Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 2)

by Regan Walker

  “And why would you be looking for me? The baron’s estate was settled long ago. As you must know, I took very little from him, which soon dwindled to nothing at all.”

  “I represented Lord Egerton in matters of his country estates, my dear. He wished to keep them separate.”

  “You are not the London solicitor who spoke with me upon the baron’s death.” Kit spoke her recollection aloud. That man, dour-faced and unpleasant, who had told her in no uncertain terms she would be receiving only a pittance from the baron’s holdings, did not have the kind demeanor of this one.

  “No. That was by the baron’s design. You see, my lady, the baron was quite fond of you, even before your marriage. He would have offered for you even if the circumstances—your father’s death—had been different. He wanted to provide for you. Being aware of his advanced age and knowing of his sons’…proclivities, he thought it best his provision be accomplished outside the normal channels. Before you’d even married, he settled a fund upon you and asked me to handle it. His instructions were to see that you had the money upon his death. The sum has grown quite large, I am happy to say.”

  “But it has been so long since he died. How can this be?”

  “Well, it took a while for me to become aware the baron died. My home is some counties away from London, and he and I were not always in regular contact. Then I had to deal with the business of tying up his affairs. By the time I traveled to London to find you, the trail was quite cold.”

  Kit was shocked. She’d had no idea the old baron, who in many ways was like a grandfather, had felt so strongly. But hadn’t he always told her not to worry, that he would take care of her? He must have realized the perfidy of his sons and how ungenerous they would be. He had not violated her trust after all.

  “How large is the fund, sir?”

  “Twenty thousand pounds.”

  Kit’s hand went to her throat and she took a deep breath. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the generosity of the man she first called husband. “Oh, my.” She drew her lips together, fighting tears. If she had not been sitting down she might have fainted. “Twenty thousand? I had no idea.”

  “No, I was certain you did not. Before I spoke with Miss Darkin and found Lady Ormond, I tried to reach you at the home of your brother-in-law, Lord Rutledge.”

  Alarmed, Kit blurted out, “You didn’t tell him I am here, did you?”

  “Oh, no, my lady. I did not tell him the nature of my business at all. And he told me nothing either. It was Lady Ormond who kindly explained your new marriage and where I could find you.”

  Relieved, Kit listened as the man continued.

  “The funds are on deposit in your name with the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street in London. Originally I placed it in the name of Katherine, Lady Egerton, but I have had that changed to Lady Katherine Powell in light of your subsequent marriage to Sir Martin.”

  “Sir Martin?”

  “Why, yes,” the older man said, looking puzzled. “Your husband.”

  “Of course.” Kit feigned a calm exterior but her heart was jumping in her chest. The title for her husband shocked her. How did she not know he’d been knighted? This changed everything. A knight would not rise against the very crown that had bestowed such an honor upon him, would he?

  Oh, Martin, have I misjudged you? Her eyes grew moist.

  Mr. Highmore reached down to his case and pulled from it a folder containing a sheaf of papers that he handed to her. “These documents provide evidence of all I have told you, my lady: the instructions of the baron, the original sum, the accounting for its growth under my management and the new deposit with the bank in London. I trust all is to your satisfaction?”

  Kit hurriedly skimmed the papers. “Yes, it’s all here, just as you say. Oh, I cannot tell you how much this means to me! It gives me great joy to know that the baron did not forget me.”

  “I thought it might, my lady. Even though the money is now your husband’s, from what I know of the Powell family Sir Martin needs no money from you. I would like to believe he will give it to you freely so that you may do as you please, which was what the baron intended. By the by, may I congratulate you upon your new marriage?”

  “You may,” Kit replied. The reality of the money and the baron’s kindness had begun to sink in, and a broad smile spread across her face. She finally had the means to be independent. Just what she’d always wanted! But what should have been a moment of triumph was not. Did she truly want to be alone? Martin was now her husband in truth, and she didn’t want to be free of him. The man she had chosen in a moment of weakness was a man she wanted in an hour of strength. She only wished the money had come sooner. Perhaps she could have given Anne a better life and taken her away from the cruel Rutledge.

  “Mr. Highmore, thank you for traveling so far to give me this wonderful news.”

  “My pleasure, my lady. It is only what my friend the baron wanted for you.” Eyeing her with benevolence he added, “Sometimes when a man takes a wife late in life, especially one much younger than he, there is a special fondness for that woman, an appreciation for her character that would see beyond his age. Such was the love the baron had for you.”

  She’d never realized. Whisking away the few tears that had stolen down her cheeks, Kit smiled at the solicitor and grasped his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Highmore. Thank you.”

  The solicitor stayed for tea. He seemed pleased to be at journey’s end and to have discharged his last obligation to the man he had served for so long. Kit shared with him the few stories she had to tell of the baron, all while wondering what this latest development would mean for her marriage.

  Her marriage to a knight.

  Chapter 19

  “The baron left you what?” Martin exclaimed, eyeing his wife. He’d only been half listening, still angry at the events of the day, still trying to decide what to do with her.

  “Twenty thousand pounds, Martin. It seems the baron did not forget me in his plans for what would happen at his death as I’d always assumed.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of coin, Kit. You’re a wealthy woman in your own right.” A sudden fear reached deep in his mind. Would she ask for the funds and use them to leave him? They had argued and he’d been most cross—justifiably, he reminded himself. Letting his words reflect his thoughts he said, “You don’t need my money now, do you, Kit?” He wondered if she needed him any longer. “Would you have married me if you had known about the money?”

  Her pause told him the answer was not an easy one. “Does it matter now, Martin? We are married, and…I would not change that. You are my husband in truth and I am content for you to remain so. I want you, Martin, not for your money but for what you’ve come to mean to me. I meant it when I said I love you.”

  Martin felt the tension he’d been holding fall away like a castoff cloak. He had feared her answer would be far different than the one she’d uttered. “Good, for I would not change it either, Kit. That you have the means to be independent and still want to be my wife says much. You see,” he added, turning to face her, “I do not desire to live without you, Kitten. I love you.”

  “You love me?”

  She seemed so surprised, Martin almost laughed. Could his intelligent vixen really be so unobservant? “Silly goose. Have you not seen it when I look at you? Felt it when we make love? Why do you think I am so protective of you, so cross when you disobey me and wander into danger?” Pulling her into his arms he said, “You are my wife for always, Kitten. So please take more care with your person in future. I do not want you harmed. I live in fear that something might happen to you. That I might not be able to protect you.”

  While she considered his words, he leaned down and kissed her, enjoying once again the softness of her body as she melted into him. She could not know how real his fear was. Though his nightmares had not returned since their marriage, he still harbored a vague disquiet about the future. If Oliver or his cohorts ever discovered his game, they m
ight take revenge on her as well as him. She could not know how badly he wanted to end their time in the Midlands.

  * * *

  Kit returned her husband’s kiss, allowing the familiar feel to comfort her. He loved her! The death of her parents and that of her sister had shattered Kit’s life. Only a man like Martin, whose life had once been torn apart, could understand, could help her heal. From that first night at Willow House he’d been helping her do just that, putting her life back together.

  When he broke the kiss, she leaned back in his arms and looked into his face. Did his reminder to take care evidence his continuing anger at her sneaking into that barn? She supposed he had a right to be upset. But she had been angry as well. He’d never told her he was one of the Prince Regent’s knights.

  “Why did you never tell me you are Sir Martin?” she asked.

  “Oh, that. It was Prinny’s idea and I’ve never made overmuch of it. I am still the man I was before. I only become the baronet when I must. My plan, when this is over, is to return to my family’s business where I am merely a merchant.”

  “Will you tell me for what great act of bravery you were knighted?”

  “One day soon, but not now. Suffice it to say it was not for any act of valor in battle. There were many who deserved the honor and I do not count myself among them. The Prince Regent was being overgenerous.”

  Kit was frustrated that he would not tell her of the heroic task that led to his knighthood. Surely he must be proud of it…but she also believed he was a humble man.

  “If you won’t share that with me, can you at least tell me why we are here in Pentridge and living as Mr. and Mrs. Donet? We’ve nothing to hide, surely.”

  “There is nothing you need worry about, Kit. I’ve done nothing wrong,” he assured her. “The name Donet is perfectly respectable. It is the family name of my French mother.” Then he grinned and said rather sheepishly, “Though I told you my grandfather was a pirate, I’m given to understand he was an honorable sort. As for my purposes here in the Midlands, the name suits. You must continue to trust me a little while longer.”

  It was like pounding her head against a stone wall. For reasons only he knew, he would tell her nothing.

  “I’m not happy with that, Martin. I don’t like living as someone I’m not.”

  “Trust me, Kitten. All will come right in the end.”

  “So you say.”

  * * *

  “Come in, gentlemen.”

  Martin and John stepped through the narrow door leading into the office of George Goodwin, manager of the Butterley Ironworks in Ripley, and the man wiped his hands on a cloth and offered them a welcoming shake. His office was in a small hexagonal brick building that also served as the gatehouse, nestled among the surrounding factory structures. In his fifties, Goodwin had face stubble the same gray color as the hair on his head, evidence he didn’t always bother to shave.

  As he entered the office, Martin focused his attention on the pictures of furnaces and some of the factory’s recent products nailed to a board on one wall. One structure displayed was Vauxhall Bridge, parts of the iron edifice obviously made at Butterley drawn in detail. Other projects, graphically displayed on large sheets, were scattered about Goodwin’s desk, some smudged with oil and iron dust.

  The man gave Martin a skeptical look and his bushy gray brows drew together. “Why are you here, Mr. Donet?”

  Martin and John took the chairs Goodwin offered on the other side of his desk, and Martin settled back knowing the next few minutes would tell him if he’d have an ally or an enemy. He had been told the man could be trusted, but he needed an assurance that would allow him to share things about himself he did not want generally known, at least not yet. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, Mr. Goodwin. Do I have your word it will remain so?”

  The manager paused, doubt in his eyes, but then Goodwin seemed to make a decision and sat down behind his desk. “You have my word. Now, what is it that is so private and pressing?”

  “I will be most direct, sir. There are some men in Derbyshire who are planning an uprising, a rebellion against the government.”

  Martin saw in Goodwin’s eyes the recognition he expected. “I’m aware there are some who would like to see changes in the way the country is run, even some of my own workers. Are you referring to such?”

  “Unfortunately it has gone beyond a mere desire for change. I have been sent here by the Crown to learn the true source of the planned rebellion.”

  The older man pursed his lips. “Assuming I can believe that, and I’m not certain I do, what interest has the Crown in the Midlands? Surely this is a local matter for our magistrates.”

  “Unfortunately, the Midlands has become involved in schemes that reach as far as London.” Martin gave a slight nod to John in acknowledgment of what they both knew had to be revealed.

  “London?” The manager looked at him askance. “What does London have to do with some unhappy men in Derbyshire? The magistrates have already been to see me and sworn in a hundred of my men to act as special constables should there be any trouble.” He gazed out the window. “Even that seemed too much.”

  Martin and John exchanged glances. Though new information, it was not surprising. Martin expected both sides to recruit support from this large a pool of men. “I am hoping you are right. It is my desire to avoid violence if at all possible.”

  The manager’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “That is my hope as well, Mr. Donet. My men have been through much in recent times.”

  “My real name is Sir Martin Powell, Mr. Goodwin. I come from London, sent by the Prince Regent himself. Our monarch is most anxious to know what is going on here. I bring you both a message and a request.”

  An expression of surprise flickered on George Goodwin’s face. “Sir Martin?”

  Martin nodded.

  Goodwin’s surprise faded, and he leaned across his desk. “What message?”

  “I believe the good men of Derbyshire, for the most part, do not seek active rebellion, but their unhappy condition of late has rendered them vulnerable to a man who would, for his own purposes, urge them to violence. The agent provocateur is one William Oliver, who works for men in Sidmouth’s government seeking to incite the very rebellion the magistrates have asked you to help quash.”

  Goodwin stared down at his desk, his hand nervously fumbling with a paper. “I have heard of this man Oliver. He’s a bad one, I think. But why would men in the government want to incite a rebellion? That makes no sense.”

  “To justify repressive measures and, once they see the rebellion put down, send a message to all of England that there will be no revolution here as there was in France.”

  Raising his head Goodwin said, “I begin to see. And do the magistrates know of this?”

  “They know Oliver was sent by some in the government because they were asked to cooperate with him. So, yes, I believe they know. Undoubtedly, the request for your special constables is the direct result of their complicity.”

  “Where is all this leading, then?” asked Goodwin.

  “It is possible,” Martin said, “even likely, that you or your men will be approached by the leaders of a group of rebels seeking weapons, or the makings of such, as well as men to join their cause. If you can convince them to turn from their path and go home, to avoid an altercation with the authorities, it would be a gift to the people of Derbyshire.”

  “It pleases me to hear you say so, Sir Martin. I worried when the local magistrate asked me for the special deputies. To me it only spelled violence.”

  “You may be the key to keeping the countryside calm, perhaps even a voice of reason in the midst of a growing insanity, Mr. Goodwin.”

  The older man squared his shoulders as if accepting the responsibility Martin offered. “When do you expect this to happen?”

  “Soon. Though I cannot give you a date with any confidence, I have heard Oliver mention the ninth of June. I will get word to you through John, my ass
istant here, should we catch wind of a more specific time.”

  Goodwin gave John a measured look as John nodded and said, “Aye, ye’ll be seeing me afore long, I expect.”

  “I will gladly do as you ask,” said Goodwin. “I have no wish to see the men of Derbyshire involved in any uprising. ’Tis only foolishness. No good can come of it.”

  Martin and John rose from their chairs, and as they did Mr. Goodwin stood to shake their hands. “Thank you for coming, Sir Martin.”

  “Mr. Donet, please.”

  The older man nodded, and Martin was assured his message had been well received and his confidence kept. Now, if they could only assure no lives were lost.

  * * *

  Kit had come to enjoy the peace of the village, notwithstanding her displeasure at her husband’s continued reticence to tell her how he was involved in the plans for an uprising in Pentridge. She took long walks and, during the days following the skirmish at the barn, sometimes rode with John or Martin to the neighboring towns of Belper, Ripley or South Wingfield. It was the end of the first week in June and the days were long. Though sometimes they were favored with sunshine, more often a cold rain fell upon the village. Today, observing the chill in the air and dark clouds on the horizon, she determined to take her sketchbook outside to draw while she could.

  From her seat on the wooden bench in front of the inn, she could see lambs grazing in the far distance on the green hillsides and thought perhaps it was a sign that times would be better for the people of the Midlands. She hoped so. Watching the endless circle of life in the farm animals was peaceful and reassuring. Pentridge had brought a quiet to Kit’s life so different from the frantic pace in London and the tragic events of her past.

  She’d become a familiar sight as she sat on a stone wall or bench drawing the faces of the villagers going about their day, working in the fields, tending their sheep or feeding their chickens. There were always children running with dogs, too. Many waved or bid her good day as they passed. Not a few times George Weightman, sometimes accompanied by one of his brothers, stopped to chat. On this particular morning he was alone when he paused to speak to her, just on his way out of the White Horse.