CHAPTER NINE
Felicity drew in a breath as Mr. Merrick came into her room and closed the door.
“Sir? You have come to the wrong room, I think.” Would she be able to scream if he attacked her? Auntie was downstairs in the library and might not be back for some time.
He held his hands palms out, almost in a defensive position.
“Forgive me, Miss Mayson. I mean you no harm.” He spoke in a deep, quiet voice. “I need to speak to you, and this was the most private way I could think of. Forgive me for coming into your room this way.”
“What is it you wish to speak about?”
“You must be careful not to leave any more letters for the post. Lady Blackstone and Mr. Ratley will not hesitate to read your private correspondence, and they will be ruthless if they think someone here is not loyal to their cause.”
He wore a serious but not unkind expression. But was he not loyal to their cause? Her breath left her, and she thought for the hundredth time of the letter she’d left downstairs.
“What makes you think I am not loyal to their cause?”
His sober expression lightened. “Miss Mayson, you can be honest with me. I took your letter, and I read it.”
Her cheeks burned. “How dare you!” She pressed her hand to the ache in her chest as she struggled to breathe.
“Please don’t alarm yourself. I was sent here from the Home Office to discover this group’s nefarious plans. You are safe with me.”
His gentle tone helped her draw in another breath and another.
“Forgive me, but it is a good thing I did intercept such a letter. It is very dangerous to write down anything that this group might not like. I had to warn you, because such a letter could get you killed.”
He said the word softly, but it still sent a shock of fear through her. She sat down on her chair but did her best to breathe and keep her voice steady and her hands still.
“Thank you, Mr. Merrick.”
“And, forgive me, but I burned the letter. It was too dangerous to take it to the village to post.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you will not trust anyone here. I am the only safe person.”
“Oh.”
“But please understand, with your views, it is very dangerous for you to stay here. If there is any way to safely get you back to London and your parents, I will do it.”
“Oh, thank you. I would be so grateful.”
“At present, there does not seem to be a way to do that. Unless your fiancé and Lady Blackstone believe they can trust you and believe that you are wholeheartedly supportive of their efforts, it will be nearly impossible to escape.”
“So I must make them believe that I agree with them? I must pretend I’m not horrified to be engaged to marry a revolutionary?” She let out a soft, brief laugh.
“Exactly. And if I may make a request, I and your government would very much appreciate if you could tell us any information you might learn.”
“Information?”
“Such as where they’re storing their arms and any specific plans, dates, and definite targets.”
“Yes, of course. But how will I let you know?”
“Don’t write it. You must find me and tell me when no one else is around, or if no one is near enough to hear.”
“In the garden, perhaps?”
“Yes, or if it’s very urgent, you might come and find me in my room late at night.”
She must have raised her eyebrows, because he immediately said, “Please know that I will never take advantage of you, Miss Mayson. I realize you do not know me at all, and I have naught but my word to recommend me, but you can trust me.”
“You are acquainted with Nicholas Langdon, are you not? I saw you talking with him once at a party. Did you work together on the case against Julia Langdon’s uncle?”
“We did.”
She had little choice but to trust him. No one else was coming forward saying they were loyal to the government and wished to help her escape from these people.
“Very well, if I hear anything of importance, I shall be sure to tell you, Mr. Merrick. Is that even your real name?”
“My real name is Philip McDowell. But let us keep that between ourselves.”
She nodded, and he pressed his ear against the door. A few moments later, he opened it and slipped out.
Felicity sat at her desk looking over her Chinese language book, but several minutes had gone by and she had not even seen what was on the page. So she took out a sheet of paper and started to write the treatise she’d been planning in her head. She only wrote one sentence before her mind drifted away again.
The sooner Felicity and Mr. McDowell—no, she mustn’t call him that, even in her thoughts—Mr. Merrick found the important information about the revolutionaries, the sooner Felicity could be free of this nightmare she’d been living the past two days.
“What was that?” Aunt Agnes looked up from the book she was reading as she sat by the window.
“What, Auntie?”
“I heard something, a loud sound. Did you not hear it?” She looked out the window, clutching her open book to her chest.
“I did hear, but it was probably just a servant who dropped something.”
“Or it may have been a horse kicking the side of the stable.”
“That’s probably what it was. Nothing to worry about.”
Poor Aunt Agnes. Felicity probably should have kept their situation a secret from her aunt. She had always been of a nervous constitution, and if there was anything upsetting in the papers, her parents were careful to conceal it from her. She’d even known her mother to shush her father at the dinner table when he was speaking of someone being hurt in a carriage accident, or seeing a street urchin beaten by a ruffian. And now poor Auntie startled at every loud noise or raised voice.
“There is a man out there, near the stables, who looks very much like your father. Do you think that is your father?”
Felicity stood and went to the window. “No, that man is much too thin to be Father.”
“He has gone inside now, but his hair was very like your father’s.”
“It was probably one of the stable workers.” Felicity laid her hand consolingly on Auntie’s shoulder.
“Felicity, you did write to your father, did you not? He is coming to take us home, surely.”
“Truthfully, Auntie . . .” How could she tell her aunt the truth? That she had written a letter and that Mr. Merrick had burned it? “The truth is, it is too dangerous to write a letter home. I am unsure how to get word to Father. But you must not worry about it. We are both safe.” For the moment.
“Too dangerous to write a letter.” Auntie’s eyes had a glassy look. “What is to become of us?”
“Auntie, please do not fret. All will be well. You must just pray and expect that God will keep us safe.” Should she tell her aunt that they had a champion in Mr. Merrick? Perhaps it was best to give Aunt Agnes as little information as possible.
“Would you not like to go for a walk in the garden to take our minds off things? Some fresh air will do us good.”
Felicity closed her book and fetched Aunt Agnes’s bonnet and brought it to her.
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“Of course! No one will bother us in the garden. Besides, Mr. Ratley will not allow anything to happen to us. He’s my fiancé, remember?” Felicity nearly burst into hysterical laughter at this assertion. She did not intend to marry a revolutionary, but if she could turn him from his insurrectionist beliefs and save him from joining in with the plans of Lady Blackstone and her group, would she want to marry him then?
Strangely, Mr. Merrick came into her thoughts. She could not feel any attraction to Mr. Ratley when Mr. Merrick was lurking in her mind. How fickle she was.
Her situation was making her addled.
“Come, Auntie. It is not terribly cold today. Tomorrow may be rainy. We should take our exercise while we can.”
Auntie obediently put on her bonnet and heavy cloak, and Felicity did the same, and they went arm in arm down the stairs and out into the garden.
They took a turn around the first bend in the hedgerow, not seeing anyone else, and headed toward the less formal area, which was rather overgrown with bushes and vines.
“Look at that lovely mass of flowers there.” Felicity pointed them out. “I predict there will be many more of them soon, when the weather gets warm. And there’s a new bird’s nest over there.” She pointed again. “Shall I see if there are any birds inside?”
“If you wish.” Auntie’s voice was a bit distracted as she stared down at her boot. “My lace has come undone.”
Aunt Agnes crouched to tie her lace. Mother sometimes needed Felicity’s help to tie hers, as she had grown quite round in the middle in the last few years, but Auntie was small and delicate and as yet only thirty-five years old.
Felicity continued to the tall bush where she’d spotted the bird’s nest. She was just standing on tiptoe to peek into it when Aunt Agnes screamed. Felicity spun around.
Auntie cried out again and then made a sound like an anguished moan.
Felicity ran to her aunt’s side. She followed her aunt’s gaze and saw a man’s hand stretched out from beneath a bush. It was not moving.
Aunt Agnes’s hands flailed about. Felicity touched her aunt’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said, talking as much to herself as to Aunt Agnes. Felicity embraced Aunt Agnes and held her arms to her sides, but her hands continued to shake.
She stared at the lifeless hand on the ground. She should go get help. Her heart was pounding, and her breath seemed to stick in her throat. Someone should come and look closer at this man, whoever he was, to see if he was still alive.
Oh, good heavens. What if the man was Mr. Merrick? Had they somehow discovered he was a spy and killed him?
Felicity let go of her aunt and stepped forward, pushing aside some branches. She fought through the dense, prickly limbs until she found the man’s face. He had dark-brown hair. It was not Mr. Merrick. But his eyes were open, his lips were ashen, and she was certain he was dead.
Auntie must have seen his face, as she screamed and then collapsed to the ground, moaning.
Felicity felt strangely calm, almost numb. She would have to leave her aunt and get help.
And quickly. Because someone or something was crashing through the bushes nearby, coming toward them.
As Philip was saddling his horse for a short ride, a scream erupted from the direction of the garden. He ran from the stable toward the sound. The scream was shrill and piercing, as if the person had just been attacked. Could it be Miss Mayson? Was she being murdered in the garden?
He ran faster, dodging small trees and crashing through a hedge until he heard another scream. He leapt over a two-foot-tall bush and saw Miss Mayson standing beside her aunt, who was lying on the ground.
“There’s a man in the bushes,” Miss Mayson said. “I think he might be dead.”
Except for the pallor of her cheeks and her wide eyes, Miss Mayson seemed well.
Philip strode past her aunt and bent to push back the bushes where a hand lay outstretched. He did not recognize the man, and he did indeed look dead. He felt for the telltale throb in his neck but felt nothing. He examined the man’s torso but saw no evidence of injury. Then he noticed the dark liquid seeping out on the ground next to him.
Nothing could be done for him now, so Philip turned and faced Miss Mayson and her aunt. Miss Mayson was kneeling beside Miss Appleby, who was wiping her face with a handkerchief and no longer moaning. She blew her nose as Miss Mayson spoke softly to her.
“Miss Appleby.” Philip waited for her to look up and bent down to her. “Please allow me.”
She nodded and gave him her hand. Philip lifted her by her elbow, and Felicity took her other arm.
“We should get you back to the house,” he said as kindly as he could. “You have had a terrible scare.” He looked now at Miss Mayson. “You both have.”
Raised voices came from the direction of the house. Men hurried toward them.
“I shall take my aunt to our room.” Miss Mayson put her arm around Miss Appleby, who was mumbling and visibly shaking.
Mr. Cartwright and several other guests, along with a stable worker, rushed toward them but allowed the two ladies to pass.
“We heard the screaming. What’s amiss?” Cartwright asked.
“The ladies happened upon a dead body.” He stood aside and pointed. “See for yourselves.”
He watched their reactions as carefully as he could, mentally noting Mr. Cartwright’s rush to see the body, then the shock on his face. He noted Mr. Sproles’s wide eyes, Mr. Jones wiping a hand over his mouth and jaw as he stared down at the dead man, Mr. Renfroe’s muttered, “Holy saints in heaven.” No one appeared jaded or less than shocked.
“Does anyone recognize the man?”
“I think his name is Erickson,” Cartwright said.
“Yes, that was it,” Jones said.
“He was with us at the Black Boar Inn when we first began meeting and formed our reform group.” Sproles shook his head.
“It is him,” Renfroe said in a hushed voice. “Are you certain he’s dead?”
Sproles pushed forward and lifted the man by one shoulder and hip, turning him over. A bloody hole, or more accurately a two-inch slit in his jacket in the middle of his back, gave proof to the cause of death.
“Should we bury the body?” Mr. Cartwright asked.
“We should ask Lady Blackstone.”
“Or Mr. Ratley.”
But the two leaders were conspicuously absent.