July 23, the day my revenge will at last be complete.
It was never enough. No matter who he hurt, the peace of revenge alluded. The whole class of nobles must fall. Surely, Jack Bender would have peace when England’s government toppled at his feet, when he stormed their offices and placed himself and his followers at the head. His face twitched, and he rubbed it vigorously to try to make it stop. A new committee of public safety to oversee a full-scale revolution! Long live the people! His heart raced in anticipation.
A man in a purple tailcoat covered in gold stars, with several spyglasses hanging from his waistcoat and a watch fob as well, interrupted him. “July 23 the entire cabinet will be in the room celebrating the passage of the Corn Law. It is written in the stars as the day of victory—it is a sign.”
Bender did not really like this new mystic who had joined their gang. But he was a powerful man in London. Most sought him in secret. It was rumored he had the ear of the Prince Regent himself, advising him in his choices of romantic dalliance. Emmerich’s presence in the room solidified Bender’s own seat of power, so he endured his nonsense.
This meeting held his most trusted members, who were seated around the table. Several wore black shrouds to cover their faces. Bender alone knew the identities of every member in his ring.
Baron Kenworthy said, “Well, thank the heavens for the stars then.” Several in the room hissed their disapproval. “Has anyone else considered the lunacy of this plan? All members of the cabinet? Including the prime minister himself?” A few members of the group started muttering in agreement.
Harrison, a newly acquired magistrate, said, “It’s bloody impossible. I don’t care what the stars say.”
Jack watched their reactions. Almost every face held lines of tension, their mouths pulled down in worry. His eyes stopped on Charles, who hid his reaction, his face a careful stone mask. Jack cleared his throat, and the room fell silent. “What do you say, Charles?”
Surprise flickered in the young man’s eyes, but his face remained blank. He cleared his throat. “Maybe if the members of this team could hear the plan, they would feel more confident in our ability to carry it out. I think you should tell us more.”
Jack felt Charles’s intense gaze, and every other eye followed until the room was cloaked in a tense silence, waiting. The usually obsequious Charles surprised him. Considering the potential challenge to his supreme authority, he stood. Immediately all eyes at the table dropped, and the men closest to him flinched.
“The prime minister and the members of his cabinet, as well as their wives, have all been invited to a dinner party in celebration of the passage of the detestable Corn Law.” Several of the hooded guests grumbled their disapproval of the bill.
Jack was secretly thrilled England had passed something so idiotic as the Corn Law. Nervous that the common people in England were rising in rebellion, the cabinet sought for ways to further tax the people, showing its greater power. Their recent choice, to tax the very sustenance the poorer classes survived upon, would send more to the poorhouses and the weak to their graves.
Happily for him, starving the poor would serve as excellent motivation for more to join his cause. The more who joined, the easier it would be to oust the nobility from their tightly held seats of power, to destroy the lives of all William loved, and to place himself as ruler over all. He cleared his throat to quiet the murmuring. “I feel it is so fitting, perfect really, that the prime minister will fall in the very act of celebrating one of the worst crimes ever committed against the English working class. Let it be known how the people feel about our government controlling the very source of our sustenance.”
The men around the table banged their fists in support. Jack appreciated their idealism. It made his job that much easier.
The annoying baron piped up again. “But how? How can we possibly accomplish such a thing?”
Jack’s eyes pierced his until the baron’s gaze lowered in submission, his face losing color. Satisfied, Jack turned his attention to Charles and continued. “That is all the information I am willing to give. You will receive pertinent additional instructions as necessity dictates. We will meet again at the pub on Cato Street two days before the event. Anyone unwilling to continue on in our cause may speak now.”
Jack waited placidly, staring in a deceivingly calm way at the floor. After a few moments, and when no one voiced another concern, he glared at each person around the table again and said, “Wise choice, gentlemen. Our inner ring is not a place for doubters.” His cheek began twitching, eyes closing and opening in sporadic movement.
He pulled back his tailcoat and brought a pistol forward in his hand, studying the cocking mechanism. He turned to his right and began walking around the room behind those sitting at the table. He stopped beside each man, resting the gun on his shoulder or arm. Sometimes he let it linger along their upper back as he passed behind them. Nearing the baron, Jack tensed in irritation. He brought the gun up to the man’s temple.
The baron stiffened. “Oh, hey now, Jack. No need for that. I’m in. You know I’m in for good. A little grumble now and again never harmed anyone, now did it?”
Jack whispered in his ear, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Doubt is dangerous.” He lowered his gun, eliciting a collective sigh. But he raised it again immediately and fired a shot into the head of the person immediately to the right of the baron. The hooded man slumped forward, his head hitting the table. Jack ripped the hood from off the man’s head. Gasps showed surprise to find the face of John Scott, owner of the Adelphi Theatre.
“He was a spy,” Jack said.
Harrison, the magistrate, went white. He used his handkerchief to wipe his brow. More in reaction to the possible leak of information than to the loss of life, no doubt. Charles looked equally white, but Jack assumed his discomfort was more in reaction to the lifeless expression in John Scott’s eyes. Charles’s idealism was his greatest weakness.
“Charles.”
The boy stood up immediately.
“Dispose of the body somewhere public. Place this on his head.” Jack produced a red cap of liberty, which he placed in Charles’s outstretched hands. Charles motioned for one of the guards at the door to help him, and they half carried, half-dragged John Scott’s corpse from the room.
Later that night, Charlie scribbled furiously across the page, informing Red of all the details surrounding July 23. Still sick to his stomach from his earlier task, Charlie held a handkerchief up to his mouth while he wrote. If this information saves lives, it will all be worth it. He repeated to himself over again that and similar sentiments, but the tendrils of darkness remained, stealing his peace of mind.
John Scott had been a good man. He and his daughter, Jane, had run the theatre together. She served as its main playwright. What would she do now without her father? Even though she was the true source of the theatre’s success, without her father to give her credibility, she would lose patrons. Again, in his mind, Charlie saw the blank eyes of the dead John. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to blot out the image that seared his brain.
Refocusing on his efforts, he shook his hands and picked up his quill, dipping it into the ink. He would ride all night to deliver the message himself—this news must be in Red’s hands tomorrow.