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“There you are!” Kensworth’s voice echoed down the now shadowy passage. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why?” James asked before realizing how suspicious he sounded.
Kensworth came closer and held the candle off to the side so they could see each other. “I wanted to apologize.”
“So late at night?” James pressed his lips together. Time to silence the espionage side of his brain. He was fairly certain Kensworth wasn’t the one who’d been outside. His suspicions now lay with another member of the Caldwell family.
“Yes,” Kensworth said. “I believe an apology is best issued without delay.” The candlelight turned his eyes, touched with sincerity, a muted shade of green. “I am sorry I accused you of betraying us. I was angry and I lashed out.”
More likely he hadn’t been angry but afraid. For himself, probably; for his brothers, definitely. James hoped that fear sank deep into Kensworth’s brain and dictated caution in the future.
Never one to hold a grudge, he nodded in forgiveness. “I too have spoken in anger and regretted it.”
His expression more at ease, Kensworth eyed James from toe to head. “Why are you down here? I went to your bedchamber first.”
James shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. All the excitement.”
Kensworth seemed to accept that weak explanation. “I could do with a drink. And you?”
“Excellent idea.”
Kensworth, wearing a gold silk banyan over his breeches and shirt, led James back to the study. As the other man poured significant measures of brandy into glasses, James lit a few candles and chanced a look out the window. The two men were gone.
Kensworth handed him the brandy and then sank into a chair beside the barren fireplace, waving James toward a second seat. “You think it was the magistrate who coordinated the raid?”
“Seems likely, doesn’t it?” It couldn’t have been Sidmouth, for Watson would have told him of James’s intended presence. Finding the assassin had to take priority over Sidmouth’s vengeance against the Hampden Clubs. As well, another detail hinted at a local operation. “The men outside the tavern weren’t soldiers, which is why I think it was the magistrate and not someone from London.”
“Who did inform on us then?” Kensworth asked. He studied the faded red and black carpet, obviously intending the question to be rhetorical.
David’s dog howled again, but Kensworth seemed not to notice. Perhaps he was inured to the sound.
“I would guess it was Samuel Warren,” James answered.
Kensworth straightened. “You haven’t even met Warren. How can you accuse him—?”
James held up a hand. “I said I was guessing. Warren was supposed to give a speech but wasn’t there. Instead, the others were lying in wait.”
“That does make him look suspicious,” Kensworth conceded. He lifted his chin toward James. “How did you know they were out there?” He asked the question much more casually than his brother.
“The horses sounded agitated, and I thought I heard voices outside.”
Kensworth narrowed his eyes, as if he didn’t know whether or not to be convinced, and stared at James for a long moment, his gaze steady. “They had no cause to arrest us,” he finally said, almost petulantly.
James felt like kicking him. “They don’t need a cause. Do you not listen to a word I say? I was afraid of this.” He pressed back the first finger on his left hand. “You were nearly in violation of the Seditious Meeting Act.” He pulled the second finger back. “There is currently no protection from habeas corpus.” Mentally, he ticked off a third finger and enumerated that there might have been men in attendance plotting against the government.
He eyed Kensworth, wondering if he could ask about that without raising suspicion. “Or maybe they did have cause. Could some of the members be up to something more nefarious than agitating for reform?”
Kensworth leapt out of his chair, took a few strides across the carpet, and then whipped around, a disdainful scowl creasing his face. “Of course not! I am loath to say this, but I am not certain I can help you become an MP, Danforth. You haven’t the mettle, nor the conviction, to fight for what we need.”
A strong temptation—to tell Kensworth to go to hell and take his patronage with him—clawed at James’s throat. Unfortunately, he needed to maintain his acquaintance with the man and his family. Damn, though, if he didn’t still think he could open Kensworth’s idealistic eyes to the vagaries of life in the ton.
He swallowed the temptation with a dose of brandy and then stood to face the viscount. “We are speaking frankly?”
Kensworth pushed his banyan aside and braced his hands on his hips. “It would appear so.”
“If your association with the Hampden Club becomes known, you stand to lose much.”
“I am a viscount,” Kensworth scoffed. “I’m a member of the Whig party, and a reformist member at that. I have nothing to fear.”
So naïve. “You’re going to be married! Whatever befalls you, befalls Amelia. Do you want her to feel the sting of Society’s disapproval?”
Lines of disbelief marred Kensworth’s broad forehead. He looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what, and so James took advantage of his silence.
“The Home Office blames the Hampden Clubs for much of the unrest around the country. While tonight I saw men earnestly working for reform, everyone else suspects these clubs of trying to start riots or harm the Prince Regent. Your involvement with supposed agitators cannot benefit anyone. If you lose the respect of your colleagues in the House of Lords because of your membership in the Hampden Club, what can you accomplish?”
Kensworth, arms folded across his chest, eyed him balefully, looking more than ever as fierce as a Viking warrior. Part of James admired Kensworth’s determination to take risks. Hadn’t that been what he did every day on the Continent? But, then, he’d been living anonymously. His life might have been at stake, but never his reputation. Never his family.
He began pacing the short width of the room. “You don’t know the ton. As you said once before, I grew up among them. I am not some fretful lad afraid to take a chance. I take risks, but only when they have a chance of helping me achieve my goal. The other men in the Hampden Club must do what is in their power to achieve reform. They must meet; they must agitate; they must march. We must use our power and position—in the House of Lords and the House of Commons—to accomplish those same goals.”
The words should have been a fabrication—James had never intended to seek a seat in Parliament—but suddenly the idea took root. Reform was needed, and he could help. He really could.
“There is nothing wrong with the members of the Hampden Club,” Kensworth replied, his lip curled in annoyance. “They are no worse, if also no better, than those above them. The point is, they still deserve suffrage and equality. Obviously, you and others of your ilk do not think so.”
Stopping, James gave him a stern look recently reserved for his recalcitrant nephew. “Stop acting like a horse’s arse. Do you think you are the only one who can advocate for suffrage, simply because of your destitute background? There are many—including me, Stretton, and Romford—who believe the same as you and will gladly help the cause. You need to act like a peer of the realm and leave the others to play the parts they are suited for.” He waved his arm around, indicating the estate. “Use what you have been given to give more to others. You were an officer. You know it wouldn’t do to send in the cavalry to do the infantry’s work.”
“I am trying to,” Kensworth spat out before moving to sit behind his desk. “I can’t abandon those men. They need—”
“You to fight for their rights in the House of Lords,” James finished for him.
Elbows on the desk, Kensworth ran his hands over his hair and exhaled loudly. James held his breath, waiting to see if the viscount saw his point. The man was proving as tough to bring around as some of the most ardent French loyalists.
The longcase clock in the entrance hall chimed three times. This time, Kensworth noticed. “It’s late. I will think over what you’ve said.” He laced his fingers atop the blotter and raised an eyebrow. “For the silent type, you’ve had a lot to say tonight.”
Kensworth didn’t want to admit he might have strayed off the mark in his determination to help the disenfranchised, but James sensed victory. Nevertheless, he could wait for confirmation. “Thank you for listening,” he said as he rose and strode for the door.
As he opened it, Kensworth spoke again. “I won’t be leaving with you and my brothers in the morning. I’ve had a note from Amelia, and she has asked to speak with me tomorrow.”
James stared at the doorknob. Amelia. She had vowed not to speak with her fiancé about his suspicions. Should he trust her to be loyal to him? No, loyal to her country,
He turned and nodded. “Very well then, I will see you in Town.”
***
STEPHEN HAD AGREED to see her, but he also expressed the wish to be back in London before the day was much gone, so Amelia and Peyton arrived at Wakebourne at the very unfashionable hour of nine in the morning. She didn’t mind the earliness of the hour, for she hadn’t been able to sleep anyway. She felt as if she’d invited herself over to drown his favorite spaniel.
Crying off their engagement when she’d thought they were merely friends had been horrible to contemplate. Jilting him when she believed he loved her was nothing short of agonizing. But, he deserved better than her.
Stephen was on the terrace, thankfully alone, enjoying a cup of coffee. Amelia stopped short of stepping outside. Peyton cut her a curious sidelong glance.
“I must speak to him privately,” she uttered in a low voice.
Peyton’s eyebrows rose in rampant curiosity, but one doleful look from Amelia sent him in graceful retreat. “As you wish.”
Stephen rose to greet her, his usual heartfelt smile splitting his face. Amelia nearly stumbled. He took her hand and steadied her.
“Shall we walk in the garden?” she asked, fearful they would be interrupted on the terrace.
“I would like nothing better.” He tucked her arm around his. “It is uncommonly good to see you this morning. Soon, we can start every day like this.”
They stepped down from the terrace onto a horizontal garden path. While the old house of Wakebourne had been replaced by something more modern, the formal gardens had not been touched. No sign of Capability Brown’s hand here. The low-hedged paths were laid out in geometric fashion, with a spectacularly large fountain in the center.
Unable to stop herself, Amelia asked, “Where are the others?”
“James and my brothers already left for Town.”
“Oh.” Amelia turned toward the back of the garden, feeling as if she were leading Stephen along the path to Hell. She gulped in a breath. “Stephen, I’ve been thinking about your question.”
“What question?”
“Would I have accepted your proposal if James had returned earlier?”
He stopped, looking for all the world as if he regretted asking. “Right.”
He started walking again but didn’t ask for an answer, which spoke volumes. How could she do this to him? She studied his face, the wariness in his green eyes, the lips that smiled so often they were permanently turned up at the ends. Stephen deserved someone who loved him. Who desired him.
“I cannot answer your question,” she said. “It’s impossible to change the way things happened.” When he narrowed his eyes, suggesting he wouldn’t stand for that circular argument, she plunged on. “I think the true question is, is it fair for me to hold you to our engagement?”
“Fair?” he repeated.
“Honorable. Right. Conscionable.”
He abruptly stopped walking, glanced around. “We’d best sit.”
Amelia followed him to a bench that faced the fountain. She sat but jumped a little as the coldness of the stone penetrated her layers of clothing. Taking Stephen’s large hand she said, “You are a true friend.”
Oh, but how to go on from there. Staring off at a distant stand of just-budding beech trees, she realized she should have prepared what to say before broaching this subject. “I’m so grateful that I’ve been able to enjoy the past years with you, and I wouldn’t change a thing about the time we spent together.”
Stephen searched her face. “But...?”
This was as difficult as she had imagined. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt the man sitting beside her. His green eyes, crinkled at the corners from the bright sunlight, were so warm. Yet, the easiest and most dangerous way to hurt him would be marriage. She must end this.
She squeezed his hand. “Because we are friends, I must speak honestly. I cannot marry you. I’m not in love with you, and you deserve a woman who is.” She clung to his hand, willing herself not to cry, forcing herself to look him in the eye. The splashing water of the fountain droned into the silence. “Somewhere out there is a woman who can love you passionately, who can give you all her heart.”
Out of the blue he burst out laughing, even threw his blond head back as he did. Unfortunately, the sound was hollow, and his eyes skittered from side to side. “Sweet Amelia! I’ve always known that your heart was taken. Taken and broken. I never knew who had done such a thing until...”
Her jaw dropped and she had not the wherewithal to lift it up. When he reached out and gently closed it for her, rubbing his thumb along the bottom of her chin, she asked, “You knew?” She was so dumbfounded she didn’t even notice the fly that landed on her arm until Stephen waved it away.
“You tried to hide your broken heart, but I saw it in your eyes.” His lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I watched and waited, trying to see who it might be, but I soon realized it wasn’t anyone presently in Society. I couldn’t abide your hurt, so that was one reason I offered to marry you. I knew how much you wanted a family, and I thought that I, at least, would care for you better than any of those other fools.”
Tears sprang up again. How ironic. She had always wanted a hero to rescue her. James had been the first, and now Stephen had done so, only she was rejecting him.
He continued to smile at her, albeit not as widely as he usually did. “None of this means we can’t marry, however. I am well aware of your past with James, but the future is ours. We have plans, Amelia. The Whigs. Parliamentary reform. Abolition of slavery.”
She laid her hand on his, aware that his skin was not as warm as she expected. Oh, she was so cruel. Was he experiencing the same deep, jabbing pain she’d felt when James had decided not to marry her?
“Stephen, I am not the woman for you. While I would be hard pressed to identify a single fault in your character, we are not suited” —she drew in a faltering breath— “because I don’t love you. Not as a wife should. I do not mean to belittle your feelings, for I am truly flattered to think you love me, but... You deserve better than me.”
Lord, she was rambling like the feeblest lackwit. She held her breath, waiting, and watched as his eyes dulled to a faded jade. A lightning strike would not be too harsh a punishment for this heartlessness.
He laughed, a coarse and unnatural sound, and pulled his hand away. “Amelia, I am not in love with you. Whatever gave you such an idea? I value your friendship and I wanted to ease your pain. Nothing more.”
Surprised at his denial, she couldn’t think what to say. How to continue.
He gazed at the fountain, looking more and more like a stranger to her. “Obviously you and Lord James have not forgotten each other and—”
“Stephen, I’m not throwing you over for someone else. I’ve had no other offer, nor do I necessarily expect one. I... I would like the opportunity to see if James and I might have a future, but what I truly want is for you to be free to find the kind of love you deserve.” She touched his sleeve, her heart aching at his distant expression. “I agreed to your proposal with the best of intentions. I never meant to deceive you.”
He heaved a great sigh, his shoulders straining the seam of his brown tweed coat. “I have never doubted your intentions or your friendship.” Leaning back against the bench, he quirked a half-smile. “I must admit I wouldn’t mind finding a woman who looked at me the way you look at him.”
Well, fustian. “I apologize for treating you abominably. I will do my best to take as much of the blame as possible; I don’t want your reputation to suffer.” And she would work all the harder to find James his proof that Stephen was innocent. She grabbed his hand. “Please say we can remain friends and that I may continue to help you with your speeches and such. I know I’m being wretched, but I don’t want to lose you.”
His hand lay limp in hers for what seemed an eternity. Then finally he gave her fingers a squeeze. “I would be honored if we could remain friends, but do not worry about me. The ton may think what they will.”
He stood and pulled her up, retaining her hands. She breathed at last, glad to have her friend restored to her, but his comment troubled her. Such a blithe attitude was commendable, but she wasn’t certain he fully realized the power of Society. Scandals never really disappeared. Society might tuck them away in a pocket, but always kept a hand on them, ready to wield all the wicked details when the opportunity arose. If she and Stephen remained friends, though, it might lessen the storm of gossip.
Amelia stretched her heels off the ground and kissed him on the cheek. “You are such a dear. I’m a fool to give you up.”
“No, you aren’t.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing her closer, and Amelia nearly sobbed. He had lied. He did love her. She could only hope he soon discovered an even greater passion for a woman wise enough to return his feelings.
They walked back to the terrace in somber silence.