A Dangerous Madness

by Michelle Diener

  Gascoyne jerked his shoulder away from James as he marched out the room and down the hall.

  As his ramrod straight back disappeared into the front hall, James had the sinking feeling the general was right.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Phoebe heard the sound of a raised voice, put down the book she was reading and got to her feet. There was a violence to the shouting, a feral edge that had every instinct urging her to stand.

  She watched the door and jumped when it opened. Harding slipped in and closed it firmly behind him.

  They stared at each other for a beat, and Phoebe thought he looked as rattled as she felt.

  “Who is making all that noise?” she asked at last.

  “His Grace is just in a…meeting…with a gentleman, and he asked me to make sure you aren’t seen by his visitor.” Harding’s voice was clipped, but as the voice rose even louder, his words trailed off, and he turned to look at the closed door.

  Given the tone Wittaker’s visitor was taking, Phoebe wasn’t surprised he wanted her out of sight. Not to mention it would be difficult to explain to anyone what she was doing unchaperoned in the Duke of Wittaker’s house, let alone someone as hostile to Wittaker as this man seemed to be.

  The shouting stopped suddenly, and the silence that followed was disconcerting. She couldn’t bring herself to sit down again.

  “Are you comfortable, my lady?” Harding had turned back to her and stood to attention, but in such a way he looked as if his shoes were pinching or his cravat was too tight. His gaze fell on the tea tray, and she almost heard him sigh with relief at something to do.

  He came forward, tsking to himself. “A fresh pot?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you. And some more of those green petits fours, if Monsieur Bisset has any. They are quite extraordinary.”

  Harding gathered everything together, and then stopped short at the door as they both heard someone storm past, and then the front door slam.

  The library door swung open, and Wittaker stepped aside to allow Harding out. “Coffee for me, Harding. Hot and strong.”

  She wasn’t sure why her heart gave a little jerk of fear and anticipation when he shut the door after Harding disappeared, and they were alone in the room.

  “Who was that shouting?”

  Wittaker’s lips quirked up. “I found out who was paying Bellingham through Wilson. The Member of Parliament for Liverpool, General Gascoyne. He was unhappy that I uncovered his secret.”

  “You think he encouraged Bellingham to kill Perceval because Perceval’s policies were hurting Liverpool too much?” Phoebe had heard about the mass unemployment and stagnation of the shipping trade in Liverpool since Perceval’s Orders in Council and his support for banning the slave trade.

  But something didn’t make sense.

  Two men had tried to kill her for the document Sheldrake had sent her before he was murdered. “Where does the petition to the Prince Regent come into it, then?”

  “Yes. They made a mistake there. If they’d ignored it, we would have had to ignore it, too, because it doesn’t make sense. And we don’t know what it points to. But given their desperation to lay their hands on it…” Wittaker joined her at the little arrangement of chairs and his gaze flicked to her side of the low table.

  He waited for her to sit, and then took up a place opposite her. It was a polite dance, when she could see in his eyes he had no wish to be polite. He wished to be most impolite, indeed.

  “Sheldrake would have cared nothing for Liverpool, anyway.” Phoebe forced herself to look away from him, to concentrate on the conversation. “When he spoke to me that last time, he made out as if his involvement had been heroic, somehow. That he’d been doing something brave. He wouldn’t have felt that way if the goal had been to increase trade in Liverpool.”

  Wittaker gave a slow nod. “I originally thought whoever is behind this may have found out about Bellingham from the petition, that it was the thing that brought him to their attention and gave them the idea to use him. But I spoke to one of Gascoyne’s servants, and apparently Bellingham visited him personally to lay down his grievances at least at the same time as he submitted that first petition.”

  “But if that’s so, why does the petition come into it at all? Unless…” Phoebe tried hard to think why Sheldrake would keep it and risk his life to safeguard it. It was the one thing that tied him to the crime.

  “We have to be missing the significance. They must think it points a finger at another of the conspirators. If we could find out who works in the Prince Regent’s office—” Wittaker stopped short and Phoebe lifted her head.

  What she saw in his eyes made her stomach plummet, like a slow tumble down the stairs. “No,” she said. “No.”

  Wittaker was looking a little less surprised than she at the suggestion they were making. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you know the story of Thomas Becket?”

  Phoebe gave a tight nod. “I received an excellent education, thanks to the retired Oxford don my mother hired to tutor me. The story goes that King Henry II was angry with Becket, and asked who would rid him of the troublesome priest. Four of his knights took that to mean he wanted Becket dead and killed him.”

  “Who will rid me of this troublesome prime minister?” Wittaker kept his voice low.

  She felt weak, and a little sick. She was suddenly sorry she’d had two petits four. “We’re talking about the Prince Regent.” She said it in a whisper.

  “He certainly had motive.” Wittaker’s voice rose to its normal pitch, but it sounded far too loud to Phoebe. “When the Prince Regent tried to accuse his wife of adultery a number of years ago, Perceval threw himself into the princess’s defence. When he was done, he compiled a report of all the Prince Regent’s wrong-doings, and had five thousand copies of it printed as pamphlets. He blackmailed the Prince Regent into accepting Princess Caroline back, by threatening to put them up for sale. Only when the Prince Regent allowed Princess Caroline back at court did he burn the lot of them.”

  Wittaker rubbed the side of his temple. “Then there’s the Regency Bill, which Perceval used to curb the Prince Regent’s powers. And finally, when the Prince Regent tried to force a change of government when the Regency Bill was up for renewal, to put men in place who were open to scrapping it, not only did he fail, but Perceval made him make a public announcement to say what a good job he thought Perceval was doing.”

  “Rubbing salt in the wound.” Phoebe winced.

  “When Perceval forced him to take his wife back and renounce his accusations, I heard it said he shouted and swore and said he’d like to jump on Perceval until he was dead.” Wittaker shook his head. “I can only imagine what he wanted to do to him when he forced him to tell the world how wonderful he thought Perceval was.” He paused. “And that happened in late February.”

  “When Bellingham came into some money?” Phoebe wished they were not travelling down this path. It was already smacking of treason.

  “Perhaps the Prince Regent got the petition around the same time as Perceval humiliated him.” Wittaker tapped a long, blunt finger against his lips.

  “If he mentioned it, and Gascoyne was in the group, the general may have said something about Bellingham being mad when it came to the subject. That he couldn’t be reasonable about it.” Phoebe forced herself to say it. She thought it, after all, and they were already deep into dangerous territory.

  “It might not even have been as direct as that. Gascoyne could have brought it up afterwards to the Prince’s friends, when the Prince Regent was no longer in the room. My guess is, they would want to shield the Prince from any hint of wrongdoing.”

  “You think the Prince Regent has no idea what they’ve done?” Phoebe could hear the over-eagerness in her voice and grimaced.

  Wittaker paused. She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.

  “You think he knew?” She tried to swallow. It felt as if a stone was lodged in her throat.

  �
��He knows something. Or he suspects. I picked that much up when I went to cage an invitation off him to that dinner. Someone there, one of his cronies, quoted the Thomas Becket line, and the Prince Regent’s reaction was vicious. I couldn’t decide if it meant anything or if was just that everyone was drunk and in a foul temper.” Wittaker went quiet as Harding entered with a tray, and the fragrant scent of coffee filled the room.

  Phoebe let him pour her some tea, and was not surprised when her hand shook as she lifted the cup to her lips. He placed a plate piled high with green petits fours in front of her, the little gold-leaf flowers on top winking in the early afternoon sun.

  When Harding left, he didn’t close the door behind him, and with a wry smile, Wittaker got up and closed it again.

  This time, she had no doubt it was to keep their conversation private, rather than anything…else.

  She cleared her throat. “That’s what Sheldrake meant when he said no matter what, he and his friends would be hung out to dry if they were caught. They’d never bring the Prince Regent’s name into disrepute.”

  “It goes deeper than that.” Wittaker took a swallow of coffee. “I don’t think they anticipated the public’s reaction to Perceval’s death. They thought the prime minister was the problem. That everyone would be happy he was gone, and that would be the end of it. But the crowd has been calling for the Prince Regent’s head as well. I don’t think any of them understood how deeply unpopular the Prince is. That Perceval’s death would result in a call for the Prince Regent to go the same way.”

  “They probably thought any hint the Prince Regent might be behind Perceval’s death would sign his death warrant with the radicals. Or would tip the public into more open defiance. They panicked.” She thought of the way they’d thrown two men armed with guns at her, and realized that was the only word for it.

  Wittaker nodded. “They panicked. And it’s exposed them.”

  “What do we do? This is all just guesswork, really.” She realized she was wringing her hands, and forced them into her lap.

  “I’ll go speak to Bellingham, see if I can get him to admit any of this. No matter the consequences to the Prince Regent and his friends, Bellingham’s neck is on the line, and he should have to opportunity to speak the truth.”

  “Will he, though?”

  Wittaker hesitated, then shook his head. “I think he’s convinced he did this all himself. That the money was from a generous benefactor helping him with his cause, but it was his cause, no one else’s. I would like to know how he came up with his absurd legal argument that he can’t be held guilty because he didn’t kill the prime minister with malice aforethought. The very fact that he planned the murder negates that defense, and Bow Street has ample evidence he did plan it.”

  “Margie, perhaps?” She wondered how Margie fit into this.

  “Yes.” He stretched the word out, stretching out his legs at the same time. “I’d forgotten her for the moment, but I’d be very interested in speaking to her about what happened between her and Bellingham, before I speak to him. I’d love to know what Sheldrake put her up to.”

  “And what she has of Bellingham’s that he’s so afraid someone will find.”

  He smiled at her. It was the first smile she’d seen that wasn’t either wry or self-deprecating.

  It was dazzling.

  “We’ll have to speak to her, now we know so much more. It’s urgent enough we can’t wait for her work day to end, we’ll have to go back to the tavern and confront her.” He held out his hand to her as he stood.

  She took it, but absently, her eyes on him. That he included her so naturally, had worked this out with her with no posturing or ego, was the most precious gift a man had ever given her.

  “What is it?” His voice had gone husky.

  “You see me,” she said. She had to blink back the tears that stung her eyes. “You really see me.”

  “I will go and fetch the carriage,” he said, quietly, withdrawing his hand, “before I start thinking of walls too much.”

  He was out the door before she could ask him what he meant.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  They arrived at the tavern just in time to see Jimmy running down the street. Wittaker leaned out and called to the driver to follow him, but he turned off the main road, down a narrow, crowded lane, and the carriage had to stop.

  “Wait here.” Wittaker glanced at Phoebe as he jumped out and then he slammed the door and disappeared into the crowd with Tom and the other footman.

  It was probably less than a minute later, although it felt longer than that, when the carriage moved a little way forward and pulled in to the side.

  Phoebe crouched down by the window to follow Wittaker and his men’s progress, and then gasped when she saw Margie step out from the shadows of a deep-set doorway, and watch them, as well.

  Jimmy must have been chasing her, and she’d known it.

  When Wittaker and Jimmy were far enough away to make Margie feel comfortable coming out of her hiding place, she started walking again, but she was only on the lane for a few steps before she turned down a small side alley.

  Phoebe’s heart kicked up, and before she could think about it too much, she eased out of the carriage.

  Wittaker’s driver wouldn’t leave her to follow Margie if she asked him. She didn’t think he’d come with her, either, and leave the carriage.

  She started after the girl, hoping the driver didn’t notice her and call out, and perhaps alert Margie that she hadn’t completely shaken her watchers off.

  She felt the thrill of the chase, the sensation she’d envied Wittaker earlier when he’d taken off after Wilson outside the Baltick Coffee House.

  It was exhilarating.

  The passage Margie had taken was narrow and dim, the buildings on either side blocking out the sky. The cobbles lining the lane were slick, and above her head, Phoebe could hear the laundry which was strung between the houses flapping in the wind, the sound muffling her footsteps.

  The way twisted and turned, burrowing deeper and deeper into a labyrinth Phoebe hoped she could find her way out of. Margie stepped around a sharp corner, and when Phoebe reached the same place, she was gone.

  But she couldn’t be gone. There was nowhere to go. Phoebe ran forward, and almost fell down the stairs at her feet.

  She peered down the dark stairwell, angling her body to let in as much light as possible, and Margie looked back up at her, pressed back against an old, battered door.

  “You.” She spoke part in relief, part in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

  Phoebe stepped back. “Will you come up?”

  Margie weighed the question. “Will you come down?”

  Phoebe didn’t want to. She could be trapped down there. Margie stared up at her, silent and calm, and she gave a tight nod and forced herself to step on the first step.

  “Wait.” Margie stepped more into the light. “I’ll come up.”

  Phoebe said nothing at her change of heart, she was just relieved. She waited for Margie to emerge.

  Margie took the last few steps slowly, and they watched each other until she was finally back on street level.

  “You think Lord Sheldrake was having it off with me?”

  The question was so unexpected, Phoebe gaped. “No. Is that why you think I chased you down?” She frowned. “Were you?”

  Margie shook her head. “Mr. Jackson thinks I were. That that’s where I would go every lunch time. He thought his lordship and I were meeting somewhere to have it away.”

  Phoebe was speechless for a moment. “I know what you were doing every lunch time.”

  Margie looked up sharply. “You were the one asking after me at lunch? Jane told me a man and a woman were.”

  Phoebe nodded. “You were befriending Bellingham.”

  Margie crossed her arms. “What’s it to you? Why are you so interested?”

  “Lord Sheldrake sent me something, some evidence he had, and now the people who killed
him are trying to kill me. I’m trying to find out who they are, and stop them.”

  The young woman narrowed her eyes. “How did you get on to me?”

  “We were trying to find out who Bellingham spoke with when he was at the tavern, and you arrived just as we were leaving. I recognized you from this morning. It could hardly be a coincidence, you working at the tavern and for Lord Sheldrake.”

  Margie looked away. “Didn’t really know why his lordship asked me to do it. That I swear. He paid me well and I didn’t ask no questions. All I had to do was talk to Bellingham, and then tell him legal things, pretending my brother were a law clerk. His lordship told me stories, like what a law clerk would know, working on cases, and I was to tell them to Bellingham, like something interesting to pass the time of day, like.”

  “I’m surprised Sheldrake thought it would work.”

  “Bellingham was very interested.” She looked up again. “Asked me questions to ask my ‘brother’. I knew he were thinking about killing someone in the end. Can’t say I didn’t, not with the questions he were coming up with. And I knew his lordship were encouraging it with the answers he gave me to pass back.”

  She closed her eyes, and tipped her head back, as if trying to catch some of the light filtering down on them.

  “He couldn’t get past his imprisonment, Bellingham. I think he were innocent of what they said he’d done in Russia, and that the British ambassador didn’t help him as he should. I heard the story from him often enough, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth. He simply couldn’t put it behind him. Being in prison was so far from his idea of what his life should be—losing everything he’d worked for. He couldn’t cope. He liked his life ordered and tidy.” She bit her lip, and a tear ran down her cheek. “No one helped him. He told me all the places he tried to get help. Redress, he called it. He was getting desperate. I think it was his last push, you see. I spent so many weeks with him, seeing him every day, and he knew if he couldn’t get a resolution soon, he’d never get one. And he couldn’t accept that.”