Death of a Radical

by Rebecca Jenkins

  Some way off deep in the bowels of the inn, he heard a woman’s voice. It had a cheerful, domestic tone. A vision of Mrs. Bedlington and her mild, helpful husband sprang into his mind. His horse, Walcheren, was below in the stables, only a few yards away from where they stood. That made him think of Robert Mouncey, the saddler he patronized in Powcher’s Lane who liked to spout irreverent philosophy while he mended your bridle. He liked these people. He was the duke’s representative in this out-of-the-way place. He could make it his business.

  “If I may make a suggestion, sir …” he turned back donning his most conciliatory face. “His Grace has a warehouse in town. It is standing empty and the location is convenient to the markets.” The colonel chewed his bottom lip.

  “A military strategist such as yourself, sir,” Jarrett continued, mentally kicking himself for sinking so low, “will see the benefit in lodging the troop together and I am sure his Grace will be willing to meet the expense.”

  The colonel’s eyelids flickered. “A generous offer,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Shall I make arrangements?”

  The colonel drew a fat letter out of his pocket and tapped it against the palm of his free hand. “I have called an extraordinary meeting of the magistrates tomorrow,” he said. “Should Lord Charles have returned by then his counsel would be welcomed.”

  “The warehouse?” Jarrett prompted. Colonel Ison jerked his chin.

  “Do it.” The older man unfolded his letter and pretended to absorb himself in its contents. “I have another appointment, Mr. Jarrett,” he said. “I must prepare. Goodday.”

  Jarrett almost laughed out loud. Did the old badger expect him to back out bowing low like a footman?

  “I shall wait to hear from the lieutenant when he arrives, then,” he informed the room with a slight bow. As he left, the colonel’s voice followed him.

  “If the marquess is not available, perhaps you would attend the meeting in his place. Twelve noon.”

  The galleried courtyard of the Queen’s Head was empty and still. It was that lull in the morning after the deliveries and before the midday customers gathered. Jarrett could smell ale and baking bread. He heard a woman singing. Ringing out in the calm of the yard the voice was enchantingly pure with a heart-catching lilt. He stilled, listening to the song.

  Every night I dream about him,

  Every day I take no rest,

  Every instant thinking on him,

  My heart ever in his breast.

  Recognition lit Jarrett’s features. He took the gallery steps two by two. He began to sing along in a pleasing tenor.

  And ’tho long distance may be assistance

  From my heart thoughts of love to remove,

  Yet my heart is with her altogether,

  ’Tho I live not where I love.

  He completed the last lines alone. There was a squeal and the trample of bare feet on boards. A door flung open and a female dressed in a shift visible under a trailing shawl propelled herself into his arms.

  “Captain Fred!”

  The woman swept back a mass of curls to greet him with an open-mouthed kiss. She was slim and wiry, of a height to fit under his chin. He flicked a quick glance about the gallery. There was no one in sight.

  “Bess!” he responded as she leaned back to look at him. She had the freckled white skin of the true red-head. He smiled down into pale blue eyes in a vivid, knowing face.

  “Kiss me again!” she demanded.

  “In the yard of a public inn? Bess, I’m a respectable man these parts. Would you have me rob you of your good name?” A lewd hand gripped him firmly on the buttock.

  “I give you my all freely, my chuck—as you well know. Come in, come in!”

  Bess pulled at his hand, dragging him into her room. “It’s cold enough to freeze the tits off a sow out here.”

  Bess drew the edges of her shawl together, leaving the curve of one shoulder in plain view. There was a smudge of soot on her luminous skin, defining the hollow between left shoulder and breast.

  “Come sit with me,” she said.

  Bess settled herself at a dressing table loaded with half-burned candles. They huddled on every available surface, melted wax dribbled in curious shapes. A large hamper lay flung open in the middle of the floor. A pair of sky-blue dancing shoes with yellow laces peeped out from beneath a gray hooded cloak lined with red and a profusion of surprisingly long black horse-hair curls that foamed out across the floor. Jarrett held the wig up, examining its length.

  “Adela in The Haunted Tower,” Bess explained. “I can scarce keep my mind on my part so in terror I am of setting light to myself in the stage lamps with those damned curls trailing everywhere. Sit down my sweet—don’t mind those. They’re crushed to pieces anyhow.”

  Jarrett laid the curls aside, brushed a pair of taffeta breeches off an armchair and sat down.

  “I’m in a rush. I’ve a meeting with the manager,” said Bess, her voice muffled as she pulled a dress over her head. “Sugden—that’s our manager—he smells a Prospect; a prominent citizen, a magistrate; we’ve plans to make. Do me up, there’s a love.”

  She turned her back to him. Jarrett fastened the tiny buttons with expert hands. She gave a delighted shudder and smiled at him over her shoulder.

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch.” She smoothed her bodice, admiring her freckled bosom in the mirror. “Sugden plans to have me put the foolish rabbit in a good humor.”

  “You’re with Sugden’s Players?” Jarrett returned to his chair.

  “How could you not know it?” The actress was indignant. “And my name up on all the bills pasted up over this town. Bess Tallentyre there, in full black print! Years it’s taken me to get that and you’ve not even noticed!” She looked at him in mock horror. “You’ve never given up the playhouse? You’ve not turned that respectable!”

  “Never! You know I am a slave to your breeches parts.”

  She trailed a saucy look over his own well-fitting breeches. “I remember …”

  He leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs straight before him.

  “How long’s it been, Bess? Last I heard you were headed for Bath.”

  “Bath!” She twisted to face him, her hands to her cheeks in exaggerated dismay. “Lord God that was … No! I shan’t name it. Years ago!” She turned back to her mirror. “And you were off to Spain.”

  “Portugal. But I sold out. You see before you the agent to the Duke of Penrith.”

  She paused, haresfoot in hand, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

  “Fancy that!” she said. She rose in a fluid movement and came to stand over him. “My soldier boy no more then.” She traced the plane of his lean cheek with a finger. “You look thin, love.” He smiled up at her.

  “Why the prominent citizen, Bess? Surely Sugden must have his license if the bills are already up.” Bess returned to her mirror.

  “We have the license but players always need patrons.” She leaned forward, examining her face critically, a pair of tweezers in one hand. “Sugden’s hoping I can coax a bespoke out of the creature.” She frowned as she plucked a stray hair from one elegantly arched brow. “We need to make the best of these fairs. Business has been thin, very thin. Town to town there’s been talk of riots and combinations. Sugden says he’s lucky to get a license in half of ’em.”

  “Does the rabbit have a name?”

  “Didn’t catch it. The big man, that’s all I know.” She shot him a mischievous look. “Why? Do you know all the great folk these parts then? A pox on it! Where is that rouge?”

  The thought of this bit of his past meeting with Colonel Ison MP and Chairman of the Bench was unsettling. He caught Bess looking at him in the mirror. She was smiling.

  “Hush now, be easy. You know I’m not one of your loose-mouthed molls.”

  “What’ll you offer him?” he asked lightly.

  “What do you say to a Beggar’s Opera ? My Polly Peachum is always a favorite.” Be
ss struck the attitude of a soulful coquette. “My Polly is much sought after.” She insinuated herself on to his lap. “Sugden and the rabbit can wait.” Her lips hovered above his as her hands busied themselves with his buttons. “Come show me how much you missed me, captain, for old times’ sake.” Her pliant lips closed over his, soft and insistent.

  Jarrett closed the door quietly behind him. He took a smart step back as a man in a hessian apron crossed the yard below and went in by the kitchen door. Glancing down, he moved swiftly toward the stairs, straightening his cravat. His footfall was surprisingly soft.

  An elegant young buck was standing in the yard looking up at him with worldly brown eyes from beneath the brim of an expensive-looking hat.

  “You’re back,” Jarrett commented without breaking stride.

  “I am,” replied Charles, Marquess of Earewith.

  “How was York?”

  “Wearisome. We have a letter.”

  “We?” With an internal sigh Jarrett gave up on the stables and changed course for the bar.

  “It is addressed to me,” Charles admitted judiciously, following him, “but it concerns you. We are expecting a visitor.”

  “We are?”

  Since his unexpected assumption of the duties of agent, Raif Jarrett had occupied one of his employer’s properties, a manor house a little way out of town, known in the neighborhood simply as “the Old Manor.” It was a bachelor household, presided over by Jarrett’s valet, Mr. Tiplady, a London servant of some pretensions. The duke’s son and heir, Charles, finding himself with no pressing engagements, made himself at home there. That, Jarrett thought impatiently, did not give him the right to inflict other guests.

  “Don’t be such a bear,” said Charles as if he had spoken aloud. “’Tis an act of philanthropy. Grub’s in need.”

  “Grub? The lad’s coming here?”

  “His mother …”

  “Dear God!” Raif winced. “If she’s coming, I have pressing business somewhere a very long way off.”

  The family tree of the Dukes of Penrith was a tortuous one. It was not widely known, but Charles’s great-grandfather, the third duke, had married twice. As an aging widower he had fallen in love with a pretty young thing glimpsed at church. Her father was forceful and the old duke besotted—so he married her. His Grace’s happiness was short-lived. He died a bare four months after the union. His young widow was consoled with a tidy settlement and soon after married a wealthy banker. The couple were blessed with a daughter who grew up to become Grub’s fond mama. The pair therefore formed part of the ranks of vague relations known to the duke’s family as cousins.

  “Have no fear,” Charles consulted a sheet of notepaper crossed over in an untidy hand. “His mama remains in London. Her spouse, she informs me, is Most Upset at his son’s Disgrace.”

  “What has Grub done?” Jarrett asked over his shoulder. They were walking down the passage to the bar and it was a narrow one. “Shouldn’t he be at school?”

  “According to this he’s been up to some mischief, been sent home for a spell.” Charles held the paper up at an angle frowning as he deciphered the lines in the dim light. “Something about an unfortunate accident; she becomes rather obscure at that point. Anyway, his mama is sending him up here.”

  The public bar was quiet. The pair crossed to seats by the fire.

  “Why here?” inquired Raif, tossing his greatcoat over the back of a settle.

  “So that we may reform the boy by our manly example?”

  Raif raised his eyebrows skeptically. Charles perused the scrawled sheets once more. “Aha! She wishes you to paint his likeness.”

  Now that was unexpected. Jarrett was a competent painter. As a lad, living on the continent with his mother, he had studied with Italian masters and had thought once of becoming a portrait painter. His family had dissuaded him from adopting such an ungentlemanly profession.

  “She wants me to commemorate his disgrace?”

  “No. His birthday. She intends to present the canvas to Mr. Adley in the hope of softening the paternal heart. Three-quarter length or full sized, as you think best.”

  “When am I going to find time to paint a full-sized canvas?”

  “Oh there’s plenty of time,” Charles responded cheerfully. “Apparently the boy is at liberty for the rest of the academic year and his birthday is weeks off.”

  Jarrett sighed, trying to calculate how many years it had been since he last saw the lad. He must be in his teens by now. Difficult years. He had been a fetching little chap—despite the sickliness that endowed him with the luminous, sunless pallor that had led his hardier cousins to name him “Grub.”

  “Which birthday is it?” he asked.

  Charles squinted at the page, turning it about, then he gave up, tossing it aside.

  “She may say but it is smudged. Old enough to travel alone at least.”

  “So when are we to expect him?”

  “Tomorrow.” Charles grimaced apologetically. “I know, I know, I should have mentioned it earlier.”

  “You’ve had that letter for weeks!”

  “I mislaid it,” said Charles evasively.

  “Bollocks!” responded Jarrett, fully aware that Charles had purposely left him with no option but to accept his fate. Charles was determined to domesticate him. He was forever trying to impress upon him the charm of family ties. Mrs. Bedlington set down a couple of tankards before them. Her expression was prim. “I beg your pardon Mrs. B.”

  “Some of your marvelous hot toddy?” inquired Charles, favoring her with his most boyish grin. “How delightful.”

  “Oh you!” she responded and bustled off swinging her hips.

  Jarrett leaned forward to pick up his mug.

  “Now you’re back, you can attend the magistrates’ meeting tomorrow. Colonel Ison is most eager for the pleasure of your company.”

  “Bollocks!” echoed Charles. “Why?”

  “He suspects evil doings at the fair. He’s calling on the magistrates to enact the Watch and Ward. He has a troop of regulars on their way.”

  “Really?” asked Charles with a flicker of astonishment. He stretched, cat-like, in his wing-chair. “I blame the uniform,” he drawled. “These old homebody soldiers do like their wars.”

  “Indeed. I’ve promised him a warehouse—the one down on the river by Bedford’s mill—for a barracks. The estate’s paying for it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because home deployment in time of war is a bad business.” Jarrett’s delivery was clipped. “Troopers are best kept under the eye of their officers.” Charles glanced up at him from under his lashes.

  “You know best,” he said soothingly. Mischief returned to his voice. “But I am not attending that meeting!” His companion didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring into the fire. “Why so solemn?”

  Jarrett looked across at his friend. Charles was such a pleasant fellow—the easiest companion in the world—but he did not waste time on things he did not wish to see.

  “The colonel is bringing in a troop of regulars,” he repeated.

  “They will keep the peace.”

  “Or they will help to break it.” Jarrett adjusted his position restlessly. “The colonel says he has heard rumors—radicals at work in the neighborhood. Have you heard anything?”

  “They were full of that at York. Talk of—what are they calling those fellows who attack their masters’ machines?”

  “Luddites.”

  “That’s it. There was an attack on a mill near Halifax. They caught the villains. They’re coming up at the assizes. If there are any of that sort around here … I’d be the last to know.” The marquess drained his mug and looked around. “More toddy?” Jarrett shook his head, his mind on his recent interview. “Mrs. B!” Charles shouted.

  Mrs. Bedlington popped her head round the door. Charles gestured at her with his empty mug, softening the action with his most winning smile. She simpered and disappeared.

  “Colonel
must have his reasons,” Charles commented, hoping to dismiss a subject that had begun to bore him.

  “Indeed.”

  “There was that fire the other week,” Charles suggested idly, “behind the Bedfords’ place—might have been malicious. The colonel’s friendly with the Bedfords, isn’t he?”

  “A drunk’s carelessness.” Jarrett was curt, his attention elsewhere. “No. The colonel has intelligence!” he pronounced in a fair imitation of the colonel’s manner. “Makes me wonder where he’s getting it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Ostrich feathers!” the milliner declared, “worn flat about a little yeoman’s hat. And roses are quite out—oh dear me, yes. I did see a sprig of laurel on a pleasant lilac bonnet in the Park last Saturday—St. James’s I mean, of course, where all the quality walk. But roses …” She gave a dismissive snort. “They just will not do this season.”

  Favian Adley squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could close his ears as well. Oh, the airless, cramped, freezing misery of a winter journey by public coach! The leather upholstery sweaty with the breath of penned human beings; the ceaseless struggle to find some way of bracing one’s weary frame against the constant lurch and sway.

  His purgatory had begun with his mother insisting on rising at five o’clock to accompany him to the Belle Sauvage, one of the busiest coaching inns in London. It was a mystery to Favian how his diminutive mama could attract the attention of so many as she orchestrated waiters, pot-boys and even ostlers to do her bidding. She displayed her son center stage in her comedy, loading him up with such “comforts” as a stoneware foot warmer—which she twice insisted be filled with freshly boiled water by a sniggering boot-black. And then there was the woolen night-cap she had begged her son, her hands to her breast in supplication, to wear under his hat. (Favian had managed to slip that into a pocket.)