by Jo Beverley
Chapter 9
When Nathan Boothroyd came into Solange’s parlor in the Nag’s Head, she glared at him. “You failed.”
“It weren’t him, ma’am! Bloody Granger left on the London coach afore you were attacked, so he can’t have been here.”
“I saw him. If you’d not delayed to argue with me before pursuing, you would have caught him.”
The loss of the papers infuriated her. Waite had gone so far as to scold her for putting the details in writing, as if she were in truth a meek wife. To him, she’d scoffed at the danger, but her notes about Isaac’s explosive intentions could provide an excuse for arrests, which would threaten her grand design. She would plunge Britain into chaos, take over through Waite, and then turn the new republic’s might to conquer France.
She could easily murder Boothroyd in her fury, but he might still be of use. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Despite her calm voice he was wary, which showed his animal instincts were intact. “I went into that innyard where you said he’d gone, but it was deserted except for a woman who said she’d seen no one pass.”
“What sort of woman?”
“Ordinary.”
“A servant?”
He scowled in thought. “No, but not fancy-dressed. Brown gown, straw bonnet. Ordinary. She had a package in her hand.”
“A package?” she echoed.
The Boothroyds weren’t entirely stupid. “Not your letter, ma’am. Silvery thing tied with pink ribbon.”
All very well, but how could this woman not have seen Granger only moments before? Therefore she’d lied. Why?
Would Granger have disguised the papers in silver and pink in order to pass them to a woman? It implied a devious plan, but she’d been involved in devious plans.
Anxious to please, the Boothroyd said, “I scared her well, ma’am.”
“Did she scream?”
“Would have, but I saw Granger out the back of the inn and took off after him.”
“So it was Granger.”
“I saw the man you’d seen, I meant. Dressed a bit like him. Low hat.”
“And he ran.”
“People run from me whether they’ve reason or not, ma’am. I chased him through a bunch of plaguey laundry and down a lane, but he must have gone into one of the houses. So it can’t have been him, see? Granger’d have no hidey-hole here any more than I would.”
Nevertheless, it had been Granger. Her eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been, but it was good enough for that. She had tickets on a coach as far as Worcester, where they’d stop for the night before proceeding on to London. She needed to be in London in case the Spencean Crusade made it there, but she also needed to retrieve those papers. Had he passed them on to that woman, wrapped in silver paper tied with pink ribbon?
She must investigate this woman and the Lamb. She didn’t like to leave Isaac alone with a Boothroyd, but needs must. First, in case anything went amiss, she must write a coded letter to Waite to inform him that Granger was the traitor.
She composed it, sealed it, and said, “I go to put this in the post.”
The Boothroyd sat down. “Very well, ma’am.”
How peculiar it was that both Boothroyds could sit without occupation for so long. Isaac did the same, but he was thinking and produced brilliant results. The Boothroyds seemed to go into a waking sleep, but they would spring to action if needed, and were generally useful if given clear commands.
She put on her black bonnet and gloves and went downstairs to give the letter into the care of the innkeeper. She left the Nag’s Head the perfect image, she knew, of decent, middle-aged womanhood. The only flaw was her accent. After a long war, many in England distrusted a French accent, but not enough to turn away a customer.
She could soon observe the Lamb. It was a simple place, so people here would remember guests and incidents. She entered by the front door and found herself directly in the beer-stinking taproom. It seemed to also serve as a waiting room for various forms of transport. An elderly churchman and his wife sat at a table with a valise and a small trunk, and two rather mousy young women sat together on a bench in cheap clothing and insecure demeanor, with bundles by their feet. A brawny workingman was finishing a pot of ale.
A rough-faced fat woman asked if she could help her.
Solange put on a meek smile. “I have just arrived in Warrington, ma’am, and as we passed this inn, I thought I saw an acquaintance of mine enter here. A younger lady in brown with a straw bonnet.”
At the accent, the woman’s lip curled. “You’ll ’ave to ask the innkeeper. Mr. Johnson!”
An elderly, gray-haired man came in and Solange repeated her request.
“The lady’s name?” he asked, but behind the bland face and smile he, too, distrusted anyone French. She cared nothing for that. He’d revealed that he knew whom she meant.
“Miss Wellingborough,” Solange said, for she had to produce a name.
She saw her prompt answer reassure him, but he said, “We’ve no guest here of that name, ma’am.”
“Perhaps she is only pausing for refreshment. I would very much like to speak to her if she’s still here.”
He shrugged, pleased to disoblige.
But one of the mousy young women spoke up. “I know who you mean, ma’am! Her party ate in the common room at the same time as we did. Looked like a poor relation to a couple with two little boys.”
That didn’t sound like a conspirator.
Solange was about to leave, but the other mouse, competing for importance, said to the innkeeper, “You must remember her, sir. She was here not long ago, talking about posting a letter.”
Solange turned to him, smiling. “That is so like my dear Miss Wellingborough. She is always writing letters. In fact, it is chiefly how we keep in contact, for our paths rarely cross.”
The innkeeper wasn’t pleased with the chatter. “I doubt that lady was your friend, ma’am, for her party’s name was Selby.”
“Then it is she! She is unmarried, you see, and the Selbys are her in-laws.”
The innkeeper practically growled. “She’s left now, ma’am, so you won’t be talking to her.”
But did she post a letter, or entrust it to you?
Solange spoke at random, fishing for more information. “I believe the Selbys have family near Liverpool. That will be where they are going.”
“Not Liverpool,” said the clergyman with pinched precision. “I spoke briefly with Sir William Selby and he imparted that their destination was Tranmere in the Wirral to visit a relative there.”
“But,” said the workingman, perhaps feeling left out, “they could be goin’ to Liverpool, then crossin’ by ferry, seein’ as Tranmere’s a ferry ’ouse.”
Solange cursed his thick accent. The woman with her papers was going to a place called Tranmere and could be pursued. But which route had she taken?
The innkeeper took command. “Sir William has taken the Chester road,” he stated, “though against my advice he intends to turn off early toward Picton. I told him that shorter doesn’t always mean faster, but he paid no heed.”
How delightful that people loved to be “in the know,” as the English put it.
“And they are definitely gone?” she asked. “There is no hope?”
“That is so, ma’am,” said the innkeeper with finality.
As if to conclude the discussion, a groom entered to say he’d come to collect Reverend Portercombe and his lady. Attention turned to getting the elderly couple and their luggage on their way.
Was there any more to be learned? Solange sighed, and said to the young women, “So sad to have missed my friend by so little.”
“’Appen you could follow her, mum,” one said.
“Alas, my coach to London leaves soon. Did Miss Wellingborough have a letter to post? I suspe
ct it will have been to me. Such a shame.”
“Only a package, mum, and not to post. Ever so pretty. Pink wi’ silver ribbons. I caught a whiff. Fancy soap, I reckon. Rose.”
“She said as she’d been thinkin’ of writin’ a letter,” the other said.
“And wouldn’t ’ave time. That’s right, Hattie!”
“Ah well,” Solange said. “What’s done is done.”
She left before she roused too much suspicion and hurried back to the Nag’s Head, putting the scraps together. It was possible that the young woman was a coincidence, she and her package of soap. It seemed unlikely that Granger would have gone to the trouble of including a scent in his disguise. He couldn’t have had much time.
On the other hand, the woman had enquired about the post office and then claimed not to have a letter ready to post. Odd, very odd, when her party was waiting to depart.
A letter could easily be concealed in a pocket.
If the straw-bonneted woman was an agent working with Granger, she was an inept one. Or did she act that way to throw off suspicion, as Solange herself acted the dowdy matron? Most people would assume a muddle-minded woman traveling with a family could not possibly be dangerous, yet this muddle-minded, ordinary woman had been in the yard of the Lamb a minute or so after Granger had entered it, and had claimed not to have seen anyone of his description.
What was more, Nathan Boothroyd had focused on her. The Boothroyds had limited brains but were doglike even to their instincts. The woman wasn’t his quarry, so he should have ignored her, but he hadn’t. He’d been going after her until Granger had shown himself.
As Solange approached the Nag’s Head, she spotted the key point: Granger shouldn’t have shown himself. He knew the sort of danger a Boothroyd presented, and he’d had time to put distance between himself and death. But he hadn’t. He’d hovered out of concern for the woman, and when she’d been threatened, he’d shown himself to draw Nathan off.
Solange nodded.
Granger had stolen her papers and missed the London coach from Ardwick. He had come to Warrington to take a coach south, thinking himself out of danger, but had seen her arriving. Whether by prior plan or on impulse, he’d passed the papers to the woman in the straw bonnet, probably already packaged as a letter. She hadn’t posted the letter at the Lamb, so she had taken it with her.
Solange returned to her parlor smiling. She would soon have her papers back.
She found Isaac and the Boothroyd exactly as she’d left them, like a tableau.
“Never moves,” Boothroyd said. “Hardly ever blinks.”
“Never mind that. You are to hire a horse and follow a coach going toward Chester, which will turn off toward a place called Picton to go on side roads to a place called Tranmere. The name of the party is Selby.”
“Why?”
“Because the man you chased was Granger and he passed the papers to the lady you encountered in the innyard. She is part of the Selby party. You will follow and retrieve them.”
He didn’t like being so thoroughly in the wrong. “I should stay with you and him, ma’am. I’m to guard you both.”
“The letter presents more danger than anything else. Follow the Selby party and get it back.”
“How? I’m no high toby.”
It was a fair point, and attempting to hold up a coach full of people in broad daylight would be a challenge to even a clever highwayman. “I gather the side road will be slow and little used. Keep them in sight until they turn off, then watch for them to stop for rest or new horses. The woman in the straw bonnet will leave the coach. You seize her.”
“With her family looking on?”
“If you do it quickly, they won’t have time to react. You need only carry her far enough to search her. Search her thoroughly. Cut off her clothes if necessary.” His small eyes sparked at that. “When you’ve retrieved the letter, break her neck or she’ll describe you to the magistrates.”
He chewed it over. She watched for any recognition that the family might provide a description of him. It would be inconvenient to lose him, but that was a risk she was willing to take. As it was, he should have time to get clear away.
He came up with a different, and surprisingly pertinent, objection. “She’s seen me. I won’t get close to her without a screech.”
Solange found a brown muffler she’d knitted for Isaac. “The day is chilly—you have a toothache. Wrap that around the lower part of your face.”
He took the scarf. “What do I do with the letter?”
“Burn it. Down to ash. Then you return the horse here and take the next coach to London to join us.”
She gave him some money. He put it in a pocket, directed a scowl at Isaac, and left. She could only pray that he be up to the task.
Too late she realized that if he was arrested for murder, he might talk. Did the British government use torture? If not, they were weak fools. If he talked, he’d name her and tell what he knew of the Crimson Band. He knew little of importance, but the possible risk made the next step clear. Enough of Waite’s caution. The time to act was now.
She packed and then gently stirred Isaac out of his trance. Soon they were downstairs waiting for the coach that would take them to Worcester. The next day they’d go on to London, where the angry poor and the tumultuous mob needed only a spark to explode into revolution. With or without the Spencean Crusade, she’d give them a spark.
More than a spark.
A conflagration.
Chapter 10
“Thank you for this,” Mark said, spooning up the last of the mock turtle soup. “It’s surprisingly good food.”
“For a small and simple place? Mrs. Upshaw worked for my family before she married.”
“You come from this area?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been visiting my grandmother and aunt near Lancaster. Delightfully eccentric, both of them.”
Mark just managed not to express surprise. Braydon was one of those self-contained men whom it was hard to imagine in the bosom of any family.
“Where do your mother’s family live?” Braydon asked.
“They don’t,” Mark said.
“Ah, my dear fellow, my apologies. It slipped my mind. They went to the guillotine.”
“Not quite. My grandfather did, and others of the family, but my grandmother escaped to England with my mother after they were embroiled in violence. Even so, the shock of their experiences killed my grandmother within two years, and my mother eventually.”
“Odd business, France,” Braydon said, ringing the bell for the next course. “First they fall into revolution and Terror, horrifying us and sending émigrés fleeing into Britain, and then they embrace Napoleon, terrifying us and sending our armies out to defeat him in all parts. Now they have a king again and the beau monde flocks to Paris to see the latest fashions.”
“Not me,” Mark said as sliced roast beef and vegetables were laid out, steaming hot and aromatic.
“No tug to your mother’s land?” Braydon asked as they served themselves.
“None.”
“Weren’t you in Paris in ’fourteen?”
“Ordered there because I speak French so well. I’d look at older people in the streets and wonder if any of them had cheered my family’s deaths.” Or dipped their fingers in their blood, but he’d not had that image in his mind then.
Braydon nodded. “As I said, odd. We’ve been at war with France more often than not since the Conquest and yet we can’t help but admire their style. Though I prefer plain cooking such as this.”
“And prefer both to the Spanish,” Mark said.
Braydon laughed. “Be fair. We rarely experienced the heights of Spanish cuisine.”
That led safely into army nostalgia, but when the table had been cleared and they sipped the last of the wine, Braydon said, “I believe you sai
d you joined the army in order to restore the monarchy to France. Any second thoughts?”
“Because Fat Louis lacks noble qualities? No. Any ship of state needs a stable anchor.”
“At least he’s a substantial one,” Braydon murmured, refilling their glasses. “So what noble cause absorbs you now?”
“I thought you disclaimed curiosity.”
“Only that I could do so. In truth, I’m hoping you’re entangled in something where I could play a part.”
“Bored?”
“You always were astute. A few years ago I’d have paid a fortune for a meal like this and a peaceful bed at night. Now . . . A man needs a purpose, don’t you think?”
“No estate coming to you? Ah, no. Your father was in government, yes? Son of a younger son of an earl?”
“A mere viscount, but yes, I have no estate. You, however, do. Berkshire, isn’t it?”
“Do you remember the details of everyone you’ve met?”
“Many of them,” Braydon said with a shrug. “It was useful at times.”
“True enough,” Mark said, toasting him, for Beau Braydon’s retentive memory had turned a trick or two on the Peninsula. “The place is Faringay Hall, near Abingdon. I thought you’d joined the army with a career in mind.”
“I did, but I found I didn’t fancy any of the likely peacetime duties and sold out. Then a childless uncle left his all to me. No estate, but a decent amount of money well invested. So here I am, comfortably situated for life.”
“Too comfortably?”
Braydon smiled. “Quite. Do say you’ve some discomfort for me.”
Mark smiled back but shook his head. “It’s mostly very dull work and you’d never fit in.”
“If your appearance is de rigueur, then you’re certainly correct. Excuse my curiosity, but can you say how you come to be in Warrington, of all places?”
“That I can do. I was traveling from Manchester to London, but the road threatened to be in chaos because of a thousand or so Spenceans planning to march south to present petitions to the Regent. I took a coach here in order to connect with the Carlisle-to-London road.”
