Tom and his father had watched the conversion of Prince Charles from the back of the small chapel, although Tom had considered the act unwise. If the prince thought he was eluding the government, he was sadly mistaken. His father was too old a hand to believe that, so he and Tom had arrived separately, dressed plainly. He’d worn the brown coat he’d last used when he scrambled over the garden gate of the Kirkburton property.
He must have been mad. On both occasions, come to that. To risk his life at the Kirkburtons and the reputation he was carefully constructing this morning at the chapel. But his father was set on attending, and someone had to take care of him.
As the prince had promised, several men of the cloth were in attendance. The service was discreet, but definitive. Tom took communion after the Prince, as did his father.
As they left the chapel, a group of men came forward. Tensing, Tom found the hilt of his sword and took his stance before his father. The prince had left first, through a discreet door at the side of the place. Had they taken him? Was this when the Dankworth family lost everything they had fought for? For this time they would be branded traitor and they would not escape. They had slipped through authority’s hands far too often to escape now.
But the men did not give Tom or the duke a second glance. Marching past, they took the arm of a man in company with the other clergymen, his white collar and lappets proclaiming him a member of their number.
“W-Where are you taking me?” the man faltered.
“The Fleet, for debt,” one said.
Only then did Tom relax. These people were debt collectors, and the unfortunate man would remain in prison until he paid his debt. Or died, whichever came first. Perhaps he could earn enough from conducting the clandestine marriages the Fleet was famous for to pay his way out.
Tom took his father to the end of the street and hired a hackney for him, following on foot. Hackneys were not supposed to ply their trade on Sundays, but the authorities did very little to stop them.
They had done little to stop the prince. “We will all be watched until the man leaves London,” he said. “They will not take him now. That small disturbance after was most likely a warning.”
They went home to breakfast.
“It is a great pity we cannot entertain the prince here,” the Duke of Northwich murmured over the meal. “It would be so much more convenient for him. And we could treat him the way he deserves.”
Tom shuddered at the notion. “We’d be in the Tower by nightfall.”
“More’s the pity.” Even talking about such things was risky, but the duke loved tempting fate. He liked to say that all his servants were loyal to the Crown, without mentioning which crown.
At least they were alone, and a trusted man stood outside, ensuring they were not disturbed. But there was still the jib door, the hidden servants’ door, where they would lurk. Tom took care of the safety of his family, otherwise they would be in much more trouble.
“Papa, we cannot continue like this. The authorities watch us. You know that.”
The duke shook out his napkin and placed it over his lap. “Of course I know. I have been eluding the authorities for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Times change, Papa. Much though we may deplore it, we have to deal with reality, not dreams. As the King has done.” In this house the King referred to James III, not anyone called George.
The sun streamed through the windows, striping the snowy tablecloth. “At least the prince had a fair day for his conversion,” William said. “He may see that as a good omen.” He picked up his coffee cup and raised his dark brows as he gazed at his oldest brother.
“Indeed,” the dowager agreed, glancing between her oldest grandchild and her son. As usual, Tom’s grandmother was the peacemaker. The family disputes had increased recently—at least inside the privacy of their home. Outside they showed a united front, as always. “It is a great pity we could not all attend the momentous event.”
Tom eyed the plateful of food he had optimistically gathered for himself. He could perhaps manage the chop. Picking up his knife and fork, he set to eating, although his appetite had long gone.
“If they catch him, they will,” the duke said. “They could finish the problem there and then. We must do everything we can to make sure that tragedy does not happen.”
Tom was far from convinced. “If they take him, they make a martyr of him. Do they execute him, as the law demands? Can you imagine what that would do?”
The Stuarts still had friends abroad. The recent treaty between Britain and France had effectively ended French support for the Stuarts, but Rome could not turn its back on them. They supported the Roman Catholic cause.
That had been one of Tom’s victories, to persuade his father to convert from the old religion. His father had never been a religious man, and Tom agreed with him that it did not matter which church one used, as long as the prayers were sincere. But he still hankered after the old ways and frequently complained of the lack of incense and the Mass. As long as he only complained, Tom didn’t mind.
Converting to Anglicanism had opened a lot of doors for the family. Tom was still building on that. It opened Parliament to them, too, and he had hopes of sending his younger brother Edward there one day. Edward was clever and level-headed and would prove a great asset once he’d come down from Oxford. Edward had spent most of his life in the shadow of his older brothers, being blamed for the death of Tom’s mother, his father’s beloved wife. Although everyone knew that was hardly fair, since he had nearly died along with her, the family’s grief had been such that somebody had to take the blame. And God was out of the picture.
Edward would help Tom mark a new chapter for the Dankworths. But not yet.
His father glared at him. “Perhaps so, but the Hanovers would recover. The Stuarts would not.”
“So if this is the end of the Cause, perhaps we should let it go.” He hated to remind his father of that eventuality. “Even if the prince gets out of London, he shows no inclination to marry, and his brother is hardly likely to do so.”
“Prince Henry will do as his father wishes,” the duke said firmly.
“As he did when he turned Cardinal?” Tom shook his head. “And his father favors him, too. Only because he wishes to spite his oldest son. I pray we never become so conflicted.”
The duke sighed and dropped his fork on his plate. It landed with a clatter. The dowager winced, but said nothing. “The Stuarts were always that way. They aired their dirty linen in the public eye for all to see and comment on. We, their supporters, must endeavor to reconcile them. And find the prince a bride.”
Tom could at least agree to the reconciliation part, but he disliked the spark in his father’s eyes. “The family is a political force.” He saw a future for the Stuarts if they agreed to work with the British government instead of against it. But he knew that would never happen. A more pragmatic family would have agreed to work for the country it professed to love, but this one would not.
“Indeed, the prince has expressed his interest in meeting Chloe or Emilia.”
Tom froze. Over his dead body would his sisters sacrifice their future. They would not have a comfortable life, and by God, that would bring the family into the heart of the conflict.
But if he said anything, his father would determine to go ahead with his wild plan. King James would agree. To wed the daughter of a British duke would give him a foothold he’d longed for.
Tom kept his face smooth and clear, only showing mild interest. “I am sure either of my sisters would be honored.” Not from the expressions on their faces. They were not as practiced as he was at hiding his true feelings. But he had determined one thing. The prince would be leaving London tonight. That would ease Tom’s avoidance of any further negotiations. “However I have heard a few unsavory comments about the prince, as you must have.”
Women complained about the prince, the rumors starting in the last two or three years, since he had begun drinking heavily. Tom had seen the black bruises he’d left on someone’s body, a woman who had followed him to the Continent and offered herself to him. That had been her reward. His sisters would not suffer that fate.
The duke shrugged. “I have only heard malicious gossip. In any case, they could have a clandestine marriage, one conducted in private. That way we may deny it if need be.”
Always thinking from both ends of the argument. The duke’s heart was with the Cause, but he was wavering. If the prince abused one of his daughters, that would deter him for good, but Tom wasn’t willing to risk that.
He had a busy day ahead.
* * * *
Later that day, Tom paid a visit on a new acquaintance. General Court was a loyalist to the bone, but he also had a pragmatic streak. Tom met him by a coffeehouse close to Covent Garden, which was rather irritatingly called Tom’s. It specialized in ladies of the night, driving the authorities mad. No girls ever conducted their business on the premises. The owners made good and sure of that, but they made appointments and met there.
This afternoon Tom King’s had a quiet hour or two, enough time for a man with his hat pulled low to meet with an equally nondescript person. For a powerful, well-built individual, the general could merge into the background with impressive effectiveness.
“Sir.” He gave Tom a nod.
Tom granted him the same response. “You have no doubt heard of the presence of a certain party in London.”
The general snorted. “I couldn’t miss it. He has not been particularly discreet. Are you turning your coat then, sir?”
Now it was Tom’s turn to snort. “Hardly. Do you really think you could accomplish the task so easily? I only speak to you when the topic is in both our interests. If you had wanted him, you could have picked him off the street.”
“Or off the ship,” General Court said. “I would prefer to be back on the battlefield than attending to all this clandestine business. I do not appreciate the underhand affairs I am expected to accomplish. So let us speak straightforwardly, sir. No, the government is not interested in capturing the Stuart prince. Nevertheless the ports are being watched.”
Tom winced. Such straight talking pained him. His upbringing had not encouraged it. No doubt he would get used to speaking plainly in time. It certainly led to a faster result. “We, too, want him out of London. Would you prefer the matter fulfilled sooner rather than later?”
“Yes.”
The general was certainly good at keeping his business to himself. “Then if you may contrive to leave a particular ship unattended at, say, midnight, I can achieve that for you.”
“Why would you do this?” The general stamped his feet, even though the evening was not particularly chilly.
Tom just stared at him.
The military man shrugged. “Very well. Yes, if you tell me the name of the vessel.”
Tom waited until two gaudily dressed ladies had walked past. The task took them some time, because they paused to ensure the gentlemen were not interested—absolutely, positively not interested. Until the general swore at them and threatened to escort them personally to Bow Street, which was not far away at all they showed every inclination to linger.
“The ship is the Timor. One of mine.” Tom had a few other errands he could accomplish at the same time. He would hardly get paid for transporting the prince, so he needed to make the journey pay. A few barrels of brandy would do the trick. If the ship was impounded, Tom would know not to trust the general again. In the usual way of things, Tom did not allow his ships to engage in smuggling contraband. Considering who he was, the risk was too great. But not tonight. He had tacit permission to go ahead.
He walked away without thanking the man. He would thank him in good French spirits and ensure a cask of brandy found its way to his door.