by Regan Walker
Reaching the parlour, her hostess invited Kit to sit on a sofa of pale green silk and then picked up an envelope sitting on a side table. “Here, Martin. Ormond left this for you. I suspect it will tell you where to meet him.”
Kit watched Martin’s face grow serious as he collected the envelope, furtively casting a concerned glance at her.
“You need not worry about Lady Egerton, Martin. I will see her settled. We will have no trouble occupying ourselves without you two men. So, be on your way.”
“All right, my lady, but keep her close. Best not to venture out in public until we know what Rutledge is about.” Martin proceeded to tear open the envelope and read the note.
“Will you return for dinner, do you think?” Mary asked.
Still reading Martin replied, “I will return whenever Ormond does. It seems he has scheduled some meetings for John and me this afternoon.”
“Well, then, we shall see you tonight, for my husband promised me he will be here in time for the evening meal.”
Martin asked the butler to take the valise he’d had packed for Kit to the room she’d been given upstairs. He paused at the door, staring at her, and for a moment their eyes met and held. She was somehow reluctant to see her rescuer go, but with a wave he turned and left.
Mary asked the butler to see that they had tea and returned to Kit, taking a seat on the sofa across from her. “I just know we shall be great friends, Kit.”
“This is so awkward, Lady Ormond—”
“Mary,” the marchioness reminded her.
“Mary. What I mean is…my life seems to be in such turmoil just now.” She was afraid to ask but had to know: “What has Martin told you about me?”
“I can’t say we know everything, but allow me to say I would have tried to kill Rutledge myself if he attacked me as he did you. At least, I like to think I would have had your courage.”
“Did he say anything else?”
A maid entered with a tray of tea and scones, suspending conversation. Mary thanked her, and a moment later the maid left, closing the doors and leaving them again in private. Mary turned to the tray and poured Kit a cup of tea and one for herself. Kit took a bite of the warm sweet bread and tasted honey on her tongue. Mary made herself comfortable, lifted her cup of tea and calmly returned to Kit’s question.
“Oh, I know about Willow House, if that’s what you are asking.” She must have seen the shock on Kit’s face, for the marchioness immediately added, “Please do not worry, Kit. I do understand. Some love matches have unusual beginnings.”
“It isn’t what you might be thinking. Ours is not a love match. Martin and I hardly know each other.”
“Well, Kit,” said Mary, “if Ormond and I are any model, it can occur quite suddenly. Before you realize it your heart has given itself away. The job is done. Then it takes you weeks, even months, to realize what happened. Neither Ormond nor I wanted a marriage when we first met, but staying away from each other proved impossible. Now look at us.”
“Not in my case,” Kit replied.
Mary’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “If you say so. But enough of that. Tell me where you have been all this time Martin has been searching for you.”
“Well, I took a position as a finishing govern—”
“I knew it! I told my husband as much. That is just what I would have done. Tell me about it.”
Mary seemed most curious to know all that Kit had lived through since leaving Willow House, so Kit settled back with her tea and told her of the de Courtenays and of the twins, Pris and Pen.
“What a delightful family!” Mary said at the end.
“They are, really.”
Mary rose to pour them more tea. “No wonder we did not find you. I was asking around my friends, but of course the de Courtenays are new to Town… Since they have been on the Continent, we would not know them. Or at least I would not, unless I’d met them in Paris. Ormond might have heard of Mr. de Courtenay. I simply must be introduced.”
“They were very kind to me. Mrs. de Courtenay even bought me several lovely gowns so I might accompany the twins to their entertainments.”
“We must fetch your wardrobe for you,” Mary determined.
Kit did not see how she could ask the kind Mrs. de Courtenay for the garments after abandoning the family as she had, even if her work with Pen and Pris had been for the most part accomplished, but then a thought occurred. “I know the gowns were costly, but perhaps they would consider trading them for my wages.”
“An excellent thought,” conceded Mary. “I will go there this very afternoon and inquire.”
“Could not a footman be sent?” Kit was mortified at the thought of a marchioness running an errand for her.
“Nonsense! And deprive me of an adventure? I have so few these days.” Looking out the window rather wistfully she explained, “My dearest friend Lizzy is so great with child she never gets out anymore, and I have had no one to go adventuring with. Our young son Henry is but a few months old and very sweet, but he requires little of my attention just now. He sleeps rather a lot, as babies do. But now that you are here,” Mary crowed, a gleam in her eye as she returned her gaze to Kit, “perhaps my prospects will change. In any event, Martin is right. It would not be wise for you to be seen on the streets of London. Rutledge may be having the de Courtenays’ home watched if he saw you with them last night at the ball.”
“Oh, my.” Kit covered her mouth with her hand. “I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, it would be just like him.”
“If he is as ruthless as we all believe, it is quite likely.”
“He is. He never treated my sister Anne—his wife—with any kindness.” Kit couldn’t stop the tears. They welled up in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She cried for a sister who deserved love and never found it in the husband fate had given her, and she cried for herself, for the dreams she had left behind in her first Season, dreams of an honorable man who would be her true love. “I’m so sorry. I don’t seem to be able to stop.”
Mary crossed to where Kit was sitting and wrapped her arm around Kit’s shoulders. “You have been through a lot. More than any woman I know. Do not apologize for having a good cry.”
Kit took a deep breath, forcing herself to regain control. Taking the handkerchief Mary offered, she dabbed at her eyes.
The marchioness smiled and made an obvious effort to cheer her. “Remind me to tell you of what I went through before Ormond and I finally married. Suffice it to say, I shed many tears before it was done.”
The mention of Mary’s husband recalled the question that had been rumbling around in Kit’s mind. “What will Ormond say if you go to the de Courtenays’?”
“Ormond? Oh, he would prefer I send a servant to be sure, but he will not be surprised if I go myself. He is aware of my…tendencies. Besides, I would not be deprived of meeting these two charming girls of whom you are so fond. I imagine they will want to be assured you are doing well.”
“And if—as you suggest—Rutledge is having their home watched?”
“Oh, do not worry about that, Kit. I have often worn disguises on my adventures. I will dress in a more common fashion, in something a shop worker might wear, and take a hired coach with a roundabout journey back here. If anyone is watching that house, they will think me a tradeswoman. To tell it true, you have no idea how I have longed for such an outing.”
Kit could not argue with the sparkle in Mary’s eyes. The marchioness seemed to be in her element.
A thought occurred: “Mary, if you can go in disguise, why not me as well? I would dearly love to say a proper goodbye to Mrs. de Courtenay and the twins.”
Mary seemed to consider. “Well, I do have a disguise I once used in Paris, a stable boy’s clothes…. Yes, it might work. I even have a cap that will hide that beautiful auburn hair.”
Feeling like she had taken back some control of her life, Kit brightened. It would be right to see the de Courtenays again, at the very least to thank them. �
�Oh, Mary, that would be wonderful. Let’s do it.”
The marchioness smiled. “I had a feeling you would be a worthy partner.”
* * *
Martin arrived at the government building to find Ormond and John ensconced in a small windowless room, sitting at a table, bent over a stack of documents. The marquess glanced up as he entered.
“Ah, Martin,” he said, waving a sheet of paper in his hand. “You are just in time to examine the evidence.”
Nodding to John, Martin drew up a chair. “What evidence?”
Ormond handed him the paper, a page of handwritten notes. “John and I have uncovered a spy Sidmouth recruited out of Fleet Prison, where the man was biding his time with other debtors.”
“How did you learn this?”
“The Prince Regent has made available to us the work of the Secret Committees in the Commons and the Lords, formed following the attack on his coach. They were supposed to deal with the so-called conspiracy threatening overthrow of the government, but it seems Liverpool may have gone too far.”
“And the spy?”
“Recall when I first told you about your assignment that I said one of the ways Sidmouth intends to keep track of what is going on in the Midlands, if not to influence events there, is to enlist his own spies. In this case his name is William Richards, though he goes by the name William Oliver. According to our source, when he is in London he meets with his contacts at a public house, The Guardsman. It is in the mews where Wellington’s barracks were once located. I think you and John might want to pay him a visit.”
“Why would Sidmouth choose such a man?” asked John.
“A man from debtors’ prison might seem an odd choice for a government agent,” Martin said, “but consider that he would blend in well with the disgruntled. There are many unhappy men in Fleet Prison who blame the government for their circumstances.”
“Martin is right,” Ormond acknowledged. “As one who served time in debtors’ prison, he could more easily gain the confidence of the unhappy workers in the north. And he is not unintelligent. His occupation was that of building surveyor according to these records.”
“That is likely why Sidmouth sought him out,” Martin conjectured. “He would be able to read and write to report to the officials who are his contacts. And he probably speaks well enough to persuade those simple men in the north of the correctness of his ideas.”
Ormond picked up a file before him. “According to these records, Oliver traveled in April to the northern towns with a letter of introduction directed to the local officials. Its author was none other than Addington, the Undersecretary—and, not coincidentally, Sidmouth’s brother.”
“What did the letter say?” Martin asked. Sidmouth and his brother were deeper into this than he had at first imagined. The web of intrigue was growing ever larger.
Ormond shot John a glance. “Do you have it?”
The young man hurriedly sorted through a stack of papers. “Aye, here it is, m’lord.”
Reading silently the note he was handed, Ormond summarized. “The letter urges local officials to cooperate with Oliver and describes him as an ‘intelligent man deserving of your confidence.’”
“I see. Well then,” Martin decided. “John, I’ve only to stop by my family’s townhouse to change into my working clothes and then”—he leaned toward John—“you and I shall be raising a pint at The Guardsman.”
John grinned at the prospect.
“I think,” Martin continued, “it may be time for Martin Donet, the man whose parents were French revolutionaries, to make an appearance. Under the circumstances, I believe my parents will forgive me the lie.”
“A good choice, Martin,” said Ormond, chuckling. “Such a story should stir the heart of any man committed to bringing revolution to England, and that old disguise from your days in France will certainly work better than the garb you wear as Prinny’s shiny new knight. Sorry I am to be missing the performance!”
“Aye, sir,” John agreed. “And I’ll be happy to see it as yer assistant. My French is good enough for that.”
* * *
That afternoon, Martin and John climbed the short flight of stairs to The Guardsman. It was in a very old, plain, three-story Georgian brick building that once had been home, as Ormond claimed, to the First Regiment of Foot Guards, and was famous as the Duke of Wellington’s officers’ mess before becoming a London public house.
They stepped over the threshold into a small room with a bar to one side, and rays of bright sun from several large paned windows fell across a dozen scattered wooden tables. The air smelled of ale. Only a few tables were taken, and none looked to be occupied by a man who might be Oliver meeting with his friends. Through an opening at the rear Martin could see another room, so John paid the barman for two pints of ale, handed one to Martin, and they headed to the back. William Oliver—or the man Martin thought might be Oliver—was indeed holding court there, several men sitting around him, each nursing a tankard of ale.
Oliver appeared tall even while seated, with light red hair and a round, whiskered face scarred by smallpox. He was dressed better than the others, in a brown coat, black waistcoat, dark blue pantaloons and Wellington boots.
As Martin and John seated themselves at a table on the far side of the room, Oliver and his comrades turned to scrutinize them. A moment later their conversation resumed, but in hushed tones.
Martin had very good ears. Oliver’s speech revealed a man who had knowledge of worldly matters and a command of the English language far above his apparent station. The incongruity of the man’s dress, manners and speech would serve well the Home Secretary’s nefarious purposes.
“I tell ye, petitions are a waste of time!” Oliver’s voice rose above the whispers. “It’s only force that those bastards understand.”
“And ye told this to the men in the provinces, Oliver?” asked a swarthy man in dirty breeches and jacket.
“Aye, I did. And they listened, too.”
“Just how did ye make friends with them workers?” another asked, taking a swig of his ale and wiping his mouth on a rough woolen sleeve. “Why would they trust a Londoner?”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “My friend Joseph Mitchell was my guide. I told him ’twas the desire of the London Committee, which I represent, to form a connection with the country friends. He obliged me when I asked to be taken along on his next trip to the provinces. Only last month, Mitchell introduced me to the reformers in the Midlands.”
“Where is Mitchell today?” asked a man who had not yet spoken. “I would like to meet him. He has long been a leader speaking for reform.”
“Aye, well, that was a bit of a tragedy, that. He was just arrested and now lies in prison, I’m afraid,” Oliver replied.
The man’s sadness was surely feigned. Most convenient, Martin thought, that Oliver’s contact in the north was suddenly eliminated, leaving Oliver as the only link between the “London Committee,” which Martin doubted was real, and the “country friends.” The man was sly. Or perhaps Sidmouth had arranged it.
“What about this here London Committee?” the swarthy man asked. “Mayhap it is time we met this committee of yours.”
“Nay, the time isn’t right,” Oliver cautioned. “It’s too dangerous to call them together, as some are well known. But ye can be sure they are many and will rise to demand change when the time is right. Aye, they will fight for it, along with thousands of others. Liverpool’s government is weak after the war with France. The time is right!”
Martin was now certain there was no London Committee, nor any London friends. But the time had come to make himself known.
Allowing his French accent to rise, he called out from where he was sitting, “Good men of England, I could not help but overhear your talk of reform. My friend John and I are from France. My family is a product of the Revolution. Fought for the right of all men to be heard, we did. Liberté, égalité, fraternité was our motto. I am surprised to hear the same sen
timents from Englishmen.”
Oliver studied him and John where they reclined insouciantly in their chairs. For a moment Martin was uncertain of how his comments had been received, but he forced himself to remain calm as the men with Oliver took in his common attire and John’s artfully shabby clothes. He waited, as if he cared not whether the men would offer up an invitation to join them.
“If yer seeking reform here in England like yer family brought to France,” Oliver said at last, “we’ve the opportunity. Yer welcome to join us.”
“If you would find that to your liking,” Martin replied, “we might do just that.”
The half-dozen men around him relaxed at hearing Oliver’s words, so Martin nodded to John and the two slowly rose and walked across the room to sit with them. Martin introduced them as Messieurs Martin Donet and Jean Fournier.
“We’re all patriots here,” announced Oliver, “tired of living under the thumb of fat Prince George and his decadent friends. Spending the country’s money on his pleasure palace in Brighton while the hardworking men of the country starve. ’Tis a travesty, I say.”
“And what would you do to change that?” asked Martin.
“Did ye hear about the rocks thrown at the Prince’s carriage?”
“All of London has heard,” said Martin.
“Well, ye see now, I was there.” Tapping his thumb to his chest, Oliver continued proudly. “’Twas me who told the crowd to show the princeling just how they felt. I say we need more of that kind of demonstration. Petitions like the one the weavers of Manchester planned to deliver will get us nowhere. A long list of names is too easy to ignore. And did ye see how their march to London ended? The King’s Dragoons wounded some and arrested others. Now the military laughs and calls them Blanketeers. ’Twas only a joke to them!”
“So you advocate a challenge to the government?” Martin was surprised that Oliver would be so brazen, but perhaps with the backing of Sidmouth he felt free to openly recruit revolutionaries, urging them to violent protest. That would certainly provide Parliament justification for more drastic laws.