A Spy's Honor (35 page)

Duncan had his eyes closed, and John was glad of the opportunity for silence. He now knew more about Robert Cahill than he wanted. Kensworth’s brother had a pedestrian taste for gin, a strong preference for doxies, and an aptitude for boxing that didn’t surprise John. The information gave John an even more unfavorable opinion of Cahill, but none of it implicated the man in a plot to kill the prime minister.

They had followed Robert first to Whitechapel, where he had engaged in a number of morally questionable activities. Later that night, John had expected the man to return to Mayfair, but instead he rode out into Kent, spent the night at an inn, and then participated in a number of rowdy boxing matches the next day. Today. But now, at eight o’clock in the evening, it looked as if Cahill were heading back home. He rode in the hackney that John had directed his driver to follow, and if he did truly intend to retire to Kensworth House, John could go home, change clothes and see Claire.

The hackney turned onto Brook Street.
Excellent.
Kensworth House was just a block away. John drummed his fingers on the brittle leather seat, eager to put the past two days behind him. He wasn’t any closer to finding out who planned to harm the prime minister, but he was still close. He could feel it; his break would come soon.

The hackney squeaked to a stop. John peeked out the window and saw Robert entering Kensworth House.

“Where to now, sir?” the jarvey yelled down.

“Duncan, take the hackney back to your lodgings and get some sleep,” John said.

He moved to get out of the carriage—he could walk home from here—but froze when David Cahill bounced down the townhouse steps and climbed into the hackney that hadn’t left. A quick glance around showed him Flewett was nowhere to be seen, so no one was watching this Cahill brother, so John cursed under his breath and then ordered the jarvey in pursuit. As the carriage clattered forward, he slammed his fist against the wall. Duncan lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

With the sun fading in the west, David’s hackney rolled to a halt in Covent Garden. Perhaps he simply meant to take in a theatre performance. John fervently hoped so.

He paid the jarvey to take Duncan home, silencing that man’s protest with assurances he could handle watching their quarry. Once he ascertained that David planned to stay for a play, he would find another hackney to take him home.

But David didn’t enter the Theatre Royal. Instead he bought an orange from a pretty girl and then propped himself against the wall of No. 7 Bow Street.

Was he waiting for someone? John weaved through the crowd until he was closer to the corner of Hart Street and had a prime view of both David and the theatre, and for the next hour he watched David watch the theater. Carriages, some opulent, some plain, paraded past the theatre, dropping off all manner of passengers. David didn’t seem interested in anything else, just the conveyances streaming by.

As the traffic slowed to a trickle, he finally pushed away from the wall and moved down Bow Street. John turned away and walked in the opposite direction for a moment, then reversed course and followed the brawny David into Broad Court, a small lane across from the theatre. There, in his affable style, youngest Cahill chatted up the coachmen waiting for their employers.

Stymied by his behavior, John hung back near the entrance to the lane. After a time, however, David meandered farther down Broad Court. John followed him to the end, where David clambered into a carriage. Intent on looking for a hackney for himself, John was too busy to hear the footsteps behind him until just before he could anticipate the blow.

He flung out an arm, but the body crashed toward and into him and they both tumbled to the pavement.

Chapter Thirty

Disheveled and certainly beginning to bruise, John arrived at Allerton House after midnight. A sleepy-eyed footman, struggling to keep his expression bland at John’s unkempt appearance, let him in.

John climbed the stairs, exhausted after his two-day journey. Ironic, how the most exciting event of said journey had been a common footpad mistaking him for a milksop who wouldn’t put up a fight. After a struggle of some minutes, the thief had limped off much worse the wear and John had finally traveled home, purse intact.

David’s behavior at Covent Garden had been suspect, but he’d done nothing incriminating. Every lead John followed had ended with only a miniscule step forward. His suspicions lay almost entirely with David at the moment, but he couldn’t think what the young man was up to.

On the second floor, he stopped at the top of the staircase.

Covent Garden
.
The Theatre Royal
.

Macbeth
.

He’d wanted to escort Claire to the play. The only reason he knew about the performance was because it had been on the list of the prime minister’s activities. Liverpool would be in attendance tomorrow night.

Tonight
. It was Wednesday already. David had been surveying the theatre in anticipation of carrying out the assassination plot.

John turned and raced back down the stairs, his heart thundering, and a pang of grief struck his chest as he began to throw open the locks on the front door. Kensworth would be destroyed, not only by the scope of David’s intended actions, but also by the blow to his family’s character.

The footman came awake again, alarmed, so John called an apology as he threw open the door and raced out into the night. One thought was pounding through his brain.
Please God, let Watson still be at the club.

He ran to White’s, slowing to a walk only the last two blocks in order to catch his breath and right his appearance. Nonetheless, the footman standing sentry eyed him askance before recognizing him.

In the card room, he managed to snare Watson’s attention from afar, and the man met him in the corridor after finishing the hand he’d been dealt.

Looking him up and down, Watson shook his head. “Give a care to your appearance, man. You will not find it easy to escape notice with blood running down your cheek.”

John ignored this. “I have more important things to do at the moment than primp. Let’s take a walk.”

Watson followed him outside, but his slow gait indicated some reluctance. On the pavement, the man sniffed. “The ‘important’ information you’ve provided in the past has amounted to nothing. I was winning that card game, I’ll have you know.”

After today, he would be finished with Watson. Finished with his condescending tone and his falsely superior attitude. John guided them into a deserted lane and lowered his voice. “The assassination is scheduled for tonight at the Theatre Royal. Liverpool is expected to attend the performance of
Macbeth
. Make certain he doesn’t.”

Watson’s eyes lit up, a reaction John never expected. “What do they intend to do? Shoot him?”

“I’m not certain,” John said. “The conspirators seemed interested in the theatergoers’ waiting carriages. However, as long as Liverpool is not in Covent Garden tonight, what they have planned is irrelevant.”

“And these conspirators are…?” Watson asked.

“Once I have captured them, I will make a full report to Lord Sidmouth.” John meant to appeal to the Home Secretary on Kensworth’s behalf. If he could get David to call off the plot, leniency might be an option, although John didn’t have high hopes, not considering Sidmouth’s stance against political agitators. For Kensworth, though, he would try.

Watson frowned but finally shrugged. “Very well. I will report directly to the Home Secretary at a suitable time later this morning.”

John watched his liaison saunter off, not at all unhappy to see the last of Harry Watson. Now he could concentrate on talking sense to David.

After that, he could focus on Claire. His assignment was nearly over. He was almost free.

He returned to Allerton House, his step lighter than before, and the footman patiently let him in again. He needed a change of clothing and to deal with the mess that was his face, but more importantly he needed time to think of how best to approach Kensworth’s brother. He’d ascertained earlier that David had returned home, and both of Sidmouth’s men were again watching Kensworth House so John would be alerted if he left.

At the second floor landing, he paused. Claire’s room was to the right. His was to the left.

This was his brother’s house; propriety demanded he go straight to his chamber. Propriety also should have forced him to send Claire away the other night. Giving in to temptation hadn’t served them well. Their wedding was in the distant future, and they had no hope of keeping up a continued liaison under his brother’s and mother’s noses.

With reluctance, he turned to the left.

***

At nine o’clock the next morning, Harry Watson waited in the anteroom of the Home Secretary’s office for longer than he would have wished. Never before had he spoken directly to Sidmouth; he’d always been required to write lengthy reports regarding his meetings with Lord John.

This time he had demanded a face-to-face meeting, but he’d been made to wait. It didn’t bother him that the information he had wasn’t getting to Sidmouth in a timely manner; he wasn’t going to tell the truth anyway, but he didn’t appreciate wasting time that could be better spent planning his rise to glory.

The door to Sidmouth’s office opened silently, and Watson was beckoned forward by a clerk. He entered and bowed to the Home Secretary, who sat at his desk looking waspish.

“Well, what do you have?” Sidmouth said.

More than anything else, Watson was there to make certain the Secretary knew his face. When he saved Liverpool’s life tonight, he wanted to be properly recognized for his heroism. However, it couldn’t hurt to tarnish the shine of Lord John Reyburn.

“Sir, it has come to my attention that Reyburn attended the meeting of the Hertfordshire Hampden Club you ordered a raid on.”

A raid instigated by Watson when he wrote a report indicating the meeting might be suspicious, a report in which he also omitted the stated intention of Lord John to attend.

Sidmouth continued writing, barely sparing him a glance. “Perhaps he was following a lead.”

“Perhaps, sir,” Watson replied. “But doesn’t it seem odd to you that all those laborers and tradesmen escaped? Perhaps they knew what was to come.”

The Secretary gave him a sharp look. “Have you anything new regarding the assassination plot?”

Watson tilted his head and lied. “Alas, no, sir. Lord John is no nearer to finding the culprits.”

Sidmouth nodded in both acknowledgment and dismissal. “Thank you, er…Watson.” Watson bowed and hid his smile until he’d left the office.

Chapter Thirty-One

The morning sun streaming through his window reflected John’s renewed sense of purpose. Watson should be seeing to the cancellation of the prime minister’s attendance at
Macbeth
that night, and in another hour or so John would sit down with David and convince the young idiot of the error of his ways, hopefully saving his neck. But, for the moment, he needed to push aside his work. He had to see Claire, to explain his absence, to assure her the mission was almost complete, to take the next step in his circumspect courtship.

After bathing, dressing and ascertaining she was awake, John walked into her sitting room. Then he made sure she was alone.

She was ensconced in a chair by the sunny window, reading. How grand it would have been to have an artist behind him, capturing this moment forever, Claire sitting so prettily with her head tipped up, her brown eyes wide. She’d chosen a pale lavender dress that complemented her darker skin. He was happy to see she had secured her knitted shawl with her mother’s lace pin.

She jumped up at the sight of him.

Gratified by her delight, he went to her and hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her close, sprinkling light kisses all over her face. “I apologize for my absence. I never meant to leave you like that.”

She drew back but spoke to his chest. “Where were you?”

“The mission has kept me running day and night. I would like to tell you about it.”

“Why didn’t you wake me and tell me then? I thought we were working on this together. I’d begun to think of us as partners.”

Of course they were partners. “I didn’t— You were sleeping so soundly, so beautifully…”

She whirled out of his reach, her lavender skirts flouncing, and hissed, “You left me in your bed, where I could have been easily discovered by God knows who!”

“I was back before the sun came up, but you had already safely returned to your room.”
Thank God
. He approached her and cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t wake you, Claire.” He tried a smile. “I wasn’t thinking properly. Perhaps my brain was still jumbled from our encounter.”

“Why didn’t you send a note at some point over the last two days?” She stepped neatly away from his touch.

He sobered. “I had no opportunity that wouldn’t have compromised everything. I’m so accustomed to working alone, Claire. This is all new to me.”

Those brown eyes, usually so soft, were as brittle as shards of a broken bottle. “What do you mean to do now?”

He sensed a trap but answered honestly. “I will complete my mission today, though I’ll need to spend time on reports over the next few days as well. I would love to take you to the second performance of
Macbeth
tomorrow night.”

“You don’t intend to propose,” she accused, “do you?”

“Not at the moment.” Even before he finished, he knew that was the wrong answer. “Of course, I mean to propose eventually. I love you, for God’s sake. I’ve always loved you.”

That didn’t come out the way he’d planned either. She had his tongue all tied up in knots.

“We’ve waited five agonizing years and you don’t want to propose just yet?” She pulled her shawl more tightly around her arms. “The last time we were on the verge of marrying you walked away. I’m beginning to think you
don’t
want to marry me.”

“That is completely untrue.” And more heartbreaking words he’d never heard. He took a step and curved his hands around her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to marry you since those rash words—
‘We leave for Scotland tonight’
—left my mouth. You’re my everything, Claire. I’ll admit it was unforgivable of me to run off the first time, but I was trying to give you what you needed. I’m not asking you to marry me
right now
because I’m trying to be honorable. We agreed to protect Kensworth.”