by Darcy Burke
Although moving quickly seemed unwise, Quince put a hand out and pushed himself to his feet. He stood, dizzy and trembling.
Averton looked him over. "How do you feel, your grace?"
"Furious."
He jumped up to grab the sides of the door and pulled himself out. Sitting on the carriage he surveyed the scene. It was grim. Both carriage horses appeared dead, the first most likely not surviving the explosion. The driver was on the ground, bloody, with one of the men seeing to him. Quince looked back over his shoulder at the bridge. A good portion of it had been shredded apart by the explosion and spikes of jagged wood were everywhere. It looked as though the first explosion had been under the front left wheel and left horse. It was quite likely that the second horse bolting in terror had saved his life.
"Can I help you, your grace?" Averton called up from below.
"No," Quince said, then added in a murmur, "it seems no one can."
He jumped to the ground, which jarred his aching head. But he drew himself up and approached the man crouched over the driver. "How is he?"
"He'll be fine, your grace," the outrider said, but his eyes gave a different story and encouraged no more questions. "Stanford went to fetch the doctor. Hopefully they'll be back soon."
"Averton," Quince called.
"Yes, your grace?" the young man said, having extracted himself from the carriage.
"In my trunk, there should be some laudanum. Bring it for the driver."
"Yes, your grace."
Quince looked down at the outrider. "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name."
"Cosgrove, your grace."
"Cosgrove, as you seem to know what you're about I will leave you here to care for him as you are able. Averton will be here to assist you. Where is the other outrider?"
"Platts is trying to track down the rider we heard running off before the explosion."
"When he returns tell him to follow me to London."
Cosgrove stood. "Your grace, you shouldn't go alone."
Quince gave him a quelling stare and would grant that the man didn't back down easily. His familiarity with treating wounds made Quince assume he was a soldier, now it seemed likely he had been an officer.
"You're bleeding, your grace. At least let me see to that first."
A delay tactic, but a good one. "It doesn't signify," Quince said and turned to gather the reins of Cosgrove's mount. At least the time to London would be shorter as a single rider. He jumped into the saddle, gritted his teeth against the pain still throbbing in his head, and set the horse to a canter.
THIRTY
Quince made good time and sailed through the front doors of the Home Office in under an hour. He presented his card and asked to be escorted to Robert Bittlesworth. The staff, a bit overwhelmed by both his title and rough appearance, scrambled to do his bidding. Within moments they had taken him upstairs and bowed him into a well-appointed room where Robert was speaking with another man. They both rose to greet the duke as he was announced.
Sparing not a glance at the other man, Quince focused on Robert. "I need to talk to you. Alone."
"The ambassador-"
"I don't care if he's the bloody King of Prussia." Finally looking at the second man, who seemed a bit shocked, Quince said to him, "Get out."
The ambassador and staff exited hastily. Robert frowned and came around the desk toward him. "Telford, I'm not sure what you're about-"
Quince shoved the younger man against the wall and held him there, forearm braced across Robert’s throat. "The correct address is 'your grace.' I wouldn't think that would be hard to remember. You know more of my case than you have divulged. You will tell me all or I will see to it that you are hanged." He didn't see fear in Robert's eyes, but he did see calculation.
"Yes, your grace."
There was a knock at the door of an unusual cadence and Robert said, "That is one of my agents. The knock signals that it will pertain to you. Shall I let him in?"
Quince released him and backed away. "Yes. I'll be curious to hear what he has to say."
Robert straightened his jacket and called, "Enter."
A small, nondescript man slipped in the door. He seemed shocked to see Quince and bowed low. "Your grace."
"Report," Robert said sharply.
The man's glance flicked back and forth between them. "There was an attempt on the duke's life this morning, sir. I didn't know he'd survived until now."
"What sort of an attempt?"
"At the bridge crossing on the Mimmshall, m'lord. I was following at a distance when there was an explosion at the bridge. Saw a rider galloping away. The duke’s man chased him and I followed at a distance, sir, but was unable to catch up to them. Came here to report, sir."
Robert looked appraisingly at Quince then turned back to his agent. "Anything else?"
"No, sir."
"You are dismissed."
The man nodded and slipped through the door as quietly as he had come, leaving Quince and Robert to stare at each other. Robert finally turned to his sideboard and prepared drinks.
"Hell of a morning for you then, your grace." He handed the duke a tumbler of scotch. "How can I assist you?"
Quince swallowed a hearty amount of the liquor and took a seat. "You know how you can assist me. So out with it."
Robert sat across from the duke and rolled his own tumbler between his hands, having not yet taken a drink. Staring down into his scotch he said, "Sometimes I wonder, in God's accounting for your soul, what matters most. Intention, action, or result?"
"What do you mean?" Quince asked.
"Any of those things can be good or evil. A good intention can lead to an evil action. How many have murdered in the name of the church? An evil action may lead to a good result. What if a murder saved hundreds of other lives? So which matters most? That you meant to cause harm? Or that you caused harm? That you meant to ease suffering? Or that you eased suffering?"
"Admittedly this isn't something that I've thought about a great deal."
"Of course you haven't," Robert said with a ghost of a smile. "Angels have no need for redemption."
"Explain to me how this is salient."
"Although this affects you, it was never about you. And I certainly never intended for someone to make an attempt on your life. Especially now." He frowned down into the glass. "Especially now that Sabre's feelings are engaged."
"If it isn't about me, then who is it about, Robert?" Quince was feeling the warm pressure in his gut that told him an important truth was in the offing. "What is going on?"
Robert finally looked up at him and his expression was one that Quince couldn't place. "It's about my father."
Quince sat forward. He was beginning to wonder if he would have to physically pull the story out. "In what way?"
Robert looked down into his drink again. "He's not a good man, my father." That made him smirk. "Of course, there are people who would say that about me."
"If you want the viscountancy there should be easier ways to go about getting it than this."
The younger man's expression became hardened, vicious. "If I wanted him dead he would be dead, have no doubt about that. I want him to suffer. I want all of his friends to turn away from him. I want the remainder of his life to be as mean and desperate as he deserves." Robert finally took a drink, schooling his expression back to the calm neutrality he usually displayed. "I want him exiled. And that is where you, my dear duke, come in."
Quince leaned back in the chair. "In what way?"
"You were uniquely qualified to carry this out." Robert frowned, seeming to draw into himself as though contemplating. "You have the power and authority of your title, and I knew that whatever you lacked in political clout, Gideon would be willing to lend you. It is rumored that you are one of the Prince Regeant's favorites although you eschew his company as much as you do anyone else's. It is also fairly well known that you abhor my father. Although I'm not sure why, I assume it is for many of the same re
asons I do. Among them, because of The Four."
Now Quince felt a tingling along his extremities. There was both truth and danger here. "Who are the others?"
Robert shook his head. "I have only divined our fathers from the group. They were wearing masks when I saw them."
"You saw them?" It came out in a near whisper as Quince felt a dread come over himself. To hear the stories was torture enough. But to be there?
"Only the once. My father had hoped to induct me, as Draco had been inducted by his father."
"Your father isn't Draco?"
Robert shook his head. "My father is Cygnus. But he is the only one I knew by name. I suspect your father was either Ursa or Leo?"
"Leo."
Robert nodded, considering.
"So you went to one of their..." Quince repressed his need to shudder, “parties."
The younger man looked at him keenly. "You did not?"
"No. Undoubtedly my father realized that it would not be the best fit for me to participate. When did you go?"
Robert's brow furrowed. "Ten years ago now."
"And you saw such acts of degradation that you planned for ten years to rid yourself of him?"
"Not exactly, I had decided that long before." He finished his scotch. "But seeing what The Four were doing made it clear exactly what kind of man my father was. And gave me ideas on how to punish him."
Quince contemplated Robert's choice of words. Punish. "And it took this long to start your plot?"
Robert smiled. "It took this long to put together the pieces of my plot. To find the key that would unlock this solution."
"The key?"
"You. I finally uncovered a second member of The Four, your father, and that led me to you. Who better to mete out judgment than an angel?"
"And rather than ask for my help you conspired a plot against me."
"I'm usually quite good at this. It's possible that in my fervor to see this done I made mistakes. But the motivations of all the players was evident. The outcome inevitable."
"Unless they had managed to kill me this morning."
"Unless that," Robert conceded. "I was concerned how Father would react to the more direct threat of you visiting his home. Whispers, innuendos, anonymous letters. Those are easily handled at a distance. Not that I know this morning's incident was my father's doing. But it could have been."
"But we know the letters are not from your father. You wanted to see them because you think you can identify the handwriting."
This caused Robert to pause for a moment. "Yes, I know the handwriting of every lord in the realm. If one of the other Four wrote it himself I would be able to identify him."
"And so you started all this? With whispers and innuendos?"
"What could a group such as they fear more than evidence of their deeds? They were ripe for influence. I knew that fearing exposure by you would make them react. I knew that pressure from them would make you retaliate. Again, the outcome seems inevitable. My next gambit was to tip the identity of my father as one of The Four. But you already knew."
It was Quince's turn to frown and consider. "If you had told me what you wanted to do then we could have found a solution together."
Robert sneered. "Yes, I'm sure that you would have stepped up to do so."
"Most likely. Especially if you had convinced Gideon first."
"I judged that too much a risk. Sometimes you will refuse to do things just to annoy Gideon."
"Not if it's important. Whatever Charlie would do for you, I would do for Gideon. Why do you think I fished him out of the gutter so many times?"
Robert shrugged. "I couldn't be sure of that path. And certainty is something I value."
"Well," Quince continued, "as you did not involve me or speak to Gideon, we will negotiate. You want your father exiled? I want some things in return."
"Such as?"
"Your sister."
"That's acceptable."
Quince tossed back the remainder of his scotch. "I don't plan to marry her."
The younger man narrowed his eyes but only said, "I'm sure she'll learn to adjust. What else?"
"I lost two carriage horses this morning. Perhaps two of Charlie's finest?"
"Done. What else?"
"What else would you give me?"
"Anything within reason."
Quince gained his feet and leaned over Robert's chair. "Keep your horses and know this. Giving away your sister to be kept as some man's mistress is not within reason. Even should I not survive today I can guarantee you that any attempt to give her to a man in such a way will be met with fitting punishment. It is best for you to remember that when God wants to punish the wicked he doesn't hire an assassin." He slammed his empty tumbler down on the table next to Robert, making the younger man jump. "He sends an angel."
THIRTY-ONE
"Are you sure it's all right? It's not too revealing?"
Jack watched her friend turn in the mirror, trying to catch the dress from all angles. Sabre had lost weight and looked wan. If Jack didn't know better, she would assume recovery from a long illness. Thank goodness they had come in for a final fitting because the dress needed to be taken in again.
"It's lovely and perfect for you. No one can wear coquelicot quite like you can." The poppy red color did indeed help to put some brightness in Sabre's cheeks. Jack wished that Sabre would talk about Quince but she had been obstinately silent to date. Considering the anxiety with which she studied her gown, Jack knew that her friend both hoped and dreaded that the duke would make an appearance at the ball.
Jack couldn't stand the tension. "We can't even be sure that he'll be there."
Sabre became completely still, pausing in smoothing down her bodice. "He'll be there," she said softly.
Jack wasn't sure whether she would rather shake Sabre for not being herself, or throttle Quince for whatever it was he had done. Instead she took a deep, calming breath and turned to the modiste. "Do you think it needs to be pinched in at the waist a bit more?"
"Oui, madame." The modiste stepped in to pin the adjustment.
"Do we have time?" Sabre asked. "The ball is the night after tomorrow."
Jack looked at the modiste beseechingly. Certainly adjustments for her new gown were a much better thing for Sabre to focus on than when and if she would see Quince.
"Oui, madamoiselle, there is still time. We can deliver it to you in two days? Oui?"
"Oui," Sabre agreed.
The modiste continued her pinning and Jack sighed. Now what else could she distract Sabre with before the ball? It also helped to divert herself from the fact that she was hosting her first London ball and wanted terribly much to make a good impression. Perhaps she could convince Sabre to eat by tempting her with her favorite treats.
Quince entered Gideon's office at the Parliament and received yet another reminder of how his life had already intertwined with Sabrina's when the earl's clerk looked up and then stood to receive him. The clerk who just happened to be Sabre's younger, bastard brother.
"Your grace," Justin said, bowing low.
"Mr. Miller," Quince said. The boy already stood taller than himself and looked well on his way to outgrowing even Gideon. "Is Giddy about?"
The boy took out his pocket watch. "He's currently on the floor, your grace, but should return shortly. Can I get you some refreshment?"
Quince considered that he had already had a tot of scotch this morning. "Tea, if you please."
"As you wish. Would you like to wait in the my lord's office?"
"Don't mind if I do."
Once inside the office Quince found that he couldn't settle into a chair. He paced, fussed with the gewgaws Giddy had set around the place, and generally felt like a nuisance. He wanted to be practicing his sword, or at least out riding, or... He stopped short. Was this the source of Gideon's ceaseless energy? Was he furious a good portion of the time? What a curious thought.
The efficient Mr. Miller delivered not only tea and a lig
ht repast, but provided a mirror, towel, and basin. Quince finally took stock of his injuries. A small gash on his jaw that had bled onto his cravat. A scrape above his right eye. Based on his aches there were undoubtedly bruises yet discovered. But all in all he was in surprisingly good shape for a man who had just survived a personal Gunpowder Plot.
"Hullo Quince, Justin said you weren't feeling quite..." Gideon trailed off. "What happened to you?"
"When you get to the bottom of it, it turns out the answer is Robert Bittlesworth."
"What do you mean?"
Quince sighed. He had never told Gideon of The Four. Of what his father, the elder duke, was truly like. What he knew of Viscount Bittlesworth. Although it would give a greater context for what had occurred, he still couldn’t find the words to admit what he had come from. What he had grown up seeing, hearing. “Robert wants his father exiled. He thought the easiest path to that was causing a friction that made me want to use my power, and if necessary, yours, against the viscount. His miscalculation was that I approached the viscount directly to address it. And that the viscount reacted with violence.”
The earl's expression turned progressively grimmer as the duke spoke.
"I'm sorry, Quince. I always thought of Robert as a friend and never would have expected this of him."
"It's all right, Gideon. I can respect it, in a way.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
Quince felt torn between rage and despair. He looked down, unable to meet the earl’s eyes. “Our fathers were friends, Gideon. Robert’s and mine. They ran with a group that made anything you’ve done look tame in comparison. Depravity you’ve never conceived of.” Quince finally looked up again, seeing that the earl was solemn but not judgmental. “Robert wants them, especially his father, to be punished. They are terrible men who did terrible things." Quince scowled down into his empty teacup. "My fear, when you ran with the Bittlesworth boys, was that your path would lead you to something like that, and that they were a bad influence that would take you there. However, I suppose if Robert were that way then he would have been inducted in their group and not had time to go drinking with you."