by Georgie Lee
‘I changed my mind.’
‘Without informing us and bringing an uninvited guest with you.’ He eyed Moira as if she were an actress Bart had picked up after a Drury Lane performance.
He didn’t blame his father for the assumption, since Bart had done exactly that a few years ago.
‘And who may I ask is this? I couldn’t hear her name over the noise in here.’
Moira didn’t flinch under his hard scrutiny, but remained as serene as a painting of the Virgin Mary. The woman was an absolute saint for putting up with Bart and his father. ‘Lady Rexford, may I introduce my father, Lord Denning.’
His father’s prickliness lost its edge the moment he realised he was addressing a countess. He unclasped his hands and kept them stiff at his sides while he bowed to Moira. ‘Lady Rexford, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please forgive my less-than-solicitous greeting, but my son failed to send word you would be joining us.’
‘You’re most eagerly forgiven.’ Moira curtsied with all the graciousness Bart had come to expect from her, holding nothing against his father for his rude approach nor making him feel uneasy about his mistake.
‘I had the pleasure of meeting your late husband once a number of years ago when he was in London. I was very sorry to hear of his passing,’ his father offered.
‘Thank you very much for your condolences. It would have meant a great deal to him.’ She laid a reassuring hand on his arm to emphasise her lack of ill will. ‘He was an admirer of your work with the Navy Acquisition Board. I used to read him the newspaper articles about your successes with the supply reforms when he was ill.’
‘Did you, now?’ His father’s bushy eyebrows rose at this compliment.
‘He was very impressed with your implementation of Lord Harding’s suggestions. So was I, once he explained their significance. Perhaps you could tell me more about them?’
Bart had to stop himself from staring at Moira in amazement. Without him telling her, she’d immediately guessed the best way to gain his father’s good graces. With a salubriousness Bart found shocking, his father offered Moira his arm. ‘It would be my pleasure. Perhaps I can introduce you to some of the men who work with me?’
‘I’d be delighted to meet them.’ Moira took his proffered elbow and allowed him to lead her over to the gaggle of men gathered about the brandy table.
Bart, having received no invitation to join them, but in need of a chance to request a private interview with his father, and suspecting he’d get it if the old man were in a better mood, made a move to follow him. The soft voice of his mother stopped him.
‘I’m glad you decided to come. I’ve seen so little of you lately.’
‘I think you understand why.’ Bart regretted neglecting her, but their meetings were always tainted by his father’s insults. When this was all over he would make a point of coming to see her more often, perhaps while his father was at his government office. Like the promise to visit his brothers, he doubted his ability to keep it. He didn’t want to risk running into his father and have their arguments give him more reasons to stay away. The thought of it deepened his disappointment in himself. He’d overcome a great many obstacles in his life from the horrors of war to forgers and traitors, but this was one situation he could not rout.
‘I realise you and your father don’t agree on very many things and in the past he’s been incredibly hard on you, much more so than I’ve cared for, but he is who he is.’ She glanced at her husband, defeat drawing her lips tight. Whatever influence she’d tried to exert over him, whatever expectations she’d once held about him as a husband and father, it was clear they hadn’t been realised, making her failure as sharp as Bart’s had been in not keeping Lady Fallworth alive. ‘I’ve always encouraged him to be kinder and more loving to you and your brothers, but he so rarely heeds my advice. I suppose it’s because of the way he was raised, a third son who never expected to inherit. He thought if he made you tough, you’d be better able to handle the rigours of the world and make something of yourselves since you wouldn’t have the family lineage to rely on.’
‘Then why is he so quick to criticise me for my success as a barrister?’
‘Because, in some ways, you two are too much alike. You’re proud of your work, just like he is, and you can both be very stubborn.’
Bart didn’t reply, troubled at being compared to his father, especially by the one person, besides Moira, with real insight into him. It was a reflection of himself he didn’t want to see.
‘I’m very pleased you brought Lady Rexford with you,’ his mother remarked, changing the subject as she observed Moira who stood with his father and some other gentlemen, laughing delightfully with them and flattering their egos.
Bart had never seen his father smile this much at a family-dominated event before.
‘She’s a lovely woman and quite charming, and I think she’s perfect for you.’
Bart almost warned her not to get her hopes up about a new daughter-in-law, then decided against it. ‘The lady isn’t so enamoured of me.’
‘Nonsense, I watched the way she looked at you. Don’t let her get away this time. I know you think you can go through life by yourself, but you need a good woman beside you.’ Genuine concern marked each of her words, making them difficult to dismiss. In many ways his mother was right. He’d seen old soldiers like Mr Flint who’d bypassed the happiness of home and hearth for their duties to the state. Their many years alone had fostered a certain stoniness in them, one he felt growing inside himself. A man could pay someone to make his dinner and keep his house, but the delights of conversation and the softness of a woman who genuinely cared about him did make a difference.
‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ His solemnity brought a smile to her lips. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I must join my guest. We have matters to discuss with Father.’
Bart strode across the room and joined the gentleman and Moira. They were kind in their greetings and their questions about his most recent trial. Their interest in Bart’s work made his father’s back stiffen and caused his smile to crack about the sides. Bart was sure if Moira hadn’t been present, his father would’ve returned to his usual snide insults to belittle Bart’s work and the notoriety it brought him, and by extension, the Denning name. There wasn’t a newspaper article about Bart’s trials that didn’t fail to mention the connection, much to his father’s chagrin.
At one point, while Moira was engaging the other gentlemen in conversation, Bart’s father shifted around her to stand beside Bart.
‘It appears you’ve done something right for once in convincing this fine lady to give you a second chance,’ his father complimented in his oh, so-backhanded way. ‘Although why a countess, the daughter of an earl, would want to lower herself with a mere barrister I can’t say, but if you’re foolish enough to let her get away again, I’ll disown you for good.’
Bart tried not to roll his eyes. His father would be sadly disappointed, and might possibly disown him for real this time when this was all over and Bart and Moira parted again. The idea made Bart’s stomach tighten. These kinds of gatherings had never been easy for him, but with the many dangers facing the country, it made it even worse tonight. However, in the midst of his unease, with Moira beside him, something seemed very right with the world. His eagerness to leave didn’t grip him like it had in the past, instead he wanted to remain here watching her flirt with his father, drawing the attentions of his brothers, and seeing his mother showing a bit of backbone he hadn’t realised she possessed. It was the first time in a long time Bart had stood among them and not felt like an outcast, but instead as someone with a potential place here. It was an odd feeling because he hadn’t expected it. He had done all he could to avoid his family, yet with Moira he wanted to recapture some of what he remembered as a boy when he and his younger brothers used to tear through the house wrestling and yelling
at one another while ignoring their mother’s entreaties to not break her vases. For all his complaints when he’d reached manhood, Bart couldn’t give too many to his childhood. With his mother’s love and his brothers’ companionship it’d been a good one, despite his father’s sternness and indifference. It was an innocence he’d lost a long time ago and for a brief moment he wondered what it would be like to have a pack of his own sons running through his house, livening up the dark wood panelling and the silent rooms with their laughter. He could guide them as a father should, while their mother gave them her unconditional love. It wasn’t a thought he’d ever considered before, but the more time he spent around Moira, the more the idea drifted in and out of his consciousness, pushing aside all the ugliness of the world that soaked him.
The pretty image of a happy home life vanished when his father turned to him, leaving Moira to the other gentlemen. ‘I’m surprised to see you here. Richard said you weren’t coming, as usual. I told your mother we shouldn’t have bothered to invite you, but she insisted.’
Honesty had never been a problem for his father. It was time for Bart to return the favour. ‘I came to speak with you.’
‘What do we possibly have to discuss?’
Bart leaned close to the man’s ear, noting the fair bit of grey sprinkled in his dark hair. ‘A certain special gunpowder imported by the Navy, some of which has gone missing.’
His father’s jaw fell open. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Escort me and Lady Rexford to your study and you’ll find out.’
* * *
Minutes later, Moira and Bart stood together with his father in the book-filled study with the door closed. Lord Denning sat at his desk and waved for Bart to take his place in front of him. Not wanting to feel like a child, Bart stood before the desk while Moira hovered near the fireplace, all but forgotten by his father in light of this new development.
‘Tell me exactly how it is you know about the missing gunpowder.’ His father levelled a warning finger at him. ‘And mind my words, if you’re involved in anything smacking of treason or theft and think by coming to me you can get yourself out of it then you’re wrong. I’ll happily see you brought up on charges. All your fancy skills as a barrister won’t help you then. I don’t abide by traitors or thieves.’
‘Thank you for your faith in me, but your threats aren’t necessary,’ Bart growled, bracing himself against yet another insult before a quick glance at Moira calmed him. He wasn’t here to fight with his father, but to obtain information. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the last of his tension as he always did before approaching the bench. When he spoke, he would do so calmly, with all the rational organisation he showed in the courtroom. His father threatened him because he had no knowledge of Bart’s work for the Alien Office, but tonight he had to tell him. Whether or not this changed his father’s impression of him was secondary to finding out about the gunpowder and how much was missing. ‘I’m here on behalf of Mr Flint and the Alien Office in an attempt to halt an attack on our Government.’
In concise words he explained to his father his work, not as a barrister, but as a stipendiary magistrate. He told him about the Rouge Noir, sure his father would keep it a secret along with all the other government secrets he was privy to. His father might not care for Bart, but he adored his country and would do all he could to protect it. Love for England was, more than the stubbornness his mother had cited, the one thing Bart and his father shared.
‘The Rouge Noir is planning to implement their plot in the next day or so and I’m running out of time to uncover their plans.’ Bart noted the sharp intake of breath from Moira. He hadn’t told her his fears the plot was now imminent, his suspicion based on Mr Dubois’s brazen attack on her this afternoon and information he’d gleamed from the forger.
His father sat back in his chair, his face slack with horror and for the first time ever at a loss for words, good or bad, about Bart.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Bart noticed Moira at the table beside the window uncorking the decanter of brandy and pouring out a glass. With the quietness of a cat, she carried it to his father and handed it to him. ‘I was as surprised as you are to hear about this, Lord Denning,’ she offered in a soothing voice, easing him through his shock as if Bart had just told him his favourite retriever had died.
‘I am.’ With a compliance Bart had never witnessed before, his father took the glass from Moira. He drained the drink, then stared at the empty crystal in his hand, appearing for the first time more like the grandfather he was than the stern authoritarian he’d been. ‘Could I trouble you for another one?’
‘Of course.’ Moira took the glass, refilled it and returned it to him.
‘Thank you, Lady Rexford. You’re too kind.’ He drained this one, too, then set it down on the desk.
‘It’s my pleasure.’ She smiled with a sweetness to captivate the most hard-hearted of men, then took her place again in the chair by the fireplace.
Bart remained in front of the desk, not expecting a word of gratitude or apology to reach his ears, and he wasn’t disappointed. For years his father had been ashamed of his work. He couldn’t imagine he’d be proud of him now, but if he’d changed his mind, he decided not to tell Bart about it. His father also didn’t pelt him with a barrage of disapproval for bringing Lady Rexford into this affair. Instead, with a touch of humility, he faced Bart. ‘What do you need to know about the missing gunpowder?’
‘How much is gone and the damage it can do.’
His father rubbed his fingers across the creases in his forehead. ‘One hogshead full, enough to wipe out an entire street.’
‘The mixture is that lethal?’
‘Yes. We’d planned to test it in the new, sturdier cannons, to see if it makes them more powerful. If it does, it will give us the edge necessary to bring this war to an end and defeat the Emperor at last.’ His father picked at a loose bit of leather on the blotter. ‘There were ten hogsheads shipped here from the West Indies on a Navy frigate. They were unloaded at Greenwich in preparation for transport to the armoury. Ten went into the warehouse but only nine came out three days later. There was no evidence of a break in and none of the guards reported seeing anything or anyone unusual in the area before it went missing.’
‘Then it could have been someone working at the warehouse, or one of the sailors involved in the transport.’
‘They knew nothing about it, very few did. If they gave the casks any thought it was because they believed they held tobacco or some other such goods. We didn’t exactly announce what we were doing in the papers.’
‘An officer, then?’
His father slammed his fists on the desk, making the empty brandy glass jump. ‘No, none of the men involved in this would turn traitor. Their superior lineages wouldn’t allow it.’
‘You investigated them all then, especially those with debts to make sure they couldn’t be blackmailed or bribed?’
His father eased his tight fist and nodded. ‘We did.’
‘Then perhaps someone slipped up and mentioned it either on purpose or inadvertently.’ He thought of Prince Frederick at the ball. He’d spoken in front of the Comte de Troyen about throwing the Government into chaos by killing a handful of ministers, and now there was a plot involving gunpowder. It was too much of a coincidence. ‘Did Prince Frederick know about the shipment?’
His father jerked up straight. ‘Are you suggesting a member of the royal household is a traitor to the Crown?’
‘No, but I’ve spoken with him before and, as his past deeds have confirmed, he’s careless with his position and the knowledge he holds.’ He related to his father the incident with the Comte de Troyen at Lady Camberline’s ball.
‘He didn’t know about the shipment,’ his father admitted with a sigh. Bart could see his father’s pain at the thought that one of his ow
n might have been at fault in this situation. He still believed in the nobility of the nobility. Bart knew better. ‘He’s been privy to very few Navy secrets since his resignation as Commander in Chief of the Army, despite his having been reinstated in the post. You aren’t the only one to have noticed he can be indiscreet.’
‘I’d like a list of everyone involved in the purchase and transfer of the powder. I’ll pass it on to Mr Flint, who’ll conduct a more thorough investigation of the men involved.’ He expected his father to complain or protest, but with amazing compliancy, his father removed a piece of paper from the desk drawer, laid it on the blotter and began to write out a list of names.
‘I’m familiar with Mr Flint’s methods. I don’t always agree with them, but they’re far more effective than the Naval Office’s. If anyone has any secrets we missed, he’ll discover them.’
‘Then why didn’t you turn the matter over to him sooner?’ It might have cost them time they didn’t have.
His father paused in his writing, the twitch near his eye indicating he didn’t appreciate being questioned by his son. He seemed to recognise the merit in it this time for he didn’t lash out, but resumed writing. ‘We should have, but there were those above me determined to keep the matter a secret. I told them it was a mistake, but they outranked me.’
Bart’s disgust for kowtowing to titled men seized him. He was about to say so and rail against the investigative time and opportunities lost because of it when Moira caught his eye. Her softness helped Bart to mediate his hardness and anger. He was making progress with his father and he didn’t want his abrasiveness to affect his father’s co-operation.
His father finished his list and handed it to Bart. ‘The men with dots by their names are those who were out of London at the time of the theft or more distantly involved than the others. It should help you narrow your focus to the most important people while not overlooking any potential suspects.’
Bart folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. ‘Thank you.’
