“Crop the lilies?” Angelique said scornfully as she wrapped a bonnet before packing it in a hatbox. “The English, they think they are such gardeners. Crop the lilies now, before they enter their prime, before they bloom? What a waste. If they are cut too close, they will not grow back.”
Harry lifted his head. “He said to crop it close and low.”
“He must not wish lilies in his garden. It will surely kill them.”
Harry stared at her, his mind racing. Cutting the lilies…before they enter their prime…it will surely kill them…Lilies are the badge of the Dunmores, echoed Mariah’s voice in his head. The lily for purity…the lion for England…Edward the Third was a distant cousin…A comment here, a fact there. In an eerie procession, unrelated bits of information marched into order and spelled out the answer he’d been searching for all along. Stafford had been right—and very, very wrong. “Bloody Christ,” he said numbly.
Angelique looked up from her packing. “What?”
“Go…” He crossed the room. “Go to Stafford, now. Tell him it’s Crane…Crane’s the one directing the radicals—and Doncaster is their target.”
She looked at him with alert, unblinking eyes. Harry seized her arm and shoved her ahead of him toward the door. “Hail a carriage—or send Ian—tell him to bring a dozen men, Coldstream Guards, to Doncaster House—”
Angelique stopped, looking at him as if he’d gone mad. “Harry—what are you saying? It cannot be! They have caught the villain—the cook—”
“It is. I don’t know if the cook is part of it or not, but this—this is the danger now.”
“How do you know?” she demanded, stubbornly blocking the doorway.
Harry swore, running both hands through his hair. “The lilies are Doncaster—they’re on his arms. Doncaster would be the radicals’ worst nightmare: he’s a shrewd politician who is friendly with both Whigs and Tories, he’s descended from royalty himself, and he’s dedicated to supporting the King while still sympathizing with the populace. The radicals want the government—the whole bloody monarchy!—to fall, and if Doncaster forms a new government, it won’t.”
“So? Why would Crane care? He is also from an old family…”
“He’s eighty years old,” said Harry bluntly. “His time is past. He thinks Liverpool is an ass and Castlereagh is a jumped-up country lawyer. When I said the death of Liverpool would throw the country into turmoil, he said it wouldn’t be anything England couldn’t survive. I think he wants to see a revolution, to prune away the deadwood so something new can grow.”
“You must tell Stafford,” she said, her voice low and her eyes glittering. “He set us to protect this man you accuse.”
Harry clenched his fists in frustration. “Stafford hasn’t been guarding these men, he’s been watching them—we’ve been watching them!” He gripped her arms. “He’s had a web of agents spying on them. We were never to interfere, were we? Never to give away our ‘protective’ presence, not even if we should have to save them from the jaws of death. Did you never wonder why Stafford insisted on that?”
“He never explains anything. Harry, you are imagining things—”
“He admitted it!” Harry snapped. “As did Phipps. They suspected someone was feeding information to the radicals, someone who would know the inner workings of the government. Somehow—I don’t know how—they fastened on Bethwell, Doncaster, and Crane as the most likely. Think of all those reports we made on their every action. Stafford just couldn’t figure out which one had turned traitor, so he set us to gather the information for him while he and Phipps sit in Bow Street like two spiders surveying their web.”
“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” Angelique said furiously. “He admitted it?”
Harry cursed again. “I should have told you. Another agent gave me ideas. My last assignment was not all I thought it was, either. I confronted Stafford and he didn’t deny a thing. And if you don’t believe me now, Crane could still pull it off. The letter I wrote for him this morning said it must be done today, cropping all the lilies. And he wouldn’t let me send it as usual, but said Jasper would. He might well intend to harm the earl today!”
Angelique let out her breath in an angry hiss but still she didn’t move. “But how do you know?”
Harry took a controlled breath and forced himself to let go of her. “I don’t.”
For a long moment she stood there, her eyes boring into his. “If you are wrong…” she said slowly, at last.
Harry dismissed it with an impatient jerk of his head. “Then I’ll have made myself a great fool. What if I am right?”
She pursed her lips and said nothing for a moment. “Very well. I shall go tell Stafford of your suspicions—for that is all you have presented. But why do not you come with me and explain for yourself?”
“I’m going to Doncaster House to put Brandon on alert.” Angelique had moved from the doorway enough for him to squeeze past her. “I’ll come to Bow Street directly after.”
“Harry,” she said in warning.
“Angelique, I must.” He took one step down the stairs.
She followed him. “You wish to go there because of her. Harry, think—you must be right in this—wait until Ian returns, he has taken the horses to the farrier—”
Harry was already down the stairs, his hand on the door, straining toward it. He didn’t bother to deny anything. “If I go because of Mariah, do you think I could bear to wait until Ian returns?”
Angelique cursed at him in French. “What will you do?”
“Whatever I have to do. Now go—please.” He grabbed his coat hanging beside the door, shoved a pistol in his pocket, and was gone before she could say another word.
He struck out across town, pulling on the coat as he went. He walked as quickly as he could, and still felt like he was moving through sand. He was sure he was right—it explained everything, except why—but none of that would matter if he failed to keep Mariah and her family safe. The irony of it was cutting: All that time he had written out Crane’s letters, those endless horticultural missives, unwittingly sending off the directions to the radicals in his own hand at Stafford’s instigation. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if there were a precisely detailed code in the plants and gardening instructions he copied out. And he supposed he could still be wrong—he admitted cutting lilies was slim basis to accuse someone of attempted murder and insurrection—but would rather bear the consequences of this mistake than the other.
He traveled the familiar path to Doncaster House in short order, but this time went to the servants’ door. He had to put Brandon on guard first, and then go to Stafford. Once he knew Mariah and her family were safe, that Brandon was alerted to the possible danger, he could breathe easily enough to go to Stafford and persuade him to look at Crane. He knocked on the door and asked to speak to John Jameson, as Brandon was known at Doncaster House.
The maid who answered raised her eyebrows. “’Ere now, like ’e’s a fancy gentleman? And who‘re you?”
Harry didn’t let his simmering impatience show. He pulled off the cap and bobbed his head politely at her. “I’m from Mr. Cooke’s office—Mr. Cooke being a solicitor, miss—and there’s an important message I must give to Mr. John Jameson.”
“Important, huh.” She cocked her head with a little smile that said quite plainly she thought he was making it up. Which he was.
He tried a different tack. He edged closer, glancing from side to side. “Thing is, miss,” he said in a low friendly voice, “he’s come into some funds, Mr. Jameson has. Great-uncle, it was, what passed on. So now, Mr. Cooke’s sent me to find Mr. Jameson, let him know his good fortune, see?”
“Funds, is it?” she whispered, stepping out of the doorway toward him. “’Ow much funds?”
Harry leaned against the doorjamb, giving her a coaxing little smile, the same smile that had melted the reserve of chambermaids and millinery assistants in the past. “Can’t say, miss; Mr. Cooke didn’t say. He and I had a
falling out, so to speak. To tell the truth, I’m about to get the sack, if I make another mistake. So could you help me, fetch Mr. Jameson?”
She pursed her lips, her eyes flicking up and down over him. “Well, I would if I could. After all, ain’t every day a man comes into funds, is it? And o’ course you oughtn’t get the sack just ’cause you can’t find the man. Still, if he ain’t here, he ain’t here, right?”
“When do you think he might be free?” She looked over her shoulder as someone called behind her, and Harry added, in a burst of desperation, “I think it’s a great deal of money, miss.”
“He’s gone on the carriage,” she said in a rush. She stepped back into the house, her hand on the door. “To Carlton House, with his lordship. Can’t say when he’ll be back, they’ve only just gone.”
Harry froze. Carlton House?
“Why—to see the King? The King himself?” he asked, thinking fast.
The maid shrugged. “I expect so; who else lives there? His lordship’s a great one, even the King listens to him. He’s gone to call there with Lady Mariah.” Someone called from behind her again and she turned to answer, leaving Harry reeling on the doorstep. Mariah and her father had gone to call on the King—they would be out on the public street—easy targets for a man concealed with a pistol. Or perhaps more traitors lurked in the King’s own household, waiting to serve them all a fatal cup of tea.
Without waiting for the maid, he strode back around the corner of the house. Brandon hadn’t notified them of this visit; it must have been a last minute arrangement. People like Doncaster, Harry reflected, could probably call on royalty without too much ado. But why did Mariah have to go as well? He didn’t like this, not the visit itself, not the timing, and certainly not Mariah going along. He thought of Crane’s words again—cut the lilies close and low—and fought down a surge of fear. What would it gain Crane to kill Mariah? She was just a girl. She couldn’t even inherit her father’s title. There was no reason he could think of for her to be in danger…except that she had gone with her father to visit the King.
Several hours had passed since he wrote out Crane’s last letter. Even if Jasper handed it straight out the window to an assassin, it was unlikely the event would take place today, no matter what Crane wrote. Who could know where Doncaster was, or intended to be? Surely if they intended to kill Doncaster, they would try in a more discreet way, not when he walked up the steps of Carlton House.
Harry rounded the corner and looked up and down the street with sharply critical eyes. Plenty of places to lie in wait and watch, just as he had done on several occasions. And it was easy enough to follow a carriage across town.
He turned toward Whitehall and broke into a run.
Chapter 23
It took a long time to get ready for a visit to the King. Her mother was in her room early, surveying her wardrobe with a critical eye and sending Sally running back and forth to her own rooms for various hair combs and jewelry. Trying to calm her own nerves—she was taking tea today with the King of England!—Mariah gave herself into the hands of her mother’s maid without hesitation.
By the time a servant knocked on her door to say her father was ready to go, she was amazed at what had become of her. She looked very much as she always did, but brighter and prettier in every way. She wore her mother’s pearl ear drops, and her pale green silk gown with new lilac ribbons. Her hair was curled and pinned up even more elaborately than it had been for her ball, and a light dusting of powder covered the freckles she’d acquired during her rambles with Joan. As the footman stood waiting in the doorway, she glanced at her mother, smiling in relief when she saw Mama’s beaming pride.
“My darling,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. “You look lovely. You shall do the Doncaster name proud.”
“Thank you, Mama.” She swallowed a nervous giggle, then walked carefully down the stairs to meet her father.
“I shall be invited to visit His Majesty more often,” said Papa, his eyes lighting, “for bringing such a companion.”
Mariah laughed with her mother, afraid to move much more than her face. “I am not sure I could stand to do it more often, Papa!”
He smiled and held out his arm. “Let us go, then. The King awaits.”
It was a slow journey. Carlton House was only a few miles distant, but the streets were clogged with people and carriages. Mariah, whose life in London had mainly consisted of parties in other mansions and expeditions to various fashionable locations, looked around with interest as they drove into the heart of the city, where the government was seated and Carlton House stood.
Somewhere in the great crush of Piccadilly the crowds grew denser and louder. Mariah, sitting carefully still on the seat to avoid wrinkling her gown, couldn’t see everything, but she could hear the volume rising. Risking a crumpled skirt, she leaned forward to peer out the window better.
The horses stopped. The carriage rocked a little, then lurched forward, only to stop again. She could see men in the crowd pressing forward, angry faces turned toward them. Toward her. The shock made her sit back abruptly. “Papa?”
He patted her hand, but his expression was grave. “Sit back,” he said quietly. “Do not lean forward.” They started again, and proceeded slowly but steadily for some time before stopping again. The crowd was yelling now, jeering at them. Papa’s mouth compressed in irritation and he patted her hand once more. Then he pushed open the door and stood in the opening, one arm hooked inside the carriage to keep his balance.
“What is the problem?” He spoke calmly and politely, his voice carrying over the rumble of the crowd. Someone shouted back at him, Mariah couldn’t hear what, and a crude laugh rippled around it.
“I have already inquired,” Papa replied with dignity. “Surely you can reply in kind.”
Another chorus of voices rose up, some challenging, some protesting, some imploring. Someone called out her father’s name, and a few huzzahs mingled with the catcalls. Mariah listened in growing alarm as they grew louder and more strident.
“I ask only the right to drive down this street un-molested, no more than every Englishman would wish.” Papa chose to address the loudest voice, who had asked what business they were on, the people’s or the King’s.
“If only every Englishman had your fortune!” someone yelled, which was followed by a dull roar of agreement.
Papa raised his hand. He continued speaking to the crowd in the same reasonable tone, but Mariah didn’t hear him. She slid to the center of her seat and tried to make herself small and invisible, not at all tempted to peer out the windows anymore. The crowd’s discontent was palpable and frightening. There was a danger, an anger, in the hard faces surrounding them that she had never expected to see in the faces of her fellow countrymen. She had seen enmity abroad and been snubbed on occasion, but never seen such naked resentment.
And still Papa spoke, exhorting them to remember their own families, to reflect on the decency of their actions. From her seat, she could see a sliver of the crowd, a handful of faces. Papa’s words seemed to have effect; gradually the anger faded, leaving somber expressions.
Mariah realized many of the faces were thin and worn, people accustomed to a hard life. Edging closer to the window, her eyes were caught by one particular woman at the back of the crowd, lingering to listen to her father. Her dress was a muddy brown, and very coarse fabric from the look of it. A strip of cloth was knotted around her shoulders, the frayed edges waving gently in the puffs of breeze, and Mariah could see how thin her figure was. There were hollows in her cheeks, and when the woman raised one reddened hand from the large basket she carried to push her straggly hair from her face, Mariah could see the outline of every bone in her arm. And her eyes…there were decades of misery in those bleak eyes, far more than she could possibly have lived. It shocked Mariah to realize that woman was probably very near her own age.
She turned her gaze to her lap. The silk of her dress was fresh and light under the fine kid of her glov
es. The velvet of the squabs was lush and soft behind her. Suddenly, she wondered how it would look to her, if she were in the street wearing coarse, ragged clothing and carrying a heavy basket to market, to see a carriage drive past gleaming with such luxury. She curled her hands into fists, feeling again the worn texture of old linen beneath her palms and against her cheek, and closed her eyes. Harry, she thought; that woman in the crowd was the sort of girl he had helped one night with a crown. No one looks after her, he had said so bitterly. No wonder he had thought she could never understand his world.
The crowd had grown quieter and when she peeped out again, it seemed only half as many people were clustered about their carriage. The woman with the basket was gone. Papa paused in his speech to stoop inside and ask if she were well. She nodded, grateful for his concern and presence; if this had happened when she was out with Mama, it would have been much more frightening.
The coach swayed to one side. Papa nearly lost his grip and tumbled to the ground. Mariah gave a little shriek, reaching for him, but he recovered, waved to the crowd, then swung back into his seat as the carriage started forward again at last, but very slowly. “Papa, what is wrong? What do they want?”
He glanced at her. She could see the worry in his eyes, but his tone was unruffled. “There are too many men out of work. Wheat and corn are dear, and they have drunk too much of the Spenceans’ rot.”
“Why did they turn on us? We did nothing to them.”
He covered her hand with his. The crowd was moving along with them, it seemed. “They resent the wealthy, my dear. Do you see now what I meant by the people’s goodwill?” He shook his head, looking out the window. “The King was once well-liked. If he can regain that regard, things will improve immensely.”
Mariah nodded, but was not sure. Papa must know, she thought, but to her eyes, the unrest in the crowd was more than envy, or disgust for the King’s activities. It was desperation. And suddenly she was less certain that her father’s visit would make a great difference in those people’s opinion of the King.
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