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Much to Amelia’s relief, dinner was an enjoyable affair. She was seated by David, who, though younger the same age as herself, had any number of amusing and adventurous tales to tell. He quite ably kept her and Tessa entertained, but more importantly he distracted her from rampant curiosity about the handshake that had concluded the long discussion between James and Stephen. What could they possibly have to agree on?
Now, however, she and the other ladies were back in the drawing room awaiting the imminent return of the gentlemen. No amount of female chatter could keep her from devising a plan to avoid James. After their talk the day before, there was nothing further either needed to say to the other.
The gentlemen returned from their indulgence of port in high spirits. Robert was especially boisterous and he immediately persuaded the dowager duchess, Victoria, and Stephen to play whist. Before Amelia could even blink the others broke into groups of two and three, talking earnestly. That left James to himself.
She hurried over to the pianoforte and began shuffling through the music sheets. He approached her anyway.
“What are you doing?”
Ignoring how splendid he looked in his black coat and crimson waistcoat and focusing on the music she replied, “I thought I would play.”
“You don’t play the pianoforte.”
She couldn’t help throwing her shoulders back a little. “I do too.” Then honesty won over. “I just do so rather wretchedly.”
“There’s no need for you to play; you make a lovely portrait sitting there.”
She so rarely received compliments. Stephen never commented on her appearance, and while Peyton’s compliments were abundant, he was not only her brother-in-law, he was also apt to flatter any female within hearing.
She looked up. Behind the spectacles, James’s blue eyes were dark and serious, as if he were studying a rare book. She grew warm, almost as if her whole body had flushed.
“Stop it.” The admonishment was meant for both of them. “You are being inappropriate. Did our conversation yesterday mean nothing to you? Whatever glimmer of desire there might have been between us, you killed it when you deserted me. If you had wanted to marry me, you would have.” Oh, how she wanted to shout those words, but she had to settle for a strident whisper. And if he wanted her now, she admitted to herself in a moment of horrified shame, all he had to do was declare himself. But despite his clandestine kiss, he had done nothing to indicate she was his and by God he would marry her at any cost.
She drew in a breath and stood, ready to excuse herself, when Stephen interjected, planting himself right beside her. “You must be talking politics, to have got my betrothed in such a high passion.”
One could not miss the steely undercurrent in Stephen’s tone. Was he jealous? James clenched his jaw, and Amelia shivered.
James didn’t exactly lie, but he was much more adept at prevarication than Amelia would have ever thought. “She will do you credit, that’s for certain.”
Stephen grasped her hand and slipped it under and around his arm. “Did he tell you that he’s asked for my assistance?”
With what? Amelia wondered. They had nothing in common. “No, he didn’t.”
“He seeks a seat in the House of Commons and has come to me.”
There was no small amount of pride in his voice. Stephen had worked so hard in the last year to become a contributing member of the Whig party. He must see James’s request as a testament to his good standing. However, Amelia narrowed her eyes in James’s direction.
“Why did you not go to Taviston? You do know Stephen is a Whig not a Tory?”
He cocked an abashed smile at Kensworth. “I do. My mind was opened to many new ideas while I was on the Continent, and I think my beliefs might align better with Kensworth’s party.”
On the Continent doing what? Amelia ground her teeth, still irritated with his lack of proffered illumination on that matter. Nonetheless, “I had no idea you wished to become an MP, but I’m glad to see you giving some thought to your future. Now, which Whig principle are you most committed to: Catholic emancipation, voting reform, or the abolition of slavery? Personally, I would like Kensworth to focus on slavery, as I believe it behooves us to free all men before turning our thoughts to the voting concerns of Englishmen.”
She almost missed it, but she caught the flicker of surprise in James’s eyes and couldn’t help lifting an eyebrow smugly. Why yes, Lord James, I do think about more than wedding plans and embroidery. She squeezed Stephen’s arm and added, “Nevertheless I fully support his efforts for parliamentary reform, knowing it’s an issue close to his heart.”
“Probably too close,” Stephen said. “Amelia knows how to take my half-formed, fervent incoherencies and turn them into a speech worthy of Charles James Fox.”
James dipped his head in acknowledgment. “As I said before, you are a lucky man indeed. Being so new to all this, I will follow your lead until I’ve found my feet. Or until Taviston orders my head on a platter because of my defection.”
Stephen laughed, but James’s words gave Amelia pause. Would James really turn away from his family’s tradition? Was he serious or was he...? She didn’t know what else he could be, but she still had the feeling he was slipping into an actor’s role every now and then, spouting lines from a play.
“Speaking of writing,” James continued, “how is your novel coming along?”
Amelia stared at him. Stephen made a noise she couldn’t quite interpret.
When she said nothing, James looked from one of them to the other. “Did I misspeak? Is it meant to be a secret?”
No, it wasn’t. Stephen, Tessa, and Peyton all knew she was writing. No one—not even Tessa—ever asked about her book though.
Stephen let out a chuckle. “Of course it’s not a secret. It’s nothing more than dabbling, though. Picks up her pen when she’s bored. I can assure you there’ll be no time for novel-writing once we are married.” He must have seen the look on her face for he flapped a hand in the air dismissively. “You know, running the household, tending the children, helping with my speeches. There simply won’t be time.”
Amelia had rarely been out of charity with Stephen. They got on so well in almost every aspect. She had no idea he felt this way about her writing and so she had a difficult time hiding her irritation. She did not, however, want to confront him in front of James. She cut her gaze away from Stephen’s nonchalance to James’s bespectacled face. “It’s progressing well. Th—thank you.”
He smiled encouragingly. “I am glad to hear it. Now, I beg your pardon, but I must speak with my mother.” He bowed to her and then turned to Stephen. “Until Thursday.”
Amelia meant to round on her fiancé, but James’s parting words distracted her. She looked up to Stephen. “Thursday?”
“I’m riding out to Wakebourne. James is accompanying me, as are Robert and David. There are one or two things that need attending on the estate and I thought it would be a good time to further assess James’s potential as a Whig. We’ll return in two days. It seems like forever, but you’ll be in my thoughts the entire time.”
She smiled. “Only because you’ll wish I was there to win him over to our cause.” Then she remembered his response to James’s inquiry about her book. “Stephen, you won’t try to keep me from writing my novel once we are married, will you?”
His smile was so like Robert’s condescending one anytime he spoke of women that Amelia nearly recoiled. “I would never forbid you anything, my dear. If it amuses you so and doesn’t interfere with other duties, who am I to complain?”
Amelia bristled and straightened her spine. “I want to see my work published.”
“That seems rather far-fetched. We have so much more important work to focus on, Amelia.” He frowned and glanced around the room. “Can we speak for a moment elsewhere?”
Despite her irritation with his attitude, her stomach took a little tumble. Without a word, she led him to the empty silver salon. Though the room was large, Stephen stood less than a foot in front of her.
“Is James still living in the past?”
“What...what do you mean?”
“I see the look in his eyes, Amelia. He’s no great actor.” Taking her hand he asked, “Has he acted ungentlemanly toward you at all?”
She could not lie, not when he asked directly, and even before she spoke, she could feel her cheeks heating to what had to be a flame red color. “I don’t want secrets between us. Yes, James has kissed me.”
And I kissed him back.
A vase of tulips stood atop the console table. Stephen stared, transfixed, at the yellow and red flowers standing at attention, and when his green eyes shifted back to her, Amelia’s legs nearly gave way. Stephen had always been fiery about politics, but now his eyes were on her, burning intently.
“Damnation! I never thought a gentleman would descend to such behavior.” He cupped her cheek with one hand and looped the other around her waist, pulling her closer. “I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer. It’s unfortunate the wedding isn’t to take place sooner. I would like nothing better than to whisk you away from this house.”
No. No, no, no. Amelia fought through the guilt threatening to drown her and studied Stephen, wishing, hoping, praying not to see what she thought she saw. Not to hear what she heard. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. He’d denied it during his proposal, hadn’t he?
Hadn’t he? She searched her memory but could only remember that she had claimed he didn’t love her. He had not confirmed the statement.
“Thank you for your honesty. I will speak with James.”
“You don’t mean... You aren’t going to...” She couldn’t even finish the question. Gentlemen had such ideas about honor. A duel was the last thing she ever wanted.
Stephen’s blond eyebrows rose in surprise. “You think I mean to call him out? Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia. I like James, but I will not allow him to continue to treat you so. I will make myself clear to him.” He dropped his hand from her cheek to her shoulder. “I assume you want him to stop.”
“Of course I don’t want him to kiss me!” That was the truth. Because she didn’t want to dishonor Stephen, because she enjoyed it too much, and because she didn’t need any more reminders of what could have been. She had not invited James’s kiss.
“I did tell you it would be awkward to have him living here. But, worry no more. I will take care of the situation.”
She looked at his face again, searching for evidence of his feelings.
He cocked his head to the side as if something had just occurred to him. “Would you have accepted my proposal if James had already been returned?”
Her heart raced. Having spent the last week trying not to think about such a scenario, she had no idea what to say, how to answer. Stephen’s gaze, entirely too vulnerable, never left her face.
He loved her. Stephen loved her.
She let herself fall against his chest. Above all, she did not want to hurt him. Not only was he a good man, but he needed her. She hugged him tighter. “I am more than happy, proud even, to become your wife.”
He tipped her face up and lowered his lips to hers.
Now was the time to try Tessa’s suggestion. Amelia slid her hands behind Stephen’s neck and deepened the kiss. She pushed herself against him and flicked her tongue over his lips. He breathed her name and she kissed him with her tongue the way another man had taught her. Stephen tightened his hands around her back and greedily kissed her in return.
After a moment, though, he pulled away. “Lord, three weeks seems like forever, doesn’t it?”
No, a lifetime with someone for whom she felt no passion felt like forever.
***
JAMES SPENT THE REST of the interminable evening playing whist with Robert, Victoria, and David. As much as he loathed cards, he willingly suffered the torment rather than witness the sight of Amelia and Kensworth together. He’d passed the silver salon on his return from the water closet and saw Amelia clinging to Kensworth’s lips as if treacle had sealed them together. After spying them in that torrid kiss, he’d retreated to the card table with his back to the room.
He ground his teeth, more aware now than ever that he had thrown away his chance to be with Amelia. She had moved on and chosen a perfectly suitable husband. Kensworth cared for her and valued her, and well he should. Though his dismissal of her writing had surprised James. Amelia too apparently. Regardless, they would make a formidable political couple in another year or two. There weren’t enough curse words available to suit his mood.
Her grasp of the most important Whig issues shouldn’t have surprised him. Amelia was intelligent; he knew that. She could be so much more than the typical wife Kensworth seemed to want.
After the Caldwells had left and the others were retiring for the night, James prepared to go out. Conversing at social events and meeting at clubs was not his usual method of operation in a mission. He was tired of the stifling nature of trying to spy within the beau monde. It was time to take action and capture the conspirators sooner rather than later.
Since he couldn’t infiltrate Kensworth’s Hampden Club for another couple of days, he might as well work on the other man Watson had urged him to investigate, Lord Romford.
Earlier that afternoon, the ever-garrulous Lord Stretton had mentioned Romford and his wife were revelers of the first order, attending numerous ton affairs each night and enjoying the events until the last candle was extinguished. Tonight should be no different.
He dressed in some of his older, darker clothes, leaving off a cravat; sheathed a knife in his boot and pocketed a candle stub and a hairpin. It was easy enough to go down the main staircase and sneak out the rear door without anyone seeing him, as most of the servants were either abed or helping various family members ready themselves for slumber. In a matter of minutes, he was picking his way down the mews of Hill Street, a few blocks from Taviston House.
Lord Romford lived at No. 10 with his barely-out-of-the-schoolroom wife. James slipped through the gate into the garden and craned his neck upwards. Breaking into the home of a peer was a risky proposition no matter what, but this was the art he’d perfected on the Continent. A bit reckless perhaps, but he must find some answers. He needed to do something, expend some energy, find the assassin. He’d looked the place over earlier and was fairly certain that window up there was Romford’s study. If he could get past all the servants and reach the first floor, he knew exactly where to go. With any luck he might be on his way back to the Continent by the time Amelia was pledging her troth to Kensworth.
That is, if Kensworth wasn’t the assassin.
The rear door stood ajar. From deep within came the sound of good-natured conversation and occasional laughter. With the servants having such a fine time, James would bet that the master was certainly away. Undoubtedly they were in the kitchen. Most likely no one was working. At least that’s what he was counting on.
He entered and descended a few steps then veered into the nearest dark, empty room. In the shadows he saw plates and cups stacked haphazardly; this was the scullery.
He stood listening for a moment, assessing the situation. The scullery had two other doors, one leading toward the kitchen—the laughter was louder now—and one leading to another darkened room. James was just moving toward the latter when a far-too-near female voice called out, “Hold on already! There’s another right here. I jus’ washed it meself.”
The door to the kitchen creaked open, so James reversed course and slid—quite literally; the floor was wet—into a corner behind a large wooden table holding a basin. A shaft of flickering light preceded the shadowy figure of a maid into the room. She searched for something on a table near to hand.
Hunched in the corner, James pulled one leg more solidly beneath him, ready to run should the need arise. His boot scraped across the stone floor, and he winced.
The maid whirled to face the darkened room, a knife clutched in her hand. “Filthy mice! If I catch ye...” She advanced toward the basin.
James lowered his head to his knees, trying to obscure any hint of his shirt or light skin, trying not to breathe. He had faced many a dangerous situation before, but never an English housemaid with a knife. Now this was spying.
“Mary, come already!” a masculine voice boomed from the kitchen.
Mary the Brave heeded the call and turned back, snatching a cup from the worktable as she left. James remained still, especially when she didn’t close the door behind her. Soon enough she returned, tossing a furry bundle into the room. As she closed the door James heard her say, “Yer dinner’s in there, Tom. Have at it.”
Tom had no trouble finding his “dinner.” He walked straight toward James, his feline eyes sharp. James held out his hand, and after a prolonged sniff the cat readily submitted to a pet.
“You’re a fine fellow, Tom. Though I cannot be your dinner, this should do nicely for you.” James tossed the cat a few ham scraps that had been left on a plate before making his way through the adjacent room and into a corridor.
A green baize door was ahead, at the top of a short flight of stairs. James pushed through it and finally found himself in the main part of the house, behind another staircase. He stayed still for a moment, listening. Someone, most likely a footman, should be stationed near the front door, awaiting the return of his lordship.
Ah, there it was: the slow, breathy sound of a man dozing. James inched along the wall and peered through the wrought iron railing of the stairs. A strapping footman, his eyes closed, head leaning against the wall, sat in an alcove near the front door.
James glanced down. The staircase was carpeted. Good, since he needed to go up. With one last look at the sleeping footman, he started up the stairs, making certain his boots landed lightly on the carpet. Once at the top he tried the first door he came to and slipped inside.
He found himself in a drawing room but left as quickly as he’d come, hurrying through two more doors until he stood in a small passage at the back of the house. There was a staircase ahead of him and a door to his right. He tried the door. Locked.
He reached into his pocket for the hairpin he’d brought, pausing before inserting it into the lock. The silver pin was unadorned, nothing special, except that it had once belonged to Amelia. In the chaos of kissing her in that carriage three years ago, the pin had ended up stuck in his coat. Instead of giving it back, he’d taken it with him to the Continent.
Flipping it in his hand, he sighed. Knowing Amelia, she would be inordinately proud to know how useful her hairpin had been in the war effort.
She would never know, though.
He inserted the pin and gave it a deft twist. Within seconds he was inside Romford’s study, the door closed and locked behind him. Using a tinderbox from the mantel, he lit the candle stub he had brought with him and went straight to Romford’s desk.
The man could not be considered methodical. Letters, bits of foolscap, pens, ledgers, even a half-eaten biscuit lay strewn across the oak desktop as if they had washed ashore after a storm. Still, after inspecting each item, James returned it carefully to its former haphazard position.
Though some of the scraps of paper were clearly drafts of speeches Romford intended to make in the House of Lords, most focused on taxes and government bonds—important issues, but not what James was searching for. So he delved into the drawers, none of which were locked. A diary lay in the top one.
After pausing a moment to ensure the household sounds hadn’t changed, he paged through the diary. It appeared Romford wrote down dates and times of meetings with fellow Lords and MPs and then afterwards penned a brief description of what was discussed. From the topics, James could see that Romford leaned toward the reformist side, meeting frequently with Lord Stretton and even occasionally with Kensworth, often discussing parliamentary reforms. But Romford’s opinions, at least according to what he wrote, seemed level-headed and not particularly inflammatory. He seemed to have a healthy respect for the prime minister, Liverpool, even though they were on opposite sides of the political landscape.
James was about to return the diary to the drawer when one of the dates registered in his brain. He returned to the entry for April fourth and found Romford had recorded a meeting with Stretton, wherein they had discussed the Gagging Acts at an inn on the northern outskirts of London.
Stretton had lied to James. That was...interesting.
As he contemplated the words written in Romford’s sloppy script, a raucous commotion erupted outside the study. Feet pounded up stairs, doors opened and closed. Someone shouted, “The tea! Don’t forget the tea.”
Spurred to action, James replaced the diary and stole toward the door. He turned the key carefully and eased it open a sliver. Servants were running everywhere.
Lord and Lady Romford must be returned.
Though he’d long ago purged the cowardly blood running through his veins, his stomach always gave a little rumble of protest when his assignment intensified. Which made escaping all the more thrilling.
He closed and locked the study door once again. Then, despite his galloping heartbeat, he extinguished his candle and smiled. The window it would be.
The latch opened easily, and he leaned out, already aware of what awaited him. He was two floors up and there was only a thin casement surrounding the window. As the study was at the back of the house, there wasn’t much in the way of a ledge or other ornamentation upon which to gain a foothold, but there was a short, slanted overhang that shielded the rear door from the elements. Only trouble was, this small roof was off to the right.
James swung both legs over the windowsill. The noise from within the house had dulled to a quiet bustle, meaning Romford and his wife were probably inside now.
Shoving against the sill, he leapt toward the gable. His feet hit the slick slate, and he bent his knees and in one motion pushed off toward the ground. Tucking in his shoulder, he rolled a few yards across the damp earth and then bounded to his feet. A mad dash got him through the garden gate within seconds.
“You there! What are you about?” a groom shouted after him.
Head bent, James raced down the mews. He’d surprised the youth into immobility at first, but the boy gave chase. James’s lead was too much, however, and once he zigzagged through the connecting lanes, he lost the groom.
Though he wouldn’t have minded running the rest of the way to Grosvenor Square, he slowed to a walk when he reached the main street. It was late, but not nearly late enough for the streets to be empty.
Despite the exhilarating events of the evening, James’s mood quickly descended into one of reflection. When he had spoken to Stretton the other evening, the older man claimed to have returned to London on Sunday, April sixth. According to Romford’s diary, the two peers had met on the fourth of April.
Why would Stretton have lied about when he returned to Town? Was he involved with the plan to assassinate Liverpool? He certainly had the credentials. The very idea made James’s head ache—and perhaps pricked his heart as well. He had always admired Stretton. Now he would have to investigate the man further.
After climbing the rear garden wall of Taviston House, he sneaked around to the side. A window near the servant’s staircase was almost always left open.