by Morris, Tee
It was hard not to let that revelation hurt—but then she couldn’t blame Kate. The circumstances surrounding the vital petition granting women the right to vote, had been . . . incendiary. No one had felt that more keenly than the redoubtable Mrs. Sheppard.
“Despite the nature of your departure,” Douglas began after a time, “you did your country—and my mother—a great service.” The statement was said so quietly that she might have missed it.
Now she shoved him away, her outrage quite overwhelming the propriety she was trying to maintain in front of him. “That was most certainly not what you said when it happened!”
“Eliza!” he snapped, and then looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed. “Eliza,” he continued in a more moderate tone, “I was nursing my mother back from the brink—by Jove I thought she was dying! I am sorry I did not have enough time or inclination to spend on your feelings. When I had a moment to gather my wits . . .”
“King Dick passed his sentence on me, making certain that I could never return. I had barely enough time to utter the word ‘goodbye’ to my mother and father, so please, refrain from adding ‘guilt’ to my burden.” She closed her eyes. “And please don’t stand on ceremony and commend me for my love of country, because I am no longer welcome there.”
“That’s not true.”
“Douglas,” she said, “I am banished, assured imprisonment if I ever set foot back on God’s Own.” She bit her lip and took a long, deep breath. “I miss it, Douglas. I miss home.”
“Stuff Richard Seddon,” he swore. “We would have fought for you.”
Eliza looked out over the river, trying to calm herself. The painful emotions of that event were something she thought she’d gotten under control—but apparently it only took Douglas Sheppard’s handsome face to undo all that good work. “Kate had done enough fighting for a lifetime. She needed to enjoy that victory.”
Douglas laid one of his gloved hands on hers where it rested atop the wall. She wanted to jerk her hand back, but memory and a stirring of old emotion held her in place. His posture was so straight, and he was so quiet that Eliza for a moment didn’t quite know what to say. Both of them remained fixed to the spot in a tangle of strange emotions.
“My mother never stopped trusting you,” he said, his hand tightening over hers. “The first thing she communicated to us in the hospital was that the whole incident was not your fault. Naturally it was scribbled on a blackboard, since she . . . well, she had inhaled some of the smoke and fire.”
The agent closed her eyes for a moment, seeing the destruction, and hearing her friend’s call but being unable to answer it.
“And after yesterday’s heroics,” Douglas removed his hand from hers, and straightened his lapels. “I know she wouldn’t mind me finding you like this—asking for your help.”
“Then let’s be having it,” Eliza said in a light tone, as if they were strangers just meeting at a dance, rather than a pair of old lovers on foreign shores with a dark past lying between them. “Tell me why you’ve gone to such pains to track me down.”
“You know I have seen many things between the North and South Islands, and across the Pacific. However, my instincts tell me they pale in comparison to what you have seen.” A tiny muscle in Douglas’ jaw twitched. “But there is a thread of panic running through the movement that is growing hard to miss.”
She involuntarily tightened her grip on the railing. “Has there been any thinning of the ranks at the meetings? Perhaps a few less people attending than usual?”
“I have no doubt Mother has more details than I do, but from what the men have told me, incidents like yesterday are . . .” His voice trailed off. It would seem that Douglas had arrived at the scene of Melinda Carnes shortly after they left. “I’m concerned.
“The London Auxilliary shipped us both over to give the English suffragists a kick in the pants—or skirts—and she’s been doing quite the job of it.” Eliza caught a glimpse of the smile she recalled so very fondly, but the moment was fleeting as he added, “but in this month alone, what we were told were ‘isolated incidents’ and ‘misguided sisters’ are appearing less and less random. I am sure that you will be able to find out more than what the Auxiliary is willing to tell me. You were always good at such confidence gathering.” He offered her a card. “Mother has asked you to join us here for morning tea. Say you will attend?”
Taking the card between two fingers, she gave a brief nod. “I will.”
“Until then. Good day, Eliza.”
Douglas tipped his hat to her, spun on his heel and walked away, quickly swallowed by the crowd on the street. Eliza turned back to the Ministry. Now there remained only one thing left to do—recruiting Wellington Books to her cause.
As soon as she explained to him the ruination of his sandwich.
Interlude II
In Which the Frailties and Fears of Mortal Men Are Considered
Agent Bruce Campbell’s bed was very large and very comfortable. Still, Peter Lawson, Duke of Sussex, would not have expected anything else. The man, after all, apparently spent half his life in it, though hardly alone.
Sitting in the dark of the apartment, awaiting the return of the colonial, he kept his hand tucked in his pocket. The pistol he felt there served as a reassurance of his sensibility. He had been pushing the agent hard in the last few months. It would not have been reckless to dare the lion in his den without proper precautions—but dare him he must.
It would have been naïve to believe someone would want to play Judas within an organisation they had served happily. This apprehension had blossomed to a full feeling of suspicion. It was time to teach this boy who was the master.
A growing clamour from the other side of the door alerted Sussex to prepare himself. Laughter. A man and a woman, their giggling an indication they appeared to have taken more than their fair share of liquor. Even better, he thought to himself, straightening his back.
The lock proved difficult by the sounds of a key scraping on metal to the accompaniment of more snickers. That a member of Her Majesty’s service should behave in such a manner really was beyond the pale. Sussex certainly would have no qualms about putting him in his place.
The door popped open and the tall, broad form of Agent Bruce Campbell staggered in. His face was illuminated by the light out in the corridor, but the apartment was only lit by the moon through the open curtains. Sussex sat very still, not alerting the Australian to his presence immediately. This could play out even better than he had hoped.
The woman who stumbled in after and threw herself into Campbell’s arms was very well dressed and quite a beauty. Her blonde hair gleamed in an elaborate style that had already come adrift in some places. She appeared well-bred, though her conduct resembled that of a slattern.
“Oh Bruce,” she giggled. “Do you think anyone saw us? I felt so light-headed at the gaming table that I’m not quite sure what I said.”
“You were a real lady.” Campbell bent and kissed her so passionately that Sussex was sure indeed she was not. “Those folks weren’t your usual crowd—so no one knew who you were on any account.”
He lifted her off her feet and twirled her about closer to the window—probably to see what he was about to do better. The Duke let them proceed, watching with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He was not at all surprised with Campbell—but disappointed in the lady.
As they kissed, Bruce’s fingers began to pull at her buttons. It was time.
“For propriety’s sake, Campbell,” and in the darkness of the apartment, Sussex found his voice did indeed sound rather terrifying. “I suggest you stop right there.”
The women shrieked and clutched at the Australian while he pushed her behind him and pointed a pistol in his direction. The man might be a bit of a dolt, but Campbell was unquestionably quick and deadly. Ingenious as well, as Sussex noted the gun appeared to be attached to some apparatus either in his coat sleeve or fixed around his forearm. As for himself, the Duk
e concluded the best course of action was to keep his own weapon concealed.
Sussex inclined his head forward, clicking his tongue lightly as he turned up the lantern burning next to him. “That would make a mess not to mention quite a scandal shooting a member of the Queen’s Privy Council in your apartments. People would ask questions I dare say—especially of the lady.”
“Bloody hell!” Campbell strode over and lit the gaslight above the fireplace. His frown was thunderous, and his lip was pulled back in a snarl that would not have looked out of place on a Bengal tiger. “What in the blazes are you doing here?”
Sussex smoothed his moustache and rose from the bed. “Waiting for you of course. We need to talk.” He tilted his head and looked at the horrified woman.
Campbell’s face settled in stern lines. “You better have my man see you home, Nancy. This is business.”
The blonde readjusted her clothing as best she could and scuttled for the door. Just as she was about to make her undignified exit, Sussex smiled. “Do convey my regards to your husband, Lady Waynethrop. I believe I will be seeing him at the club on Friday.”
Her blue eyes widened, and he took some small satisfaction that he had cracked the renowned icy demeanour of Nancy Waynethrop. Next time she chose to ignore him at the dinner table he would take pleasure in reminding her of this moment.
Once the door closed behind his guest, Campbell strode around the room, lighting as many fixtures as he could—as if illumination would somehow banish Sussex. Then he turned to face the Duke. He did not point his revolver at his guest, but neither did he let go of it. “You better have a damn good reason for coming here like this.” The venom in his voice was quite impressive.
Sussex smiled at the posturing. It was trite, but quaint. “Coming here at this hour, yes, I have a very good reason, my crass colonial.” He took a step closer, so that there would be no mistaking his own anger. “Unlike the married ladies of the English aristocracy, I am not content with small favours. You have been stringing me along about getting into the so-called Restricted Area at the Ministry.”
“Your Grace,” Bruce started, retracting the gun back into his sleeve. “I hope you understand that drawing on you is out of habit, not manners.”
“You are such the gentleman, particularly while in the company of married companions.” Sussex gave a snort as he crossed over to the table of spirits. “Most gallant, your protecting Lady Waynethrop. I hope your courage is double that in the presence of your own wife.”
He eyed the crystal bottles of various heights and shapes. Quite the lifestyle these Ministry agents led.
Then he considered Campbell’s concealed weapon.
“Any particularly good spirits in these decanters?”
Bruce remained silent, until Sussex looked over his shoulder at him. “The square one.” Sussex lifted a single eyebrow. “And the bulbous one with the square stopper.”
His hand went to another bulbous decanter with a long neck, a teardrop stopper decorating its mouth. Sussex took a sniff, and nodded. “I would have never guessed you appreciative of a good cognac.”
“If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” Bruce replied, “you tend to underestimate me in a lot of things.”
He paused, his mouth twisting into a grin as he poured himself—and the colonial—a drink. “Oh, I do like it when you bite back.” He handed him a glass. “Join me. I hate to drink another man’s spirits alone.”
Bruce cast a glance at his glass. Sussex waited.
“You don’t trust me, Your Grace?” Bruce asked.
Sussex gave a light shrug. “I’m not underestimating you, my dear colonial.”
“Cheers then,” Bruce said, raising the glass to his unexpected guest. He took a deep draught of the liquor and smiled. “A man can have his beer and his hard whiskey, but cognac is a gentlemen’s drink.”
“That it is,” Sussex said, before setting his glass down. “And best partaken amongst them rather than here. Now then, about the Ministry.”
“Your Grace,” he implored, “I am doing all I can.”
“Are you now? It has been almost six months since we agreed to our accord, and what do I have to show for it? Let me see.” Sussex took a measured pause in his thoughts as he crossed from one side of Campbell’s apartments to another. “Is Doctor Sound still in charge of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences? Why, yes—yes, he is. Has Her Majesty dissolved the Ministry? No. As a matter of fact, she allocated more funds and resources to further along the clandestine organisation.” He fixed his eyes on Campbell. “And you tell me you are doing all you can?”
“I still have to keep up the deception, don’t I?” Campbell retorted. “It’s not like I can keep tabs on Sound and skimp on my duties. I still have assignments to fulfil. If you want me to arouse suspicion, I can do that, sure; but then you lose your man on the inside, don’t you?”
“So far, I would be getting as much information if I didn’t have a man on the inside.”
Bruce finished his cognac, and stared for a moment at his empty glass. “I need more than time. I need an opportunity. It’s a bit difficult when I’m keeping my own cover intact.”
Sussex nodded, serving as a comfort to the colonial. “Sir Francis Bacon once said, ‘A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds.’ Perhaps you can take something from Britain’s more regal history as opposed to your rather colourful own.”
Bruce’s jaw twitched. “And do you—”
“My dear colonial, I cannot do everything for you, now can I?” Sussex picked up his coat and top hat, slipping into both as he talked. “You put forward a valiant argument, and I would agree that yes, I should have considered that maintaining your own deception would be time consuming.
“I cannot wait for results while you wait for opportunity to present itself. So, Agent Campbell, my advice to you is to show some initiative. Make something happen, lest my attention and patience begin to wane. Which, at its current rate, would give you a month.”
Campbell took in a deep breath. “And if I don’t make my opportunity by then?”
Sussex chuckled. “Oh, is this where you would have me twirl my moustache and present to you some idle ultimatum? I am a gentleman, and a Lord of the Privy Council. I don’t make threats. I simply act in the name of Her Majesty, under my discretion.” He slipped on his gloves and picked up the glass of cognac he had earlier set aside. He regarded the silent Campbell for a moment and then handed him his own glass. “Consider your next month within the Ministry walls while you savour this nightcap of yours. Good night, Agent Campbell.”
Sussex hardly cared what happened once he closed the door behind him. He could have been called a variety of names, or maybe the glass shattered after being hurled against the door. Sussex heard no impact from the inside, even as he descended the steps to the foyer; and that was promising. Could the colonial have been correct about him? Could Sussex be underestimating his mole in the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences?
Tosh, he chided himself silently. Of course not. The man was as common as muck. Sussex was simply reminding his hound about who was master here, and the mongrel seemed to be responding to his word.
A quick rap to the roof of his carriage, and Lord Sussex was en route to his own home. His eyes watched the amber lights of London pass before him, a sight that—if he were anyone else—would lull him into a calm state. This was, however, not his lot in life. Duties to the Empire and to his own family continued to hum and buzz in his head, none of his concerns taking a priority at that moment. This was nothing new or unusual. The higher Peter Lawson climbed society’s ladder, and the closer he grew to the throne, the more danger those duties drew to them. He knew the balance between his family’s name and the Empire’s future teetered perilously. Both his sons showed promise. Yet what good would that promise be if there were no Empire for them to reap its benefits? What he planned would be the legacy for his children. They would take up the reins, and he would watch with pride as his sons carried the Em
pire further into the next century. That would be their time, not his, and certainly not the Queen’s.
Those close to Queen Victoria were dedicated to her. Sussex, unlike many in the Privy Council, looked beyond the crown. The crown was a bobble, a piece of jewellery, like a queen was merely a physical representation of what mattered: an Empire. That was Sussex’s true priority.
For my sons, he pledged to himself as his carriage slowed.
The driver opened the door and Sussex entered the warmth of his London home.
“Fenning,” Sussex said as he held his arms outward. The coat slipped free of him as he continued, “any callers whilst I was out?”
“No, sir,” his butler replied.
“Is the Duchess still awake?”
“No, she retired half an hour ago, sir.”
Thank God. He would be getting to sleep early tonight. “Very good, Fenning.”
“Master John has been excelling in his fencing. He has been selected to represent his class on their team.”
“Excellent news. We must make arrangements for practice time. Perhaps in the dining room. We are not entertaining anytime soon, are we?”
“The Lady did mention the Cartwrights would be visiting next week.”
“Oh dear, Algernon and Amelia. I can already hear the scintillating conversation. Reschedule.”
“Shall I inform the Duchess?”
Sussex looked over his shoulder, a dark eyebrow crooked as he stared at his attendant. “Did I say I wanted the Duchess informed? I believe I was clear on my wishes.”
The butler nodded. “Very good, sir. Brandy?”
“I will have it in my study.”
As he proceeded down the hallway a grandfather clock continued to count away the seconds. Its soft tick-tock-tick-tock as well as the time reading a few minutes shy of ten o’clock reminded him of how little time remained of his day. He had the odd matter or two for the Queen still needing his attention. Of late his preoccupation with the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences threatened to become a distraction. It had even started to take his eye away from goings on in Court. This would not abide. He needed to have that matter taken care of, and hopefully his evening’s visit with the colonial would provide ample motivation and inspiration to do that.
