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James strode out of the library without slamming the door and even managed not to pummel the paneled wall as he made his way to his bedchamber. Once there, however, he slapped his journal onto the small writing desk with such force that a branch of candles crashed to the floor. They were unlit, so he ignored them and paced around the room.
Brought down by a three-year-old with a future as a thief. Caught out by a woman whose soft brown eyes disguised a will of iron.
He hadn’t had failures such as these since his first days as a spy.
Amelia’s zealous defense of Kensworth’s honor—and decimation of his own—had brought him back to coherency like a slap to the face. Damnation, her loyalty was a thing to behold.
Her stubbornness he could do without.
He stopped in the middle of the room; his stalking back and forth had dispelled his frustration and anger. What was done was done. Now he must carry on.
While trying to keep Amelia safe. She would never be his but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her at all costs. He could only hope she’d be distracted enough with the task he’d set her to leave him to do his job.
He pulled the telescope from his pocket and snatched up his journal of coded notes. Easing himself to the floor beside the bed, he tucked them between the frame and the underside of the mattress.
However small his blunders had been, he could only hope the prime minister didn’t pay the price.
He left the house, informing the butler on his way out that he wouldn’t be attending dinner. Yes, he was avoiding Amelia, but more importantly he was going to meet with Watson. Considering the way his day had gone, the last thing James wanted to do was play cards with his bitter schoolmate. However, the Home Office must be informed of these activities.
He set off at a brisk pace and entered the card room of White’s fifteen minutes later. Watson stood nearby, accepting a glass of port from a footman.
James moved casually forward then stopped abruptly as if he had just noticed the man. “Watson! It’s good to see you again.”
Dismay flashed across Watson’s features before he bowed and settled his mouth into an amicable smile. “Lord James. I was on my way out for some air. Would you care to join me?”
So, Watson didn’t intend to lose at cards again. “Excellent idea.”
James led the way, and soon they were strolling side by side up St. James’s Street. The sun had begun to slip beneath the horizon of London’s buildings, and there was a crispness to the air that hadn’t been there earlier. As they turned onto the busier thoroughfare of Piccadilly and passed Devonshire House, Watson seemed content with silence. Perhaps he was afraid James would demand his six hundred pounds.
James had no such intention at the moment. He gave a furtive glance around, but as dusk was nearly upon them the park was empty. “I am heading to Hertfordshire in the morning, at the invitation of Lord Kensworth.”
“I’m glad to hear it. He’s such an interesting fellow. A rather common background for a peer.”
James didn’t know every detail of Kensworth’s upbringing, though he remembered the viscount bitterly mentioning that it had been “different.” Still, it irked him that Watson, or Sidmouth, could think a humbler beginning evidence of Kensworth’s guilt. “That’s neither here nor there.” He paused then added a half-truth. “I hear a Hampden Club thrives in the area. I’m going to attempt to infiltrate it.”
He should mention that Kensworth meant to take him to the meeting of the Hampden Club, but he said nothing further as they turned into the Green Park. Whether he kept his counsel because of Amelia’s vehement affirmation of her fiancé’s innocence or his own uncertainty about Kensworth, he had no idea.
“Oh, you’re going to actually spy? Do be careful.”
James ignored the remark and the smirk upon Watson’s face. “I will return in three days. Perhaps we can meet over dinner.”
“I wouldn’t tarry if I were you,” Watson advised. “We’ve learned the attempt may take place before the end of the month.”
“What?”
“Will you be ready?”
God help them all if he wasn’t. “What day? Where?”
Watson shrugged. “That’s for you to find out. We have no further information.”
Tomorrow was the sixteenth; the month was already half over. Could he stop the madness in time? What if he was wasting his time going with Kensworth? He would like nothing better than to trust Amelia’s judgment and cross Kensworth off the list, but at the moment suspicion clung to him like a wet shirt. He couldn’t ignore Kensworth’s known association with the agitators of the Hampden Clubs.
Watson stopped on the path and asked with impatience, “Lord Romford?”
James shook his head, meaning he’d found no evidence to warrant further interest in the man.
“Are you certain?” Watson asked, his eyes narrowed as if he either didn’t believe James or didn’t want James’s assessment to be true.
“Yes.”
James turned and walked back toward the park gate with long strides, disturbing a small flock of jackdaws that had been pecking at the grass beside the path.
Attempting to carry out a secret mission here in England had been far more difficult, and frustrating, than he had ever imagined. On the Continent, once his superior gave him an assignment, he had been left to his own devices to carry it out. If he succeeded, they handed him another assignment. If he had failed and been found out by foreign authorities, he would have been on his own, unacknowledged by His Majesty’s government. Now, however, he had Sidmouth’s lackey noting his every move.
He supposed he could understand why. Sidmouth had to be panicked about a possible assassination. Still, the constraining nature of spying here in London was maddening. Perhaps he should contemplate a new profession.
James heard Watson’s boots pounding the path as the other man nearly ran to catch up. “Have you no other news?”
“No.” What did he expect? It had been a mere eighteen hours since they had last met, and James hadn’t been aware the assassination might happen sooner rather than later.
Again, he probably should relate the incongruities surrounding Lord Stretton’s return to London, but he didn’t. A peer might be responsible for planning the prime minister’s demise, but that didn’t mean that other, possibly innocent lords such as Stretton and Kensworth needed to have their names besmirched.
He halted and turned on Watson. “I need a list of Liverpool’s activities.”
Watson shot him a withering look. “Lord Sidmouth has already denied your request for such knowledge.”
“I need every piece of information I can get,” James said harshly. He might as well be stumbling around in the dark with this assignment. He had no assistance, certainly no moral support, and not enough information. “Tell Sidmouth if he wants results, I need that schedule.”
“Very well. Though, I don’t know what good it will do you, since you’ve no idea who the perpetrators are.” Watson shook his head and sighed. “It’s only the fate of the country. I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for such a tragedy occurring.”
James could only stare at his old schoolmate, who was acting as if he’d never grown up. “Until Friday, Watson.” He didn’t wait for a response, heading out of the park and back onto Piccadilly.
***
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, James met Kensworth near the Grosvenor Gate of Hyde Park. He rode the bay he’d been given by Taviston on the occasion of his twentieth birthday. He’d been pleased to know that his brother kept the horse despite his absence for so many years.
The viscount, atop a strapping dun gelding, tipped his low-crowned hat.
“Good morning! My brothers decided to head out earlier, so it’s just you and me.”
For a moment James thought he detected a note of artificiality in Kensworth’s cheerfulness, but the other man was smiling so James flashed a smile in return, trying to match his mood to that of his fellow traveler. It took some effort, considering he not only felt guilty about his subterfuge but also jealous of the man riding beside him. Did Kensworth know how fortunate he was to have Amelia’s love and loyalty?
At first they rode north in silence, for the sounds of the city made conversation nearly impossible. James studied Kensworth for a moment. His companion had already donned country attire, buckskin breeches and a brown tweed riding coat, while his brown hat tamed his wavy, longer-than-fashionable hair. Although his classical features sat a little incongruously on his muscular build, women undoubtedly found him handsome.
Amelia was probably equally as enamored of Kensworth’s personality. He was jovial and affable, a man who liked to be around people as much as she, and even though he was new to the viscountcy, he now had an estate and a secure position in Parliament.
Whereas he, James, was the exact opposite in personality and had nothing to offer any woman—no estate, no title, not even a government position he could speak openly about.
He gave himself a shake in the saddle. The relationship of Amelia and Kensworth was none of his concern. The prime minister’s life was. In the absence of David and Robert, now was the perfect time to interrogate the viscount. With a much defter hand than the verb indicated, of course.
As they passed out of Camden Town, James pulled up even with his companion. “Have you always known you were a Whig? Was your father one?”
Kensworth snorted. Or maybe it was the horse. Either way, the man looked disgusted. “My father was a member of the Gin Party. He was a drunkard and not much else.”
James let the comment pass. Apparently Kensworth wasn’t always good-humored. “My family have been Tories for ages, so I expected to lean the same way. Perhaps if I had stayed in England and been influenced by my brother, I might be a solid Tory. But things look decidedly different from across the Channel.”
“It’s probably best you left. Sometimes we need a new situation to gain perspective on an old one. When I first joined the 52nd, I found nothing unusual about the ways of our military and our country. As I spent more time in the army I began to see things in a new light. It made no sense that men with money could buy high-ranking commissions without having a drop of experience. Sometimes the army was fortunate and such a man turned out to be an extraordinary officer, but when he didn’t, the men beneath him paid for it, many times with their lives.”
Kensworth thrust his shoulders back and glanced at James. “Perhaps you’ll think me cocksure, but I believe I could have served the 52nd well as a major. Unfortunately, I didn’t have ten pounds to my name. As it was, I only made captain because two of my fellow soldiers died on the battlefield. Even then I couldn’t afford a mount and had to trudge across the Peninsula just like those under my command. When I returned to England, I couldn’t vote either, let alone stand for Parliament, despite being the grandson of a peer.”
James heard the bitterness in his voice and saw, before Kensworth resolutely focused on the road, a shadow of shame in his eyes. He might be a viscount now, but Kensworth still had raw feelings about his past. James tried to imagine what might have brought his line of the family so low: a gambler, a spendthrift, poor investments? Not that he would inquire about something so personal.
Shifting in the saddle, Kensworth spoke into the silence. “I joined the local Hampden Club after the war, as did my brothers. We were, and are, eager to change certain aspects of the government. Men like us—pardon, men like we used to be—ought to be able to vote. At the time—this was almost two years ago—I had no inkling I could possibly inherit the viscountcy. The rest of the family had long ago stopped communicating with my father, and even after he died, I never heard from any of them. My point is, participating in the Hampden Club was the only way I could hope to change things. To make life better for my brothers and my fellow soldiers.”
Kensworth fell silent again, and the sounds of chirping birds and clopping hooves filled the air as James contemplated his companion’s words.
He found it difficult to disagree with anything Kensworth said. Power in England lay decidedly in the hands of the landed and wealthy. True, it had once been so almost everywhere, but now they could look to America and even France, if one looked past the reality to the ideals, for a different model.
Before James could say anything, Kensworth smiled. “I apologize for prattling on. It’s an unfortunate habit of mine. Amelia possesses it too. We often find ourselves talking over each other. You, however, are a fine listener and— There I go again!”
The comment about Amelia nettled his jealous heart, but James ignored both the jab and the remark. “No need to apologize. I’m fascinated by your story. It was hard for me to imagine why a peer would be associated with the Hampden Clubs. Even Lord Stretton hasn’t gone that far, but now I understand better. Still, your continued participation seems dangerous, considering the way the political winds are blowing.”
Kensworth raised a blond eyebrow as they crested a small hill. “Sounds like you still possess a Tory heart. I’m finally in a position to better help the people who can further the causes I’ve held dear, and so I do. I can’t turn my back on them now just because I inherited a title. There is nothing to be gained by not taking chances.”
Devil take it; James wished Kensworth hadn’t said that. It sounded exactly like something a zealot and an assassin might say.
As the horses picked their way down the hill, he took note of something else Kensworth had said. “You speak as if ‘Tory’ is synonymous with ‘coward.’”
Kensworth laughed, a great booming sound that carried on the mild breeze. “Not at all. I would never call you a coward. Amelia told me of your act of heroism all those years ago. A true gentleman, eh?”
James ground his jaw. He did not want to speak of Amelia. Though, he supposed it was ridiculous to think he could avoid hearing of her on a journey with her future husband.
He glanced up to find Kensworth staring at him. “We do what we must in extraordinary circumstances. You would have done the same,” he conceded. Little did Kensworth know that if he had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have left Amelia. But it was too late, and he reverted back to their earlier, more relevant, topic. “I’m still uncertain why you risk the association with the Hampden Clubs. You have the power to promote change from within the House of Lords.”
“Of a certainty. I’m doing all I can to increase my influence there, but it’s not enough.” Kensworth turned in his saddle. “The government will not even think to put forth parliamentary reform if the people do not demand it. Did the colonists sit and wait for representation? Did the French bide their time until the king granted them equality?”
James’s stomach churned as if he’d eaten a bad oyster. Kensworth was more rational than this, wasn’t he? “Tell me you are not advocating open rebellion.”
Kensworth burst out laughing again. “Of course not. However, I do advocate taking risks. An idle man is not of much more value than a dead one.”
“However, your fiancée would no doubt prefer your head remain attached to your neck,” James muttered darkly. He admired Kensworth’s basic principles, and perhaps it was only because of his knowledge of the punitive state of mind of Sidmouth that James couldn’t help feeling the viscount was flying too close to the sun.
“Let us shake some of that caution from your shoulders,” Kensworth said, his green eyes twinkling in the emerging sunlight. In a flash, he urged his horse first into a trot and then into a full gallop.
James tucked his spectacles away and pressed his heels into his bay’s side and followed, more than keen to leave the subject of treasonous behavior. He soon overtook Kensworth, who wasn’t a bad rider, but who, to James’s eye, was an inexperienced one. However, as the viscount said, he liked to take chances, and with a few questionable choices Kensworth and his dun once again flew past James.
They continued to trade positions like that as they crossed into Hertfordshire, until Kensworth’s reckless riding nearly got him toppled from the saddle. They stopped and led the horses to a stream for a drink, where Kensworth recounted his near-accident with dramatic gestures.
From his perch on a rock, James smiled up at the burly blond man who was laughing at himself. He liked Kensworth; he liked the comfortable way they spoke with one another. He could have easily imagined they were friends instead of spy and treason suspect, but instead of finding pleasure in acquiring a new friend, a cold sense of dismay settled in his chest.
It seemed he was destined not to have a lasting friendship with Kensworth. Either the man was a treasonous conspirator, or he was the man who would marry the love of James’s life. Possibly both.
Kensworth didn’t seem to notice James’s declining mood. He spoke of Amelia once more before they mounted their horses again, but James turned the subject to Kensworth’s estate. The viscount’s enthusiasm for his land didn’t run nearly as high as it did for politics and reform, but the subject got them another two miles closer.
Then Kensworth eased his horse closer to James’s. “Amelia told me you kissed her.”