by Scott, Tarah
The brute asked the very question I burned to know: who was Redgrave and what had he to do with the affair? Jenkins explained that Redgrave had been a close friend to Wallington, and since Wallington’s disappearance, Redgrave had made half a dozen trips to France.
“Nothing strange about that,” the brute said.
“There is when you go through Scotland,” Jenkins replied. “Mallory says Redgrave is trying to throw us off the track because he’s in contact with Wallington."
“Where in Scotland does he go? the brute demanded.
“Tain.
“Tain?" the man repeated. “Then he’s got to be going out of Dornoth Firth. Where does he go in France?”
"Paris.”
The brute made a few more threats, but Jenkins, no matter the menace, had nothing to add. The brute at last left and I followed. We soon left the seedier part of town and even as we entered the more affluent section of London, I knew where he was going. I instructed the hackney driver to slow as the brute's hackney turned onto the alley I'd expected him to take and, as we made the same turn, I saw the brute entering through the rear entrance of Lord Harrington's mansion.
December 1826
My investigations turned up nothing to indicate Redgrave was involved in any illicit activities. In the six months I observed him, he made one trip to France. It wasn’t until the fifth month, however, that I discovered that, like Wallington, Redgrave was employed as a British spy.
I began these investigations a year and a half ago, and only now does it occur to me that I should find out more about the one man who played the key role in Wallington’s condemnation: the young constable, Barry Doddard.
March 1827
I quickly learned that Doddard was a notorious rake, gambler, extortionist, and was quite willing to take bribes—just the sort of fellow from whom we are sworn to protect the citizens of London. There is only one way to deal with a man like Doddard. I waited outside the Golden Mount, a favored hell of his, and followed him until he was alone. He took me for a brigand set on killing him for his money, but I showed him my pistol before he could produce his, and said I only had questions for him. He lit a cigar, leaned against the wall of the building we stood near, and gave me leave to ask any questions I liked.
The instant I mentioned Mallory and Wallington’s names, however, he straightened and demanded that I stand aside. (I purposely kept Lord Harrington's name to myself. I have yet to understand Harrington's part in the Wallington affair, but it's obvious he is a big fish.) I threatened to expose Doddard's illegal actions to his superiors if he didn't answer my questions, to which he laughed and asked how I thought he had been able to maintain a position with the magistrate to begin with. My threat to pass on the information to the Bow Street Sheriff, John Stafford, had quite another affect, however.
He demanded to know how he could be certain I would keep quiet if he complied. “No guarantees,” I told him, “other than, if you do not answer my questions, I will have a runner on you before you reach home.”
By now, I deduced that Mallory must have paid him to denounce Wallington, and confronted Doddard with this accusation. "What did you expect?" he snarled. "Every war has its casualties."
I was stunned by this response and recalled my collaboration with Lord Sidmouth to entrap Thistlewood and his men. To my knowledge, only the Home Office and Cabinet knew of our operation—we were careful to keep all news of our plans from the public. Still, even if Sidmouth had informed Doddard of our plans, his manner implied knowledge of something beyond the fact we had purposely deceived known criminals…and my stomach turned with the sickening comprehension of what that something was.
"I see you didn’t like Thistlewood's revolution any better than Lord Sidmouth did," I said.
The shock on Doddard's face told me I'd hit the mark—and the suspicions I'd long ago quelled were correct: Lord Sidmouth had made sure Thistlewood's revolution never took place.
I grabbed Doddard by the scruff. "What has Sidmouth to do with Wallington?"
Understanding lit Doddard's eyes. I had overplayed my hand. But he surprised me by saying, "Sidmouth isn't the only man with secrets."
Doddard yanked free of my grasp and sauntered away as if he hadn't a care in the world. And he didn't. The men who paid him to lie had maintained their power by enlisting the aid of men like me to stop the Thistlewoods of the world.
I stared as Doddard disappeared into the shadows. He hadn't told me why he had been paid to denounce Wallington, but he had told me that whoever paid him had a secret. I wager that Wallington was—is—a threat to that secret.
September 12, 1827
I have, again, taken to watching Mallory and Harrington.
Phoebe paused at recollection of the night before when Lord Stoneleigh had introduced her to Lords Mallory and Harrington at the Halsey soirée. This was one of the answers she'd been searching for all these years, yet it was strange finally putting names and faces to the men responsible for her father being falsely accused. Her chest tightened and she took a deep breath to ease the constriction. This was only the beginning. Knowing who was behind the lie was only the first step. No telling how long it might take to uncover their motives. Then came the task of proving their guilt—and her father's innocence. She returned her attention to the letter.
The many hours of solitude give me too much time to think. I have replayed the events of the Cato Street Conspiracy. Of the half dozen spies I had inside the Spenceans, there was one man recruited by Lord Sidmouth, George Edwards. It was Edwards' reports that we most relied upon. He is the one who showed Thistlewood the notice we'd placed in the New Times announcing the Cabinet's fictional meeting at Lord Harrowby's, and Edwards even supplied the Spenceans with weapons. Wallington once made a comment about Edwards that I dismissed, then forgot. "The real instigator in the Cato Street plot is George Edwards." Recollection of Wallington's words sheds new light on the fact that Edwards was never caught and, though a warrant was issued for his arrest, no real efforts were made to capture him.
I did my duty in capturing the would-be murderers. Now, however, I must discover exactly what fruits my handiwork wrought. Should I be surprised to have discovered that during Thistlewood's and his cohorts' trials the defense put forth the notion of Edwards as the instigator behind the assassination plot? They even argued that the conspiracy was 'nothing more than the artful invention of hired spies and secret agents.' Yet the prosecutor retaliated with evidence of a man who claimed that Thistlewood had approached him with the plot to assassinate the ministers days before we made it known they would meet at Harrowby's. Such evidence simply could not have existed…just as the defense couldn't have known the depths of Edwards' part in the conspiracy—unless someone told them.
Pride welled up in Phoebe as she ran her fingers over the last lines of this letter as she read them:
What had Doddard said? "Every war has its casualties." Wallington's single comment showed me he was in the forefront of that war. How could his enemies possibly ignore the threat?
January, 5 1828
Tonight I met with Lord Alistair Redgrave.
At promptly eight o’clock, Redgrave arrived at the private dining room I engaged for the evening. I wasted no time in revealing my identity and that I was investigating the charges against Wallington.
“So, you have discovered that Mallory hired Doddard," he said once I'd told him enough of my investigation." It isn't strange that Lord Mallory would enlist aid to ensure that Thistlewood and his men were arrested. You of all people know that Thistlewood escaped justice once before." He referred to Spa Field, of course, four years before the Cato Street Conspiracy, and Thistlewood's acquittal of high treason charges. "How can you be surprised that Mallory wishes to locate Wallington?" Redgrave went on. "Mallory suspects I am in contact with Wallington. It is, of course, untrue, but understandable that he would make the connection. I am among one of the few men Wallington might contact were he alive.”
“You
think he is dead?” I asked.
“Of course he's dead. Lord Mallory is correct, were Mason still alive, he would have contacted me."
“Indeed,” I replied, “given the two of you are in the same business, you would be the most logical choice.” This, I saw, surprised him.
“You are well suited to your profession,” he remarked. “And I applaud your loyalty to a man you believe has been innocently condemned.”
This was simply too much. “You're saying he is guilty?” I demanded.
“Tell me,” Redgrave said, “if he is innocent, how might it be proved? Even the information you have indicates the only man who can exonerate him is Lord Mallory. Why hasn’t he done so?”
Here I put myself in an even more precarious position and told him that I believed it had something to do with Lord Harrington, and told him of the brute's involvement. I was befuddled as to what Harrington's part could be, he hadn't been part of the Cabinet during the assassination attempts, but there was no doubt he was involved.
“What do you want from me?” was Redgrave's reply.
I stared, suddenly more unsure of my position than at any other time in this investigation. I had enjoyed a prosperous career. If he ended it for me now, I could retire in the country and live a simple life. Perhaps take on a position as a local constable.
“To give this man back his life,” I said.
Redgrave released a sigh. “The criminals you deal with are nothing like Harrington. He has power and connections that are unimpeachable. Has it occurred to you that to stir the pot is to take away what little life Wallington has left?”
I could barely conceal my excitement. So Harrington was involved. “Are we to simply let his accusers get away with this crime?" I demanded.
“How do you propose to stop them?” Redgrave asked.
“Mallory had Doddard falsely accuse Wallington,” I said. "Once we interrogate him—"
Redgrave's laugh cut me off. "Doddard wouldn’t live long enough for you to interrogate," he said.
"Why did Lord Mallory have Doddard falsely accuse Wallington?" I shot back. "What is he hiding?"
Redgrave smiled. “Come now, surely you of all people know?"
"I know because I was there?" I retorted, but immediately relented. Lord Redgrave was not responsible for my mistakes. "Lord Mallory wasn't one of the men Thistlewood planned to murder," I said. "He was in no danger."
"Do you believe anyone in the government would have survived Thistlewood's revolution?"
That included Mallory, Harrington… and me. I didn't reply.
“We all make mistakes, Stafford. You're an honorable man, but I pray you understand this isn't your affair. Leave it be.” He gave me a last look, then left.
This has brought my investigation to an end I wouldn't have thought possible. Perhaps Redgrave is right. I am accustomed to dealing with baser criminals, the dregs of society, those we have no trouble identifying as men deserving of our contempt, or those, like Thistlewood, who dare defy their overlords. Men like Harrington are beyond my reach. I can save us from men such as Thistlewood, but who might save us from the Harringtons of the world…or from men like me?
Phoebe let the hand that clutched the letter fall to her lap. She knew what she had to do.
Chapter Thirteen
At just past noon the following afternoon, Phoebe looked up from her desk at the sound of a knock on her study door. The door opened.
“Excuse me, Miss,” Gaylon said, his voice graver than usual. “You have a visitor.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She had wondered how she would elude Kiernan MacGregor when she sneaked away to Scotland to follow Redgrave's trail, forgetting that she must avoid him between now and then, as well.
“Need I ask who it is, Gaylon?”
“I don’t know if you do, Miss,” he replied as if answering a perplexing question.
“Have I the honor of a visit from the man who insists I marry him?”
“Indeed, Miss, he does insist you marry him.”
She eyed Gaylon. “I would rather avoid seeing him.” The butler remained mute. “Might he barge into my study should you tell him I'm not at home?”
“He does seem determined, Miss.”
“Is my uncle home?”
“I regret to say, he is not.”
She sighed. “Please inform my—him—I shall be down directly.”
Gaylon took his leave and, ten minutes later, Phoebe entered the drawing room only to stop dead in her tracks at sight of the man awaiting her.
Adam faced her. The two stared at one another for a moment before he spoke. “Allow me to offer my felicitations.” Before Phoebe could say a word, he went on. “Kind of you to allow me to read about your engagement in the papers, Phoebe. While I was away, no less.”
“Adam,” she began.
“No, madam, you needn’t explain. I understand fully.”
“Do you?” With a sigh, she walked to the sofa near the window and sat down. “If that is so, why the agitation?”
He stiffened. “I understand you mean to put me in my place."
“You presume too much, Adam.”
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But is it too much to ask why you would turn down my proposal of marriage, only to return from Scotland no more than a month later betrothed to another?”
“Yes,” she said, “it is too much to ask.”
Adam blinked as if he’d been struck.
“Mr. Branbury, you knew perfectly well I wouldn't marry you. What has your proposal to do with the events that took place afterwards?”
“I don't intend to let this pass, Phoebe.”
“What do you propose to do, have me abducted against my will?”
He gave her a look of such surprised horror that Phoebe knew she'd been right. He wasn't associated with the men who tried to abduct her the night Kiernan had done the same. Who was the other would-be kidnapper?
Adam came to stand before her. “I know who this Ashlund is. Rich as the devil himself. So that’s it, is it?”
“I don't find this side of you very becoming, sir.”
“There is no other explanation.”
“Aside from being tiresome, Mr. Branbury, you border on insulting. The affair is none of your concern.”
“I wouldn't have thought it of you,” he said.
She regarded him. “What are you saying?”
“You know perfectly well what I am saying. All the while playing the innocent with me, you were—”
“Adam,” Phoebe cut in, “I understand you feel slighted, though, God knows, you have no call, but I won't sit in my own house and be insulted.”
A sharp rap sounded on the door. Gaylon opened the door and stepped inside. “Pardon the intrusion, Miss, but you have another visitor.”
“Good Lord, who—" Phoebe halted, realizing that the newest arrival was in all likelihood Adam’s rival. She stood. “Perhaps you should have the visitor shown into the parlor, Gaylon.” Even as she spoke, Gaylon stepped aside and a finely dressed woman entered the room.
“Elise MacGregor,” Gaylon announced, “the Duchess of Ashlund.”
Phoebe gaped at the woman who looked nothing like the duchess she had expected. She knew the duke to be at least fifty, but the dark haired woman standing before her could be no more than thirty-six, maybe thirty-seven, and she radiated a youth that belied even that age. A faint twitch at the duchess’ mouth told Phoebe her thoughts reflected on her face.
“Your Grace.” Phoebe dipped into a deep curtsey, then rose. “Please, Your Grace,” she looked toward Adam, “may I introduce Mr. Branbury.”
Adam strode to the duchess and bent over her hand in a formal bow. “Your Grace.” He released her and stepped back.
“Have I come at a bad time?” the duchess asked.
“No, Your Grace,” Phoebe said, “not at all.”
“I will ask two favors,” the duchess said.
“Anything you wish.”
“First, don't address
me as ‘Your Grace.’ I tolerate that only at court and certain parties. You may call me Elise.”
“But you—madam,” Phoebe said, genuinely shocked, “I couldn't.”
“You can. As for the second favor, may we sit down?”
“By heavens, yes.” Phoebe motioned to the sofa. “Gaylon, please have tea sent in. Mr. Branbury," Phoebe gave him a curt nod, "I believe our visit is finished.”
“I have come at an inconvenient time,” Elise said.
“I assure you, Your-er, Elise, you have not.” She turned to Adam. “Mr. Branbury, Gaylon will see you out.”
Adam gave her a hesitant glance and Phoebe feared he might force a scene, but he nodded and followed Gaylon out of the room. Phoebe seated herself next to her guest.
“Please forgive me for coming unannounced,” the duchess said. “To be honest, I didn't want to give you the opportunity to avoid me.”
“I assure you, I would have done nothing of the kind.”
Elise laughed. “Maybe not, but I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you did.” She added, “I am a surprise to you?”
“I hadn't expected you, ma’am."
The duchess laughed. “Of course you didn’t.” She leaned forward, a twinkle in her eye, and said in confidential tones, “I don’t think my husband did either.” She raised her eyes heavenward in a fashion that said she found the whole thing humorous. “And Kiernan was most surprised of all.” Elise gave her an impish look. “Serves him right, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am,”
“Phoebe,” Elise paused. “May I call you Phoebe?”
“Of course.”
“Phoebe, my husband has explained how you and Kiernan became acquainted. Kiernan deserves to be thrashed.” She snorted. “Don’t think his father didn’t consider it. The only consolation was the rogue didn't try to weasel out of his responsibility.”
A knock sounded on the door. Both women looked up as the door opened and a maid entered with a tea tray. She set the tray on the table in front of the sofa.
