The Perfect Princess (11 page)

The duke nodded. “And what fool took a shot at him? I mean that final shot that barely missed its mark?”

Digby spread his hands. “I don’t know, but when I find out, the man will be disciplined.”

This seemed to satisfy the duke. “Now tell me about Richard Maitland,” he said. “How did he come to be tried in a civil court and not by the military?”

“Because,” said Digby, “the civil authorities got to him first and refused to give him up. We could have insisted, but public opinion wanted him tried in an open court. They thought we would be lenient with one of our own, I suppose. At any rate, our superiors decided not to make a fuss.”

The duke grunted. After a moment, he said, “So, who is this Maitland? What can you tell me about him?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” said Digby carefully, “time is wasting. Maitland can’t be far away. We should be organizing a search, house by house, and street by street.”

The duke lifted his head. His voice was suddenly harsh. “An excellent idea if there were anyone left to organize. But your men are pursuing a fugitive. And let’s hope no one else takes a shot at him, or our best chance of finding Maitland will be gone.”

Digby bit down on his lip.

“So,” continued the duke, “while we wait, tell me about Richard Maitland. How did such a man come to be the chief of staff at Special Branch? Who are his friends? His family? Who can he turn to for help?”

“I believe,” said Digby, “his family lives in Scotland. His father is a lawyer of some sort, but not well-known or distinguished in any way. A modest family, you might say. Their son was ambitious. He did well at school, and went into the army on graduating from university. Eventually, he transferred to British Intelligence in Spain.”

When Digby paused to gather his thoughts, Lord Caspar said, “He sounds like an admirable fellow. So what went wrong?”

“What went wrong,” said Digby with feeling, “is he got too big for his boots. He didn’t become chief of staff
through his own merits, but because he was lucky. He was in the right place at the right time.”

He seemed to realize that he was becoming too passionate, and after a short pause, spoke in a more moderate tone. “You may have heard that there was a plot to assassinate the prime minister?”

“Yes, I heard,” said the duke. “Are you saying this Maitland fellow prevented it?”

“No. Only that he took the credit for it, he and his faithful hound, Harper.”

“I see,” said the duke. “Go on.”

“As a reward, Lord Liverpool appointed him chief of staff. If Section C had been consulted, we would have argued against the appointment. Maitland is not one of us. He doesn’t fit in. He doesn’t play by the rules, but thinks he is accountable to no one. As for his friends, he doesn’t have any, not what you and I would call real friends. He has colleagues and acquaintances, that’s all.”

“Well,” interjected Lord Justin laconically, “this bodyguard—what’s his name, Harper?—seems to be a true friend. Loyalty like that cannot be bought.”

Digby allowed himself a small smile. “Sergeant Harper!” he said. “An enlisted man, then a coachman, bodyguard, and now Maitland’s partner in crime. A true and fitting friend indeed, for the likes of Maitland.”

The duke’s brows came down. He counted among his friends his own coachman, Sellers, now retired, but living in comfort at Castle Devere. He didn’t like the tone of Digby’s remarks; he didn’t like his sneer; and he was coming to the conclusion that he didn’t like the man, either.

He looked at the other agent. “Well, Captain Whorsley, what have you to say?”

“Oh.” Whorsley looked at Digby. “I agree with everything Major Digby says, Your Grace.”

Digby said, “He won’t get away with this, Your Grace.
He has nowhere to go and no one to turn to. We’ll catch him, and when we do, he’ll pay for his crimes.”

When the duke stood, everyone respectfully got up as well. “Now listen to me,” he said. “Catching Maitland and making him pay for his crimes is not our object. Our object is the safe return of my daughter, and if, God willing, she’s still alive, we’ll give Maitland whatever he wants to get her back. If he demands a ransom, I’ll pay it. If he wants a safe passage out of England, I’ll arrange it. If he wants amnesty, he can have it. Whatever Maitland wants, he can have. Is that understood?”

Both agents nodded, Whorsley at once, Digby with obvious reluctance.

The duke’s gaze wandered to the small-paned window. “But,” he said, his voice low and thick, “if anything happens to my Rosamund, Maitland will answer to me for it, and to no one else.”

The silence that followed these chilling words was broken by the sound of horses’ hooves clattering over cobblestones. The duke strode to the window and looked out. “Your men are beginning to return, I believe, Major Digby,” he said. “And empty-handed, I think.” He turned from the window. “I’m making this inn my headquarters for the present. You will inform me of all developments. That is all.”

When the agents looked at him blankly, he said, “You were going to organize a search, I believe? Well, go to it.”

Digby and Whorsley bowed themselves out of the room.

They were silent as they descended the stairs, but on entering the stable yard, they both let fly with an obscene expletive.

“Did you hear him?” asked Whorsley incredulously. “We’re to give Maitland whatever he wants.”

Digby was seething. “Safe passage out of England! A ransom! They’re going to reward that murdering swine? Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Whorsley shook his head. “There’s nothing we
can
do about it. You know our orders. We’re to do nothing without consulting the duke. And those orders come directly from the prime minister.”

“There are ways around orders.”

They’d been walking toward a group of horsemen who had just dismounted, but at these words, Whorsley stopped in his tracks. “You have a plan?”

Digby let out an impatient sigh. “Of course I don’t have a plan.” He turned to face his companion. “All I’m saying is that we can’t consult the duke if he’s not there. And no one can predict what will happen when we corner Maitland. Soldiers panic. Guns go off. Who is to say who fired the first shot? And if the duke’s daughter is returned unharmed, who will care?”

“And if she’s not unharmed?”

“We’ll blame Maitland for it. No one is going to listen to what he says anyway.”

He felt humiliated by the duke and his sons and took his wrath out on the soldiers who were returning after a fruitless chase.
Maitland!
he thought.
Always Maitland!
The duke and his sons should have reviled the upstart. They should have been out for his blood. But it was Maitland whom they seemed to admire, albeit reluctantly, and himself who was made to feel small.

Well, he was done with living in Richard Maitland’s shadow. He’d proved he was the better man. Maitland had brought nothing but shame to the honor of the Service. If he had been made chief of staff, as was his due, Maitland would have been relegated to some insignificant post where he could do the least harm.

And now they would all be watching him—the prime minister, the home secretary, his colleagues—to see how he handled the Maitland affair. Let them! He was more
than a match for Richard Maitland, and this was his chance to prove it.

Upstairs, in the duke’s private parlor, the atmosphere was considerably more relaxed. Caspar and Justin were lounging in armchairs, and the duke was standing in front of the fireplace, smoking a cheroot. Justin fished in his pocket, withdrew a cheroot, and lit it from the candle in the center of the table. The duke watched him light it, but kept his lips firmly sealed.

His sons, he reminded himself, were grown men and answerable to no one but themselves. He could hardly object to them smoking when he, himself, enjoyed the odd cigar. And there were worse things than smoking. His glance flicked to Caspar.

He was too handsome for his own good. Too good-looking, too much money, and too many fast women—that was Caspar’s trouble. When was he going to settle down?

And why was he worrying about such trifles when his daughter’s life could be hanging in the balance?

Justin exhaled a plume of smoke, caught his father’s eye, and said, “Did you say something, Father?”

“No,” barked the duke. “Just open the window.”

Caspar stretched his legs. “The more I listened to Digby,” he said, “the less hostile I became to Maitland. I wonder if Digby knows that every time he opens his mouth, his envy shows? The man is consumed with professional jealousy.”

“And,” added Justin, “conceit.
He’s not one of us
. You know what that means? Maitland didn’t go to the right schools, or get into the right clubs.”

Caspar said, “Well, he went to the right university. I heard that he went to Cambridge for a year, but left under a cloud. So maybe that’s when the corruption started.”

The duke said, “Just as long as you remember that he
is
corrupt. And dangerous. I don’t like Digby or Whorsley any more than you do, but they weren’t convicted of murder, and they didn’t abduct your sister.” He paused, then went on, “All the same, I don’t think we’ll leave everything up to those two. They didn’t strike me as particularly clever, and we’re dealing with someone who is razor sharp. His escape from Newgate was brilliantly executed. He doesn’t panic when things go wrong; he uses circumstances to his advantage. He couldn’t have known Rosamund would be there, but when he was cornered, he used her to get away.”

He looked at his sons steadily, trying to impress his words upon them. “Don’t underestimate him. Remember, he has killed once. He has nothing to lose if he kills again.”

Caspar said quietly, “What do you want us to do, Father?”

“We need more information. It’s nonsense to say that Maitland has no friends. Harper is loyal to him, isn’t he? There must be someone else, someone who can provide him with shelter, and money to live on. A friend from the past, a fellow soldier perhaps.”

“Shall I start with his colleagues at Special Branch?”

“No. Those Whitehall types are notoriously tight-lipped. Start with Callie. I still don’t understand what she and Rosamund were doing in Newgate. Maybe she can give us a lead on Maitland.

“Justin, I want you to take a message to Twickenham. If Maitland wants to barter for a ransom or whatever, he may leave a message there. Tell my secretary where I am, and he’s to let me know at once.”

“Done.”

“And we’ll need our own men.”

“How many?”

“A dozen should do it.”

Justin grinned. “That’s no problem. Half our footmen and groundsmen are former soldiers.”

“I hope they make better soldiers than they do footmen and groundsmen,” muttered the duke. “Yes, yes, I know. Times are hard and the least we could do was give them employment when they came home from the war.”

The duke walked his sons to the door. “I’ll keep an eye on things here, but get back as soon as you can.”

Casper clasped his father’s hand. “Rosamund is safe, Father. She is Maitland’s trump card. He won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I know,” said the duke. “I know.”

But when he was alone, he wasn’t sure he knew anything at all.