by Alyson Chase
Mrs. Fry halted on the top step and thrust open the parasol. As it was neither raining at the moment, nor sunny, Amanda didn’t quite see the point. The reformer tilted up her chin. “If we can get Lord Hanford to accede to a public debate, will you agree?”
Clutching the door frame, Amanda shook her head.
“You will agree to at least think about it,” Mrs. Smuthers said. She tossed the end of her shawl over her shoulder. “Reasonable people at least think of all the possibilities before refusing. And I know from your writing that you’re reasonable.”
“Well, of course I’m reasonable—”
“Good. It’s settled.” Mrs. Fry took the steps at a parade march. “We’ll let you know what we hear from Lord Hanford.”
Amanda watched their backs as they filed down to the sidewalk and turned left at the street. It was several moments after they’d disappeared from sight that Amanda stepped back inside the house. “You can tell Mr. Carter to cancel the refreshments for my guests,” she told the footman.
He twisted his lips before giving her a quick nod, and Amanda knew that no tea service had been prepared. Not for her and her irregular company. The disrespect was rising to intolerable levels, and she pondered telling Julius. But he’d just dismiss all the servants, and then where would she and Lady Mary be? Amanda didn’t know how to cook and she doubted the aunt of a duke did, either.
Sighing, she strolled back to the breakfast room and poked her head inside. Empty of the older woman. But The Times still lay on the table. Amanda scooped it up and carried it back to her room. She would need to reread Lord Hanford’s arguments now that she’d agreed to try to refute them.
Pulling open the drapes of her bedroom window to let in the grey light, she leaned against the sill and gathered her nerve. Reading the attacks, the insults to her person wasn’t easy. But considering she refused to debate in person, it was the least she could do.
She might not be a firebrand, but she could still help the cause. She opened her window for some fresh air, then settled at her small escritoire and began to write.
Chapter Fifteen
Julius tapped the folded papers against his thigh and waited for his horse to be brought around. Glancing back at the closed front door, he swore he could feel Amanda’s presence behind it. Leaning against the barrier, yearning to come out.
He’d thought after their trip to the newspaper office, she’d be eager to leave the house again, but she’d flatly refused his invitation. She didn’t seem any closer to ending her exile than before.
She’d written again. Under her own name this time. If he weren’t so worried he’d have been proud. He’d tried to blackmail her again, threatening not to deliver the letter unless she accompanied him. But the attempt had been half-hearted, and they’d both known it. Amanda needed to want to come out on her own.
Tucking the missive into the inside pocket of his coat, he grabbed the saddle of the horse a stable boy led before him and swung himself up. He tugged the thoroughbred’s head around and dug his heels into its flanks.
And pulled up short.
He should burn the letter. Tell Amanda he’d delivered it to the paper, and they refused to publish it. That’s what was best for his assignment.
“Damn and blast.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and sped off. Towards the offices of The Times. It wasn’t Amanda’s fault she’d riled up Lord Hanford. Julius had plans to speak with him and he’d just add in the suggestion that he stay out of the papers for the time being. It was the marquess’s letters that were the problem for his investigation, not Amanda’s.
How could he take away the one thing that renewed her interest in the world?
The editor nearly ripped the papers from his hands when he arrived at the newspaper’s office. “’Bout time she wrote something more.”
“Lord Hanford’s response was published only yesterday.” Julius sucked at a papercut on his thumb.
“And this morning I got five hundred new letters to the editor weighing in about this controversy.” The man flipped through the pages Amanda had written. “The papers have been selling faster than a harbor whore on payday this past week.”
Julius raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll publish Miss Wilcox, even under her true name?”
“Damn right it does.” The editor rubbed his jaw, leaving a smear of ink. “With this new steam printing method, we can now print a thousand sheets an hour. You tell her to keep ‘em coming as fast as she can. We’ll keep up.” He chortled. “Old Tobias down at The London Chronicle never had an escaped prisoner writing for his pages.”
Julius clenched his hands. “Her conviction was overturned.”
“Sure, sure.” The man waved him off. “I’ve got to go give this to the typesetter.” And without a farewell, he hurried into the bowels of the office.
“Well.” Julius tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. “I guess that settles that.” One task done, he left the newspaper and climbed back on his horse. His next chore wouldn’t be nearly so effortless.
Across town, he was shown into a tidy study decorated in brown leather and hunter greens. Julius guessed this was the one room that Lady Hanford did not control.
“Lord Rothchild.” The marquess clapped his hands together. “What a delight to have you call. Just wonderful.”
Tufts of silver hair threaded through with snow white threads stuck up in a wind-tossed halo around Hanford’s head. Light blue eyes twinkled from under bushy eyebrows. He rocked onto the balls of his feet, the top of his head just reaching Julius’s chin. “Shall we sit?”
Julius settled across from the older man. “Thank you for seeing me. It’s been some time since we’ve last spoken.”
Hanford clasped his hands at his belly and leaned back. A button on his waistcoat struggled valiantly to cling to its hole. “We had quite the debate about government pensions during session when that funding bill came up. ’02 wasn’t it?” The marquess pursed his lips, his gaze losing focus.
“You have a good memory.” That bill had come up for vote in ’12. Julius hadn’t even been a member of the House of Lords in ’02. But they had thrown a couple of volleys back and forth when the bill had been up for debate. On that point, the marquess was correct.
Hanford tapped his forehead. “The cranium might have a few wrinkles on it, but it’s still in tip-top shape.” He glanced around and frowned. “Boy!” he hollered.
A footman melted away from his position by the wall. “My lord?”
Hanford started. “Oh. Didn’t see you there. Pour me and my guest a drink. Brandy?” he asked Julius.
“Thank you.” Julius took the glass and lifted the snifter to his nose. Smelled good. He took a sip. Tasted even better. The marquess knew his brandy. He rested the glass on his armrest. “I read your piece in the paper yesterday. You seemed to have knocked over a hornet’s nest.”
“Have you come about that?” Resting his snifter on his belly, Hanford sighed. “Reforms to that law were discussed and rejected. No need to bring it up again.”
“Reforms can be raised every year,” Julius said dryly. “Besides, I thought Miss Wilcox made some good points.”
Hanford grumbled. “Miss Wilcox. Tried to pass herself off as a man, did you know that?” He tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “But I was on to her. Can’t get much past me.”
“Indeed.” Crossing one leg over the other, Julius plotted his attack. “I was at Simon’s and heard talk of it. It seems that having her identity revealed has made her a more sympathetic mouthpiece. Viscount Ashworth was saying no woman should have to go through what she has.”
The marquess snorted. “Viscount Ashworth is a blockhead.”
Julius shrugged. There really was no arguing that point. Although in a competition between Viscount Ashworth and the marquess, it was anyone’s guess whose mental capabilities would come out on top.
“By responding to the article you’ve only fanned the flames of the debate higher.” Julius swirled the amb
er liquid, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
“And why shouldn’t I?” Leaning forward, Hanford punched at the air, brandy slopping over the rim of his glass and falling onto the carpet below. “She mentioned me and others by name. Accused us of being unfeeling.” He sniffed. “I can only do what I feel is right for our country.”
“Of course,” Julius said as soothingly as possible. “Your many years of service do you credit. But perhaps if you didn’t respond to Miss Wilcox’s next letter, if you just let the furor die down naturally …”
Hanford scrunched up his face. “I can’t let her have the last word. The public is fickle. They’ll believe whatever anyone tells them to.”
Due to the diversity of letters to the editor, Julius could hardly credit that sentiment. “You must do what you feel is right, of course.” And Liverpool would have to accept it. If the prime minister made one move to silence Amanda, all bets were off. There were limits to how much duty Julius owed the Crown.
Perhaps Julius could turn this to their favor. If Hanford became a target, he might draw out the crime ring. Julius could capitalize on their mistake. And hope his treating the marquess as bait didn’t get the man killed.
The old man sparred with a fly, deep lines creasing his brow.
Julius hated to put a man like that in the line of fire. But he saw little alternative. Holding his tumbler by the tips of his fingers, Julius said, “I believe I saw your son at Gentleman Jack’s the other day. A tall, slender man. With a slim mustache.”
“No, that’s not my boy.” Hanford tossed back the rest of his brandy. “Gilbert isn’t much taller than I am, and he likes his puddings a little too much if you understand what I mean.” He patted his stomach.
“Of course.”
“But that sounds like my attorney, Mr. Eustace Allan. He looks a bit like a spider, that one.” The marquess shivered. “He was here when you called. I sent him to the kitchen for some tea.”
“You what?”
Hanford blinked. “Well, as you said, he is a spindly fellow. I figure my chef might fatten him up.”
Julius buried his face in his glass. “As you say.” Family attorneys weren’t accorded the same status as gentlemen, it was true, although it wasn’t unheard of for one to be knighted if he was of service to a particularly noteworthy family. But sending one to the kitchen for a meal like a tradesperson could only be seen as an insult. Or that the marquess was completely lacking in knowledge of social niceties.
“Do you think he’s still here?” Julius couldn’t be this fortunate. Investigations for the Crown were never that easy. He—
“I would imagine so,” Hanford said. “We haven’t finished discussing changes to my will.” He stared into his empty glass, licking his bottom lip. At Julius’s silence, he raised his head. “Oh. Did you want me to call for him?”
Pushing to his feet, Julius stalked to the door. “Why don’t I go down to see him? He can’t afford to miss any meals.” Julius forced joviality into his voice. “If it is the man I saw, he dropped a watch at Gentleman Jack’s.”
“All right.” Hanford toddled after him. “Though I can’t imagine Allan at Gentleman Jack’s. Do they even let attorneys through the door?”
“The members are fairly egalitarian when it comes to bloodying noses. Is it through here?” He pointed down a stairwell.
Hanford nodded. He trod heavily on each step, his breathing becoming labored. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been down here. It’s quite”—he panted—“the adventure.”
Julius quickened his pace, trying to leave the wheezing man behind. The element of surprise was one of Julius’s best tools, and the marquess was ruining it. Following his nose, he strode for the end of the hall and through the open door.
A maid glanced up from the ovens. “Can I help you, sir?”
A plate with half a serving of mutton and a thick slice of bread lay on a slab wooden table, a mug to its right.
“Where did he go?” Julius demanded. He poked his head into the hallway and looked back towards the stairs.
Hanford toddled next to him and looked at the empty kitchen. “Allan left? But we weren’t finished.”
The maid pointed to the kitchen door that led outside. “He went that way.”
Julius rushed to the exit. “Thanks for the drink,” he shouted back to Hanford and fled into the garden. He took the corner to the front of the marquess’s house at a sprint. Hanford’s house was in Westminster, a block from St. James Street, and the afternoon crowds filled the street.
One man stood a head above everyone else. Mr. Allan weaved through the pedestrians on the sidewalk, and Julius’s gaze focused on the bobbing top hat.
“My lord, do you want your horse?” One of Hanford’s groomsmen held his thoroughbred by the bridle at Hanford’s front steps.
With one last glance at Allan, Julius raced back and leapt on his mount. “Yah!” The horse galloped into the street, nearly knocking over a street sweep.
Julius ignored the shouts behind him. He stood in his stirrups and peered down the street but no top hat stood above the rest. Julius hit the cross street and looked left. There. Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, he took off, only to pull up as a hackney cut in front of his path.
“Get out of my way!” But everyone had decided now was the time to leave work and travel down St. James Street. Maneuvering his horse through the crowded street was slow going, and Allan’s long legs ate up the ground faster than Julius could keep up. Not without knocking pedestrians to the ground.
“Damn it.” He drew his horse behind a carriage moving at a tepid but steady clip, and let the other conveyance forge the path. The pace was marginally faster. He stood again in his stirrups and checked that Allan was still on the street. He followed the man until he ducked into a coffeehouse.
Julius stopped in an alley across the street. He waved a street sweep over, a boy who couldn’t have been over the age of twelve. “Will you take a message for me?” He showed the boy a sovereign, and the lad nodded eagerly. He gave the sweep directions to Sutton’s house and the message. The boy raced off, dust kicking back from his heels.
Julius settled in to wait. Several patrons entered the coffeehouse. One portly man exited, a wrapped meat pie in each hand. But Allan remained within.
It began to rain. Huddling between his horse and the wall of the building next to him, Julius tugged the collar of his coat upward and turtled his head down. A little bit of damp didn’t bother him. He could outwait anyone.
Although the man must surely be in his third cup of coffee by now. Or had decided to stop for a meal. The delay gave Sutton time to arrive, his own horse stamping and pawing the ground, mist billowing from its nostrils.
The large man dropped to the ground, mud splashing from under his boots. “What have we here? The boy you sent was noticeably short on details.”
Julius dipped his head. “Max. Did you send a note to Summerset and Dunkeld?” His gaze never left the front door of the coffeehouse.
Sutton grunted. “They’re both in Scotland. The Dowager Marchioness has found another potential bride for Dunkeld, and Summerset agreed to help rid him of the female.”
“So, neither is available to help.” Julius had other men he could turn to. Men who worked for the right amount of blunt. But none that he trusted as he did his friends. With Marcus still away on the continent, and John and Sinclair off doing God knew what to some poor, unsuspecting chit in the north, all that remained were Max and himself.
Not enough pairs of eyes to keep watch on the suspect as Julius had hoped.
Max shifted, mud squelching beneath his feet. “Do you need someone removed from the coffeehouse? I could start a distraction—”
“No fires.” Christ. And Julius’s friends thought he was the one with issues. Sutton’s obsession with fire had gotten the man into trouble more than once. Julius didn’t need even more attention drawn to this investigation.
“Fine.” Max shrugged
. “I’m always happy to drag someone out by their ankles if that’s what you wish.”
“We’re here to observe. See where my suspect leads us.” Julius gave Sutton a description of Allan. “Can you go inside the coffeehouse, see if he’s meeting with anyone? Maybe get me a meat pie while you’re at it?”
Max handed him the reins to his horse and looked both ways down the street before crossing.
“And be discreet about it,” Julius said to his back.
Max tossed a rude hand gesture over his shoulder, and Julius smiled. Thank God at least one of his friends was still in town.
The grey sky had darkened to purple before Sutton emerged. He trotted across the street and pulled two small apples from the pockets of his great coat. He gave one to each horse. “Your man is sitting alone. Eating enough to feed a family of four for a week.” He rubbed the nose of his horse. “I don’t know how he stays such skin and bones.”
Julius’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since he’d grabbed a roll from Marcus’s kitchen for his breakfast. “Back exits?” he asked.
Sutton shook his head.
Small crumbs dusted Max’s bushy black beard, and Julius narrowed his eyes. “Did you remember my meat pie?”
“They looked truly disgusting in there. I did you a favor.” Max licked at the corner of his mouth.
“Greedy bastard,” Julius grumbled.
They waited another twenty minutes, watching the customers come and go, before Allan skittered out. Julius mounted. “Here we go.”
Sutton heaved himself onto his horse, and the men turned their mounts’ noses down the street, following the attorney at a sedate pace. The man obviously thought he had lost Julius. The rain began to come down harder, and Allan bought a paper to hold over his head. He scurried along the sidewalk.
Sutton squeezed the tail end of his cravat, wringing out water. “I love the jobs you have us do, Rothchild. It’s never in a pub in front of a roaring fire with you.”
“You got to amuse yourself at The Black Rose before the unpleasantness with Madame Sable. That’s cozy enough.”
