“I’m not convinced. It’s a letter in a newspaper—how much influence does he really have over the worker or the shopkeeper? And is the circulation of these papers abroad timely enough to aid some plot in Prussia?”
“Well, here’s an example. Yesterday, An Honest Gentleman praised Richard Carlile, the newspaperman, as a sort of folk hero forced to flee the podium when the Manchester rally turned bloody. Here’s what he said: ‘The question of whether the government can hold publishers liable for the contents of the books they publish is an important one. But is Carlile being tried for republishing Thomas Paine’s Age of Reason, or for being a champion of the people, of reform, and of freedom of the press?’” Harrison pushed the paper toward Mr. James. “And today at Carlile’s trial, three hundred constables were required to keep the peace. So, yes, I’d say that these correspondents have tremendous influence over the common man, and I’d like to investigate.”
Mr. James picked up the World, folding it back into its original shape. “Your attention is needed elsewhere.”
“Lately, my attention has been too many elsewheres. At least in the field, if I miss a threat, I put only myself at risk.”
“Ah, so that’s what this is about: Princess Marietta’s death and my brother Colin’s injury when trying to protect her.” Mr. James turned his full attention to Harrison, speaking kindly but firmly. “You might be our best, but you are not our only analyst, Harrison. None of us saw anything that predicted the attack. But what matters is how you responded. Though the princess didn’t survive the birth, you intervened admirably to deliver her child to his relatives and to ensure that my brother’s wound had time to mend. So, ‘forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed,’ as Shakespeare would say. ‘I find you empty of that fault.’”
“Not you as well.” Harrison sighed heavily, fearing that he had somewhere lost the battle. “‘I am thoroughly weary’ of this Shakespeare game.”
“And yet you quote Cymbeline in your weariness.” Mr. James smiled, his grin crooked as a clown’s, before his face returned to its sober mask. “Besides, I have something pressing that needs a good man.”
“Whatever it is, give it to one of the new men. Quarles or McFadden would do well.” Harrison felt his frustration harden. “Only you and Joe have been in this office longer than I have. That’s what it will take to root this out: someone with a long memory.”
Mr. James picked up the periodical he had pushed to the side and scanned the table of contents. “I must disagree. The World is more likely to provide a biography of—let’s see here—Edward, ‘The Corpulent Baker of Malden’ than to offer astute political commentary.”
“We shouldn’t ignore this. The Tories are already talking of limiting civil liberties in the upcoming special session. If it looks like the rabble are rising, then we Whigs will have little hope of stemming the tide of repression.”
“It might already be too late to stem that tide. The Prince Regent fears that common Englishmen are primed to become a revolutionary mob.” Mr. James turned away from him. “As for the World, you’ve been working night and day for months, and it’s leading you to see conspiracies and traitors where I see only foolishness and clowns.”
At other times, Harrison would have argued, pressed his point with conviction and zeal, until Mr. James allowed him to follow his instincts. But Joseph was right: Mr. James looked worn. Though still physically strong, his body had been broken in the wars and the pain of it still troubled him. “Then if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take a week, perhaps two, and return to my estate. Some business there requires my attention.” Walgrave picked up the copy of the World and tucked it under his arm. His instincts insisted that An Honest Gentleman led to a larger plot, but he would gain nothing by insisting Mr. James was wrong.
“That’s an excellent idea.” From a cubbyhole to his right, Mr. James retrieved a map of the counties between London and Harrison’s country estate and examined it. “We haven’t yet fully contained the highwaymen on that route. When do you intend to leave?”
“Tomorrow before noon. I’d like to arrive before dark.”
“Good idea. I’d hate for that doe-eyed brunette of yours to worry over your safety.”
“How do you know what my wife looks like?”
For a moment Mr. James looked stricken, then a lopsided smile spread across his face. When it met the corner of his mouth, it intersected with a thick scar that ran across his cheek and caused his eye to droop at the corner. Lesser men would have quaked at the sight, but Harrison had long grown accustomed to it, and he preferred it when Mr. James had something to smile about. “I am a master of spies. What in the realm do I not know?” The ruined face turned serious again. “As for the World, I can assure you, An Honest Gentleman poses no danger to the crown.”
Mr. James rose with difficulty and set a friendly hand on Walgrave’s shoulder. “I’ll send the file I need you to review to your estate.”
* * *
Joe leaned back, stretching from the work before him. Walgrave had left after his meeting with Mr. James, and Adam soon followed. In the unusual quiet of the office, Joe had set himself to work. His large desk was covered with reports. In one pile to his right sat a series of documents related to the—yet unbroken—code sent back to England by the late Lord Wilmot. Wilmot had been murdered for his service to the Home Office, and his wife threatened.
“Any luck?”
Joe looked up to where his superior officer stood in profile. From this angle, with only one half of his face visible, Benjamin Somerville looked every whit the handsome officer, waves of blond hair thick around his face, eyes of the clearest blue. For a moment, Joe caught a glimpse of the man Benjamin had been before the wars: strong, lively, sociable. Were it not for Benjamin’s hand on a cane, Joe could imagine him once more as the kind upperclassman he had met his first day as a charity student at Harrow.
But then Benjamin turned, and the illusion disappeared. It wasn’t vanity that led Benjamin to avoid mirrors. Instead, it was a way to forget the horrors of a war that had left him disfigured. Joe had long ago steeled himself to the change: the foot dragging uselessly behind, the twisted arm, and the hopelessly damaged face with one long scar from temple to chin and the upper part of the ear missing entirely.
Benjamin had lost even his name: the first in line to be the Duke of Forster, he’d told the Prince Regent that he had no desire to be on display, scaring children and causing women to hide their faces. He’d asked that his service be rewarded with a death as another casualty of Waterloo whose body was never found. And knowing the good Benjamin did directing his spies, the Prince Regent allowed him his solution. Now Benjamin hid in the shadows, dead to all but the Prince Regent and the small number of men who worked in their most secret of government offices. Only Joe—and occasionally Walgrave who had known him since childhood—still called him Benjamin. The rest of the men called him Mr. James.
“I thought I’d try my hand at the code Lady Wilmot found in the proofs to her late husband’s final book. I have been trying to find a pattern.” Joe shook his head. “But I’m at as much of a loss as the others. You and Walgrave are the only ones who haven’t tried it.”
“That’s not unexpected. Walgrave and I both hate to fail.” Benjamin scratched his head. “Before his death, Wilmot suggested this code was somewhat urgent, but he’s been dead for more than a year, and we still have nothing.”
“Well, not nothing. Two months ago, we didn’t even have the code.” Joe pushed the pages across the desk to a clear spot in front of an empty chair. “You knew Wilmot best. Perhaps you will see something the others have missed.”
“I will look them over.” Benjamin lowered himself slowly into the chair. “But first, we are going to have a problem in Sussex.”
“Sussex? Should we send Walgrave? That’s his home county.”
“Yes, but the problem is Walgrave. He approached me to investigate An Honest Gentleman, believing that some of the information in his essays is
coming from someone in Whitehall.”
“Well, he’s not wrong about that.” Joe looked concerned. “But if he goes to Sussex, it makes it more likely that he will find out the whole of it—and not just that his wife is a spy. And that threatens the whole enterprise.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. He can be very unforgiving.”
“Should we tell her? She knows he worked for the Home Office during the wars, but she thinks it ended then.”
“Is she still leaving him?”
“Yes.”
“Then no. There’s no reason for her to know about his work, unless it becomes necessary. Just as there’s no reason for him to know about hers.” Benjamin picked up the coded list. Slowly, his look of concern changed into a sort of grin, one side of his face brightening while the other remained immobile. He began to pack all of the sheets into a pile. “We have copies of all this, correct?”
“Correct. Those in fact are copies.”
“Excellent. Perhaps we can come up with a little game to keep Walgrave’s attention divided.”
Chapter Nine
The next morning Olivia made her way to a small coffee shop near St. Bride’s to meet Mentor. She’d visited the offices of the World the previous afternoon and come away with not only a new assignment but some disturbing news as well—the kind only Mentor could help her evaluate.
“I was concerned I might attract attention by drinking coffee with a beautiful lady,” the older man teased. “I see my fears were . . . toothless.”
“It’s black wax—easy to take off, but convincing from a distance. A trick I learned from Wells.”
“I am afraid to ask where you found those clothes.”
“A secret is a secret.” Olivia relaxed in his company. Mentor had interviewed her for her first position as a governess when she’d graduated from Mrs. Flint’s school, and he’d been her most trusted associate since then.
“Those clothes carry only one secret: How long had their former owner been dead before you stole them?” The man leaned far back in his seat. “But with that stench, we won’t have to worry about eavesdroppers. Don’t you worry about lice?”
“All part of the illusion, Mentor, dear. I created that ‘stench’ from the scent gland of a dead skunk, a bit of eel ink, some sardine oil, and . . .”
He raised his hand. “Please stop. I begin to wonder if you are one of the witches in Macbeth.”
“Toil, toil, boil a trouble.” She raised an eyebrow and leaned in conspiratorially.
He rolled his eyes. “‘Double, double toil and trouble.’ I’d ask if you’ve ever read a book, but I know the answer.”
“Why, Mentor, you flatter me.” She pushed a packet of letters across the table.
“Still, it might have been wiser to meet at our regular spot and on our regular schedule.” Mentor looked down the corridor. “You might not be recognizable, but if the wrong person were to see me . . . chatting . . . with so lovely a lady as yourself . . .”
“They will think you have the clap, and no woman but a whore will keep you company.”
“Remind me why I continue to employ you.” He untied the twine holding the letters together.
“How many reasons do you need?” Olivia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “I can think of two offhand: I am the only person who can do what you need, and I am the best student ever to graduate from your little school for spies.”
“School for Exceptional Girls,” Mentor chided. “We don’t like the word spies. You’ve left out the most important reason: You were bored, running that little estate. You had reached the limit of your endurance. If you hadn’t, you never would have come back to us.”
“It’s not a little estate.” She picked up the twine and twisted it around her fingers. “But the rest is true. These are threatening letters An Honest Gentleman has been receiving at the World.”
Mentor looked startled. “Threatening? In what way?”
“The ways one would expect.” She shrugged. “An Old Sea Captain reissued his challenge for a duel, claiming that I am no gentleman if I do not meet with him.”
“You are certainly no gentleman.” Mentor smiled at his own wit. “Who else?”
“Defender of the State says I am a traitor for exposing the profiteering of MPs in wharf legislation. He claims he will find me and hang me from the nearest tree. And Deus Grammatica describes in quite bloody terms what end I deserve for abusing the King’s English.”
“None of those sound like threats you can’t handle. Or would you prefer a guard?”
Olivia hesitated.
“What? I know that look—even under all that . . . is it dirt?”
“It’s dirt, but it’s clean dirt.” She rubbed the dirt from the ends of her fingers.
“Spare me your distinctions. Tell me what you are thinking.”
“There are three others.” She breathed in deeply, then pushed another packet across the table. “They don’t use a pseudonym—in fact there’s no signature at all. But they are all in the same hand. There’s something about them that feels different, angrier.”
Mentor took them, a frown growing as he read. “Is there anything else?”
“After our last meeting, I thought I was being followed. Then after I met with Cerberus, I was accosted in my dressing room. I think someone might have discovered who I am.”
“Who you are or who An Honest Gentleman is?”
“I don’t know. Somehow those three letters seem more personal, but they were sent to An Honest Gentleman at the World. So they can’t be about me—whoever I am.”
“Why not?”
“Only a handful of people know who writes as An Honest Gentleman. As the editor of the World, Wells wouldn’t betray that secret, not without risking her increased profits. I think these letters are meant to make me reveal myself as HG.”
“There’s another possibility. You agreed to Sir Roderick’s proposal that you marry his son because you needed the protection of a new name. If someone from your past thinks they have found you . . .” Mentor’s voice trailed off, then with efficient motions he tied the letters back into a packet with the twine. “Go home, Olivia. Go back to your estate. Today.”
“Is that an order or a suggestion?”
“You don’t respond well to orders. Never have.” Mentor smiled.
“I’ll go tomorrow. It’s already too late today—I don’t like to travel those roads in the dark if I can avoid it. But as for my father, do you have any information?”
“No progress. If Sir Roderick couldn’t find your father all those years ago, I hold little hope we will. But I have given the case to one of our best men, and he continues to look. If your father is alive after all these years, we want to find him as much as you do.”
She wanted to press him for more information, but she knew the settled tone in his voice. “Thank you.”
“You will go home first thing in the morning. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“We’ll remain in touch. The usual methods.”
Chapter Ten
Harrison signaled the coachman to stop. The last inn before his father’s house was only a half hour’s travel from his familial lands. But he wasn’t ready to see either his ancestral estate or the woman who might not be his wife.
As a young man, anxious to arrive home, he’d never stopped here, and it had been more than six years since his last visit. No one was likely to recognize him.
“Have we arrived?” His valet, Walker, stirred from his reading of the Sporting Magazine. Looking out the window at the tavern, he yawned. “Have we not dawdled long enough? Not an hour ago we stopped to find her ladyship a gift, though that would have been better done in London. And what you bought her . . .” Walker rolled his eyes and straightened his cravat.
“I am in need of refreshment. Will you come?”
Beside them a hired hackney belched forth its occupants.
Walker sniffed dramatically.
“I have had enough of the sights, sounds, and smells of the rural tavern.”
Harrison, long used to his valet’s idiosyncrasies, jumped down from the carriage, then waited, allowing the hackney’s passengers to bustle into the tavern. He took in their details by habit, a skill he kept up even when he had no need for it. A boy of about five with too-large shoes hid behind an old woman with a heavy mustache. A portly man held the hand of a comely girl twenty years his junior. A beak-nosed parson—his wife and daughter wearing the sober clothing of one of the evangelical sects—clutched a prayer book, while a severe-looking woman with drab clothing held herself apart. Any other time, he’d have teased out their stories, but he had his own to consider.
Married or free?
He should answer that question before he saw Olivia. On the drive, he’d broken the problem down into smaller and smaller pieces, hoping that eventually his answer would appear in a sort of syllogistic glory. But every time he tried to create a logical proposition, he ended in nonsense.
Stymied by the mess of his emotions, he’d tried another tack, completing the sentence “I want.” That too was a failure. Everything he wanted was impossible, spoken in the voice of his grief, not yet assuaged, though decades old. I want my father to call me son and ruffle my hair with his hand. I want to pretend to be irate that my family is drinking port instead of claret. I want to arrive at the house and find my family waiting for me. I want the dead not to be dead. I want not to be alone.
At the word alone, he remembered Olivia as he had last seen her, face drawn, hands twisting, as he left for the wars. In that long-ago moment, his heart had called out to hers. He’d considered throwing himself from his horse and taking her in his arms for one last passionate kiss. But his father, ever jovial, had ruined the moment. Patting Olivia on the shoulder, Roderick had declared, She’ll be here, boy, when you return. His anger at the marriage had returned in an instant, with Olivia a living reminder of his subjugation.
He felt a tap at his elbow. A small boy, one of the tavern’s grooms, pointed toward the tavern door.
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