The Wicked Sister

by Lancaster, Mary

  “Didn’t you have enough of battle on the Peninsula?” Michael asked.

  “To be honest, yes, at the time. We had a lot of damned good scraps, against some damned good generals, but never Bonaparte. That will be worth the fight!”

  “Do you really think he makes that much difference?” Michael asked curiously. He was always slightly annoyed by the tendency to idolize Bonaparte, for good or ill.

  “Without a doubt! The commander always makes the difference. It’s why our fellows will follow Wellington into hell, because we know he’ll beat back the flames in the end. The French feel the same about Bonaparte, and if you look at his strategies and his tactics over the years…”

  Hastily, Michael conceded the point. He had lost too many arguments with his brother George, now a subaltern with the 95th Rifles, to willingly accept any more lectures on the subject.

  The door opened, and Michael glanced up, hoping to see Betts. Instead, Lord Underwood strolled in, eased himself into the window table, and ordered coffee. The officer, whose name Michael had forgotten, got up to leave, murmuring a cheerful farewell as he collected his hat and went to the door.

  Only then did Underwood appear to notice him, although Michael was sure the baron had been aware of him from the first.

  “Well met, Mr. Hanson,” he drawled with a gracious nod. “Do me the favor of joining me?”

  Michael had in fact finished his coffee and was preparing to scour the streets in search of Betts. Besides which, he had no desire to exchange pleasantries with the man tipped to win Lady Maria’s hand in marriage. However, curiosity tempted him, and although he contemplated the door, in the end, he sat down at Underwood’s table.

  “You have a day of liberty, I apprehend?” Underwood drawled. “Or are you merely snatching a breath between errands?”

  “Liberty,” Michael replied.

  “Something I and my ilk take for granted,” Underwood observed. “You are clearly a man who works diligently and deserves favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” Michael asked mildly.

  “Whatever favor you win from Braithwaite, of course. And from his family. You appear to have become indispensable there, too.”

  “Hardly,” Michael replied. “Though I am happy to help Lady Braithwaite if and when I can.”

  “Such as making up the numbers at dinner parties and balls?”

  “Exactly.”

  Underwood sat back. “And yet you do not strike me as a frivolous man.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then what do you gain out of dinner parties and balls with the Braithwaites?”

  “Their good will,” Michael said evenly.

  Underwood searched his face, his eyes deceptively mild. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hanson, you intrigue me. You seek good will in a relatively lowly position with a nobleman. And yet, you are a gentleman, proud, clever, and ambitious by what I hear. And I ask myself, what does such a gentleman seek from the arrangement? Do you seek Braithwaite’s support to enter parliament?”

  “Perhaps one day,” Michael said evenly. “I am hardly in a position to do so at the moment. What of your ambitions, my lord?”

  Underwood blinked sleepily. “Oh, I have done just about everything expected of a man in my position. Except marry, of course. That is next on my list. Which will, I trust, make my good will also important to you.”

  Michael considered his noble companion. He recognized he was being warned off. It certainly didn’t surprise him that Lord Underwood considered himself entitled to do so. What astonished him was that he bothered. Michael Hanson was no threat to a wealthy baron’s marriage plans.

  “Good will is best, I find, when reciprocated,” Michael said, rising to his feet. “I look forward to a pleasant relationship. Good afternoon, sir.”

  It was impossible to tell from Underwood’s expression whether he was amused or angered by the response, and in truth, Michael didn’t much care. He crossed the road and cut down toward the back streets where the print shop was located.

  Sticking his head round the door, he found only the printer’s boy sitting on a stool eating a meat pie. The printing press was silent.

  “Is Mr. Nimmo there?” Michael asked.

  “Went out, sir. Back in half an hour.”

  Michael stepped inside and closed the door. “You don’t know a Mr. Betts, do you? A small, pompous man inspecting what you print?”

  The boy snorted. “Oh, I know him. Came in a few days ago, rude as you like. Don’t know what he expected to find, but he didn’t!”

  “Thanks.”

  Michael left again but hadn’t walked more than a few yards before Mr. Betts stepped out of a doorway in front of him.

  “Placing another order, were we?” Mr. Betts growled.

  Michael halted. “No, actually, I was looking for you.”

  Mr. Betts blinked rapidly. It seemed that whatever answer he’d expected, it wasn’t that. “For me?” he said cautiously.

  “I heard you were still in Blackhaven and was curious.” Michael glanced at the two laborers approaching them. “Shall we walk as we talk or go somewhere quieter?”

  Betts’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he did walk on with quick, decisive paces and Michael fell into step beside him.

  “You do know,” Betts said abruptly, “that any attempt to interfere with my work or my person, will result in a positive storm of investigation from which no one is likely to emerge unscathed?”

  Michael cast him a frowning glance. He hadn’t expected his words to have been taken as a threat. “I have no intention of interfering with your person under any circumstances,” he retorted. “As for your work, I would hope any interference prove positive.”

  Betts looked skeptical. “You’ve changed your tune.”

  “A little, perhaps. I thought you were here to pursue someone’s political vendetta against Lord Braithwaite, or—or perhaps and—to try and arrest me for legally expressing views that disagree with the government.”

  Betts did not appear to be the sort of man who appreciated such nuances. But before he could scoff, Michael said hastily, “The fact that you’re still in Blackhaven tells me there is more than that. Also, since meeting you last, I have made some observations of my own that convince me something more serious could be going on. I suggest we put aside whatever enmity we feel for each other, at least until Bonaparte is back in custody, and work together.”

  Betts’s mouth gaped. His expression of astonished horror was not encouraging. “You’ve got some nerve,” he managed at last.

  “You’re not the first person to tell me so,” Michael assured him. “Look, Mr. Betts, whatever you think of me, I am no traitor. My vision for the country might differ from yours, but I would never endanger it, let alone pave the way for a tyrant like Bonaparte. I’m prepared to suspend hostilities—which have always been perfectly legal, incidentally—until after he’s defeated, and to help you find out what, if anything, is happening.”

  Betts took refuge in a sneer. “You, his lordship’s secretary.” He spat the word out with as much revulsion as he might have said spawn of Satan or murderer of thousands. “You imagine I could want, let alone need, your services?”

  “Yes,” Michael said baldly. “There are places you cannot go, people who will not talk to you. I am the invisible secretary in the halls of the great. Or at least in the library of Lord Braithwaite. And, occasionally, his dining room.”

  Humor was entirely wasted on Betts, but at least he closed his mouth with a hint of understanding in his eyes.

  “Why should I trust you?” he blurted at last.

  Michael shrugged. “You clearly don’t. Let me tell you my suspicions, which are only vague, I should say. Then you can tell me whether or not I’m right and if there is someone you suspect. Other than me.”

  Betts was silent a moment. “Very well, tell me your suspicions.”

  “Many among the opposition oppose reopening the war. They don’t want to involve Wellington or his tr
oops. That is their view of what is best for the country. But I suspect your office has come to suspect some deeper plot, a treasonous one to…nullify or at least reduce the effectiveness of the army, by undermining its morale, so that by the time it faces Bonaparte, many of them will have deserted. I think you found some secret pamphlet to that effect in London, and for some reason attributed it to me. It wasn’t me, and it certainly wasn’t Lord Braithwaite.”

  Betts was silent, all but stomping along the road at Michael’s side. They were approaching the pawnshop and the more dangerous part of town, so at the next corner, Michael turned left toward the high street.

  “What makes you think it involves the army?” Betts asked abruptly.

  “The attitude of one or two men when I was looking for information on quite another matter, and a somewhat clandestine meeting I half-observed, which resulted in an officer being given documents of some kind. The latter could, of course, be entirely innocent, but given the character of the officer concerned, I doubt it. It could also be part of some other nefarious purpose that has nothing to do with your investigation. But frankly, I doubt that, too.”

  “And the name of this officer?” Betts said sharply.

  Michael didn’t hesitate. As far as he was concerned, Heath had lost any right to his protection when he wrote his extortion letter to Maria. “Gideon Heath. He’s a lieutenant in the 44th.”

  “A lieutenant?” Betts sounded disgusted. “And you ask me to believe he is behind—”

  “Not behind,” Michael interrupted. “But taking advantage of, yes, that is possible. And he may lead you to those who are behind it.”

  Betts strode along quite furiously now. “I’m staying at the King’s Head,” he said abruptly. “And I’m often in the coffee house. If you have any further information. Good day, Mr. Hanson.”

  “Good day, Mr. Betts,” Michael said gravely and fell back to let his reluctant ally trot on without him.

  Chapter Ten

  “Good Lord,” Maria said, sinking into the chair opposite Michael. After dressing for dinner, she had come to the library, desperate to find out what he had discovered. “Then this really is a conspiracy that Gideon is part of? But who could possibly be responsible for such a thing? I cannot believe it of Braithwaite’s colleagues!”

  Michael shrugged. “Sometimes people are blinded by the mere desire to win. And it needn’t be his lordship’s colleagues. It could be Tories trying to discredit the opposition.”

  Maria was almost equally appalled by that idea. “Have you told Gervaise?”

  “Not yet.” He met her gaze. “The only reason I have looked twice at Heath is his letter to you. I needed to speak to you first.”

  “Of course.” Her stupid affairs shouldn’t count beside the fate of her country, but… She brightened. “Actually, there isn’t anything Gervaise could do that we can’t. I know I will have to tell him in the end, and I am quite resigned to that, but I would rather present him with a finished scandal. Such as, I did this incredibly foolish thing last year and it came back to bite me, but here is the real culprit in chains, and by the way, I helped save the country in the process.”

  His eyes gleamed. “That does sound a sensible way to proceed. How do you suggest we get him in chains?”

  “Search his rooms,” Maria said promptly.

  “Sadly, impractical since neither of us have a reason to be in the barracks, let alone to find and search his quarters.”

  She sighed. “I suppose not. I could speak to Colonel Gordon? In fact, he will probably he at the vicar’s charity ‘at home’ tomorrow afternoon. I shall ask him in my best artless manner about the soldiers’ spirits and any unhelpful literature he has come across.”

  “Officers’ wives might also help.”

  She nodded. “And what will you do?”

  “I think I shall start frequenting the tavern, since Betts haunts the coffee house.”

  “You mean you’re going to get drunk?”

  “There has to be some perquisite for my extra work.”

  “Hmm.” She rose to her feet. “I am going to the drawing room, and you are not even dressed for dinner.”

  “I shall be there in five minutes.”

  She left ridiculously pleased that they were partners in these inquiries. It might not be the bond she truly wanted, but it felt good to her all the same—quite aside from finding the means to silence Gideon.

  *

  It was decided over dinner that Serena would have the pleasure of representing the family at the vicar’s charitable afternoon gathering, and since it was held in the vicarage, with his wife Kate as hostess, no male escort was necessary. Maria could almost see Tamar and Torridon breathing sighs of relief.

  “I’ll come with you, Serena,” Maria offered.

  “Thank you! Your company will be most welcome,” Serena said grandly, hunching a cold shoulder toward her husband, who only grinned.

  “Allow me to escort you,” Lord Underwood offered unexpectedly.

  “Your company will be even more welcome,” Serena said, “but before I accept, you should know that you are likely to be bored to tears—and worse. It’s one of the ways the vicar raises money for various charities, and it makes us, the wealthier Blackhaven residents, feel good about ourselves while gossiping.”

  “That doesn’t sound so terrible,” Underwood said.

  “No, it’s the playing and singing in the background that sounds terrible,” Tamar said.

  “Not always,” Serena insisted. “It depends on the accomplishments of those persuaded to perform. The idea is, we put money in the jar after every performance, supposedly according to the talent we’ve just heard. But in fact, it’s largely debutantes practicing their skills—with mixed results.”

  “Then I might hope at least for a song from Lady Maria?” Underwood asked.

  “And Serena and Kate, and whoever else attends,” Maria replied.

  Before the end of dinner that evening, the castle guests had thrust a good deal of money into Serena’s hands for her to add to the vicar’s charity the next day.

  In the morning, Maria went to the library and was disappointed not to discover Michael there. Instead, since Alice and Helen were confined to the schoolroom with Miss Harker, she went by herself to walk on the beach, hoping she might run into him. She didn’t. Surely, he can’t be in the tavern already?

  After luncheon, the open barouche was summoned to carry herself, Serena, and Lord Underwood to the vicarage.

  “Which particular charity are we giving to?” Underwood inquired as the carriage bowled down the hill.

  “The hospital, I believe,” Serena replied. “It’s a recent foundation. The local physicians give their time free, but the nurses and other staff need to be paid, and then there is the cost of food, candles, coal, and the upkeep of the building and the garden.”

  Maria, who had never had to consider the cost of anything except perhaps one extortionately expensive new hat she did not need, was much struck by this catalogue of necessities. “Then surely our measly contributions today will be used up almost immediately!”

  “Almost,” Serena agreed. “It’s the trust that keeps it going, of course, money Gervaise and other landowners put in, but it needs topped up frequently. As do all the Grants’ other charities.”

  “All the others?” Underwood asked in amusement. “How many are there?”

  “Innumerable!” Serena replied. “Soup kitchens, shelters for wounded soldiers and sailors and others without homes, an orphanage, a school…”

  Underwood laughed. “Are you telling me Kate Crowmore married a dashed do-gooder?”

  “Nothing dashed about Tristram Grant,” Serena said. “And Kate Grant, you know, is part of all of it.”

  “One would never think it to look at her,” Underwood drawled.

  “Don’t you secretly like to help those less fortunate than you?” Maria asked with genuine curiosity.

  “No,” he said frankly. “Do you?”

&nbs
p; She frowned. “I don’t believe I ever have, which makes me suddenly ashamed.”

  “You have played your part in Mama’s ventures,” Serena pointed out. “And only look at what we are raising today. You are barely out, Maria, your choices have been limited.”

  It made her think, though. She had always taken the poor for granted, as those who needed help, but without considering how. They were simply there, in the streets she passed through or hidden completely from her rosy view. Not everyone had pots of money like Gervaise, who could help. Others helped with their hands.

  Or with their words, she realized. Writing his pamphlets, raising awareness of the problems and solutions, they were Michael’s ways of helping. And Judith thought as he did, supported what he did with work of her own. That is what they had in common. And that, she realized, was so much more important than someone to dance with, or to laugh with about trivia.

  As the carriage pulled up at the vicarage, she threw off her thoughtful mood to enter into the spirit of the afternoon. After all, along with the charity, she had another task to perform.

  As she had suspected, Colonel and Mrs. Gordon were the vicar’s only guests from the 44th. Since she could hardly march straight up and interrogate them, she bided her time, applauding the brave performers and dutifully adding to the large, ever-growing bowl of money with contributions from her family and their guests. She began to feel rather small that she was the only one contributing nothing, since she had given the remains of her pin-money to Gideon and the ice parlor.

  She tried to make up for it by singing her heart out when it was her turn to perform. Whether or not this inspired larger contributions, it certainly won the admiration of two young men visiting Blackhaven with a poorly mother and uncle, respectively. As a result, she found it hard to escape one or the other and only managed to speak to Colonel Gordon when it was teatime.

  “Colonel,” she greeted him warmly. “I’m so glad to meet you here, for I gather you will be off soon to join Wellington at Brussels.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Gordon said jovially. “To be frank, I’d as soon go to Europe as America. Quicker to get home again!”