Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (44 page)

“I’m not. I’ve never give the matter any thought. Oh, very well then.”

Rosamund gazed down at the dregs of her teacup as though she were a fortune teller reading the tea leaves. A solitary tea leaf bobbed on the surface. With an index finger, she pushed it under. A moment later, it bobbed right up again.

“Drat,” she said, “I can’t get rid of him.”

“Who?” asked Callie, baffled.

“The one who is tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Well, I hope he is tall. Nothing looks more ridiculous than a woman of your stately proportions dancing with a man she stands head and shoulders above. So? Go on?”

Rosamund carefully set down her teacup and bared her teeth in a fixed smile. “Why,” she said, “he’ll be just like you, Callie, you know, blunt to the point of rudeness. I won’t have to wonder what he’s really thinking because he’ll tell me straightout, to my face. He won’t think of me as a duke’s daughter. He won’t care about my fortune. He’ll contradict me at every turn. He won’t try to curry favor with my father or my brothers, and if they cross him, he’ll tell them to go to the devil.

And …”

“And?”

“And when we play cards or chess or whatever, he won’t sulk just because a female has beaten him.”

Callie laughed. “I think you mean every word.”

“Oh, I do. But since this paragon of virtue has yet to show his face, I’ll just have to make do with you. Now, let’s stop playing games and tell me what we’re going to do this morning.”

Callie adjusted the clasp of her gold bracelet as she spoke. “I’m afraid you’ll have to entertain yourself for an hour or two this morning, because I have an appointment I must keep.” She looked up and smiled. “I’d invite you along, but your father would have a fit if he ever found out.”

Rosamund was beginning to be annoyed. “I thought you knew my father better than that. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s all bluster. And if I had paid attention to his fits, as you call them, I would have accepted
Prince Michael, wouldn’t I? So let me worry about my father and tell me where we are going this morning.”

Callie shook her head. “No. All teasing aside, it’s not the sort of place you would feel comfortable in.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Fine. I’m going to Newgate.”

“Newgate?
The
Newgate?”

“Yes. The prison.”

Rosamund had a ghoulish vision of a public execution. She gave her friend a sharp look as a thought occurred to her. This was typical of Callie. She’d established herself as an original, someone who would dare the devil just for the thrill of it. That was one of the reasons she was so much in demand. She had a fund of stories that kept her audience both shocked and enraptured. Callie was never dull. She attended masqued balls that ladies weren’t supposed to know about; she’d been on a balloon ride; she’d even watched the battle of Waterloo from the edge of the field. But a public execution was going too far.

Callie’s delicate brows winged upward. “I don’t know what’s going through your head, but I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong. This is a mission of mercy.”

She got up and went to the sideboard. A moment later, she returned to the table with a folded newspaper and passed it to Rosamund. “Front page, Richard Maitland,” she said. “The trial has been going on all week. You must have read about it. He’s been found guilty and sentenced to death.”

Rosamund glanced at the paper then looked up at Callie. “Isn’t he the man who murdered his mistress at the George and Dragon?”

Callie shook her head. “He denies that she was his mistress. He says he was trying to help her find employment. Her father served with him in Spain, and after his death, she had fallen on hard times. He says that she was already dead when he entered her room and her assailants attacked him.”

“That’s not what the prosecutor said. He called it a crime of passion. She was going to leave him for someone
else, wasn’t she? There were witnesses who said as much.”

“Oh, yes, witnesses, if one can call barmaids and chambermaids credible witnesses.”

There were times when Callie could be downright irritating, as now. She wasn’t a snob, but when she made up her mind about something, she would say anything to win her point. Rosamund had followed the trial in the newspapers, but not very closely because her own name was being bandied about as the future Princess Michael of Kolnbourg and her mind had been preoccupied. But she remembered thinking that Richard Maitland was as guilty as sin.

“Barmaids and chambermaids,” she said, “are respectable people, and the jury believed them.”

“Hah! There was nothing respectable about that lot. I could tell just by looking at them. Oh, yes, I was there at the trial. I never missed a day.”

It didn’t surprise Rosamund to learn that Callie had attended the trial. It was quite common for ladies of fashion, at least the bolder ones, to attend such events, and Callie was bolder than most. After a moment, she said, “Why would these witnesses lie?”

“Maybe someone bribed them. Or maybe they’re frightened to tell the truth. Maitland said that he had powerful enemies.”

Rosamund shook her head.

“What?” demanded Callie.

“Why are you so determined to believe that this man is innocent?”

Callie’s voice was vivid with impatience. “Because of who he is. He’s an officer and a gentleman. He is … was chief of staff of Special Branch. I’d rather believe him than barmaids and chambermaids. And I’m going to tell him so, to his face. Oh, don’t look so shocked. He’ll be shackled. We won’t come to any harm.”

Rosamund didn’t know enough about the case to argue the point, and she knew, too, that when Callie’s mind was made up, nothing could change it.

“Who is ‘we’?” she asked.

“Oh, Aunt Fran. And we’re to meet Charles there. So you see, I’ll be well chaperoned.”

Charles was Callie’s brother-in-law and, as Rosamund remembered, held some position at the Home Office. He was a born worrier, and Rosamund wondered how Callie had managed to persuade him to become involved in such a hare-brained scheme.

Callie had been studying Rosamund’s face, and she let out a soft sigh. “Listen, Roz,” she said. “I feel sorry for the man, that’s all. His friends have all deserted him. I just want him to know that someone believes in him. So, I’m going to give him a royal send-off—champagne, roast duck, truffles, that sort of thing. Don’t look so worried. He may not agree to see me. Then I shall just leave my basket of treats with the keeper.”

There was an interval of silence, then Callie went on, “I don’t suppose you ever ran into Maitland when you were in Spain?”

“Was Maitland in Spain?”

“He served all through the Peninsula campaign. His war record is spotless. It was all in the papers.”

“No, I never met him. But that’s not surprising. My father and I were guests of the ambassador. The only soldiers I met were pretty high up in the chain of command.” Rosamund broke off when a maid entered.

“A letter arrived for Mr. Tracey, ma’am,” said the maid.

“Thank you, Mona.” Callie took the letter from the silver salver the maid held out to her. After the maid withdrew, she examined the seal. “Poor Uncle Edward,” she said. “He still gets invitations to his regiment’s reunions. He’ll want to go, of course. I suppose it will be all right if Charles goes with him.” She smiled at Rosamund. “But whether he goes or not, he’ll be delighted to receive the invitation. I’ll just run upstairs and give it to him. Shall we meet back here in say, oh, half an hour? If you’re not here, I won’t take offense. I know how difficult your father can be when you forget you’re a duke’s daughter.” And with a commiserating smile, she left Rosamund to her own thoughts.

Rosamund slumped back in her chair, something she would never have done if someone had been there to see her. Callie, she reflected, had the uncanny knack of making her feel less than adequate.

Who was she trying to fool? She
was
inadequate. She was the kind of girl nothing much ever happened to. But Richard Maitland? A mission of mercy to a convicted killer wasn’t the kind of excitement she was looking for.

Her eye fell on the newspaper Callie had offered her. After a moment, she reached for it and shook it out with enough force to tear the page. It was dated July 8, 1816. She began to read.

Maitland Guilty! Sentenced to Hang!

Colonel Richard Maitland, chief of staff of Special Branch, was found guilty today at the Old Bailey of the murder of Miss Lucille Rider. There was speculation that the jury might recommend clemency in view of the defendant’s distinguished war record, but no such recommendation reached the court. Before passing sentence, Chief Justice Robarts said that this was a particularly brutal crime, and that crimes of passion must never be tolerated in a civilized country. After donning the black cap, he pronounced the sentence of death.

Maitland’s expression remained stoic throughout. No sound was heard in the packed courtroom as the sentence was read. Colonel Maitland, who has always protested his innocence, was led away in chains.

There were many on the steps of the Old Bailey who expressed satisfaction with the verdict. The general view seemed to be that no one was above the law, and a man in Colonel Maitland’s position, a man who was sworn to uphold the law, should be dealt with severely.

Many expressed their sympathy for the victim, such as a former chambermaid at the tavern where the murder took place. It was the testimony of Miss Rider’s friends that was largely responsible for the conviction. Though Maitland always insisted that his relationship with Miss Rider was innocent, their sworn statements to the contrary undermined his defense.

A highly placed source at Special Branch, who wishes to remain anonymous, commented that the colonel was an intensely private person who ran the department with a rod of iron. When asked about rumors of Maitland’s unorthodox and sometimes brutal methods, the official refused to confirm or deny them.

The execution has been set for June 11 at 8:00 A.M. outside Newgate prison.

Rosamund read the article again, then laid the paper aside. It did not seem to her that there was anything here to stir her sympathy for Richard Maitland. Many soldiers had distinguished war records, but that was no excuse for murder. Even his own colleagues at Special Branch had nothing good to say about him.

His defense, as she remembered, was that his enemies had engineered the whole thing. He was the real target, not Miss Rider. They killed her to make it look like a crime of passion and so deflect suspicion from themselves. It was too bad for Maitland that the prosecutor produced a physician who claimed that the stab wound to Maitland was superficial and not life-threatening. The poor girl’s throat had been slit. As for Maitland’s enemies, there was not one shred of evidence to suggest that they existed.

There had been a gunshot, but she could not remember how that fitted into the picture.

She glanced at the paper again. The execution was to take place tomorrow morning. A shiver ran over her. Now her sympathies
were
stirred. A mission of mercy—

She was still mulling over that thought as she went upstairs.