Lords of Misrule (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 4)

by Stella Riley

  Eden decided that a reply saying he’d come when he could wasn’t going to help much. There would be no chance to visit Thorne Ash on the way to Scotland. The best he could do would be to go there on the way back – and since God alone knew when that would be, Ralph was likely to take a swing at him the minute he got off his horse. This wasn’t a happy thought. His brother-in-law was even bigger than Toby and a mass of pure muscle.

  Having been assured by Nicholas that there had been no further disturbances in Duck Lane, Eden took an hour the following afternoon to visit the shops in the Exchange. He’d arranged the annual stipend for Deborah with his man-of-law but wanted something tangible to give her on her wedding day. The trouble was that he had no idea what she would not only like but also find acceptable.

  The hour he’d set aside slid fruitlessly by and then the one after it. Gifts of clothing would not be appropriate and, if he wanted jewellery, he could buy it from Tobias. He looked at books, at small paintings and ornaments but nothing seemed quite right. He was just staring at a lavish display of bolts of cloth at Howells when a familiar voice said, ‘If you need a new coat, Colonel, you’d do better at Bennetts in Paternoster Row.’

  And there, a large basket over her arm, stood the answer to his dilemma – disguised as Lydia Neville.

  ‘Good day, Mistress,’ he said with a smile. And, reaching out his hand, ‘May I carry that for you?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s no need. I’m just delivering the shop’s order from Strand Alley.’ And, lifting the linen covering the basket, ‘It’s mostly lace because that’s their speciality but there are some other trimmings as well and various bits of embroidery.’

  ‘I see. I’m no judge of these things … but it looks very fine work.’

  ‘It is. They have customers for every yard they make and more enquiries than they can currently fulfil. But you’ll have to excuse me, Colonel. Mistress Howell is waiting.’

  And she hurried away.

  Eden loitered in the doorway, hoping she wouldn’t be long. Two ladies eyed him surreptitiously as they went by, then whispered to each other and giggled. A third conducted a frank appraisal and walked slowly past him, swinging her hips and sending him a provocative smile over her shoulder. Eden felt stupidly conspicuous.

  Fortunately, Mistress Neville reappeared before embarrassment took over. She looked extremely pleased with herself until she caught sight of him and her expression turned to one of mingled surprise and suspicion.

  ‘Still here, Colonel? Your devotion to duty is quite admirable – but I’m hardly likely to be attacked or abducted in broad daylight, am I?’

  ‘One would certainly hope not. But I waited in the hope that you might help me with something.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt a twinge of pleasure and mentally berated herself. ‘I’ll try. What is it?’

  ‘As I think I told you, my housekeeper is shortly to be married and I want to buy a gift for her. But I’ve walked around here until I’m dizzy and all to no avail. I’d like the gift to be personal but not something that might be deemed … unsuitable, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I think so. No cooking-pots or household linen … but no jewellery, perfumes or items of clothing either.’ Lydia wrinkled her brow and thought about it. ‘Is she young?’

  ‘Of a similar age to yourself, I imagine.’

  ‘And how does she like to spend her leisure time?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She used to spend it in bed with me. ‘She’s always so busy I doubt she gets much.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ She frowned at him. ‘Are you a tyrant or merely a domestic nightmare?’

  ‘Neither, I hope,’ replied Eden stiffly. ‘I don’t believe I’m particularly demanding and I’ve repeatedly offered to hire extra help but --’ He stopped, as laughter flared in the light blue eyes. ‘Ah. That was a low blow, Mistress.’

  ‘I know. And you walked straight into it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. But I’ll know better next time.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Lydia cheerfully. ‘Very well. We will go to Mr Holt’s shop on Old Jewry where we will find a fine collection of decorative boxes.’

  ‘Boxes?’ he echoed dubiously.

  ‘Yes. The sort a lady might use for jewellery or letters – or, indeed, anything of a valuable or sentimental nature.’ She grinned up at him and slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Trust me. I believe you’ll find just the thing.’

  As soon as they had left the crowds thronging the Exchange behind them, Lydia casually remarked that she’d had a long talk with Sir Nicholas.

  So, as it happened, had Eden – and thus discovered the circumstances behind Lydia’s marriage to Stephen Neville.

  ‘Aubrey told me,’ Nicholas had said. And, having related what he knew, added, ‘The marriage seems to have been happy – or at least as happy as one might expect over such an age gap. But from Lydia’s point of view, it can hardly have been ideal.’

  Thoughtfully non-committal, Eden had agreed with him.

  Now, however, he merely looked at Lydia and said, ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hoped Nicholas wouldn’t share the whole of that conversation – such as the fact she’d asked if Eden was married and, on learning that his wife had died, had put a knowing smile to Nicholas’s face by saying ‘Oh. Recently?’ ‘He told me what you did for him.’

  Eden shrugged, not really wanting to discuss it.

  ‘I didn’t do anything very much.’

  ‘You saved his life.’

  ‘No. It was Deb-- it was my housekeeper who did that.’

  ‘Which wouldn’t have been possible if you hadn’t risked your own position to help a Catholic Royalist.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Don’t pretend it was nothing, Colonel. It was a very great deal.’

  ‘If you say so.’ His slow, almost lazy smile dawned. ‘Does this mean my other faults have become a little less unacceptable?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. That smile is dangerous. I wonder how many women have fallen into his lap because of it? ‘But I would strongly advise you not to count on that when you start dishing out your orders as if everyone were one of your troopers.’

  ‘Yourself, you mean.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  * * *

  Eden returned home with an exquisitely-carved and inlaid cedar box. Mistress Neville had been right. It was the perfect gift for Deborah. He’d even quite enjoyed buying it and had found his companion’s delight in it rather touching. He wondered if she had such a box of her own … and then told himself not to be an idiot.

  He found Tobias in the parlour, scowling into space.

  ‘What?’ asked Eden, knowing what that look meant.

  ‘Deborah’s found us a housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh.’ His pleasure in the afternoon promptly dimmed. ‘That’s good. I suppose.’

  ‘Not necessarily.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘She’s got the kind of chest that you just can’t avoid looking at.’

  In spite of himself, Eden laughed. ‘I daresay you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ said Tobias darkly. ‘She was here earlier and Deborah had her bake a pie. Matt Turner found no less than three reasons to leave the shop and the apprentices haven’t stopped sniggering since they first clapped eyes on her.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘I don’t know. My eyes haven’t travelled that far up yet.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘It is bloody serious.’ Tobias stood up and stretched his considerable frame. ‘The pie was almost as good as one of Deborah’s. So the bugger of it is that we’ll have to hire her.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  ELEVEN

  Saturday May 13th dawned overcast but dry, with a light wind blowing off the river. And lurking in the shadowy precincts behind St Saviour and St Mary Overie, thirty men waited to throw themselves into action.

  Since Cromwell was known to leave Whitehall for Hampton Court
early in the morning, Colonel Gerard’s small troop had been in place from first light. The marksman, so Gerard said, had taken up his position in a deserted barn some little way further down the Clapham road from where – should the main attack fail – he expected to get a clear shot.

  Everyone was edgy.

  Aubrey’s nerves were in shreds. He didn’t want to be there at all but hadn’t known how to get out of it without either pretending to be ill or being labelled a turncoat. Apparently Major Halsall had no such qualms – as he’d failed to turn up.

  Time passed, the church clock chimed eight and everybody got restless.

  ‘At what time does Cromwell normally pass this spot?’ asked Mr Wiseman.

  ‘Around now,’ grunted Henshaw. ‘We should mount up.’

  Once their saddles were occupied but there was no sign that they were going anywhere, the horses became as fidgety as the men. Aubrey, striving to control a great hulking brute of a grey, hoped they got on the road before the damned horse dislocated his shoulders.

  More time passed.

  The Protector’s coach didn’t.

  ‘How much longer do we wait?’ asked young Charles Gerard.

  ‘Another half-hour,’ replied his brother. His voice remained perfectly level but worry lurked in his eyes. ‘Ride back towards Whitehall and try to find out what’s going on. But don’t draw attention to yourself by careering through the streets – and don’t ask questions that might be deemed suspicious. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ agreed Charles, plainly exhilarated at being given a task and wasting no time in setting about it.

  ‘He’s seventeen,’ murmured Gerard to Aubrey, as if it explained everything.

  ‘Yes.’ The only coherent thought in Aubrey’s head was that, if Cromwell didn’t appear soon, the mission would have to be aborted. The possibility of a reprieve coupled with the equal possibility that the Protector wasn’t there because the plot had been betrayed made him dizzy. He said, ‘Perhaps he’s been taken ill or something. Cromwell, I mean.’

  ‘It could be any one of a dozen things. But if today doesn’t go as planned, we’ll need to find another way. And fast.’

  Aubrey’s stomach sank. ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Henshaw’s idea of falling on Cromwell when he goes to chapel, probably.’ Gerard stared bleakly between his horse’s ears. ‘But since we can’t be ready by tomorrow, it will have to wait until next Sunday.’

  Aubrey tried to make himself say, “I’m sorry, John – I can’t do this again. I’d like to – but I just can’t.” But somehow the words stuck in his throat and he couldn’t seem to force them out. Like Gerard and most of the other men, he relapsed into brooding silence.

  Some twenty minutes later, Charles Gerard re-appeared, wild-eyed with agitation. Loud enough for everyone to hear, he said baldly, ‘Cromwell’s not coming. He went by boat from Whitehall two hours ago. Rob Harrison was at Millbank and saw him sail by. He’ll be the other side of Chelsea by now. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Calm down and stop bloody shouting!’ snapped Henshaw with his usual charm. ‘I need to think.’

  * * *

  Within twenty-four hours of the aborted Royalist plot, agents brought more names for Colonel Maxwell to add to the two he already had. Thomas Henshaw, John Wiseman and Somerset Fox were among the first; then, on Monday, came Peter Vowell, Charles Gerard and the Reverend Hudson … and by Tuesday afternoon, Roger Whitley, Charles Finch and a fellow called Billingsly.

  Eden frowned at the names, unsure what to make of them. He remembered Colonel Whitley from the Ship Tavern fiasco and Charles would be John Gerard’s younger brother. As for Henshaw … he wondered how much Gerard knew about him; whether, for example, he was aware that, like the fellow who’d drowned back in March, the Major had for some time now been keeping himself clear of arrest by furnishing Secretary Thurloe’s office with snippets of largely useless information. Somehow, Eden doubted it.

  The others on the growing list were unfamiliar. However, by the next morning, specific enquiries had yielded numerous bits of apparently unrelated information which Eden recorded alongside the names.

  John Wiseman; brother-in-law to Thomas Henshaw

  Peter Vowell; a schoolmaster from Islington

  Edward Hudson; a blind cleric, also from Islington

  Somerset Fox; one of the Gerards’ numerous kinsmen

  Mr Billingsly; given name unknown, a Smithfield butcher

  Mr Tudor; given name unknown, an apothecary

  Overall, decided Eden, it was probably the least likely collection of conspirators one could possibly imagine. A part-time informer, a schoolmaster, a blind vicar, a butcher and an apothecary; not exactly a group destined to strike fear into the heart of the establishment – even when one took into account a sprinkling of experienced soldiers like Whitley. The trouble was that this was the second such plot inside three months and Thurloe wasn’t going to care that it might never have amounted to anything. This time, he was going to make sure the Cavaliers kept their heads down for the foreseeable future by putting the fear of God into them.

  Then again – but for a timely fragment of information - I suppose it might have amounted to something.

  Eden had little fondness for Cromwell these days … but he favoured cold-blooded murder no more now than he had a year ago when he’d accidentally discovered a plot to assassinate Charles Stuart and his brother. Regardless of victim’s identity, murder was still murder.

  Sighing, he made his way to Thurloe’s office and delivered his report.

  ‘Bring one of them in for questioning,’ said the Secretary. ‘Do it quietly. Choose someone on the fringes of the plot but not so far from the centre that they won’t know anything useful. And if you can pick a fellow who won’t immediately be missed, so much the better.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Is that all? You’re sure you wouldn’t like one with blue eyes or a limp? ‘Which one of them would you suggest?’

  ‘I leave that to you, Colonel. Good day.’

  Back in his office, Eden seethed quietly whilst devoting a few minutes to his own concerns. He scrawled a note to Lambert outlining the current situation and pointing out that, if the Major-General expected him to leave for Scotland on the 25th, he had only nine days left in which to convey the glad tidings to Secretary Thurloe and prevent Eden being chained to his desk for the duration of the current upheaval.

  Then he settled down to address the task in hand.

  For obvious reasons, the man he wanted to arrest was Henshaw … but that would put Gerard and the rest on high alert, so he considered the apothecary instead. Tudor’s name had been linked with Colonel Gerard’s in that first letter – which suggested he’d been part of the conspiracy since its inception. The trouble was that the idea of an apothecary being either useful or neck-deep in a murder plot struck Eden as completely ludicrous. On the surface, the same seemed to be true of the schoolmaster, the butcher and the blind parson. And though Wiseman and Fox were probably key players, their disappearance – like that of Henshaw – would immediately set alarm bells ringing.

  Damn.

  Charles Gerard, then. He was a possibility. In Eden’s view, though you might not keep your younger brother completely in the dark, you certainly didn’t put him in the firing-line; and the fact that Charles lodged in Aldgate while John had rooms near the Temple, supported the notion that the brothers didn’t necessarily meet every day.

  Yes. That might work – for a while, at least. And if it stops a callow boy playing the kind of game that eventually leads to the scaffold, so much the better.

  Colonel Maxwell got up and sent one of his clerks for Major Moulton.

  ‘Arrest Charles Gerard – but discreetly. I’d rather there weren’t any witnesses. And you can take your time. A day’s delay will do no harm and might even be helpful.’

  * * *

  Major Moulton brought the young man to Westminster at dusk on Wednesday evening and installed him in a secure but comfortable ch
amber below stairs. Colonel Maxwell left the prisoner to stew overnight and conducted his first interview on the following morning. Since the lad – and, really, he was little more than that – was clearly terrified, Eden allowed him more latitude than he might normally have done and bore patiently with the usual stream of denials.

  No, he knew nothing of any plot against the Protector.

  No, he didn’t believe his brother would ever countenance any such plot.

  And no, he wasn’t acquainted with Thomas Henshaw and didn’t know any apothecaries or blind vicars.

  ‘And what of Roger Whitley and Somerset Fox?’ asked Eden, deceptively bland.

  ‘Oh.’ Charles froze and then stared down at his hands. ‘Well, yes. They’re relatives, so naturally …’ He stopped and then added rapidly, ‘But we’re not close. I hardly ever see them. In fact, I c-can’t recall the last time I did.’

  ‘Ah. Doubtless your brother knows them better.’

  ‘He – he might. I don’t know.’

  Eden leaned back in his chair and contemplated the youth thoughtfully and in silence. Finally, when Charles started to fidget, he said gently, ‘Mr Gerard … if I didn’t already have certain information, you wouldn’t be here. You should try to bear that in mind. And though I sympathise with your reluctance to betray your brother, you might consider the fact that, as yet, he has done nothing irrevocable. Your best chance of keeping it that way is to tell me what you know.’ He rose and summoned Ned Moulton with lift of his chin. ‘I’ll give you until tomorrow to think about it.’

  In the event, it was Saturday before Charles started talking but, once he did, the words flowed like a torrent.

  The plan to kill Cromwell had come from Henshaw. John hadn’t liked it and the King hadn’t sanctioned it. After the assassination, they’d intended to seize the Mews and other places and proclaim Charles the Second. Somerset Fox had been raising the apprentices and a schoolmaster from Islington had provided horses. And so it went … on and on and on.

  By the time Charles stopped talking, Colonel Maxwell’s list had grown by another dozen names and he suspected there were more to come. He was relieved that, so far, Sir Aubrey Durand was not among them and mildly disappointed that neither was Sir Ellis Brandon. Meanwhile, amongst what he had learned so far was one particular piece of information that wouldn’t wait so he strode in on Thurloe and said, ‘It’s not certain – but there’s a possibility they may try to cut Cromwell down tomorrow on his way to chapel. What are your orders?’