by Georgie Lee
She wished Bart were here to advise her on what to do, or at the very least allow his strong presence to calm the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. When he’d been with her at the Royal Academy she’d been so sure of herself and her ability to gain Lady Camberline’s favour. She could use a good measure of his bravery now, except it wasn’t hers to draw on any more as he’d informed her this morning. She would have to reach inside herself again for the courage necessary to find her way back to the two Frenchmen and try to learn something of their discussion with Lady Camberline. Her instincts told her it would be more valuable to her and Bart’s efforts than anything she might gain from Prince Frederick.
Lady Camberline presented Moira to Prince Frederick who was as solicitous to Moira tonight as he’d been at the ball. Moira did her best to chat with him, but all she could think about was Bart. It was difficult not to, for he was the reason she was here, and the reason why she could offer no one, not even the Prince, a genuine smile.
Stop thinking of him!
She was in a room full of powerful men, all of whom were her equal or superior in breeding and rank. These were the men she should look to for companionship instead of a lowly barrister. Her spirits dropped further at the thought. She’d vowed to never be like Aunt Agatha and judge people on the merits of their lineage instead of their character. Except she’d tried to judge Bart by his character, and in almost every other way he’d been wonderful, except this morning when his shortcomings had made themselves painfully known. Part of her wanted to believe it was simply the stress of the investigation that had caused him to push her away, but after so many disappointments and heartaches in life, she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t some failing inside her which had driven him away.
Let him go.
She would hold out next time for an honourable offer before losing her better sense with any gentleman. Thankfully, it was Bart who’d taught her this difficult lesson. If she’d done so with some other man, he might not have been as discreet. Bart would be, for as much as she hated him, she could still recognise the honourable man who’d promised to protect her behind the mask of the one who’d callously cast her aside.
* * *
Bart and his men were out of the carriage before it even came to a stop in front of the painted blue entrance to the Town of Ramsgate pub. Drunken men, some with harlots hanging on their arms staggered out of the establishment, their rotten stench combined with the stink of the nearby Thames eye watering in its potency.
Bart and his men marched inside, stopping at the door to survey the raucous crowd of sailors and dockworkers spending their pay on ale and company. In the midst of this revelry sat Mr Dubois with a buxom strumpet on his lap. The smuggler dropped a handful of coins in the generous cleavage of the flaxen-haired woman, further tightening Bart’s stomach. He was flush with cash and drink, marking him as a man who’d been paid handsomely for a finished job. His two men flanking him were also drunk on coin and women, flattering and cajoling the harlots draped across their laps and doing little to protect their employer.
‘You two distract the henchmen. Joseph and I will get Mr Dubois.’ Bart had a score to settle with the man who’d tried to kill Moira. He’d see to it he never threatened her or anyone ever again.
His two men spread out on either side of the room, coming up behind the men and, with a few well-whispered words about the pistols and knives now at their backs, sobered them and forced them to be still. The women with them hopped off their laps with squeals of worry and sprinted away. Their cries were lost in the rowdy noise of the other drinkers.
Mr Dubois was not so easily distracted. Sensing a change in the air, he looked first to his white-faced men, then around the room until he spied Bart, Joseph and Mr Smith bearing down on him. He tipped the strumpet on to the floor and hustled towards the back of the pub. Ale made him slower and less sure footed than the night at the gallery. He was barely out the back of the pub when he tripped over a pile of stacked crates. The clatter of wood and Mr Dubois’s curses echoed through the misty air.
Bart grabbed the smuggler and hauled him to his feet, then dragged him around the corner and into the narrow alley between the pub and the next building. Turning him around, Bart rammed his fist into the drunken Frenchman’s stomach.
‘That’s for Lady Rexford.’ Mr Dubois choked and doubled over. Bart hauled him up straight by his lapels and banged him hard against the wall, knocking whatever breath the smuggler had managed to scrape in back out of him. Bart slammed his fist into Mr Dubois’s stomach again. ‘That’s for trying to ruin England.’
‘You have no right to strike me. I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the man wheezed as he dropped to his knees and clutched his middle, attempting to argue the law with Bart.
Bart pulled back his foot, ready to deliver a swift kick to the scoundrel’s side. Mr Dubois cringed, waiting for the blow, but Bart stopped, disgusted by this rat, the dirty, stinking alley and himself. Mr Dubois deserved a beating, but the rage driving Bart to deliver it was loathsome. This wasn’t who he wanted to be, a man so degraded by his work he wasn’t worthy of Moira’s love.
He dropped his foot and Mr Dubois unclenched.
Bart stood over him, pitying the smuggler as much as himself. Life wasn’t pretty and neat, but it didn’t mean Bart’s had to be filled with nothing but sharp edges. When this was all over, he’d do everything he could to win Moira back, to become a man worthy of her affection and the serenity she offered.
Until he could secure her heart again, there was the arms procurer to deal with and a plot to foil.
He clutched Mr Dubois’s lapels tight and jerked the man up and so close he could smell the ale on his foul breath. ‘You stole a lethal cask of gunpowder from the Navy and sold it to the Rouge Noir to be used in a plot to assassinate a number of government ministers. You’ll hang for treason, if you live long enough, unless you tell me what’s planned.’
‘I had nothing to do with it,’ Mr Dubois gasped.
Bart shook him hard as he spoke, jerking the man around to drive his words home.
‘I have a great deal of evidence to the contrary, two of whom are sitting inside the tavern trying not to get knives through their backs. How long do you think it will take before they blame everything on you in an effort to save their own hides?’ Mr Dubois’s eyes widened in panic, not as brave as he’d been before. ‘Tell me everything you know and I’ll recommend you not be hanged and quartered, but transported instead.’
‘That’s the same as death,’ Mr Dubois whined as if he expected sympathy.
‘It’s less certain than death and a man with your seafaring skills can make quite a life for himself there. You won’t have as much success dangling at the end of a rope.’
Mr Dubois glanced back and forth between Bart and Joseph, contemplating his options of which there were few, and even those wouldn’t be available to him for much longer. He sagged beneath Bart’s grasp. ‘It isn’t a government building the Rouge Noir is going to destroy, but a private house.’
Panic began to curl deep in Bart stomach. ‘Whose house?’
‘Lady Camberline’s.’
Bart went hollow inside.
‘There’s a dinner there tonight, with Prince Frederick, the Prime Minister, and many other notable men,’ Mr Dubois continued. ‘The gunpowder is in the basement and will be set off after dinner. I’m to take the conspirators to France afterwards.’
‘Who are you taking? Who arranged this?’
‘Lady Camberline, Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau. Lord Moreau was the one who learned of the gunpowder and helped me to steal it. After the fuse is set, they’re to meet me at my ship so I can take them through the blockade to France. They’ll return with Napoleon and his army when he invades England.’
‘He won’t be invading.’ Bart shoved Mr Dubois at Mr Smith. ‘Take this scum to Mr Flint and tell
him to gather his men and meet me at Lady Camberline’s. Joseph, get everyone else and come with me. Be quick.’
Bart bolted towards his carriage, shouted instructions to the driver, then jumped inside, followed by Joseph and his men. As the carriage speeded back towards town, he perched on the edge of the squabs, silently willing the horses to run faster to Mayfair and praying Moira had changed her mind about attending the dinner. He refused to lose her again. He had no idea what their future held or if he even could win her heart after the way he’d treated her this morning, but he wanted the chance. He loved her, he always had and fate had given him what so many men never achieved, a second chance. He’d been a fool to throw it away this morning. He thought he’d lost her once to marriage and then he’d gained her back. He would never lose her again.
Chapter Thirteen
Moira sat through five courses and an ice while listening to the gentlemen around her. Government business dominated the conversation and most of it revolved around topics freely written about in the papers, but with far more details and debate. Moira wondered how much of what was being said was meant for open discussion and how much was the result of too much Madeira. Of all the men gathered, Lord Moreau listened the most intently while saying the least. Lord Lefevre and his favoured young lady barely spoke to anyone except each other.
She’d be sure to inform Bart, even if facing him again turned the ice in her mouth from sweet to sour. Last night in his arms, she’d felt cherished as more than a nursemaid but as a woman with thoughts, desires and dreams worthy of respect, or so she’d believed until this morning. She laid her spoon on the plate, finished with the overly sweet final course and trying her best to focus on the conversation around her. A footman leaned past her to remove her plate and she recognised him as one of the men who’d helped Bart outside the museum yesterday. She did nothing to indicate she knew him and he did the same, carrying on with his duties.
At the end of the table, Prince Frederick threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh. All but one person seated near him joined in the joviality. Lord Moreau, his face far more pinched than before, eyed the Prince with barely concealed disgust. Lord Lefevre also turned serious, his insincere smile betraying his distaste for the other guests and his impatience to be away. He glanced at Lady Camberline who sat at the head of the table, as if silently willing her to rise and lead the few ladies present away so the men could at last have their brandy. Both lords’ reactions continued to play on Moira’s instincts, making her certain they had something to do with the plot. It was Lady Camberline’s involvement she found difficult to discern. Lady Camberline listened to her guests, directing the conversation while asking questions, some of which Moira thought were more pressing than they should have been regarding government business, but there’d been nothing specific Moira could point to, no hard evidence to prove the lady was anything more than genuinely interested in politics.
Maybe I’m wrong about the Marchioness.
Maybe she wasn’t involved, but being exploited by the two Frenchmen who played on her and her love of France to encourage her to hold dinners like these so they could mingle with top men in the Government and listen and learn. She feared her desire to see good in people was blinding her once again to reality. Lady Camberline was a shrewd and intelligent woman and unlikely to be played upon on by other men for their own gains. If she was holding this party it was for her own benefit and probably the Rouge Noir’s.
What she needed was proof of Lady Camberline’s involvement and she had yet to secure it.
Bart said he found the gunpowder in Lady Camberline’s study.
Moira wondered what other incriminating evidence might still be in there. With so many guests and so much happening it wouldn’t be difficult to slip down the hall and find out. She would have to be careful, but with these last few hours producing little other evidence, it was very necessary.
At last, Lady Camberline rose and asked the women to follow her through to the sitting room. Moira left the dining room with the other ladies, but fell back behind them as they filed down the wide hallway. She worried the entire time someone might call on her to hurry up and join them, but no one did. It was the first time her ability to be invisible to people had worked to her advantage. When the ladies went into the sitting room, Moira was so far behind them it was easy to dash off the other way without being seen.
She’d been in Lady Camberline’s office a week ago with Aunt Agatha for a meeting of the patronesses of the Ladies’ Lying-in Hospital. With any luck, it wouldn’t be difficult for her to find it again, to search it and return to the sitting room before either the mistress of the house or any of the other guests noticed she was missing.
While Moira walked, she snapped off one of the pearl buttons holding her glove closed. If anyone came looking for her or wondered where she’d been she could simply say she’d gone in search of a maid to try to find someone to fix her glove. It was a flimsy excuse, but it would have to do.
Finding the study wasn’t as easy as Moira had anticipated and she wandered down one plastered and gilded hallway dotted with past Camberlines and into two different rooms before she finally found it. Inside, a small fire burned in the grate, casting a soft light on the gilded trim work set in the light green walls. A painting of the late Lord Camberline hung above a narrow table decorated with vases and set between two doors. A writing table stood prominently in the centre of the room with a sofa before it.
Moira went straight to the desk. On top of it was a writing box with fine marquetry and a little lock. Moira tried to open it, but it was locked. She wished again Bart were with her. He would probably know how to open it without damaging either the metal lock or the fine wood around it.
Unable to get inside the box, she began to search the two wide but shallow drawers set in the front of the desk. Inside the left one there was nothing but fine paper, quills and ink. In the right one she found correspondence, most of which was in French. She flipped through a few and read the contents, but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary except letters exchanged between Lady Camberline and French friends living in the north of England.
Then, one piece of paper at the bottom of the stack caught her attention. It wasn’t a letter but a list of names, all of them French. At the top of the list were Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau. Beneath them were five other gentlemen of French background. Moira recognised many of the names for they were the people her grandmother used to complain about, the ones who’d been quick to come to England, but reluctant to adopt their new country. Her hands began to shake as she realised this could be a list of the Rouge Noir members. She had to get it to Bart.
Moira put the other papers back in the drawer, then folded the list and slipped it in the bodice of her dress. While she straightened the lace along the hem, she accidentally dropped the button of her glove. It hit the wood floor with a plink before bouncing once and then rolling under the secretary against the wall behind the desk. She knelt to retrieve it and, in doing so, failed to hear the footsteps coming down the hall, or the click of the door opening until it was too late.
‘Is there something in my office that interests you, Lady Rexford?’
Moira jumped to her feet to see Lady Camberline at the door, her regal features creased with displeasure. ‘Yes. I lost the button to my glove which I dropped just now. I’d hoped to find a maid to sew it on for me.’
The words sounded false even to her ears, but she could hardly admit she’d been rifling through the lady’s private papers. All she could do was continue her demure act and hope the most Lady Camberline did was insist Moira leave her house.
‘And you thought to find a maid in here?’ Lady Camberline closed the door with a quick flick of her hand.
‘I thought I’d find one lighting the fire in here, but I was mistaken.’ She approached the lady, hands clasped innocently in front of her and smiling a
s wide as she could. ‘Shall we return to the others?’
‘Let’s not play games with one another, Lady Rexford. You think I didn’t know you’re working with Mr Dyer or who he is?’
Fear struck Moira, but she forced herself to remain calm. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mr Dyer and I were acquainted once, but there is nothing else between us.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ the other woman snapped, her usually languid manners faltering under her anger. ‘I know who he really works for and that he sent you to spy on me.’
‘Then you are part of the Rouge Noir.’ Moira didn’t protest her innocence, thinking her honesty might lead the woman into saying more and revealing the plot. With it only being the two of them, Moira could still escape. Bart’s man was in the house posing as a footman, she could find him and he would help her leave and deliver what she learned to Bart.
‘I’m not just a part of it, but its leader. I’m the one who drew together the others, who contacted the Emperor and pledged my allegiance to him, the one who provided the money needed to set our plan in motion and bring about a glorious new future for England.’ She spoke with a pride that made Moira feel sick. ‘The English Government is weak, with no strong prime minister and a handful of useless men running things. The King is mad and his son a worthless buffoon. Wipe them out and it will bring this country to its knees. Napoleon can sweep in and restore order, the proper kind of order. The man is a visionary.’
‘He’s a ruthless mercenary who only wants his own glory no matter what it takes to achieve it, including ruining innocent lives,’ Moira challenged, amazed at Lady Camberline’s boldness.
