“It would still have been my duty to prevent the delivery of those muskets.”
“Which might more easily have been accomplished by advising your superiors and their not supplying the money Rupert needed. I—”
A thought occurred to her, arresting her expression.
“We are making this too difficult,” she said after a moment. “You are an agent of the government. Can you not contact someone else in your department? Mr. Lattimer’s whereabouts must be known, or perhaps there is another who could help us.”
“I am not actually employed by the War Office. Mr. Lattimer sent me to investigate your uncle’s death unofficially. Then, when I told him about your half brother’s dilemma, he let me continue because Stowe had already confided in me to some degree and an official agent could not be substituted. I have no connections in the department. Apart from Mr. Lattimer, the only person I met there was the tailor who outfitted me.” News of Alex Gordon’s arrest in Scotland might have reached the War Office and the odd, discreet little offices to be found at Somerset House. And Hitch-Shoulder, who had meant to arrest him, was to be found at Somerset House. Alex had not mentioned their recent encounter to Jane. What was the penalty for assault on a government agent?
“That is too bad; it would have made everything easy.”
“There is also the possibility someone in the War Office passes on information to the Jacobites, either intentionally or through carelessness. How else could Pleasaunce’s friends discover your whereabouts?”
“It did occur to me to suspect as much,” Jane admitted. She nibbled a slice of seed cake. Her teeth were small and white, and her lips looked soft as rose petals. He could imagine what they’d feel like, nibbling on his own lips, or on his ear. He dragged his mind away from the vision. He was in danger of seriously embarrassing both of them,
“There is someone who might provide me with a place to stay,” Alex said slowly. He had forgotten Warrender. If he had no connection with Pleasaunce, it would be perfectly safe to contact Warrender. Even if he did, there should be little danger, unless Stowe contacted Pleasaunce. “What do you think your brother will have done?”
“My half brother. After he abandoned you? He’ll make for safety. I’m surprised he has not arrived back in Town yet. Unless he went to my father and is being concealed by him.”
“Or perhaps he would go to Pleasaunce?”
Jane shook her head. “Rupert may have sent him a letter, which I imagine would merely state the arms had been delivered. He would certainly not mention you or the rest of it because if he did, he would have to admit that you were with him, which would have to be explained. No, I believe he will keep clear of Mr. Pleasaunce.”
“Then I will write to someone I met at the Cocoa Tree.”
Chapter 26
The possibility that the house might be watched made her very nervous. Mrs. Harrow announced she was going out to buy a foreleg of mutton for a mock-venison pasty for dinner the following day, it being a dish that required a day’s preparation. She would not trust Molly to buy meat or fish. This gave her an excuse to go out so she could stop in at a friend’s home, to have her daughter deliver Alex’s letter. The cook agreed with Jane that using her brother’s son to carry another letter might be unwise. Alex had not wished to send it by the penny post because he feared the mail of suspected Jacobites might be inspected. According to Alex, Warrender claimed to be under surveillance, making it likely that if anyone’s mail were being intercepted, his would be a high priority.
“Nan will have her girl take it to Mr. Gordon’s friend’s kitchen door. She’ll have a basket, as if she were delivering vegetables or the like,” Mrs. Harrow said.
“It’s only a question now of waiting for a reply.” Jane rather hoped Mr. Warrender would be unable to help Alex. On the whole, she would prefer he remain in the house, even though he was right about its being somewhat scandalous. But if no one but her servants knew, propriety was not irredeemably breached. And even though she was not living alone, she would feel safer with him present. She did wish she might hear from Mr. or Mrs. Lattimer. She had written to the former both at his manor and at Bloomsbury Square before Jack Ridgeley took her to the coaching inn to set things in motion. Unfortunately, mail delivery to and from the country could be very slow, though London’s penny post was a marvel of efficiency. Yet it might not be wasted effort, as when those letters arrived, perhaps his staff would send them on even if they would not tell someone who inquired where their master had gone.
She was reading in the housekeeper’s room when Molly tapped on the door and then peeked in.
“Mistress, Cook is asking for you and Mr. Gordon, too. I’m just on my way to fetch him next. She says as it’s important.”
Alex caught up with her in the downstairs corridor and was one step behind her in reaching the kitchen.
Mrs. Harrow was wiping her hands on a dish clout, preparations for supper suspended.
“Nan Turk, that sent on Mr. Gordon’s letter by her daughter, was here a moment ago. She come to tell me she couldn’t deliver it.” The cook pulled the letter, now a little crumpled, from her pocket and held it out to Gordon, who took it without comment but with raised eyebrows.
“The girl took it to the kitchen entrance, like you said, sir, but their cook wouldn’t take it, nor the butler nor housekeeper, neither. They was all in the kitchen and looking grim as death. ‘In’t the master at home, then?’ Nan’s little girl asks. At first, they wouldn’t say, but then she says, ‘I’ll be beat if I can’t deliver this here letter and can’t say why.’ That’s when the butler tells her the master’s been took up by a pair o’ King’s Messengers, and the house searched. And then he says, ‘We don’t want your letter in this house, whether it’s from some lady or the Archbishop of Canterbury himself—or anyone else.’ So she took it back to her ma, who come to explain why she couldn’t leave it. And I knew you’d want to know,” she said with a meaningful glance at them both, “as soon as she was gone.”
“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Harrow. Ah…does Jessup know? And Mrs. Jennings?”
“Ay, and Mr. Jessup’s up the attics to fetch down footman’s livery, and she’s putting Molly to work sorting through the linen cabinet.”
Alex raised his eyebrows, puzzled.
“To keep Molly out of the way for a bit.”
“Where do you suppose Warrender is, then?” Jane asked.
“Probably in the Tower.”
“ ’Tis too bad it wasn’t Mr. Pleasaunce instead.”
“For all we know, they’re sharing a cell,” Alex replied. “What does Jessup want with livery?” he asked the cook.
“Why, in livery and the white wig, your own lady mother wouldn’t know you, sir. Or even notice you. It seemed a clever notion to have it ready, should you need it.”
So they spent the night under the same roof, in defiance of conventional behavior. She could not feel compromised by it, though if it became known, only marriage would make it right. But her reputation was safe as long as the indiscretion was unknown in good society. While the wealthy and aristocratic might live no more than a few minutes’ walk from the poorest tradesmen and laborers, the social distance was an ocean wide. The inhabitants of Wych Street and their few servants could not spread gossip to Red Lyon Square. Her uncle’s servants, who did have friends in better parts of town, would not speak of her peculiar conduct. Marrying to save one’s reputation would be horrid if one did not at least like the man. Certainly the man would dislike being forced into marriage—unless he had arranged the scandal with marriage in mind, as sometimes occurred when the lady was well dowered. That thought gave her a moment’s pause, before she acquitted Mr. Gordon of such a stratagem. He was clever, amusing, and capable; he might even be devious, but she trusted him. If Mr. Gordon should feel at some point that he had to make her an offer, she would be happy to accept. But they really must get through the current difficulty first. It would make no sort of sense to make future plans with a man wh
o ran the risk of being clapped up in the Tower.
****
Alex and Jessup were in the hall outside the reception parlor at the front of the house. Past the door into the parlor was the flight of stairs up to the floors containing the drawing room, dining room, library, and bedchambers. This had been some well-to-do tradesman’s home in earlier, simpler times. The upstairs withdrawing room was an afterthought, converted from some other use. Originally, the family’s parlor and dining room must have been located on the ground floor where the butler’s pantry and housekeeper’s room were now, between the kitchen and the front room. The tradesman’s doubtless practical wife would have overseen the household.
Jessup had moved a chair and small table to hold a candlestick to the hall near the foot of the stair. It led up in a series of right-angle turns, meant to take up as little floor and wall space as possible, not for elegant ladies and gentleman to sweep down, making a grand entrance. The woodwork was of carved dark oak, although a small window on the first landing gave some light. The shutters had been left open, so anyone using the stairs would not have to grope his way up or down in the dark.
“When Mr. Markham was still engaged in business,” Jessup said, “a footman was on duty in the front during the nights and on Sundays, those being times when Mr. Markham sometimes received messengers or visitors, not being in his office on Thames Street then. I doubt you’ll have much to do, and you can sit and read if you wish, sir, as there’s some light from the window on the stair, as well as the candle if you need it. The front room is more comfortable”—he tilted his head toward the parlor—“but you’d need to use the candle, the shutters being in place.”
The butler had shown him the reception area earlier. It was comfortably furnished with several armchairs, a cabinet for liquor and glasses, and a bookcase. A copy of Lloyd’s List, now several weeks old, still lay on a side table. All things considered, however, he thought he would be happy to remain in the corridor, where he might catch a glimpse and a word with Jane Stowe if she chanced to go upstairs.
“If you leave the door into the front room ajar, you can hear if someone should come. You need not worry overmuch, sir. No one will expect a footman in this household to be as polished as what you’d find in the better parts of town. This is the only household in this neighborhood to possess such a servant.”
Jessup must assume Alex had little experience of footmen. Admittedly, he didn’t look like one. The beau monde hired footmen for appearance—broad shoulders, well-muscled legs, handsome, or at least unremarkable, faces. But he could certainly mimic the proper stance and demeanor, even if his livery was worn and his wig needed resetting. He would not be out of place here. He almost regretted that his acting skills were unlikely to be called upon.
It took them both by surprise when there was an authoritative rap at the front door. They traded glances and both went into the front parlor. Alex froze into immobility against the wall, while Jessup went to the door.
Who would be paying a visit? The knocker having been removed from the door should be ample notice that the family was not in residence. A tradesman would go to the kitchen door. He heard a voice murmur, “For Mr. Markham.”
“Mr. Markham is a month dead, God rest his soul,” Jessup replied.
“If the old gentleman’s dead, maybe it should go to his next of kin or his heir. No business of mine, is it?”
Jessup closed the door and shot the bolt, before turning to Alex.
“Might you be expecting a letter addressed to Mr. Markham, sir?”
“You should probably call me ‘William,’ ” Alex said. “Lest you make a slip in front of a stranger. But no, it can’t be for me.” He withdrew into the corridor and peered at the inscription by the light from the high window on the stair. He recognized it instantly. “You had better give it to Mistress Jane.”
But he accompanied Jessup to the housekeeper’s room where Jane was mending a sheet.
“Mrs. Lattimer has written,” she said, when she had broken the wafer that sealed it.
…I write to you having had a very disquieting letter from Cheddle at Hawthorn Cottage. I have had no occasion thus far to send on any letter to you. [A double, very emphatic underscore.] So the letter you mention came from someone who learned of your whereabouts by some unknown Method, and certainly neither my husband nor I revealed them, nor should anyone else. I have secured your letter, which Mr. Lattimer will wish to read for himself, in a place no one else can come at it, and I will not divulge that you have gone to visit other friends. I should also mention the gentleman you met has had occasional business dealings with my husband, but we are not close friends. It was probably for the best that you did not go into detail about your plans. Mr. Lattimer is not Here, nor in London, at the moment. He is travelling on the Business that caused You and Myself some concern recently, and I do not know where I could Send to him. I do not quite know what to do if you receive any Letters from your Family which are sent to you here. It seems unwise to send them on to your current location, for reasons which you will understand, I am sure. If one comes, I think I must open it and pen a reply, stating that as you have sprained your wrist and cannot write, I am writing at your dictation. I think it would be a mistake for us to write each other again except at greatest need. [The phrase was underlined.] If you should hear from A., pray tell him to conduct himself discreetly and dress plainly, so as not to be of interest to footpads and to take all necessary precautions against the same…
Before she had finished reading the missive, Alex was laughing. Jane looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Mrs. Lattimer has a talent for obscurity,” he said, still chuckling. “It would puzzle anyone who did not knew of your recent activities, if they should happen to find her letter.”
“I’m glad you can derive amusement from it.” Her tone was tart. Of course, Jane could not see quite the same humor in it. “Someone else knew where to find me, when no one should have.”
“That thought did cross my mind, Mistress Jane. Either there is a spy in Mr. Lattimer’s household or in—” He stopped. He felt a reluctance to discuss those odd offices at Somerset House. What a sad reflection upon him to be so secretive, and with a lady closely concerned in this business and whose intelligence he increasingly respected.
“Mr. Gordon?”
“Or in the War Office or one of its, ah, illegitimate offspring.”
A long pause ensued. “I had no idea the War Office had relations of That Sort.” Her voice quivered with amusement. Then she compressed her lips and blushed.
“By War Office, out of Trickery and Guile, as they would say in horse breeding circles?”
“I meant connections, Mr. Gordon. Family connections. Not…ummm…”
He grinned at her. “Those are family connections, are they not? Though I apologize for such an indelicate reference. To return to the issue—I beg your pardon! No pun intended!—the problem at hand, when the Lattimers took you to Hawthorn Cottage, how many servants and retainers accompanied the coach?”
“There was only the coachman and a footman.”
“Can you describe them? I know that one doesn’t notice servants, but if you can remember anything, it might help. I would wager the pair of them were the only others who knew where you were going.”
She sucked her lower lip, a sight which almost distracted him. “The coachman was middle-aged and really had no outstanding characteristics. He was not particularly tall, or short, or fat. I am not sure I would be able to recognize him again. He did talk like a West Country man, though I realize that’s not much help. The footman was large.” She went on hurriedly, “Footmen always are well set up and usually tall, but this one was, how shall I put it, more so. Not conspicuously, but he was not quite as smooth as one expects. I thought he might serve the same function as the outriders who travel with some nobles’ or rich men’s coaches. For protection, you know.”
“As it happens, I know both men. They’ve been with Mr. Lattimer fo
r many years. And neither is loose-lipped. It must be someone in one of the War Office’s…family connections.”
“But what has Mr. Lattimer to do with the War Office?”
Jane Stowe was so deeply involved at this point, he could not justify secrecy.
“While he is not officially employed by the War Office, he serves as a sort of intermediary between several of its…small, detached divisions. That is how he was able to arrange for the money and the ship passage for your brother and me.”
“Half brother, Mr. Gordon. And I am considering striking him from my family tree.”
“Ah.” On his behalf? Flattering!
“Do you know if Mr. Grantham is connected to the War Office or its offspring? Mrs. Lattimer’s letter was not clear upon that point. It may be unfair of me, but I could not quite like him or trust him.”
“I believe he is associated with one of the Somerset House offices. It appears he was unaware you were at the cottage until you arrived on his doorstep, so he is presumably innocent of divulging your whereabouts to whoever tried to kidnap you. Unfortunately, determining who is responsible for passing on your presence at Hawthorn Cottage may not be easy. It may only be that someone was indiscreet. M-Mr. Lattimer will have a better idea of how to ferret out the gossip or spy than I do.” He would not care to put money on Grantham’s holding his tongue about the young lady who had fled Hawthorn Cottage, convinced she was in danger of abduction. The man obviously did not believe in Jane’s danger and would consider it merely an amusing story. Alex recalled an acid comment of his mother’s regarding Grantham: “If a man and a woman made exactly the same suggestion, he would dismiss the woman’s, while endorsing the man’s.”
Chapter 27
Jane took a candle and went up to her room on the servants’ floor. She needed time to compose herself.
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