by Lady Vixen
It was only when Christopher was standing in the hall bidding his grandfather a further good night that the subject of the removal to Brighton came up. Almost as an afterthought Simon remarked, "The plans for going to Brighton still stand, although Letty and I shall not be there until some time toward the end of September." Giving Christopher a half-defiant glance from under his heavy brows, Simon went on, "She and I are going to Beddington's Corner on Monday. Thought it best that we have a few weeks by ourselves before joining Gina and Nicole at the Kings Road house."
Christopher smothered a shout of laughter, and with mocking amusement glinting in his eyes, he murmured dryly, "And you can't wait to show her off!"
"Bah! That has nothing to do with it! Every man is entitled to a honeymoon and I am no different. Besides Letty has expressed a desire to see Beddington's Corner and I see no reason to deny her. She has a lot of friends in the area, you know, friends she hasn't seen in years. Don't forget we grew up there together. Did our first courting there." His eyes were suddenly almost dreamy as he finished softly, "It holds a lot of memories for us."
Christopher made no reply, for none was needed. After a moment Simon seemed to recollect himself and said in his usual testy manner, "Edward Markham and Robert are going to escort Gina and Nicole to Brighton. Are you going to join them?"
At the mention of Robert, any desire to go to Brighton vanished for Christopher. Simon's presence had been his main reason for agreeing to go, and without Simon there the motivation for traveling to the popular sea resort was no longer valid. He had been having second thoughts about the wisdom of leaving London too far in advance of the rendezvous with the American privateer. It was possible he might be able to learn something more of the British plans by remaining precisely where he was, and knowledge that Robert would be in Brighton made up his mind for him. Carelessly he returned to Simon's question, "I don't believe so. I find that I have too many commitments at the moment to tear myself away." Seeing the thunderous lowering of Simon's black brows, he added hastily, "But rest assured that I shall be in Brighton by the time you and Mrs. Eggleston are finished with your honeymoon."
"Too many commitments, hey!" Simon growled. "A little blond opera dancer would be nearer the mark!"
Christopher bit his Up in vexation and wondered how Simon had heard that bit of gossip—he thought he had been most discreet. "That may have been true last week, but Sonia and I have parted—she was, I fear, too greedy by half!"
Simon only grunted and grumbled as Christopher turned toward the door, "Well, I expect I should feel honored that you will even come to Brighton when I am there!"
"So you should!" Christopher shot back, a fond smile curving his lips.
"Bah! Get out of my sight you young rascal—and see that you are here on Sunday!"
Christopher took his leave and as the hour was not unduly late, just past ten, and the night a fine one, he was wide awake and restless by the time his carriage deposited him at his lodgings. To his surprise, upon entering the rooms, he discovered Buckley, pacing the floor like a caged wolf.
"Ah, there you are! I thought you would never return! Your man told me that you were attending a family dinner, but I never expected you to be this late," Buckley growled by way of greeting.
Inexplicably wary, Christopher smiled politely and, as Higgins entered the room, ordered that a bottle of brandy he procured from the landlord's excellent cellar. With his eyes fixed intently on Buckley's florid face, he inquired casually, "Now, what brings you here?"
Buckley looked uncomfortable and somewhat ill at ease and Christopher's watchfulness increased. Now what the devil was biting the captain?
He didn't find out for several more moments during which Buckley, obviously a man with something on his mind, prowled about uneasily, indulging in the most commonplace conversation.
Higgins returned with the brandy, and after pouring the two gentlemen glasses of the amber-colored liquor, he busied himself at the far end of the room, ostensibly paying no attention to the others, though in actuality he had his ears trained on what they were saying. Master Christopher might say that nothing was in the wind, but he knew differently.
Buckley glanced over at Higgins, and for a moment Christopher had the impression he was going to demand that the other man be dismissed. But apparently thinking better of it, he leaned confidentially toward Christopher, now sprawled negligently on the sofa, and said softly, urgently, "About last night, I hope you will forget that conversation we had. We were all pretty well in our cups and I wouldn't like to think anything was said that shouldn't have been."
His face a clever mask of apparent mystification, Christopher regarded him. "My dear Buckley, whatever are you talking about?"
His florid complexion became even redder, and Buckley muttered defensively, "It is that damned memorandum! I never should have mentioned it! And I would like your word as a gentleman that you will say nothing of it."
Assuming his most supercilious expression, Christopher remarked with deliberate stiffness, "I beg your pardon! I am not some gossiping old woman! Why would I mention such a thing? It was a private conversation between us, and I am not in the habit of repeating all the tittle-tattle that comes my way."
Obviously relieved by Christopher's insulted manner, Buckley made soothing noises and stumbled over himself in his haste to unruffle Saxon's very obviously ruffled feathers. Christopher very nicely allowed him to do so, wondering if Buckley had any idea of the foolishness of his actions. Even if he had not been so vitally interested in the memorandum, Buckley's behavior tonight would have increased his absorption in it. And for one very tense moment he considered the possibility that he was being baited—that someone wanted him to take a very definite interest in what went on at Whitehall. No, he decided thoughtfully, Buckley was very honestly trying to cover up an indiscreet slip of the tongue, and if Christopher had been what he appeared to be, that would have been the end of it.
Buckley's whole desire had been to ensure Christopher's silence on the matter, and having been convinced that nothing more would be said about what had transpired the previous evening, he very shortly made ready to take his leave. Escorting him to the door, Christopher asked carelessly, "Shall I see you tomorrow night at Lady Bagely's ball?"
"Oh, no, not I, my friend! As a matter of fact I shall be out of town for the next fortnight."
At Christopher's look of inquiry, he added almost shamefacedly, "My mother has taken to her couch, asserting most vocally that it will be her deathbed. And as my company commander is a good friend of the family, he has ordered me home for a few weeks to help ease her affliction."
"I hope it is nothing serious."
Buckley laughed. "No, that it certainly isn't; she does this at least three times a year, and I think she would be most affronted if she were to he taken grievously ill—she enjoys the attention too much to be sick!"
Christopher saw him out, his smile vanishing the minute Buckley was out of sight. It seemed he had chosen his tools wisely, after all, when he had decided Buckley and Kettlescope were his most likely prospects from whom to learn anything about the possible invasion of New Orleans. He had been right in thinking that Buckley would be the one to be indiscreet, he mused to himself. Thank God someone had been possessed of a loose tongue
Unaware of the speculative gleam in Higgins's eye, he bid his valet a brief good night and took himself off to bed —but not to sleep. Instead he lay there staring at the ceiling and mulling over the best way in which to get his hands on the memorandum.
Obviously he was going to have to steal it, and a lone thief stood a better chance of escaping undetected than did two. Higgins would not be told—it would curtail all arguments and discussions if he merely presented him with a fait accompli. There was no shadow of a doubt in Christopher's mind about Higgins, but he wished to avoid the worry and dismay his plan would cause if Higgins knew about it in advance. Once the memorandum was in his hands would be soon enough to solicit Higgins's talents in
preparing the forgery. Besides, if he were caught and hanged, he would just as soon hang by himself. Far better that Higgins be kept as much in ignorance as possible.
The following morning before Higgins awoke Christopher slipped from his bed, and neglecting to shave, he dressed hurriedly in a rough set of clothing that dated back to his days as Captain Saber. Quickly he made his way to Newton and Dyott Streets in St. Giles's parish. He had considered going first to the notorious Whitechapel area of London, but further reflection had deemed St. Giles's the place most likely for his purposes. After all, Newton and Dyott streets were the headquarters for most of the pickpockets and thieves about London, and while he didn't need the services of either, he did need the stock in trade of the latter, namely the implements and tools to open the safe in Major Black's office. The inhabitants of St. Giles's would be suspicious of a swell cove, but a shabby unkempt fellow as he was today would escape curiosity. It took him several false starts before he found what he wanted—a set of tools that any locksmith or nimble-fingered thief, for that matter, would be delighted to own. Before returning to Ryder Street with his curious purchase, he also had the forethought to acquire several locks of varying size and complexity.
Shoving the morning's acquisitions hastily in the bottom drawer of the oak bureau in his bedchamber, he swiftly stripped off his worn and coarse clothing. He then rang for Higgins to lay out a fresh change of apparel and to fetch him some hot water so that he might have a shave.
An hour later no one would have connected the tall well-dressed young gentleman who descended to the street and made his way to the stationer's with the rough-looking rogue who had made several purchases in the back streets of St. Giles's parish. He purchased many differently styled pens, and a variety of inks, as well as a wide selection of papers from a number of stationers. Returning to Ryder Street in time to eat luncheon, he concealed his writing supplies in one compartment of the mahogany sideboard before ringing for Higgins to serve him.
Immediately after fortifying himself, he walked into his bedchamber and there rifled through the drawer that held his various pairs of gloves. Finding a pair he did not particularly care for, he stuffed them in the inside pocket of his jacket and, warning Higgins that he would be home to dine this evening, strolled languidly toward Whitehall and the War Office. Once there he inquired casually for the way to Major Black's office and very shortly, after a brief look at Buckley's deserted office, found himself in that gentleman's domain.
Christopher had met the major once or twice when visiting with Buckley. Consequently he knew him by sight, but until now he had never known the whereabouts of his office. Finding it, he knocked for admittance. Summoning all the careless arrogance and cool aplomb of his aristocratic background, he sauntered in. Sending an apparently vague glance around the room, he murmured, "So sorry to interrupt, but I thought Captain Buckley would be here."
The major, a bluff, hearty fellow, exclaimed, "Why no! Buckley has been given leave for the next fortnight. May I help you?"
Christopher, his sharp gaze having noted the heavy iron safe in the corner, assumed an expression of mock vexation. "Oh, that's right. How silly of me to have let it slip my mind! Actually it was nothing very important; it's just that when he called last night, he evidently left this pair of gloves behind, and as I was in the area, I thought I would return them," Christopher replied lightly, laying the pair of gloves on the Major's desk.
"You may leave them with me, if you like," Major Black offered.
"No, that won't be necessary. Chances are that I may very well see him before you do. Thank you anyway."
His mission accomplished, Christopher replaced the gloves inside his jacket and, as the major was rather talkative, wasted a few minutes more desultory conversation. Christopher put the time to good use, and unobtrusively studied the iron safe that was supposed to hold the memorandum. From what he could see, the safe shouldn't prove too difficult to open—especially if he spent the next few days arduously familiarizing himself with the locksmith tools purchased that morning.
Arriving once more back at Ryder Street, he sent Higgins on several errands about town—errands that were destined to keep the gentleman away from their lodgings for a few hours. Once he was alone in his rooms, he broke out the locksmith tools and spent the afternoon recalling and utilizing everything he could remember about locks and the opening thereof. Higgins's return put an end to such activities. Christopher proceeded to express himself well pleased with the new cravats, the particular blend of snuff he had ordered from the apothecary's, and the swatches of cloth he had requested from his tailor. Higgins was not fooled; he knew he had been deliberately sent chasing all over London, but for the moment he held his peace.
The next two days fell into a pattern for Christopher. In the privacy of his bedchamber he spent hour after hour practicing springing the various locks. After dining early and wrapping himself in a dark cloak, he spent the night observing the activities of the guardsmen in the vicinity of the War Office. Long ago he had ascertained through careless conversation the various routines of the changing of the guard, but now it was vital he be certain of their procedures.
Finally the night came when he knew he must strike.
Dismissing Higgins somewhat curtly for the evening, he spent the intervening hours until after two a.m. pacing the floor of his rooms, burning with a feverish impatience. As the clock struck the hour, he moved quickly, almost viciously stripping off his elegant garments and clothing himself in rough dark breeches and a close-fitting shirt of coarse black cotton. Some burned cork disguised and distorted his features. In his pocket he had some flint, a candle, and the small expensive set of tools he had purchased at St. Giles's.
As he approached the War Office, Christopher located the window that he would go through. Entering with catlike stealth, he timed his deed to avoid the night guardsmen. He was certain his entrance had been undetected, and after obliterating all signs of his forced entry, he sped down the quiet corridors and up the two flights of stairs that led to Major Black's office.
The door was locked. But he had expected that and swiftly he knelt by the door. Keeping one eye on the dim narrow hall, he worked quickly until the door clicked open. Placing a wooden chair under the knob—that would give him a moment's warning if nothing else—he crossed the room and glanced down at the gas-lit street three stories below. A nasty jump, he thought tightly. Gently he unlocked the window.
Having cleared his escape path, he knelt before the massive iron safe. Gingerly he lifted out the locksmith's tools and deftly lit a candle. Even after all his hours of practice, Christopher was surprised and gratified at how smoothly the safe opened.
Once the safe was unlocked, he hesitated and then swung wide the heavy door. By the light of his candle he saw that it was filled with dozens of sealed and beribboned documents. He hoped desperately that the one he wanted was not sealed! After months of spurning him, luck was on his side, for the memorandum was the third document that he touched.
It was only a single sheet of paper, but it held the future for Christopher. As he skimmed it his mouth grew grim, and without wasting another second, he slid the document in an inside pocket and, moving with speed and stealth, shut the safe, relocked the window, and removed the chair from the door, placing it exactly where it had been originally. Out in the hall he pulled the door shut behind him and swiftly relocked it. Except for the memorandum burning like a brand against his chest everything was precisely as it had been.
Making no sound, keeping to the shadows in the gloomy building, he made his way unobserved to the ground floor. He left the same way he had entered, merely minutes before, and dropped silently to the cobbled street.
A quick surge of elation swept through him as his feet touched the ground, but savagely he tamped it down; when he handed the memorandum to Jason in New Orleans, then he could enjoy his triumph. Even so, a delicious feeling of satisfaction, of success stayed with him as he walked swiftly and determinedly towar
d Ryder Street.
Once in the safety of his rooms he laid the memorandum on the table and rather absently wet a cloth from the pitcher of water on the marble washstand and began to remove the traces of burned cork from his face. But the memorandum proved irresistible, and with his face still half-blackened, he sat down to reread it.
Major General Sir Edward Pakenham was to lead the expedition, and as he swallowed that, Christopher whistled. So it would be Pakenham, the great Wellington's brother-in-law, after all. Pakenham who hoped that he had "escaped America." He and his staff and additional troops and supplies would sail from Spithead, sometime during the first week of November, ostensibly under secret orders. Their immediate destination would be Jamaica, where at Negril Bay they would meet Admiral Cochrane's fleet and troops that would be assembling under Major General John Lambert. New Orleans and the surrounding territory would be their ultimate objective. Further orders would be awaiting them at Jamaica.
Thoughtfully Christopher set the memo down. If he were favored by whatever gods watched over such scamps as himself, he would reach New Orleans just about the time Pakenham set sail for Jamaica, provided there were no last-minute changes in the present plan. If all went well, New Orleans would have six weeks—and that just might be enough time. Enough time to show the British what Americans could do when pressed.
The slight click of his bedroom door as it swung open told him instantly that he was no longer alone, and Christopher, shielding the memo on the table behind his body, whipped around to confront a startled and astonished Higgins.