Then she caught sight of the twist. It was a silence sphere, like the one that they had made for the gallery.
Vincent expanded it to surround them and the two men to either side of them. Understanding his purpose, Jane let her vision return to the corporal world.
After a moment, Vincent murmured, “They should not be able to hear us so long as we speak softly and do not allow our lips much movement. A loud tone will likely be audible, though muted.”
The young man to Jane’s left started visibly, but it appeared to look like a response to Devenny’s assertion that Mr. O’Brien planned to arm the coldmongers with explosives.
“My belief,” Vincent continued, “is that they plan to divide us. We know that this man is, in fact, a spy, and works for the Earl of Verbury. He is lying.”
Keeping her lips as still as possible, Jane asked, “How are we to prove that?”
“With honesty. We will be called to testify and it is important to stress that Mr. O’Brien said none of the things we are hearing attributed to him.”
“That’s because he was using us, wasn’t he?” the boy to Vincent’s right said.
“No.” Jane watched Devenny continue to answer questions. “They want you to think he betrayed you, so that we turn on each other. Recall that he warned you of this plot, though we did not yet know the details. Why else would he ask you not to march?”
“The lady has the right of it,” her neighbour said.
“Good. Now that you understand what they are trying, we need to let the others know.” Vincent slid his hand toward Jane. “I am going to pass Lady Vincent the weave. It is not the usual threads you handle, but I believe you should have no difficulty in passing it down the line. Alert the others.”
Jane took care to move slowly and wrapped her fingers around the gossamer threads. In her grasp they were as slight as a dream. She passed it to the coldmonger beside her, while Vincent spun a new one to send the opposite direction. With some satisfaction, she listened to her neighbour explain to his.
She spoke only once to draw their attention to the stand. “Listen. He wants to break the Company.”
On the stand, Devenny was nodding. “That is how it was explained to me. By adjusting the weather, the coldmongers would interrupt trade—as has already happened—and give them greater freedom within the unrest. From that first step, they could then put their own representative in power. It was something they already had some practise at. Lord Eldon is but one example.”
Again, a shock rolled through the courtroom.
“And can the coldmongers really affect the weather so severely?”
“They deny it to anyone not in their Company, of course, but working as a group—absolutely.” Devenny turned to address the jury directly. “In a group, they can manage a more involved glamour than alone. If you have seen a coldmonger make an ice at the grocer’s, it is much the same thing, but on a larger scale.”
“Thank you. No further questions.” The prosecution returned to his seat, swinging his coattails out behind him.
Next arose the defence for Mr. O’Brien, a dignified older man who might have worn the powdered wig of a solicitor when they were first in fashion. Mr. Leighton carried a page of notes with him to the stand and peered at them through his spectacles.
The gesture reminded Jane of Melody. When would they have a chance to converse, so she could find out the details of her discussion with the Prince Regent? If Melody was willing to tell her.
Mr. Leighton tapped his notes. “My understanding is that you suggested the march to Mr. O’Brien as well as recommended that the coldmongers follow the lead of the Luddites.”
Devenny looked confused for a moment. “We had discussions about how to best effect an uprising, yes. I am certain that he would present it as stemming from me in an effort to clear himself of misconduct.”
“Oh, no. This is not from Mr. O’Brien. We have another witness…” He let the question of who that witness was hang in the air. “And you encouraged him to start a riot.”
“This is a common tactic to determine how serious dissidents are. An honest man will refuse to act against the Crown when offered an opportunity to do so.”
“So you first recommended the plan, not him. Thank you. I have no further questions.”
Frowning, Devenny left the stand. The prosecution resumed his questioning by calling a shop boy who testified that Mr. O’Brien frequently came in on his way to the Coldmongers’ Company.
Next was an arms dealer who had sold him several rifles, though the dealer hastened to add that he had thought they were for hunting. Had he known about the conspiracy, of course he would never have sold them.
Clearly, the dealer had bought the prosecution’s line completely. The defence, who Jane was beginning to quite adore, asked if he sold rifles to other gentlemen as well. Yes, he did. Did he sell them in multiple sets? Yes, he did. So were all of these gentlemen plotting against the Crown? No, but they were English. Jane did not have to turn to see Lady Stratton bridle at the insinuation.
Next they called Mr. Lucas, who stoutly refused to allow the prosecution to lead him into statements that might be interpreted as being against the Crown. In spite of Jane’s earlier distrust of his role in the march, he steadfastly turned every answer into a discussion on the hardships endured by coldmongers and how the poor weather was affecting their guild. The defence also gave him the opportunity to speak about the general youth of the guild’s members.
Jane glanced at the jury and was dismayed to see that they were inattentive. One man was actually dozing. Clearly, if there was not scandal or dreadful injury involved, they had little interest.
Then the prosecution consulted his notes and said, “The Crown next calls Miss Rosalind de Clare.”
Why were they calling a prostitute as a witness?
Twenty-five
Duelling Sensibilities
At the sound of Miss de Clare’s name, Vincent’s face lost all colour. He covered his mouth and bent forward as if he were about to be ill.
There was a rustle of silk as someone rose behind them. Jane put her hand on Vincent’s back, smoothing the fabric between his shoulders. He had stopped breathing. So had she, waiting to see who passed her on the way to the stand.
The woman was small and well proportioned, with an abundance of golden curls pinned up under a delicate lace cap. Her dress was a simple muslin round gown, embroidered with whitework around the hem.
When she turned on the stand, the last of Jane’s breath left her body. Miss de Clare looked like Melody.
She did not have Melody’s exquisite complexion, but her eyes were blue and her face heart-shaped. It was a passing resemblance only, but enough to shock Jane to stillness. Was this what first made Vincent pay attention to her family? That her younger sister looked like the whore he used to frequent? Vincent turned to face Jane with nothing but despair writ on his features. Jane drew a breath and had to use every conscious thought to remember how a good wife would behave when her husband was distressed. She lowered her hand to reach for his and smiled to comfort him.
This would pass. Then she would find Lord Verbury.
The prosecution, solemn now, approached Miss de Clare. “You made the Home Office aware of the possible uprising. Would you tell the jury how you came to be aware of it?”
“Of course.” She looked very grave and tugged at her cuffs. “I am employed at Madame Lydia’s house—”
“As a prostitute, correct?”
She coloured very prettily, though this must be something she had been called before. “Yes. Sir David Vincent has been a client of mine since he was sixteen and, in the manner of such things, has confided in me over the years. Several months ago, he began telling me about joining a movement to overthrow the Crown. Naturally, this alarmed me. In spite of my profession, I am a loyal British citizen, so I related this to another of my clients, who was then able to take action.”
“She is lying.” Vincent did not bother with
the weave to mask his voice.
The judge scowled. “No comments from the gallery, please.”
Vincent bowed his head and clung to Jane’s hand. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “I know.” Whatever other fears and doubts she may have, she did not doubt that Vincent loved her and was faithful to her now.
“To assure the jury … are there any distinguishing features that only one who had been familiar with Sir David would be aware of?”
“He has a mole behind his right shoulder, just above the shoulder blade.” She touched the spot on her own shoulder, shifting her lace fichu out of the way to display delicate skin.
Jane bit the inside of her cheek. He did have a mole there, though it had been largely obliterated by …
Jane’s eyes widened and she dropped Vincent’s hand, hunting in her reticule for a piece of paper and a bit of pencil. As the prosecution continued to question Miss de Clare, Jane wrote a hurried note to Mr. Leighton. She waved an usher over and had it delivered to him, barely paying attention to the rest of the proceedings. Mr. Leighton received the note and looked round to her, with his eyebrows raised in question. Jane nodded, putting her hand on Vincent’s back again. Her husband leaned into her hand, exhaling slowly with his eyes closed.
The prosecution cleared his throat. “Thank you. As to the conspiracy, did Sir David give you any particulars?”
“His work was first to create a secret area in the musicians’ gallery at Mr. O’Brien’s home, which they planned to use to assassinate the Prince Regent—”
She had to stop here as the courtroom sprang into a dozen different conversations, all about the same topic.
After the judge had restored order, she continued, “Once the uprising began, he was to use military glamours to confuse the opposition.” She wet her lips and glanced towards the spectators’ gallery, then nodded and continued. “He also had come up with additional techniques to allow the coldmongers to increase their ability with cold.”
Jane glanced behind her at the gallery. Lord Verbury leaned back on his bench, managing to appear to be lounging, in spite of his starched collar and white cravat. As Miss de Clare continued her recital, he would give a little nod any time she faltered.
How dare he? How dare he do this to her husband?
Mr. Leighton rose when the prosecution had finished and approached Miss de Clare slowly. “You say Sir David has a mole on his back?”
She glanced to the gallery.
“My dear, you must answer this yourself, without being prompted.” Mr. Leighton lost some of his genial manner. “Now, answer the question for me.”
“Yes. He does.”
“I see.” The defence nodded as if he saw something larger than that. He, too, glanced at Lord Verbury. “Are there any other features you wish to mention?”
She blushed as though a woman with a character such as hers could be embarrassed. “Well. He has a mole somewhere else, but I do not think I ought to say where.”
The courtroom laughed and Jane clenched her jaw with barely contained fury. The urge men had to fight duels became surpassingly clear to Jane. She had never so wished to rend or tear at someone as she did now.
Frowning, Mr. Leighton shook his head. “No further questions.”
The last witness called by the prosecution was Major Curry, who gave his testimony with dead solemnity. He stared straight ahead and recited the times and positions of the guard as well as confirming that he had seen Mr. O’Brien there. “He was particularly discernible because of his red horse and hair.”
When the defence got up, Mr. Leighton asked only a single question. “The average age of the marchers was only sixteen, and some were no more than ten years old. Do you think they were a clear danger to the Crown?”
Major Curry’s composure broke, then, and he had to stare at the floor for some moments. “No, sir, I do not.”
“That will be all.” He stood back to let Major Curry return to his seat and then yielded the floor to the prosecution.
The Attorney General rose to deliver his closing argument, after which Mr. Leighton would have his turn to call witnesses to the stand for the defence. Jane braced herself for a harsh description of the events as he smoothed the stiff white cloth of his winged collar.
“Your honour, members of the jury, gentlemen. It is, thankfully, a rare occurrence to be called upon to try a case of treason that came so close to succeeding. We have heard from Mr. Devenny, the Crown’s agent, about the plan that these coldmongers had embarked upon at the instigation of the Irishman, Alastar O’Brien. That they have already succeeded in disrupting our weather and causing an upset in trade is bad enough, but it is even worse to learn that if this conspiracy had continued, they would have made an attempt upon the Prince Regent and members of parliament, with the ultimate goal of overthrowing the government entirely.”
A murmur of consternation went through the court at this, with more than one insult hurled at Mr. O’Brien. The Attorney General paused, as though to let the jury hear the outrage the crowd felt. He tucked his hands into his waistcoat and continued his oration. He repeated key points made by the witnesses and assembled a damning wall of evidence. Even Jane, who knew better, found herself wondering if the coldmongers had a larger scheme in mind when they marched. She knew that they did not, but his argument still raised the thought that perhaps she ought to question the events.
Lowering the pitch of his voice to a dangerous rumble, the Attorney General concluded his oration. “Can there be any doubt based on the testimonies that you have heard today that guilt most foul stains the hands of the men brought before you? And I do say ‘men.’ The defence will try to have you believe that these are mere boys, incapable of the treachery for which they stand accused. I ask you only to consider the unseasonably late snows. When you add to that unmistakable evidence such as the testimony of the arms purchase, the presence of a secret area in O’Brien’s home, and the march upon the Tower of London, I believe that you have no choice but to render your verdict ‘guilty.’”
He stalked to his seat, satisfaction writ large upon his face at the ugly tenor of the crowd. Jane shuddered anew at what lay in store for them all. Mr. Leighton rose to address the judge. “If it pleases your lordships, I would like to begin by calling Sir David Vincent.”
“So be it.”
Exhaling slowly, Vincent wiped his palms on his trousers as he stood. Jane pressed her hand against his arm to encourage him. He compressed his lips in his small private smile, bowing his head as he passed her.
In answer to the request that he state his name and occupation, Vincent replied, “I am Sir David Vincent. I am a glamourist who was employed by Lord Stratton, Mr. O’Brien’s father, to create a glamural in their ballroom, with my wife, Lady Vincent.” He paused, wetting his lips. His gaze darted to where Lord Verbury sat, then away as if burned. “We are both agents of the Crown, as the Prince Regent, himself, testifies in this letter.”
He handed it to the defence, who seemed more than a little relieved that the paper really existed. Again, the courtroom murmured in astonishment. Mrs. Ellsworth’s voice carried clearly over the top of the rest. “There! I told you he was an honourable man! An agent of the Crown!”
Looking it over, the defence passed it, in turn, to the judge, who then read it to the jury, confirming that Vincent and Jane were trusted confidants of the Crown and cleared of any charges against them.
Mr. Leighton turned to the jury. “You have heard that Sir David is trusted by the Crown, but this prosecution seeks to sully Sir David’s character. They have brought up some subjects that would under normal circumstances be let alone.”
The Solicitor General stood. “Objection, sir. This is an argument, not a question.”
The judge nodded. “Quite right. Please confine yourself to questioning the witnesses, Mr. Leighton.”
The barrister bowed. “Pardon, your honour. Since the purpose of this trial is to consider Mr. O’Brien’s guilt or innocence, Sir David�
��s testimony is an important part of this. I merely wanted to set the stage for the jury so that they understood the context in which I asked Sir David these questions.” He turned back to Vincent. “Now then, sir. What is your relation to Miss de Clare?”
“I first visited her when I was sixteen. Though I am ashamed to admit it, I continued to patronise her services until I was twenty and left for university.”
“You have not seen her since?”
“No.” Vincent looked at Jane and spoke as if she were the only one in the room. “Absolutely not.”
The defence consulted the note that Jane sent him and grimaced. “Sir David, would you oblige me by removing your shirt?”
Clenching his jaw, Vincent stood and removed his jacket. As he did so, the defence again turned to the audience. “Ladies, I apologize for this indecorous exercise. The more sensitive of you may wish to depart.”
No one moved. Indeed, most of the ladies leaned forward with eager eyes as Vincent’s waistcoat and shirt came off.
The defence asked, “Would you show us your back?”
Vincent turned and showed the mass of scars crossing his back. Some of the wheals were still an angry red tone. It had been a long time since Jane had seen them by the light of day. She had not realised, until this moment, that Vincent had developed the habit of dressing with his back away from her.
Mr. Leighton appeared stricken by the severity of Vincent’s scarring, but he composed himself quickly and leaned in. “The mole that Miss de Clare said you possessed was … where? The right shoulder, I believe.” He pointed to the skin there, where only a corner of brown showed through the scars, and spoke to the jury. “It is barely visible. I find it interesting that Miss de Clare did not mention the scars he bears. Would they not merit some comment?”
Without a Summer Page 25
