Lord Haversham Takes Command Page 7

  “You are not wrong,” George stated with his usual arrogance.

  “Come, have some coffee,” Lady Crenshaw insisted.

  “Delighted,” Harry said. “I find there was a dreadful racket all the night long. I’m simply exhausted! It shall require nothing less than an entire pot to put me to rights.” As Lady Crenshaw poured out a steaming cup, Harry stole another glance at Mira to see if she appreciated this reference to her interrupted night’s sleep, but she had turned pointedly away from him and was now staring at her cousin as if the sudden growth of a set of horns had spread to him from the crockery.

  “George,” she said, “it is rumored that you have bought another race horse.”

  “Yes, a Thoroughbred of the finest quality,” he replied with a nod. “I had intended to race him at the next assize-week, but I find I am needed in London.”

  “But of course you intend to appear for at least a portion of this year’s Season, Your Grace,” Lady Crenshaw admonished, “as it is Mira’s come-out.” She gave her husband a bit of a nudge to the elbow whereupon he echoed his wife’s sentiments.

  “It wouldn’t be a London Season without the Duke of Marcross, would it?” he replied with all the charm for which Sir Anthony was noted. Though he was nobody’s sycophant, Harry knew Mira’s father to have the tidiest manners of his class.

  “Naturally, it is for Mira’s come-out that I dashed about so in order to be ready in time, but I do regret leaving behind Witch’s Brew,” George said without the slightest thought for Mira’s feelings. This time, when Harry stole a glance at her, she met his gaze in a moment of affable accord before looking away again with a jerk.

  “Such a love story!” Harry said with a sip of his coffee. “I wager Witch’s Brew misses you more than anyone, those present not to be excluded. In point of fact, I should go so far as to suggest that Miss Crenshaw feels the pain of that cruel separation more than most.”

  Mira, her cup to her lips, attempted to hide her sudden mirth, but Harry knew she needn’t have spared the feelings of the Duke who continued to speak of her as if she were anywhere but seated across the table from him.

  “Miss Crenshaw, as always, has my best interests at heart,” he said. “It is for this reason, as well as my father’s wish, that I find her an acceptable choice as my bride.” He would have said more save for the clatter of porcelain cups being hurriedly joined to their saucers all around the table.

  Harry was a bit taken aback by the reaction of the Crenshaws as he had feared Mira’s betrothal to her cousin to be a fait accompli. Hope rose a bit in his heart as he assessed the faces around him. Sir Anthony looked mildly surprised, as if he hadn’t expected quite so precipitate an announcement. That, at least, was something in Harry’s favor. Lady Crenshaw bore a look of long-suffering as if she wasn’t entirely sure she approved of a match between her daughter and the Duke, a nearly unquestionable vote against it. Mira, however, looked as if she simply hadn’t heard what George had said as she once again took up her cup and swallowed the dregs of her hot chocolate.

  “I believe that’s the last of my breakfast,” she said with a cheery smile. “Shall we be on our way?”

  “Oh, but Haaaa … Bertie hasn’t had a bite to eat,” Lady Crenshaw said.

  “Really?” Mira asked. “What a pity as I am persuaded he is possessed of a strong desire to be seated inside the carriage this morning, and it seems as if George shall most likely get there first.”

  Harry was jerked from his feigned somnolence by this pronouncement. Why, it was almost as if Mira wished to be seated next to George all the day long. And here Harry thought that they had an understanding after his making a clean breast of things such a short time ago. Nearly a clean breast, rather. He looked a question at Mira and was answered by a look of challenge in return.

  Could she be playing at seeming disinterested in him? If so, it was not Mira’s usual style. Unlike most young ladies of Harry’s acquaintance, she was the sort of girl who said what she meant and meant what she said. It was one of the qualities he loved best in her. He tossed his napkin to the table and rose to his feet whilst he attempted to remember just what it was she did say after he had confessed to her so much more than he should have.

  He was so engaged with his thoughts, he barely noticed George had already risen to his feet and taken Mira by the arm. They were fully out in the yard before Harry realized he lagged behind the entire group, that he had, with Mira’s acceptance and perhaps even approval, lost out on being seated beside her for the duration and that he, as of yet, had not bespoken his mount. By the time the horse was saddled and Harry mounted, the Crenshaw carriage was all but lost behind a cloud of dust.

  Harry considered breaking his whip on his horse’s back in order to catch them up but was too occupied with the question of what exactly had gone wrong to put any further plan into action. He had told her all he could, more, even, than he should have and had believed her to understand. Even if she did not hold him in the highest regard, she would surely prefer him by her side in the carriage than her cousin any day of the week, of this Harry was quite certain.

  He owned once again that it wasn’t like Mira to play games, but it seemed she was doing exactly that. Faced with the prospect of a long day in the saddle alongside the carriage with nothing but hope to sustain him held little allure. Instead, he could be in London hours ahead of them as he drew danger away from those he esteemed as well as his own family — better, even. As such, Harry decided to sheer off and complete his journey the way he had started it: entirely alone.

  Upon his arrival in the city, Harry rode directly to Claridge’s, opting to delay paying a call to Haversham House to face his mother’s displeasure at his decision to lodge elsewhere to some point in the future, the further away the better. Once ensconced in his room as private citizen Samuel Linford, he was free to eat a hearty meal by the fire, without danger of being tripped, shot at, or slapped under the table. That being said, he was more than happy to admit he had yet to pass the time under a table so pleasantly, even when he took into account his rainy day fort-building with the Holland covers as a boy.

  As the promised coded knock at the door did not immediately occur, Harry was free to reflect on the conundrum of his situation; he was in love with a girl who placed much stock in truth, whilst he earned his daily bread by concealing the very fact that he was employed and by whom. It was enough to undo the sternest of men. By the second day of confinement, apprehensive and unable to do anything about his ailing heart or his assignment, Harry was up for just about anything. When a scratch at the door came at nearly twelve of the clock on a moonless night, he was dressed, armed to the hilt and ready for anything as long as it meant moving forward.

  Donning his greatcoat against the damp of a May night, he descended the hotel stairs and let himself out the front door with a borrowed key. The fact that he hadn’t permission nor the owner knowledge of his having lent it had naught to do with anything. The Queen must be protected at any cost, and the temporary loss of a key was nothing. The possible sacrifice of a life spent with Mira was not so easily dismissed, but dismiss it for the moment, he must.

  He worked his way around to the mews as quickly as he dared and saddled his horse with such stealth even the stable hand hadn’t a notion he had been saved the trouble. He then walked the horse down the lane through the mud of the verge so as to muffle the noise of his departure and waited to mount until he was well down the road. Only then did he think to wonder how many miles he would need go that night and when he might again see his bed.

  He was tempted to wonder as well when he might see Mira again, but he forced the thought aside. He had no idea what would come of this night, where his next assignment would take him, and when. He might have only enough time in London to settle his bill before he was required to head off to parts unknown. Aware that he had given the Crenshaws the impression that he was in London for the Season, he fervently hoped it were true, but what if duty called elsewhere? How cou
ld he leave her now?

  Without warning, the skies opened, and the rain poured down as if in accompaniment to his woe. He urged his horse to run faster, ducked his head deeper into his collar, and raced through the night towards the Richmond bridge.

  By the time he sighted the towering Pagoda, his hat and coat were as wet as if he had plunged into the river itself, but at least the rain had stopped. He slowed his horse to a trot, entered the grounds of the gardens and headed for the Pagoda, relieved that the height of the tower made it visible in spite of the black night. He found a stand of trees in which to hide his mount, hobbled it, and reached into his pocket for a handful of raisins. While the horse enjoyed its treat, Harry studied the area for anything untoward but he could see very little below the heavily shadowed tree line. Pulling out his pistol, he cocked it, and moved into the inky blackness with an arm outstretched.

  It seemed a small eternity before he came in contact with the rough brick of the Pagoda, but he had made it and with only one minor stumble when his boot hit the foundation. With his pistol in his right hand and the fingers of his left brushing against the outer wall, he went round the circular building and listened for any signs of life; he was rewarded with the echo of boots striking the inner staircase, step by step. Though he daren’t assume the person inside the Pagoda was his secret service contact, he moved forward without hesitation when he heard a faint nicker of a horse just as his hand brushed against what he hoped to be the entrance.

  If Harry remembered his history aright, the Pagoda was over one hundred and fifty feet tall, and more than two hundred and fifty steps would have to be taken before he reached the last of ten floors, making this the most tedious part of his night. The steps were steep and his need for stealth great, so he took his time, especially since the interior was black as pitch. Shafts of paler dark spilled through the windows of each floor, but as the staircase was in the center of the building, it did little to illuminate his path.

  He counted each floor as he reached it, and just when he thought his thigh muscles would fail before he gained the final floor, he heard something that didn’t sound quite right. He stopped dead in his tracks, brought his pistol up, and listened. The sound was muffled, but gradually he realized he heard a conversation, one between two men. He was to meet but one. Instantly, he dropped to a crouch and crawled a few steps higher so as to better hear what was being said.

  “It wouldn’t matter if you were the Queen herself,” came a voice Harry had never before heard. “You shan’t have the paper until you give me the password.”

  What was this? Surely these weren’t Harry’s orders under discussion!

  “You are being overcautious, sir. I am precisely who I say I am and I must insist on having that letter!”

  With this utterance Harry broke out into a sweat so sudden, his pistol nearly slipped from his hand. He strained his eyes in the darkness in hopes of locating exactly where the two men stood so as to better ascertain a suitable place to hide, as hiding was his best option; one could hardly shoot dead the Duke of Marcross, even if Harry could see him well enough to hit him.

  “What are you waiting for, man!” George continued. “Surely you cannot doubt a duke. I must have that paper this instant!” he hissed just loudly enough to cover Harry’s ascent of the final steps to the top floor landing, whereupon there came a low thud followed by a louder one as, Harry assumed, his secret service contact fell to the floor.

  Harry had just enough time to slip to one side of the top stair and take cover in the inky shadows against the far wall before George rushed the staircase and fled with a clatter that Harry could only wonder at; surely, were George a traitor, he should be at as many pains to shield his identity as was Harry. How the Duke had managed to follow Harry and get ahead of him on the stairs of the Pagoda was a mystery as was why George should wish to.

  Harry brooded on these questions as he made his way to the man lying on the floor and groaning in pain. Harry removed his riding gloves and fingered the man’s head until he felt a quantity of warm, sticky blood. Relief washed over him as further investigation revealed that the injury was not serious.

  “The orders … ” the man murmured as his head turned from side to side between Harry’s hands.

  “Where are they?” Harry demanded and abandoned the man for a proper search of the floor around him. “They’re not here,” he barked, moving his search from the floor to the man’s hands and pockets.

  “I can’t … I can’t give ’em to you without the password,” the man said with a groan.

  “Now that is something I do have,” Harry countered. “But first you must put the question to me.”

  “Sure, and you’re right,” the man muttered, followed by the sounds of his getting to his feet and moving towards the far wall of the tower. Harry could hear him fumbling with what must have been a lantern and a flint to light the candle inside. Within a moment, a flame flared into life, and Harry was face to face with his contact. “The question,” he said, “is this: Quae est Regina nostra?”

  Harry returned the answer in Latin as well. “Ipsa est, nulli nisi Victoria.”

  “Just so,” said the man. “But I can’t give you your orders as I don’t have them.”

  “Don’t have them?” Harry all but shouted. “Don’t tell me that coward actually managed to make off with them!”

  “He did at that,” the man replied with a shake of his head. “But I still needed to be sure you were legitimate as I have this for you as well.” He handed Harry a thick packet of vellum with the red seal of Lord Melbourne. “To whom it is to be delivered and when is included in your orders.”

  Harry drew a deep sigh and got to his feet. “Well, then, I am off to fetch them back. Report this incident to your contact and assure him I will get this sorted out.” Harry paused to take a last look at the man’s wound, and satisfied it was not in the least fatal, drew his gloves over his bloodied fingers. “I suppose it would be too much to ask if you were verbally made privy to my orders,” Harry said as he returned his abandoned weapon to his belt.

  “Nay,” the man replied with a shake of his grizzled head. “They were in Latin.”

  “Latin!” Harry exclaimed in disbelief.

  “Wot? You read Latin, doncha?”

  “Yes, of course.” All wellborn, titled schoolboys possessed of a goodly inheritance and a privileged family did. As such it did a fine job of narrowing down the possibilities as to his possible identity. He could hardly absorb the thought that George was a traitor to his country and preferred to assume his appearance at the tower was more of a misguided attempt to put a spoke in the wheels of Harry’s endeavors. Perhaps George was even clever enough to view Harry as competition for Mira’s favor, in spite of ‘Bertie.’”

  Nevertheless, George was the last person Harry trusted with sensitive information. And if George had somehow known enough to follow Harry to Richmond … It was a thought that filled him with dread.

  “I hadn’t tho’t of that,” the man said. “The password, it’s in Latin, too.”

  “Yes, but that’s hardly here nor there, is it? That’s just between us,” Harry said as he paced the bit of floor visible under the glow of the lantern.

  “So were the orders, until that duke scarpered our meet.”

  “Yes, about that,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his head. “We can feel confident that an eminent peer of the realm would not be fool enough to reveal himself as such.” The fact that the Duke of Marcross did just that was all of a piece. “Clearly, it’s just a cover, one that a true duke would not appreciate, were he to know.”

  “Come to think of it,” Harry’s companion mused, “he was a right unpleasant fellow, not what you would think of as a duke a’tall.”

  “Ha!” Harry said with a bark of laughter. “Then you have had little dealings with dukes,” he revealed, then chided himself for his frame of mind. Protecting the identity of the Duke was of paramount importance, at least until Harry could ascertain his inn
ocence of anything but severe petulance. However, if he found George to be a traitor to his country, Harry would draw and quarter him with his own two hands. But could Mira forgive him if he did so? The thought led to a melancholy of such force, it took him by surprise.

  “Unpleasant or no,” Harry said carefully, “you would look a fool if you were to report that a peer of the realm was the villain in this piece.” He took up the lantern and handed it to his companion. “I believe this is yours,” he said. “You had better be off and get that head cleaned up.”

  The man did so, and Harry stood at the top of the stairs, watching until the light of the lantern as it swung to and fro, dimmed a bit, then a bit more, then finally disappeared through the main floor door and out of sight. It was not a journey of a few moments and it gave Harry time to reflect on what his next steps should be. Would it be best to confront the Duke directly or wait until Harry had more information to go on? Though it was hard to believe George cared much for anything but himself, it was entirely possible he was in the power of those with more information and far less scruples, misguided but earnest men who felt the young Queen Victoria too weak a monarch for the throne of England. The rumor of an impending betrothal to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was an even less welcome prospect to those who were weary of the Teutonic reign. As such, a chilling decision had been arrived at, one which caused Harry’s blood to boil: the young Queen should be murdered before her popularity had grown enough to translate into martyrdom at her death.

  The thought lent wings to Harry’s feet, and he dashed down the stairs and was on his horse, out of the shadow of the Pagoda, and over the bridge before he realized he hadn’t the faintest idea where he should go next. A glance up into the gray and lavender-streaked sky indicated that dawn would be fully upon him in a matter of hours. Suddenly, it seemed imperative to plan his next steps with a steaming cup of tea at hand and his feet resting on the fender of a cheerful fire. It was far too long before he could make his thoughts a reality, but once he had changed into his dressing gown and bespoken a pot of tea, he thought he just might live.