Chapter Fifteen
It was late afternoon by the time they reached London and the relative safety of Lord Highcliff’s home. As the ill-sprung conveyance halted in front of the handsome and somewhat intimidating townhome, Jane couldn’t help but glance furtively over her shoulder. She was expecting either Charles or her father to pop out from behind every tree or lamp post, much like scary stories her governess had told her as a child to make her behave. It did not escape her notice that it should have been a very unnatural thing to fear one’s father, but then he’d never had any compunction about declaring just how little paternal affection he had for her. She was only any good to him so long as she could be of use to him and as she was now thoroughly compromised, she was of no use to him at all.
“Even if they’ve come back to London, they won’t know we’ve come here,” Marcus offered reassuringly.
“My father and Charles are both aware of your long-standing friendship with Lord Highcliff,” she pointed out. “It’s not unlikely that they would come here seeking information on our whereabouts or on the suspicion that we might have sought refuge here.”
“That is true enough, but they would find themselves more than a little taken aback at the reception they would receive. Most think Highcliff is nothing more than a ridiculous dandy… a fop who cares more about fashion than fighting. They’d be quite wrong. He’s skilled at misdirection and subterfuge in ways they will not begin to understand. Trust me, Jane, when I tell you that if he does not want them to know we are here, they will not.”
Jane blinked in surprise at that. Highcliff, though tall and cutting a powerful figure, had always tended toward the ridiculous in his over the top mannerisms and outlandish dress. “Is he spy the way that you were?”
“He was… in a slightly different capacity. My specialty was foreign intelligence, ferreting out those who might betray us overseas. Highcliff’s position was to identify domestic traitors. He is very good at what he does.”
Jane was still processing that as he opened the door to their shabby, rented coach.
“Let’s get inside and see what can be done about obtaining a special license,” he suggested, and offered his arm to help her down.
She nodded her agreement and quickly followed him from the street up the steps. They hadn’t even lifted the knocker before the door opened. Marcus let out an exasperated sigh. “Do all butlers do that? I thought it was a skill possessed only by Riggs, but you’ve an uncanny ability!”
“My lord,” the butler inclined his head as they entered the foyer. If he thought it unusual that Marcus was accompanied by a woman when visiting a bachelor residence in the afternoon, he gave no indication of it. “I’m afraid Lord Highcliff is not home at present. He was summoned to your home by the Duke of Elsingham.”
“We should go,” Jane said in a slight panic.
“Highcliff can handle my father,” Marcus said firmly. “It will be fine.”
“Lord Highcliff,” the butler continued, “instructed me that I should show you to a suite that has been prepared if you were to seek asylum here. I am to assume that you and the lady are seeking asylum then, my lord?”
“We are,” Marcus admitted ruefully.
“Follow me and I will show you to your rooms. It is likely best that you not be below stairs if possible,” the butler warned. “Lord Highcliff anticipates that a Mr. William Barrett will appear at some point and that if he were to see you—either of you—that it would create unnecessary difficulties.”
“Is there anything that Lord Highcliff doesn’t know?” Jane asked, somewhat dumbfounded by the man’s degree of forethought and preparation.
The butler smirked in a very superior way. “Very little, miss. Very little, indeed.”
At the top of the stairs, he turned toward the left and led them to a set of rooms directly across the hall from one another. Jane’s was decorated in cream and gold, but the entire room was so luxurious that she couldn’t quite fathom that it was in a simple townhouse and not a palace. “I do not believe I have ever seen such a beautiful and ornate room outside of paintings of Versailles,” she said.
The butler inclined his head. “Lord Highcliff’s mother was French and spent her childhood in the palace as a lady-in-waiting to Marie Antoinette. She remembered those years fondly and decorated the house accordingly, miss. I will have a bath prepared for you.”
“Thank you,” Jane muttered. “I am looking forward to conveying my gratitude to Lord Highcliff. He’s been most kind and generous to us.”
The butler nodded again, his expression softening. “I have been with his lordship since he was a boy, miss. He thinks very highly of the marquess. He was quite beside himself when Lord Althorn was missing and infinitely relieved when his friend was returned to him. He devoted a great deal of time during his lordship’s absence to tracking down information related to his rumored fate or his whereabouts. Sadly, very little came of it. That, in and of itself, was suspicious.”
Jane frowned. “Why would that have been suspicious?”
“Had his lordship died, then there would have been those who had documented it… even if it was under a false name. Some record would have been found or a witness account. Deaths are easy to discover. But disappearances that have been carefully arranged are not.”
“You’re far more than just a butler, aren’t you?” Jane asked.
The butler smiled. “A good butler always matches his skills and abilities to the requirements of the house he serves, miss. To that end, Lord Highcliff and, by extension his staff, will do whatever is necessary to ensure that Lord Althorn is safe and happy.”
It was an odd statement. It was impossibly verbose and yet in the end said very little. Jane was still puzzling over it as the butler left her in her impossibly luxurious chamber.
*
Across the hall, Marcus was looking through the packet of information that Highcliff had obtained in his absence. There were sworn affidavits from several of the men in Charles’ regiment that Charles had disclosed to them that he’d seen his cousin at Corunna. There were other sworn affidavits that Charles had not been injured during any battle. But it was the last and most damning bit of information that was of the most interest to him. After the Battle of Corunna, Charles had sold a watch to someone in the regiment. That watch had been repurchased by Highcliff and left with the papers.
It was a familiar piece. Marcus had worn it almost daily since he’d been a boy. It had been a gift from his mother before she passed away. Charles could only have gotten it if the French soldiers who had taken him had given it back to the very man who’d turned him over to them. It was still attached to the same fob he’d worn it with. Though the embroidered monogram had been painstakingly removed, the fabric was faded around where those threads had been revealing the tattered outline of an “M”.
While the information and the watch were not definitive proof that Charles was a traitor, they were enough to warrant a full-fledged investigation by the war office. It had taken his return, alive and capable of telling the tale, to point Highcliff in the right direction. But now that he had his sights on Charles, not even hell would bar his way.
Scandal was unavoidable at that point. But if Charles was guilty of selling information to the French about munitions and man power, then he’d cost thousands of lives and countless injuries that might have been prevented. There were other consequences—both financial and political in nature—that impacted the country as a whole. The question remained, just how far would Charles go to hide his involvement?
Marcus knew that his return had put a wrinkle into Charles’ ultimate plan—to gain control of Jane’s fortune and claim the title for himself. But his return also posed a significant threat because he could place him at Corunna and with the French soldiers and their commander. It was the combination of evidence and eyewitness accounts that could see him hanged. It stood to reason that by openly supporting the marriage and even creating compromising situations to ensure it would take place, Charles’ ultimate goals had not changed, only the steps he would have to take to reach them. Marcus knew that his cousin meant to see him dead as it would not only clear his name of any accusation, it would also get him all that he wanted.
There was a sharp knock at the door. It wouldn’t be Jane, he was sure. It could be Highcliff or it could be Barrett and Charles. Surely if it were the latter, he would have heard some disturbance as they forced their way in.
Crossing to the door, he opened it to find Highcliff standing there. “You’ve certainly made a mess of it all,” the man said sardonically.
“You’ve no idea. How terrible is the gossip?”
Highcliff shrugged. “So long as you actually marry Miss Barrett the gossip should blow over fairly easily. If you fail to marry her, you’ll both be pariahs and cast out of society forever. I’m assuming marriage is in the offing?”
Marcus stepped back to allow the other man entry. “That’s why we’ve returned to town. Due to an unfortunate article in the London Ladies’ Gazette, insinuating that I may not actually be the Marquess of Althorn, Barrett is now opposing the match very vocally. Jane and I barely escaped him to return to town with the help of Thomas.”
“And now you’re here for more of my help,” Highcliff surmised easily enough. “What is it that you need now, my friend?”
“A special license… preferably issued this evening so that we can be married first thing tomorrow morning,” Marcus answered honestly. “I fear delaying any longer than that and Barrett might successfully call a halt to it altogether.”
“And Charles… what’s his stake in this now?”
Jane appeared then, standing in the doorway. Highcliff turned and greeted her. “Miss Barrett, do come in. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
“Under the circumstances,” she replied easily, “I’m not certain an introduction is necessary. Thank you, Lord Highcliff, for all your assistance and in making us welcome in your home.”
Highcliff inclined his head. “I owe Marcus my life… several times over, in fact. He’s saved my a—skin more times than I can count. It’s fortuitous for me that I may now attempt to balance the scales to some degree. Tell me, Miss Barrett, are you amenable to being married to this stick in the mud tomorrow morning?”
Jane stepped deeper into the room. “Very amenable, Lord Highcliff.”
Highcliff nodded sagely. “Then we must see about procuring a gown for you and a posy at the very least. Discreetly, of course. It wouldn’t do to have it out that you are here just yet. I’ll see to it.”
Jane inclined her head. “Thank you again. You are too kind and too thoughtful by far, my lord.”
Highcliff turned back to Marcus then and looked pointedly at the watch in his hand. “I am glad to see that returned to you, my friend. I don’t have to tell you that the circumstances of its migration are very suspicious, indeed.”
Marcus rested his hip on the corner of the dresser as he faced the both of them. An idea was forming, a way to put pressure on Charles and to effectively end their current situation once and for all. “There is something about Jane that you are unaware of, Highcliff… and it’s something that might be very useful to us in trapping Charles.”
Jane gaped at him and, in a panic, uttered, “You can’t tell him that!”
Marcus sighed. It was her secret and divulging it was risky, but Highcliff could be trusted. “It’s our best chance of pushing Charles to do something reckless. We can trust Highcliff, Jane, or I’d never risk it.”
Highcliff stepped in then. “I swear that I shall keep whatever secrets you need me to keep, Miss Barrett. It’s a skill I’ve honed well.”
After a moment’s consideration, Jane nodded. “Very well… but if it gets out, married or not, I would still be a pariah.”
Highcliff arched one eyebrow at that, but said nothing as he waited for Marcus to reveal the tale.
“Jane is the J.E. who writes for the London Ladies’ Gazette,” Marcus stated dispassionately.
Highcliff’s response was a bit more animated. Both eyebrows shot up, but it was not the typically sardonic expression he favored but actual shock which prompted him. “That gossip rag which every society matron I know of devours at its every publication? They read it cover to cover praying they won’t be in it! You’d be more than a pariah, my dear. They’d hunt you down and carve you into bits!”
“What if you were to write your column and indicate that the ‘spare’ to a rather exalted title had been your source for the original article?” Marcus asked.
She shrugged. “That’s easy enough. But to what end?”
“Because you would also indicate that the spare lied to cover his own perfidy in the disappearance of the heir apparent… and that he did so because he’d been caught by the heir in a treasonous plot.” Marcus finished his explanation and waited. It was all very convoluted, but Charles would get wind of it and likely do something very reckless.
“Is there any truth to that?” Jane asked.
“It is mostly conjecture,” Marcus answered honestly. “But I believe with my whole heart that it is true. I told you once that I couldn’t share with you many of the things I did while in the army. Jane, I was at Corunna because it was believed that a member of that battalion was selling information to the French. They were providing intelligence to our enemy about our munitions, our ranks, strategy—every way that a military strike could be compromised, it was. And all the evidence of that points to Charles.”
She gasped in shock. “I know you said treason, but I never imagined… oh, dear heaven. Well, of course, I’ll do what I can, but he doesn’t read that publication. Neither does the duchess, and I strongly suspect that the two of them are thick as thieves… perhaps even more than that.”
It was an interesting theory and one that he could not easily dismissed. In retrospect, it was apparent that Charles and his stepmother were closer than they ought to have been. Charles had clearly made free use of his father’s house and had been quite welcome there in Marcus’ absence. His father might have been content enough to see the title go to Charles, but he’d never have tolerated his company willingly. There was no one that the old man truly liked. Which meant that Cassandra must have been the one to issue the invitation.
“You think they have an intimate relationship?” Highcliff clarified.
“Yes,” Jane replied, blushing. “It’s nothing concrete… just lingering glances and when he asked to speak with me privately to extend his offer of marriage, her grace was quite put out with him and with me. I can only assume she knew what he was about, but didn’t much care for the notion.”
“That is certainly an additional wrinkle in this scenario to be sure,” Highcliff said. “It does add an interesting layer to the interplay last night. Your stepmother, the duchess, was quite vocal in her dismay at having been abandoned at the theater while the two of you made for Gretna Green. Vocal, as in shouting it from the theater steps in a way that more closely resembled theatrics than what took place on stage. Even then, I thought she must have had a far more active role in engineering your need for a hasty marriage.”
Marcus uttered an epithet under his breath. “And here I thought I would be returned to the bosom of, if not a caring family, at least not a cutthroat one.”
Highcliff crossed to the mantel and leaned against it as if deep in thought. After a moment, he added, “It is interesting enough to note that neither of them assumed any sort of foul play. It was immediately assumed that elopement was the only possible explanation. Charles even went so far as to state he’d overheard you talking about such.”
“And then there is the conversation between Charles and my father that we were privy to this morning as we hid in the woods like criminals,” Jane interjected.
Highcliff shook his head. “Remind me, Althorn, never to take advice about courtship from you. What was it you heard, Miss Barrett?”
“My father is determined to halt the match because these rumors about Lord Althorn, which I started unfortunately, diminish the value of his title in my father’s estimation… but Charles was determined to see it through, pointing out all the reasons that the wedding should proceed regardless of whether Marcus is truly Althorn or not.”
“I believe I know why… and Charles’ relationship with Cassandra would certainly play into that,” Marcus answered. “He wanted to marry you because he wanted access to your fortune and he needed it quickly. With my return, the quickest way to get it would be to have us marry and then eliminate us both. He gains the title and your fortune in one fell swoop.”
“Then we should delay the wedding,” Jane said. “If our marriage is a pivotal piece in halting Charles’ plans, getting married tomorrow morning would be a terrible mistake.”
“Except you’ve spent a night alone with him,” Highcliff pointed out. “And I’ll not hazard a guess as to what did or did not occur, but others shall. If you do not marry immediately, you could face terrible consequences for that later. Given that the family’s social cache is likely to take a considerable hit when the truth about Charles comes out, another one might prove too great to surmount.”
“I care little enough for what society thinks of us,” Jane replied evenly.
Highcliff sighed. “Take it from someone who knows, Miss Barrett, and can attest personally to this—the sins of the father and the mother are often visited upon the child… this is never truer than in London society. If you do not wish for any children that you and Marcus should be blessed with to suffer for this, you need to proceed with the wedding.”
Marcus knew precisely what Highcliff was speaking of. He also knew that it was absolutely true. The scandals and gossip, not to mention the cruel teasing of boys too far from home and parental disapproval, that had plagued Highcliff due to his mother’s parentage—half-French and half-Gypsy—had been the foundation of their friendship. To some degree, and in spite of his own exalted title and expectations, Marcus had been just as touched by scandal. Had he not suffered the whispers about his grandparents and then about his own father’s philandering? He would not wish such a fate on a child of his own. The fact that they had preemptively consummated their marriage meant that a child was a very real possibility for them. They could not afford to delay marrying until the danger was past.
“We won’t delay,” Marcus stated firmly. It was too late for that, anyway. “Write the article and send it to your publisher tonight. We will attempt to keep the wedding a secret, however, until such time as we can safely announce it.”
Jane nodded in agreement and then excused herself. When she had gone, Highcliff turned back to him. “You do realize that this scandal will forever taint you both do you not?”
“I assume you mean Charles’ actions and not our unintended elopement?” Marcus clarified.
“Yes,” Highcliff answered. “I think you owe it to Miss Barrett to be certain she understands that. Treason from a commoner is horrible, from the gentry it is even worse. But treason from the potential heir to a dukedom—it is an affront that most will find unforgivable. Guilt by association is an ugly cross to bear.”
“Guilt by association! The man had me locked in a prison cell, breaking rocks with a hammer to avoid being shot myself!” Marcus snapped.
“And I accompanied my dusky-skinned mother to England with her jewels sewn into the lining of a dress stained with her family’s blood. She’d watched every relative she possessed be carted off to the guillotine, other than myself, and barely survived such a fate of herself. She braved living under the roof of my vicious father to carry me to safety. In spite of his coldness, she loved England, adored it and considered it the home of her heart. Yet when Bonaparte started his ugly, little war, everyone began to stare at her with suspicion,” Highcliff pointed out. “For nothing more than being a noble who managed to survive the Terror, she became a pariah. Women are strange creatures, Marcus. They need the society of other women, they need acceptance, especially for their children. Warn your Miss Barrett now, so that you do not have to regret the lack of having done so later.”
Highcliff turned and walked away, leaving Marcus to ponder the wisdom of such a course of action.
*
Their horses were beyond exhausted. The beasts were limping with fatigue and lathered with sweat as they guided them into the mews behind the duke’s townhouse. Charles was at the end of his patience with Barrett. Had an opportunity presented itself to be rid of the man forever, he would gladly have taken it. Sadly, the roads had been far too busy that day for him to safely assist the man in shuffling off the mortal coil.
“I think we should have pressed on for Scotland,” Barrett insisted.
It was a gamble as to whether Marcus and Jane Barrett would have made for Gretna Green or returned to London. Charles was betting on Gretna Green as it posed the least restrictions on getting the deed done. The last thing he needed was for Barrett to actually manage to halt the nuptials of the ill-fated lovers. Would it be too much of a stretch, Charles wondered, for Barrett to be taken out by whatever random illness Marcus and his bride would succumb to? Poison, he’d decided, would be the easiest method of eliminating them, so long as it was easily camouflaged as a natural illness. For that, he’d have to bow to Cassandra’s expertise.
“Marcus would not wish to be married outside the Church of England,” Charles lied easily. His cousin likely didn’t care one whit, either way. “I had anticipated that they’d make for Gretna Green because it’s the likeliest point of elopement. But on greater reflection, I doubt that he’d be willing to see it through. I think the likeliest course of action would be for them to return to the city, assess the damage to their reputations, and then proceed accordingly. They may, even now, be awaiting us inside. This is an aberration for him, Mr. Barrett, I assure you. Prior to his imprisonment and return, Marcus never put a foot wrong.”
“They damned well better be back in this city or I’ll be meeting him at dawn!” Barrett said.
Charles was never one to sing his cousin’s praises but, in this instance, it would serve his purpose to do so. “Mr. Barrett, I’d like to point out to you that Marcus is a seasoned soldier. He was not an officer who shuffled off the enlisted men while he hid behind. No. He was at the front lines, in the thick of the fray, battling an onslaught of Bonaparte’s finest with muskets, pistols, swords, knives, and when weapons were lost, his bare hands. I would not casually issue threats when the outcome will not be as you desire.”
Barrett blustered then. “I’m no milquetoast to be cowed by him!”
“Perhaps you should be. I once saw him kill seven Frenchman. Had he not been vastly outmanned, I daresay Corunna would have taken a very different turn,” Charles mused.
“You never saw him at Corunna… so you said,” Barrett snapped.
Cursing himself and blaming his slip on his exhaustion and exasperation with his traveling companion, Charles smiled. “I didn’t. But like everyone else, I heard the tales. He was well respected in the army, sir. He did not achieve that by being a coward or an easy mark.”
Barrett hushed then, for the most part. He still grumbled under his breath as they entered the house and he retreated to his room. Charles sought out Riggs. “I’ll be staying here for the night, Riggs. Until we can make sense of what’s happened with Marcus and Miss Barrett, it seems best to stay close by.”
If the butler thought it odd or had any reaction to the announcement at all, it was impossible to tell. Stoic as ever, Riggs inclined his head. “Yes, Mr. Balfour, sir. Super will be served in your room this evening. His grace is unwell still and her grace felt it best not to disturb him… if that is to your satisfaction.”
It was, because he had no intention of being in his room. He intended to be in Cassandra’s. “It is quite fine, Riggs,” he said and made for the stairs. “Have a bath sent up, would you? I feel as if I’ve brought half the road in with me.”
When Charles had vanished up the stairs, Sarah stepped from the shadows. “I know it isn’t my place to say so, Mr. Riggs, but I don’t much care for him. He acts like he already owns the place!”
Riggs frowned. “It is not your place to say so, Sarah, but that does not mean you are wrong. See to your duties and I will be certain that Mr. Balfour’s demands are met.”