“I was expecting a meeting of bluestockings,” said Adam. “You gentlemen play a bit rough.”
“It’s because this is not a game, Hardacre,” Wilkinson answered with no small measure of condescension. “Now, sit down and have a drink. Brandy will be acceptable, won’t it? Or is whiskey more to your taste?”
Adam raised an eyebrow and took the nearest seat. Brandy had been near impossible to get since the outbreak of war. Whiskey, too – especially the high quality ones from Cork. They were extremely hard to come by.
Both things hinted at connections with both France and Ireland.
“Whiskey,” Adam answered and a moment later one was placed to his right.
“You’ll have to forgive our unorthodox methods. Prime Minister Pitt has spies everywhere and I’m sure we have better things to do than swing at the end of a hangman’s noose, right gentlemen? Don’t misunderstand me, Hardacre. We are all patriots here to a man. But we will not obey a mad king or his tyrannical Prime Minister.”
Wilkinson’s impassioned words were met by quiet affirmations by those present. Adam looked around at all of them. These men did not seem like fanatics. They seemed sober and earnest.
Wilkinson continued. “We will not stand by and see men fight in a war for which there is no just cause. Good men; hard working men whose hands are callused by true labor. Good men like you who have been made to suffer indignity, refused a commission that was rightfully yours for no other reason than you weren’t born into the ‘right’ social class.”
As the man spoke, something stirred within Adam, a vestige of resentment, the bitter taste of humiliation he bore for eight long years watching the promotion of men younger and less skilled than himself. His right hand squeezed the glass in it. His bosun’s tattoo stood out starkly.
Adam downed the amber liquid and welcomed the fire in his throat that added fuel to the roiling in his gut.
The role of malcontent seemed made for him and he determined he had a few choice curses for Sir Daniel-Bloody-Ridgeway when he next saw him.
“What can be done of it?” he asked. “Your pretty words and sympathy won’t restore my years or persuade the Royal Navy of their error. My background may be humble, but I’m not a stupid man. The revolution in France starved and slaughtered thousands. What for? They got rid of a king and got an Emperor instead. What makes you think this band of merry men can do better?”
Wilkinson’s lip lifted a fraction.
“That’s more than you need to know.”
Adam set the glass down heavily and shook his head slowly.
“No. Not enough for me to put my neck on the line.”
“Then let’s put it like this, Hardacre – plans are well advanced to usher in a new era that the Radicals have only caught a glimpse of. We have men the length and breadth of the country ready to rise up. You’re not the only man who has much to gain in this.”
“To usher in a Heaven on Earth? I’m not buying it.”
“Then what will you buy?”
Adam focused his attention on the grain of the timber of the table. His mission had been clear – uncover specific information about a secondary plot to invade England, and identify the ringleader.
“A revolution of the type you allude to would need a vast amount of money and organization – more than any individual possesses,” stated Adam. He looked up to see Wilkinson straighten in his seat. “Everyone knows Napoleon has his forces massed at Calais. England waits hour by hour for the invasion to begin. Whoever you’re working for is going to need detailed information about our fleet – numbers of men, orders, tonnage, logistics – and that’s information you’re only going to get from a man on the inside.”
“Men on the inside, Mr. Hardacre,” Wilkinson responded. “That’s why we approached you. You’re obviously very astute but I’m not sure you appreciate how your resignation was received by the men of the lower ranks, and not only aboard your own ship. Word gets about and, from what I hear, ordinary seamen and merchantmen from Penzance to Portsmouth have declared you a hero. These men will talk to you – and gladly – as a friend and a former colleague.”
Adam fixed Wilkinson in the eye. “All right. I can get you your information,” he said. Wilkinson smiled. “But I want in on the planning.” The smile faded a little.
“Really?”
“Why not? I spent twenty years of my life in the Navy – I know how they all think, sailor and officer alike. I’ve done my time as a lackey. I won’t be yours.”
The man’s face firmed to the expression of a man trying not to become angry.
“And your price?”
“A thousand pounds.”
One of the two other men at the table – hitherto silent – sucked in air over his teeth.
“In gold.”
“Is that all, Mr. Hardacre?” Wilkinson asked, more with amusement than amazement.
“It’s enough to buy a house and a couple of fishing boats for my retirement.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Wilkinson shrugged.
Adam smirked. It might sound reasonable to Wilkinson but not to the other men in the room, he would wager.
“And one more thing – when the French come, tell them I want to be left the hell alone.”
“That, too, sounds acceptable.” Wilkinson leaned fully back in his chair, looking more at ease than at any other time during this interview. “But in order to earn your fee, you will have to demonstrate the quality of your information.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Wilkinson slid an envelope toward him.
“The details are in there, along with twenty pounds. Start with the private dockyards in Plymouth. Find out everything you can. On receipt of your personally delivered, comprehensive report, the balance of the first installment of one hundred pounds is yours. You will then be given a second assignment. On the successful execution of that, you will be invited to join our inner circle.”
The major rose to his feet and extended his hand. Adam did likewise. The two men shared a firm handshake.
“We’ll meet again in a fortnight’s time.”
“Where?”
“Are you still staying at the inn at Ponsnowyth?”
Adam confirmed he was with a quick nod.
“You’ll receive word there.”
A man of about Adam’s age, but with reddish hair, had been standing at the fireplace throughout the meeting. Now, he tugged on the bell pull. A moment later, Grunt entered.
“Our guest is ready to leave,” the man at the fireplace said. Adam detected a lilt to his voice but he spoke too few words to guess at his accent.
Grunt held up the Hessian mask and leather ties, and approached. Adam shoved him away angrily.
“Try to put that thing on me again and I’ll slit your throat!”
Grunt bared his teeth and looked ready to charge at him when Wilkinson intervened.
“Put them down, Dunbar. Our guest will be leaving through the front door.”
Adam bared his teeth right back at the thug and stepped around him to follow a footman to the door. Out on the street, he turned and looked up at the building, a typical Georgian townhouse, third along in a terrace of perhaps ten or eleven homes, all flat fronted with chimney stacks at each party wall, three chimney pots per stack. He didn’t linger.
Turning back to the street, Adam looked left and right as if deciding which direction to go in. He went right, the furthest distance to a cross street. He counted the houses as he went. Just as he turned right, Adam glanced back to see if he was being followed yet. He’d bet a crown that he would be trailed from a distance to be sure he left the area. Dunbar was probably waiting at the front door until he reached the end of the block.
That was why he’d chosen the furthest cross street.
Two steps into the street and out of sight of the front door, he suddenly changed pace, hurrying as fast as he could without his rushing footsteps giving the game away. At the back of the terrace, he turned right
again and slipped into the darkest shadows of a hedgerow behind the end townhouse.
He waited and, finally, his followers arrived.
“Damn…” Grunt – correction, Dunbar – grumbled to his companion. “Lost him.” Adam was mere feet away. He remained perfectly still. The two men stood at the corner. “I don’t trust the bastard.”
“Just because he brought you down a peg? Don’t be daft. Anyway, he’s not lurking around here. Once he gets his bearings, he’ll probably go down to the pub.”
Dunbar grunted again. The two men turned and went back the way they came.
Adam waited until they were gone then made his way along the back of the terrace, counting the houses again until he reached the back garden of the house he’d been in.
He hunched low in a break in the hedgerow and pulled out his pocket spyglass to train on the house. He could see only one window lit. It wasn’t late – no more than nine o’clock – ten at the outside. Adam guessed if he visited the house by day, he would find it unoccupied. There were many such residences on the Quay whose owners might be absent for months at a time.
Nevertheless, he made note of the location.
ADAM ENTERED THE tavern hungry and thirsty, and a little bit annoyed to see Harold just sitting there, chatting up one of the barmaids.
He sent the young woman on her way with a barely polite request for a meal and a pint.
“Where the hell did you get to?” he asked. Harold had the good grace to look sheepish. That was something at least.
“Yes, well, the more I thought about it, the more it didn’t seem right. I know people are angry and want reform, but if the Admiralty got wind of one of their officers having Radical tendencies then it’d be the end of my career.”
Adam’s anger receded like the tide.
“I suppose you’re right.”
There was silence between the two men as a fresh plate of bread and another of roast beef and gravy was set before Adam. An ale quickly followed. He didn’t stand on ceremony. Adam started on his meal with gusto.
And he knew Harold had read his mood right because his friend waited until the better portion of it was consumed before he spoke.
“So, did you go?”
Adam chewed meditatively over a large piece of bread and considered his answer. Should he take his friend into his confidence?
If he was worried about conventional Radical correspondence societies who spoke of nothing more than the “common sense” of the workers, then the young lieutenant ought to be spared from tonight’s call to out-and-out treason.
“I did,” Adam finally admitted. “You’d have detested every minute of it. Pontificating blowhards to a man – and the women who were there were fat and ugly.”
Harold mock shuddered.
“Then you’ve done me a good service, indeed. Perhaps, I can do you one in return.”
“Like what?”
“Give you an excuse to see the rather fetching governess all on her lonesome at Kenstec House again.”
“What makes you think I have a special interest in Olivia Collins?”
Harold shrugged. “Well, maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps, it is she who has taken a fancy, although I can’t imagine what she’d see in an old man like you. At any rate, I’ve set my heart on buying Kenstec and retiring as a county squire. I think it would suit me and I’d need a governess.”
Adam was beginning to grow tired of the conversation.
“You’re not married and you don’t have children; why would you need a governess?”
Harold didn’t immediately respond, so Adam looked up from mopping up gravy from his now empty plate to look directly into his friend’s eyes. They were full of mischief. Adam gave him a sour look.
“Leave the poor woman alone.”
“I can’t think of any good reason why I should.”
“Perhaps you would like me to give you some?”
“And thus our conversation returns full circle,” Harold said, ill-disguising his triumph. “Admit to me you’ve taken a shine to the woman and I promise not to tease you any further.”
“I will not.”
“Then, in that case, you won’t have any objections if I take up the pursuit of her? These lonely spinster governesses are just waiting for any man to make love to them.”
Adam refused to analyze the feeling welling up him – it was good enough to simply call it annoyance.
“You’d be wasting your time,” he replied, putting enough gravity in his voice to alert a sober man that he was about to cross a line.
“Ah-ha!”
And it would appear that Harold wasn’t sober enough.
“Ah-ha nothing,” said Adam through gritted teeth. “She’d see through you in a heartbeat.”
Harold paid no attention. “We’ll see which of us is receiving her favors before too long.”
Chapter Fifteen
IT WAS A funny thing about friends, even the best ones. Not seeing Harold for a week had restored Adam’s humor exceedingly well.
He had spent five days in Plymouth and intended to return there Monday morning following a trip into Truro to report to Ridgeway. And, before he left, he had extracted a promise from Olivia that she would be attending next Saturday’s dance at Ponsnowyth.
So when a certain young lieutenant arrived to the Angler’s Arms that afternoon in a single-horse drawn tilbury wearing the civilian clothes of a young buck, Adam had no animosity. He simply shook his head and laughed.
“Ready?” Harold called “You didn’t think I’d forget about going house hunting, did you?”
Adam swung up beside his friend and sat on the padded leather seat. Harold snapped the reins and the handsome black horse took off at a brisk trot.
“I can’t believe you still want to do this.”
“Why not?” asked Harold, “You told me Miss Olivia thought the idea amusing. We can amuse her in person and see if the young lady might be persuaded to join us for a turn about the countryside.”
“Sitting where? There’s barely enough room for the two of us in this thing.”
“Your lap, perhaps?”
“Don’t be crude.”
Harold gave him a sideways glance; Adam glared back. There were times he forgot how much younger and less mature his once commanding officer was.
“I had no idea it was like that, old man.”
Adam grunted a noncommittal reply and the teasing stopped.
“I had the cook from the tavern at Falmouth prepare a picnic repast,” Harold offered. “If every stick of furniture is gone out of the old place, we can dine on the lawn.”
THE HORSE MADE short work of the trip to Kenstec House.
Harold brought the tilbury to a stop and stood up at the reins. He gave a low whistle. “Nice view from here. I imagine it’s better from the third story.”
Adam said nothing. He scanned the windows, looking for the one that was Olivia’s bedroom.
The front door opened and Olivia swept down the half a dozen stone steps as though she was lady of the manor.
“Gentlemen, so good of you to call. You’ll have to forgive the informality but I’m the only one in residence.”
She shared a quick glance at Adam, but it was Harold who was first to jump down, take her hand, and offer a sweeping bow.
“Miss Olivia, you look more radiant than the morn,” he said.
“I suspect you are so profligate with your compliments, Lieutenant, it would be wise not to believe a word of them.”
Adam climbed down feeling smug, the initial prick of jealousy soothed by Olivia’s words. He glanced back to Harold. “Why don’t you go see to the horse? The stables are around the side. There’s a good chap.”
Harold moved off with nod of his head and a look in his eye that suggested Adam should be prepared for some kind of good-natured retaliation.
He went one better than his friend. He lifted Olivia’s hand to his lips and kissed it – slowly. He was close enough to see her eyes widen a moment.
Harold was right. He was staking a claim of sorts. So what of it? Why shouldn’t he? He and Olivia shared a bond that only the two of them knew about – the knowledge of Constance. For now, he preferred to keep it that way.
How strange that after twenty years, Constance should be the one to bring them together. He wanted to be alone with Olivia again, to know her thoroughly, to uncover every secret, to know why she blushed as she did now.
Adam felt a low level of arousal grow. Perhaps having Harold as a chaperone was no bad thing.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
His memory of the night of the storm and the morning after felt as fresh as yesterday. Now, he cursed Harold as a chaperone.
“I’m sorry I had to leave, but you looked as though you were sleeping peacefully.”
His spirits lifted along with her smile.
“You’re a considerate man in every way, Adam.”
“You haven’t gotten to know me yet.”
Olivia laughed and he found himself grinning along with her.
She accepted his arm and they moved toward the house.
“How was your visit to Plymouth?”
“Very productive.”
Half a truth is often a great lie.
Adam wasn’t sure where he’d heard the aphorism but it served now. He’d made no secret of his trip to Plymouth, but the story he had told was his desire to see if his skills and experience would make him suitable to find work alongside a naval architect. That had been Ridgeway’s recommendation, and it was ideal for his clandestine work.
To Wilkinson and his men, Adam felt no pang of conscience to spin the most outrageous fabrications – as long as they served the purpose and the untruths did not tell on his face. He’d prepared himself for it, practiced telling the lies in the mirror until he was convinced by the face he saw before him. That was easy.
With Olivia, however – and the Trellows, too, for that matter – he walked a narrower line. He offered them the truth of what he was doing, but not the why.
They waited at the front door for Harold to return from stabling the horse. He arrived struggling with a large wicker basket.
“Miss Olivia, I think the first stop of our tour should be the kitchen!”
Live and Let Spy (The King's Rogues Book 1) Page 13