She tucked her skirt more tightly under her legs and turned to ask. “Will you tell me now what happened to your fingers?”
He did not admonish her for tactlessness. Instead, he closed his eyes, sighed, and raised his face to the sun as if there were nothing to be done but succumb to Claire’s intrusiveness. “My first mission went badly. I’m surprised the intelligence service didn’t ship me back to Allerton with a note that said, ‘Thanks, but no.’”
Pushing himself upright, he reached over and plucked a lady’s smock from its stem. As he pulled off one pale pink petal he continued, “I was taken captive, a huge blunder. They wanted information about the location of Major-General Pakenham and his troops.” He yanked off another petal. “I was scared, but I had left England, left you, to make myself into a better man. I vowed then and there that I wasn’t ever going to be so weak again. I refused to talk, so they cut off first one finger and then the next. Before they got to the third, I had formulated a plan to escape. And I did.”
It was practically the longest speech she’d ever heard out of John, and as he lapsed into silence Claire’s only response was to whisper his name. The sheer horror of what he’d said, what he’d endured, left her speechless.
He ducked his head and ripped off another petal. “I am sorry for speaking of such things. I shouldn’t—”
“Yes, you should.” She reached over and squeezed his arm. “I’m glad you survived.”
“I learned two things that night.” His lips turned up in a mocking smile. “I learned a person always pays for his mistakes, and I learned that I never wanted to hurt people. Not even for the benefit of my country.”
Claire said nothing, silently hoping he had made a mistake in suspecting Kensworth.
For once, he spoke into the lull. “Unfortunately, I do sometimes make mistakes, and I have occasionally had to hurt people. But I always try to make certain I’m correct, and I’ve become adept at finding alternative solutions to violence, perhaps convincing the person to come over to our side or making arrangements so they cease what they’re doing.”
“I am relieved to know you won’t be aiming a pistol at Kensworth,” she said lightly.
Her teasing tone had no effect, and John’s next words were deadly serious. “If Kensworth is guilty, I will have no choice but to uphold the law. This is not about some petty crime but a treasonable matter.”
“I know what your duties are in that regard, which is why I am grateful Kensworth is innocent.” Seeing they were headed back to their endless argument, Claire smiled and added, “I am grateful, too, that you won’t have to arrest your friend.”
“He’s not my—”
“He will be,” she declared. “After this nonsense is over and you’ve found the real culprit, Kensworth and you will be friends. Real friends.” She smiled again, hoping he would do likewise. He was never so handsome and youthful-looking as when he smiled.
He looked grave as ever. “I will be returning to the Continent once I am finished here.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
The words had slipped out, more reflective of her heart than her mind, and his eyes darkened and her pulse beat faster. She’d never wanted anyone as she’d always wanted John. Her skin became gooseflesh at the promise in his hot gaze.
Suddenly he levered himself up, and Claire’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscled thigh flexing in front of her. It took her a moment to realize he held out his hand, but she let him pull her up and planted her feet on the flat stone instead of the ground, thus bringing her that much closer to his lips. Without releasing his left hand, she snaked her other hand up around his shoulder and pulled him toward her.
His lips, so warm, so smooth, tasted of apples and cinnamon. She let herself fall against his chest, eager to touch him everywhere, eager to have his arms around her. Emily was right about the heightened effect of initiating these things.
He grasped her shoulders and pushed away, breaking the kiss. After steadying her on the rock, he stepped back, stopping to pick up the napkin that had wrapped the tarts.
“We should return now,” he said, his voice firm, almost admonishing, as if she were a child who had misbehaved.
It probably made no difference in her appearance, but the passionate flush of her cheeks gave way to the heat of embarrassment. She nodded stiffly and shuffled toward her mare. Could she not have waited one more day, until she had broken off with Stephen? But, no. She loved John. Always had, always would. She could fight it no longer.
Claire turned to find him right behind her, ready to assist in mounting her horse. She had no choice but to let him, and his touch branded her skin. Soon settled in the saddle but completely unsettled, she fumbled about for something to say. Anything. What had they just spoken of? Stephen. Parliament…
“Kensworth is always looking for allies in the House of Commons. I know he would help you, if you wish it.” The words stumbled out of her mouth, one right after the other. He must think her not only vulgarly forward but also idiotic. But she was so completely undone she could barely breathe let alone think. “Your mother and Allerton would love for you to stay.”
He stared at her horse’s hindquarters, his jaw tight, his eyes unseeing. “No.”
Her heart seized at the certainty with which he imbued that one syllable. He’d closed the window into his soul once again, so was he really determined to keep spying, unwilling to settle down? She raised her chin and stared out at the budding trees. Tears stung the corner of her eyes.
“I never fit into Society,” he said, “and that hasn’t changed. There is still work to be done on the Continent. Just because there is no war does not mean England lacks enemies. I—” He cut himself off, but Claire refused to look at him. His next words forced her attention, however. “Kensworth told me he would be locked in his study with his estate manager all morning.”
She turned her horse to see where John looked. Far across the clearing, beyond the next stand of trees, a rider on a dun horse ambled in the general direction of the house. Though almost a quarter mile away, the man certainly looked like Stephen and there was no doubting the dun was his.
She knew what John was thinking: Stephen was up to no good, plotting against the government or something equally traitorous. Could he be? Could Stephen harbor such ugly, ruinous thoughts without her knowledge?
“Perhaps the estate manager wanted to show him something,” she replied, completely ignoring that her fiancé was alone.
“Let’s go.” John swung into his saddle and turned toward the path without looking at her.
They rode back in miserable silence.
Chapter Twenty
“I suggest you be introduced as Mr. Donner tonight instead of Lord John,” Kensworth advised as they headed toward the village of Brantley and the monthly meeting of the local Hampden Club. His dun snorted and inched closer to John’s bay, the same dun John and Claire had observed earlier in the day riding about the estate. John’s first thought, or possibly hope, had been that either David or Robert also rode a dun. However, the two Cahill brothers rode behind them, Robert atop a chestnut gelding and David saddled on a frenzied black stallion. It was possible one of them could have borrowed Kensworth’s horse, but John couldn’t think why they would have done so when their own mounts appeared in perfect health.
Kensworth lifted a golden eyebrow, still awaiting an acknowledgment of his suggestion.
“Why the pretense? You’re a viscount and you attend the meetings.” Not that pretense wasn’t John’s forte, but of late he’d got rather tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He couldn’t be the man who loved Claire. He couldn’t be Kensworth’s friend. Hell, he couldn’t even be a man simply returned home to his family. Secrets and lies shadowed every corner of his life.
“They know me and my past. As a newcomer you’ll be under enough suspicion; I don’t need them getting fanciful ideas that you’re Sidmouth’s spymaster or a Tory infiltrator sent by Allerton.” Kensworth laugh
ed and shook his head. “I hope no one notices your resemblance to the duke.”
John furrowed his brow, trying to look insulted. “You dare accuse me of being a spy, of sinking so low?”
Kensworth glanced behind them. “Not so loud! I know you’re only quizzing me, but if Robert hears the word ‘spy,’ he’s liable to panic.”
John raised his eyebrows. “You were the one casting aspersions on my honor.”
Kensworth didn’t reply but surveyed the darkening landscape as they rode. The trees were starkly outlined against the twilight sky, and the pungent smell of burning peat infused the air. The rumbling murmurs of David and Robert’s conversation drifted toward them, though they couldn’t distinguish any words.
Finally, the viscount shifted in his saddle and looked over. “I didn’t mean to offend you back there.”
John flashed what he hoped was a forgiving grin. “I know you only meant it in fun.” He urged his horse into a trot. “Let us not be late.”
Kensworth’s brothers took note of the faster pace and soon raced ahead, leading them the last mile into Brantley. John assessed the small village as they entered. They were meeting at the tavern, but there was also an old stone church and three shops, all abutting a dusty lane. Half a dozen horses, most of the sturdy, working variety, stood placidly outside the tavern, tied to a long, horizontal post.
David and Robert dismounted and secured their horses alongside the rest. David’s energetic stallion did not appear pleased to be in the company of so many others.
John rode past the tavern and waved for Kensworth to accompany him. He led his bay over to a tree near the rear of the church. “It’s too crowded over there,” he commented as he looped the reins over a lower limb of the oak. It was always best to plan an escape, even when it probably wouldn’t be necessary.
Kensworth followed suit, tying his mount to another branch. “Good idea.”
They ambled toward the tavern as darkness closed in around the village. Donning his spectacles John asked, “So, can I be your cousin the vicar then?”
“Despite your mostly serious manner, you don’t strike me as a man of the cloth,” Kensworth said with a shake of his head. “You seem to be unmistakably from the city.” He looked John up and down then smiled. “You would make a perfect clerk.”
John laughed; what else could he do? He was destined to be seen as a clerk. But a devilish impulse made him ask, “In the Home Office?”
Kensworth playfully shoved his forearm into John’s shoulder. “Would you shut your mouth? These men are suspicious enough as it is.”
Not as suspicious as they should be. The way things stood with the government, they shouldn’t have been meeting at all. With habeas corpus suspended, there was nothing to stop Sidmouth from arresting all of them for treason and holding them indefinitely. He wouldn’t, not with the knowledge that John was in attendance tonight, but the possibility was always there for the future. Not to mention, how would it look if Viscount Kensworth were rounded up with the rest of the rabble-rousers?
“How about a clerk from Lloyd’s?” Kensworth ventured, oblivious to John’s dire thoughts.
“Very well,” John agreed. His knowledge of insurance and shipping was limited, but he intended to do more listening than talking.
Kensworth pulled open the heavy oak door and waved John through. Robert and David were already inside the low-ceilinged room, greeting acquaintances with smiles and handshakes. All the tables had been shoved up against stucco walls. Men of various ages either reclined in the chairs that had been crowded into the center of the room, or sat atop the tables, their booted feet hanging down.
As his gaze roamed the crowd, John noted how diverse it was. There was Kensworth, of course, the local peer, but also tradesmen, field laborers, a blacksmith, and even two of Kensworth’s footmen. In all John counted forty-five people, a number perilously close to the fifty that would have violated the Seditious Meeting Act.
Kensworth nodded at a few people but didn’t speak directly to anyone as he made his way over to a table near the bar and hitched himself up. John smiled freely at anyone who would look at him, hoping such friendliness would dissolve any suspicions regarding his presence. By the time he slid up next to Kensworth his jaw ached from the unaccustomed work. Across the room, Robert and David sat on opposite sides of a wiry fellow with shoulder-length brown hair. Were they distancing themselves from John, the newcomer?
The publican banged a tankard on the bar as an older man with loose wrinkles and a thatch of white hair rose and stood in front of the oak divider. “Hear ye, hear ye. This meetin’ of the Hertfordshire Hampden Club is called to order.” His sharp gaze cut directly to Kensworth. “We’ve a full house tonight and his lordship appears to have brought a companion. Care to introduce us?”
Kensworth tilted his head toward John. “Mr. Boyd, this is my cousin, Mr. Donner. He’s visiting from London, and knowing how similar his views are to ours, I invited him to accompany me.”
John smiled and nodded toward various parts of the room, all the while observing reactions. Most regarded him with suspicion while murmuring amongst themselves. He noticed the man in between the Cahill brothers was speaking vehemently into David’s ear.
The publican thumped the tankard against the oak again and a hush fell over the room. “Welcome, Mr. Donner,” he said grudgingly. Then he turned to business. “Last month Mr. Carley had the notion of printing up a pamphlet to distribute around the county.” Mild cheering interrupted this announcement. “However, that devil Sidmouth—” The cheers turned instantly to shouts and curses. Mr. Boyd held up a hand to quiet everyone and then continued, “—has ordered harsh punishments for the printers and writers of such things, so we’ll have to forgo it.” He quickly abandoned his defeated tone, though, and raised his voice. “That does not mean we can’t spread our beliefs by word of mouth. We have got to speak up. Wherever you go, find someone to enlighten! Speak for equality! Declare for reform! Denounce those who have taken liberty prisoner!”
The room erupted with hearty cheers, fist-pounding and boot-stomping. Most aristocrats would not have engaged in something so vulgar as shouting encouragement, but Kensworth did. Then again, most aristocrats would not have been at such a meeting in the first place.
John hammered his fist against the table, not only to fit in, but also in admiration of Mr. Boyd’s speech. He had no idea who the man was, but he wouldn’t have been out of place in the House of Commons. Who was to say he shouldn’t be there? That was the rub.
Once again Mr. Boyd deftly settled the crowd and then turned to address Kensworth. “Is there any news from the House of Lords?”
Kensworth shared information gleaned from sessions of Parliament? John hid his surprise as all eyes in the room swung toward them. Most of it would be innocuous enough, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the reaction of Sidmouth to such a revelation.
Kensworth braced his hands on the edge of the table and shook his head. “There is nothing much new. I continue to try to enlist allies for our cause, however. It is not a matter of if we achieve parliamentary reform, but when. I know that the latest blows from the Tory”—more jeers from the men—“government are disheartening, but we cannot give up. Our course is set and, despite any obstacles, we must continue moving forward, even if it’s only an inch at a time. I give you my word that I will fight for universal suffrage until my dying day.”
The members of the club applauded with enthusiasm, most nodding in agreement as well. It was obvious to John that Kensworth was well-respected and under no suspicion whatsoever regarding his loyalty.
Once again Mr. Boyd restored order. “Samuel Warren wanted to speak tonight, but he’s not here as yet. I suggest we take a break, hoist a pint in honor of Major Cartwright and wait for him. All in favor?”
A deafening chorus of “Aye!” filled the room. John chuckled at the mental image of a room full of working men, or any men for that matter, voting down the chance to drink.
�
�You do know who Major John Cartwright is?” Kensworth asked.
John hopped off the table and shot his companion an insulted glance. “Of course. He founded the Hampden Club back in ’Twelve.”
“My apologies,” Kensworth said as he pulled two tankards off the bar, “but you have been out of the country for a while.”
John accepted the ale offered by Kensworth, and the pair toasted the elderly Major Cartwright with the men around them. Kensworth introduced John round this smaller group, and a young man by the name of Hal Stickney questioned John for the better part of ten minutes, not about his reformist views or loyalty to the Whigs, but about his work in London. And here John thought no one at this meeting would care a whit about his personal life. He hadn’t counted on an enthusiastic man, or lad really, who desperately wanted a life beyond the village of Brantley.
He finally extricated himself from the tangle of lies and semi-truths he’d been imparting to young Stickney and looked around. The club members had separated into smaller groups and were talking and drinking much like the members of White’s often did. Kensworth stood off to the side, speaking to one of his footmen.
Alone at last, John took the opportunity to sidle through the crowd, his ears attuned to as many conversations as possible. Despite their earlier exuberance in support of reform, most everyone spoke of the mundane: finances, domestic life, employment, sporting events. After one disappointing pass around the room John leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest. Seeing Kensworth now in conversation with Stickney, he thought perhaps the viscount could find employment in Town for the young man.
Surveying the room further, John noticed the wiry fellow who’d sat with Robert and David pull Stickney away from Kensworth. He hustled young Stickney into a corner, spoke briefly and then pointed toward the Cahill brothers. John would have thought nothing of this behavior, except for the fact it was clear the thin, long-haired man was anxious. His eyes darted around the room constantly and his finger shook when he pointed.
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