"The sooner the better, Goodwood."
"We must have you around to dinner one evening. My cook does some particularly fine curry."
"Delighted."
Alistair stepped away, and had all to not to spit in his eye or wipe his hand on his tousers in too obvious a manner.
"Come around to see Fenster this afternoon, my assistant, and he will get you sorted. He'll set you up with chambers and so on. Not that there are any spare, Grant’s having burnt down, but he will find you something and fill you in on all the upcoming cases."
"Thank you. Thank you very much, sir."
"Thank you, Goodwood. I have the feeling this is going to work out very well indeed for all concerned."
"I certainly hope so." He bowed again, and began to step backwards away from the desk, though without turning his back to the minister. "Goodbye for now."
Alistair resisted the urge to celebrate as he walked out the door, and maintained his calm as his coach took him back to his new home in Becket Street, thinking of all that this step entailed.
Viola was pacing up and down eagerly awaiting news.
"Well?" she asked eagerly.
"Well what? It went better than I could have hoped. I made a stand for law and order, and he offered me my old job back."
She gaped. "What, you mean elevated above all the others?"
He nodded. "Yes, he promoted me ahead of them because he thinks I’ll be tame."
"Oh, Alistair, that’s wonderful, but so dangerous," she said with a shiver.
"It may well be, but he’s handed me the keys to the kingdom. I have to use them."
"What do we need to do next?" she asked, her brows knitting.
"I’m going to go over and find my new office, and I shall be hiring a young clerk shortly, Mr. Morris." He winked at her.
"Very good, sir," she said in a deep voice. "Just don’t wink at me in front of anyone."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alistair’s new chambers turned out to be a cubicle ten by ten which was stacked with papers virtually floor to ceiling. Many apologies were made, the fire explained, and offers to try to help given, but not with any degree of enthusiasm.
As always, everyone was overworked and underpaid. And time was of the essence. Alistair and Fenster the man in charge of the Chambers had done their best to locate the official court copies of the papers which had been destroyed in the conflagration, but still, it was not going to be easy to prosecute or defend his case load.
But Alistair had the feeling Sidmouth didn’t really care. If these people were unlucky enough to have been caught at something, they should be sentenced for it so far as the Home Office Minister was concerned.
The objections to his chambers he waved away airily, twirling his cane in a debonair manner. "Order from chaos. Order from chaos. My wife is a dab hand in the household organisation, and I have seen the wisdom of it. And she has a little nephew, very well trained, who ought to be able to get all of this sorted in no time."
He indicated the mountains of papers as if they were not of the least concern to a formidable man like himself.
Thus Viola became Mr. Morris his clerk by day, and spent as much of her time as she could trying to find papers on Gribbens or her brother.
Hour after frustrating hour she sorted, alphabetised, and filed in the archive boxes Alistair obtained for her, while the other clerks mocked her for cleaning out the Augean stables.
Two days after she had begun her Herculean task, a note arrived asking for a meeting with Alan Goodwood and his clerk at a popular coffee house in Covent Garden the following afternoon.
Alistair frowned as he read the note. "I could swear I know this writing. And the paper is very posh. But why there?"
She shook her head, and then checked her mouse-brown wig to make sure it was still in place. "I don’t know. Are you going to accept?"
"It says urgent."
"But about what?"
He sighed. "I can’t tell. But if it’s anyone who stands a chance of exposing me... I mean, after all, I’ve only supposedly been in the country for a couple of days, so no one knows me here apart from. God forbid, some old acquaintances of the real Goodwood."
"True. But you could just bluff it out."
"Aye, but there's another thing. They would have had no way of knowing about you unless they were watching me very carefully. The thing to do is dress differently from what they might expect, and arrive late so we can see the person waiting."
"What do you want me to wear?"
"Your suit, of course. But bring a change of clothes, woman’s garb, and I shall bring a cap and jacket in my briefcase. If we need to make a fast getaway, we can just try to blend in with the crowd."
Both waited nervously for the meeting the following day, thinking it might be George with some news at last. Or perhaps Lawrence. Or better still, Sebastian, sufficiently recovered for them to be able to see him.
As planned, they arrived late at the coffee house and hovered in the doorway for a time, Alistair peering in trying to see if there were any familiar faces. He was so agitated his stomach churned.
Viola squeezed his hand reassuringly and said, "You should have eaten something."
"And you shouldn’t be holding my hand. Not unless we want to be arrested for sodomy."
"Sorry," she said, letting go at once. "Do you see anything?"
Alistair looked for a time longer, then gasped, "Oh no."
"What is it?"
"God in Heaven. What’s he doing here? He’s the last person we want to meet. We’ve been betrayed. Come on."
"Who is he?" Viola asked, staring at the nondescript man who had just sat down at one of the front tables and was looking around coolly.
She could seeing no reason for the utter horror which Alistair’s expression conveyed.
"Never mind that now. We need to get out of here. Fields. Castle. Oh my God, the dream."
"But—"
"Please listen to me. We’re not safe here!" Alistair said in an urgent whisper. "If he recognised me we’re done for. Stay close to me, do you hear?"
They rambled through Covent Garden, in and out through several cellars, and eventually came out the other side, by which time they had secured new outer garments which they had thrown over their existing ones in an effort to disguise themselves quickly. He dragged her up the alley and hailed a cab.
"Westminster Abbey," he ordered, dragging her in and slamming the door.
"Who was that man?" Viola asked again as she sat back against the leather squabs and tried to catch her breath.
Alistair’s face was white with terror. "John Castle. A government spy and agent provocateur. If he’s mixed up in this, I can guarantee this is being engineered at the highest levels."
"Agent provocateur? And engineered by whom?" she gasped.
"We’re in a whole world of trouble. In fact, all of the Rakehells could be. Even now they might all be in prison. Or dead. God help me, what the hell have I done?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Viola sat in silence, digesting what Alistair had told her. He was inclined to feel guilt, naturally, after the terrible shock of what had happened to his colleague and friend Philip Marshall. But all the Rakehells? They were powerful men. A Duke, an Earl. Surely—
"You need to start from the beginning. Tell me about this man Castle."
He sighed. "It’s a long story."
"We have all the time in the world, Alistair. Unless of course you have some other interesting social engagements you’ve neglected to tell me about."
He shook his head. "No. We’ll need to get south of the river to see George, but under cover of darkness. How disreputable are our clothes?"
"Relative to the really poor in London, we look quite prosperous."
"Have you ever drunk beer or gin?"
She nodded. "I have, a sip or two."
"Good. We’ll go to a public park for a stroll and then a pub crawl. I need some information, and I think I might kn
ow where to look for it now."
"We can go to Vauxhall Gardens for tea. A father out with his son, you know."
"Then stretch your legs out further. Take longer strides when you walk, like me. If you wiggle your gorgeous bottom like that, you’ll start a riot."
She blushed, but was rather pleased at the compliment. "I’ve got that skirt, bonnet and shawl with me. Do you want me to put them on?"
He thought for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Do it. And lose the wig."
As she dressed herself, Alistair began his tale.
"It’s a fair bet that all the strange things which have happened have some relation to a case I worked on back in 1816. I was defence counsel in an important treason trial against a group of Radicals known as the Society of Spencean Philanthropists. I’ve never made any secret of my Radical politics. But any decent, fair-minded person would know that the Spa Fields trial was a farce."
"Spencean Philanthropists?"
"Named after Thomas Spence, a schoolteacher from Newcastle who came to London in about 1793. Until his death in 1814, he became an important radical figure in British politics.
"He wrote books, pamphlets and produced a journal titled Pig’s Meat, in which he argued for the radical transformation of society. Needless to say the government thought this smacked of sedition, if not outright revolution, and they threw him in prison several times.
"I see."
"His movement was a real grass-roots organisation, with small groups that would meet in local public houses. He advocated the redistribution of land and wealth in this country so that the poor would be more fairly treated. I can recall how impressed we young Radicals were by his theories and slogans.
"By the turn of the century, though, Spence and his followers were really in hot water. The government believed that they were responsible for all bread riots in London."
"And were they?" she asked as she removed the wig and began to rub her itching scalp.
"Not that I could find. They didn’t have enough evidence to arrest them for this offence, so they tried a different tack. They started putting spies in their midst to keep track of them, get advance warning of any rallies, and of course, to get evidence of treason against them.
"When Spence died in September 1814, the Society was formed to try to keep his political ideals alive. They met regularly in pubs, some of which we’re going to go to tonight. We’ll try the Cock in Soho, the Horse and Groom in Marylebone and the Nag’s Head in Carnaby Market. There are some south of the river, but I’ll leave them as a last resort. They’re too close to The Three Bells for comfort."
"All right. You mentioned spies. Was this man Castle one?"
"Yes, he was. But worse than a spy, he was an agent provocateur."
"Yes, so you said. I think I know what it means—"
"In other words, he wasn’t just reporting back what the group were doing, he was encouraging the Spenceans to break the law so the government could be sure they would be arrested, and most likely transported or hanged."
Viola stared at him, stunned by the revelation. "That’s monstrous!"
"I know. That’s why I defended four of the Spenceans when they needed my help, even though everyone said I was a fool. It was the principle of the thing."
"I do understand, really," she said with an encouraging smile. "So tell me what happened."
"In October 1816, Castle reported to John Stafford, who was the supervisor of the Home Office spies, that the Spenceans were planning to overthrow the British government."
"John from the dream, possibly?" Viola asked.
He nodded. "Possibly."
"And were they?"
Alistair shook his head. "I very much doubt it. It was a mass political rally at Spa Fields, Islington, on the 2nd of December 1816. They had a powerful group of speakers at the meeting, including Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt and James Watson, but certainly no weapons."
"Henry from the dream as well?" she pointed out.
"Perhaps," he conceded. "I don’t know."
"Well, things are certainly starting to make a lot more sense one way or the other. Go on."
"The meeting was all set to go ahead, but then the government panicked. Stafford decided to break up the meeting. He sent in eighty police officers to disperse them by whatever means necessary.
"Naturally the men fought for their lives. One of the policemen, Joseph Rhodes, was stabbed. So the four notional leaders of the Spenceans, James Watson, Arthur Thistlewood, Thomas Preston and John Hopper were arrested and charged with high treason."
"Oh Lord," she said, staring at him. "And all because they had been goaded into acting foolishly in the first place."
"Aye. I don’t hold with police brutality in any form. I was asked to defend the four, who were all being tried separately. The government feared Watson most because he was a powerful speaker, and wanted to work on the others to betray him. We went to trial, and the main prosecution witness, indeed the only one in the end, was their own Home Office spy, John Castle.
"Myself and the defence council team I put together were able to show that Castle had a long criminal record, and that his testimony was completely unreliable.
"We were fortunate enough to have an incorruptible jury, and they concluded that Castle was an agent provocateur who had stirred up all the trouble in the first place. So they point-blank refused to convict Watson."
"Thank God."
"I can’t tell you how relieved I was. Once the case against Watson failed, the magistrates decided to release the other three men."
They had by now arrived at the Abbey. Alistair helped her down, keeping her out of sight of the coach driver, who would have wondered how one of his passengers had transformed from a man into a woman.
They went into the main door of the Abbey, then out the side door to seek another cab to take them on to Vauxhall Gardens.
Viola observed once they had settled themselves in the second cab, "They were very lucky to have had you, an honest barrister, and been released. Many men have been convicted for far less. My brother, for example. The first time he was ever in prison, at any rate. I never did find out from George what he was being charged with this last time."
"I know. I’m sorry. The whole system is rotten to the core, and Sidmouth doesn’t even care."
She gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand, earning herself a kiss. "Thank you for caring. Now let’s get back to your theory that this man Castle is on the prowl looking for you. I take it that the Spenceans continued to be active even after the Spa Fields trial?"
Alistair nodded. "They did, but there was a big spilt at the top. Watson gradually got pushed aside as Arthur Thistlewood argued for violent revolution being the only means to bring about change. After the excesses in France, this was anathema to the Home Office, which as the name suggests, is responsible for all of England’s internal affairs.
"We knew from Foreign Office intelligence that there had been more than a few attempts to invade England and Ireland by the French, in the hopes of getting the ordinary citizens to rise up against the king. Robert Emmett and Maurice Despard in 1803 were just two such examples over the years. I have no doubt there were more, but the Home and Foreign Offices play their cards very close to their chests."
"So they can do as they like? Including commit murder and make people disappear?" Viola asked with a shiver. "That’s why—"
"I think so. I’ve not had much contact with the Spenceans since. A few odd pieces of paper have come across my desk pertaining to them, and things I’ve discovered by accident."
"Even that could be dangerous."
He nodded, his expression grim. "Yes, I know that now. I’m pretty sure they believe I must have discovered something from poor Gribbens which has given their game away. But what the game is, I have no idea. So far as I knew, to all appearances he was just a household servant with sticky fingers who had stolen some particularly valuable objects which ensured he would get sent to the upper court to de
termine whether he would be hung or transported for life. All capital crimes go to the King’s Bench."
"And my brother? Why kill him?" she asked with a shiver.
He put his arm around Viola and chafed hers with his hand to warm her. "For the same reason. He learned something so damaging to the government that they needed to get rid of him."
"But how would they even know Sebastian was involved in any way?"
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5 Page 84
