A Dangerous Madness

by Michelle Diener

  The door opened and Harding brought in a tray with tea and piled high with cakes on an intricate, three tiered cake stand.

  They both murmured their thanks and then realized Harding was going to stand there until they took their seats, so they gave in to the inevitable.

  “We’ll pour for ourselves, thank you, Harding,” Miss Barrington told him, and he left reluctantly. Phoebe wondered if he thought they were going to steal the silver spoons.

  When he was gone, Miss Barrington fussed with the teapot. “I’m usually a better companion. I’m sorry I didn’t know about Sheldrake and no doubt caused you pain asking after him.”

  Phoebe hunched a little in her chair. “It is the high topic of conversation at the moment in the ton.”

  “I’m sure it is.” The way Miss Barrington spoke, Phoebe had the impression of dry sarcasm, and relaxed a little more.

  “I’m surprised we haven’t met already,” Phoebe waited until she had a cup of tea before she spoke again. “We must surely have been at some of the same balls.”

  Miss Barrington shook her head. “My father died in February, and I’ve been in mourning. I haven’t socialized since I returned to England, except for some private dinners.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe frowned. “But haven’t you recently become betrothed to Lord Aldridge?”

  Miss Barrington looked down at her cup. “Lord Aldridge lives a few doors from me, and his family and mine have known each other since before I was born.”

  There must be considerably more to it than that, judging from the way she spoke, but Phoebe did not pry any further. She had already overstepped the bounds of politeness with her questions.

  “What will you do now,” Miss Barrington asked after a moment of silence, and Phoebe knew she meant now that Sheldrake had ruined her.

  She shrugged. “I have a few plans. After last night’s dinner, I’m quite aware none of them should include being part of the ton any longer.”

  “That bad?”

  She shrugged again. “I’m more lucky than most. I don’t need money. I didn’t even like the demands of the Season, if I’m honest, so no longer attending the balls and parties will be a relief. But it feels like I don’t fit anywhere. My mother’s family is mostly gone. My grandfather sold his manufacturing works when he retired, because my mother was his only grandchild. And I’m untouchable now amongst my father’s circle. If I get a proposal of marriage from that quarter, it will be for my money, and I’ll be expected to be grateful. I’d rather forgo that altogether.”

  She hadn’t sounded bitter. To her relief, she realized she didn’t feel it, either. She’d sounded matter-of-fact. But she hadn’t meant to reveal so much.

  “I think you will like a friend of mine. Lady Durnham.” Miss Barrington fiddled with a tiny petit four iced in brilliant green, with gold-leaf on top. It looked too beautiful to eat. “She dislikes the Season as well, and her husband positively abhors it. I think it would be a most pleasant evening if I invited you and His Grace to dinner, with Lord and Lady Durnham, and Lord Aldridge.” She popped the petit four in her mouth and frowned. “He’s done something to this. I can’t quite…” Her eyes sparked. “Cardamom. Delicious.”

  Phoebe stared at her and she laughed.

  “Don’t mind me, Miss Hillier, Georges is always out-doing himself, is all.” She stood. “My carriage is waiting for me, and I have to be off. But I will send you an invitation within the next few days.”

  Phoebe stood as well. “Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And will I see you again here?” Miss Barrington asked, curiosity in the tilt of her head.

  Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t think so. His Grace and I are involved in…something. My visit today is unusual.”

  “You are mixed up in the investigation into Perceval’s death?” Miss Barrington had gone still. “I knew Wittaker had been drawn into it, Jonathan told me he was, but you’re in it as well.”

  Phoebe didn’t know how to respond.

  Miss Barrington shook her head. “Don’t worry. I know all about keeping quiet. I’m sure you can’t discuss it. But…how interesting!” She gave Phoebe another of her blinding smiles. “Well, good luck, Miss Hillier, and what a pleasure to have met you.”

  She left the room on a wave of subtle perfume and a swish of silk skirts, and Phoebe sank slowly down into her chair.

  Then she reached out, and took a brilliant green petit four with a gold-leaf flower on it from the tray.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Wilson began to get twitchy again somewhere near Mayfair. James guessed he must be getting close to his destination.

  He found it handy that the merchant was heading in the direction of his own home, but the deeper they got into the most exclusive, expensive enclave of London, the more dread weighed him down.

  This was not going to end well.

  He wondered which of his acquaintances had plotted to kill the prime minister.

  Wilson took a final, furtive look over his shoulder and ran up some stairs to a black door set between two Grecian columns in a well-proportioned town house. He was granted access after a minute of waiting on the doorstep, fidgeting as he cooled his heels and looking up and down the street.

  James waited until Wilson was admitted, and then walked up the narrow access lane between the house and its neighbor to the back door.

  He could find out later from Dervish who this house belonged to, but if he could find out now, so much the better. He had little to lose while he waited for Wilson to re-emerge.

  The kitchen door was down a narrow, slightly slimy set of stairs on the basement level, and it was propped open with a half-brick.

  “Hello?” He knocked and poked his head in.

  A girl was sitting at a table peeling carrots, and she jumped up and came towards him.

  “Yes?” Her fingers were stained orange from her task, and she rubbed them against the gray apron she wore over her skirts. She looked thin, and very young.

  “I’m from the papers,” James said. The clothes he’d worn today would cover journalist well enough. “Got a guinea or two for some information on what happened when the prime minister was shot.” He pulled out two coins and extended his palm. At worst, she could tell him she didn’t know what he was talking about and he could pretend to have come to the wrong house.

  The girl looked at the guineas longingly. “What would the papers want with questioning the staff? You don’t know I’ve got anything to say.”

  James winked. “My boss is interested in anything he can get. Good or bad. Whatever you’re comfortable saying. You’ll go down as an anonymous source.” He proffered the money to her, and she covered his palm with her own, and slid the coins off. She crouched and forced them into the hem of her skirt. “In case Mr. Hartley searches my pockets,” she said, and gave him a cheeky grin. “He could come in at any time.”

  He gave a nod.

  She lowered her voice. “All I heard was that General Gascoyne were a right hero. Saved the day. And from that mad man that came round here a couple months back.”

  “Bellingham came here?” James had read in the transcript that Bellingham had met with Gascoyne, that’s how the MP had recognized him at the scene of the crime, but he’d thought it was to his offices in Liverpool, or London, not his home.

  “Aye, I served the tea.” She looked warily behind her. “Mr. Hartley couldn’t help exclaim when he saw his name in the papers. He announced the man to the general, and recognized it right away. But I would have guessed it, meself, wot with the papers publishing parts of his pamphlet. Mad, he was, that day. Talking jus’ like in the bits from his pamphlet. Going on about being betrayed, being owed money. All the years he’d spent in prison in some terrible Russian jail.” She lowered her voice further. “Not that I didn’t believe him, mind. He were convincing, the little I heard. I’m quite sure he was wrongly accused and the British ambassador didn’t help him as he should, but why he thought that lot would lift a
finger, or admit fault and pay him some compensation? Absolutely bonkers.”

  “Can you remember when this meeting was, exactly?”

  “’Twere after New Year, but before Valentine’s Day. Third week of January, around about.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if she’d forgotten herself, and who she was talking to. “Best be off with you now. Mr. Hartley’ll be back any minute when the general’s visitor is gone.”

  James tipped his hat, and reversed out the doorway.

  As he approached the end of the lane where it opened into the street at the front of Gascoyne’s house, he paused, just in time to see Wilson leaving, shoulders still hunched, going back the way he’d come. He waited another few minutes for the merchant to pass him by, and to his surprise, saw Gascoyne himself come out.

  He was dressed for walking, with a hat, boots, and coat, and he set off purposefully in the opposite direction Wilson had taken.

  Intrigued, James fell in behind him. It was harder to go unnoticed in Mayfair, there were so few people on the streets, but Gascoyne didn’t look around, or seem to notice he was being followed. He walked stridently, anger in the over-hard stamp of his soles on the cobbles and the stiff line of his shoulders.

  They got closer and closer to James’s own house, and it was no surprise when they reached the massive gates of Park Place and Gascoyne marched up the drive, his boots crunching with every step he took on the gravel.

  Why Gascoyne would confront him directly, he couldn’t understand, but he would take the opportunity happily. He felt he’d been working in the dark until now, guessing but never knowing, and at last, a little light had been shed.

  The only problem would be making sure Gascoyne didn’t get so much as a glimpse of Phoebe.

  He slipped through the gates himself, walking as quietly on the gravel as he could until he reached the lawn, where he broke into a run.

  He raced around the side of the house.

  The carriage he’d rented for the day sat, sad and dilapidated, to one side, and James passed it and slipped through the kitchen door.

  There was no one about but a maid washing dishes in the small washroom off the main kitchen, and so he managed to get through to the hall without having to explain what he was doing entering by the back door of his own house at a dead run.

  Harding was standing in the hall, most likely already aware that Gascoyne was approaching the front door, and waiting to open it the moment he knocked.

  “Delay him while I change, Harding.”

  Harding’s eyes widened at the sight of him.

  “And under no circumstances whatsoever is he to see Miss Hillier. Where is she?”

  “In the library, Your Grace.”

  “Send Gascoyne to the drawing room, then, and stay with him. I’ll be right there.” He was running up the stairs as he spoke, and Towers, his valet, stepped out from his dressing room at the sound. “Just a quick change,” James told him, already shedding his black jacket as he went.

  When he came back downstairs, in dark blue superfine and a stark white waistcoat, only five minutes had passed. Harding stood just within the drawing room doorway, his color high, and Gascoyne glowered in the middle of the room.

  “Good day, General.” James nodded to Harding, and the man left with a stiff back and a great deal of dignity. James eyed Gascoyne with interest.

  “Wittaker.” Now that they were face-to-face, James could see Gascoyne trying to rein himself in. Make this a reasonable and measured response. “I have just had a disturbing meeting with one of my constituents. He claims you threatened him.”

  James actually laughed. He couldn’t help it. “I see. Do you have so little to do that you follow up on every complaint by a constituent immediately?”

  Gascoyne’s eyes widened as his temper flared again. “Not at all. I happened to be walking this way, and thought I’d find out what it was all about.”

  “Is that so?” James was still standing near the door and leaned back against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “It seemed to me, the way you stormed out of your house after Wilson left you, that you were headed straight here, with no other destination in mind.”

  The implications of what James had just said slowly filtered through, and Gascoyne gasped. “You cur! You were following me.”

  James raised his brows, and Gascoyne suddenly launched himself at him, fists out.

  It was so unexpected, James was caught unawares for a brief moment. But it had been many years, countless roast dinners, and surely crates of port since Gascoyne had actively served in the Coldstream Guards.

  James neatly sidestepped him, his arm coming up to block one of the blows. He held it there, so he stood with arm raised, looking straight into Gascoyne’s eyes. “Interesting that this is such a touchy subject for you.”

  “Damn you. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance…” Gascoyne shifted, as if to strike again, and then James watched his brain catch up with his mouth, watched the rage and fear fade from his face to be replaced by worry as he put a hand out against the wall to catch his breath. At last he seemed to realize he was giving the game away.

  “I…” He wouldn’t look at James, his eyes darting around the room. “I’m not sure what came over me, Wittaker. Though it was most ungentlemanly to follow a fellow. Most ungentlemanly.”

  James smiled. Time to shake the tree. “What you really wanted to do was rail at me for threatening your co-conspirator, Mr. Wilson. Tell me to mind my own business, perhaps? Ask me what the devil I thought I was up to? Why I keep being on hand every time one of your lackeys takes a shot at Miss Hillier? Ex-army men who served under you, are they?”

  The red of anger and exertion faded to dead white as Gascoyne staggered back in shock. “I have no idea what you mean.” The words were wooden.

  “Why did you think I followed Wilson to you in the first place? I wanted to shake him up, so he’d lead me to whoever had got him to pay that money to Bellingham.”

  Gascoyne moved away from him, back to the center of the room, shaking his head.

  “Strange you didn’t mention you were giving Bellingham large sums of money when you made a meal out of identifying him as a constituent of yours after he’d shot Perceval. Did it slip your mind while you were saving the prime minister from a second shot?” He said the last with a sneer to his voice, and Gascoyne looked away, bright red seeping up his neck again.

  “Your problem is you tried too hard to insert yourself into the affair on the side of the rescuers. I wouldn’t have originally looked your way at all if you hadn’t lied about the business of taking Bellingham’s gun. There are too many witness who know the truth. But you couldn’t help inflate your role, could you?” James watched Gascoyne try to pull himself back together. To take back control of the conversation.

  “What’s your interest in this anyway, Wittaker?” Gascoyne spoke with a tremor in his voice. “You’re just a wastrel rake, as far as I can work out. Why would you ‘look my way’ at all?”

  James shrugged. “One keeps oneself amused as best one can.” He smiled. “You had to find some way to give Bellingham money that wouldn’t lead directly to you, because he couldn’t have stayed in London if you didn’t. He’d have had to go home to Liverpool, and that would mean he couldn’t be worked on and persuaded to kill Perceval.”

  “No!” Gascoyne’s gaze snapped to his face. “I gave him the money through Wilson because I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t want to create a precedent. If he knew I was giving it to him, with my position in the government, it might have emboldened him further in asking for compensation. He is mad on this issue. He cannot let it go. Cannot put it behind him.”

  “And you used that, didn’t you?” The smooth, practiced way Gascoyne trotted out his excuse for funneling money to Bellingham stuck in James’s throat. The lie of it was in the defiance of Gascoyne’s glare and the contempt on his face. There was no charity involved in these payments, but it would be very difficult to prove otherwise. Or at a
ll.

  “Dash it, man. I’m sorry for my reaction earlier,” Gascoyne blinked, and tried to look contrite. “I knew how it would look if this came out. I panicked, is all. Wilson will back me up. He was only doing me a favor, helping me help that poor wretch.”

  If James were to guess, Wilson was probably getting on a boat at the docks at that very moment, to spend some time in the Baltics, or at the very least, on his way to Liverpool.

  “You know, the one thing that interests me the most is the effort you’ve put into getting that first petition Bellingham sent to the Prince Regent’s office. You killed Sheldrake for it, you’ve tried to kill Miss Hillier twice. What is it about that document that has you so frightened?”

  Gascoyne gripped the back of the nearest chair. James thought he might crumple to the floor, and pushed even harder.

  “If I were you, I’d get co-conspirators like Halliford to stop interfering so much; sending his wife around to Miss Hillier, arranging dinners to force her out of the house. They are giving me a very clear trail to follow.”

  Gascoyne glared at him, contrite forgotten as baleful and resentful took its place. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I’m hearing is guesses, and ones in poor taste, at that. Perceval was a fine man, and while we may not have seen eye to eye on the slave trade, or the economic impact of his Orders in Council on the trade in Liverpool, to suggest I had something to do with his death because of my Christian charity towards one of my more unfortunate constituents is abominable.” Gascoyne pulled down his waistcoat with a sharp tug. He marched toward the door.

  James blocked the way longer than was polite, and then stepped aside. “I’ll find some way to hold you to account for this, Gascoyne. And I don’t want you to so much as look in Miss Hillier’s direction ever again.”

  Gascoyne bared his teeth. “I have no interest in Miss Hillier. And as for the other, Bellingham pulled the trigger, that is a fact. My giving him money, Wilson helping me, whatever else you find out, nothing more than men helping a fellow human being, not realizing the terrible deed he had planned.”