Lords of Misrule (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 4)

by Stella Riley

  ‘If you think that, you’re being even more dense than usual. It’s my business because you’re my brother … and I love you.’

  To which, of course, there was no answer whatsoever.

  * * *

  Realising there was no point in putting off the inevitable, the following morning saw Colonel Maxwell being shown into Mistress Neville’s parlour.

  Lydia looked across at him – for once, not seeming to know what to say. And so, having let an awkward silence linger for a few seconds, Eden said baldly, ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. If I’d been paying attention, my attackers would never have got as close as they did without me being ready to meet them. Unfortunately, I’d let my mind wander.’ To you, as it happens. ‘Toby should never have told you.’

  She shook her head but managed a faint smile.

  ‘He said you’d put his head on a pike.’

  ‘I almost did.’

  ‘How are your ribs?’

  ‘Sore but mending.’ He looked at her. ‘What else did Toby tell you?’

  ‘Not very much. What did they want? Aside from hurting you, that is?’

  ‘Quinn’s ledger; the release of his men from prison; and Stephen’s mythical papers. I’ve given him the first two --’

  ‘Him?’ she asked sharply. ‘You mean Quinn was there? In person?’

  ‘Yes. The good news is that, in return for the book and his men, he agreed to allow us a little time.’ Most of which has now elapsed, with no progress to show for it. ‘The bad news is that he is unshakeably convinced that these papers exist and that you have them.’ He sighed. ‘The really bad news is that he won’t give up.’

  Lydia sat very straight, her hands gripped tightly in her lap.

  ‘So what can we do?’

  ‘There’s one thing we can try. It should stall Quinn for a while until he figures out that he’s been cheated.’ At which point the situation is likely to become a whole lot worse. ‘It would help if we knew what the papers are about. Since we don’t, I’ll just have to make something up … and put it into one of Stephen’s ciphers. As I said to you, one of them is fiendishly difficult if you don’t know what to look for.’

  A little colour came back into her face but she said, ‘It’s a good idea. But buying more time won’t solve the problem if we can’t find the real papers.’

  ‘I know. But it might enable me to get to Quinn and end this another way.’ Eden thought for a moment. ‘I’ll need Stephen’s original coded sheets so I can copy his style of writing.’

  ‘I’ll get them.’ Lydia stood up and then said hesitantly, ‘Is there … can I help at all?’

  He ought to say no. He ought to take the codes and go. Sitting here, working beside her would just brew more temptation and he had to stop that manifesting itself. He drew a long, slightly painful breath and said, ‘You could help with the script. That way we can get it done quicker.’

  Her smile lit up the room and made the risks worthwhile. Nevertheless, in the short time she was away he dropped his brow on his hand and tried, with no more success than he’d ever done, to make sense of himself.

  Lydia returned with everything they needed to begin work, sat down on the opposite side of the table and then said, ‘What sort of thing should we write?’

  ‘Since somebody is willing to go to inordinate lengths to get hold of whatever they think Stephen knew, we should assume it’s extremely damaging. My guess is that we’re dealing with an apparently respectable man who has the kind of dirty secrets which might lead to the pillory, prison – even the noose.’ Eden stopped, shaking his head. ‘I’m asking you to do the impossible, aren’t I?’

  ‘No – though I’ll probably need help.’ She wrinkled her nose, consideringly. ‘Brothels, do you think?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘I’ll look to you for seedy details, then.’

  He couldn’t help himself. ‘What makes you think I know any?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘More than you, I daresay.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, her tone perfectly matter-of-fact. ‘I imagine you’ll want to add the seediness later rather than risk shocking me.’

  Eden grinned at her.

  ‘Lydia … I’m no longer sure that shocking you is possible. It’s much more likely that I’ll be the one to be embarrassed.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied calmly. ‘So what else has he done?’

  ‘Theft, extortion, fraud; threatening widows, cheating at cards, kicking dogs.’

  Lydia shook her head at him and then looked suddenly less cheerful.

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She fell silent for a moment. Then, ‘He’s a particularly nasty specimen, isn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed. Ridding the world of him would be a public service.’ And, given the chance, I’ll do it. ‘Let’s make a start. No names or dates that might immediately reveal it isn’t what it’s supposed to be; and it might be best to set it out like a sort of journal. Since it’s the obvious choice, we might as well begin with his fondness for brothels.’ He stopped and then, as carelessly as he was able, added, ‘Speaking of which … I should probably admit that my knowledge and experience are several years out of date.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lydia’s colour rose a little and she busied herself sharpening a quill. ‘I don’t suppose that matters. Those places probably don’t change much.’

  They settled down to work, scribbling notes and exchanging ideas. After an hour, Lydia asked Henry to bring refreshments and then, meditatively watching Colonel Maxwell demolish a slice of game pie, said half-regretfully, ‘It’s a shame our villain gets Quinn to kill people for him. I’ve always thought poison sounded more interesting.’

  Eden managed not to choke on a mouthful of pie. ‘Have you now?’

  ‘Yes. I thought about it quite a lot while I was living with Margaret.’

  ‘That’s understandable. Forgivable, even.’

  Concentrating on the bit of pastry she was crumbling in her fingers, she said, ‘Oddly enough, I’ve never thought about it before … but you must have killed people.’

  ‘In battle, yes. Not in cold blood. The nearest I came to that was --’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘Was when?’ she prompted. And then, looking up and seeing his face, realised that she shouldn’t have asked.

  Jaw set and frowning down at the knife in his hand, Eden remained silent so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. But finally, his voice tight and cold, he said, ‘It was when I found Celia in bed with Hugo Verney … only an hour or so after having to tell my mother that she was a widow.’

  Lydia dragged in a shocked breath. If there were words, she didn’t know what they were.

  After a moment, he added, ‘I’d had no idea about Celia up till then, you see. So I fought Verney with the intention of killing him … and very nearly did.’

  Her throat aching for him, she managed to say, ‘Eden … that wasn’t in cold blood. Given the circumstances, most men would have killed him. The fact that you didn’t says a great deal about you.’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’ He stopped, seeming to come back from wherever he’d been. Then he smiled and said, ‘That’s the first time you’ve ever used my name.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I’d known baring my soul would achieve that, I might have tried it before.’

  ‘No. You wouldn’t.’

  His expression changed to one she couldn’t interpret and he said, ‘No. Probably not.’ Then, returning his attention to the evidence of their labours, ‘Shall we continue? There’s no saying when Quinn’s patience will wear out … so the sooner we have this ready, the better. And Lydia …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘With luck, the next demand will come by letter rather than in person. I hope Quinn will send it to me. If he doesn’t and it comes to you, I want to know. Immediately.’

  She picked up her quill and reached for the ink-pot.

  ‘Of
course. And vice very definitely versa.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  TWO

  The second week of February brought prolonged driving rain. It also brought the long-debated reduction of the Monthly Assessment, the arrest of John Wildman for plotting against the Protectorate and finally, after Secretary Thurloe intercepted letters containing details of an imminent Royalist rising in the City, a direct order from Cromwell for the seizure of every horse in London.

  Although aware of all these things, Eden was too busy to dwell on them. Every spare waking minute was devoted to coding the lengthy fiction he and Lydia had devised between them. The encryption itself was complicated; the need to also write it in a fair imitation of Stephen Neville’s oddly spiky hand made it laboriously time-consuming. And then there was the fact that in all his years working in the Intelligence Office he had rarely seen a perfectly clean report from any of his agents. There were always scratchings out or corrections. In Eden’s view, perfection meant one of two things; either the agent had re-written his report, in which case another copy might conceivably fall into hands other than his own – or the report itself was of suspicious origins. He therefore included a few random crossings-out in his pages and the occasional scrambled word.

  It all took hours of burning the midnight oil but eventually he subjected his work to careful scrutiny and decided it would do. He just prayed Quinn didn’t have an expert cryptographer on hand because if he did, this whole exercise would prove an immense waste of time.

  A brief communication from Lambert informed him that one Daniel O’Neill had been detained at Dover. At their last meeting, the Major-General had been interested but not particularly surprised to learn that a more militant group of Royalists was currently at work. The recent arrests of Sir Humphrey Bennett and Colonel Grey had apparently led him to guess as much. Now he pointed out that O’Neill was a Royalist agent of some standing and reputedly Charles Stuart’s personal envoy.

  Within hours of Lambert’s message, Eden received a note from Edward Villiers. The King, said Villiers, had sent Mr O’Neill to act as both mediator and a calming influence; and the rising that the authorities were seemingly convinced would take place February 13th was merely a rumour. With more important things on his mind, Colonel Maxwell re-sealed Villiers’ note and sent it on to the Major-General.

  On the following evening, walking back to Cheapside through the incessant deluge, Eden became aware that he was being followed. He slowed his steps, loosened his sword in its scabbard and then halted in a darkened doorway, well distant from any narrow alleys.

  The footsteps hesitated a short distance away and then resumed. When they arrived at the point where he wanted them, Eden stepped forward, blade in hand.

  ‘Looking for me?’ he asked.

  The fellow started and then, on seeing the naked sword, backed off.

  ‘Bloody’ell! Ain’t no need for that, mister.’

  ‘After last time, you’ll pardon my caution. You were following me. Why?’

  ‘Got something for you.’ He moved to reach inside his coat and then, with another glance at the sword, thought better of it. ‘No need to get twitchy, is there?’

  ‘That would depend on whether you’re about to produce a letter or a knife. If it’s the latter, I suggest you leave it where it is. I’m not so fond of Quinn that I’ll mind despatching another of his minions.’

  ‘Never said Quinn sent me, did I?’

  ‘Since no one else sends fellows skulking after me, you didn’t have to. Now … show me what you’re here to deliver.’

  Slowly, the man pulled a sealed missive from his coat and held it out.

  ‘See? All above board and no trouble.’

  Eden took the letter and shoved it in his pocket.

  ‘Well done. Now go.’

  Gratefully, the fellow took to his heels.

  Still with his sword in hand, Eden continued on his way.

  Back in Cheapside, he read Quinn’s note.

  Time has run out, Colonel. One of my employees will meet you tomorrow evening an hour after dusk in the churchyard of St Dunstan’s in the East. If you fail to appear or arrive empty-handed, the widow will suffer some extremely unfortunate consequences.

  Needless to say, it was unsigned.

  * * *

  Early next morning, Eden paid a fleeting call on Lydia. He said, ‘It’s set for tonight. The pages are ready but I think we should add a note in your own hand. Something along the lines of this being the only thing you can find that looks as if it might be the document they want – but of course you’ve been unable to read it. If we get away with this, I don’t want to leave Quinn with the idea that you might need silencing.’

  ‘No. I’d rather he didn’t think that either.’ She wrote what he’d suggested virtually word for word and then said, ‘Will I see you after it’s done?’

  ‘If you wish. But since I’ll simply be handing over the thing they’re expecting, there won’t be much to tell.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Lydia firmly. ‘I’d like you to come.’

  He understood what she was asking. She wanted to see for herself that he’d come to no harm. The knowledge created a warmth inside him that nothing in the rest of that long, wet and dismal day managed to dispel.

  He deliberately arrived at St Dunstan’s early and chose his spot; a place that offered the best protection from both the weather and whoever came to meet him. Then he leaned against the wall and waited.

  The man who eventually sauntered into view was the same one he’d met the night before. He said breezily, ‘Have to stop meeting like this, mister.’

  ‘I’ll be more than happy to do so.’

  ‘Ah. Brought something for me, have you?’

  Wordlessly, Eden handed over the sealed packet. Quinn’s runner stowed it inside his jacket against the rain, raised his hand in a mock salute and walked off back the way he’d come.

  It was almost, Eden thought, an anti-climax. Almost … but not quite.

  He found Lydia pacing anxiously back and forth in her parlour.

  The moment he came through the door, she half-flew across the room then stopped a couple of steps away, looking him over.

  Eden smiled and spread his hands.

  ‘As you can see – wet but undamaged.’

  ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Did the person you met say anything?’

  ‘Nothing of any consequence.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘You could offer me a glass of wine and supper,’ he suggested.

  ‘No! Well – yes, of course. But I meant --’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ He took her hand and led her to a chair. ‘You carry on being every bit as careful as before. And you wait.’

  ‘To see what happens next? Yes. I suppose so. And while I’m waiting, what will you be doing?’

  ‘The same thing I’ve been doing since before Yule. I carry on trying to find Quinn – whilst praying that our deception lasts long enough for me to do so. I also pray for more success than I’ve had so far.’

  * * *

  Eden had worked on the assumption that, if the deception hadn’t worked at all, they’d know very quickly. So when two days had gone by without repercussions, he set Ned Moulton and half a dozen troopers scouring the City for any sign of either Quinn or someone belonging to him. Not unexpectedly, a further three days went by without bringing any result. Nor was there any response from the agents in either Paris or Cologne.

  The rain continued and as the Thames gradually started to rise, people began worrying about the possibility of flooding. Eden worried only about how much time he had left before Quinn realised he’d been cheated. He re-emphasised his safety instructions to Henry and Peter as well as to Lydia herself and he told Nicholas to watch out for anything unusual in Duck Lane. He even wrote to Jack Morrell telling him to send Aubrey Durand home at night. It still didn’t seem enough but he didn’t know what else he could do.

  Lydia worried much less t
han Colonel Maxwell – mainly because two rather vital points had floated by her unnoticed. Unlike the Colonel, she hadn’t realised that if and when something happened, it would happen without warning. And she’d also failed to fully understand that, once Quinn knew they’d tried to fool him, his response was likely to be swift and vicious.

  So she went about her daily concerns exactly as she always did. She spent time in Duck Lane where business was now flourishing; she found two new outlets for the women’s embroidery and trimmings; and she visited the Exchange where she bought lace-trimmed chemises, petticoats threaded through with ribbons and a more than usually pretty corset. At no point during this did she allow herself to think why she was doing it.

  She did, however, think a great deal about Eden Maxwell. What he’d said about the day he’d first discovered his wife’s infidelity explained a great deal and was probably the missing link that Venetia Brandon had referred to. She wondered why he’d told her and whether his reason was significant. She’d wondered the same thing about those two kisses; the kisses she’d thought he wanted and liked as much as she had but to which he’d never subsequently referred. More than anything else, she wished she knew where, if anywhere, their relationship was going.

  She knew where she wanted it to go. She’d known that for a long time. It hadn’t needed Venetia to point out that – as a mature woman and a widow – marriage wasn’t the only option; that when one finally met the only man one had ever wanted or would ever want, half a loaf was definitely better than no bread. The only problem, when one had absolutely no carnal experience, was how to go about getting it.

  Lydia suspected that her inexperience was likely to be a stumbling-block in more ways than one. At what point, for example, was she supposed to admit she was a virgin? Before they got as far as the bed? At the crucial moment? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe at the image that brought to mind. What she did know was that afterwards, he wasn’t going to need telling … and letting him find out for himself might not be the best idea.

  And so the days went by while the rain continued to fall. In Duck Lane, Mr Potter said the level of the Fleet had risen sufficiently to put the cellar floor under a couple of inches of water.