Show no mercy when bringing a traitor or criminal to justice.
Article XVIII: The Brethren of the Lords
The Brethren had no fewer than sixty residences and offices scattered in various locations about England. It had been a redesign implemented by a former Sovereign, the Duke of Aubrey, after a misstep had seen his role discovered, and his first wife killed. From then on, the organization had followed a strategy of conducting business in no one location, but within many.
Nathaniel had ridden his horse to exhaustion to reach the Brethren’s estates, Aldenham Lodge, on the west side of Watling Street. He now stood, with his arms clasped at his back, awaiting his visitor.
The summons sent ’round by Bennett upon Nathaniel’s departure for Radlett Village should see the Marquess of Tennyson arrive at any moment. A rake who gambled too much and warmed the beds of countless widows, ladies, and whores, Polite Society would never expect punctuality from the lord.
Nathaniel, however, had read accountings of the gentleman’s work and had enough meetings to know there was far more to Tennyson than the world could ever see. A cup of coffee in hand, Nathaniel consulted the ormolu clock atop the mantel.
A knock sounded at the door.
Punctual, as always. “Enter,” he called out.
Wright, the lord who oversaw the operations in Radlett opened the door. “Tennyson,” he said in a laconic announcement.
Inclining his head, Nathaniel waited until Wright had gone before speaking. “Tennyson,” he greeted, pointing to a nearby chair.
The tall, wiry marquess’ face was a carved mask, revealing nothing. Wordlessly, he took the indicated seat and waited.
Taking a sip of his coffee, he set it down on the table beside him and picked up the Waters folder. “What were your dealings with Waters?” He tossed it down on the table between them.
A muscle ticked at the corner of the marquess’ hard mouth. “I was in the midst of bedding a delectable widow and you would call me away to ask me questions I’ve already answered?” It spoke either to the man’s courage or his stupidity that he’d challenge Nathaniel.
However, the jaded edge was one he recognized. It came from too many years of service where a person lost parts of themselves to the identity they’d crafted. Only being far removed from what had shaped a man, restored him to his former self—if one could ever be fully restored. “I’ve learned that you, in fact, have more information,” he said warningly.
“I gave over everything I had and know about Waters’ murder to Fitzwalter. You could have spared us both a trip to this godforsaken part of the country by speaking with him.”
That low growl gave him pause. So, Tennyson took umbrage with Nathaniel’s first assistant. He sat forward in the Empire giltwood armchair. “Ah, but I did not wish to speak to Fitzwalter. I wished to speak to you.” Surprise glinted in the marquess’ eyes. “Do you believe I don’t place the same weight in your findings as an agent?”
Tennyson rolled his shoulders. “The order within the Brethren is quite clear. Rank and file drives all.”
That had been the way of the previous Sovereigns. Nathaniel, however, wasn’t one who adhered to the old, dead ways that had existed within the order for years. Except that wasn’t altogether true. In his inability to form attachments, he’d done precisely what the Brethren drilled into its members—keep all out. That realization hit him square between the eyes with its clarity. His skin pricked with the feel of Tennyson’s clever stare on him and Nathaniel wrestled with control of his thoughts. “I want to know everything: from your courtship of Lady Huntly to your dealings with the late viscount, and Donaldson,” Nathaniel said gravely, setting aside his coffee. “I want to know about Donaldson.”
The mask of indolent rake lifted and Tennyson’s features settled into an impenetrable mask. “As I told you, I was assigned to make myself close to Waters, because of suspicions of his links to the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
Nathaniel caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed distractedly. “The Cato Event was a product of the London Irish community and trade societies.”
Tennyson stretched his long legs out, looping them at the ankles. “That is what the Brethren believes.”
“But you do not.”
The marquess let his silence serve as his affirmation.
Resting his elbows on his knees, Nathaniel leaned forward. “What was your opinion on the plot?”
Tennyson looked about the room. His gaze alighted on the sideboard. Shoving to his feet, he strolled over and, just like in their last exchange, he availed himself of the contents there. “It is my opinion the Cato Street Conspiracy is more than a scheme concocted by commoners and merchants.” Perching his hip on the sideboard, he took a long swallow. “It is someone from within the peerage.”
Nathaniel sank back in his seat, incredulous. Impossible. His mind raced. Why would noblemen involve themselves in the protests and uprising being led by the masses? While the marquess continued to sip his drink, Nathaniel sought to puzzle through it.
Over the rim of his snifter, Tennyson grinned, an empty, mirthless smile. “Fitzwalter was of a like opinion. Impossible.”
Fitzwalter was skilled in his role as Delegator, but every person, regardless of station, was capable of missteps. “You are of a different thought,” he hazarded. “Tell me yours.”
The marquess set his empty glass down with a thunk. “It all stems from the Six Acts.”
Those acts, viewed oppressive, which had come after the Peterloo Massacre, outlawed public meetings, restricted press, and banned further actions that might sow political reform. That legislation, however, had also come nearly a year before the Cato Event. “How do you explain the timing?” he put to Tennyson. “And also the connection between the gentlemen involved and the Six Acts?”
“There are nobles who sought support of the legislation. To have that support, the Tories needed a situation that justified their oppressive agenda.”
“What proof do you have?” Nathaniel pressed.
“None. My suspicions were based solely on the timeline of events.” Tennyson tightened his mouth. “I was investigating Waters for a possible connection.”
Nathaniel sat up in his chair, urging the other man on with his gaze.
“Waters continued to show up at the Coaxing Tom. He sometimes sat down to cards and drinks with Ings and Brunt.” Two members of the conspiracy who’d been hanged for treason.
“What happened?”
Sneering, Tennyson lifted his shoulders in a negligent shrug. “I was removed from anything to do with the Cato Street Conspiracy after the hangings.” He scoffed. “The matter was done,” he said in an expert rendition of Fitzwalter’s clipped tones.
Nathaniel filed those details away, making a silent note to question his Delegator’s outright dismissal. “How did your courtship of Lady Huntly connect to that case?”
“If there was an attempt at the formation of a political dynasty, he’d certainly never have sold his last unwed daughter to a rake, simply to settle debts.”
Frustration took hold. He was no closer to any information about Waters’ murder. “How does Donaldson connect to,” Nathaniel waved his hand, “all this?”
“Initially, I investigated the pair as a possible link to the plot.” Which had yielded nothing. “I did, however, find something of interest on that score.”
Nathaniel stitched his eyebrows into a single line. “You’ve continued your investigation, anyway,” he said crisply. It was an offense that should result in Tennyson’s dismissal. The smug grin on the marquess’ lips, however, gave him pause. Hope stirred. “What did you find?”
“Waters had an entire family with Donaldson’s daughter. Lived a separate life, with a wife and three children” Tennyson chuckled, the mirthless sound of cynicism set Nathaniel’s teeth on edge. “That is, three more children.”
Then the implications of that pronouncement slammed into him with all the force of a fast-moving carriage. “He was a bigamist.”
At Tennyson’s confirming nod, Nathaniel’s cut clenched. “When—?”
“His marriage to Viscountess Waters, came first.” Another chuckle escaped the marquess. “Or, that is, the viscountess as the ton knows of her.”
Ignoring the other man’s perverse hilarity, Nathaniel let the revelations sink around his mind. The words whoremonger, drunk, and lecher, had been carved upon Waters’ body. Someone had hated the bastard so much that they’d left him marked, to deny him even the simple dignity of a proper funeral. Someone who had discovered the extent of his duplicity. “There is cause,” he breathed. Jumping up, he rushed to Tennyson and gripped him by the lapels. “Did Donaldson know?” When the marquess manufactured another one of those infuriating grins, Nathaniel gave him a hard shake. “Did Donaldson know?”
“He did.”
Donaldson. Donaldson was the piece. The man was the one who had the power to absolve Victoria’s son of any wrongdoing. He lowered his brow. “You have had this information for how long and you’ve said nothing?”
The marquess gave a lazy shrug. “It did not advance the case I had been investigating.” Vindication. He’d been so focused on his own individual absolution, he had put it before the organization. Nathaniel abruptly released Tennyson and pointed to the desk at the center of the room. “I want it all: names, dates, the residence.” Nathaniel firmed his jaw. “Where I can find him now.”
12 hours later
Luton
Years earlier, haste had marked Nathaniel’s downfall. Hungering to have his mission completed and the evidence in hand to incriminate Fox and Hunter so he could at last return to London and to Victoria, he’d foregone meals… and made the mistake of sitting down to drink with Hunter.
A drug expertly placed in his brandy, and his tongue heavy and careless, he’d made one slip that had revealed his role as a spy. And his life had been forever altered.
As such, after a night’s sleep and a full meal in his belly, Nathaniel reached Luton the following morn. With Chapman and Hill, two of his more seasoned officers close behind, he dismounted before the stone cottage. With its thatched roof and floral-lined walk leading to the door, it hinted at the modest origins of its owner. Looping the reins about a nearby sycamore, Nathaniel doffed his hat and glanced about. It was early enough that a shopkeeper would be awake, but not yet at their business, necessarily. And given Donaldson was the owner of this thriving establishment, there would be a foreman to oversee the earliest morning affairs.
A small boy rushed down the drive. “Who are you?” Excitement filled his cherub’s face; those chubby cheeks stained with dirt.
Nathaniel assessed the child, not older than six or seven years and sank to a knee beside him. “I’m looking to meet with your father? Is he around?”
The boy giggled and wiped the back of his sleeve over his nose. “My da does not live here. He lives in—”
“Freddie!”
Freddie? Chester Barrett’s son. A young woman came sprinting down the graveled path. Her crimson plait flapped wildly about, as she skidded to a stop before him. She positioned the child behind her slender frame. “May I help you?” she asked in cultured tones.
“We have a visitor, Mama. He asked to see Papa, but I was telling him—”
“Enough, Freddie,” she ordered and tears instantly filled the boy’s eyes.
So, this was the Viscount Waters’ other wife and son. Nathaniel had borne witness to the basest levels of evil, but the sight of this pair, ruined by that reprobate, sent nausea roiling in his belly. How many people had been hurt by Waters? “I am here to speak with Mr. Donaldson, Mrs…?”
“Miss Donaldson,” she snapped. “Who are you?”
Surprise filled him. She still went by her maiden name. Nathaniel fished a calling card from his jacket and held it out. “Lord Exeter. I’ve come on a matter of business.” When the woman made no move to take the article, he tucked it back inside his jacket.
Freddie peeked out from around the young woman’s waist. She reached behind her, tucking him back into place. “Business takes place in town. You’re best served meeting him there.” She whipped about and then, grabbing the boy by the hand, marched ahead.
“I am here to ask several questions about Viscount Waters.”
The young woman swayed. When she faced him, all earlier resolve was gone; the color leeched from her cheeks. She leaned down and whispered something into the boy’s ear. He nodded and then darted off, his little feet kicking up gravel as he went. Miss Donaldson folded her arms at her chest, revealing no trace of her earlier vulnerability. “What manner of questions?”
“The viscount was recently murdered.” He searched her face for a hint of a reaction, but her gaunt features remained a set mask. “It is my understanding your father and the viscount met frequently in London and I would speak to Mr. Donaldson about the nature of those exchanges.”
“My father is busy,” she said tightly. “Perhaps you may try returning at a later time.” She gave him an arched look. “When you’ve scheduled a meeting.”
“Miss Donaldson, I have no intention of leaving until I speak with him,” he called after her. They locked eyes in a silent battle. The girl’s shoulders sagged slightly. Crooking her chin, she started onward. “How well did you know the viscount?” he asked, falling into step beside her.
“Were your questions for me? Or my father?” she asked through tight lips.
“Mayhap both.” Again, the color bled from her cheeks. Not another word was spoken between them as they entered the front door. She guided him through a cheerfully bright home and then stopped.
Lifting her hand, she knocked once on an oak door.
“Enter!”
Miss Donaldson pressed the handle. “You have a visitor.”
The rotund figure with rosy-red cheeks, humming a happy tune, gave Nathaniel pause. Donaldson fit not at all with the ruthless sort he had in mind as having dealings with the viscount. “A visitor you say, gel?”
Miss Donaldson looked to him. “Yes, Papa.”
Papa. Having come here, Donaldson had existed as nothing more than a suspect who might prove the key to absolving Victoria’s son. In this instance, studying the tenderness between father and daughter, Nathaniel was humbled by his own ruthlessness. Once he’d expected that to be an inherent part of him, necessary for his work. He’d ceased to see people… as people. Having Victoria back in his life had reminded him of what a bond was between lovers and family…
“Tea and pastries, Marti,” Donaldson was saying. “The cherry ones with the powdered edges.”
Donaldson’s daughter looked back and forth between Nathaniel and her father. Then with stiff strides, she marched out.
Nathaniel pulled the door shut behind them. Still, the hat maker scribbled away at the ledger spread open on his desk. Nathaniel used the older man’s distractedness as an opportunity to further study him. He swept his gaze around the room, taking in every detail. His study tidy, children’s drawings hung up about the room, this was hardly the office one would take for a monster’s. And yet, he had dealt with enough men and women of great evil where he’d not be lulled by a Scottish folksong. His gaze lingered on the field of flowers painting above Donaldson’s desk.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” The older man, not many years older than him, finally ceased working. He pointed the tip of his pen at the gilded frame behind him.
“Indeed,” Nathaniel murmured, taking the question as an invitation to wander over.
“My Marti did it. Quite the artist my girl always was. My three grandbabes also show signs of their mother’s talent.”
“I’ve come with questions about Viscount Waters,” he announced quietly.
The deep-dimpled smile remained firmly in place. “Of course, you have. Of course.” Donaldson leaned back and rested his folded hands atop his big belly.
Taking the chair nearest the desk that also kept a windowless wall at his back, Nathaniel sat.
“You are him, then?” Donaldson raised a monocle to his left eye. “The gentleman asking questions about me in London?”
“Do you trust there is only one?” he evaded.
“I had… hoped.” Leaning down, Donaldson drew open the bottom desk drawer. “I’m an optimist. However, I’m not a lackwit.”
Nathaniel withdrew his pistol, training it on the man across from him.
Giving no outward reaction to the sudden appearance of Nathaniel’s gun, the crimson-haired gentleman set a decanter down. Two glasses joined beside it. “Do you have children, my lord?” The clink of crystal touching crystal filled the quiet, followed by the steady stream of liquid as Donaldson poured a drink.
They may as well have been two strangers greeting at White’s striking up a comfortable discourse. “I…” How to answer that for a stranger?
The other man waggled bushy eyebrows. “You either do or you do not?” he pointed out, shoving a glass across the desk.
Nathaniel ignored that offering. The last drink he ever taken with a stranger had been Hunter.
“I have one daughter,” Donaldson went on, when only stony silence met his prodding. “Marti. Romantic girl. Clever. Talented. Did all these paintings,” he took a sip and then motioned with the full glass to those frames hanging about the room. “Introduced her one day to a nobleman and the man was smitten. I figured he was a clever man to appreciate my clever girl.” And Nathaniel was apparently far more capable of pity and compunction than he’d credited for those emotions swirled in his chest, even before the man went on. For he knew what was coming. “My girl deserved the best. Her mum died early and it was just Marti and me. I would have bought her the moon if she wished,” he said, lifting his glass to the sky. His face crumpled. “Instead, I bought her a nobleman.”
“Waters,” he supplied.
“Waters,” Donaldson confirmed. “Told myself it was fine he wasn’t wise with money, I had plenty of it. What I didn’t have for my daughter…”
“Was a title,” he supplied.
The other man punctuated the air with his finger. “Precisely. I never questioned why he preferred to keep my girl in the country. They are odd sorts, the nobles, keeping their separate chambers and Town life and country life… hard to sort it all out.” With a sigh, he took a sip of his brandy. “I have made many mistakes in my life: introducing Marti to that reprobate, for not having been wise enough to see precisely what was going on, until it was too late. For not being there for her in the future.” He met Nathaniel’s gaze, giving him a watery smile. “But I do not regret for one moment having him killed.”
There should be a greater sense of triumph. Victoria’s son was free and the Barretts could now resume their normal life. But how could there be triumph in any of this? Waters had left a stream of sorrow and pain in his wake.
“What will happen to my family?” Donaldson whispered.
His family. He did not, like the lowest of criminals, worry after his own fate or future. He spoke of his daughter and grandchildren. And yet, for a life hardened by what he’d witnessed, done, and experienced, Nathaniel could not see another family broken—not for a bastard like the late viscount. “Mr. Donaldson, I will do everything within my power,” which was considerable, “to secure a lesser charge for you,” he promised in solemn tones. As he, who’d only seen the world as distinctly black and white, recognized the various shades of gray. “I’ll see that your family’s fortune remains in their hands.”
Donaldson’s throat bobbed. “Why would you do this?” Because Waters had deserved killing. “You do not even know me.”
“No,” he acknowledged. “But I did gather the type of man Waters was. You will need to accompany me, Mr. Donaldson,” he said softly.
The man nodded, downing his drink. “Now? Or might I suggest…later?”
An image flitted in of the small boy, rushing over to his mother: innocence in his brown eyes and a joyful smile on his lips. “After you make your goodbyes to your family.” He paused. “I will see one of my men returns to look after them until your circumstances are settled.” He’d see that the man did not hang, but there would be some punishment that kept the man from his kin.
Donaldson sighed. “Very well.” He set his glass aside and stood. His hands clasped behind him, the small, rotund man started for the door.
“Mr. Donaldson?”
The merchant looked back, over his shoulder. I am so sorry. “You are correct. Waters deserved to die.”
Donaldson tipped his head. “Thank you.”
Together, they made their way from the room.
It was done.
The following evening, Nathaniel, neatly groomed and in a proper change of garments, entered through the front doors of his London offices.
His staff paused, dropping bows. Quiet clapping trailed his footsteps.
Once, there’d been no greater sense of satisfaction than the completion of a mission.
Not this time, however.
His assistant, with a wide grin, fell into step beside him. “I understand congratulations are in order, my lord.”
He didn’t want congratulations. “Do you think there is anything celebratory about this?” he countered. Bennett’s smile faded.
“No, my lord. No. I… my apologies.”
Even having secured assurances that Donaldson wouldn’t hang, the older man would still find himself in Marshalsea. The man’s family, as he’d known from his arrival in the countryside, had been destroyed by Waters.
“I’ll draft a public statement for Bow Street and the papers this morn,” Nathaniel said, loosening his cravat as he walked. “I don’t want a single word breathed outside these walls until,” I speak with Victoria, “I indicate it is time to do so.”
Surprise filled the other man’s eyes. “Of course not, my lord. I trust our agents would know better.”
“Never make presumptions, Bennett,” he reminded. A flush stained Bennett’s cheeks. To soften that slight chastisement, he slapped the younger man on the back.
They reached Nathaniel’s office. “Call a meeting with the men. Inform them of my wishes.”
“Yes, my lord.” Dropping a bow, Bennett scurried back in the opposite direction and Nathaniel entered his offices.
As soon as he was alone, he closed the door. Shutting himself inside, he leaned against the door.
Alone.
Just as he’d been after every mission. But with the finality of the Waters case, everything had changed.
Victoria’s son would be exonerated. The gossip would persist because, frankly, that was the way of London and it would always be—until the next juicy morsel presented itself.
Nathaniel rubbed his hands over his face. And then, what happened from here? To the two of them, together? He and Victoria? Restless, he wandered over to the windows. He drew back the thick, brocade fabric and stared down into the dark, empty streets below.
She’d married a bigamist.
The horror of that discovery had not lessened the knot in Nathaniel’s belly.
She’d deserved so much more from life. She’d deserved laughter and the love of a good, honorable man. His throat clogged with emotion. And to travel. That had been another gift that should have been hers. Spirited, adventurous Victoria Tremaine should have sailed the globe, exploring all those places she’d dreamed about. Nay, the places they’d dreamed of—together.
Nathaniel rested his forehead against the windowpane; the glass cool against his skin.
I want to be that man for her. The man who journeyed beside her, and loved her, and teased her. I want to begin again.
So why couldn’t they?
He jerked. His heart slowed and then sped up. Why couldn’t they? Why couldn’t he offer Victoria marriage as he should have when they’d been a young lady and gentleman with the world laid out before them?
For more than twenty years he’d solidified in his mind his own importance to the Brethren. Yet, he’d come to appreciate, accept, and understand that there would always be the next, great Sovereign to fill in the position. The Brethren was more than Nathaniel and, as such, would not only survive were he to leave it, but would thrive.
But what of Victoria? What could he possibly offer her now? He’d been away from Society for so long, all he knew was the Brethren. The work he’d done for the Home Office had secured any number of enemies. If they married, he’d open her to a greater threat than she’d ever known with her late bastard of a husband.
Then I’d be no different than Waters.
In the crystal panes, his agonized smile reflected back. He’d brought nothing but hurt to her before, he could not do that to her again.
Nathaniel knocked his head against the crystal pane. He wished he’d done so much differently and knew well that nothing had ever come from wishing or hoping.