A Spy's Honor (27 page)

“Mr. Donner? Goodness, I never thought a clerk could ride like that.”

“Well, I love horses so I saved my money to buy a good one.” He patted the bay’s neck.

“Thank you for rescuing me, sir,” Stickney said. “I thought for sure you was the one who ratted us out.”

John had known they would blame him; his untimely attendance was nothing but suspicious. Good thing he was leaving Hertfordshire tomorrow, otherwise the Hampden Club members might hunt him down.

“Where do you live?” he asked Stickney, more sharply than he meant.

“I can walk from here.”

John tugged the reins and the bay stopped. “Are you certain?” He wanted nothing more than to be done with Stickney, Kensworth and this whole mess, but still he felt an obligation to see the young man safely home—and warn him off.

“Yes, sir.” Stickney slid off the horse. Extending his hand he said, “Thank you again.”

John shook his hand and held the grip. “Hal, you realize the danger now, don’t you? They can arrest anyone they choose, so watch your step. Your family must have need of you.”

Not quite the inspiring speech of Kensworth or Boyd. He could tell from the skeptical look in Stickney’s eyes that his caution held no sway with the lad, and feeling as unheeded as Cassandra John watched him stride off through the field without another word. Once more he urged his bay into a trot, and within a short time he spied Kensworth’s silhouette near the moss-covered well and the turnoff to Wakebourne Hall.

Kensworth, so still and so silent, could have been a statue. But as John pulled up, he could see the anger in the viscount’s flushed cheeks and flashing green eyes.

“Was it you?”

So, everyone thought he had informed on the club.

Ridiculous, how such a question could hurt when he
was
a spy. He was guilty of many things, including suspecting Kensworth of plotting to assassinate the prime minister, but not this. Not treachery against the innocent and well-meaning.

“Answer me!”

Kensworth had perfected the aristocratic command, and John stared at him a moment longer, the chill night air now seeping beneath his clothing. “You have already decided,” he said. Then, with a jerk, he turned his mount onto the track leading to Kensworth’s home. Tomorrow morning and his departure could not come soon enough.

“Have you seen my brothers?” Kensworth asked. Though the words were spoken through a clenched jaw, John could hear the worry beneath.

Again, John stopped. He’d thought everyone had made it clear of the ambush except for Stickney. Circling back he said, “Let us look for them.”

Kensworth’s eyes widened, but he had no opportunity to speak for at that moment they both heard rampaging hooves crest the hill behind them. Soon thereafter David and Robert rode up laughing and smiling.

“What a way to finish the night!” David remarked, his hazel eyes dancing as much as the overexcited stallion beneath him. “Did you see how we surprised them? Nearly bowled them over. I couldn’t believe they didn’t shoot at us!”

“They weren’t there to kill anyone; they merely wanted to make arrests,” John said wearily. “Show a bit of authority, as it were. I would guess the local magistrate organized the whole thing.”

Robert shifted in his saddle and cocked his head toward John. “How did you know to warn us?”

As John mulled over what to say, he glanced at Kensworth. Couldn’t the man see that John wouldn’t have warned everyone if he’d arranged the betrayal in the first place? But Kensworth wouldn’t even look his way.

“Who cares?” David said into the silence. “I’m just glad you did.”

“Let’s go home,” Kensworth said, guiding his dun onto the track and passing John.

“What?” David cried. “It’s time to celebrate! You can’t tuck yourself up in bed, Stephen. Might as well declare yourself in your dotage.”

Kensworth halted and glared at his brothers. “We are all returning to Wakebourne. Right now. We will set out for London no later than seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

An owl hooted, a lone voice in the still night. John and the others followed Kensworth silently, David unable to hide his sullenness, Robert seemingly unaffected by any emotion, and John too annoyed with Kensworth for idle chatter.

Was it too much for a spy to want to be trusted?

Despite the early hour, they all parted ways once returned to Wakebourne Hall, mumbling good-night with all the enthusiasm of children sent to bed. John retreated to his bedchamber, there to wait until everyone was asleep so he could safely search Kensworth’s study.

Stripping down to his shirtsleeves, breeches, and stockings, he stretched out on the bed and willed himself to sleep. He awoke a few hours later, but it was still too early to risk roaming the corridors. Staring at the figured green brocade of the bed canopy, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting to that morning.

Finally, he’d seen the return of the Claire with whom he’d fallen in love. She’d been lively, amusing and, as always, insightful. With her, he often didn’t need to speak; she simply knew what he was thinking—or, more importantly, what he was feeling. But still she wanted him to share his thoughts anyway. And she was persistent.

She was still dissatisfied with her shape after all these years. How could she not know how much he desired her just as she was?

Because he had never told her, he reminded himself. And he never could.

For distraction, he snatched a book from the bedside table and began to read.

He’d picked Samuel Johnson’s
A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland
from the library earlier that day, when he’d thought to have the morning to himself. But as fascinating as the Isle of Skye was, he still couldn’t concentrate on Mr. Johnson’s words.

She’d said she would rather he not leave the country again… And, why had she kissed him? He’d been determined to display his best brotherly behavior, and look where it had got him. Pushing her away had required an extra dose of willpower he hadn’t known he possessed, at least not in regards to Claire.

Perhaps the sun had gone to her head and she’d imagined he was Kensworth when she kissed him.

Perhaps the sun had gone to his head and he’d wishfully imagined her entreaty to stay.

Perhaps he had no business contemplating any of this. He had a mission to accomplish.

He sat up and flexed his feet in preparation for his stealthy journey through Kensworth’s house, made his way downstairs in his stockinged feet, ears on alert for the sounds of anyone else about. Luckily David and his slobbering hounds slept in a different wing.

He heard nothing and slipped into the study. By moonlight he rummaged through the drawers of the desk, glanced at a ledger, shuffled through bills. He froze once, upon hearing a howl from one of the hounds, but resumed his search when no other sounds were forthcoming. Nothing indicated Kensworth had plans to kill the prime minister. Not that he’d expected to find anything. What he’d seen at the meeting—Kensworth sharing information from the House of Lords and the secretive conversations of Robert and David’s acquaintance—had nearly convinced him of Kensworth’s innocence. It was possible the would-be assassin wasn’t a peer at all but someone with access to his knowledge, as John had originally thought. Not that he had proof, by any means, merely a chance observation, intuition, and a foolish wish to clear Kensworth’s name. However, his work required him to be thorough and not speculative.

Stepping away from the desk, he surveyed the room, looking for any signs of a secret storage place, for
if
Kensworth were a nefarious plotter John didn’t think he would be stupid enough to keep evidence of it in his unlocked desk.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, as if its occupant spent as little time as possible there.

One bookcase near the window held more ledgers, and he was in the midst of methodically pulling them out and checking behind for false panels when he heard voices outside the house. Standing flush with the bookcase, John peered out the window and saw the nervous man from the Hampden Club standing near the corner of the building. He appeared to be arguing with someone just out of John’s line of vision. The window was closed, and John could hear nothing they were saying. If he tried to open it, they might hear. However, they were near the breakfast room window, and from there he might be able to see who the other person was.

Quickly but carefully he re-shelved the ledgers, checked the study once more to make certain everything was as he’d found it and then slipped out of the room. And he just had his hand on the doorknob to the breakfast room when a flickering flame suddenly loomed in mid-air at the end of the corridor.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“There you are!” Kensworth’s voice echoed down the now shadowy passage. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?” John asked before realizing how suspicious he sounded.

Kensworth came closer and held the candle off to the side so they could both see each other. “I wanted to apologize.”

“So late at night?” John pressed his lips together. Time to silence the espionage side of his brain. He was fairly certain Kensworth wasn’t the one who’d been outside. His suspicions now lay with another member of the Cahill family.

“Yes,” Kensworth said. “I believe an apology is best issued without delay.” The candlelight turned his eyes, touched with sincerity, a muted shade of green. “I am sorry I accused you of betraying us. I was angry and I lashed out.”

More likely he hadn’t been angry but afraid. For himself, probably; for his brothers, definitely. John hoped that fear sank deep into Kensworth’s brain and dictated caution in the future.

Never one to hold a grudge, he nodded in forgiveness. “I too have spoken in anger and regretted it.”

His expression more at ease, Kensworth eyed John from toe to head. “Why are you down here? I went to your bedchamber first.”

John shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. All the excitement.”

Kensworth seemed to accept that weak explanation. “I could do with a drink. And you?”

“Excellent idea.”

Kensworth, wearing a gold silk banyan over his breeches and shirt, led John back to the study. As the other man poured significant measures of brandy into glasses, John lit a few candles and chanced a look out the window. The two men were gone.

Kensworth handed him the brandy and then sank into a chair beside the barren fireplace, waving John toward a second seat. “You think it was the magistrate who coordinated the raid?”

“Seems likely, doesn’t it?” It couldn’t have been Sidmouth, for Watson would have told him of John’s intended presence. Finding the assassin had to take priority over Sidmouth’s vengeance against the Hampden Clubs. As well, another detail hinted at a local operation. “The men outside the tavern weren’t soldiers, which is why I think it was the magistrate and not someone from London.”

“Who did inform on us then?” Kensworth asked. He studied the faded red and black carpet, obviously intending the question to be rhetorical.

David’s dog howled again, but Kensworth seemed not to notice. Perhaps he was inured to the sound.

“I would guess it was Samuel Warren,” John answered.

Kensworth straightened. “You haven’t even met Warren. How can you accuse him—?”

John held up a hand. “I said I was guessing. Warren was supposed to give a speech but wasn’t there. Instead, the others were lying in wait.”

“That does make him look suspicious,” Kensworth conceded. He lifted his chin toward John. “How did you know they were out there?” He asked the question much more casually than his brother.

“The horses sounded agitated, and I thought I heard voices outside.”

Kensworth narrowed his eyes, as if he didn’t know whether or not to be convinced, and stared at John for a long moment, his gaze steady. “They had no cause to arrest us,” he finally said, almost petulantly.

John felt like kicking him. “They don’t need a cause. Do you not listen to a word I say? I was afraid of this.” He pressed back the first finger on his left hand. “You were nearly in violation of the Seditious Meeting Act.” He pulled the second finger back. “There is currently no protection from habeas corpus.” He didn’t have a third finger on that hand to tick off, but he silently enumerated that there might have been men in attendance plotting against the government.

He eyed Kensworth, wondering if he could ask about that without raising suspicion. “Or maybe they did have cause. Could some of the members be up to something more nefarious than agitating for reform?”

Kensworth leapt out of his chair, took a few strides across the carpet and then whipped around, a disdainful scowl creasing his face. “Of course not! I am loath to say this, but I am not certain I can help you become an MP, John. You haven’t the mettle, nor the conviction, to fight for what we need.”

A strong temptation—to tell Kensworth to go to hell and take his patronage with him—clawed at John’s throat. Unfortunately, he needed to maintain his acquaintance with the man and his family. Damn, though, if he didn’t still think he could open Kensworth’s idealistic eyes to the vagaries of life in the
ton
.

He swallowed the temptation with a dose of brandy and then stood to face the viscount. “We are speaking frankly?”

Kensworth pushed his banyan aside and braced his hands on his hips. “It would appear so.”

“If your association with the Hampden Club becomes known, you stand to lose much.”

“I am a viscount,” Kensworth scoffed. “I’m a member of the Whig party, and a reformist member at that. I have nothing to fear.”

So naïve. “You’re going to be married! Whatever befalls you, befalls Claire. Do you want her to feel the sting of Society’s disapproval?”

Lines of disbelief marred Kensworth’s broad forehead. He looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what, and so John took advantage of his silence.

“The Home Office blames the Hampden Clubs for much of the unrest around the country. While tonight I saw men earnestly working for reform, everyone else suspects these clubs of trying to start riots or harm the Prince Regent. Your involvement with supposed agitators cannot benefit anyone. If you lose the respect of your colleagues in the House of Lords because of your membership in the Hampden Club, what can you accomplish?”