by Amy Quinton
“Why haven’t you sent them on before now?”
“Well, that, my friend, harkens back to the problem of the earl. John warned me to be overly cautious where the earl is concerned. He warned me to put Miss Radclyffe’s safety first, as I’m sure you understand. And when the earl took Miss Radclyffe, against John’s express wishes, I knew that as long as she was under his control, I would be risking her life if I made a wrong move. And, like I said before, this place was being watched all the time.”
“But why didn’t you give the duke the letters when he was here?”
“As I said, there wasn’t much time, and I didn’t have them in my possession at the time. They were in the barn with the rest of John’s things. I have them now, though.”
“So you were aware that Grace was to be under your guardianship, then?”
“Of course I knew. John and I discussed it at length before his death. Unfortunately, the earl holds a lot of power and has wealth to back it up. I know it sounds unbelievable. The man is a coward and a pig. But he’s paid everyone off—it’s hard to know who to trust anymore.”
“So I assume when I was here before, you did not acknowledge Miss Radclyffe due to the fact that the earl’s solicitor was present?”
“Exactly. I was afraid for her safety, and felt it wise to remain silent.”
“Indeed, it was the right thing to do. In the past, Miss Radclyffe indicated that her father acted in the capacity of a scribe outside of his work with books—a man of some renown in these parts.”
“Aahh…I know what you’re getting at—you want to know if he might have scribed the Writ of Executions?”
Dansbury did not answer, but Mr. Smythe was too astute to misinterpret his line of questioning.
“No, John did not scribe them. They were the work of another man—incidentally, a previous apprentice of John’s.”
“And you know all this, how, exactly?”
“Because I saw both Writs. The one for the Prime Minister and the old duke.”
“What?” Dansbury jumped to his feet at this admission. He was incredulous. After all his years of sleuthing and interrogations, he never expected this. He returned to his seat and waited for Mr. Smythe to continue.
“They weren’t signed copies, of course. The scribe, Mr. Will Jenkins, made copies of his work—and can you blame him? I don’t mean to sound like I admire the man because up until a year and a half ago, he took a bribe to keep quiet about it all. That is straight up treason, through and through. But the nature of his assignment was worrisome—who wouldn’t be, right? You’ve been asked to put something like this in writing? I don’t think Mr. Jenkins realized it would make him paranoid for the rest of his life…but that’s what happened. He became fearful and unreasonable and in his attempt to protect himself, he confessed everything to John—who had been a mentor. Immediately, John changed his will and brought me in on everything. Not a month later both Mr. Jenkins and John were killed—I believe by the earl’s request.”
Silence followed this admission. For a few moments all one could hear was the clock ticking on the mantel and the occasional burst of noise from the work ongoing downstairs. A shiver of unease swept through Dansbury. To think of Grace being under the earl’s guard…he let the thought pass. He couldn’t dwell on that now. Besides, she would be safe with Ambrose in London. He needed to finish up here and get back as soon as possible.
“Do you know where the copies are now?”
“I do. We hid them, immediately. We were both too frightened to have them anywhere near at hand. I’ll take you to them before you leave—they’re not here, of course. I do have other paperwork of John’s that may or may not have information that might help you, besides his correspondence with the duke, of course.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe, for being so forthcoming. You have been most helpful.”
* * * *
Beckett House, London…
“You wished to see me, Father.”
Beatryce stood attentively just inside the door of her father’s study. To say she was nervous would be an understatement. Her mouth was so dry that when she smiled, her lips caught on her teeth, making her feel awkward and embarrassed; she hated feeling that way, humiliated.
“Come in, Beatryce. Have a seat, daughter.”
Her father stood while she dragged her feet across the room like a convict being led to the gallows. She kept her smile pasted on, literally, for it was impossible not to with such a dry mouth, yet she feared it looked more like a grimace to her father. She kept her hands clasped firmly behind her back—to steady them—and pressed on, confident her nerves would not betray her. She tried her damnedest to appear confident.
As she neared, she could see that while he had a smug expression on his face, her father’s hair was standing on end—or what was left of it anyway—from repeatedly pulling at it or running his hands through it as he was wont to do. In addition, his neck cloth was loosened and slightly askew. He wore no coat or waistcoat—she could see both flung haphazardly across the back of his desk chair—and he stood with his arms folded above his ever-widening stomach with a riding crop tucked under his left arm. Dark circles on his shirt under both arms bore further evidence of his agitation, though excessive sweating was common for him even at the best of times. If possible, her anxiety increased ten-fold.
She sat gingerly in a club chair before his desk—desperate to look anywhere else, but too sensible to take her eyes off her father.
Her father eyed her in return with an open look of disgust upon his face, and she knew without a doubt that this interview would be unpleasant. But perhaps this time, it wouldn’t turn to physical punishment.
She waited patiently for him to speak, his face growing redder by the second. Was it too much to ask for a convenient apoplexy to take his life?
“Daughter, I ask you this. Have I not raised you and given you every comfort? Every opportunity? Your every desire?”
“Yes, Papa.” She knew better than to disagree, and she did have many fine things.
“Then why do you not show more gratitude by obeying me when I ask something of you? Do you not owe me? Do you not feel obliged to please me for providing for you? For giving you food and shelter and clothing?”
She knew better than to answer. No matter her response, it would be the wrong thing to say, so she sat still and attempted to look contrite yet sure, while she waited impatiently for him to continue. He would prey on her fear if he saw it.
“I’ve explained the facts of life to you many, many times before, yet for some inexplicable reason, you seem unable to remember these simple truths as I have illuminated them to you. If I didn’t know any better, I would question whether or not you are mine. It’s too late for that now, though; the world believes you are and that makes it real. So, I will remind you one more time—you are either with me, or you are against me. Period. There is no middle ground.”
He began to walk around his desk. Her eyes widened with alarm. She couldn’t help that as her fear escalated.
“So with that lesson fresh in your mind, do you recall what one specific task I asked of you this year?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Let me hear you repeat it, daughter.” He was directly in front of her now, looking down upon her seated self. He leaned back against the desk—he was too lazy to remain standing for long—and he involuntarily grunted as the air was forced from his lungs when he did. The desk groaned ominously beneath the added load. He was breathless simply from talking and walking the short distance around his desk, so little did he get out of the house. Yet still, he was a strong man, despite the excess weight, and she was right to be scared.
Her voice was barely a whisper as she said, “I am to bring the Duke of Stonebridge u-up to scratch.” She hated that her voice caught as she spoke. She wanted desperately to stand up to this man she despised, her own father, and she hated herself for being intimidated by him.
He smiled, though it came across as a grimace
as if he had just stepped on a bug or in a pile of shite—certainly no joy was reflected in his beady, piggy eyes.
“Indeed. Perhaps there is hope for you yet. Your mind might not be as unstable as I have feared. At least you are listening, at any rate. However,” and here he unfolded his arms and grabbed ahold of the riding crop with his hand. She was well and truly afraid now. “You have yet to bring Stonebridge up to scratch and that leads me to believe that rather than working with me, you are working against me. I realize you are not a beauty, and anyone who tells you otherwise is outright lying to your face; however, I do not expect that to stop you from achieving our goals. Need I remind you what is at stake should you fail?”
He raised the riding crop as he said those last words, and she screamed in terror.
“Papa! No! Please don’t hurt me!”
Her mind raced as she grasped for a way to break through to him. He had a manic look now; his anger was so fierce.
“You mustn’t strike me. It will cause unnecessarily delays. I must be seen with the duke…to further our plans. If I am injured…” She choked on her last words, too frightened to speak further. She cowered in fear in her chair and attempted to make herself small. To offer him less of a target for his fury.
However, her father simply lowered his riding crop; sense seemed to penetrate his haze of anger.
“True. Too true. Yes, you are correct, daughter, this once. I shall let you off easy then, this time, but I’m warning you. Do whatever you must to bring about the duke’s proposal, or you will dislike the consequences. For if you fail, I will have to find some other way to proceed, and you will then become completely unnecessary to me. To this family.”
He threw the riding crop across the room, knocking over a vase in the corner. It shattered when it hit the floor. Her relief at having reached through to her father was short-lived. She flinched, expecting her father’s wrath to return so he could blame her for the loss of the vase, but instead he looked at her, the smile on his face proving, as always, that he was completely unpredictable…or insane.
“You may be excused, daughter, but first, how about a kiss and a hug for your father?”
She stood and reached out to hug the man she loathed with every fiber of her being. He was so large that her hands were unable to reach fully around his wide girth. He smelled sour, of onions and rotten turnips, and she struggled not to gag. She bussed him, reluctantly, on the cheek and tried again not to gag; then she pulled back to look up at him.
She masked her revulsion and drew on every ounce of inner strength. She forced a smile and appeared every inch the dutiful daughter as she said with conviction, “I shall make you proud, Papa.”
She would do anything to bring the duke up to scratch. And confident her father was temporarily appeased, she turned and slowly quit the room, almost regally, yet all the while, her lip quivered with suppressed emotion.
* * * *
The earl watched his daughter leave, satisfied she would do what was necessary to secure his future. He began to whistle, a jovial tune, as he made his way back around to his comfy chair. His whistling didn’t last long, for he was already out of breath again with the effort…And he knew that, too, was somehow Beatryce’s fault.
Chapter 19
Hyde Park…
The Next Day…
Dansbury returned from his ‘business’ trip in Oxford early the next morning, and immediately sent Grace a note asking her to accompany him on a drive about Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five o’clock.
Now Grace was restless with anticipation as she sat on the window seat of the first floor drawing room and eagerly watched for him to arrive. She was fair bubbling over with excitement over her chance to ride in a curricle for the very first time.
He pulled up in front of Lady Harriett’s house precisely during the first chime of the hour in a sleek black curricle with a pair of matching midnight horses, though one horse had a white sock on his foreleg just to be different.
And a few minutes later, as she descended the wide, marble steps of Lady Harriett’s home on his arm, she discovered that though the curricle’s body was completely black, it bore a contrasting white bonnet which a footman was raising into place to protect her from the sun during their drive; the effect of the opposing colors was stunning.
Dansbury, who was dressed in black and white with the exception of his waistcoat and the band about his tall hat, which were both dark blue, appeared every inch the London gentleman. She was impressed.
Initially, they drove along in silence, content to look at the scenery passing by. Grace finally broke the silence as they finished their first circuit of Hyde Park.
“Thank you for taking me on a drive today. The park is quite lovely this afternoon.” It was a fine day, and she was happy to be outside enjoying it with Dansbury.
“No need to thank me, Grace, for the honor is all mine. I should probably say something like ‘The Park is made lovelier by your very presence’, but that just sounds a touch too cliché for me, doesn’t it? Though you are lovely, by the by.” He looked at her as he said this and winked. The rogue.
She smiled in return, thrilled with the compliment. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Aaah…so we’re back to ‘my lord’ now, are we?” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I shall never leave Town again if the result is that we return to the formalities whenever I do.”
Grace sighed in resignation. She did try to recognize the proprieties, but today, even she was ready to set them aside. She was anxious to hear about her father’s lockbox, and she was growing impatient with Dansbury for his unwillingness to introduce the subject.
Well, if he wants informal, I’ll give him familiar with a side dish of bold.
“All right, Cliff, where is my father’s lockbox?”
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment—like he was taking her measure—before he faced forward again and said, “Officially? There was nothing in your father’s lockbox.”
He didn’t look at her as he said that. Rather, he pretended to pay attention to the brake, then his driving; though his hands were loose with the ribbons and his arms were relaxed and resting on his knees. He acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world—as if he didn’t realize the implication behind his statement or the impact it would have on Grace. Of course she was clever; she knew his wording was deliberate and his posture too forced.
Right, I’ll play his game.
“So what, pray tell, did you not find in my lockbox, then, Cliff?”
Who does he think he is? The contents of that box belong to me. ME!
Cliff laughed. “Before I answer your question, I have a question of my own. How do you know Mr. Smythe? And don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. I didn’t say anything at the time, but when we met him in Oxford, it was clear you already knew each other.” He watched her for her reaction as he spoke.
She smiled. “My, you are the observant one, aren’t you? Yes, it’s true. I’ve known Mr. Smythe my entire life. He was an apprentice with my father. He’s family to me.”
“So why didn’t you tell me at the time?”
“You asked me not to say anything, remember?”
“And after we left the bookstore?”
“I think it is safe to say that I had a few more pressing things on my mind at that point—such as…oh, I don’t know…my future, or the uncertain lack thereof?” She said this not without a little bit of sarcasm.
“Sure, sure.”
“Enough, Cliff. I’ve answered your questions. It’s your turn.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“About what I can or should tell you.”
“Do you mean you may decide to lie?”
“If the occasion calls for it, yes. But I prefer to call it being ‘judicious with the truth’. It’s for your own protection, Grace. There is much more going on here than you can possibly imagine.” His usually affable demeanor turned serious.
He laughed at that, per his usual self, and the world righted. Apparently, he decided to be more forthcoming, somewhat.
“I am part of a team of agents who work for the crown. I am more than the gentleman of leisure I portray myself to be.”
“And you work with the duke, I presume?”
He tipped his head in acknowledgement. “He’s in charge, in fact.”
“Then, perhaps it is he I should be talking to. I presume it was his decision to ‘judiciously hide the truth’ from me? About my lockbox, I mean?” Her curiosity was being replaced with frustration. Men and their managing ways.
“Certainly, it was his decision, as you say, but not for the reasons you might think. I can honestly say he only has your best interest at heart.”
Humph. She leaned back in the curricle, arms crossed, and more than a little frustrated. She tried to calm herself, but she was a roaring mix of conflicting emotions: a little angry, a little fearful, a little intrigued…Well, perhaps, more than a little intrigued. She decided to practice patience and allow Dansbury to make whatever decision he needed to make about what to tell her.
He pulled to the side of the carriageway to allow others to go around them. She toyed with a ribbon on her reticule while she waited for him to decide what to tell her. Even the horses pranced a little in their harnesses as they awaited his next command.
At long last, he stared at her for an uncomfortable moment more before sighing in resignation and saying, “Inside your lockbox was a copy of your father’s last will as well as some notes from an investigation the previous Duke of Stonebridge was working on at the time of his death.”
She struggled to take her next breath. For a moment, she knew true fear. Then, she was angry. She sputtered, very ladylike. “My father…”
