One of them opened the door. Another took the bandbox and sheets from her. A third helped her in.
“I thought you would not join us,” a masculine voice purred with self-satisfaction.
It took a moment before Jane’s eyes fully adjusted to the darkness. Even then, she did not fully comprehend what she saw. Across from her sat Melody and the Prince Regent.
“Your Royal Highness,” she managed to gasp. “Melody?” Then she sat forward, apprehending who was missing from the carriage. “Vincent. Is he—”
“On his way. I could only have you fetched one at a time.” His Royal Highness leaned against his seat, a picture of regal elegance. “Are you well?”
Jane could not constrain a laugh. “All things considered? I suppose that my state is now improved.” As much as she wanted to demand to know why he had left them to languish in the prison, it would not be advisable. Not now. Not when she still did not understand her fate. But the question would not be put off long—only altered into something less demanding. “How are you come to be here?”
He shook his finger at her. “Not until Sir David arrives.” He smiled, not without kindness. “I only want to explain once.”
Jane looked to Melody for some explanation, but her sister would not meet her gaze, instead occupying herself with neatening the ribbon hanging from her gown. Jane could get nothing from either of them, and finally stopped trying. She had become used to silence these past few days.
It took only a little longer before the door opened. The carriage rocked as Vincent got in, and Jane’s breath caught in her throat. Like her, he was blind for a moment as he stepped into the dim interior, so she put her hand out to guide him. “Vincent?”
His movement checked, except for his head, which turned sharply toward her. “Jane!” He sat next to her, insensible of the other two in the carriage. His cheeks were grizzled with the beginning of a beard and his hair was madly dishevelled.
Jane took his hands and pressed them between hers. “Are you well?”
“Now? Yes.” Vincent leaned toward her, lips parting, and his eyes suspiciously bright.
The Prince Regent cleared his throat. “I hesitate to interrupt—I understand that you have been under some strain—but we only have the length of this carriage ride to converse. And then there is the bother of a trial.”
The astonishment on Vincent’s face was as great as Jane’s had been.
“First of all, my apologies. I had not known you were involved in this situation or I would have given instructions for you to be let alone.”
Vincent frowned. “I wrote to you. Twice.”
“And the Solicitor General said he would send a note as well,” Jane added.
“That is troubling. I was at Brighton, and knew nothing of it.” He rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. “Fortunately, your sister, Miss Ellsworth, came to plead your case most passionately.” The Prince put his hand on Melody’s knee and patted it. Her sister looked downward, but it did nothing to hide the deep blush on her cheeks. For the first time, Jane realised that Melody was not wearing her new spectacles. The implication stunned her. Melody had … had—
She was unequal to forming a response. Vincent made a low noise in his throat. “Prinny—”
“Now, now, Sir David. You are well familiar with my habits, so I will reassure you that, though Miss Ellsworth was very kind in her offers, they were not necessary nor accepted.”
Jane’s immediate relief that Melody’s virtue was unblemished gave way to astonishment that her sister would even contemplate making such an impudent offer, let alone actually make it. And for her sake. Jane pressed her hand to her mouth, too stunned to think.
Vincent sought Jane’s free hand and held it, running his thumb over the side of her palm. “I am relieved to hear that.”
The Prince paused and leaned forward, suddenly casting aside his appearance of polish. “Even if your service to the Crown were not reason enough, I am familiar with your history with Lord Verbury. I acted as soon as someone let me know that you were imprisoned. That you both wrote to me is very troubling. I thought it a simple error that someone did not understand you were known to me. This hints at something more.”
“The whole of this business does more than hint.” Vincent ran his free hand through his hair, making it stand out even more. Quickly, and with more presence than Jane could summon, Vincent laid out their understanding of the events that had led to their imprisonment. The Prince Regent rubbed his chin as Vincent spoke, mouth turned down in thought.
“This is worse even than Miss Ellsworth portrayed it.”
“May I hope that the charges against us are dropped?”
“Entirely. Even without your recital. I have a letter stating that you are my agents and are cleared of all charges.” The Prince produced a paper with his seal and passed it to Vincent. Then he cleared his throat. “But I can do nothing for O’Brien. In spite of Miss Ellsworth’s plea.”
Jane straightened with surprise. The Prince Regent must not have understood Vincent’s testimony. “I can assure you that he is completely innocent.”
“Completely? He did march on the Tower, did he not?” The Prince Regent sighed, rubbing his brow. “The trouble I face is that there must be a villain. The populace is too angry at the coldmongers. If Mr. O’Brien was not responsible for the revolt, then they will look to Lord Eldon, and I will have my hands full keeping him from losing his seat.”
“The anger at the coldmongers is unjustifiable.” Vincent’s hand tightened on Jane’s. “It is founded on absolute superstition. There is no possible way that they could affect the weather.”
“And you think that you can explain that?”
“Certainly. The principles of thermal transference are well understood.”
“To a layman?” In the silence that followed the Prince sighed again. “It pains me. Our soldiers fired on children. If there was no revolt, then they acted without cause, so there must be a villain, someone for the populace to blame. Without substantial proof of his innocence, that person will be Mr. O’Brien.”
Jane could scarcely believe what she had heard. The Prince Regent was willing to let an innocent man die—several innocents die—rather than let it be seen that his government had made a mistake. “How are additional deaths going to make this right? You play into their hands by letting this go forward.”
“Do I?”
“Of course. They are already interfering with the information you are being given. What else will they do if they believe that they can so easily shape your decisions?”
“Who are they? If there is proof that there is someone to blame for this, then by all means tell me so that we can pursue them, but it cannot be a nameless they. There must be a villain for the populace to look to. The best I can do—which I will—is to change his sentence to transportation for life.”
Vincent whined at the back of his throat. A thin film of sweat was forming on his palm. He lowered his head and spoke to the floor. “And if I can give you a villain?”
The carriage rocked back and forth over the cobbles. Jane could swear that she could hear the beating of all of their hearts in the silence. She had never before wished someone dead, and even now, with everything that Lord Verbury had done to them, some part of her drew back from the idea of a son giving up his father in such a way. But Lord Verbury had given his son up twice over, and had wished him dead in the bargain.
“It is a charge of treason.” The tone of the Prince Regent’s voice made it clear that he, too, understood what Vincent was offering. “I cannot change that. Not even for a peer. Especially if that peer is proved to have interfered with my business.”
“I understand that.”
“If you fail to convince the jury, though … Vincent, think what he will do to you. There is only so much protection I can offer.” The Prince Regent brushed a piece of lint off his knee. “For all that I ostensibly rule England, I am good for very little besides throwing elaborate parties. It is wh
y I put so much effort into them.”
“I understand.” Vincent’s head stayed bowed. “Can you send a messenger for me? I want to alert the Strattons’ attorney of our change in situation.”
“Yes. I can do that, at least.”
Melody said, “Is there anything I can do?”
The corner of Vincent’s jaw worked as he considered. “Yes, actually, there is one thing. Will you pay a call to my sister?”
Twenty-four
At the Old Bailey
The yard outside the Old Bailey was crowded with spectators when the Prince Regent’s carriage arrived, though the doors were well guarded to prevent those who had not paid to see the spectacle from entering. The Prince Regent stayed in the carriage as they were let out, but he sent a paper in to the defence attorney. Melody remained behind as well, with a promise to run Vincent’s errand with all possible speed.
Jane and Vincent were escorted through the throng and into the Old Bailey. The stench of the building made Jane’s stomach turn. A miasma of the unwashed rolled out of the tunnel connecting the Old Bailey to the prison next door. Jane could only be grateful that they had not been held there. She pressed her hand over her nose as they entered the courtroom itself. The heads of the assembled turned as they entered, some standing for a better look at them. Jane shrank from the attention, pressing as close to Vincent as allowed.
At the front of the court, she had her first glimpse of Mr. O’Brien since the troubles began. He stood at the bar with his hands resting on the smooth wooden plank. A mirror stood over him to focus the light from the windows on his face so that the jury could see it better. He had been given a clean suit of clothing, but, like Vincent, had not been allowed to shave for fear of what he might do with the razor. His stubble was so fair that it might have disappeared against his skin if the mirrored sun had not lit his face, making it look as though his cheeks had been brushed with sand. He had deep shadows under his eyes, but kept his chin up and stood in the box with a firm, erect posture.
Lord and Lady Stratton sat in attendance at the front of the spectators’ gallery. Lady Stratton clenched a handkerchief in one hand and held it beneath her nose against the reek of bodies. As Jane and Vincent walked down the stairs to the floor of the court, Lord Stratton looked as though he wished to address them, but checked himself. Lady Stratton had eyes only for her son. A woman across the aisle let out a lament, drawing Jane’s attention to where her mother was swooning against her father. As gratifying as her mother’s concern was, Jane wished she could show a trifle more restraint. By the strength of the reaction, Jane could assume that her parents had not been told of Melody’s visit to the Prince Regent. Jane tried to smile some encouragement to her father, but doubted that it helped, as his attention was occupied with her mother. The look he spared for Jane was grave and tormented.
To Jane’s surprise, their cousin Sir Prescott had come and was sitting in the row behind her parents. The kindness he showed in supporting her mother was quite unexpected. Jane would have guessed him the type to distance himself from a relative in disgrace.
The court’s usher led Jane and Vincent down the steps to the witness box in front of the gallery in the centre of the room. It seemed almost like a paddock with benches. He seated them facing the jury box and the gallery, which contained several young men who Jane recognised from the march. Mr. Lucas had a contusion over one eye, and sat with his head bowed, as though the weight of the whole affair rested on his shoulders. His gaze shifted to them and away. The row of witnesses included Major Curry, splendid in his regimentals. He had deep lines around his mouth, and, while he presented a smart appearance, looked as though he had barely slept. If she could, Jane would tell each man that he was not the agent of their present misfortune. That honour was reserved for Lord Verbury.
The jury seemed composed of a jumble of gentlemen and merchants with one navy captain thrown in for good measure. They did not look like an ignoble lot, which gave Jane some hope. Surely once they heard that Mr. O’Brien had tried to stop the march, they would not be able to continue to think him guilty. That they thought so currently, without hearing evidence, was obvious in the way they sneered at him.
“All rise.” The court clerk took his place in front of the judge’s bench to their left. The judge arrived then, looking very severe in his red robe and white wig and was introduced by the clerk as the Lord Chief Justice Abbot. Even when imagining this moment, Jane had not thought of all the murmurings that took place in the courtroom. She had thought it would become silent once they started, that a hush would fall over the courtroom as a sign of respect and acknowledgement of the gravity of the proceedings.
She was far wrong. People who had seemed to be dozing now awoke and turned to their neighbours, asking, “Didn’t he look guilty?” or “This is a hanging judge, ain’t he?” or “Did you ever see the like?” And one man said, “Easy to spot the Irishman, at any rate.” The judge nodded to the clerk that he was ready for the charges to be read.
The clerk read from a sheet of vellum. “Alastar O’Brien was indicted, for that he—being a subject of our Lord the King, not having the fear of God in his heart, nor weighing the duty of his allegiance, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil as a false traitor against our said Lord the King; on the eleventh day of June, in the fifty-sixth year of the reign of our said present Sovereign, Lord George the Third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Faerie, and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, with force and arms, maliciously and traitorously did compass, imagine, invent, devise, and intend to depose our said Lord the King. That is to say: Conspiring to levy war, and subvert the Constitution;
“Preparing an address to the King’s subjects, containing therein that their tyrants were destroyed;
“Assembling with arms, with intent to murder the Prince Regent and divers of the Privy Council;
“To which indictment the prisoner pleaded Not Guilty.”
The severity of the charges which had been assembled whole cloth from innocuous events shocked Jane. She glanced to her right, where Mr. O’Brien stood facing the judge with admirable calm. She, too, had thought the man capable of a conspiracy to overthrow the Crown, and she had the benefit of having met him. In the remembrance of his conduct, she could now see how his gentleness of manner and concern with being correct would have caused him to leave them on that first day—not because he disdained an artisan’s sister as a connection, but because he did not want to be seen to press his attentions on one who might not be able to resist his advances due to her position in the household. Everything he had done, she had cast in the worst possible light. What could she expect from the jury already disposed to distrust him?
The Attorney General rose from his place at the great mahogany table at the front of the judges’ bench. “My Lords, with permission of your lordships, we will proceed to the trial of Alastar O’Brien.”
The judge responded in a musical voice, which would not have been out of place on the stage. “Be it so.”
The first witness took his place. Until he climbed the stairs to the stand, Jane did not recognise him as the footman she had seen previously. He was now in the clothing of a gentleman, with knee breeches and a dark blue jacket over a buff silk waistcoat. The spots were gone from his cheeks and his hair was fashionably tousled.
The Solicitor General, Sir Jeremiah, took over for the Attorney General, rising to question the witness. In his thin figure, Jane could imagine that a skeletal death had come to try the case.
Sir Jeremiah cleared his throat. “State your name, for the record, your residence, and your occupation.”
With a nod, the footman spoke. “My name is John Devenny.” Jane gaped. All trace of an Irish accent had gone from his voice, though the timbre was the same. A fold of glamour surrounded the witness box, attended by a glamourist at its side, which lifted his voice to the corners of the room. “Until recently, I was in the employ of Sir Waldo Essex as a footman. This wa
s in my situation as agent to the Crown.”
The court gasped at that. The young men on Jane and Vincent’s bench displayed varying emotions, from obvious disbelief to a droop of hopelessness. Mr. O’Brien went white, but continued to stare straight ahead with his chin up.
“And what was your role for the Crown?”
“We had heard rumours of a revolt among the coldmongers. I was sent to discover and penetrate any conspiracy.”
“What did you discover?”
“That it was worse than initial reports had given us cause to believe. It had been thought that it was labour unrest, like the Luddites, but the reality was that the Irishman, Mr. Alastar O’Brien, was using the coldmongers as the first wave of a plot by a group of Irish to overthrow the government. Mr. O’Brien was dissatisfied due to the circumstances regarding his father’s seat in Parliament, and felt it unjust that he was prevented from taking the seat on account of being a Catholic. Rather than converting, he planned to use the coldmongers, and was successful in the first phase of his plan.”
His words caused the tension in the bench of the accused to shift. One boy shot a look of pure hate at Mr. O’Brien. The one nearest him shifted away, as if to distance himself. Mr. Lucas turned to regard him. Jane could not see his face, but when he turned back, he wore a deep frown.
Beside Jane, Vincent shifted anxiously. He bent his head as though to address her, then checked that motion, remembering where they were. She bit her lip, wondering what he had been about to say.
Vincent’s hands moved in his lap, fingers pinching the air and rolling nothing. His breath sped a little.
Jane shifted her vision to the ether.
On the stand, Devenny continued to speak of the deplorable plans of Mr. O’Brien, including a plot to kill certain members of Parliament as well as assassinate the Prince Regent. Even with her vision adjusted, Jane did not at first see what Vincent was doing. For a moment, she thought he might be fidgeting out of nervousness. Only when she looked very deep indeed, blotting all trace of the corporal world from her primary sight and using her second sight exclusively, could she see the gossamer weight of the glamour he wove. It had something to do with sound, but the fold was so thin she had trouble even seeing it, much less tracing the pattern.
Without a Summer Page 24
