by Deb Marlowe
She didn’t hear the shout, but Brynne saw Francis come to attention. The child watched as a tall man detached himself from the crowd at the opposite corner. A carter cursed and pulled to the side as the man jumped off the pavement, dodging traffic, and started across the street. Brynne dashed out onto the busy street, hoping to make better speed, but with a small smile, the girl faded into the crowd. The gentleman pushed his way after her, attempting to follow.
By the time Brynne reached the corner, they had both disappeared. She stood, frustrated and indecisive, turning first on one foot and then the other. In the end, she decided that Francis had more experience than she did. She squared her shoulders, determined to take the chance that the child had bought her.
Traffic eased as soon as she entered the wider streets of the Square proper. She knew Marstoke’s house. She and her father had visited there. Pulling her cloak tight, she walked boldly up to the same mansion where she’d once been meant to become mistress.
The footman who answered showed a moment’s surprise at the sight of the bedraggled woman on his front stoop, then gathered himself and looked right through her. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” he said woodenly.
Relieved that he only saw the woman she was pretending to be, she put out a hand to stop the closing door and looked up and around at the impressive house. “Marstoke House, isn’t it?” She let just a hint of Francis’s East End accent to color her words. “Well?”
He nodded.
“Then there’s no mistake. I’ve been ordered here.”
He gaped at her. “Ordered?”
“Aye, ordered.” She heaved a sigh. “You look to be a fine, handsome man. Smart, too, to be trusted in such an important position.”
He stood a little straighter.
“I’ll wager you know what it is to have tired feet at the end of a long day.” She let a tinge of weariness creep into her voice as she shifted her stance. “It’s a long way over here and mine are aching something terrible.” She sighed and bent over. Despite himself, the footman watched with interest while she rustled with her skirts and reached into the pocket sewed into the bottom of her shift.
She straightened. “All I know is I’m to be waiting for his lordship when he arrives home, in a certain brown leather chair before the fire in his study.” She held up a coiled leather strap and black, silken mask. “And I’m to have these with me.”
The footman flushed a deep, rich red.
“What’s your name, sir?” She smiled at him, lacing it with camaraderie and a hint of fire.
“Robert,” he whispered.
“Well, Robert, I’ve never met his lordship, but I heard an earful. I’m sure I’d not wish to be the one to explain why I’m not in the spot I was meant to be in.” She leaned in. “Is that what you wish?”
His color drained away. “No.” He opened the door. “Come in then. But you are not to leave the study.”
She raised a saucy brow. “Believe me, Robert, I’ve no wish to do anything but rest and gather my strength while I’ve got the chance.”
He flushed again as he bent to take up a candle. She chuckled, good-natured and low, as she followed him towards the back of the house. He pushed open the ornate door and entered ahead of her to light a lamp on the desk.
Brynne paused and looked around admiringly, as if unfamiliar with the room. “This is fine, isn’t it?” she asked. She crossed to the afore-mentioned chair and slid a hand across the high top. “Ah, here we are.”
Robert retreated. “I’ll be watching,” he warned.
She leaned on the chair and winked at him from across the room. “Give a listen later and I’ll warrant you’ll get something out of it.” She grinned. “But only if you have a pretty little housemaid to help you proper.”
The door closed with a sharp click.
Brynne crossed straight to the desk centered on the far wall. She tossed her cloak back, over her shoulders, but kept it on. She sat down, ran her fingers along the edge, feeling the significance of the moment. Determination filled her, and fierce hope, as well as a thin knife’s edge of fear. Holding her breath, she tried a drawer.
Unlocked. Her heart sank. Marstoke wasn’t a fool. Still, the search had to be made. She closed her eyes, sent out a silent plea for help, and began.
She left nothing unturned. Ledgers, files, contracts, estate reports and foreign newspapers. She even discovered the secret panel at the back of the center drawer. It contained only a thick ring of many, various sized keys. She took it out, replaced the panel and sat the heavy ring in the midst of the desk.
She stared at it, lost in thought. An unlocked desk was too public, too accessible to contain anything incriminating. But these keys, they opened up new possibilities.
Marstoke lived a lie. He had a benign public facade that had nothing to do with the evil that lurked in his soul. He enjoyed the duality, the duplicity of it. Why would it not carry over to this situation?
It would be like him to have a secret place. And while it could, of course, be anywhere—in the city or even on one of his estates—Brynne didn’t believe so. It would please him to have it here, a dark hole under a glittering surface, a hideaway from which he could chart his evil course, right under the noses of those he meant to harm.
She gazed about the study. It had to be here, in the house. But Marstoke’s greatest triumph would come if he could hide it right in this spot, almost in plain sight of where he did his normal business.
Brynne stood. She paced the floor, taken with the idea of a secret staircase, but though she examined the place closely, even lifting the heavy edges of the carpets, she could find no seams or signs of a trapdoor.
She blushed a little as she recalled Aldmere’s secretary’s office, tucked in a shadowed corner, but found nothing in the four corners of the room.
The back wall was filled entirely with bookshelves. She took up the lamp and trailed along them, running a finger along the spine of every book, looking for something suspicious—a lever perhaps, or a false book to hide a latch behind. Damn Marstoke, but she found nothing except the fact that he possessed quite a credible library.
She reached the end and stopped. Light from the lamp reflected off of the last of the carved and gilded wall sconces that were placed in intervals between the bookshelves. She reached up and explored the finely wrought metal with her fingers. Nothing. No hidden button or switch.
She went back to check the others, but each was the same as the last—until she reached the second sconce from the end.
There. Tucked onto the back plate, but nearly invisible beneath the shadow of the elaborate metal work—a tiny keyhole.
Heart racing, fingers shaking, she set down the lamp and ran to fetch the ring of keys. She fumbled a little as she tried the smallest specimen, but it wouldn’t fit. The next one did.
She heard the tiny snick—and the bookcase to the left of her silently rotated out until it stood perpendicular to the wall.
Brynne froze. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, though she knew she was alone in the room. Triumph and excitement flooded her veins, along with the cold chill of fear. She pushed it all aside. This was what she had come for. Dropping the keys into her pocket, she took up the lamp again and stepped through the narrow entrance.
It was a larger space than she had expected. Cozier, too. The wall opposite boasted a finely carved mantle, though the hearth looked clean and cool. The wall at her left was lined again with books. To her right a stack of paintings leaned against the wall. In a far corner stood a curio cabinet. From here she could see strange animal skeletons, a ratty old wig and old bits of rusted metal.
But it was the small and elegantly masculine desk in the center of the room that grabbed her attention. Lacquered a shining ebony, she knew with a glance that it held what she was looking for.
Turning, she swung the bookcase door, leaving it cracked open a bit. She crossed to the desk and tested a drawer. Locked. She sat down, uncomfortable here, as
she had not been in the study. She could well imagine Marstoke here. He would feel safe, comfortable. Free to scheme, to destroy and to indulge his wicked fantasies. She fished for the correct key, burning with the need to shatter that complacent, superior image. At last a key turned in the lock. Determination quickened in her breast as she reached for the first drawer.
It didn’t take long this time, to find something useful. Right away she pulled out several years' worth of copies of The Harris List of Covent Garden Ladies. Each volume was well worn, with pages marked and notes made in the margin. She stacked them on the desk and kept going.
Soon after, she found a thick file containing multiple clippings from last year’s newspapers, all pertaining to the leaked documents of the ‘Delicate Investigation’ against the Princess Caroline. It also held a complete transcript of the original testimony from the neighbors and servants of the Princess. All of the accusations of her flirtations and infidelities, of harassment, strange behavior, and of the supposed birth of an illegitimate child, were heavily circled, underlined and noted. She placed the whole file with the Lists on the desk.
One find puzzled her. In a bottom drawer sat a pile of ledgers. She took up the smallest, perched on top, only to find several lists of initials and women’s names. Each entry was followed by a set of dates and short notations such as Wynwood Chapel, Falstaff presiding, or in lieu of Sarler’s debt. In addition, each entry ended with one of several labels: Traded, Discarded, Transported or Deceased. An odd shiver went up her spine as she closed the cover, although she could not make heads or tails of it. This one she replaced, although she resolved to discuss it with Hestia.
A clock struck in the study beyond, its chimes indistinct from here. Brynne quickened her pace, though she paused at a drawer full of files labeled with individual names—dozens of them, crammed together. She saw the Prime Minister’s name, and others from government and society’s circles, even those of well-known scientists, bankers and tradesmen. She caught sight of her father’s name and shut the drawer abruptly. She didn’t want to know.
In the last drawer she found only an ornate, wooden box. She pulled it free and set it on the desk. When she lifted the lid, a flowery, feminine scent drifted out.
Letters. A thick stack of them. She gasped as she caught the signature on the first one.
Quickly she began to read, one after the other. These were airy, girlish letters, written to a confidante. They were filled with emotion and a subtle need for understanding. Copies of Marstoke’s replies were included, in timely order—and Brynne could only marvel at the sheer arrogance and confidence that led the man to keeping such a record.
For the coquettish missives, rife with shy confessions, indignant outrages, and pleas for advice, were written by the Princess Charlotte, only daughter of the Regent and his wife, and heir to the throne of England. Marstoke’s answers were sympathetic, humble, avuncular and subtly steering.
Brynne set the stack down carefully. It felt treasonous and wrong to even be reading this private correspondence. Clearly these were not letters channeled through the Princess Charlotte’s normal post—those, it was rumored, were examined by her father’s representatives. No, for these were full of the Princess’s loneliness, and her frustrations with both her selfish parents. They detailed her growing resentment and reluctance toward her betrothal to the Prince of Orange, of her growing wish to break it off completely. And through it all she thanked Marstoke again and again for being her confidante, her support, her advisor.
Brynne couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been, how long he must have labored to nurture such a relationship. The Princess was rarely in Court or at public functions. Years, it might have taken. And clearly he had the sympathy of someone in the Princess’s household too, someone willing to smuggle their clandestine correspondence.
Brynne felt nauseated. How like Marstoke to prey upon the miseries of a young girl! And not just any young girl, for the Princess Charlotte was the nation’s great hope. On the whole, the English populace despised the Regent and sympathized with his wife, Princess Caroline, but it was their daughter they looked to for a bright future.
She understood now. The Love List would both stain the Princess of Wales and set the people into a frenzy of anger and discontent against the Prince Regent for acting the bully. Marstoke and Hatch spoke of grand changes to come, and the Prince was so unpopular, Brynne didn’t think it would take much to spur the people to protest widely against him.
And all along, Marstoke would be standing behind the scenes—manipulating events and acting the steady, caring mentor to the Princess as she grew into her sovereign role.
Brynne stood. She replaced the box, but kept the letters along with the other papers she’d accumulated. She paused, staring at the unwieldy stack, and after a moment’s contemplation she tossed the ring of keys on top, whipped off her cloak and bundled them all inside it. She turned to go . . . then hesitated again.
Reaching into her bodice, she pulled out a wooden token—another one with a swan etched into it. Carefully, she placed it in the very center of the ebony desk.
She wanted to leave a sign. Marstoke would not immediately know what it meant, but imagining his puzzlement, his anger and frustration, elevated the height of this triumph. Eventually he would learn the meaning behind it—and then he would know who had violated his inner sanctum. He would know who had derailed his plans—just as he had knocked her life askew.
She took the bundle, left the lamp, and paused at the cracked bookcase door. No sound came from the study beyond. Slowly she turned the bookcase on its pivot—and came face to face with Hatch.
Shock rippled down her spine and rooted her feet to the floor.
“You!” Hatch must have spotted the light coming through the cracked doorway. Brynne had caught her creeping close, a pistol drawn and leveled.
“You do turn up in the unlikeliest places,” the pimp marveled. “My God, when that fool footman said my girl was already here, I had no idea what he was talking about—but I never expected you.” Hatch looked her up and down. “I see we both had the same idea. Find the dirt on Marstoke while he’s guaranteed busy elsewhere.” She gestured with the pistol toward the bulky package in Brynne’s arms and then stood on tiptoe, peering past her. “Back inside,” she ordered. “This I must see for myself.”
The other woman stopped to examine the pivoting bookcase. “Where’s the trigger?”
Brynne stared, silent.
“Where?” Hatch barked, waving the gun again.
She gritted her teeth. “The keyhole is in the wall plate of the sconce.”
The pimp reached up to examine it. “Ah. I knew there had to be a bolt-hole, but I admit I might not have found this. You did well.” Brynne grunted as the other woman shoved a shoulder into her. “Now, move away. I want to see it.”
Hatch pushed them both in. “Stand away from the door,” she ordered.
Brynne moved stiffly to stand by the stacked paintings while the pimp took the few steps around the small space. She glared at Hatch’s steady hand as the other woman kept her pistol level and trained in her direction, even as she examined the books, trailed a finger along the mantle and stopped to examine the curios in the cabinet.
“Thumb screws?” Hatch asked with a laugh. “Ancient torture implements? Marstoke is in danger of appearing predictable.” The pimp moved on to the desk. She picked up the token and raised a brow at Brynne. “Yours?”
“Hatch? Hatch? Where’d ye get to?” The low-pitched call came from the study.
“In here!”
The large bodyguard Brynne had encountered in the pimp’s den lumbered to the narrow entrance. He peered inside. “Oh, there ye are. Found somethin’.” He took a step back. Shifting position, he dragged Francis Headley into view by her collar. “She was lingerin’ outside.”
Hatch looked from Brynne to the child. “Search her pockets.”
“I did,” the man answered. He held up a wooden token. “Al
l she had was this.”
The pimp looked to Brynne again as a wide smile stretched across her face.
Twenty-One
Lord M— anticipated my collapse. He awaited tears, pleading, paralyzing fear and despair. He is still waiting.
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
“What say you, your Grace?”
Aldmere drew himself straight, but kept a position close to the bookcase. “I say that you’ve forgotten one important fact, Marstoke—my brother’s friendship with the Regent.”
The other man’s eyes lit up. “On the contrary, I am counting on it. When the List is released with your brother’s name on it, it will easy enough to convince the world that the Prince of Wales was in truth behind such an immature and slanderous attack on his wife.” He tilted his head. “Or did you think that you could take your tale to the Regent?” He laughed. “You’d be doing me a service, setting him into a paranoid frenzy.”
The marquess narrowed his gaze and Aldmere saw the moment that he decided to make the gamble.
“Do you not see how easy this will be?” Marstoke asked. His mood had become light, almost carefree. “Think on it. The Regent himself has done half the work for us. The people see him for what he is: a deceiver, a drunkard, a voluptuary, a wastrel. They lost respect for him years ago. Then Brougham and his reform-minded Whigs came along and nearly finished the job. They’ve waged a campaign against him and shown him to be an evil, abusive husband and an uncaring father.”
Aldmere kept still, but Marstoke didn’t require encouragement. “I admit I thought first of Caroline.” He shook his head. “But she is too strange and unpredictable. I leave her to Brougham, though he’ll be hard put to convince her to even stay in England. His ambition has blinded him and he does not see her as she truly is. No, Caroline wants to go abroad more than she wants power. There will be no place for her in the new order.”