Mariah sat very still in her chair. Mostly she didn’t want to call attention to herself and risk being sent away while her parents discussed this shocking event, but partly she was thinking of a man who spied and watched after people and lurked in the shadows with a knife under his coat. Could this be the reason for all of Harry’s secrets? Had he been involved? She had heard the Cato plot was discovered by a spy…like Harry? Might he have been hurt? Her heart seized at the thought.
“What a relief it all came to naught.” Seeming to recall her presence, Mama threw a significant look in Mariah’s direction. “You may go, dearest.”
Her father glanced at her. “No, let her know, Cassandra. Mariah will be discreet, and there is no reason she should not hear. It will be whispered about everywhere, I have no doubt.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she murmured, thankful as ever for an indulgent father. “What will happen now?”
He sighed, taking the glass of port a servant had brought at her mother’s signal. “I don’t know. The Cabinet has been under enormous strain lately, thanks to this business with the Queen, and this will not make things easier. It will be common knowledge about London by the end of the week, I daresay, and no doubt only embolden those who mutter against the government. Liverpool already has his hands full, and now he must walk about in fear of his very life, even in the homes of trusted friends. I would not have his place for all the world at this moment.”
“Nor would I have you in it,” murmured Mama.
“No, I was not in it,” Papa said grimly. “But that may yet change.”
Shortly afterward gentlemen with grave expressions began calling on Papa. Mariah watched them come and go; she heard raised voices in her father’s study, where they all met and talked and argued, late into the evening. Papa did not come to dinner, and his guests were still there when she went to bed.
She lay awake until late, burning to know what, if any, role Harry might have played. She was certain he was involved, in some way, although she could not for the life of her say how. And she might not ever know, for she had no way to contact him, not even a name to inquire after. Just Harry, she thought, watching the shadows of the tree branches flit across her window. She placed her hand atop the little card with the delicate scroll of ivy, lying on the table beside her bed, the only proof she had of Harry’s existence, and a lone tear ran down her cheek.
The next day Papa revealed more about the plot. It had been kept out of the newspapers so far, and Liverpool was of the opinion they should keep it that way. “Some of the lower classes are already hinting assassination may be an acceptable method of protesting the Cabinet’s policies,” Papa said, looking worn and weary over breakfast. “Two attempts in three months might inspire others to try again.”
“But the villain will be dealt with,” said Mama. “Quickly and decisively, no doubt.”
“Yes, but did he work alone? So far he has confessed nothing more than a desire to kill Lord Liverpool. Sidmouth would hang the man this day, but if he is part of a larger plot, his death could lead to worse. The worst we could do is to make the man a martyr.” Papa sighed and shook his head. “But that is not my main concern. It is time for cooler heads to intercede, and apparently I have been selected as the first to try.”
“Ah,” said his wife with a knowing look. “How do you intend to do that?”
“I shall call on His Highness. This business with the Queen has unnecessarily agitated people, giving them a rallying figure for all who feel abused by His Majesty’s government. The King’s persistence in seeking a divorce has transformed her from a spoiled, indulgent woman into a victim of royal petulance. He must be persuaded to cease promoting, for a time, his desire to eradicate her from the monarchy. And since I think it wisest to begin softly…” He turned and glanced over his shoulder. “…I should like Mariah to come with me.”
Mariah, who had been eating quietly, hoping to discover more about any possible connection to Harry, started in surprise. “Me, Papa?”
“Yes, you.” Mariah put down her fork and faced her father. “You know the king wishes to divorce his wife.”
She nodded. That was common knowledge, although most people didn’t approve of the idea. Even in her deepest fascination with Harry, she had heard the talk about the King and Queen.
Papa sighed again. “And that he is determined to keep her from his coronation? That he has had her name removed from the prayers of clergymen across England?”
“What does this have to do with Lord Liverpool?” she dared to ask.
“Liverpool opposes the divorce, but he is the King’s man. There is great unrest in England now, Mariah. Newspapers exhort the masses to revolt. Some of the radicals have chosen to rally around the Queen as a symbol of their discontent. Rumors have been flying thick and fast that she is about to embark any day from France for England, to claim her right as Queen. The King is just as determined that she shall not be recognized in any way. Do you see the storm brewing?”
“Yes, Papa. But what is to be your role?”
His expression turned rueful. “I am to persuade His Majesty, delicately and gently, that talk of the Queen, at least, must die down. Divorce is out of the question; procuring it would be very costly politically, if not impossible, and England has more important worries now. If the populace is not distracted by a pointless uproar over her return, it may calm the unrest and give the government a chance to bring down the most virulent of the mob. Some people are stirring a dangerous pot, and we must not let it boil over.”
“And why am I to come with you?” Mariah darted a glance at her mother, who sat in watchful silence.
“Because it is meant to be a persuasive call, diplomatic and friendly instead of confrontational. His Majesty must take just such a tack in dealing with the Queen, and allow his ministers to persuade her not to return to England by whatever means they can, even if it injures the royal pride. The people’s goodwill is a powerful thing, and His Majesty must remember that.” Her father smiled. “And His Majesty has always been fond of a pretty female face. It will put him in good spirits if I bring one with me.”
Mariah smiled and ducked her head. It would be quite a thrill to meet His Majesty. She had missed a chance to be presented to the old Queen, being too young before going abroad with her parents. The King might be older and less dashing than he had once been, but he was still the King. She glanced once more at her mother, who gave her a small nod of agreement. “Of course, Papa.”
He pressed her hand. “Good girl. I shall request an audience as soon as His Majesty will see us.”
The rumors were true. A cook in the Bethwell household was found to be a cousin to John Brunt, who had recently been hanged in Newgate for the failed conspiracy to assassinate the Cabinet in February. The cook, also a radical Spencean, had vowed to avenge his cousin’s death and so had been putting a large quantity of toxic foxglove into the turtle soup. A maid became suspicious of him and so had been watching. By good fortune she recognized the herbs he added and was able to call others’ attention to it. The cook was currently in Newgate, apparently spilling his secrets in an attempt to save his own life, but so far he had only named other petty rabble.
“Is Stafford satisfied?” Harry pressed. They were sitting in the kitchen having breakfast. Angelique had been to see Stafford late last night and was relating what he told her.
Angelique shrugged. “For now. He is beside himself with relief, even joy, to have caught someone. It proves he was right, and that always pleases a man.”
“Of course. And the maid who intercepted the soup? She was one of his as well?”
Angelique smiled coyly. “She was not, until I befriended her. It is always good to have another pair of observant eyes about, and her eyes miss nothing. One hint that Lord Bethwell was anxious about his digestion, and she reported everything in the kitchens to me. And now she will have a rich reward, so it has gone well for all of us.”
“I should say so,” exclaimed Ian, pushing
back his plate and slapping his hands down on his thighs. “And us? Are we to have our reward now?”
She nodded. “Oui. Stafford considers our business to be at an end. I will give my notice today. Harry, you are also free to leave Crane’s service.”
“And I?” Ian winked at her. With his broad Scots accent and imposing physique, Ian hadn’t been assigned to anyone’s household on the belief that he would never blend in. He’d always said he was happier with horses than with people anyway, and Harry had to admit they needed a coachman who knew what he was about. Angelique raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms.
“You wish to leave my service?”
The cheeky Scot grinned. “Not that I mind driving you about town—especially not when you wear that blue gown that looks like you can barely breathe in it—but sleeping above the stable leaves something to be desired. Or am I to improve my sleeping quarters as part of my reward?” Angelique regarded him with a thoughtful smile, running one fingertip along her lips. Ian seemed to recognize it as encouragement, for he leaned toward her. “I stand ever ready at your service, ma’am.”
Harry got to his feet, annoyed at their flirting. He had heard Ian talk like that to every female on the street. “I’m off, then.” They bade him farewell distractedly, still making eyes at each other. Harry took up his hat and coat and left, his mind much occupied.
Was this matter truly over? Stafford was not a fool, and if he believed they had caught their quarry, odds were they had. Harry didn’t flatter himself that he knew more than, or even as much as, Stafford did about this whole affair. He supposed it was possible a cook could have been passing the treasonous information that had so alarmed Lord Sidmouth. Heaven knew it had been easy enough for him to get into houses and rooms he had no right being in and search for information. There was no reason a determined revolutionary, willing to sacrifice himself to his cause, couldn’t have done the same thing.
But something didn’t seem right, although he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Perhaps it just seemed too anticlimactic—a cook, of all people—or perhaps he had expected to be the person who unmasked the villain and gained whatever glory was to be had. Perhaps he’d somehow wished the guilty party would be Tobias Crane because of the man’s interest in Mariah. Harry felt rather disgusted with himself for that possibility, and arrived at Crane’s house cross and late.
His tardiness was unnoticed, however. When he slipped into the room, braced for a reproof, Crane was sitting in his Bath chair wrapped in a shawl and looking ill and old. Crane barely acknowledged his entrance and then was silent for a long while, sitting and staring out the window. Harry quietly went to his desk and set to work tidying up the journals that were always present. Any relief from Crane’s temper ought to be a blessing, but somehow it only unsettled Harry’s mood even more. It was just one more thing that was not normal, and therefore did not seem right.
“Towne,” said Crane after a while.
“Yes, sir?”
The viscount sighed. His color was not good, as if a shadow had fallen across his face and stayed there.
On impulse, Harry asked, “Are you well, my lord? Should I ring for Jasper?”
“What?” Crane frowned at him, then raised a blue-veined hand to his forehead. His hand shook noticeably. “No, I am well enough for an old man. Jasper cannot do anything to remedy that.” He sighed and sat a little straighter in his chair. “Take a letter.”
“Yes, sir.” Harry knew this routine; he took out a sheet of paper and uncapped his ink. Pen poised over the page, he looked up, and Crane nodded.
“To John Rusk. Syringa reticulata,” Crane began, his voice regaining something of its usual vitality. “Prune delicately along the branches where the blossoms have faded. I shall be bringing several cuttings when I return to Brimstow, and may remove some existing Syringa to make way for them. Note any which may be unhealthy or losing vigor, and burn any that are blighted.”
And so it went, for another three pages. Harry wrote dutifully, keeping in mind that he would not be doing this much longer. Although he would be happy never to write another botanical letter again, he was reluctant to walk away from his post immediately. Crane would be leaving soon for his country estate, and he could stay until then; he could claim he had no wish to leave London. After working so hard at maintaining his disguise, it seemed wrong to give notice abruptly and just vanish, even though it didn’t matter what Crane thought of him now.
“And lastly,” Crane said, causing Harry to straighten in relief. “Lilium candidum.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Yes, Lilium candidum. Harvest all the foliage from the bed in the southern garden; crop it close and low to the ground. Take care not to miss any, for it must all be cut. This must be done today, with great care. You must oversee the work yourself.” Crane fell silent and the only sound was the faint scratching of Harry’s pen.
When he finished copying the letter, Harry looked up. Crane’s face was set in a brooding frown. The old man looked small and almost woebegone, huddled in his shawl, his fingers plucking at the fringe while he stared out the window. “No, it must be cut from my garden,” he muttered to himself. Harry brought the letter across the room and waited. Crane shook himself, turning back. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Give it here.”
Harry handed over the letter and Crane glanced over it before reaching for the pen.
“This must go off at once,” he said, handing back the signed letter.
“Yes, sir.” Harry folded the letter and sealed it. He went to give it back to Crane to frank, but his employer seemed not to notice him. Harry laid the letter quietly in front of him.
Crane looked at it and sighed. “One of the oldest, finest plantings in my garden,” he said wistfully. “So lovely.”
“Why cut it, then?” Harry ventured. Better than anyone, he knew how attached Crane was to his plants; this was the first time he’d ever given instructions to remove any.
Crane’s mouth quivered. “It will not grow with the Syringa reticulata I intend to plant there. And nothing must impede the Syringa.” He picked up the letter. “No, no, you needn’t send it,” he said when Harry reached for it, seeming to shrink as he spoke. “Ring for Jasper; he will take it. I am unwell, and have no more need of your services today. You may go.”
Surprised, Harry bowed, and left.
Chapter 22
He found Angelique at the Fenton Lane house already, looking herself for once. He stopped in the upstairs hall, leaning against the jamb of her open door. “Anxious to be done?”
“Mon Dieu, you cannot imagine.” She was packing, folding severe gray dresses with white lace around the collar into a trunk. “Are you not?”
“I am.” Harry peeled off his coat and took off his spectacles, tossing them aside, then rubbed the pinched bridge of his nose. “I plan to give notice next week.” His thoughts drifted toward Mariah; perhaps in a week or so he would have cobbled together a plan to see her again, perhaps even openly and honestly. In the meantime, he thought he might go mad with nothing else to do. Working for Crane at least occupied the hours of the day.
She looked horrified. “Why then? I could not wait. Fah! Even giving notice took too long.”
“What—do you mean you were sacked?”
She smiled, her dimples showing. “One tantrum about the danger here in London, the threat of poison in every mouthful, and he could not wait for me to be gone. For a man so fretful of his own health, he cares nothing at all for the welfare of his servants.” Harry started laughing. “I did not receive a reference, of course,” she added with a dramatic sigh. “What a pity.”
“You’ll never be a nurse again.”
Angelique pulled a face. “I shall only pray it is so. It is a most disgusting employment, tending another’s body.”
Still chuckling, Harry surveyed the room. The house had become disorderly, with people moving through it at all hours of the day, changing clothes in a rush, occasionally catching some sleep or a bite to eat. None of the
m spent much time straightening up, not even Lisette. Angelique’s bedchamber looked as if a theater wardrobe had exploded, with wigs lined up on the dressing table beside the cosmetics and somber nurse’s attire piled up alongside revealing courtesan’s clothing on every chair. “Bit of a mess we’re leaving here.”
She shrugged it off. “I am not paid to clean.”
“No, of course not.” He shifted his weight. “So Brandon will leave his post, too?”
“I suppose. He has not enjoyed being sent out on the carriage.” She held up a particularly plain dress and scowled at it. “I should burn this one,” she muttered, then tossed it into the trunk anyway. “But you—apparently you have taken a liking to your job. Shall you ask Stafford if he has need of any more clerks?”
He grinned halfheartedly at her teasing. “Not at all. Crane is leaving in a fortnight for his country estate. It seems less noteworthy if I quit his service then.”
Angelique shrugged again. “As you like. Crane keeps you busy, yes?”
“Usually. Oddly, today he was ill and sent me home. And I am not sorry,” he said, seeing her mouth curve. “I have never been so bored in all my life as when copying Crane’s letters.”
She laughed. “Bored is sometimes the best one can hope for. You could be fondled and touched by drunken gentlemen on a nightly basis.” She held up one of her more garish wigs in illustration.
“Sometimes I would prefer it to fruit trees and bulb propagation and rose bed care. I have learned far more than I ever cared to know about gardening in these last weeks. Horticulturalists are lunatics, I tell you. Even today, so ill he could not even upbraid me for being a quarter hour late, Crane dictated pages and pages of instruction for his head gardener. Prune the Syringa reticulata and crop the Lilium candidum…It never ends.” Harry shook his head.
A View to a Kiss Page 24
