A Spy's Honor
Page 22
He swallowed the temptation with a dose of brandy and then stood to face the viscount. “We are speaking frankly?”
Kensworth pushed his banyan aside and braced his hands on his hips. “It would appear so.”
“If your association with the Hampden Club becomes known, you stand to lose much.”
“I am a viscount,” Kensworth scoffed. “I’m a member of the Whig party, and a reformist member at that. I have nothing to fear.”
So naïve. “You’re going to be married! Whatever befalls you, befalls Claire. Do you want her to feel the sting of Society’s disapproval?”
Lines of disbelief marred Kensworth’s broad forehead. He looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what, and so John took advantage of his silence.
“The Home Office blames the Hampden Clubs for much of the unrest around the country. While tonight I saw men earnestly working for reform, everyone else suspects these clubs of trying to start riots or harm the Prince Regent. Your involvement with supposed agitators cannot benefit anyone. If you lose the respect of your colleagues in the House of Lords because of your membership in the Hampden Club, what can you accomplish?”
Kensworth, arms folded across his chest, eyed him balefully, looking more than ever as fierce as a Viking warrior. Part of John admired Kensworth’s determination to take risks. Hadn’t that been what he did every day on the Continent? But, then, he’d been living anonymously. His life might have been at stake, but never his reputation. Never his family.
He began pacing the short width of the room. “You don’t know the ton. As you said once before, I grew up among them. I am not some fretful lad afraid to take a chance. I take risks, but only when they have a chance of helping me achieve my goal. The other men in the Hampden Club must do what is in their power to achieve reform. They must meet; they must agitate; they must march. We must use our power and position—in the House of Lords and the House of Commons—to accomplish those same goals.”
The words should have been a fabrication—John had never intended to seek a seat in Parliament—but suddenly the idea took root. Reform was needed, and he could help. He really could.
“There is nothing wrong with the members of the Hampden Club,” Kensworth replied, his lip curled in annoyance. “They are no worse, if also no better, than those above them. The point is, they still deserve suffrage and equality. Obviously you and others of your ilk do not think so.”
Stopping, John gave him a stern look recently reserved for his recalcitrant nephew. “Stop acting like a horse’s arse. Do you think you are the only one who can advocate for suffrage, simply because of your destitute background? There are many—including me, Stretton and Romford—who believe the same as you and will gladly help the cause. You need to act like a peer of the realm and leave the others to play the parts they are suited for.” He waved his arm around, indicating the estate. “Use what you have been given to give more to others. You were an officer. You know it wouldn’t do to send in the cavalry to do the infantry’s work.”
“I am trying to,” Kensworth spat out before moving to sit behind his desk. “I can’t abandon those men. They need—”
“You to fight for their rights in the House of Lords,” John finished for him.
Elbows on the desk, Kensworth ran his hands over his hair and exhaled loudly. John held his breath, waiting to see if the viscount saw his point. The man was proving as tough to bring around as some of the most ardent French loyalists.
The longcase clock in the entrance hall chimed three times. This time, Kensworth noticed. “It’s late. I will think over what you’ve said.” He laced his fingers atop the blotter and raised an eyebrow. “For the silent type, you’ve had a lot to say tonight.”
Kensworth didn’t want to admit he might have strayed off the mark in his determination to help the disenfranchised, but John sensed victory. But he could wait for confirmation. “Thank you for listening,” he said as he rose and strode for the door.
As he opened it, Kensworth spoke again. “I won’t be leaving with you and my brothers in the morning. I’ve had a note from Claire, and she has asked to speak with me tomorrow.”
John stared at the doorknob. Claire. She had vowed not to speak with her fiancé about his suspicions. Should he trust her to be loyal to him?
He turned and nodded. “Very well then, I will see you in Town.”
***
Stephen had agreed to see her, but he also expressed the wish to be back in London before the day was much gone, so Claire and Allerton arrived at Wakebourne at the very unfashionable hour of nine in the morning. She didn’t mind the earliness of the hour, for she hadn’t been able to sleep anyway. She felt as if she’d invited herself over to drown his favorite spaniel.
Crying off their engagement when she’d thought they were merely friends had been horrible to contemplate. Jilting him when she believed he loved her was nothing short of agonizing. But he deserved better than her.
Stephen was on the terrace, thankfully alone, enjoying a cup of coffee. Claire stopped short of stepping outside. Allerton cut her a curious sidelong glance.
“I must speak to him privately,” she uttered in a low voice.
Allerton’s eyebrows rose in rampant curiosity, but one doleful look from Claire sent him in graceful retreat. “As you wish.”
Stephen rose to greet her, his usual heartfelt smile splitting his face. Claire nearly stumbled. He took her hand and steadied her.
“Shall we walk in the garden?” she asked, fearful they would be interrupted on the terrace.
“I would like nothing better.” He tucked her arm around his. “It is uncommonly good to see you this morning. Soon, we can start every day like this.”
They stepped down from the terrace onto a horizontal garden path. While the old house of Wakebourne had been replaced by something more modern, the formal gardens had not been touched. No sign of Capability Brown’s hand here. The low-hedged paths were laid out in geometric fashion, with a spectacularly large fountain in the center.
Unable to stop herself, Claire asked, “Where are the others?”
“John and my brothers already left for Town.”
“Oh.” Claire turned toward the back of the garden, feeling as if she were leading Stephen along the path to Hell. She gulped in a breath. “Stephen, I’ve been thinking about your question.”
“What question?”
“Would I have accepted your proposal if John had returned earlier?”
He stopped, looking for all the world as if he regretted asking. “Right.”
He started walking again but didn’t ask for an answer, which spoke volumes. How could she do this to him? She studied his face, the wariness in his green eyes, the lips that smiled so often they were permanently turned up at the ends. Stephen deserved someone who loved him.
“I cannot answer your question,” she said. “It’s impossible to change the way things happened.” When he narrowed his eyes, suggesting he wouldn’t stand for that circular argument, she plunged on. “I think the true question is, is it fair for me to hold you to our engagement?”
“Fair?” he repeated.
“Honorable. Right. Conscionable.”
He abruptly stopped walking, glanced around. “We’d best sit.”
Claire followed him to a bench that faced the fountain. She sat but jumped a little as the coldness of the stone penetrated her layers of clothing, and taking Stephen’s large hand she said, “You are a true friend.”
Oh, but how to go on from there. Staring off at a distant stand of just-budding beech trees, she realized she should have prepared what to say before broaching this subject. “I’m so grateful that I’ve been able to enjoy the past years with you, and I wouldn’t change a thing about the time we spent together.”
Stephen searched her face. “But…?”
This was as difficult as she had imagined. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt the man sitting beside her. His green eyes, crinkled at the corners fr
om the bright sunlight, were so warm. Yet, the easiest and most dangerous way to hurt him would be marriage. She must end this.
She squeezed his hand. “Because we are friends, I must speak honestly. I cannot marry you. I’m not in love with you, and you deserve a woman who is.” She clung to his hand, willing herself not to cry, forcing herself to look him in the eye. The splashing water of the fountain droned into the silence. “Somewhere out there is a woman who can love you passionately, who can give you all her heart.”
Out of the blue he burst out laughing, even threw his blond head back as he did. But the sound was hollow and his eyes skittered from side to side. “Sweet Claire! I’ve always known that your heart was taken. Taken and broken. I never knew who had done such a thing until…”
Her jaw dropped and she had not the wherewithal to lift it up. When he reached out and gently closed it for her, rubbing his thumb along the bottom of her chin, she asked, “You knew?” She was so dumbfounded that she didn’t even notice the fly that landed on her arm until Stephen waved it away.
“You tried to hide your broken heart, but I saw it in your eyes.” His lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I watched and waited, trying to see who it might be, but I soon realized it wasn’t anyone presently in Society. I couldn’t abide your hurt, so that was one reason I offered to marry you. I knew how much you wanted a family, and I thought that I at least would care for you better than any of those other fools.”
Tears sprang up again. How ironic. She had always wanted a hero to rescue her. John had been the first, and now Stephen had done so, only she was rejecting him.
He continued to smile at her, albeit not as widely as he usually did. “None of this means we can’t marry, however. I am well aware of your past with John, but the future is ours. We have plans, Claire. The Whigs. Parliamentary reform. Slavery.”
She laid her hand on his, aware that his skin was not as warm as she expected. Oh, she was so cruel. Was he experiencing the same deep, jabbing pain she’d felt when John had decided not to marry her?
“Stephen, I am not the woman for you. While I would be hard pressed to identify a single fault in your character, we are not suited”—she drew in a faltering breath—“because I don’t love you. Not as a wife should. I do not mean to belittle your feelings, for I am truly flattered to think you love me, but…you deserve better than me.”
Lord, she was rambling like the feeblest lackwit. She held her breath, waiting, and watched as his eyes dulled to a faded jade. A lightning strike would not be too harsh a punishment for this heartlessness.
He laughed, a coarse and unnatural sound, and pulled his hand away. “Claire, I am not in love with you. Whatever gave you such an idea? I value your friendship and I wanted to ease your pain. Nothing more.”
Surprised at his denial, she couldn’t think what to say. How to continue.
He gazed at the fountain, looking more and more like a stranger to her. “Obviously you and Lord John have not forgotten each other and—”
“Stephen, I’m not throwing you over for someone else. I’ve had no other offer, nor do I necessarily expect one. I…I would like the opportunity to see if John and I might have a future, but what I truly want is for you to be free to find the kind of love I foolishly let slip away all those years ago.” She touched his sleeve, her heart aching at his distant expression. “I agreed to your proposal with the best of intentions. I never meant to deceive you.”
He heaved a great sigh, his shoulders straining the seam of his brown tweed coat. “I have never doubted your intentions or your friendship.” Leaning back against the bench, he quirked a half-smile. “I must admit I wouldn’t mind finding a woman who looked at me the way you look at him.”
Well, fustian. “I apologize for treating you abominably. I will do my best to take as much of the blame as possible; I don’t want your reputation to suffer.” And she would work all the harder to find John his proof that Stephen was innocent. She grabbed his hand. “Please say we can remain friends and that I may continue to help you with your speeches and such. I know I’m being wretched, but I don’t want to lose you.”
His hand lay limp in hers for what seemed an eternity. Then finally he gave her fingers a squeeze. “I would be honored if we could remain friends, but do not worry about me. The ton may think what they will.”
He stood and pulled her up, retaining her hands. She breathed at last, glad to have her friend restored to her, but his comment troubled her. Such a blithe attitude was commendable, but she wasn’t certain he fully realized the power of Society. Scandals never really disappeared. Society might tuck them away in a pocket, but they always kept a hand on them, ready to wield all the wicked details when the opportunity arose. If she and Stephen remained friends, though, it might lessen the storm of gossip.
Claire stretched her heels off the ground and kissed him on the cheek. “You are such a dear. I’m a fool to give you up.”
“No, you aren’t.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing her closer, and Claire nearly sobbed. He had lied. He did love her. She could only hope he soon discovered an even greater passion for a woman wise enough to return his feelings.
They walked back to the terrace in somber silence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
John returned to London with Robert and David, which might have proved enlightening but didn’t. Robert remained brooding and uncommunicative the entire way, which wasn’t unusual but was frustrating. David enthused about the raid and the escape, too enthralled with the danger and excitement to respond to any of John’s questions.
John had trouble reconciling either the doltish Robert or the callow David as the leader of a plot to assassinate the prime minister. Nor could he envision Bates, David and Robert’s nervous friend whom John had seen on the grounds of Wakebourne, having the fortitude to organize the plot. There was still Lord Stretton—
Hell and damnation.
What if Stretton and one of the Cahill brothers were working together to bring down the government? Stretton did like to play with political fire, and it would make sense that one of the Cahill brothers was being led by a keener mind.
A small dart of panic nipped beneath his skin as John sat at the small escritoire in his room, writing an abbreviated report of his Hertfordshire activities. It was already the twentieth; they were clearly nearing the time frame—the end of April—that Watson had given him for the assassination.
Stretton’s previous whereabouts still eluded John, when he’d supposedly been in London, a falsehood that still bore investigation. He must start there, he supposed, all while keeping an eye on the three Cahill brothers.
All of which should go a long way toward ensuring he forgot about Claire.
***
They were all assembled, even Allerton, who possessed the annoying character flaw of having created a mountain of scandal in his youth but now was unable to tolerate the same behavior in others. Claire meandered around the silver salon, straightening pictures hung on the plum walls, inhaling the aroma of the lilies-of-the-valley prettily arranged in a silver vase, waiting for Stephen to arrive.
Her announcement to the family of the broken engagement had been met with equanimity and a strong desire to help her cushion any blow to Stephen’s reputation. Emily had taken charge and insisted on a meeting to devise the most appropriate and efficient strategy.
There might not be much gossip, of course. Claire had no guarantee John would seek to court her after he learned of the change, and there would be little fuel for the fire if he did not. After his rebuff of her kiss, she wasn’t going to pin her heart on a marriage proposal. Taking this step, freeing herself from Stephen, left her far enough out on a limb. Any further wishful thinking might just crack the branch and land her hard on her bottom.
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she sidestepped her workbasket. The sunny warmth of the last few days had succumbed to monotonous grey clouds accompanied by a chilly wind.
“You are far too optimistic, my dear,” Allerton countered. “A trait in you I love, but I have to think Kensworth is in for a rough time.”
“I agree,” said Claire. “I’m the one crying off, but everyone will blame him. They will think he has done something wrong simply because he’s new to the peerage and Society. My relation to Allerton will spare me, but Stephen has no such connections.” Guilt surged within her once again. She must convince the ton she was at fault if anyone was to take blame.
Allerton’s mother laid a hand on her shoulder, and Claire barely resisted the urge to throw herself upon that lady and sob her heart out. “Do not fret, my child. The Reyburns have survived worse.” The woman threw her son a speaking look. “Besides, we are already ahead of the game, as Kensworth agreed to come here today and seems to harbor you no ill will.”
“He understands. He’s not upset or angry or…” Claire broke off before saying jealous. He might be that, but at the moment he had not shown it.
What cause was there, really? Only time would tell if the magical bond which had once existed between John and her could be restored.
A knock on the door garnered everyone’s attention. A footman swept in, announcing, “Lord Kensworth and…er, Lord John.”
The two men strode into the room. Claire’s skin prickled with dread. She had not seen John since the bittersweet morning they spent together, and she had no idea what was going through his head.
The gentlemen sketched bows, the differences between them quite striking as they stood side by side—John tall, dark and lean, Stephen blond and broad. Both were handsome, but only the sight of John made her heart pound. That was why she’d been forced to give Stephen up.
Claire waited for someone to speak. It should be Allerton; he was the head of the family. And yet, this entanglement was her doing.
She stepped forward. “Thank you for coming, Stephen.”
John, his brow furrowed above his spectacles, looked perplexed. “What’s going on? I just returned home and met Kensworth in the hall. He insisted I accompany him here. You all look as if you’ve come from a funeral procession.”