A good question. He’d said he was returning to the Continent to spy again and had adamantly refused to consider Claire’s suggestion to stand for Parliament in truth instead of pretending to do so. That was unsettling now that she gave it thought. He didn’t live the life of a gentleman, and she wasn’t certain spying qualified as an occupation. It was a questionable one at best, especially for a man with a wife. He did want to marry her, didn’t he?
“Here we are,” Emily declared. She turned and hugged Claire, whispering in her ear, “It’s not always easy to get where we’re meant to be in life, but the journey is usually worth it. Don’t lose sight of your dream, Claire.”
Then she was gone, gathered close to Allerton’s side as they entered the party.
Claire and the dowager made a tour of the rooms, speaking to friends, acquaintances and those who looked at Claire as if she were infected with a new variant of the Bubonic Plague. Because of the latter, she was not at all distressed when the dowager accepted an offer to dance from a handsome, white-bearded gentleman and she could escape to a quiet corner to brood and train an eye on the entrance.
The minutes ticked away slowly. Half of her was angry and frustrated that John hadn’t shown up. The other half was worried he’d been injured in the course of his work. The information she’d provided last night about Stretton should have been enough to clear that lord’s name off John’s list. Did that leave only Stephen?
Her hand flew to her mouth. Stephen had gone to Hertfordshire. Had John followed him? When would John realize Stephen was innocent? Claire mentally kicked herself for not having found the “proof” John needed to cross Stephen off the list while she was searching out the other information. Why had she worried about Stretton when she should have focused on Stephen?
“Perhaps we should plant you in a pot and be done with it.” Eliza Cranstoun sashayed in front of Claire. “If you intend to skulk in the corner, you should at least pretend to be decorative.”
Claire had very little patience left. “Isn’t there some gossip you wish to pursue, Eliza? Or someone from whom you can extract a pound of flesh?”
Eliza’s smile was feral. “I was hoping to receive payment from you…or Kensworth, to be more precise. Where is your strapping former betrothed?”
“Not here,” Claire replied.
Eliza’s thin black eyebrows rose lasciviously. “Licking his wounds, is he? Perhaps I could help.”
“I really must—”
“I don’t see your brother-in-law either. The tall one with the mysterious air about him.” Eliza bit her painted lower lip. “I wouldn’t mind an introduction to him as well. But then, after witnessing your waltz with him last week, perhaps you’d like to keep him to yourself.”
Claire’s fingers curled into fists before her brain commanded them to relax. She would not hand Eliza gossip. Forcing herself to smile she said, “I am uncertain of Lord John’s whereabouts, but when next I see him I will mention how desperate you are for an introduction.”
Eliza looked ready to flounce off, so Claire gathered her skirts and swept past the woman first. She felt a headache coming on.
As she walked around the room, uncertain of her destination, she couldn’t stop herself from searching for John. He wasn’t there. Finally, finding herself near the refreshment table and being perfectly capable of getting her own food, she plucked a raisin-filled biscuit from a plate.
It did not taste good.
She waited an hour. Then two. Then three. People talked to her, but the conversations were of the stilted and awkward variety that ensued when one party had the lead role in much of the circulating gossip.
Playing at espionage was not the lark she’d once thought. Prying into the lives of the Strettons, dealing with people like Eliza Cranstoun, who cared for no one’s feelings; these weren’t things she could enjoy. Besides, she needed stability and at least the illusion of permanence in her life, not this unreliability that seemed to be part and parcel of John and his work.
Once they were married things would be different. Or so she told herself.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After a restless night in which she listened for any little sign of John’s return, Claire rose, disgusted with herself, and went down to breakfast. This last was an achievement, for she so wanted to remain in her bedchamber and stew.
“Good morning!”
Allerton’s greeting grated on her overtired brain, but Emily, at least, was more sensitive. Claire’s sister studied her for a moment and then sighed. “Do come sit, Claire. Philip will fill your plate.” She nodded at the footman.
When Claire had seated herself, Emily leaned over. “Whatever is wrong, my dear?”
Claire simply stared at the empty chair which John usually occupied.
Her sister followed her gaze. “Oh. Where is he?”
Claire shrugged.
“Allerton, where is your brother?” Emily demanded.
Her husband flipped his newspaper down. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I haven’t seen him since…” He slid his eyes to the ceiling in thought. “Since yesterday morning. He was on his way out, in quite a rush. When did you last see him, Claire?” he asked, seemingly oblivious to her distress.
The memory of John—above her, inside her—flashed into Claire’s mind. Heat scalded her cheeks. Yesterday she’d told herself she didn’t regret giving herself to him. After twenty-fours of continued secrecy and no proposal, however…
She contemplated the flowering vines on the wallpaper as she answered Allerton. “Yesterday morning as well. He didn’t say where he was going.” That, at least, was the truth.
“Should we be concerned?” Emily asked.
“No. Certainly not.” Claire snapped her gaze to Allerton and then back to her sister. “John has the right to come and go as he pleases. His irregularity needn’t concern us.”
She was trying to convince herself of the same, of course. Common sense told her he was working, doing his best to apprehend…someone. However, common sense offered little in the way of comfort. The situation remained the same: John was gone without a word. She could not even tell her sister and brother-in-law her suspicions regarding his whereabouts. Or her worry over the danger he might be in. Or how deep was the hole his departure carved in her heart.
Emily slid a speaking glance at her husband. Allerton folded his newspaper and placed it on the corner of the table and said, “You have a point, little sister. He is his own man. I do hope, however, he puts in an appearance before we leave tomorrow.”
“What?” Claire looked to Emily.
“Allerton and I would like to return to Bellemere for a few weeks. The children enjoy the country so much more, and we only have a short time left before I begin my confinement.” She patted her round stomach.
“Oh, of course.” Claire nodded, just able to prevent a shiver as a cold despondency cloaked her. Emily and Allerton had never preferred Town and had only stayed so long because of her wedding. The wedding that was now canceled.
“If you wish to stay, and I’m certain you must”—Emily raised her eyebrows—“the dowager duchess intends to remain here. She will happily chaperone you.”
“I… Yes, I had best stay.” Claire managed a wan smile. Oh, how she wanted to go with them, to just disappear like John. It would serve him right. But she was not a coward and this time there would be no misunderstanding between them.
She spent the rest of the day assisting Emily with the packing and the taming of the children, who were so excited about returning to Bellemere they couldn’t stop hopping around like fleas on a dog. Claire relished the work and the distraction, though the latter wasn’t enough to keep her from listening for the opening of the front door.
By dinner, when the dowager herself commented on and fussed over John’s absence, Claire was done in. She participated in the conversation perfunctorily and excused herself as soon as politeness allowed.
She wasn’t deaf to Allerton’s footsteps behind her,
but she kept moving until he called her name. “Claire. Should I be out searching for my brother?”
Grasping the staircase newel, she spun around to face him. How could she balance John’s need for secrecy with his family’s unease? This wasn’t the Continent, where John was answerable to no one but the British government. He had a responsibility to his family now he was back. He had a responsibility to her, after what they had done the other night.
She sighed. “Not yet. I’m certain”—no, she wasn’t at all—“he has his reasons for this absence. Perhaps we might speak of this again tomorrow, if…if he hasn’t returned by then?”
“Oh, Claire. I will kill him if he—” Allerton blew out a breath. Then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her on the forehead. “I won’t stoop to calling out my own brother, but if you need me to, I’ll gladly give him a sound thrashing.”
Oddly, Allerton’s assurance lifted her spirits, if ever so slightly. She called a thank-you over her shoulder and headed upstairs.
She spent the night, however, in another fitful sleep, her mind filled with doubts and worries. Even as she finally fell asleep, the answer to the most important question eluded her: What would she do if John didn’t return by the next day?
***
John fell back against the cracked leather seat of the hackney he shared with Duncan, massaging the bridge of his nose for a moment before putting his spectacles back on. At last he looked to be returning to Mayfair. After two days of dogging Robert Cahill, he might finally get the chance to see Claire. It had been torture not sending her a note, but he’d had neither the time or the liberty to do so.
Duncan had his eyes closed, and John was glad of the opportunity for silence. He now knew more about Robert Cahill than he wanted. Kensworth’s brother had a pedestrian taste for gin, a strong preference for doxies, and an aptitude for boxing that didn’t surprise John. The information gave John an even more unfavorable opinion of Cahill, but none of it implicated the man in a plot to kill the prime minister.
They had followed Robert first to Whitechapel, where he had engaged in a number of morally questionable activities. Later that night, John had expected the man to return to Mayfair, but instead he rode out into Kent, spent the night at an inn, and then participated in a number of rowdy boxing matches the next day. Today. But now, at eight o’clock in the evening, it looked as if Cahill were heading back home. He rode in the hackney that John had directed his driver to follow, and if he did truly intend to retire to Kensworth House, John could go home, change clothes and see Claire.
The hackney turned onto Brook Street. Excellent. Kensworth House was just a block away. John drummed his fingers on the brittle leather seat, eager to put the past two days behind him. He wasn’t any closer to finding out who planned to harm the prime minister, but he was still close. He could feel it; his break would come soon.
The hackney squeaked to a stop. John peeked out the window and saw Robert entering Kensworth House.
“Where to now, sir?” the jarvey yelled down.
“Duncan, take the hackney back to your lodgings and get some sleep,” John said.
He moved to get out of the carriage—he could walk home from here—but froze when David Cahill bounced down the townhouse steps and climbed into the hackney that hadn’t left. A quick glance around showed him Flewett was nowhere to be seen, so no one was watching this Cahill brother, so John cursed under his breath and then ordered the jarvey in pursuit. As the carriage clattered forward, he slammed his fist against the wall. Duncan lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.
With the sun fading in the west, David’s hackney rolled to a halt in Covent Garden. Perhaps he simply meant to take in a theatre performance. John fervently hoped so.
He paid the jarvey to take Duncan home, silencing that man’s protest with assurances he could handle watching their quarry. Once he ascertained that David planned to stay for a play, he would find another hackney to take him home.
But David didn’t enter the Theatre Royal. Instead he bought an orange from a pretty girl and then propped himself against the wall of No. 7 Bow Street.
Was he waiting for someone? John weaved through the crowd until he was closer to the corner of Hart Street and had a prime view of both David and the theatre, and for the next hour he watched David watch the theater. Carriages, some opulent, some plain, paraded past the theatre, dropping off all manner of passengers. David didn’t seem interested in anything else, just the conveyances streaming by.
As the traffic slowed to a trickle, he finally pushed away from the wall and moved down Bow Street. John turned away and walked in the opposite direction for a moment, then reversed course and followed the brawny David into Broad Court, a small lane across from the theatre. There, in his affable style, youngest Cahill chatted up the coachmen waiting for their employers.
Stymied by his behavior, John hung back near the entrance to the lane. After a time, however, David meandered farther down Broad Court. John followed him to the end, where David clambered into a carriage. Intent on looking for a hackney for himself, John was too busy to hear the footsteps behind him until just before he could anticipate the blow.
He flung out an arm, but the body crashed toward and into him and they both tumbled to the pavement.
Chapter Thirty
Disheveled and certainly beginning to bruise, John arrived at Allerton House after midnight. A sleepy-eyed footman, struggling to keep his expression bland at John’s unkempt appearance, let him in.
John climbed the stairs, exhausted after his two-day journey. Ironic, how the most exciting event of said journey had been a common footpad mistaking him for a milksop who wouldn’t put up a fight. After a struggle of some minutes, the thief had limped off much worse the wear and John had finally traveled home, purse intact.
David’s behavior at Covent Garden had been suspect, but he’d done nothing incriminating. Every lead John followed had ended with only a miniscule step forward. His suspicions lay almost entirely with David at the moment, but he couldn’t think what the young man was up to.
On the second floor, he stopped at the top of the staircase.
Covent Garden. The Theatre Royal.
Macbeth.
He’d wanted to escort Claire to the play. The only reason he knew about the performance was because it had been on the list of the prime minister’s activities. Liverpool would be in attendance tomorrow night.
Tonight. It was Wednesday already. David had been surveying the theatre in anticipation of carrying out the assassination plot.
John turned and raced back down the stairs, his heart thundering, and a pang of grief struck his chest as he began to throw open the locks on the front door. Kensworth would be destroyed, not only by the scope of David’s intended actions, but also by the blow to his family’s character.
The footman came awake again, alarmed, so John called an apology as he threw open the door and raced out into the night. One thought was pounding through his brain. Please God, let Watson still be at the club.
He ran to White’s, slowing to a walk only the last two blocks in order to catch his breath and right his appearance. Nonetheless, the footman standing sentry eyed him askance before recognizing him.
In the card room, he managed to snare Watson’s attention from afar, and the man met him in the corridor after finishing the hand he’d been dealt.
Looking him up and down, Watson shook his head. “Give a care to your appearance, man. You will not find it easy to escape notice with blood running down your cheek.”
John ignored this. “I have more important things to do at the moment than primp. Let’s take a walk.”
Watson followed him outside, but his slow gait indicated some reluctance. On the pavement, the man sniffed. “The ‘important’ information you’ve provided in the past has amounted to nothing. I was winning that card game, I’ll have you know.”
After today, he would be finished with Watson. Finished with his condescending tone and his falsely sup
erior attitude. John guided them into a deserted lane and lowered his voice. “The assassination is scheduled for tonight at the Theatre Royal. Liverpool is expected to attend the performance of Macbeth. Make certain he doesn’t.”
Watson’s eyes lit up, a reaction John never expected. “What do they intend to do? Shoot him?”
“I’m not certain,” John said. “The conspirators seemed interested in the theatergoers’ waiting carriages. However, as long as Liverpool is not in Covent Garden tonight, what they have planned is irrelevant.”
“And these conspirators are…?” Watson asked.
“Once I have captured them, I will make a full report to Lord Sidmouth.” John meant to appeal to the Home Secretary on Kensworth’s behalf. If he could get David to call off the plot, leniency might be an option, although John didn’t have high hopes, not considering Sidmouth’s stance against political agitators. For Kensworth, though, he would try.
Watson frowned but finally shrugged. “Very well. I will report directly to the Home Secretary at a suitable time later this morning.”
John watched his liaison saunter off, not at all unhappy to see the last of Harry Watson. Now he could concentrate on talking sense to David.
After that, he could focus on Claire. His assignment was nearly over. He was almost free.
He returned to Allerton House, his step lighter than before, and the footman patiently let him in again. He needed a change of clothing and to deal with the mess that was his face, but more importantly he needed time to think of how best to approach Kensworth’s brother. He’d ascertained earlier that David had returned home, and both of Sidmouth’s men were again watching Kensworth House so John would be alerted if he left.
At the second floor landing, he paused. Claire’s room was to the right. His was to the left.
This was his brother’s house; propriety demanded he go straight to his chamber. Propriety also should have forced him to send Claire away the other night. Giving in to temptation hadn’t served them well. Their wedding was in the distant future, and they had no hope of keeping up a continued liaison under his brother’s and mother’s noses.
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