He selected a green wafer, moistened it, applied it where the original seal had been, and pressed it down with the wafer seal he had purchased at a stationer’s. It bore the common cross-hatched pattern. Thank God Warrender had not used one with his initials or some personal device. If this were not identical to Warrender’s, it would pass.
He would deliver it and hope to work himself into a position where he could ascertain whether the group was really dangerous or merely enjoyed the sensation of plotting. He would not place a wager on some of them actually risking anything for the Young Pretender, or the Chevalier, as some called him. They might cheer if he rode into London at the head of an army, and offer hospitality, but while the issue was undecided, they would content themselves with drinking to the king over the water. Warrender and a few of the others might be a more serious matter. Alex had no doubts about Warrender’s brains. If he had the steely resolve to match, he would be a threat.
****
He enjoyed the ride to Oxford, familiar to him from his university days. He had always preferred riding to going by coach, not only for the fresh air but because if the road chanced to be muddy, a horse could make better speed and was less likely to overturn or end in a ditch. There was a sort of looking-forward-to-term feeling about the expedition, too; something interesting lay at the end, with the possibility of excitement. Neither of his brothers had ever done anything like this. Gilbert had been a better scholar; Edward had been a natural leader. He himself had been reasonably good at many things without excelling at anything except acting. That was what made it so confoundedly difficult to settle on a career.
The tobacconist’s shop was small, dim, and redolent of the scent of tobacco. Alex breathed it in appreciatively. If only the stuff didn’t taste so foul. He gave the tobacconist the letter and the verbal instructions. Brown nodded politely, tucked the letter into a drawer, and tried to sell him pipe tobacco or snuff. Alex declined. He had tried smoking the nasty stuff once or twice, and did not like the taste or feeling it left in his mouth. As for snuff, he usually ended with a powdering of it on his coat. He reserved its use for times when he had a head cold. Messy but effective.
Outside, he stood for a few minutes, debating. The day was pleasant, in witness whereof a pair of rustics, small farmers, probably, idled outside the tavern across the street, and people on errands strolled rather than hurrying.
He could hire a fresh horse and ride back to London now. Another six hours in the saddle would see him home in the evening; he did not like the idea of putting up at an inn on Warrender’s money. He would dine before starting as he had not eaten since his early, Spartan breakfast at the inn.
This program was speedily put into practice. He crossed the street, catching a few words of the loungers’ conversation as he entered the public house.
“The hay, ay?” The speaker puffed on a clay pipe clutched in a hand that was grubby but bore no calluses, scrapes, or scars that Alex could see. He concluded that the fellow managed to avoid a great deal of the work one would expect of even a fairly prosperous farmer. His own family’s country manor had only a home farm, but there always seemed to be plenty of work to be done on it by the outdoor staff when the weather was good. Sometimes even when it wasn’t. He wondered what had brought them to Oxford.
“Ah, ay. Good crop for certain sure.” The second, who was chewing on a straw, gave a sort of shrug with one shoulder as Alex passed.
This time, the horse provided to him by the livery stable had only two gaits: a shuffling walk and an uneven trot. It would make for a long journey, he feared.
Rather less than halfway to London, the animal stumbled and began to limp. Alex dismounted to check its hooves for stones. While he was prying out the pebble that had caused its distress, a rider came into sight around the bend in the road behind him. The man seemed about to pull up, as if to speak, but instead rode on after the briefest check. Alex would have expected him to address some comment to him. When he continued on instead, Alex glanced up. A shy yokel, he concluded from the man’s clothing and battered hat, with a canvas bag strapped to the saddle, but with a very handsome horse. That was no plow horse. As he stared after it, the rider’s left shoulder twitched.
Gordon led his nag, as it continued to favor its off fore hoof until he came to a coaching inn, two miles farther on. There he was able to hire a mare with some spirit and better paces. As the ostler saddled her, Alex caught sight of a gelding in a stall near the stable door.
“That looks like a good animal,” Alex remarked. “I think I saw it on the road a while ago. Is it for hire?”
“No, sir, it come with a man that’s taking a pint in the tap. He’ll be back for it in a bit.”
“A farm laborer or some such?”
“Ay, sir.”
“I wonder if he’d sell it.”
“I misdoubt it, sir. He’s taking it up to London for his master.”
Remounted on a horse that was not a slug, he still had plenty of time to think on the homeward journey. On the way to Oxford, his thoughts had all been on handing off the letter and speculations as to who Peter Arlington might be. Gentlemen sometimes received their mail at their usual coffee house, if it did not come through the penny post. But a gentleman engaged in something illicit might well prefer to receive his most secret mail at a tobacco shop, possibly a fellow conspirator’s, to conceal his real address and name. Warrender had claimed the matter was urgent, but did Arlington stop in every day to ask for his letters? Perhaps so, if he was in the habit of receiving urgent communications. But if Warrender had such a letter to send, he had been very casual about finding a suitable messenger. How would he have sent it, if he had not met Gordon yesterday and decided he was honest—if he had so decided. Would he have sent to Arlington at all? If it were a test to see if Alex were trustworthy, he hoped he had passed it.
By the time he reached London, he was ready for another meal and a comfortable chair. He had intended to go to his parents’ home for the night, but his inn was nearer and he felt disinclined to go where he might be asked questions or expected to converse. Fortunately, he had told his mother he intended to stay with a friend in the country for a few days. As they would be a bachelor establishment, he would have no need of his valet or a trunk full of clothing, merely some body linen, riding dress, and an old suit. So he could go to his inn, eat, drink, and go to bed, which after some twelve hours in the saddle in one day was extremely appealing.
He came down to breakfast after writing to Warrender to assure him of the delivery of the letter the previous day and that he would see him at the Cocoa Tree later. The waiter accepted the letter, promising to have one of the lads carry it, and turned over a letter from Miss Fairford. It stated that J.S. would like to see him at the Place where they had walked at the hour of Ten in the morning at his first Convenience, as she had Important information to Divulge. That had a hopeful sound. He consulted his pocket watch and found he had plenty of time to eat a sustaining meal before meeting her.
With the day shaping up nicely, he gazed idly out the window. At his request, the waiter had opened it, admitting a pleasant breeze and letting out the stale air left over from last night. Alex did not believe that fresh air was unwholesome, even when cold or damp, a view he’d taken from his Scottish grandmother. He had even been known to sleep with his window open when the weather was dry.
Had the window been closed, the thick bull’s eye glass panes and the heavy leading between them would have prevented his noticing a man on the other side of the street. He was a tradesman of some kind, a satchel by his feet, lounging near a pie seller and eating a pie in a leisurely manner.
The poor fellow hasn’t much business today. It was amazing how many of the common folk seemed to have so much free time, like those farmers back in Oxford—How prodigious strange that yonder workman should closely resemble one of those idling yokels. No, not strange at all; it was the same man. He was dressed differently and his face was unremarkable, but Alex was not mis
taken. He had ever a keen eye for features; it was merely a matter of paying attention. He leaned back in his chair and drank a deep draft of ale. He ate the last of the beefsteak on his plate and summoned the waiter.
When he came downstairs again, he made his bill current, included another two days’ rent, and explained that he was called away on business but wished to keep his room. Then he asked the waiter to show him out by the kitchen entrance, tipping him sixpence.
“If you goes ’round to the right, you’ll see a little alley, sir. Nobody can see it from the street.”
“And there’s no one in the stable yard?”
“Nobody as doesn’t work in the stable, sir.”
Alex glanced around the yard anyway but spotted no one who was not obviously a stable boy or ostler, and at work. He had plenty of time to meet Jane at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Chapter 12
She had timed her arrival to be only a few minutes early, as a young lady by herself, with no maid—how shocking!—was apt to be the object of unwanted attentions. She took a different route than she would ordinarily have done, leaving the square by Princes Street and turning down Red Lyon Street. Crossing Holborn, she followed Great Turnstile to Holborn Row and the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He would be somewhere along the northern side of the Fields where they had walked that other time. She marched briskly along until she caught sight of a gentleman on a bench near the Great Queen Street corner. Even at a distance she recognized him, and wondered how it was possible.
Mr. Gordon sprang to his feet when he saw her approaching.
Neither of them wasted time on the social niceties.
“My brother’s return to London so soon seems very odd to me,” she said after relating what Betty had seen.
“Yes, I agree. Suspicious might be an even more appropriate word.” He continued, “I went to the Cocoa Tree. What your uncle may have learned there, I cannot guess, but I found myself fallen in with a pack of Jacobites.”
“Did you hear anything about the guns? Or about Charles Pleasaunce?” She did not mention Rupert. It seemed impossible that he should have any political convictions of his own unless he’d been led into them by someone else.
“I dared not ask. If I were they, I would distrust a potential new recruit who asked too many questions.”
She nodded slowly. “A new recruit? You intended merely to listen and not take chances.”
“I think I said ‘unnecessary chances.’ But it was so easy to be accepted into their circle, it seemed to be an opportunity not to be missed.”
He was far more serious today than he had been at their previous meetings, though his face still bore the signs of good humor and liveliness which had initially attracted her. However would a portrait painter capture the rapid change of his expressions? Men who sat for their portraits invariably chose to be depicted as grave, if not stern. She supposed she would never know.
“It cannot be safe,” she said at last. “And would conspirators trust you so readily?”
“Ah…their leader, as I take him to be, tested me—I think—by asking me to deliver a message for him.”
She looked at him sharply. Something was not quite right. How surprising that she was able to read his tone and face. “What happened, Mr. Gordon?”
He exhaled, and Jane read chagrin in it, but not at her question, she thought. Mayhap at her perception?
“I did deliver the letter. It contained nothing obviously criminal.”
“You read it!”
“Well…if it had mentioned the muskets, or a Jacobite plot, I should have had to turn it over to someone who could deal with it. I suppose the thing to do would have been to copy it to be passed on to our government, so the plotters were not warned prematurely.”
“That’s very clever. But what went wrong?”
“I am not sure it did. I sealed it up again and delivered it. But as I left the tobacconist, I saw a pair of farmers nearby. This morning one of them was outside my lodging. I think the same one rode after me on my return yesterday.”
“If they realize you were…were…”
“Not really one of them? Unreliable? Why should they think so? I don’t think they can have known I opened it. Warrender may have sent someone to make sure I delivered it. It’s strange that the fellow continued to follow me afterward. However. I’ve lost him now,” he added, his usual insouciance reappearing.
“Thank goodness! But what can we do?”
“I wrote Warrender to let him know his message was delivered. I don’t think I need do anything but behave as if I had done his chore in good faith. Probably I should not have left my inn as I did this morning, but I really could not meet you with Warrender’s creature at my heels. I think I must report it, however, as clearly there’s something wrong there.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” She sighed, thinking of Rupert. He had been a merry child with engaging ways. If this new information must come out, his and Charles Pleasaunce’s names would be mentioned as well. While she did not care about Pleasaunce, it would be very hard on her father. And Elvira, of course. “Will you be able to tell me what is decided, after you report?”
“I will—if I’m told. Will you still walk out every morning?”
“Yes. I enjoy the exercise.” And the chance of meeting a strange young man, she admitted to herself.
****
He engaged a hackney to take him to Somerset House, where he thought he might find his father. He could have walked the half mile more quickly, and it was plain the coachman held him in contempt as lazy or a weakling. Alex ignored his disapproval. Best not to approach on foot, lest he be seen by someone he had met at the Cocoa Tree. Sim Banford would scoff at him as over-cautious, but Sim was a cavalryman, perfectly willing to gallop toward men who were shooting at him. The mad fellow was mourning the loss of his elder and only brother less than the fact that as his father’s sole surviving heir, Baron Banford had insisted on his transfer to a safe post in London. Though Sim admitted it could have been worse; his papa might have ordered him to sell out.
Alex smiled, remembering some of their boyhood adventures. Sim had always been the one to suggest an exploit. Alex had been the one to extricate them or avert the worst of the consequences. Caution could be useful.
Jane had been looking very pretty today, with a heightened color. Though the dove-gray mantua she wore did not suit her, it did make her inconspicuous, which was an advantage for their public meetings. He wished he might see her attired in something other than a plain gown. She must have better in her wardrobe. A pale or subdued color would do her no sort of justice. She should wear ruby red. Or green or topaz, for her skin was near milk white and would not be made to appear yellow.
They were approaching Somerset House when he recognized the set of the shoulders, one a bit higher than the other, of a man striding down the street. He was dressed like one of the middling sort, not in the least rustic, but Alex could not be mistaken. He stood and tapped on the panel behind the coachman’s seat.
“Don’t stop here—I’ve forgotten something. Take me to…ah, the Two Roses, near where you took me up.” He had noticed the roses of Lancaster and York, brightly painted, on a sign creaking over the door of an inn near the hackney stand.
“Ay, sir,” the man agreed, with the air of one used to his passengers’ peculiarities. “It’ll double the fare, mind.”
“Yes, yes. That’s all right.” What a good thing that he had his valise with him! As they passed Somerset House, Alex saw Hitch Shoulder turn into its entrance.
He could not even speculate as to how the man who had dogged his footsteps from Oxford could have turned up on the street here. How could he have known Alex would make for Somerset House? No, impossible. Was he a traitor, planted in a government office to pass along secrets? He could not be combining such a position with surveillance for Warrender’s conspiracy, could he? It made no sense.
The Two Roses had a comfortable appearance from the outside, and Alex liked the
place immediately. They had no difficulty in accommodating him with a room which was clean and had a soft bed. He wished he might actually stop there. He set out his paper and quill and when the ale and ink he’d requested were brought, sat down to write.
Sir,
I have heard from Mistress Jane Stowe that Rupert Stowe has been seen in London within the last few Days, which She learned from a kitchen Maid who chanced to see him near Billingsgate. It seems a Suspicious Circumstance that he should so soon be returned, particularly in light of the List which I passed on to you.
Alex frowned over the next bit. He did not wish to alarm his father. Even less did he desire to be ordered to come home—he was really too old for his father to expect him to obey, but he did not wish to create a rift between them, either. How to explain about Warrender? His father would not be pleased to learn that Alex had worked his way into a possible Jacobite conspiracy, but Alex had to warn him that his pursuer had entered Somerset House. His father would know someone who could hunt down a spy in their midst. And he could not explain how he had come by his information without revealing his own activities. But there was no help for it.
Unless…Alex’s blood ran cold. Unless Hitch Shoulder was an agent for the government. In which case, he undoubtedly thought Alex was one of Warrender’s people and a Jacobite. And he had performed Warrender’s errand faithfully as far as anyone knew. That was a fearful thought! Alex thought fleetingly of a grim cell in the Tower, the public execution…his family’s grief and humiliation. He could simply go to his father and explain, and his father would clear up the difficulty. Alex had no doubt he could do so. Run to Papa like a child with some minor perplexity? No, by cock and pie! He would have to admit he had been meddling. If Alex could report the details of their plot, it should allay his father’s annoyance, and spare him arrest for treason. But he would have to deliver Warrender and scotch—ha!—the gun-smuggling scheme.
He dipped his quill into the ink again and continued.
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