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“I suggest you be introduced as Mr. Donner tonight instead of Lord James,” Kensworth advised as they headed toward the village of Brantley and the monthly meeting of the local Hampden Club. His dun snorted and inched closer to James’s bay, the same dun James and Amelia had observed earlier in the day riding about the estate. James’s first thought, or possibly hope, had been that either David or Robert also rode a dun. However, the two Caldwell brothers rode behind them, Robert atop a chestnut gelding and David saddled on a frenzied black stallion. It was possible one of them could have borrowed Kensworth’s horse, but James couldn’t think why they would have done so when their own mounts appeared in perfect health.
Kensworth lifted a golden eyebrow, still awaiting an acknowledgment of his suggestion.
“Why the pretense? You’re a viscount and you attend the meetings.” Not that pretense wasn’t James’s forte, but of late he’d got rather tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He couldn’t be the man who loved Amelia. He couldn’t be Kensworth’s friend. Hell, he couldn’t even be a man simply returned home to his family. Secrets and lies shadowed every corner of his life.
“They know me and my past. As a newcomer you’ll be under enough suspicion; I don’t need them getting fanciful ideas that you’re Sidmouth’s spymaster or a Tory infiltrator sent by Taviston.” Kensworth laughed and shook his head. “I hope no one notices your resemblance to the duke.”
James furrowed his brow, trying to look insulted. “You dare accuse me of being a spy, of sinking so low?”
Kensworth glanced behind them. “Not so loud! I know you’re only quizzing me, but if Robert hears the word ‘spy,’ he’s liable to panic.”
James raised his eyebrows. “You were the one casting aspersions on my honor.”
Kensworth didn’t reply but surveyed the darkening landscape as they rode. The trees were starkly outlined against the twilight sky, and the pungent smell of burning peat infused the air. The rumbling murmurs of David and Robert’s conversation drifted toward them, though they couldn’t distinguish any words.
Finally, the viscount shifted in his saddle and looked over. “I didn’t mean to offend you back there.”
James flashed what he hoped was a forgiving grin. “I know you only meant it in fun.” He urged his horse into a trot. “Let us not be late.”
Kensworth’s brothers took note of the faster pace and soon raced ahead, leading them the last mile into Brantley. James assessed the small village as they entered. They were meeting at the tavern, but there was also an old stone church and three shops, all abutting a dusty lane. Half a dozen horses, most of the sturdy, working variety, stood placidly outside the tavern, tied to a long, horizontal post.
David and Robert dismounted and secured their horses alongside the rest. David’s energetic stallion did not appear pleased to be in the company of so many others.
James rode past the tavern and waved for Kensworth to accompany him. He led his bay over to a tree near the rear of the church. “It’s too crowded over there,” he commented as he looped the reins over a lower limb of the oak. It was always best to plan an escape, even when it probably wouldn’t be necessary.
Kensworth followed suit, tying his mount to another branch. “Good idea.”
They ambled toward the tavern as darkness closed in around the village. Donning his spectacles James asked, “So, can I be your cousin the vicar then?”
“Despite your mostly serious manner, you don’t strike me as a man of the cloth,” Kensworth said with a shake of his head. “You seem to be unmistakably from the city.” He looked James up and down then smiled. “You would make a perfect clerk.”
James laughed; what else could he do? He was destined to be seen as a clerk. But a devilish impulse made him ask, “In the Home Office?”
Kensworth playfully shoved his forearm into James’s shoulder. “Would you shut your mouth? These men are suspicious enough as it is.”
Not as suspicious as they should be. The way things stood with the government, they shouldn’t have been meeting at all. With habeas corpus suspended, there was nothing to stop Sidmouth from arresting all of them for treason and holding them indefinitely. He wouldn’t, not with the knowledge that James was in attendance tonight, but the possibility was always there for the future. Not to mention, how would it look if Viscount Kensworth were rounded up with the rest of the rabble-rousers?
“How about a clerk from Lloyd’s?” Kensworth ventured, oblivious to James’s dire thoughts.
“Very well,” James agreed. His knowledge of insurance and shipping was limited, but he intended to do more listening than talking.
Kensworth pulled open the heavy oak door and waved James through. Robert and David were already inside the low-ceilinged room, greeting acquaintances with smiles and handshakes. All the tables had been shoved up against stucco walls. Men of various ages either reclined in the chairs that had been crowded into the center of the room, or sat atop the tables, their booted feet hanging down.
As his gaze roamed the crowd, James noted how diverse it was. There was Kensworth, of course, the local peer, but also tradesmen, field laborers, a blacksmith, and even two of Kensworth’s footmen. In all James counted forty-five people, a number perilously close to the fifty that would have violated the Seditious Meeting Act.
Kensworth nodded at a few people but didn’t speak directly to anyone as he made his way over to a table near the bar and hitched himself up. James smiled freely at anyone who would look at him, hoping such friendliness would dissolve any suspicions regarding his presence. By the time he slid up next to Kensworth his jaw ached from the unaccustomed work. Across the room, Robert and David sat on opposite sides of a wiry fellow with shoulder-length brown hair. Were they distancing themselves from James, the newcomer?
The publican banged a tankard on the bar as an older man with loose wrinkles and a thatch of white hair rose and stood in front of the oak divider. “Hear ye, hear ye. This meetin’ of the Hertfordshire Hampden Club is called to order.” His sharp gaze cut directly to Kensworth. “We’ve a full house tonight and his lordship appears to have brought a companion. Care to introduce us?”
Kensworth tilted his head toward James. “Mr. Boyd, this is my cousin, Mr. Donner. He’s visiting from London, and knowing how similar his views are to ours, I invited him to accompany me.”
James smiled and nodded toward various parts of the room, all the while observing reactions. Most regarded him with suspicion while murmuring amongst themselves. He noticed the man in between the Caldwell brothers was speaking vehemently into David’s ear.
The publican thumped the tankard against the oak again and a hush fell over the room. “Welcome, Mr. Donner,” he said grudgingly. Then Mr. Boyd turned to business. “Last month Mr. Carley had the notion of printing up a pamphlet to distribute around the county.” Mild cheering interrupted this announcement. “However, that devil Sidmouth—” The cheers turned instantly to shouts and curses. Mr. Boyd held up a hand to quiet everyone and then continued, “—has ordered harsh punishments for the printers and writers of such things, so we’ll have to forgo it.” He quickly abandoned his defeated tone, though, and raised his voice. “That does not mean we can’t spread our beliefs by word of mouth. We have got to speak up. Wherever you go, find someone to enlighten! Speak for equality! Declare for reform! Denounce those who have taken Liberty prisoner!”
The room erupted with hearty cheers, fist-pounding and boot-stomping. Most aristocrats would not have engaged in something so vulgar as shouting encouragement, but Kensworth did. Then again, most aristocrats would not have been at such a meeting in the first place.
James hammered his fist against the table, not only to fit in, but also in admiration of Mr. Boyd’s speech. He had no idea who the man was, but he wouldn’t have been out of place in the House of Commons. Who was to say he shouldn’t be there? That was the rub.
Once again Mr. Boyd deftly settled the crowd and then turned to address Kensworth. “Is there any news from the House of Lords?”
Kensworth shared information gleaned from sessions of Parliament? James hid his surprise as all eyes in the room swung toward them. Most of it would be innocuous enough, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the reaction of Sidmouth to such a revelation.
Kensworth braced his hands on the edge of the table and shook his head. “There is nothing much new. I continue to try to enlist allies for our cause, however. It is not a matter of if we achieve parliamentary reform, but when. I know that the latest blows from the Tory” —more jeers from the men— “government are disheartening, but we cannot give up. Our course is set and, despite any obstacles, we must continue moving forward, even if it’s only an inch at a time. I give you my word that I will fight for universal suffrage until my dying day.”
The members of the club applauded with enthusiasm, most nodding in agreement as well. It was obvious to James that Kensworth was well-respected and under no suspicion whatsoever regarding his loyalty.
Once again Mr. Boyd restored order. “Samuel Warren wanted to speak tonight, but he’s not here as yet. I suggest we take a break, hoist a pint in honor of Major Cartwright and wait for him. All in favor?”
A deafening chorus of “Aye!” filled the room. James chuckled at the mental image of a room full of working men, or any men for that matter, voting down the chance to drink.
“You do know who Major James Cartwright is?” Kensworth asked.
James hopped off the table and shot his companion an insulted glance. “Of course. He founded the Hampden Club back in ’Twelve.”
“My apologies,” Kensworth said as he pulled two tankards off the bar, “but you have been out of the country for a while.”
James accepted the ale offered by Kensworth, and the pair toasted the elderly Major Cartwright with the men around them. Kensworth introduced James round this smaller group, and a young man by the name of Hal Stickney questioned James for the better part of ten minutes, not about his reformist views or loyalty to the Whigs, but about his work in London. And here James thought no one at this meeting would care a whit about his personal life. He hadn’t counted on an enthusiastic man, or lad really, who desperately wanted a life beyond the village of Brantley.
He finally extricated himself from the tangle of lies and semi-truths he’d been imparting to young Stickney and looked around. The club members had separated into smaller groups and were talking and drinking much like the members of White’s often did. Kensworth stood off to the side, speaking to one of his footmen.
Alone at last, James took the opportunity to sidle through the crowd, his ears attuned to as many conversations as possible. Despite their earlier exuberance in support of reform, most everyone spoke of the mundane: finances, domestic life, employment, sporting events. After one disappointing pass around the room James leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest. Seeing Kensworth now in conversation with Stickney, he thought perhaps the viscount could find employment in Town for the young man.
Surveying the room further, James noticed the wiry fellow who’d sat with Robert and David pull Stickney away from Kensworth. He hustled young Stickney into a corner, spoke briefly and then pointed toward the Caldwell brothers. James would have thought nothing of this behavior, except for the fact it was clear the thin, long-haired man was anxious. His eyes darted around the room constantly and his finger shook when he pointed.
Vague suspicions drifted through James’s mind, making him remember it was entirely possible the plotter wasn’t Kensworth but another member of this club.
Deep in uneasy thought, it took a moment for him to recognize what he heard outside. Above the din came the agitated bellow of David’s stallion. What pricked James’s awareness, though, were the quieter but no less disturbed whinnies and grunts of the other horses.
He edged over to the nearest window. He was unlikely to see anything even if he looked, but as he concentrated upon hearing, another sound stoked fear in his heart: succinct, command-like whispers.