Flute rapped hard on the office door, then entered. Charters sat behind a large desk, while three clients—two men and a woman—sat in the chairs before his desk.
“Ah, Flute, come in! We have just concluded our business.” Charters held out his hand, palm up, thumb tucked across. A signal that at least one of the clients had behaved unpredictably.
Charters rose, and the two men followed suit, giving Flute a chance to assess them. Wiry and dirty, the smaller man hung back, keeping one hand out of sight. Flute considered what weapon he might be carrying, then examined the older, taller man who was clearly the group’s leader. The leader was smartly dressed in the Continental style, but his smooth manners barely hid a cunning ruthlessness. The man offered his hand to help the woman up.
Charters caught Flute’s eye, directing his attention to the woman. Her bearing was elegant, and her features were regular in the way British lords found captivating. But the lines around her mouth spoke of disdain, even malice, and her dark gray walking dress was several seasons out of date.
The well-dressed man led the woman out, followed by the wiry man, then Flute. At the end of the hall, clients could turn right for the gambling hell or left for the street. Flute made a show of stopping before reaching this crossroads. He pulled a piece of wood from his pocket and began carving a small animal. The ruse always did the trick, making him appear no more than an inattentive flunkey. If clients were inclined to whisper about their meeting, they would do so before reaching the doorkeeper.
Flute was not disappointed. The trio stopped at the juncture. The wiry man turned left. Watching him go, the woman pulled her arm away from the well-dressed man. Her patience had apparently reached its end.
“I still don’t see why we must hire those criminals. I’ve already proved I can discover the names as easily as they can.” Her voice was brittle and angry.
“You have a remarkable ability to ferret out secrets, Calista.” The man spoke in a calming voice. “But you tend to be more bloodthirsty than necessary. After the incident at St. Bride’s, I prefer a different course.”
“It’s my life that was ruined then put on display, Archer, not yours.” Looking suddenly like the most dangerous of the three, the woman stabbed a narrow finger at the man’s chest. “I’ll do what needs to be done. I’ll get my revenge . . . on them all.”
Archer said nothing, simply waited impassively for the storm to end.
Growling, Calista pushed past, calling for the doorkeeper to let her out.
Archer stood quietly, as if making a decision, then he turned back toward the gambling hell.
Flute carved until their client was out of sight and returned to the office.
“Ah, Flute. I have business tonight at Drury Lane.” Charters looked up from his pen.
“Is it that pretty miss from last week? I was surprised you let her come up . . . but then I heard how much pleasure you took in her company.”
Charters ignored Flute’s jibe. “Remember that interest we own in an unlicensed theater across the river? The miss you saw came fresh from the country hoping to become the next Dora Jordan. I told her that if she wished to play breeches parts, I would need to evaluate her legs in breeches.”
“And out of them, from what I heard.”
“I can be charming when I wish, Flute.” Charters smiled. “I simply don’t wish it very often.”
“How were the miss’s legs?” Flute leaned back on the doorjamb, enjoying having the upper hand, even if it happened only rarely.
“Entirely satisfactory. I’m sure she will find her way into a leading role quickly.” Charters paused. “She is very . . . agile.”
“I’m sure she is.” Flute snickered. “Fresh from the country, you say? Did you check your pockets before you let her go?”
“My pockets had nothing in them to steal. Nor did I offer her any payment for my entertainment. I would hate for her to think me crass.”
“Then she’s a fool.”
“Precisely.” Charters smiled. “But as to our business tonight. I have tickets to Mrs. Wells’s benefit. Kean is performing. Do you wish to accompany me? Your orange girl likes to haunt the intermission, doesn’t she?”
“She does.” Flute dragged his favorite chair to the desk. “How should I dress?”
“As a man of means. As for me, I will be disguised as a Mr. Blaine, the newest associate in a successful shipping venture.”
“How will this Blaine fellow look?”
“A study in black and white and beige. A follower of Beau Brummel, but with none of his flair or taste. Tonight he will be buying one set of information and giving away another.”
“I prefer selling to buying and giving.”
“Ah, but these will advance our interests in shipping. One of my parliamentary committees has proposed expansion to the canals and docks, and we already have opposition. I’m buying information that will encourage our detractors to be more . . . amenable.”
Flute picked up one of Charters’s pieces of pumice and rubbed it against his fingernail. Grimacing at the sensation, he replaced it in its dish. “We made a fine profit on our last cargo.”
“True, and by selling our goods at a discount to the local gangs, we’ve encouraged them to become part of our trade network.”
“Encouraged? So, that’s your word for it? I suppose you’ll call it convenient that some of our competition happened to end up dead with your mark cut into their chests.” Flute leaned back, putting his feet on the edge of the desk. “No, you’re already the most feared man in five hells.”
“Not me, Flute. Never forget. They fear our imaginary employer and his vast criminal network.”
Flute shook his head in admiration. “I still can’t believe it worked. Tell people you work for a master criminal with fingers in every pie in the land, and soon they begin acting as if you do.”
“People like to believe in a conspiracy.” Charters tested the ink on his document—a list—and found it dry. “You and I together are not nearly as frightening as a nameless vicious mastermind who directs all our efforts.”
“A bugbear to frighten them.”
“Yes, isn’t it grand?” Charters began drawing stars, daggers, and arrows in front of the items.
“As for the theater, are we going for the full performance, or just the second half?”
“I prefer to arrive early and remain until the end to watch for any complications or surprises.”
“Pit or gallery?” Flute began to carve another stick of wood.
“Mr. Blaine has an aunt who loans him her box whenever he comes to town.”
“He does, does he? Does this old lady have a name?”
“I wrote it down when I bought the season.” Charters consulted a ledger at his right. “Ah yes, Hortensia Scrubb.”
“Scrubb?”
“I wasn’t feeling particularly clever. But Aunt Hortensia is a fine upstanding Scot, with a penchant for broad comedy and oratorios. She has returned to Aberdeen and has left us—I mean Mr. Blaine—in possession of the key, for which Blaine is deeply grateful.” Charters, picking up his penknife, trimmed his pen in three sharp cuts. “My first rendezvous—to buy the shipping information— will be during the intermission. My second will follow the afterpiece.”
“Your second?”
“The second is related to our new clients.”
“I was wondering when you would tell me their business.”
“Ah, but Flute, I enjoy predicting how long you are willing to wait.” Charters set the document aside to dry. “Remember that I told you I used to pass information to a client abroad using the London Times?”
“I remember. You placed an advertisement with the information in code.”
“Correct. About that time, I decided to test other ways to use the periodical press to my advantage. Whitehall had collected some scandalous information about some peers, and I incorporated the juiciest bits into a series of essays I wrote under various names. To keep the controversies aliv
e, I even rebutted my own essays, using different pseudonyms. The experiment was an unquestioned success. But growing tired of writing the essays myself, I began sending information to those regular correspondents who had large popular audiences.”
“You fed them information when it could benefit us.”
“Of course. Because my information could always be confirmed, several correspondents now trust me. Tonight I meet with the most eloquent: An Honest Gentleman.”
“If communicating by letter has been successful, why change now?” Flute crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Charters.
Charters pulled a black satin bag out of his top desk drawer and tossed it at Flute. A necklace studded with diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires tumbled out of the bag into Flute’s hands. “Our new clients have given us that pretty piece simply to retain our services. If we provide the information they want, our fee will be substantial.”
Flute bounced the necklace in his palm. “Heavy enough. Real or paste?”
“Real.”
Flute whistled in appreciation and bounced the necklace again. “What do we have to do?”
“Our new clients wish to know the true identities of ten newspaper or magazine correspondents.” Charters floated the list across the table. “Of the ten, four are names I used. We’ll report those as dead or missing. Three have been vocal in favor of reform, and I’m not certain about the others.”
Flute looked over the list. “What do they intend to do once they have the names?”
“As long as we are paid for our efforts, that is of little concern to us.”
“It’s a shame. I like this one: Prosperity Once More.” Flute pointed to a name on the list, then shrugged. “But you know best.”
Charters shook light sand over the document to absorb the excess ink. “Flute, we are partners. If you wish not to investigate someone on that list, we won’t. Or if you want to hold back information, we can do that too. The jewels are a retainer. That’s all.”
Flute grew more cheerful with Charters’s expression of confidence. “If it’s not us, it will be someone else, and if there’s money to be had, I’d rather it line our pockets.”
“With your agreement, then, we will proceed. I’ve devised a little plan to flush out the first three writers on the list.”
“Let’s see. An Honest Gentleman, A Pursuer of Peace, and Hannibal?”
“Yes. Those three have been most active in supporting the rights of reform groups to hold public meetings. Though they have avoided direct accusation, all three have implied that the government is actively suppressing reformers.”
“Direct accusation can get you hung.”
“Certainly, one can understand their reticence. But this list will fuel their outrage. It proves—or pretends to prove—that the government is acting to limit the rights of man. See these symbols. These identify public meetings likely to be dispersed by magistrates or His Majesty’s guard.”
“How do you know? Did you discover it in one of your parliamentary meetings?”
“I have no solid information whatsoever. The groups I’ve marked publicize their meetings. If they meet with government suppression, then my information will have been good. If the groups don’t, I can praise the correspondents for successfully curbing the government’s willingness to act.”
“We win either way.” Flute nodded appreciatively. “But I don’t understand how this will flush the writers out. If they write under pen names already, they must be cautious of their privacy.”
“But I am a trusted informant. Yesterday, I wrote that my newest information is so sensitive that I fear it might fall into the wrong hands.”
“If they refuse to meet, the information might go to another newspaper.”
“Along with the sales that information would bring the newspaper,” Charters said. “At the same time, the correspondents might still send an agent to avoid meeting with us themselves. But we will follow whoever meets us, watching until we know exactly who is writing what and for whom.”
“This only works if someone agrees to meet with us. Why can’t we just bribe a magazine’s proprietor or the editor?”
“Our new clients suggested they have already tried bribes and even some stronger measures. I fear they might be responsible for the fire last month in Fleet Street.”
“The one called Archer mentioned something to the woman Calista about St. Bride’s.” Flute shook his head. “Twenty newspapermen died in that fire.”
“Ah, Flute, eavesdropping again.” Charters patted the large man on the shoulder. “Our methods will be less . . . conspicuous. Our client claims they wish to know who the authors are, I assume to stop them. But new writers will always emerge. We want to know who the writers are so we can shape the content of the articles. Some writers might even be willing to accommodate us to avoid our clients.”
“A bit of blackmail?”
“That might prove quite fun.”
“So this is all about playing the Machiavel.”
“If playing the Machiavel gains us a diversion for our other businesses, then yes.” Charters picked up his coat. “But set Timmons to investigate those three. Archer and Calista are not the names they gave me at our meeting, which leads me to suspect that they intend to double cross us. And you know how much I dislike that sort of thing. By the way, after tonight, I’ll be gone for a week. I wish to settle the disposition of some lands we acquired at the Blue Heron.”
“Will you be staying at the same place as before, if you are needed?”
“Ah, yes, my pretty rural retreat with free food and lodging and unmatched conversation . . . all available to me at my leisure for another six months. But you won’t need me, Flute. I have no one I trust with our ventures more than you.”
“You have no one you trust, other than me.”
“But that’s a compliment in itself.”
Chapter Five
“Walgrave! Over here!” The duke stood at the doorway of his box, the lovely Lady Wilmot on his arm, both surrounded by a group of gesticulating Whigs. The circle opened to include Walgrave, and immediately he was barraged with questions from all sides.
“What have you planned, Walgrave, for the next session?”
“None of us could predict that turn in your last argument.”
“We’ll need your voice to defeat this threat.”
“There isn’t another man—save for Forster—who can quell the Tories so thoroughly.”
He groaned inwardly. After his surprising marital news, he had little energy for another debate on the need for reform, not even with such congenial company as Forster’s guests.
Forster read his face in an instant. “Walgrave, your seat is on the front row. In the corner to the right. Don’t frown—your long legs will fit there better than in any other seat.”
“Forgive me; my frown is related to other business. The corner seat will certainly offer me all the pleasures the theater and good company can afford.”
“Always the diplomat.” Lady Wilmot placed her hand on Harrison’s arm. “Would you escort me to our seats and entertain me until Aidan joins us?”
“Of course.” Harrison bowed slightly.
Sophia kissed Forster’s cheek. “Darling, I expect you by my side long before the curtain rises.”
Forster gave him a look that clearly meant take care of my fiancée, and Harrison nodded his reassurance.
Taking Walgrave’s arm, Lady Wilmot leaned into his side conspiratorially. “I know you have enough of these debates at Whitehall, so I thought you wouldn’t mind being stolen away.”
“You are right, as always, Lady Wilmot.”
She searched his face for a moment. “Yet you are saving me more than I am saving you. With my blackmailer not yet found, I feel wary of being in the box alone.”
Harrison felt chastened to his depths. “Ah, my lady, I had forgotten you were threatened here. Forgive me.”
“Yes, tonight is my first time back. But I have determined to be bra
ve, and I refuse to let a theater box defeat me.” She poked fun at her fears with characteristic good grace. “These seats are ours. Behind us will be my sisters-in-law and some of Aidan’s brothers, though I’m not sure which ones—and on the back row, the MPs now colluding in the corridor.” She motioned for him to precede her to his corner chair. Forster’s box was the second from the stage, situated on the proscenium itself in the space before the curtain, but behind the orchestra. The box was separated from the stage only by the short wall at the front, making its guests both observers and observed.
As Harrison tucked himself into the corner, he found that as Forster promised, the angle of the box offered ample space for his legs. The position suited him in other ways as well. Lady Wilmot was an attentive observer, wishing only to converse between pieces or acts, but not during them. Once Forster joined them, she neither expected nor desired entertainment. Harrison, then, could pretend to be absorbed in the plays, when in actuality he was lost in his own thoughts.
The first play was a comedy, a story of thwarted love, chosen to showcase Mrs. Wells’s talent for portraying voluble women. Harrison found little to admire in Wells’s theatrical gifts. Her voice was too loud, even in a theater built to seat three thousand, and her gestures too broad.
Since the play seemed predictable, Harrison had ample time to consider how he’d come to be married and unmarried, and what he would do with his newfound freedoms.
To call his marriage arranged was too benign. No, forced was the better word. One night, he’d gone to bed at his lodgings in London, and he’d awoken, head throbbing, at his family estate, locked in his tower bedroom with his father sitting by his side. The old man—ever jovial—had patted his arm, declaring, “I’ve found your perfect wife.” Though he’d tried to object, his father had left no room for objection. He’d arranged it all: Harrison would marry, and marry by the week’s end. Realizing he could not escape, Harrison had rammed his fist into the oak door over and over, until his knuckles were bruised and bloody.
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