by Tarah Scott
Lord Redgrave appeared at Phoebe's side and Kiernan was sure he heard her groan.
"Your Grace," she addressed his father, then looked at Kiernan, "Lord Ashlund, may I present Lord Alistair Redgrave. He is a long time family friend and my escort tonight."
"Your Grace," Alistair said to the duke, then looked at Kiernan, "Lord Ashlund, my congratulations on your upcoming marriage."
Kiernan nodded. "Thank you."
"So, when is the wedding?" Regan said.
Phoebe shot him a look filled with daggers, but his grin didn’t falter.
"We're in the planning stage," Kiernan said.
"A year from now," Phoebe put in.
The duke cut his gaze onto her.
"As I said," Kiernan quickly added, "a proper wedding takes some time to plan."
"A year," Phoebe emphasized.
Her gaze moved past him and her eyes widened. Kiernan glanced over his shoulder to see her uncle headed toward them.
Kiernan grasped her hand and slipped it into the crook of his arm as he turned to face her uncle, and whispered, "Forgot all about him, didn't you?"
Her head snapped up and he read in her eyes that she would avenge herself on him for having brought his father and her uncle to corner her at the party. He was sure she would have said something had her uncle not reached them and pulled her into a hug.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Phoebe wished she could forget about her uncle. It was immediately clear a night’s rest hadn't softened him. They sat in his library, him behind his desk, her in the chair opposite him. She glanced at the portrait of her mother and father hanging on the wall behind him. Lord Albery had never replaced the picture with one of him and his wife. Tenderness rippled through her and she looked back at him.
“Uncle,” she said, “Lord Ashlund has explained the circumstances. Surely you understand my position?”
“The marquess was wrong to have taken you against your will," he replied. "But he wouldn't have mistaken you for Miss Ballingham had you not been in her company.”
“I wasn't in her company—”
“You're friends with her, aren’t you?”
Phoebe sighed. “Yes.”
“You were in her coach and,” he paused to give her a reproving look, “you were cavorting with her lover.”
“It's not as bad as all that, I assure you, Uncle.”
“Phoebe, I have tried my best to guide you.” Guilt replaced her earlier tenderness when his expression turned anxious. “But this sort of behavior... It is past time you married. Your aunt and I had never hoped to make such a fine connection for you. You will marry Ashlund."
“I have told him I will marry him,” Phoebe replied, “but not before a year.”
“A year, is it?”
“A year is an acceptable engagement.”
“Given the circumstances, don’t you think that is a bit overdone? Not to mention, women of your age don't usually wait any longer than necessary.”
“Afraid the marquess will change his mind?"
“Not in the least. The special license he obtained proves his intentions.”
“Special license?” Phoebe blurted. “He said nothing of this last night.”
“My guess is, he knew better.”
“I won't marry before a year,” she said.
“If you think to wait until after your twenty-fifth birthday, collect your inheritance, then thumb your nose at the lot of us, you can think again.”
“The money isn't the issue.”
“Indeed, it is,” he replied. “The arrangements have been made.” He paused, then added, “You are aware that I am in charge of your finances?”
“Of course.” She angled her head. “And a fine job you have done. I have no complaints.”
“Enough of the flattery. I have more control over matters than you might like.”
She stilled.
“There's a codicil to your mother’s will that gives me control of your inheritance.”
“What sort of control?”
“Your mother was concerned that fortune hunters…”
Phoebe kept her gaze steady. “Fortune hunters such as Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“You have the authority to withhold my inheritance?”
He nodded again.
“So, it would have done Brandon no good to marry me. Did he know this?”
Her uncle didn't answer immediately, but finally said, “He did.”
“Most interesting. Yet he married me anyway. How do you account for that?”
Silence drew out between them so long, Phoebe wondered if he would answer, but he did. “He told me that if I didn't pay him, he would ruin you.”
Phoebe drew a sharp breath.
“Forgive me, Phoebe. I didn't tell you then, because I felt you had suffered enough at his hand.”
“So,” she said, “when you wouldn’t pay, he made good on his threat.”
“Not exactly.”
Phoebe frowned.
“I did, indeed, pay.”
“Oh, Uncle,” she cried, “you didn’t.”
“Of course I did.” Lord Albery’s eyes softened. “I knew you were very much under his spell, and he had no compunctions about carrying out his threat.”
Phoebe reached across the desk and took his hand in hers.
A small smile touched his mouth. “It was well worth the money, my dear.”
“Why, then, did he marry me?” she asked.
Albery’s hand tightened on hers. “He thought to play both ends. He believed that when he told you I had paid him off, you would hate me, and I would do anything to regain your good graces to the extent of sanctioning your marriage.”
“Might I ask how much you paid?”
A bushy brow shot up. “You may not.”
“That much?” She released his hand and sat back in her chair. "And I wager you paid with your money, not mine." Red tinged his cheeks and she knew she'd hit the mark. "I have caused you a great deal of grief, haven’t I?” How much more would she cause if he knew she was a spy for the Crown?
“Enough of that," he said. "You're my brother’s daughter. I could not…” His words trailed off.
Phoebe smiled. “I know.”
“You understand, my dear, why it is I must withhold your inheritance?”
“You mean, the fact that you won't allow me to wait a year just so I can, as you say, thumb my nose at the lot of you?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I do. But I tell you, Uncle, I won't be rushed into marriage.”
Lord Albery leaned forward onto his desk. “He does seem a decent sort, Phoebe. His father was in full accord that the boy make things right. You know how rare that is for a man in his position.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I do. But that doesn't change the fact that I will be marrying a man I hardly know, and one who, despite his honor, doesn't care for me.”
“Such alliances aren't based on love.”
“True, but I hadn’t thought I would be forced into the typical marital mayhem.”
Memory surfaced of Kiernan's hard body pressed against hers and she couldn't help wonder what the typical marital mayhem would be like with him. His words from the night before came to mind, "I will pursue you, court you, and, lastly, seduce you." Desire sent a tingle through her. Yes, the seduction would be everything he promised. The marriage, however, was another matter.
Phoebe released a breath and was surprised to realize her heart had picked up speed. “I promise to give the matter full consideration,” she said in an even tone.
Lord Albery sighed. “The marquess has agreed that your inheritance will remain yours. However, if you don't marry him, I will see to it your inheritance does not fall to you until the age of thirty.”
She was dumbstruck. “You can't be serious.”
“Five more years, Phoebe.”
“Why? My inheritance will see me safely through life. Surely you see that?”
“Phoebe,
” he implored, “the money will see you have a house, but not a home. Not children, not a man to care for you.”
“He will care for me only as far as obligation demands. Once obligation is fulfilled, he will amuse himself elsewhere."
A speculative light came into Lord Albery’s eyes. “Why argue, then? That will leave you free to do as you wish.”
Oddly, the idea brought a stab of sadness, and she realized what she'd never let herself admit: her parents had been a love match and, in some distant future, she'd hoped for the same. To be tied to a man who had married her out of obligation was the worst prison she could imagine. No, she realized with a jolt. There was one worse fate: To be tied to a man she cared for who didn't care for her in return.
*****
The clock struck one and Phoebe rose from her bed. She lit the taper on the nightstand, then went to her bedchamber door. As expected, the hallway was deserted, and she closed the door, then carefully turned the lock with a soft click. By now her uncle would have retired, and her aunt had left hours ago, intent upon attending several soirées.
Phoebe retrieved a small locked chest in a corner behind other boxes in her armoire and carried it to her bed. She pulled the key from the nightstand drawer and unlocked the box. Her hands shook as she lifted Stafford’s letters from the chest. She laid the envelope containing the journal on her mattress beside her, feeling as if they weighed more than her strength could hold. She settled back against the pillows and unfolded the documents she wanted to reread.
It came as no surprise to hear the terror in Jenkins' voice when the brute demanded to know why Mallory was dealing with the likes of him. Jenkins related the same tale he had to me of how Mallory wanted Jenkins to discover if Wallington still lived. The brute demanded to know why Mallory wanted information on Wallington. Jenkins denied knowing his client's motives. I heard a sound that was clearly a fist against a man’s jaw, and Jenkins cried out. The man threatened worse if Jenkins didn’t come up with something more. Jenkins sniveled that it was all because of that ‘Lord Redgrave.’
The brute asked the very question I burned to know: who was Redgrave and what had he to do with the affair? Jenkins explained that Redgrave had been a close friend to Wallington, and since Wallington’s disappearance, Redgrave had made half a dozen trips to France.
“Nothing strange about that,” the brute said.
“There is when you go through Scotland,” Jenkins replied. “Mallory says Redgrave is trying to throw us off the track because he’s in contact with Wallington."
“Where in Scotland does he go? the brute demanded.
“Tain.
“Tain?" the man repeated. “Then he’s got to be going out of Dornoth Firth. Where does he go in France?”
"Paris.”
The brute made a few more threats, but Jenkins, no matter the menace, had nothing to add. The brute at last left and I followed. We soon left the seedier part of town and even as we entered the more affluent section of London, I knew where he was going. I instructed the hackney driver to slow as the brute's hackney turned onto the alley I'd expected him to take and, as we made the same turn, I saw the brute entering through the rear entrance of Lord Harrington's mansion.
December 1826
My investigations turned up nothing to indicate Redgrave was involved in any illicit activities. In the six months I observed him, he made one trip to France. It wasn’t until the fifth month, however, that I discovered that, like Wallington, Redgrave was employed as a British spy.
I began these investigations a year and a half ago, and only now does it occur to me that I should find out more about the one man who played the key role in Wallington’s condemnation: the young constable, Barry Doddard.
March 1827
I quickly learned that Doddard was a notorious rake, gambler, extortionist, and was quite willing to take bribes—just the sort of fellow from whom we are sworn to protect the citizens of London. There is only one way to deal with a man like Doddard. I waited outside the Golden Mount, a favored hell of his, and followed him until he was alone. He took me for a brigand set on killing him for his money, but I showed him my pistol before he could produce his, and said I only had questions for him. He lit a cigar, leaned against the wall of the building we stood near, and gave me leave to ask any questions I liked.
The instant I mentioned Mallory and Wallington’s names, however, he straightened and demanded that I stand aside. (I purposely kept Lord Harrington's name to myself. I have yet to understand Harrington's part in the Wallington affair, but it's obvious he is a big fish.) I threatened to expose Doddard's illegal actions to his superiors if he didn't answer my questions, to which he laughed and asked how I thought he had been able to maintain a position with the magistrate to begin with. My threat to pass on the information to the Bow Street Sheriff, John Stafford, had quite another affect, however.
He demanded to know how he could be certain I would keep quiet if he complied. “No guarantees,” I told him, “other than, if you do not answer my questions, I will have a runner on you before you reach home.”
By now, I deduced that Mallory must have paid him to denounce Wallington, and confronted Doddard with this accusation. "What did you expect?" he snarled. "Every war has its casualties."
I was stunned by this response and recalled my collaboration with Lord Sidmouth to entrap Thistlewood and his men. To my knowledge, only the Home Office and Cabinet knew of our operation—we were careful to keep all news of our plans from the public. Still, even if Sidmouth had informed Doddard of our plans, his manner implied knowledge of something beyond the fact we had purposely deceived known criminals…and my stomach turned with the sickening comprehension of what that something was.
"I see you didn’t like Thistlewood's revolution any better than Lord Sidmouth did," I said.
The shock on Doddard's face told me I'd hit the mark—and the suspicions I'd long ago quelled were correct: Lord Sidmouth had made sure Thistlewood's revolution never took place.
I grabbed Doddard by the scruff. "What has Sidmouth to do with Wallington?"
Understanding lit Doddard's eyes. I had overplayed my hand. But he surprised me by saying, "Sidmouth isn't the only man with secrets."
Doddard yanked free of my grasp and sauntered away as if he hadn't a care in the world. And he didn't. The men who paid him to lie had maintained their power by enlisting the aid of men like me to stop the Thistlewoods of the world.
I stared as Doddard disappeared into the shadows. He hadn't told me why he had been paid to denounce Wallington, but he had told me that whoever paid him had a secret. I wager that Wallington was—is—a threat to that secret.
September 12, 1827
I have, again, taken to watching Mallory and Harrington.
Phoebe paused at recollection of the night before when Lord Stoneleigh had introduced her to Lords Mallory and Harrington at the Halsey soirée. This was one of the answers she'd been searching for all these years, yet it was strange finally putting names and faces to the men responsible for her father being falsely accused. Her chest tightened and she took a deep breath to ease the constriction. This was only the beginning. Knowing who was behind the lie was only the first step. No telling how long it might take to uncover their motives. Then came the task of proving their guilt—and her father's innocence. She returned her attention to the letter.
The many hours of solitude give me too much time to think. I have replayed the events of the Cato Street Conspiracy. Of the half dozen spies I had inside the Spenceans, there was one man recruited by Lord Sidmouth, George Edwards. It was Edwards' reports that we most relied upon. He is the one who showed Thistlewood the notice we'd placed in the New Times announcing the Cabinet's fictional meeting at Lord Harrowby's, and Edwards even supplied the Spenceans with weapons. Wallington once made a comment about Edwards that I dismissed, then forgot. "The real instigator in the Cato Street plot is George Edwards." Recollection of Wallington's words sheds new light on the fact that Edwa
rds was never caught and, though a warrant was issued for his arrest, no real efforts were made to capture him.
I did my duty in capturing the would-be murderers. Now, however, I must discover exactly what fruits my handiwork wrought. Should I be surprised to have discovered that during Thistlewood's and his cohorts' trials the defense put forth the notion of Edwards as the instigator behind the assassination plot? They even argued that the conspiracy was 'nothing more than the artful invention of hired spies and secret agents.' Yet the prosecutor retaliated with evidence of a man who claimed that Thistlewood had approached him with the plot to assassinate the ministers days before we made it known they would meet at Harrowby's. Such evidence simply could not have existed…just as the defense couldn't have known the depths of Edwards' part in the conspiracy—unless someone told them.
Pride welled up in Phoebe as she ran her fingers over the last lines of this letter as she read them:
What had Doddard said? "Every war has its casualties." Wallington's single comment showed me he was in the forefront of that war. How could his enemies possibly ignore the threat?
January, 5 1828
Tonight I met with Lord Alistair Redgrave.
At promptly eight o’clock, Redgrave arrived at the private dining room I engaged for the evening. I wasted no time in revealing my identity and that I was investigating the charges against Wallington.
“So, you have discovered that Mallory hired Doddard," he said once I'd told him enough of my investigation." It isn't strange that Lord Mallory would enlist aid to ensure that Thistlewood and his men were arrested. You of all people know that Thistlewood escaped justice once before." He referred to Spa Field, of course, four years before the Cato Street Conspiracy, and Thistlewood's acquittal of high treason charges. "How can you be surprised that Mallory wishes to locate Wallington?" Redgrave went on. "Mallory suspects I am in contact with Wallington. It is, of course, untrue, but understandable that he would make the connection. I am among one of the few men Wallington might contact were he alive.”