by Amy Quinton
“Miss Radclyffe, welcome to Stonebridge Park. I trust your journey was uneventful.”
So that was how he was going to play it? Calm and polite? Never mind that the last time he had stormed off in anger, putting her firmly in her place beforehand. Never mind that he had betrayed her trust when speaking with her uncle, telling him a load of falsehoods. These men were two of a kind—liars the both of them.
She decided to respond in kind: polite, disinterested responses that encouraged no search for truth nor invited deeper discussion. “Why, yes, Your Grace, we had quite a pleasant drive to your home. Thank you for asking.”
After that, they simply stared at each other, at a loss for further words. A voice from within the carriage broke the awkward silence.
“Oh, Duke, quit flexing your muscles at the lady and help this old girl out of the carriage. I don’t trust your footman to stop me from missing that last step.”
* * * *
Surprised, Stonebridge turned to greet and assist Aunt Harriet. She wasn’t really his aunt, but he was close enough to her that he called her that out of affection. He tried in vain to suppress inappropriate feelings of joy. Grace was here, and more importantly, Cliff and Grace had been well chaperoned and not travelling alone for…Three. Whole. Days.
Once inside the house, he waited in the foyer and watched Grace glide elegantly up the stairs behind his butler until she was out of sight. His mind was disordered. It was odd to see her so composed, and he didn’t like it. He missed the fiery, impish, often awkward woman he'd glimpsed at Beckett House. Her newfound cool formality annoyed him. Further, he was dismayed, knowing her change was likely his fault. And then there was the uncomfortable flare of envy knowing she and Cliff had travelled days together to get here. Even if they were appropriately escorted. He trusted his friend implicitly, yet regardless of that trust, he stormed off in search of his so-called friend, proving the point that too much emotion can wreak havoc on a logical mind.
He found his quarry in the library with the rest of their assembled team; yet regardless of their audience, he grabbed Cliff, who was still standing just inside the door, by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him against the nearest wall.
“What the hell were you thinking bringing her here—especially at a time like this? Did it somehow escape your attention that the entire team would be here and that our identities are meant to be secret, not to mention our activities? No. Don’t answer that. You were the one responsible for sending out the missive gathering everyone here. Good God, Cliff…”
He let go of his friend and stalked away. Cliff just smiled, but said nothing.
In reality, he was frustrated more at himself than at his friend. He had lost confidence in his ability to think logically with Grace anywhere in his vicinity. He was close friends with Cliff and had worked with him long enough to know that he would not have brought Grace here if he didn’t think it was important. Cliff was well aware of the inherent danger of their mission.
He tossed back a finger of brandy and asked without turning around, “What the hell happened?”
“Are the rest of the team up to date?”
“Yes, I briefed them yesterday while we waited for you. We saved the rest of our reports for your arrival.”
Two leather armchairs and a leather camel-back sofa were arranged around a small table. The grouping stood before a large pedestal desk upon which numerous papers were scattered haphazardly about. Two agents, MacLeod and Kelly, sat together on the sofa facing Cliff and the open doorway beyond.
Cliff closed the library door and made his way to one of the chairs opposite the sofa.
“Right. As you know our latest intelligence has placed a questionable, yet damning light on certain people and their possible involvement in the events that occurred seventeen years ago. As I was preparing to depart the earl’s home, I ran into a distraught Miss Grace Radclyffe. After the usual pleasantries, I inquired about catching up with Miss Radclyffe in London in a few weeks’ time.”
Ambrose unhinged his clenched jaw and made his way over to the remaining empty chair. He was sure he wasn’t going to like this.
Cliff continued, “Miss Radclyffe tried to pass off an obviously phony excuse about her need to visit a sick friend in Yorkshire. I was unimpressed with her ability to lie convincingly, so I pressed her further and discovered that her uncle, the earl, had forbade her to journey to London with the family due to a supposed conversation he had with you regarding her conduct toward your person over the week. Swindon claimed you approached him about certain untoward advances. Obviously, I knew this wasn’t true, so, in light of recent events and dare I say it, my gut instinct, I convinced her to leave with me under the guise of travelling with Aunt Harriett to Bath. It wasn’t easy, mind you, to gain her acceptance, but clearly, in the end, she agreed to go.”
Unbelievably, the duke’s first instinct was to inquire as to whether or not Cliff had defended him to Grace. Did Cliff tell her he was not the sort to go running to the earl telling tales—whether true or not? Clearly, that was not the important point of this tale. Swindon’s actions were plainly suspicious. Besides, he was all too sure he’d find out what Miss Radclyffe thought of his character soon enough.
Cliff carried on, “I cannot fathom what his motivations are in preventing her from journeying to London, save that he sees her as a possible threat to your engagement with Lady Beatryce. Regardless of whether or not his actions are so simple or more sinister, I felt it imprudent to put Miss Radclyffe under our protection…for now.”
“Indeed. And we will discuss what to do about Miss Radclyffe after we debrief. In light of her arrival, it is prudent we conclude our business swiftly so the rest of you can return to your assignments.”
“Let me guess…we’re ta leave afore settin’ eyes on the floozy,” said Ciarán Kelly with a lazy grin, in his thick, Irish brogue. Kelly was the team’s Irish contact who could charm the secrets out of anyone, young or old, male or female, despite being bastard born. It was a testament to his skill that so many—especially the ladies—could overlook that fact and spill their secrets so readily. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome as sin, with midnight hair and bright blue eyes.
“Just because you’re a bastard doesn’t give you the right to be crude, Kelly. Miss Radclyffe is a fine lady and I suggest you refrain from making suggestive or disparaging remarks against her character,” said Cliff in his affable way, all the while eyeing the duke and his clenched fists rather than the Irishman. Yes. Ambrose was ready to take Kelly’s head.
“In my experience, all women are floozies given the right incentive. Take my word for it, or you might as well put a leash on your cock and hand the lead to the next woman you see, eh Alaistair?” replied Ciarán as he elbowed the hulking Scot setting next to him in the side—good-naturedly, of course.
“Och, haud yer wheesht. I doona give a damn,” responded said Scot, Lord Alaistair MacLeod. MacLeod was a man of few words, with little patience for small talk. He was just as good at ferreting out secrets as Kelly, though he used his massive strength more than any practiced charm. He wasn’t violent per se, but he knew how to use his immense size to intimidate, quite often without resorting to any violence at all—not many were so stupid as to take the risk of having to dodge his mighty fists. He also listened more than he spoke, which made him good at separating the lies from truth. Despite being bitter toward his estranged family in Scotland, he was dependable and honest. Though he was gruff and said little, when he did speak, he was worth listening to, as his thoughts were keen and well organized, if impatient and borderline rude when his patience was stretched thin, which was often. In all, he was a man of contradictions and very private. The team, save perhaps the duke, knew little about MacLeod’s background and the real man behind the red, bushy beard.
“Figures…grumpy as ever. Seen your da recently, then?” taunted Kelly.
Alaistair glared at Ciarán, but didn’t respond.
“Enough,” interrup
ted Stonebridge. “Ciarán, you are correct in that it is best if Grace doesn’t see the rest of you.”
“Grace?” interrupted Ciarán, brow raised at his familiar use of Miss Radclyffe’s given name.
He ignored Ciarán. “I’ll lead off. Two days ago, I met with my butler, Boneswaithe, regarding the night of the attack on the Prime Minister. He was butler here at the time and was able to recall much about the ongoing house party as the attempted assassination created quite an uproar. It seems that an assassin attempted to enter the Prime Minister’s room late in the evening on the first night. Fortunately for the Prime Minister, a snuff servant, a young Irish boy by the name of Seamus O’Brien, happened by at the exact moment our would-be assassin attempted to enter the Prime Minister’s room. A struggle ensued and the boy, being the weaker of the two, barely managed to escape by slicing his attacker in the cheek with his snuffer.”
“Guid, aye? Our man Murphy has a right nasty scar on his right cheek just there.” MacLeod pointed to his cheek, the approximate location of their captive’s scar.
“Undeniably. Of course, at that point, the assassin runs off as the household is beginning to stir what with all the racket from the fight. He gets away and the boy raises the alarm, but by the time a search party is organized, the man has all but disappeared.”
“He couldna made it far with a bleedin’ gash in his cheek without someone making note of it,” said MacLeod.
“Aye. Someone was bound to notice that,” agreed Kelly.
“Nevertheless, he seemingly vanished without a trace.”
“That suggests help—and nearby—especially if the assassin arrived the first night of the Prime Minister’s stay and knew which room to enter. Are we sure the Prime Minister was the intended target? Who else was at the party?” queried Cliff.
“Of course, Boneswaithe can only base his knowledge on what he witnessed, but certainly they were all convinced the Prime Minister was the intended mark. As we presumed, the Prime Minister was reluctant to put too much effort into the hunt, but my father was furious that someone would attack a guest in his home, putting his family and people at risk. Incidentally, the servant boy, thankfully, was unharmed. He also remains in the area and might be able to identify the assassin. He was only ten at the time; he’s a young man now.”
“Our captive assassin might be difficult to recognize. He’s quite gaunt and has aged significantly from his suffering over the last seventeen years, yet somehow I don’t think he will be denying his involvement, so the point may be moot,” added Kelly.
“One can hope. As far as the attendees at the party, they are as follows: The Prime Minister, of course—and his army of assistants, advisors, and secretaries; Viscount Branbury; the Earl of Swindon; Lord Fox; Lord North; Lord Middlebury; Mr. Randall Smythe; and the Honourable Henry Roxburgh of Bury.”
“Och, quite the eclectic mix of powerful men, then. Pitt’s entourage muddles things up a wee bit—any one o’ them coulda been involved, ye ken, but Fox and North?”
“Indeed. They are the most obvious suspects considering their intense opposition to Pitt’s policies.”
Stonebridge paused to let everyone digest the possibilities before continuing, “Boneswaithe confirmed that my father focused exclusively on finding the would-be assassin in the month between the house party and his death. Secretly, the household thought the two were related. That’s pretty much it. Boneswaithe will let me know if he recalls anything else no matter how insignificant. Also, he will retrieve the housekeeper’s records for that party so that we can have a full account of all the guests, including the aides, valets, etc. I’ve asked him to send the books to you, Cliff. I intend to interview the rest of the staff and continue searching my father’s papers for any notes he might have left behind. I have to imagine he was on to something, hence his unexpected demise.” He paused at the tightening in his chest. After taking a deep breath, he continued, “Ciarán, what have you to report?”
“We have our friend from Ireland securely tucked away nearby.”
“How nearby?”
“Very,” Kelly gave him a meaningful look before continuing. Oh, that nearby. “He still insists upon speaking only to you. I recommend we arrange that straightaway.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow night, then. Alaistair, anything to add?”
“Nae.”
“Right. Ciarán, speak to Seamus O’Brien. He’s at the Duck and Anvil in Bristol. MacLeod, arrange my meeting with Murphy for tomorrow night. Cliff, I want to know more about the aristos in attendance—their allies, political leanings, and solvency, especially Middlebury, North and Fox. Also, check out the housekeeper’s records.”
“What about Swindon?” asked Cliff.
“Leave that one to me.”
“Aye and what about our lovely lady friend?” asked Kelly with a meaningful smirk.
“Whit’s this? Can ye no think with yer head instead of yer cock, ye bastard?” MacLeod rolled his eyes with a look of contempt. Stonebridge sympathized.
Ciarán snorted, but his retort was interrupted when the library door clicked open. MacLeod, who was still seated with Kelly on the sofa, stood abruptly and sharpened his gaze, while Kelly remained seated and raised his brow in both question and surprise. His ever-present rakish grin widened further, if possible.
Shite. She’s here.
Stonebridge and Dansbury (both of whom had been sitting on one of the two chairs facing the sofa, thereby with their backs to the door) stood and spun about to find Miss Grace Radclyffe, having clearly just stumbled into the now open doorway, grinning sheepishly.
Bloody hell, someone would be fired for this.
*
“Miss Radclyffe, please sit…”
Stonebridge gestured toward the chair he had been sitting in previously as it was the furthest away from, yet still angled toward, the nearby pedestal desk upon which lay a mess of scattered papers—made up of written reports from his team and other evidence pertaining to the ongoing investigation. With anyone else, he might have sat on the chair next to her, or on the sofa across from her, but then Miss Radclyffe was proving particularly unpredictable. Instead, he proceeded to his chair behind the desk in order to surreptitiously clear it in the event she proved impulsive by not remaining seated.
After the appropriate introductions were reluctantly made, his other ‘guests’ made their excuses to return to their rooms so he could interrogate—er, talk to—her about her suspicious wanderings.
He got right to the point.
“Miss Radclyffe, do you often wander aimlessly through other people’s homes, and more specifically, enter into rooms with closed doors other than the bedroom to which you were assigned, without first knocking and being bade enter?”
He glared at Grace while she clearly sought to formulate a proper response. He covertly stacked some of the papers directly in front him—rude but necessary.
“Not generally, no.”
He jerked his head at the abrupt response. Imagine that. She wasn’t going to even try to offer up an excuse.
“I see.”
Right, so that’s how she is going to play it? Well, two can play at that game.
He waited in silence, grabbed the nearest stack of papers, including his father’s contact journal, and placed them in his top right desk drawer. He tried to make his movements casual while inside, his heart beat a little faster—as seemed to always be the case whenever she was around.
A small, loose paper slid out from the stack he was arranging and fluttered to the floor at his feet. He bent to retrieve it, and after a quick glance, tossed it haphazardly into the drawer with the others. Then, almost immediately, he reached wildly back in to reclaim said paper as its contents registered in his mind. On it, written clearly in his father’s penmanship, was:
John Radclyffe
We cannot enter into alliances until we are acquainted with the designs of our neighbors.
That was all. No other direction or personal information about
Mr. Radclyffe, Grace’s father, was written. After a moment, he read the quotation aloud, but did not mention Mr. Radclyffe by name; this was a test.
“It is from the Art of War by Sun Tzu,” said Grace automatically.
He stared at her, but she was calm and composed—confident even.
Eventually, he stood and made his way to a shelf on the far side of the library to retrieve his copy of the famous book. As he began to flip through the pages, something fluttered to the floor. It was a piece of parchment, torn and quite old. It was blank on one side, but on the other, he discovered two seals affixed upon it. The first was a seal he would recognize anywhere: Middlebury. It was a symbol that had come to represent so much pain in this life, and his gut clenched at the sight of it. The second was completely unfamiliar to him. The letters looked like a swirly P and an E entwined together making up the branches of an oak tree.
Hmmm…Curious.
He returned his attention to the book itself and quickly found the page containing the quote. A folded piece of paper was tucked tightly between the pages. He pulled it free, opened it, and discovered the complete contact information for Grace’s father written in his own father’s hand.
Startled, he looked across the room at Grace, but her back was to him. She was not even watching; she appeared to be gazing out the window behind his desk. He pulled himself together and walked back to the desk, his curiosity piqued. The evidence was damning to say the least. He had been stymied over why her name seemed so familiar. He must have come across it in his father’s papers before, but had not made the connection. Now, more questions than answers arose.
As he returned to his seat, his gaze remained trained on Grace and her air of innocence. Doubts began to creep up in his mind, but he ruthlessly suppressed any thoughts that would lead him to jump to conclusions, even though all her past actions—including her easy capitulation to travel with Cliff—were suspicious and tried to fight their way to the forefront of his thoughts.