employed or discarded at will. “The sites at which the thefts occurred are marked. We are to investigate all of them?”
The three men looked down at the map of southern England.
“The first theft of army payroll gold occurred here.” Tarrant pointed to a red cross marking Salisbury in Wiltshire. “The second here, southwest of Oakhamton in Devonshire. Both shipments were heavily protected. The thefts occurred late at night.”
“We cannot see how a large group of men managed it,” André added. “Numbers would have attracted attention, been remembered. None of the people we spoke with recalled anything unusual.” He looked at Tarrant who nodded agreement, “We recommend that further shipments never halt while on the road except for changing horses.”
“Do you have any idea where the gold has gone?” Castlereagh asked.
“Our sources have been of little use thus far. We are dealing with an excellent organizer,” André began.
