by Georgie Lee
‘Traitors?’ The Comte laid a hand on his cravat, appearing genuinely surprised.
Lord Camberline’s sneer dropped. ‘We aren’t involved in treason.’
‘Then what are you doing in the back of the cemetery so late in the day discussing plans?’ He didn’t offer details, waiting for either of the men to clear or condemn themselves without Bart leading them too far into it.
Lord Camberline shot the Comte a worried look, but the Comte appeared more amused than alarmed. He pressed the tip of his walking stick into the ground and squared himself at Bart, not with condescension, but respect. ‘I’d heard rumours about you, Monsieur Dyer, after the Scottish Corresponding Society affair. Until this moment I hadn’t realised they were true. However, if it’s traitors to the crown you’re searching for, you won’t find them here.’
‘Who was whispering in your ear about me?’ Bart asked, wary of the man’s regard.
‘I have one old contact in the Government. Years ago, after I first came to England during the Peace of Amiens, I did my fair share of shady work, not for Napoleon, but on behalf of the English Crown. More than one man who’d come across from Europe and into the French community here had done so with nefarious intentions. I used to find out who they were and inform the proper people.’
‘Then how come I haven’t heard of your involvement before?’ Mr Flint had never mentioned the Comte’s old service during any of their conversations about him.
‘Because, at the time, only Mr Wickham was aware of my work and he kept it a very deep secret to protect me, especially when I left his service after my wife died and my daughter’s care fell solely to me. As I’m sure you’re aware, there are certain unavoidable dangers in this line of work.’
‘I am.’ Bart thought of Moira and the way his heart had pounded when he’d rushed at Mr Roth, praying the entire time he would reach the assassin before the man reached her. However, for all the Comte’s newfound camaraderie, questions still remained. ‘If you were involved with working against Napoleon, then why did the Emperor restore your title and lands?’
‘He believed he could bribe me into turning against my adopted country, but I refused. Where the Revolutionaries in France would’ve seen me executed because of my bloodline, England offered me and my family the chance to grow and thrive. It also offered my daughter a future she would not have had in France. It was her we were discussing. Her welfare forced me to meet Lord Camberline in an awful place like this.’ He knocked his stick against the mausoleum.
‘Your daughter?’ The sense he and Moira had been wrong about Lord Camberline continued to grow.
‘Marie and I are to be married in Scotland. We’re journeying there tonight,’ Lord Camberline explained with much more humility than the last time he’d addressed Bart. ‘My mother is against it and she has been since the beginning, but circumstances of late mean we must be married, and soon.’
‘She’s carrying your child,’ Bart surmised without delicacy. They were all men with no need to tread lightly around any subject.
‘Yes.’ Lord Camberline’s face coloured with shame while the Comte’s reddened with fatherly outrage.
‘Lord Camberline was careless with Marie and I refuse to see her ruined because of it.’
‘I wasn’t careless. I love her, it’s why I’m doing all I can to ensure we’re together. I won’t allow her to be ruined or for anyone to stop us from marrying.’ Lord Camberline stepped up to Bart. ‘I give you my word, everything we’ve told you is true. We aren’t traitors.’
Above them the church bells rang out again, indicating more time had passed with him no closer to uncovering the plot or stopping it. Instead, he was wasting his efforts involving himself in young love, unless Lord Camberline knew more than he realised, especially about his mother. ‘My apologies to you both for the intrusion, but in the absence of hard evidence, we were forced to follow all leads, including those connected to the both of you and Lady Camberline.’
Lord Camberline’s jaw fell open. ‘My mother isn’t a traitor either.’
‘Are you sure? She’s a great admirer of Napoleon.’
‘Many are, but it doesn’t mean she’s done anything wrong.’
‘Then why did she speak with Mr Dubois, a notorious smuggler who’s heavily involved with the traitors, at the gallery the other night?’
‘I don’t know, nor am I acquainted with the man,’ Lord Camberline sputtered.
‘I’m surprised given how easily he conversed with your mother.’ Bart stepped up to Lord Camberline, forcing the young man to move back. ‘If you are in any way connected to this man and hope to avoid being accused of treason, you’d better tell me all you know, including where I might find him.’ None of his and his men’s efforts to locate the smuggler today had been fruitful.
‘I know where you can find Mr Dubois,’ the Comte offered. ‘As of late, he frequents the Town of Ramsgate pub near the Wapping Docks.’
‘How do you know?’ Wapping was far beyond where Mr Dubois usually operated, but he must have figured Bart would come looking for him and gone there to hide.
‘My driver came over from France right before the blockade, but his parents were trapped in France. He often sends and receives letters to them through Mr Dubois. Until this moment, I hadn’t realised Mr Dubois was so nefarious. I simply assumed he was like all the other smugglers eager to make money off a bad situation.’
‘And Lady Camberline?’ Given the Comte’s involvement in the French community Bart sensed he might have more insight into the Dowager Marchioness than either he, Moira, or even Lord Camberline could glean.
Lord Camberline turned to the Comte. ‘You don’t think she’s involved, do you?’
The Comte shot him a pitying look, then turned to Bart. ‘I can’t say for I have no knowledge of any plots against the Crown, but given what I know of her and her past, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was. I hope you find Mr Dubois, Monsieur Dyer. I hate to think of anything bad happening to this wonderful country.’
The Comte’s earnestness silenced any lingering doubts about him.
‘Thank you for your help, Monsieur le Comte, and good luck to you both in your endeavours tonight.’
With a nod, Bart signalled to his men, and they dashed across the cemetery and out the far gate to where Bart’s coach waited on the quiet side street. While they climbed inside, Tom hopped down from the seat and handed him a note.
‘Mr Dyer, one of Mr Flint’s messengers delivered this while you were in the graveyard.’
It wasn’t on Mr Flint’s usual stationary and, after telling the driver where to take them, Bart tore it open as he climbed in beside his men.
He practically jumped out of the carriage to order it to make for Mayfair when he read the contents. It was from Mrs Roberts, informing him Moira had decided to attend Lady Camberline’s dinner after all.
‘Damn.’ He crushed the paper between his hands.
‘Everything well, sir?’ Joshua asked, the others falling silent at his outburst.
‘Everything is fine.’ Bart gave everyone instructions on what to do when they reached the Town of Ramsgate pub. They’d draw Mr Dubois out and seize him, then find a way to make him talk.
When he was finished, the men returned to inspecting and preparing their weapons while the carriage hurried through the darkening streets.
Bart leaned over to Joseph. ‘Lady Rexford has gone to Lady Camberline’s dinner.’
There wasn’t time to go there and, with them about to enter one of the seediest dock areas in London, he couldn’t spare a man to visit Lady Camberline’s or to make a scene by having him drag Moira away.
‘I’m sure she’ll be safe in company, sir. Don’t forget that Mr Paulson is there as a footman and he’ll keep an eye on her.’
Bart offered a terse nod, then set to checking t
he powder and ball in his pistol, frustrated more by Moira having defied him than the setback in the graveyard. Lord Camberline might have doubts about his mother, but Bart’s concerns about the woman were growing. If he was right, then Moira might be walking into real trouble, except the woman wasn’t likely to try anything with so many men of rank and influence seated around her dinner table or in her sitting room. It was as faint a comfort as the Marquess’s doubts about his mother’s involvement. If Lord Camberline was correct, and Lady Camberline was nothing more than a Francophile longing for a return to the glories of the Ancient Regime, then Moira would be fine, perhaps even safer than if she were at his house near Temple Bar, a potential target.
Besides, she was not his to command and he could do nothing but make requests of her. He’d surrendered any other rights to her life when he’d purposely destroyed any prospect of a future with her.
He shoved the pistol back in the holster beneath his coat and reached up to grab the leather strap over the door when the coach made a hard turn. Outside, the more polished streets of London gave way to the tightly packed buildings and cluttered streets near the docks. It was a bumpy and jolting reminder of why he’d had to disappoint Moira’s hopes, and his. This was who he was and the life he’d chosen, and for a brief moment he wondered if he’d chosen wrongly. He’d never allowed anyone or anything to dictate his path in the past and yet he’d permitted his work to do just that this morning. She’d been willing to stand beside him and still he’d pushed her away, choosing the damp and mist of the docks and criminals over the charm of her voice and the tranquillity of her presence.
A regret as powerful as the one he carried over Lady Fallworth’s death slammed into him. Then the carriage rolled to a stop across the street from the boisterous and rowdy tavern, leaving him no more time to consider the matter. If he didn’t save England, there would be no future for anyone, least of all him and Moira.
* * *
Moira entered Lady Camberline’s house with a sigh. From somewhere up the stairs, the low rumble of gentlemen’s laughter punctuated by the higher tones of a woman’s voice drifted down to her. Before the butler began to lead her up the massive Camberline staircase, she thought of slipping out the door and returning to Bart’s house. Her heart wasn’t into pretending to be charming, but she wasn’t here for a social call, but for England.
‘Lady Rexford, if you’ll follow me,’ the butler urged.
Instead of pleading a headache and leaving, Moira started up the stairs behind him. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d put on such a performance. In the past, she’d greeted overseers and callers while in the midst of mourning for her father or her husband. She’d even faced a cadre of guests on her wedding day while forcing herself to appear like the happy bride everyone expected. She’d have to feign indifference whenever she and Bart finally faced one another again and endure the awkwardness of their first meeting since this morning, so she might as well get some more practice in before that happened.
After tonight, she would pretend no more, not to herself, her family, not even society depending on how the events of last night ultimately played out. She touched her stomach as they reached the top of the hall and the butler led her to the sitting room. A small hope flared inside her. Maybe her misguided actions would at last give her the one thing she craved the most, but even this would be tainted. She wanted a child, but not one who would always be cursed by her foolishness. If there was a child, she was sure Bart would try to do right by her. No, she wouldn’t marry for duty again, no matter what the consequences. She might not have much of an income, but she had something, and family standing and lineage. She wouldn’t be compelled by any pressure, not her family’s or society’s or even Bart’s, to marry where real love did not exist, no matter what the consequences.
But he did love me. Except it hadn’t been strong enough to overcome his reservations and objections and ask her to marry him. Good. It’s time to forget him since it’s clear he doesn’t want me.
The butler led her into the sitting room and announced her. The conversation died away as the other guests turned to take her in and she studied them, too. There wasn’t one man here under fifty years old who wasn’t involved in the Government in one way or another. Even Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, was present along with a number of other high-ranking men. Despite herself, Moira was impressed with Lady Camberline’s ability to draw together such a worthy guest list. With so many influential government ministers, many of them smiling more widely now at the arrival of another young woman, she was sure to hear something of importance. Whether or not it would help Bart and England remained to be seen.
‘Lady Rexford, I’m glad you were able to attend after all.’ Lady Camberline approached Moira, elegant in her dark gown trimmed with white lace.
‘Yes, my headache finally went away.’ Mrs Roberts had told her this was the excuse Bart had sent the Marchioness this morning.
‘Good, we can’t have you ill,’ Lady Camberline replied with a friendliness she hadn’t displayed during their past two meetings.
Perhaps it was her pleasure in the success of the night rather than Moira making her so effusive, but the edge to her smile, the same one she’d flashed when she’d questioned Moira about her neck, lingered in the woman’s greeting. Could this woman have really hired someone to kill her? Standing in the midst of her gilded sitting room it was difficult to imagine, but it reminded Moira to remain wary and observant. Bart wasn’t here to protect her. ‘You must come meet my other guests.’
Lady Camberline took her by the arm and led her deeper into the room, introducing her to one influential government man after another. Moira hadn’t realised the depths of the Marchioness’s connections. She thought her influence had died with her husband, but it appeared it hadn’t. It didn’t extend to her son who was not among the honoured gathering. ‘Is Lord Camberline not here tonight?’
‘I don’t know where he is.’ Irritation clouded her eyes before her gaze fell on two men standing together beneath a painting of Lady Camberline in her youth. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau. I’m sure they’d both enjoy the chance to speak to a fellow lover of France.’
She guided Moira to the two men and made the introduction. Moira’s heart dropped in her chest while she worked to retain her smile. Entertaining old men who’d been contemporaries of her husband reminded her too much of the prison she’d lived in during her marriage, the one she thought she’d escaped. She hadn’t. It sometimes seemed as if she was not meant to be around people her age, or to attract the attentions of men in their prime like Bart. Instead she must once again preen and smile for lords of many accomplishments and little youth.
‘Lady Rexford, a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to introduce Madame Bernard. I was well acquainted with Lady Rexford’s grandmother many years ago,’ Lord Lefevre explained to his much younger companion. The woman was dressed more modestly tonight than she’d been at the Royal Academy, her gown a much brighter shade of red than Moira’s and fashionably cut. The young woman clung to Lord Lefevre as if afraid Moira might snatch him away. Moira wondered where Monsieur Bernard was and why no one seemed to mind his wife’s obvious regard for Lord Lefevre, but she could guess.
‘Thank you, Lord Lefevre, my grandmother always spoke well of you,’ Moira lied in perfect French, ignoring Madame Bernard’s jealous looks. Lady Camberline left them to greet her other guests.
The sound of his native tongue widened Lord Lefevre’s gapped-toothed smile. The two French lords had been part of the French émigré circle in London when she was a little girl. Unlike many others she’d met through her grandparents, she didn’t remember these two being so warm and open with her back then. Instead, they’d stuck to themselves, never fully integrating as her grandparents had into the fabric of London life. Although their titles and wealth guaranteed them a place here, their unwillingness to truly em
brace their new country continued to set them apart. Tonight, she pretended to be one of them by complaining with them about the English while listening to what they said about Napoleon. Unfortunately, they offered very little beyond a genuine dislike for England and a reverence similar to Lady Camberline’s for Napoleon. If they or the Marchioness were involved with the Rouge Noir, they hid it well.
A short while later, Lady Camberline returned to the Frenchmen and Moira, standing on the edge of their conversation and attempting to appear at ease, but something in her manner reminded Moira of the impatient way Aunt Agatha often pounced into the middle of discussions when there was something bothering her. It turned Moira’s attention from the men to her hostess, the air of irritated disquiet coming from Lady Camberline hinting at something serious.
‘Lady Rexford, Madame Bernard, I must speak privately with Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau. Madame Bernard, could I trouble you to go over and speak to Lady Waltenham?’
‘It would be a pleasure.’ The young woman didn’t appear at all pleased as she grudgingly made off to join the aged widow.
‘Lady Rexford, I’d be grateful if you’d join Prince Frederick? He was quite thrilled when I said you’d be here tonight.’ She motioned to where the Prince stood by a gilded writing desk, frowning into his empty drinking glass and half-heartedly listening to the man at his elbow who punctuated his speech with exaggerated gestures. ‘I’d hate to think of a member of the royal family bored at my dinner. You must charm him with your wit. You’re so accomplished at charming people.’
The same unnerving smile she’d flashed Moira at tea yesterday when she’d extended the invitation graced her lips again and made Moira shiver.
‘I’ll do all I can to make him enjoy the evening,’ Moira offered in all innocence, trying to concoct some reason to stay and listen to their conversation, but nothing came to her. She was sure their discussion would involve more than praising Napoleon, but she could think of no argument to make them let her stay. Whether or not it had something to do with the Rouge Noir she couldn’t be certain. Perhaps it had something to do with Lord Camberline and why he was missing. There was no way for her to find out as Lady Camberline led her across the room to Prince Frederick.
