After church they dined, and her father retired to his bookroom to doze over a copy of The London Gazette, and Elvira went to her chamber to rest her eyes.
Mrs. Merry, too, was resting. Supper on Sundays was a simple cold collation requiring minimal preparation. Betty was sitting by the hearth in the kitchen, mending a petticoat. The girl was happy to set her sewing aside in favor of accompanying her on a call. Betty was the one servant Jane felt sure would be willing to lie about their errand, should the necessity arise.
Thank goodness, the address to which she had been directed was close by, and it was not raining; they had no need to go by hackney. Leaving the house on foot, Jane would appear to anyone who noticed to be a young lady going out for a walk, properly accompanied by a maid (for once!). Betty, who had scrambled into her best gown to impersonate a proper lady’s maid, trailed a step or two behind her. Even with Betty’s presence, Jane could imagine what her stepmother would say of a young lady visiting a gentleman, and one she did not even know. But Stepmama would never know, she hoped.
She was prepared to do battle with the butler over the letter but to her surprise, he accepted her statement that while her name was unlikely to be known to Mr. Lattimer, she had been told to deliver the message to him directly. She was asked to wait in a small salon while the butler announced her presence to his master.
“This is a terrible fine house,” Betty said timidly. “The gentleman must be rich.”
The houses on Bloomsbury Square were finer than those on Red Lyon Square, as was obvious even from the outside. Inside…Jane sighed. The walls of the small parlor were a pale gray, with draperies and upholstery to match. It might have seemed drab if not for the glowing red and blue Turkey carpet on the floor, and the Chinese porcelain displayed on the mantle and in a pretty walnut bookcase with glass doors. The blue-and-white plates and the red sang-de-boeuf vase echoed the main colors in the carpet, and a few smaller pieces—bowls, saucers, and pots—picked up the minor colors. It was restrained, lovely, and soothing.
“Or else he—or his wife—has extremely good taste.” But good taste alone would not be enough. She could not imagine how much it had all cost. Though she did feel that the great open space of Bloomsbury Square, which the salon’s windows faced, would be the better for a few trees or decorative plantings.
A middle-aged man, well though not ostentatiously dressed in pale green, with a salmon pink waistcoat, entered the room.
“Mistress Jane Stowe? I am Anthony Lattimer.”
“Why, you were present at my uncle Markham’s funeral!”
“I was. We were old friends, and I was saddened to hear of his death. May I extend my condolences, as I should have done at the funeral? There were reasons why I felt I could not approach you and your father.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. About my coming here…I realize it must seem very odd…” And really, there was no way to explain why or how.
“Not at all. May I peruse the letter while you wait? I may have questions.”
“Certainly.” She gave him the letter.
As he read it, although he betrayed no expression, she thought he was surprised.
“Mistress Jane, as it happens, there is a point or two upon which you might be able to inform me. But as the matter is confidential…” He glanced at her maid.
“Oh! Yes, I understand, but…”
“And I understand how improper it must appear. There is a garden at the back of the house. If your maid will wait in one corner, and we sit in the one diagonal, I think we may converse without being overheard and without impropriety. I would not request such an interview if it were not of the utmost importance.”
“In that case, of course.”
When they were seated under a well-pruned and cared for mulberry tree—for there were no dropped berries to stain one’s shoes or clothing—Mr. Lattimer said, “I know Gordon expected to return before this. Given the difficulties of travel, I have not been concerned. But from his remarks, it appears he believed he might encounter setbacks beyond what one anticipates on any journey. I do not quite understand why, for his errand was to be a simple one. I usually expect the worst in any situation, and even I could not foresee any great problem arising. Apart from adverse winds, mal de mer, terrible roads, bad food, and dreadful inns, of course,” he added with a slight smile. “Do you know of any reason he might have been worried?”
“I must first ask you what he told you he proposed to do,” Jane replied. It was rather bold of her, but she did not care to divulge anything that Mr. Lattimer should not know, although he was apparently Mr. Gordon’s superior. Which was peculiar, now that she thought of it, because she had understood Mr. Gordon was not employed.
Mr. Lattimer looked somewhat amused. “He was to accompany your brother Rupert to a small port in Scotland where young Mr. Stowe was to make payment and accept a cargo. The goods almost certainly consisted of muskets, as you must already know. Your brother would then communicate with the nearest English garrison, informing them of the place to which the guns were to be transported, in return for which, his part in the smuggling would be overlooked. Alex went with him to, er, make sure the money was not stolen on the way. Then they were to return directly by the same vessel, if possible.”
“Did Mr. Gordon actually say that Rupert intended to go to the authorities?” Jane asked, startled. “I wonder why he thought Rupert would?”
“That was the plan, or so I understood. I suppose your brother must have agreed to it.”
“That is very puzzling to me, sir, as I have never known Rupert to admit to any fault or wrongdoing. He will deny the most minor misdeeds and be indignant if you do not believe him, as I told Mr. Gordon, because he hoped to persuade Rupert to confide in him. Granted, Rupert did tell him he’d lost the money with which he was to pay the ship’s captain, but from what Alex—Mr. Gordon—told me, my half brother was very drunk and terrified at the time. I warned him he should not expect further admissions, except perhaps under the same circumstances, but he said he had a plan in reserve.”
“Did he,” Mr. Lattimer said in a flattened tone. He went on slowly. “What would you have expected Rupert Stowe to do? Once they reached their destination and met the smuggler?”
“I think he would deliver the payment and remove himself as quickly as possible. I would expect him to return home, or mayhap go back to Plymouth, as he interrupted his stay there, and not give it another thought—including the need to repay whoever lent him the money. I hope it wasn’t yours, sir? Or Alex’s, but I don’t think he could raise such a sum. The lender must be repaid somehow.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Mistress Jane. No person will sustain the loss.”
Whatever that means. Mr. Lattimer’s slight evasion did not go unnoticed by her.
Lattimer continued, “I defer to your knowledge of your half brother. My…Gordon told me you were a keen and unsentimental observer of humanity. But we are speaking of men and a few women, too, I am sure, who are conniving at treason. Are you certain Rupert Stowe would not remain in Scotland to throw in his lot with the Pretender’s son?”
Jane sighed. “Since we are being blunt, sir, yes. A stronger personality than his might lead him into trouble, but as soon as he perceived real danger, Rupert would absent himself.”
“The Young Pretender appears to have cast a spell over quite a surprising number of Scots and a few Englishmen. Though it’s hard to know how Stowe would have caught the infection.”
“Rupert might support him passionately under someone else’s influence, if he could do so without inconvenience to himself. At a distance, most likely. If he found himself in actual jeopardy, it would only be because he does not always foresee the consequences of his actions.”
“Then could he have failed to foresee the likely end of an act of treason?”
“I know Rupert. He might be optimistic and believe things would all turn out well, and he would not expect any consequences to himself if th
ey did not. His nanny was indulgent, and my stepmother has always been delicate.”
“Enjoys poor health?” Lattimer interpolated.
Jane tried to suppress a smile. “Exactly. I tried to correct his behavior if you can conceive of a child of eight years attempting to instill good behavior in a child of six. By the time he went away to school, I had given up, though I hoped Eton might succeed where I had failed.”
“The guidance of firm-minded men and a few sound drubbings from other boys do sometimes work wonders.”
“They appear to have failed in this case. I don’t wish you to think Rupert is—is steeped in vice, as I suppose a writer would put it. Some suffer from weak lungs or feeble intellect. Rupert’s affliction is weak character. I should not say such things of a member of my family, but truth is more important than loyalty. Family loyalty, I mean.” She sighed. “The only way I can explain my reasoning is this: Rupert would take part in a brawl with his friends, because no one takes young men brawling seriously. He might strike someone in the heat of the moment if he believed he could get away with it. He has enough sense of self-preservation not to strike a man who would call him out or who looked as if he could give a good account of himself in a fight.”
“A cornered rat will fight for its life.”
“If we are drawing on the animal kingdom for comparisons, my brother is neither a rabbit nor a rat. He’s a weasel and would eel his way out of trouble.”
Mr. Lattimer appeared nonplussed. “Would the rebellion count as a brawl with friends?”
“It might seem so to him at first. I have no experience of military life, but I suspect that an army on campaign is very disagreeable. Dirty, with uncertain supplies of food, and harsh discipline. If Rupert actually joined the Highland forces, I cannot think he would enjoy it. I imagine he would take to his bed with some debilitating malady until they left him behind to recover, and then take to his heels.”
“Then I do not quite understand why he and Gordon have not reappeared. If all had gone well, the authorities there would have expedited their return.”
Jane bit her lip. “Mr. Gordon must have formed a tolerably accurate notion of Rupert’s reliability. It does explain why he instructed me to bring you this letter.”
“Let us think it through. Can we assume the money was delivered? Is there a chance your brother might have made off with it? You did say he lacked foresight.”
“I don’t think so. According to Mr. Gordon, Rupert was terrified Charles Pleasaunce would murder him for the loss of the money.”
“Then presumably the payment was delivered and the authorities notified. Is it possible Stowe feared to return to London immediately and fled Gordon’s company? I wonder if Gordon would have felt obliged to hunt him down and bring him back?”
“I hope not, Mr. Lattimer. With the North in such a ferment, I hope Mr. Gordon would not risk himself merely to return Rupert. However, I cannot imagine Rupert striking off on his own with no money, and I’m perfectly sure he cannot have had more than a crown or two with him. He never does.”
“I must confess I hope the same, as Gordon is very…useful.”
“And intelligent, and…” And amusing and attractive and he appeared to enjoy her company, but she could not say so to a virtual stranger. She could not think of anyone to whom she could confide such a thing. Lattimer smiled at her, but the smile faded quickly. They stared at each other.
“What can be done?” Jane asked.
“I fear there is nothing much to be hoped for your brother, if he carried through on the delivery of the payment and did not agree to give evidence against the conspirators. As for Gordon, I can pass word to some connections of mine in North Britain. Something must have gone wrong indeed.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing but inform me if you hear from your brother. It has been a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for bringing me Gordon’s letter.” He apparently took note of her distress, in spite of her attempt to conceal it. “Very likely we’re worrying too soon. There might be a dozen reasons he has not returned. It might be he—they—could not return by sea and are even now plodding along by coach.” He stood up, and Jane, perforce, did also. Mr. Lattimer offered his arm.
“On second thought, there is one thing,” he said. “You reported one of your servants had seen your brother in Billingsgate when he was supposed to be in Plymouth. Can you tell me—or find out—precisely where he was? The nearest building or the name of the street?”
“Certainly. Betty said he was going into a tavern called the Crown and Castle. She passes that way regularly. It was on a corner in Lower Thames Street. Would you like to ask her any questions, as she is here with me?”
“I think not. Better she not realize there was any significance to his presence there.”
“Yes, I thought as much at the time and impressed upon her that she should not talk of it, to spare Rupert embarrassment, as young men do not care to have their less savory activities gossiped about.”
“Very good, indeed, Mistress Jane. The information will be helpful. And I commend your foresight.”
Not until Jane had returned home did she wonder what connections an old friend of her uncle could have in Scotland who could inquire into Mr. Gordon’s whereabouts. And whose money had gone to pay the balance due on the guns?
Chapter 19
Voices and footsteps sounded in the corridor, and a key grated in the lock. The door was flung open by a man with a white cockade pinned to his hat. He greeted them with a jubilant “Dundee’s in our hands. When we reached Perth four days ago, Lord George Murray was given charge of the army instead of the Irishman, O’Sullivan. Who knows where we will be in a week?”
They surged out of the cell, calling out to other freed prisoners, one of whom was Rupert Stowe. Seeing Alex, he looked a little conscious—as well he might!—and approached, stammering, “So you were arrested also? I thought you had got away.”
“Alack, no.”
A burly, ruddy-faced fellow clapped Rupert on the shoulder as he passed and inquired, “Are you coming, Stowe? I’m off to seek a commission from the Prince.”
“I’ll be along presently. I’ve some arrangements to make with my friend here, first.”
“We’ll share a bottle tonight, then.” The fellow hurried off, calling boisterously to others.
“What are your plans?” Stowe asked Gordon.
“I had best return to England. I was gone longer than I anticipated. I was not expecting to be arrested on charges connected with the smuggling of your friend’s French furniture.”
“Furniture? Oh, ah. Furniture, of course. Is that what you were told when you were arrested?”
“The officer did not specify the charge, though smuggling was mentioned. He seemed to believe I was a Jacobite. I can’t think why.”
“Odd,” Stowe mumbled. “They thought the same of me.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I should return to England with you. There’s a great deal of unrest here at the moment. We don’t want to be caught up in it.”
By which Gordon concluded that Stowe was not enthusiastic about joining the Highland army. Alex would as soon leave the spineless, treacherous dog to stand or fall on his own in Scotland, but he had Jane to consider. Although Rupert might not be any safer in England, if word made its way back that he’d been jailed as a supporter of the Prince.
“We may as well travel together,” he agreed. “And I think we should start immediately.” Stowe looked relieved. “By the way, what’s the date? I’ve lost count of the days.”
“Someone said it was the seventh day of September. He suggested it be made a holiday in Dundee hereafter. How will we get home? If the Lark is still at St. Andrews…but I don’t really want to go back there.”
Neither did Alex. “I can’t imagine Captain Sykes has tarried so long over his repairs. No, I think we should take the ferry to Newport. When I was brought from St. Andrews, I noticed there was a house that offered lodging and horses for hire.”
“I think,” Stowe began tentatively, “they may not have any horses by now. The Prince’s men are said to be scouring Dundee for arms and mounts. Someone is bound to make off with them one way or another.”
“Then we will walk.” Fortunately, he had paid attention to how he had been brought from the ferry to the Town House; he would hardly care to ask directions of any of the locals. He led Stowe down the roughly cobbled St. Clement’s Lane to the waterside.
“How are we to get across, Gordon?”
“We will hire some boatman to carry us over and farther down the firth. If you are correct that there are likely no horses for hire at Newport, there is no advantage to going there.” They would also be able to avoid the highway, on which they might meet British troops.
“But have you any money? Mine is spent.”
“I’ve a few coins yet.” The stiffened skirts of his coat, and its collar, held both guineas and smaller coins, some of which he had worked free his first night in the gaol, while his cellmates slept. “It’s perfectly essential to one’s survival to have the ready if one should get into difficulties,” the tailor at Somerset House had told him. “One may need the wherewithal to hire lodgings or a horse or pay a bribe. I’ll send along a coat containing some hidden assets with the rest.” He had sewn a reassuring number of crowns and guineas and smaller coins into it.
“I think you should avoid speaking, at least when people are about,” he told Rupert. “You sound like an Englishman. We must pass as unremarked as we can.”
“How is it you sound like a Scotchman? I never noticed it in London. Or on the schooner.”
“I spent some time with my Scottish grandparents as a child. Their way of speaking comes back very easily if I’m around Scots.”
The question, Alex considered when Stowe fell silent, was not whether they could cross the firth. It was whether it would be better to get someone to take them down the firth to the coast, and then south. They must find a small fishing boat whose master would oblige them. If that fellow who had opened his cell was correct, the Jacobite army was moving at speed. They’d entered Perth four days before; today they were in Dundee, a distance of some twenty miles, no difficulty for a man on horseback, but impressive for a force he had heard described as undisciplined and ragtag. Still, two men on foot should be able to travel fast enough to outdistance the Highlanders. Besides, the Jacobites surely would not try to move their army across the Firth of Tay. Ferrying men and baggage carts and horses across would take too long. Even if they did so and took the highway from Newport to Kirkaldy, they would then have to cross the Firth of Forth. The Jacobite army would most likely go by land, west of the route Alex had travelled under guard several days ago. It should be safe enough for them to take the highway. Except, of course, for possible detachments of English troops, who must by now know how close the Prince’s army was.
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