Chapter Eighteen
Strathairn had not had a chance to speak to Montsimon at Hyde Park concerning his time in Paris. He sought him at his club in St. James’s, that evening, finding him in a heated discussion about politics with one of his cronies. Recently returned from France, Montsimon’s smart coat featured a shawl collar.
“I see you’re in danger of becoming a dandy,” Strathairn said with a grin.
“I suspect I would fail miserably,” Montsimon said with a laugh. “Dandies are devoted to elegance. They live before a mirror. I should become horribly bored.”
He drew Montsimon away to a corner of the library, ordered wine, and questioned him about Coombe.
Montsimon tapped a long finger against his glass. “Lady Coombe’s cousin suspected her death was not an accident, but he had no proof. He told me something of Coombe’s activities on his plantation in the Caribbean. Said Coombe was a harsh master. Deuced unattractive that. I can’t verify any of it. The fellow was clearly set against Coombe, but it might come down to the family estate, money and so forth. So often does. Coombe is a difficult man to read, is he not? Still waters run deep.”
“‘Such men are dangerous.’” Strathairn scowled as he quoted Julius Caesar.
“Quite so.” Montsimon toasted with his glass. “Unlike you to go about quoting Shakespeare, Strathairn. One might think you were in love.”
Accused twice in one day was a little too much. Strathairn moderated his expression and refused to rise to his friend’s bait. “I never sleep well, and my father has a well-stocked library.” True or not, the cousin’s estimation of the man fitted with his own and tightened his gut. “I’ll need to do some more digging on Lord Coombe, it seems.”
A smile tugged at Montsimon’s mouth. “Very solicitous of you. I would have expected her brother, the marquess, to find out all he could about the man before sanctioning the marriage.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“More wine?” Montsimon signaled to a waiter. “The government remains concerned that we’re on the brink of civil war,” he said. “The menacing banners still do the rounds, and rancorous songs are sung in the alehouses. It would only take one forceful, charismatic leader to light the fire.”
Montsimon narrowed his eyes against the smoky air. “I doubt it will be Henry Hunt. He’s an accomplished speaker and popular, admittedly, but vain and irresolute, and not an advocate of violence.”
“Let’s hope it’s like the barber’s cat, all piss and wind. And once Sidmouth pushes through the Six Acts, the danger will pass.”
“You are confident of that?” Montsimon looked unconvinced.
“Not entirely. I don’t agree with the Blasphemous and Seditious Libels Act gagging authors and newspapers. Neither do the Tories. They won’t pass this legislation.”
Strathairn tossed back the dregs in his glass. Until then, peace was poised on a knife edge. One random act could shatter it. And somewhere, a ruthless murderer lurked, well-armed and with some evil design to bring chaos to England.
He left Montsimon at White’s and walked down St. James’s Street. Montsimon’s comment about love turned his thoughts again to Sibella. She was never far from his mind these days. His lustful thoughts didn’t surprise him; she was a beautiful woman, but he was surprised by the deep sense of longing. He’d never experienced such feelings for any woman. This was more than a passing fancy. It was soul-deep. Edward had the right of it, he did want to take care of Sibella. Of course, he’d relinquished any such right, and it was unlikely she’d ever confide in him again.
Society deserted London for the country now that the hunting season had begun, and parliament was in recess. Her family would soon vacate St. James’s Square for Brandreth Park.
He had to keep his mind on the matter at hand, and would return tomorrow to the countess who might now be prepared to talk. Feeling hamstrung, he struck his cane against a lamppost, drawing a look of surprise from a well-dressed man passing by.
Strathairn shrugged with a smile.
“Some days are like that, aren’t they?” the man said sympathetically.
“Indeed.” With a slight bow, he turned to cross the road, tossing a coin to the street sweeper.
He arrived home to find a letter waiting from the Bristol authorities. Lord Coombe’s conduct had never warranted scrutiny. It failed to set his mind at rest. Strathairn cursed, screwed the paper up, and threw it into the fire. He paced the length of the library as he scrubbed his hands through his hair. Something didn’t smell right. He had an excellent nose for trouble, which came from experience and seldom let him down.
The next day he returned to the prison.
A heavy atmosphere of despair and an appalling rank smell of unwashed bodies, bodily functions and rat droppings greeted him. Lady Forney ran to him as soon as he entered. She had fresh scratches on her cheek. “Lord Strathairn! Can’t you do something? I should not be in here with these prostitutes.” She swung wildly to gesture at the women crammed into the narrow cell with her.
A woman with a hard face sneered at her. “Thinks she’s too good for us and whines all the time.”
Lines of tension had deepened in the countess’s face, her eyes reddened.
“You have something to tell me?”
“Yes, if you get me out of this filthy hole in the wall.”
Strathairn beckoned to the turnkey. When she was returned to her cell, he gestured for her to sit on the cot and offered her his handkerchief. She took the square of lawn and dabbed at the scratch on her face.
He signaled to the constable. “Fetch the countess water.” He declined to sit on the flea-infested cot and leaned against the wall, folding his arms. “Now. Let’s have it all.”
“My husband didn’t die when the ship foundered on rocks.” She fussed with the handkerchief. “Forney was badly hurt though, escaping the wreck. He only lived for a few months.”
“Where was this?”
“We took a house in Marseille. Many of his friends came to see him.”
“Napoleonic sympathizers, I expect. Their names?”
She shook her head. “I shan’t tell you that. But for Smith, they all remain in France. The cowards refused to join us.”
“What is Smith’s real name?”
“Philippe Moreau.”
“Where is he hiding?”
She shrugged. “How should I know?”
He let out a heavy sigh. “You will have to do better than that.”
“Moreau may have returned to Manchester.”
He pushed himself away from the wall. “Has he been in Manchester before, stirring up trouble?”
“I believe so.”
“Why go back there? What does he plan?”
She shrugged. “To cause trouble for the government, of course.”
“Why? What drives him?”
“Moreau does as he pleases.” She plucked at her bodice as if it was too tight although the gown hung loose on her slender frame. “He was a marksman in Napoleon’s army.”
He resisted shaking her. “Tell me more!”
“It’s his plan to assassinate the Prince Regent.”
Strathairn thumped the table. “When is this to take place? And where?”
She jumped in the seat. “I don’t know,” she cried. A little of her old fire returned to brighten her eyes. “Moreau will carry out his mission. He’s prepared to die rather than fail.”
“He will die. I assure you.”
“You don’t understand. He’s a fanatic. British soldiers murdered his wife and children. With that gun and the element of surprise, no one can match him.” She gave him a sly glance. “Your days are also numbered. You are on his list.”
He ignored her jibe. “We’ll find him and take away that element of surprise.”
“He is not alone.” She shrugged. “And as long as Bonaparte lives, emotions run high.”
“Who else is with him?”
“Does he work with others?”
“No. This glorious attack will be all his.”
“Why were you watching the baron’s house?”
“When my husband lay dying, I promised him I would avenge him.”
“By doing what, murdering Lord Fortescue? His wife? His baby?”
“I don’t choose to make war on babies, but there’s much more at stake.”
He turned to gaze at the barred window. If he looked at her now, he would hit her. “Tell me where Moreau plans to strike,” he said in a calmer voice.
“I cannot!”
“If that’s the case, I can’t help you.” Strathairn decided to give her more time to stew over her future. He gestured to the turnkey to unlock the cell door. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
She twisted her fingers together, looking pale and curiously determined. “Do you enjoy seeing me so dirty and disheveled? I need my things.” She jutted her chin at him. “I am a countess. Have them send my trunk.”
Strathairn paused to think. With her things around her, she may be more inclined to talk. Remind her of the elegant life she had lost and might possibly regain. He turned to address her jailor. “Search the trunk first. I want any papers or letters you find. Remove anything sharp and keep an eye on her. I’ll return tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Strathairn stood in front of her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’ll have tonight to think, Countess. I want to know what event Moreau has set his sights on. You had better come up with the right answers.”
“They shall kill me whatever I say,” her high-pitched voice echoed after him.
“Not if you give us the correct information.”
Once home, he found the house too empty and went out again. He drank at an alehouse he hadn’t been to for some time. Molly sidled up to him with a laugh. She ran her hands over his chest. “I’ve missed you, me lord.”
Strathairn grinned down at her, appreciating her pretty face. “Have you, Molly?”
“Would you care to come upstairs?” She nudged her head toward the narrow stairs, which led to her attic room.
“Not tonight, Molly love. Allow me to buy you dinner.” Strathairn smiled at her with the knowledge that he would never return here. Loving Sibella had stripped the habits of his old life away. He wasn’t sure what lay ahead for him now.
Strathairn woke suddenly and rubbed his temples to ease the pounding in his head. After retiring late, he’d woken in the early hours drenched in sweat from another bad dream. He snatched his watch off the dresser. Barely seven. “Come!” he yelled at the brave servant who had knocked.
His butler, Rhodes opened the door and peered in. “Are you awake, my lord?”
“I am now, curse it! What’s the matter?”
“A constable has arrived from the prison. He waits downstairs.”
A shiver of apprehension ran through him. He threw back the covers and slid to the floor. “Show him into the library.”
Strathairn shrugged on his banyan, pushed his feet into backless slippers and strode downstairs.
A man he didn’t know stood ill at ease in the dim cold library. On seeing Strathairn, he hurried forward. “Grimsby, milord. It’s Countess Forney. She killed herself during the night.”
Strathairn cursed so fulsomely the man took a step back. “How the devil did she manage to do that?”
“A letter opener in her trunk. Quite sharp it was.” He made a stabbing motion to his throat.
“Can’t anyone obey orders?” Strathairn yelled. “You were to watch her! Her trunk was to be searched!”
“It was during a changing of the guard, milord.” The man rose up on his toes. “We had searched her things, but the pretty thing looked like a trinket, in a brass scabbard it was, in among her jewelry…”
“Enough!”
The constable shuffled his feet and hung his head. “What’s to be done, milord?”
Strathairn strode up and down, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his jaw. “Have the trunk sent here.” He should not have trusted the fools. Now Moreau was free to go about his business unimpeded.
He had dressed, shaved, and breakfasted by the time the trunk arrived. It had been placed in the middle of the Turkey rug in the library. Strathairn threw back the lid. It was filled with expensive gowns, silk shoes, and fripperies. He kneeled and rooted through it. The jewelry box was empty. Perhaps the countess had used her jewelry to bargain for special privileges. More likely they had been stolen. One way or another, anything of value had found its way into the pockets of the prison guards.
He sat back on his haunches in disgust. Nothing. After easing his shoulders, he began again, taking out each item to study closely. He was losing heart and almost down to the bottom of the trunk when something bumped against his hand. “Fetch me a knife,” he demanded of the footman who stood at the open door.
Strathairn took the knife and sliced through the crimson silk. He discovered a small book hidden in the lining. He sat by the fire to read it.
*
In the conservatory at Brandreth Park, Sibella pressed soil into a pot, glad to be back where she was at her most peaceful. She put the pot aside and took another as the scents of earth and fragrant lilies rose to soothe her.
“Sib?”
She spun around. “Vaughn!” She ran to hug him, drawing off her soiled gloves. “You appear well. Have you found Yorkshire to your liking?”
He grinned. “The weather is cold and it rains a lot, but it does tend to agree with me.”
She drew him to a garden seat among the potted shrubs. “Do you plan to return?”
He straightened his shoulders. “Of course. Strathairn relies on me to help run things while he’s away.”
“I’m sure he appreciates all that you do.”
“I wrote and told him I was coming to London because Mama wished to see me. He said he hoped to come down while I’m here. We have much to discuss.”
Sibella tensed. “Strathairn is coming down to Tunbridge Wells?”
“I expect so, but he didn’t say when.”
Confident she’d be gone before he came, Sibella cast a fond look at her brother. “Tell me about your life at Linden Hall. What fills your days?”
Vaughn’s recounting of his daily activities involved horses almost entirely. While sensing he was editing out anything she might disapprove of, Sibella’s mind wandered. The duke and duchess were to return earlier than expected, and her visit was to take place the following Saturday. It fitted perfectly as Lord Coombe was to depart for Bristol on Sunday. Even if Strathairn arrived before they left, he was unlikely to find anything unusual about her visiting the abbey. If only she could be more confident of her own behavior under pressure. When suspicious, Strathairn’s measuring gaze made her dreadfully nervous.
“And on Saturday evenings…” Vaughn was saying. “I attend the dances at the York assembly.”
“You’ve made friends there?”
His roguish expression put her on the alert. The old Vaughn made an appearance. “I’d love to hear about them.”
“The apothecary’s daughter, Jenny, and I enjoy a dance. She has lovely fair hair and the bluest eyes.”
“You will be careful, won’t you, dearest? You can’t toy with a girl from a respectable home.”
He smoothed back his hair looking affronted. “Sib! You think so little of me.”
“No, I don’t. It’s just that girls do take to you.” She couldn’t resist mussing his hair again. “You’re such a handsome devil.”
“Chaloner won’t approve, but Jenny is a very sweet girl. You would like her, Sib.”
“I’m sure I would.” Sibella looked at him sadly. As the fourth-born son, it was unlikely he’d ever be heir, but marrying outside the beau monde was frowned upon. If his feelings remained constant, she resolved to help him persuade Chaloner to agree.