And still Stafford pushed them. Instead of his fears being allayed, the lack of incident only seemed to agitate him. He pressed for more information, more detail; he wanted to know the times they arrived and left parties, whom they spoke to, what they spoke of. He wanted lists of their correspondents and accounts of the gossip in their household. He wanted to know who called on them and when, and if they underwent any sudden changes in overall demeanor, as if overtaken by fear.
“If a scullery maid wants to sneak through the house at midnight and bash one over the head with a soup ladle, there’s not much we can do,” Ian grumbled one night, reading through the papers as he copied them into Phipps’s peculiar code.
Angelique laughed. She lounged in her chair across the table from him in a very unladylike manner, occasionally correcting Ian’s code. “No! We are expected to know and anticipate these things. You must be waiting in the closet to spring out and arrest her.”
Ian gave her a sour look. “Stafford doesn’t pay me enough to hide in Bethwell’s closet. I might see him tupping his wife and go blind from the sight.”
“No, you’d never see that,” replied Angelique. “He might chance to bend a maid over a chair, though. He likes the girl young, and the encounter quick.”
“Bloody prig.” Ian put down his pen and shuffled through the papers. “This is all of them?”
“I’ll take them tonight.” Harry put out his hand. Usually Ian traipsed across town to deliver the reports, but since depriving himself of the illicit pleasure of visiting Mariah, Harry had become restive at nights. A walk would do him good, even if not to Doncaster House.
Ian tossed them across the table without protest. “More fool you. It’s a long walk.”
Harry shrugged, pulling on his coat. “I need the exercise.” He folded the sheaf into his pocket and grabbed a battered old cap from the assortment by the kitchen door. As he left, Ian was leaning back against the wall, arms folded behind his head, and saying to Angelique, “Now, if it were your closet I were to hide in, that would be a different story…” and Angelique was smiling at him in that catlike way she had. Harry tugged on the cap and slammed the door behind him. And Brandon gave him a hard time for thinking with his cock.
The delivery point was a draper’s shop in Cheap-side, with a narrow alley just wider than a man running between it and the neighboring chemist. All the shops were closed up for the night, the street quiet; no one was about to see what he did. Harry turned down the alley, pried away the loose shutter around the back of the draper’s, and deposited the reports through the slot hidden underneath, hearing them slide down a chute with a tinny hiss. He didn’t know who owned the shop, which looked neat and respectable enough, but Phipps would get the reports, probably within a few hours. He slid the shutter back into place and walked away, his duty done but his mind uneasy.
It was a long walk back to Fenton Lane, but Harry didn’t even proceed in that direction. Instead he just walked, deep in thought. What did it matter what time Doncaster went to his club, so long as he returned home safely? Stafford’s new demands were complicating the once simple business, turning him and his companions into hapless clerks. If a madman were to attack, Harry thought darkly, he would have to stop and note the time before intervening to save his man’s life. It didn’t make sense, and one thing he had always believed in was Stafford’s ruthless sense.
So what was the truth? He could well believe Stafford would add to their responsibilities without telling them why; but if the danger to Bethwell, Crane, and Doncaster had grown so markedly, why not take steps to put them on guard? Bethwell still went whoring and gambling in Whitechapel, where he might be gutted by an angry whore or her bull. Doncaster went about as publicly as ever, and even Crane rode out in his barouche on fine days to take the air. Shouldn’t they know the government had evidence of threats against them? Shouldn’t they be warned to take more care? And just what was the Home Office’s interest in hour-by-hour diaries of their actions?
Harry stopped and took a deep breath, realizing his mind was wandering down dangerous paths. There was a pub up ahead; he could use a pint, to calm his head. He pushed open the door and slid onto a bench in the shadows, lifting one hand to beckon a serving girl. Within a few minutes he had a foaming mug of ale in front of him, and he hunched over it, letting his thoughts stew in his mind.
Stafford had to be lying to them about something. Harry wasn’t much surprised at this, as Stafford’s stock in trade was lies. And, Harry was compelled to admit, he had his own secrets from Stafford, despite the pledge of absolute loyalty Stafford had required. They were made for each other, he thought with a spark of black humor, two liars lying to each other.
Still, it was his life on the line, not John Stafford’s, and that made all the difference. It made a man more cynical and more suspicious, knowing that his employer would sacrifice him without hesitation to achieve his goals, and then discovering that the employer was lying to him about even the fundamentals. So he drank his ale and thought of all the things about his job and his instructions that didn’t make sense.
A shout roused him from his thoughts. One of the serving wenches had been sitting in a customer’s lap, laughing and smiling with him. Now she was on her feet, her hands on her hips and her nose in the air. She turned her back and walked away from the man, the imprint of her hand still clear on his face. Behind her the man—a sailor, by his dress—and his companions shouted at her back, some laughing, but her former suitor was red-faced with drink and too unsteady to follow her. The woman made a rude gesture to them before swinging around another table.
Harry’s gaze lingered on her absently. Had he been to this tavern before? He didn’t think so; it was far from Fenton Lane, close to the docks and more frequented by sailors and dockworkers from Wapping. He rarely came out this way, and tonight only because he needed more exercise before going home. But something about that wench was familiar in a strange way, as if he’d not only seen her before but seen her often.
She was leaning over another table, taking an order. He watched her profile as she nodded. Not a friendly one, he thought as she snapped at the customer when he leaned forward and leered at her bosom. Not that tavern wenches were known for their genteel manners in any event, but this one—
She turned her head then and Harry’s idle ruminations stopped cold. Oh, he knew this one, indeed.
The woman grabbed two empty mugs from a nearby table and forged through the clutter of tables and men. He watched her shove chairs and arms to the side as she passed, saw her kick more than one foot out of her path. He didn’t move a muscle but his eyes never left her. She collected some more empty mugs and gave a table a halfhearted swipe with the tail of her apron, all with a hard frown on her face. She might be voluptuous, but her expression could cow any man—except Harry, who had no interest in her figure.
She turned sideways to edge between two tables jammed together. A man at one of them called out drunkenly to her and she turned, to tell him off, no doubt. But then Harry seized her wrist and yanked, pulling her backward and off-balance into his lap despite the splash of ale that flew out of the mugs as she dropped them, wetting both her skirt and his trousers. Before she could react, he bent her arm behind her back and wrapped his free arm around her waist, holding her tight.
Her eyes shot daggers at him as she twisted. “Let me go, mate. I’m not looking for a tumble tonight,” she warned in a plain, coarse accent.
“Aw, that’s fine wi’ me,” he replied in kind, holding her in place despite her struggles. “All’s I want’s some conversation, sweeting.”
The patrons around him shouted with laughter as Harry cast an exaggerated look down her bodice. The serving maid hissed in fury. Harry ignored it all, leaning closer to press his cheek right against hers. She smelled of ale and sweat, not French perfume, but he knew exactly where he’d seen her before.
“Such a pretty thing. Come on, just a kiss, love.” More raucous appreciation around them. Harry low
ered his voice to a bare murmur as he pressed his mouth against her ear. “Come down in the world a bit, haven’t you, Madame? Last I saw of you, you were tempting Gerry Wollaston into a bit of treason.”
Her reaction was slight, but definite. Had Harry not been holding her pinned against him, he might not have felt it. But for a split second she froze, her muscles tensing and her mouth twitching ever so slightly before she recovered and hurled a vile epithet at him. He grinned as the crowd roared again, but he kept all his attention focused on her.
“Who’s ’at? I don’t know what you mean.” She twisted in his grip to peer at his face.
“I think you do,” he muttered back. “Just a quick tickle, mum,” he said out loud. “I promise, you won’t mind a bit…”
Her gaze sparkled with pure malice. “Let me go, or you’ll not have much to tickle the maids with anymore.”
Harry dragged her back, grinning lewdly when she shoved against his chest and bucked to escape. “I’ll take my chances.” Then more quietly: “I want answers.”
“Answers,” she sneered just as softly. “Yours is not to ask, just to do.”
Phipps’s words exactly. Harry blinked, startled, and she took advantage of his surprise to get one hand loose and slap him hard across the face. “Take that for your damned answer,” she cried. “And that—” Harry caught her wrist as she swung again.
“Tell me,” he demanded through his teeth. “What was your role?”
“You saw it,” she hissed back. “Poor Polly must miss you dreadfully.”
Harry squeezed her wrist tighter. “Why? What were you after?”
Sal the serving wench, formerly known as Madame de la Tource, raised her eyebrows. “The same thing you were. Didn’t you know?” Her mouth curled with mockery as her voice dropped. “Didn’t think you were the only one he had on Wollaston, did you?”
“No,” he said evenly. “But I didn’t know about you. What brings you to a place like this, I wonder?”
Some of her animosity relented. She must know as well as he did what would happen if he stood up and named her a government spy. Just in the time he’d been nursing his ale this evening, Harry had heard enough rebellious talk and inflammatory boasts to land half the patrons in Newgate with Sir Gerald. They wouldn’t be kind to any spy. She calmed a bit, draping one arm around his neck. “All right, let’s see the coin,” she said for the benefit of the audience. Then, under the racket of catcalls and laughter, she whispered, “Speed the job up, that’s all. They knew there was a traitor, so I set the trap and he fell into it. You turned the key. And if you call me out here and now, you’ll not be in line for such plum jobs again, aye? Fancy serving ale, or maybe your fine arse, to this lot?”
This time Harry let her go when she made a show of elbowing him in the ribs and jerked free. Everyone around him shouted as she stormed off toward the back room, some with glee and some with disappointment. Harry ducked his head and waved one hand, nodding as a few fellows called out to him not to give up, that a half hour between Sal’s thighs was worth a few clouts to the head. Little did they suspect a night between Sal’s thighs might lead to a life in prison. He shoved his ale away and tossed down a few coins to pay for it, then made his way out into the street, where his thoughts calcified into bitter realization.
Madame de la Tource, Gerald Wollaston’s seductive paramour, had been one of Stafford’s spies. Harry had known there was another spy in her household, a footman who’d been his contact and conspirator in the plot to get him into the house. That man hadn’t been able to locate any proof of Wollaston’s guilt, which was why Harry had been sent to work next door, or so Phipps had told him. It had taken Harry barely a fortnight to have all Madame’s maids swooning over him, giving him ample opportunity to slip into the house and have a look around. And lo, what did he discover but Wollaston passing stolen secrets to his mistress. An easy job, Harry recalled with scorn as he paced along the street, even though he had wondered at the time why Wollaston bore the brunt of the blame for stealing the secrets and his French mistress none for taking them.
But now it was all clear. The supposed Frenchwoman had been working for the same man as Harry, to the same end. And Harry had heard her, with his own ears, exhorting Wollaston to give her more information, more secrets—to commit more treason. Whether Wollaston had begun giving her information on his own or at her prompting, he couldn’t say, but it was indisputable that she’d pressed him to continue doing so, even when Wollaston had reservations. That wasn’t spying, as Harry saw it; that was entrapment.
He walked faster, his boots slapping on the wet cobblestones and his hands in fists in his pockets. Stafford had framed Wollaston. Harry’s whole mission there had been a lie, stealing stolen government secrets from a fellow spy who had seduced her victim into treason. Wollaston’s fate had been sealed by Harry’s own testimony, given in Stafford’s office to the Home Secretary himself, that he had indeed heard Wollaston pass the information to his mistress, and that he had retrieved it from her bedroom moments later. Lord Sidmouth had been so grave, acknowledging his service to the Crown with magnificent condescension. Did Sidmouth know, Harry wondered in growing fury, or was it just Stafford trying to please his superior?
He stopped on the street corner, glaring into the dark London night. Everything he had believed in had been set off-balance. If Stafford could lie to him about that, about treason, what wouldn’t he lie about? All Harry’s doubts about his job came flooding back, more threatening and more ominous. Why had he been given this job, this soft, easy job following wealthy nobs around like some sort of guardian shadow? Why was he supposed to be invisible and silent, even if danger were to confront them? And why hadn’t he seen so much as a disgruntled street sweeper scowling at any of them?
It had begun to rain, a light drizzle that steamed off the cobbles like ghosts released from their graves. All the smells of a London street rose up around him in a mist, a putrefied miasma of rotted food and vomited ale and horse dung and human waste that turned his stomach almost as much as the realization that he had been used.
He turned on his heel and headed for Bow Street.
Chapter 18
Phipps was still at Bow Street, as he always seemed to be. He had told Harry and the others they were to come directly to him there if they ever had urgent need. Perhaps he lived in his cramped, nondescript office in the rear of Bow Street; Harry didn’t know or care. He pushed open the door without knocking and strode in.
At his entrance, Phipps surged to his feet, a curious eagerness filling his face. “Yes?” he barked. “What is it?”
“Madame de la Tource was working for you.” It wasn’t a question.
The eagerness faded. “Ah.” Phipps came around his desk and closed the door. “That’s not your concern, Sinclair.”
Harry swore. “You coerced a man into treason!”
Phipps raised a finger in warning. “Mind your tongue. We don’t much like that word around here.”
With difficulty, Harry mastered his anger. He glared at Phipps, so infuriatingly calm. Phipps had the cold eyes and pale skin of a fish. Harry had no trouble believing he would entice victims into his snares, then kill them slowly and painfully. “I don’t much like being told I’m doing one thing—a grand and noble thing—only to find I’m risking my neck trying to tempt a half-witted clerk into a bit of betrayal.”
Phipps lifted his chin. “You know nothing about that—”
“Nothing.” Harry jerked his head impatiently. “And who kept it that way?”
“It wasn’t necessary for you to know.” Phipps’s lip curled. “Really, Sinclair, you did your job. Perfectly competent. And it worked out well for you, didn’t it?”
“And now?” Harry folded his arms. “I’m creeping around spying on a viscount—on an earl. What mightn’t I need to know whilst I’m impersonating a peer?”
Phipps smiled, his eyes veiled and watchful. “Traitors come in all stripes and sizes. Don’t forget that. They’re her
e, there, everywhere, right under our noses.”
Harry flipped one hand in disgust. “You overstate the matter—”
Phipps snorted. “Do I? Do I, indeed? You wouldn’t have much of a job then, would you? Now, I suggest you go back to it, or I shall find someone who will.” And he pulled open the door and stood, waiting with magnificent unconcern for Harry to leave.
It slowly sank into his brain, as he stalked away from Phipps, what the real point of his assignment was. Sidmouth and his men were a suspicious lot, fearful of being caught unawares by rebellion. They sent the mounted yeomanry into a demonstration in Manchester and rode down women and children. They passed the Six Acts to contain and control dissent wherever it existed, or seemed to exist. They hired people like Madame de la Tource—and himself—to be something they weren’t and to report back on what they saw and heard. And when someone like Sir Gerald Wollaston fell into their hands, they whisked him off to prison with nary a word or reason made public.
And now there were government agents living anonymously in the shadows of three English noblemen, even in their homes. Three highly influential men but not members of the government itself, men who wouldn’t discover what Stafford and Sidmouth were about. All widely respected for one reason or another, all consulted by Cabinet ministers and secretaries and the King. All with far-reaching, intimate knowledge of political affairs and plans. If the radicals Sidmouth so feared were to persuade one of them to sympathize with their cause…
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