by Gaelen Foley
That was the foregone conclusion the self-righteous lead investigator had already made. Now Green was just grasping for any facts that could remotely prove his theory.
Beau saw the time had come to budge, if only a little. There was no way he was going to inform the Inquisition about the possibility of Drake’s having turned traitor, let alone the distressing fact of Nick’s having hired himself out as a mercenary.
Buying time, he leaned toward his legal counsel, provided by the Order. They conferred in whispers. Beau nodded reluctantly, then sat up straight again.
Green’s spiteful stare bored into him expectantly.
Beau lifted his chin. “All I can tell you at this time, Mr. Green, is that Lord Rotherstone’s team was dispatched to Germany.”
“Lord Beauchamp, you are truly trying the patience of this chamber.” Green heaved a sigh. “To which of the German principalities did they go? You must be more specific.”
“Sir, my colleagues are on a very sensitive mission. All will be revealed to the proper authorities once the matter’s done. That is how the Order has always worked.”
“If you haven’t noticed, things have changed, my lord. Now, I’m sure your intentions are the highest,” he said with a sneer. “Nevertheless, we must know where they are.”
Sorry, Max. Beau suppressed a sigh. “Bavaria.”
“Why?”
Beau just looked at him.
“Was it not in pursuit of the man who murdered Virgil Banks?” he persisted.
“No, Mr. Green, the agents only pursued Virgil’s killer on grounds of his being the designated heir to Promethean power. The Order has no mandate to pursue private, personal vendettas.”
“But Virgil was your handler,” he pointed out. “He trained the lot of you since boyhood. The men must have wanted blood.”
“Indeed, we all did. Virgil’s loss was a blow that all of us still feel to the core. But to lapse into criminality in order to avenge him would go against everything he taught us.”
“Very well,” Green uttered at length, dragging his hand through his thinning hair as he strove to endure Beau’s obstinacy. “Why Bavaria?”
Beau drummed the table with his fingertips for a moment, considering how much he might safely say. At length, he answered slowly and deliberately: “We received intelligence last month about a gathering of the last remaining Promethean leaders, to be held somewhere in the Alps.”
“But they were supposed to have already been destroyed,” another committee member exclaimed.
“Was that another lie?” Green prodded.
“A remnant; only the canniest of them survived,” Beau said coldly. He stared at them for a moment. “You do not seem to understand how pernicious this conspiracy had become before we carried out the purge just before the battle of Waterloo. The Prometheans were entrenched in the highest echelons of power in nearly every court in Europe. This death cult, for lack of a better word, did not last centuries or grow this powerful by being careless or advertising who their members were.”
“So, you really sent three titled peers of the Realm to finish them off,” he drawled.
“Sir?” he demanded, not liking his tone.
“It seems rather reckless. Aren’t men of your rank too valuable to waste? Any common foot soldier could have done the job just as well.”
“Their rank has nothing to do with it in this case.” He shrugged. “They went because they are the best.”
“And because it was personal,” Green goaded him.
Beau sealed his mouth shut and fought for a moment not to rise to the bait. At length, he said, “If a threat remains, they will put it down. Just as the Order always has—while you slept soundly in your beds.”
The panel members exchanged irritated looks.
Then Green glared at him. “When you hear from them, you will notify us. Is that understood? I want to know their findings and to be kept abreast of their progress.”
And I want a magic unicorn, he thought, but he merely smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Chapter 15
Meanwhile, Carissa sat in her splendid carriage as it rumbled along toward a particular bookshop in Russell Square known to be a haunt of Radicals. If the Select Committee was going to investigate her husband, she thought it a fine time to do a little investigating of them on his behalf.
What Beau had told her about Ezra Green and his former mentor, the disgraced professor, sounded altogether suspicious. Fortunately for him, he had married an accomplished snoop.
To be sure, her inquiry was taking her as far away from the shallow waters of fashionable ton circles as she’d ever been, into the strange and somewhat topsy-turvy world of London’s intellectuals and artists.
As if she hadn’t already had enough of poets, she thought dryly. Indeed, the quirky little bookshop a stone’s throw from the British Museum must have seemed an odd place to find a viscountess and her maid on a sunny spring day.
Nevertheless, she had contrived to be there, for she had read in the paper that Professor Culvert would be giving a lecture there that afternoon to hawk his latest volume.
As they neared the bookshop, she called to Jamison, her driver, not to stop quite yet but to go a little farther down the street.
If they halted right outside the bookshop, her rather ostentatious carriage, Beau’s wedding gift, would be visible through the front window, and she did not wish to draw the notice of all those self-righteous, modern-day Puritans inside.
She knew the type. Of course, they reveled in sin and venality, but in financial matters, they became strangely holier-than-thou. Dilettantes who condemned material possessions, and yet, strangely, always expected others to pay for their bohemian lives—railing against the same aristocratic patrons who kept the duns from their doors.
Carissa shook her head to herself. It was Roger Benton all over again. For the sake of following “truth and beauty,” he could justify all manner of lies and ugliness—seduction, blackmail—and yet, he went on blindly writing his nauseating love poems. And wondering why nobody wanted to publish them.
She shuddered with suppressed anger. In reality, that cad did not know the first thing about love. Beau had more poetry in his laughter than Roger Benton had in all his grubby chapbooks.
Gritting her teeth at the thought of her ruiner, she accepted her driver’s hand and stepped down from the jewel box of her carriage. With her maid, Margaret, trailing, she walked the short distance to the bookshop.
Heart pounding, she paused to look up at the sign and briefly hoped this wasn’t a bad idea. But she was simply being herself—a lady of information—and a loyal wife.
She squared her shoulders and strode in to see all the strange people she and Beau had joked about: the commune folk, the free lovers, the closet revolutionaries. She might have been a little nervous to go among such oddities, but after all, it was only a bookshop.
The lecture had already begun—or rather, the ranting. She entered quietly while an old, white-haired man with a drunkard’s red nose and a rumpled tweed coat was tearing into those who’d passed the Corn Laws. She took in the scene with a cautious glance as she proceeded into the shop. A small crowd had collected in the rows of chairs set up near the back, but a few other customers were searching for books to purchase, paying little mind to the speech in progress.
Margaret looked at her in question. The poor maid, like her driver, Jamison, had no idea what they were really doing there. Carissa was unsure if her maid was even literate, but she whispered her permission to have a look around in case she wished to buy any books or magazines for herself.
A clerk approached, eyeing her rather skeptically. “May I help you, madam?” he asked in a low tone.
“Oh, yes!” She flashed an insipid Society smile. “Do you have any Gothic novels?”
He looked down his nose at her, flicking a derisive glance over her fashionable gown, as if to say, I should have known. “On that wall, ma’am. The latest from Mrs. Radclif
fe just arrived.”
Carissa nodded her thanks, shrugged off his cheek, and sauntered toward the shelves containing an array of the Gothic “dreadfuls” that earned such scorn from book clerks round the world, despite the fact these were the books that kept their shops in business. Of course, not even the brisk sales of Gothic novels could compare to the popularity of religious essay collections by leading preachers of the day. But she supposed Professor Culvert and his followers would have mocked those, too.
As she drifted over to the shelves the clerk had pointed out, their location gave her a better view of the lecture in progress.
Professor Culvert was doing nothing to inspire patriotism in English hearts as he almost seemed to praise the Americans for killing three thousand British soldiers back in 1812, in some frontier land called New Orleans.
She pretended to inspect Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest spine-tingling tale while she listened to Culvert almost gleefully recounting how England had fumbled that brief war. She could hardly believe her ears. Did he hate his own country? And how could it be, she marveled, that no one in his audience seemed to mind the way his careless talk belittled the sacrifice of the soldiers who had died?
The more she listened, the more distressed she grew to think that one of the so-called Prophet’s former disciples held her warrior’s fate in his hands.
But surely no one took this delusional graybeard seriously, she assured herself. That must be why the Home Office always let him go each time he was arrested. The so-called Prophet was not the sinister villain she had been expecting, but an object of pity, wild-eyed and unhinged, making his stand alone against the world. Poor old fool, he was as mad as the King—whom he no doubt hated, too.
On the other hand, the people who believed him, she mused, maybe they were the dangerous ones.
She let her gaze wander discreetly over the attendees. Disgruntled “Ayes!” came from angry gazetteers with dirty spectacles and ink-stained fingers clenched into fists.
There were half a dozen lost-soul types, tragic artistes who looked like they had awoken on the floor of some pub. The only lady in attendance turned out, on second glance, to be a man. Carissa’s eyes widened. Why, she had heard of such people, but she had never seen one before.
That she knew of! she amended as she quickly looked away. Beyond these rather more unusual attendees, Culvert’s listeners appeared to be from the artisan classes, with a wealthy merchant here and there, judging by his somber dress. There was a Catholic priest, recognizable by his collar, no doubt waiting to hear Culvert’s position on the important matter of the Catholic vote. She had heard Uncle Denbury arguing about it sometimes with his colleagues.
A few Dissenters—Quakers, she guessed—in their plain garb ambled in late, but did not sit down, listening skeptically from the back row. They seemed to agree when Professor Culvert expounded on the precept that no man was born better than his fellows. Fair enough. But when he let slip a comment ridiculing God, they shook their heads in offended shock and walked back out.
The priest just frowned, but perhaps decided to forgive seventy times seven.
Deciding she had seen enough, Carissa went to buy the Radcliffe book, but the clerk had hurried over to the author’s table to manage the aftermath of the lecture.
The notorious Blake Culvert now sat himself down at the waiting desk to sign copies of his tome for those who wished to buy.
Waiting for the clerk to return, Carissa sauntered closer. She was tempted to go and talk to the old fellow and buy his book herself to better understand the soil from which a noxious flower like Ezra Green might have grown.
But the Radicals crowded round their hero, and soon their questions had him expounding on a hundred new topics.
The man liked to talk.
Standing a little off to the side, she quietly observed, waiting for her turn to buy her “silly Gothic novel.” She would throw in a fashion magazine or two just to tweak the haughty little clerk, she thought, but he still paid her no mind at all.
Indeed, it was extraordinary, how she, a young lady of the Quality, a bloody viscountess, seemed to be invisible in this part of Town. The people in the bookshop seemed to have dismissed her on sight as an empty-headed miss because of what she wore. Such enlightened souls!
Impatience overtook her. She was just about to put Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel aside and leave when something interesting finally happened. A tall, lanky man with a big nose and the soulful eyes of a kicked dog pushed his way eagerly to the front of Culvert’s desk. “Sir!” he greeted him with an air of familiarity.
Professor Culvert actually stopped talking for a second. At that point, Carissa would not have thought it possible.
He blinked at the man in shock, then quickly lowered his voice and glanced around. “Charles, what are you doing here?”
“Sorry I missed your talk, sir. We had customers who simply wouldn’t leave, but Mother finally said I could go.”
“Just a moment.” Culvert waved off the next man in line with a gesture that asked for a moment’s privacy.
All of Carissa’s well-honed skills as a snoop went on full alert. The Prophet turned back to the new arrival.
The tall, plain man beamed, seemingly oblivious to the old professor’s mysterious ire at the sight of him.
“Congratulations on your new book, sir!”
“Get out of here,” Culvert ordered in a hushed tone.
“Oh, it’s all right! I only came to tell you my latest scene is almost finished. I hope you’ll come down to Southwark and see it!”
“Charles, it was wrong of you to come. You must leave at once. Use the back door. The blasted soldiers they always send to spy on me will be here any moment.”
“So?” Charles gave him a knowing smile and lowered his voice. “I have nothing to hide. Do I?”
Nevertheless, he did his idol’s bidding, retreating with a dutiful bow.
Hmm. Carissa stared after him, mystified, yet still doing her best to pretend she was minding her own business.
I wonder if I should follow him. But then she shrugged it off. Culvert was the one to watch.
Margaret stared at her when they left a short while later.
“Are you all right?” Carissa inquired.
“Mad, they are!” the maid exclaimed. “What was all that about, milady?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. We should have gone to Hatchard’s. Much better service there. Better selection, too.”
Beau wasn’t home when Carissa returned, and it was just as well, for she wasn’t quite sure what to say about her snooping expedition.
Perhaps it would be better not to burden him with this, either. Especially now, poor darling; he’d have spent the whole day in front of the Committee, and would likely need some cheering up by the time he got home.
Telling him where she’d gone would probably not accomplish that. In fact, it would likely have the opposite effect. A savvy married woman learned to choose her battles wisely, after all, and this one wasn’t worth it. Why risk a quarrel by confessing to something that had yielded no useful information and would needlessly upset him?
Just forget about it.
Her choice made, she put it out of her mind, along with the small nagging guilt this additional secret created—which was silly, she told herself. Why should she feel guilty when all she was trying to do was help?
Nothing had come of it. So what? She shrugged it off.
Let it go.
In any case, the spring sunshine was so inviting that when she got home, she put on a wide-brimmed straw hat and went out into the garden to relax.
She pulled a chair into the shade and amused herself by happily riffling through a shallow periodical for ladies that she had just bought. With sunlight dappling her skirts and the soft breeze blowing on her cheek, it wasn’t long before she closed her eyes and dozed, marveling as she drifted off at how content she had recently become in life.
She was not sure how long she had been resting when
she became aware of the sensation of someone watching her.
As soon as enough of her consciousness returned to form a clear thought, she assumed it was her husband.
She had told the servants not to disturb her but to tell Beau where she was as soon as he got home. Expecting him to join her, a dreamy smile curved her lips as a finger trailed down her face.
She slowly dragged her eyelids open. And shot straight up out of her chair.
“You!”
“Relax, Lady Beauchamp. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She shrank from him, heart pounding. Sitting there beside her, as calmly as you please, was the black-haired stranger she had seen that night at Covent Garden Theatre.
“Pardon me if I have my doubts,” she forced out, sitting up straighter in her chair. “You shot me the last time we met!”
“I wasn’t aiming for you, as I wager you are well aware, my lady. Nevertheless, I am heartily sorry for your pains.” Beau’s “best friend,” Nick, gave her a small, ironic bow of contrition.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, edging back from him in her seat. “What do you want? My husband isn’t home.”
“My dear Viscountess, you shouldn’t tell a man who breaks into your property such a thing. Keep that in mind in future. But, of course, in my case, I already know. It’s you I came to talk to.”
She eyed him warily. “What for?”
“Well, mainly to offer my congratulations on your marriage. Many a lass has tried and failed where you’ve succeeded. Do you love him?”
“I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed, turning red.
Dark to Beau’s light, Nick flashed a smile that shone like the midsummer moon. “But of course you must. They all do. The question is, does he love you in return?”
“How dare you ask such impertinent questions?”
“Only from brotherly concern. You must tell our lad how disappointed I was not to be invited to the wedding. I’d always thought I’d have stood as his best man.”