by Tracy Grant
Lady Wilton gave a quick nod. "While we were abroad, we were sometimes in attendance upon the Princess of Wales. That is, Queen Caroline."
"That must be awkward now." Edith tugged her shawl up. It slithered off her other arm. "I mean, with Sir Toby’s working for the government."
"Yes. I hardly suspected—the thing is, I wrote some letters at the time. Only statements of the truth of what I saw when we spent time with the princess. It never occurred to me what importance might be laid on simple expressions of the truth."
"I imagine a number of people must have questions for you now." Edith grabbed the loose end of the shawl. It was red and black Italian silk, a beloved birthday gift from the Davenports, but it seemed to slide the moment it touched the silk of her gown. "And be asking you for your letters."
"Yes." Lady Wilton closed her hands together. "The thing is, I no longer have the letters. I wrote them to a gentleman we met in Italy."
Edith’s fingers froze on the shawl as she began to see the risk. "And he’s given them to someone to make use of?"
"No, he can’t. That is—" Lady Wilton’s fingers locked tighter. "He’s no longer alive."
"Good God," Edith was startled into saying. "I’m so sorry."
"Yes, you know him, or know of him. Mr. Lewis Thornsby."
Edith stared at her former employer. She was growing used to the way things were interconnected in her world. Or rather, the world she had stumbled into, a world of spies and double agents, secret societies, and tangled family connections. But the idea that Lady Wilton had been acquainted with Thomas’s brother Lewis, who had been murdered at the Tavistock Theatre on the orders of their great aunt, Lady Shroppington, who in turn had set Edith herself to spy on the Wiltons, shook her to the core. "I had no idea you knew him."
"No." Lady Wilton tugged at a ringlet that had tangled round her diamond earring. "He didn’t call on us in London. It was quite a casual acquaintance. At least, as far as my husband knew."
Edith sometimes felt she was very slow at these things, but she began to sense where they were headed. "But you and Mr. Thornsby formed a closer friendship."
"Yes." Lady Wilton kept her gaze steady, though her cheeks colored beneath her delicately applied rouge. "We were—he was kind to me. At a time when I needed kindness."
Sir Toby was a conscientious man, much devoted to his work. Lady Wilton was an admirable hostess and the relationship seemed placid. But hardly passionate, in Edith’s view. Not that she was much equipped to judge passion. "The letters you wrote to Mr. Thornsby—"
"Have fallen into other hands." Lady Wilton’s fingers tightened on the folds of her gown. "I’m not sure how. I can only assume they were discovered after his death. Mr. Thornsby was—a good friend. I don’t think he’d have betrayed me."
"No, of course not," Edith said, though after the investigation into Thornsby’s murder, she was not quite so sanguine.
"The letters have apparently been offered up for sale. They are of interest because of the information they contain about Princess Caroline—the queen. But of course, if the letters become public, my secrets will be revealed as well. And I fear Sir Toby would not understand."
"I quite see that." The shawl fell on the floor again. Edith bunched it up and tossed it onto a chair covered in cream watered silk. "Do you know where the letters are now?"
"They’re to be exchanged—sold—at the ball tonight."
"And you thought—"
"Colonel Davenport used to be an agent. He and Lady Cordelia investigate with the Rannochs. I hoped—"
"You want me to tell them."
Lady Wilton drew a breath like breaking glass. "I don’t want anyone else to know. But I think they’re my only hope of getting the letters back. So you’ll have to tell them. I know how much it is to ask. But it would be so dreadful, not just for me, but for Sally and Winston. For their sake—"
"Of course. I hate the thought of anyone’s private life being toyed with. I’ll do everything I can."
"You’re too good, Edith." Lady Wilton drew the pale blue folds of her own shawl up about her shoulders. "You must despise me."
"Nonsense." Edith was already moving to the door, but she turned back. "Whom you love is your own affair. I’ve never been married, and I don’t know that I want to be—it rather terrifies me, for a number for reasons. But I imagine it’s fiendishly difficult."
A faint smile, half regret, half perhaps remembered happiness, shot across Lady Wilton’s face. "Not all the time. And in the right circumstances it can be quite splendid. But it can also be awkward. One can—grow apart. Without an open quarrel, without even realizing it’s happening. Sometimes it can be mended. I’m not sure, in our case. But at least, I hope to avoid an irrevocable break. That would be too beastly for the children."
Who would be likely to lose their mother, the way the law worked. In a divorce or even a legal separation, the children almost always stayed with the father "I’ll everything I can," Edith said, and left the room to find Cordelia as quickly as possible.
11
"Cordy." Edith found her friend navigating the tables in the supper room, where guests were beginning to gather, and caught her arm.
"Edith. I’m so glad to see you enjoying yourself." Cordelia’s quick smile gave way to a look of concern. "Goodness, what’s the matter? Has a gentleman been difficult?"
"No, nothing like that. I’d know how to handle that on my own. But something is the matter. In fact, it’s quite beastly." Edith drew Cordelia between the tables to the edge of the room near the French windows. It was only then that she realized Cordelia had an abstracted expression herself. "Is something wrong?" Edith asked.
"No. That is, nothing to stop you from telling me what concerns you."
Edith cast a quick glance round, though she was enough of a spy now herself to know the buzz of conversation afforded good cover. She told Cordelia about her conversation with Lady Wilton, and the letters.
Cordelia’s brows drew together. "This does complicate things."
"Complicate?" Edith scanned Cordelia’s face. She looked less shocked than like someone putting pieces together. "You mean you knew—"
"About the letters. Not that they were Lady Wilton’s. But we’re already doing our best to get them back."
"Do you know who has them?"
Cordelia sighed. "We thought we did. But it’s all got a bit more complicated."
Carfax—Hubert Mallinson—took a drink of champagne. "Good vintage."
"You bought it," Julien told his uncle. "Though there was port in the cellar my father laid down."
"Let me guess. You poured it out."
"I was going to, but Kitty pointed out it was a sad waste. We sent it to some friends in St. Giles who will appreciate it." Julien brushed a speck of lint from his lapel. "I poured the rum out."
Hubert gave a curt nod, no surprise in his gaze. "Your speech was impressive," he said without preamble, though it really wasn’t such a leap from the rum to Julien’s abolition speech.
"You’re generous, Uncle Hubert."
Hubert glanced at his wife, who was speaking with the Castlereaghs. "We both know I’m nothing of the sort. You’ve made a mark for yourself. I don’t actually disagree with much of what you said. Practically, it can’t be accomplished now, though."
"Can’t be, or won’t be, because people don’t think it’s worth the effort?"
Hubert raised a brow. "You’d be uprooting our colonies."
"Not necessarily a bad thing. Some of them have already uprooted themselves. Not that that’s helped the slaves in their new country that's supposedly founded on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. You heard I affirmed the freedom of the Carfax slaves?"
"I thought you would." Carfax adjusted his spectacles. "I wasn’t pleased to become a slave owner, you know."
Julien took a drink of champagne. "And yet you remained one."
"Unlike you, I wasn’t willing to let my investment fall apart. I could have sold
the plantation and said my hands were clean, but a new master might have been worse. And if I’d sold the plantation and the slaves, you wouldn’t have been able to free them."
"That’s a damnable excuse for inactivity, Uncle Hubert."
"It’s a practical excuse."
"You could, of course, have freed the slaves yourself."
"It wasn’t the time for such an extravagant gesture."
Julien turned, shoulders pressed against the column behind him. "And when, precisely, will it be the time?"
"Sooner than many think. The Spanish and French and India could provide cheaper sugar if it weren't for tariffs. The plantations aren’t sustainable long term."
"And commerce, of course, is what drives humanity."
"You’re enough of a pragmatist to see that, Julien. Now that slavery is a source of instability, it’s untenable."
"One reason among many I don’t regret the Unicorn Rebellion. It contributed to the instability."
Hubert gave a grunt of acknowledgement. "The world is changing. Whether I like it or not. But you can’t push it too fast."
"And so we tell people in chains to wait?"
"You’re starting to sound like Malcolm."
"Thank you. That’s the most complimentary thing anyone’s said to me in an age."
"You aren’t blinded by your ideals, Julien."
"If you’re saying Malcolm is, perhaps the world would be a better place if we were all so blinded."
"Don’t be clever."
"For once, I’m not trying to be." Julian regarded his uncle. "This is all about change. Some of us are trying to figure out the most effective way to bring it about. You’re trying to stop it."
Hubert looked from the stucco ceiling to the French windows. "You’re going to bring all this tumbling about your ears if you have your way."
"Perhaps it should come tumbling down. But I don’t think it will."
"I’d hoped—"
"That being Carfax would make me take it seriously? I take seriously anyone I’m responsible for. But as to the name and property—I don’t think I’ll ever see property as you do. But perhaps being the grandson of someone who was considered property has left an indelible stamp on me."
Hubert hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. "Don’t be dramatic, Julien. You don’t believe bloodlines change you. That’s the sort of thing your enemies say."
"I don’t think my blood makes me any different from anyone else. I do think the way my ancestors were treated has impacted who I am. You should understand. You have a great deal of respect for the past."
"The past teaches us valuable lessons. But you can’t live in it and nor can the rest of us. The future doesn’t lie in the West Indies. It lies in India."
"You should talk to Laura O’Roarke. She’d point out just how untenable our behavior in India is."
Hubert took another sip of champagne. "India will ensure the supremacy of the British for generations to come."
"Until the Indians decide they won’t put up with it. There are a lot more of them than of us."
Hubert raised a brow. "We have the guns. You should appreciate that."
"Guns can change hands. You should appreciate that." Julien regarded his uncle for a moment. "You believe in stability. Above all things, it often seems. There’s precious little stability in being dependent on an oppressed majority. Whether or not they’re technically called slaves."
"My God, Julien. I used to be able to at least depend on you for healthy cynicism."
"You think recognizing the power imbalance in the world isn’t cynical?"
"Phrased as a call to uprising?" Hubert tugged a cuff smooth. "Yes. You make the mistake of thinking the masses are as rational as you are."
"Oh, I don’t think I’m in the least rational. But I do think giving all of us in our irrationality an equal say is the best solution."
Hubert gave a grunt of incredulity. "You’ve lost your sense, Julien. Even your Bonaparte didn’t believe that."
"Oh, not in the least. But he was hardly my Bonaparte. Even his wife wasn’t my Josephine, though I did share her bed. Let me get you some more champagne."
12
Mélanie looked at Cordelia as she finished explaining about Alice Wilton and the letters. "Well, this changes things. Though it was always going to be an issue."
Malcolm shot a look at her.
Mélanie looked at her husband. "I may not have as finely tuned scruples as you, darling, but I knew we’d have to examine the letters and see how much damage they could do, whoever had written them, before we decided what to do with them. I certainly want to help the queen’s cause, but someone’s life and reputation are at stake."
Malcolm nodded.
"It shouldn’t make a difference that it’s someone we know," Cordelia said. "But it does put it in perspective."
They were on the balcony, gathered together at the rail. Others had sought refuge on the balcony, especially couples seeking a quiet moment, but leaning over the gilded rail, they could easily appear to simply be admiring the colored lanterns Mélanie and Cordelia had helped choose to hang in the garden below. Strains of music sounded from the ballroom behind them. Colored lights danced below, illuminating more guests who had gone out into the garden. An occasional laugh or flirtatious giggle floated up on the breeze.
"Interesting it was Thornsby who had the letters," Malcolm said. "I wonder if the League managed to get them from his things after he was killed, despite our efforts. Or if he turned them over long before."
"And if the League suggested he have an affair with Alice Wilton," Mélanie said.
Malcolm met her gaze. "Quite."
"You think Lady Shroppington—or, at least, her faction in the League—were orchestrating this from the beginning?" Cordelia asked.
"Information about Princess Caroline—the queen—has been valuable for a long time," Malcolm said. "A good strategist—which Lady Shroppington certainly is—could have seen ahead to where we are now. If she knew Alice Wilton was friendly with the queen, it would have made sense for her to suggest Lewis get close to Lady Wilton. And it also might explain setting Edith to spy on the Wiltons."
"It doesn’t change the immediate objective," Mélanie said. "We have to figure out who has the letters now. And get them back—even if it’s someone on our side when it comes to the queen."
"Dalton could wake up at any moment now," Cordelia said. "I’m rather looking forward to confronting him."
"Has anyone told Raoul the letters were dummies?" Mélanie asked. "I haven’t seen him since before we took the fake letters off Dalton."
Malcolm frowned. "Nor have I."
Raoul slipped into an anteroom hung with pale blue silk. Not the first time he’d had a secret meeting in this room. It was conveniently small, and yet one could slip into it through the enfiladed reception rooms without drawing attention by going down the first-floor passage.
The woman he had come to meet was sitting in the shadows, leaning back in her chair as though she had escaped the ball with a headache. She might be little more than twenty, but her instincts were superb. At his entrance, she cast a glance up, then seeing it was he, pushed herself to her feet and stepped forwards. "I don’t think anyone saw me."
"I’m quite sure they didn’t. You’re very good at this."
Sofia Montagu smiled, though her gaze remained level. "I’m still a novice compared to most of our friends."
When Raoul first met Sofia during their stay at Lake Como two years ago, she’d been scarcely out of the schoolroom, but even then she’d been working for the Carbonari and had managed to break the Elsinore League’s formidable codes. Raoul pulled a sealed paper from inside his coat. "This bank draft should allow the necessary funds to be transferred. I’ve already moved assets to Italy."
Sofia took the paper and inclined her head. "You know how much Metternich has papers searched in Lombardy. But the Carbonari have excellent channels for avoiding his agents. I use them myself
for communicating with my mother and Uncle Bernard, so no one will be suspicious when I send this." She looked into Raoul’s eyes. "This has to remain secret."
"I understand."
Sofia tucked the paper into the bodice of her gown without embarrassment but with care, as though perhaps trying not to dislodge her corset laces. Raoul glanced tactfully away. "You don’t want Malcolm to know," Sofia said. "That makes sense. But I also don’t want Kit to know. It could hurt his relationship with his father."
Raoul nodded. Sofia and Kit Montagu had been married less than six months, after a long betrothal and a great deal of time separated, with him in Britain and her in Italy. "I appreciate your running the risk."
"I’m more pragmatic about these things than Kit is. And in some ways, I know Uncle Bernard better." She hesitated. Uncle Bernard was Lord Thurston, Kit’s father, who had run off to Italy over fifteen years ago to live with Sofia’s mother. And who supported his two families by dealing in guns. Some of which Raoul was buying for his agents in Spain. "I know Uncle Bernard isn’t a Radical. I know he arms all sides. But he takes his promises seriously. I don’t think he’ll betray you. But you should be cautious."
Raoul smiled. "Believe me, I always am."
Her gaze was clear and steady. "It’s different for Kit. He hasn’t seen fighting. Not the sort you have. Not the sort I grew up with. It changes one. It changes the calculations. It’s all less theoretical."
"Sofia—" Raoul hesitated, looking down at her young, determined face, oddly reminded of Mélanie in their days in Spain. "You and Kit are just starting out. You want to have a care for your marriage."
Sofia laughed, though her eyes had gone worldly-wise beyond her years. "Does any of us really have the luxury of doing that?"
"It’s always a balancing act. But you have a chance to strike a good balance."
She adjusted her shawl. "We’re doing the best we can. Isn’t that all we can do, as you would say?"
"Yes. But one has to weigh the risks against the rewards. Some prices are too high to pay."