The Love List (39 page)

He frowned. “I think you are tired.  Perhaps a rest—”

“No!  Look at them.”  She gestured toward the audience.  “Whatever Marstoke is planning, it’s going to happen now.  The audience is riding a wave of patriotism and emotion from the Spectacle and the welcome they gave the dignitaries.  Marstoke will use it.  He doesn’t know about the switch.  He’s going to try to stir them up now.  And look up there, your brother hasn’t spoken to the Regent yet.  Despite everything you’ve done to thwart him, Marstoke is going to score a victory tonight—unless you stop it.”

In the pit a young man rose to his feet.  “What’s this?  What’s this?” he cried.  “An abomination!”  He waved a pamphlet in the air.  The people about him stared.

Desperate, Brynne took his hands.   “There it is.  That’s the beginning—Marstoke has just set it in motion.  We need time—time for your brother to talk his way in to see the Regent.  We need an explanation for the people in the audience.  We need a distraction, to keep the rest of the people in that box from seeing too much of that damned List.  We need you, Aldmere.”

“Lies!” the young man called.  “Vicious lies and defamation!”  People in the audience were turning, demanding to know what the commotion was about.

“Brynne?  Clearly you have an idea, but I don’t know what it is.  What do you think I can do?”

“You have to take the last step, Aldmere.  You have to do what you never wished to—and make this personal.  You must meddle in the fate of nations and the lives of us all.”

He paled.  “What?”  His denial was instinctive.  “No!”

“You must.  You are here.  You have a wonderful gift—the only sort that could avert this now.  Look at what you did downstairs, just moments ago.  You held those theater people in your hand, defused the situation and inspired them to reach for a higher goal—and you were barely exerting yourself.  I know it’s been a long time.  I know you feel uneasy about interfering, but only good can come of this.  You want to come down from your tower?  Here’s your chance to jump with both feet.”

He stepped away from her.  Ran an agitated hand through his hair.

“Treason!  Lies!  Look to your seats!  Under your seats!”

“Damn it all to hell, Brynne!” he burst out suddenly.  “Why not ask me to slay a dragon?  Or to walk through fire?  Either of those would be easier.”

“I know I’m asking you to go against your every instinct and inclination, Aldmere.  I don’t do it lightly.  But look out there.  Marstoke is going to win.  He’s going to stir them to chaos and unrest and riot—unless you avert this crisis.  Only you can go out there and take these people in your hand.  Only you can steer them away from strife and ire.”

Brynne stared into Aldmere’s eyes.  She saw the doubt, the resistance.  She squeezed his hands and willed it away.  His pulse pounded hard and strong under her fingers. 

“Foul, disgusting filth!  Who spews such evil against our fair Princess? 

People in the pit, in the galleries, even in the boxes, were standing, pointing, whispering.  Gentlemen had begun to bend over and search beneath their own seats.

“Oh, damn it all to hell,” he cursed.  “I have to try.”  She gasped as he grabbed her up and kissed her fiercely.  “You’ve changed my thinking in a hundred ways, Brynne Wilmott, and you’ve been right so far.”  He gave her a half a smile.  “Let’s hope you’re right about this—for if this goes the way of things in the past, then I fear all hell will break loose.”

Pride surged.  She smiled and kissed him back.  “Go.”

He turned away.  Walked the few steps to the curtain’s edge.  She saw his shoulders square and straighten.  He strode out onto the stage.

Brynne glanced up into the Regent’s box.  Marstoke stood at the corner, List in hand, a wisp of a smile on his face.  The Regent was on his feet.  Even from here she could see the flush of his features. 

Aldmere stopped in the middle of the stage, in front of the curtain.  He stood and waited.

People began whispering his name.  Heads swayed.  In a wave, the audience turned from the shouting young buck to stare at the Duke of Aldmere, standing at ease on the Haymarket stage, still and silent, not even dressed in evening clothes.

Silence fell.  Even the rabble-rouser stood waiting.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” Aldmere said.

He looked magnificent—tall and broad-shouldered and confident.  The stage lights highlighted the glory of his stark, aristocratic bones and shone off of his thick, dark hair.  Even dressed as he was, in brown superfine and buff, he exuded poise and commanded attention.

“Who is that?” the stage director said, suddenly loud.  He brushed past Brynne.  “What is he doing?”

“Hold a moment.”  Brynne laid a hand on his arm.  “That’s the Duke of Aldmere.  He must speak.”

“He can’t be out there!”

Brynne tightened her grip.  “He’s about to save your night from disaster.  Let him speak and he’ll make sure tonight’s performance will go down in history.”

Frowning, the director stared out at the duke.

“Just listen,” Brynne said.

“I’m afraid someone is playing a distasteful joke.”  Aldmere raised an admonishing brow at the young buck in the pit.  That young gentleman merely looked confused.  He looked up at the Regent’s box, but Marstoke had slid toward the back.  The Regent had settled back in his chair.  All eyes were on Aldmere now.

“If you will all check beneath your seats, you will find that the theater’s management, besides giving us such a wonderful Spectacle tonight to honor our illustrious guests, has also gifted each of us with a keepsake.” 

“What’s he talking about?” the stage director said in a panic.

“Just watch,” ordered Brynne.

Throughout the theater, people were reaching under their seats.  In the Regent’s box, Brynne saw a man approach the Prince’s chair.  Lord Truitt, she fiercely hoped.  A quick bow and words were exchanged.  The man stepped close to the Prince, whispering so that the others could not hear.  The other dignitaries were reaching beneath their own chairs.  A couple of them had a Love List in hand.  Brynne saw another man moving among them, bending low to speak to each guest, gathering up the copies, exchanging them for the book of ballads. 

“I’ve got one!”  A woman in one of the galleries flapped a pamphlet in midair. 

Aldmere nodded at her.  “We must thank the Haymarket Theater for this collection of traditional English broadsheet ballads from our rich past.  Let us remember, as we move with new friends into a peaceful future, what has come before.  For surely our past has shaped us into the great nation that has led the effort and delivered the world from a terrible tyrant.”

The audience cheered.  Above, the Regent, flushed again and perched forward in his chair, relaxed.  Lord Truitt knelt beside him, still whispering feverishly.  Marstoke had inched back away from the edge of the box. 

And Aldmere had just got started.  He spoke of the cooperation of nations, of strong leadership, of fellowship of purpose.  He lauded the dignitaries and stirred the patriotism of every member of the audience.  They, already tuned to a fever pitch by the reception of the dignitaries and the grandness of the Spectacle, were beyond receptive.

Cheers broke out as Aldmere painted a picture of future peace and prosperity, of men moving forward and learning from the mistakes of the past.  Ladies teared up, dabbing their eyes with lace-trimmed handkerchiefs as their husbands shouted approval.  Blücher nodded and waved.  Even Tsar Alexander looked gratified. 

Backstage, the stagehands and a few others gathered next to Brynne and the director.  They were caught up in his spell, as well.  The entire theater hung in thrall to the stirring power of Aldmere’s deep voice, to the mesmerizing force of his personality, and to the inspiring message he spun. 

When he finished, the crowd surged to their feet in a round of wild applause.  Everyone around Brynne clapped as well.  Someone in the highest seats started a chorus of God Save the King.

Brynne barely heard it.  The workingmen around her melted away, back to their tasks.  But Aldmere headed straight for her as he stepped off of the stage.  She started toward him, her heart full of love and pride.  Such a simple thing, to some. But she knew how difficult it had been for him, knew the demons he must have fought, as he stood their waiting on the stage, knew the leap of faith he had taken, because she had asked it.  All she wanted was to tell him how proud she was of him, how honored she felt to love him.

She was not to get the chance.  A man stepped out from the backstage bustle, intercepting him, gesturing toward the Regent’s box.  Brynne started as she recognized the man who had chased them in Kennington. 

Aldmere shook his head.  He stepped around him, heading toward her again.  The gentleman waved his hand again, his movement sharper.  He spoke intently. 

Something he said gave Aldmere pause.  He shot Brynne an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he nodded, and turned away to follow a page behind the curtain, heading toward the other side of the theater.

The gentleman turned toward Brynne.

“Miss Wilmott,” he said, approaching.

She raised her chin and refused to answer.

“Ah, yes.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Stoneacre.  I do apologize for any misunderstanding between us that day in Kennington, but the Privy Council was determined to discover what plot Marstoke had hatched—and who was involved in it.  I beg your pardon, but at that juncture we were not sure where you stood.”

“I trust you’ve reached the correct conclusion about that now,” she said frostily.

“Indeed.  In fact, we are deeply grateful for your assistance in this matter—and we are ready to help.”

“Help?”

“I believe there are some matters below stairs that could use our attention?  Not to worry, reinforcements are coming now.  We shall arrange everything.  And I’ve promised the Duke of Aldmere that the first thing I would do would be to see you home safe.”

“Home?  Now?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes.  Marstoke slipped away while I was busy retrieving those damned Lists.  We don’t know where he’s gone or who else might be entangled in his scheming.  And wherever he is, he is not happy with you or Aldmere right now.”   He paused and his expression grew sympathetic.  “Aldmere has been summoned by the Prince Regent.  The explanations will take hours.  He won’t be finished anytime soon.”

She swallowed, suddenly exhausted at the thought of a long wait and the complications of dealing with Hatch and Rent and all the rest of it.  She looked at the spot where Aldmere had disappeared and her shoulders drooped.  “Fine, then.”  She sighed.  “Perhaps it is best indeed if I go home.”

Twenty-Five

At last I discovered that I was with child.  Lord M— was revolted.  Or perhaps he was tired.  Or he might have found a new innocent to destroy.  That night I was bundled into a carriage, driven for several hours, and dumped in a country lane—alone, without money, position or possessions.  I didn’t care. I stood alone in the dark, staring up at the half moon and the stars in the sky, and I nearly wept with joy. I was free.  I took my first step down that dusty road—and into an entirely new life.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

The sun shone mellow and warm the next day as Brynne left the Craven Street house.  She could see the sparkle of the river from here, and taste the balmy, afternoon breeze.  Yet none of the day’s beauties matched the nervous anticipation in her soul.

Where was Aldmere?  She beat the question into the pavement with quick, impatient steps as she turned north towards the Strand.  Why had he not come to her?   Surely the Regent had not kept him overnight and through the next day?

She walked to Charing Cross, where she could buy all of the afternoon’s papers.  She didn’t take them home, however.  She couldn’t bear the thought of reading them while Callie and Hestia and the rest of them looked on with growing pity.  Her feet turned west instead, never slowing until she passed through the gate of St. James’ Park.  She found a quiet bench at the edge of the lake and began sorting through the papers, one by one.

Each was full of lavish accounts of the Haymarket Theater’s triumphant evening.  The Grand Spectacle and all of the evening’s entertainments were praised, but the Duke of Aldmere’s grand oration garnered the most attention.  His proud bearing, his handsome countenance, his stirring words were all reported in great detail.  The Prince Regent’s gratification and the grand guests’ appreciation were noted.  There was no mention of Lord Marstoke at all.

With deliberate motions, Brynne folded and stacked each paper.  She stared out at the small peaks in the water.  Perhaps Aldmere would feel differently, now that the danger was passed and the excitement died down.  Perhaps the Regent was not happy with the idea of one of his highest noblemen taking up with a ruined woman.

“That bundle you spoke of, it wasn’t to be found.”  The voice came from directly behind her. 

She twisted on the bench.  “Oh.  Mr. Stoneacre.”

“Lord Stoneacre, actually, but I take no offense.”

It sunk in, then, what he’d meant.  “Do you mean you failed to find that bundle of papers in my cloak?  All that evidence against Marstoke?” she asked, aghast.

“It wasn’t to be found in that antechamber, or anywhere else in the theater, either.”

“But the risk I took!  And the proof it offered!”  Disappointment and anger swamped her.  “How could it disappear?  Only Hatch, Rent and I knew where it had been stashed.”  She paused.  “Unless—they didn’t escape?”

“No, they are both being held for trial, though for other charges rather than treason.”  He sighed.  “I’d certainly hoped to get my hands on that bundle, but it is gone.”  Frowning, he came around and sat beside her.  “His Majesty was not pleased.”