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After a restless night in which she listened for any little sign of James’s return, Amelia rose, disgusted with herself, and went down to breakfast. This last was an achievement, for she so wanted to remain in her bedchamber and stew.
“Good morning!”
Peyton’s greeting grated on her overtired brain, but Tessa, at least, was more sensitive. Amelia’s sister studied her for a moment and then sighed. “Do come sit, Amelia. Philip will fill your plate.” She nodded at the footman.
When Amelia had seated herself, Tessa leaned over. “Whatever is wrong, my dear?”
Amelia simply stared at the empty chair which James usually occupied.
Her sister followed her gaze. “Oh. Does it matter where he is?”
Amelia shrugged, too desolate to care that her sister still wasn’t keen on a match between her and James. What match, anyway?
“You must focus on something else. Your writing, perhaps?” Tessa asked with false enthusiasm.
Amelia threw her sister a quelling look, then turned to Peyton. “Where is your brother?”
His auburn eyebrows rose at her demanding tone, but he lowered the note he was reading. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I haven’t seen him since...” He slid his eyes to the ceiling in thought. “Since yesterday morning. He was on his way out, in quite a rush. Why?” he asked, seemingly oblivious to her distress. “When did you last see him?”
The memory of James—above her, inside her—flashed into Amelia’s mind. Heat scalded her cheeks. Yesterday she’d told herself she didn’t regret giving herself to him. After forty-eight hours of his absence and no proposal, however...
She contemplated the flowering vines on the wallpaper as she answered Peyton. “Sunday morning. He didn’t say where he was going.” That, at least, was the truth.
“Should we be concerned?” Tessa asked, softening her stance on James for the first time since his return.
“No. Certainly not.” Amelia snapped her gaze to Peyton and then back to her sister. “James has the right to come and go as he pleases. His irregularity needn’t concern us.”
She was trying to convince herself of the same, of course. Common sense told her he was working, doing his best to apprehend...someone. However, common sense offered little in the way of comfort. The situation remained the same: James was gone without a word. She could not even tell her sister and brother-in-law her suspicions regarding his whereabouts. Or her worry over the danger he might be in. Or how deep was the hole his departure carved in her heart.
Tessa slid a speaking glance at her husband. Peyton laid the letter on the corner of the table and said, “You have a point, little sister. He is his own man. I do hope, however, he puts in an appearance before we leave tomorrow.”
“What?” Amelia looked to Tessa.
“We would like to return to Applewood for a few weeks. Phoebe, and Peyton,” she said with a warm look at her husband, “enjoy the country so much more, and we only have a short time left before I begin my confinement.” She patted her round stomach.
“Oh, of course.” Amelia nodded, just able to prevent a shiver as a cold despondency cloaked her. Tessa and Peyton had never preferred Town and had only stayed so long because of her wedding. The wedding that was now canceled.
“Come with us,” Tessa pleaded. “It will do you good as well. You can play with Phoebe, or write, or read, or take long rides. Whatever you wish, dearest.”
“I... No, I had best stay.” Amelia managed a wan smile. Oh, how she wanted to go with them, to just disappear like James. It would serve him right. However, she was not a coward and this time there would be no misunderstanding between them. “I’m certain Victoria won’t mind.”
She spent the rest of the day assisting Tessa with the packing and the entertaining of the toddling Phoebe. Amelia relished the work and the distraction, though the latter wasn’t enough to keep her from listening for the opening of the front door.
By dinner, when the dowager herself commented on and fussed over James’s absence, Amelia was done in. She participated in the conversation perfunctorily and excused herself as soon as politeness allowed.
She wasn’t deaf to Peyton’s footsteps behind her, but she kept moving until he called her name. “Amelia. Should I be out searching for my brother?”
Grasping the staircase newel, she spun around to face him. How could she balance James’s need for secrecy with his family’s unease? This wasn’t the Continent, where James was answerable to no one but the British government. He had a responsibility to his family now he was back. He had a responsibility to her, after what they had done the other night.
She sighed. “Not yet. I’m certain” —no, she wasn’t at all— “he has his reasons for this absence. Perhaps we might speak of this again tomorrow, if...if he hasn’t returned by then?”
“Oh, Amelia. I will kill him if he—” Peyton blew out a breath. Then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her on the forehead. “I won’t stoop to calling out my own brother, but if you need me to, I’ll gladly give him a sound thrashing.”
Oddly, Peyton’s assurance lifted her spirits, if ever so slightly. She called a thank-you over her shoulder and headed upstairs.
She spent the night, however, in another fitful sleep, her mind filled with doubts and worries. Even as she finally fell asleep, the answer to the most important question eluded her: What would she do if James didn’t return by the next day?
***
JAMES FELL BACK AGAINST the cracked leather seat of the hackney he shared with Duncan, massaging the bridge of his nose for a moment before putting his spectacles back on. At last he looked to be returning to Mayfair. After three days of dogging Robert Caldwell, he might finally get the chance to see Amelia. Before he left, he’d arranged for a note and bouquet to be delivered to her yesterday, in anticipation of spending an evening out together. He’d not made it back. There’d been no opportunity to send another note of apology. He couldn’t imagine what Amelia must be thinking.
Duncan had his eyes closed, and James was glad of the opportunity for silence. He now knew more about Robert Caldwell than he wanted. Kensworth’s brother had a pedestrian taste for gin, a strong preference for doxies, and an aptitude for boxing that didn’t surprise James. The information gave James an even more unfavorable opinion of Caldwell, but none of it implicated the man in a plot to kill the prime minister.
They had followed Robert first to Whitechapel, where he had engaged in a number of morally questionable activities. Later that night, James had expected the man to return to Mayfair, but instead he rode out into Kent, spent the night at an inn, and then participated in a number of rowdy boxing matches the next day. After that Caldwell traveled to yet another village and repeated the whole scenario. Neither James nor Duncan could leave while Robert might take off to meet an accomplice. Now, at eight o’clock in the evening of the third day, it looked as if Caldwell were heading back home. He rode in the hackney that James had directed his driver to follow, and if he did truly intend to retire to Kensworth House, James could go home, change clothes, and see Amelia.
The hackney turned onto Brook Street. Excellent. Kensworth House was just a block away. James drummed his fingers on the brittle leather seat, eager to put the past three days behind him. He was finally close to uncovering the assassin. He could feel it; his break would come soon.
The hackney squeaked to a stop. James peeked out the window and saw Robert entering Kensworth House.
“Where to now, sir?” the jarvey yelled down.
“Duncan, take the hackney back to your lodgings and get some sleep,” James said.
He moved to get out of the carriage—he could walk home from here—but froze when David Caldwell bounced down the townhouse steps and climbed into the hackney that hadn’t left. A quick glance around showed that Flewett was not watching this Caldwell brother. James cursed under his breath and then ordered the jarvey in pursuit. As the carriage clattered forward, he slammed his fist against the wall. Duncan lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.
With the sun fading in the west, David’s hackney rolled to a halt in Covent Garden. Perhaps he simply meant to take in a theatre performance. James fervently hoped so.
He paid the jarvey to take Duncan home, silencing that man’s protest with assurances he could handle watching their quarry. Once he ascertained that David planned to stay for a play, he would find another hackney to take him home.
But David didn’t enter the Theatre Royal. Instead, he bought an orange from a pretty girl and then propped himself against the wall of No. 7 Bow Street.
Was he waiting for someone? James weaved through the crowd until he was closer to the corner of Hart Street and had a prime view of both David and the theatre, and for the next hour he watched David watch the theater. Carriages, some opulent, some plain, paraded past the theatre, dropping off all manner of passengers. David didn’t seem interested in anything else, just the conveyances streaming by.
As the traffic slowed to a trickle, he finally pushed away from the wall and moved down Bow Street. James turned away and walked in the opposite direction for a moment, then reversed course and followed the brawny David into Broad Court, a small lane across from the theatre. There, in his affable style, the youngest Caldwell chatted up the coachmen waiting for their employers.
Stymied by his behavior, James hung back near the entrance to the lane. After a time, however, David meandered farther down Broad Court. James followed him to the end, where David clambered into a carriage. Intent on looking for a hackney for himself, James was too busy to hear the footsteps behind him until just before he could anticipate the blow.
He flung out an arm, but the body crashed toward and into him and they both tumbled to the pavement.
***
DISHEVELED AND CERTAINLY beginning to bruise, James arrived at Taviston House after midnight. A sleepy-eyed footman, struggling to keep his expression bland at James’s unkempt appearance, let him in.
He climbed the stairs, exhausted after his two-day journey. Ironic, how the most exciting event of said journey had been a common footpad mistaking him for a milksop who wouldn’t put up a fight. After a struggle of some minutes, the thief had limped off much worse the wear and James had finally traveled home, purse intact.
David’s behavior at Covent Garden had been suspect, but he’d done nothing incriminating. Every lead James followed had ended with only a miniscule step forward. His suspicions lay almost entirely with David at the moment, but he couldn’t think what the young man was up to.
On the second floor, he stopped at the top of the staircase.
Covent Garden. The Theatre Royal.
As You Like It.
He’d wanted to escort Amelia to the play. The only reason he knew about the performance was because it had been on the list of the prime minister’s activities. Liverpool would be in attendance tomorrow night.
Tonight. It was the twenty-third already. David had been surveying the theatre in anticipation of carrying out the assassination plot.
James turned and raced back down the stairs, his heart thundering, and a pang of grief struck his chest as he began to throw open the locks on the front door. Kensworth would be destroyed, not only by the scope of David’s intended actions, but also by the blow to his family’s character.
The footman came awake again, alarmed, so James called an apology as he threw open the door and raced out into the night. One thought was pounding through his brain. Please God, let Watson still be at the club.
He ran to White’s, slowing to a walk only the last two blocks in order to catch his breath and right his appearance. Nonetheless, the footman standing sentry eyed him askance before recognizing him.
In the card room, he managed to snare Watson’s attention from afar, and the man met him in the corridor after finishing the hand he’d been dealt.
Looking him up and down, Watson shook his head. “Give a care to your appearance, Danforth. You will not find it easy to escape notice with blood running down your cheek.”
James ignored this. “I have more important things to do at the moment than primp. Let’s take a walk.”
Watson followed him outside, but his slow gait indicated some reluctance. On the pavement, the man sniffed. “The ‘important’ information you’ve provided in the past has amounted to nothing. I was winning that card game, I’ll have you know.”
After today, he would be finished with Watson. Finished with his condescending tone and his falsely superior attitude. James guided them into a deserted lane and lowered his voice. “The assassination is scheduled for tonight at the Theatre Royal. Liverpool is expected to attend the performance of As You Like It. Make certain he doesn’t.”
Watson’s eyes lit up, a reaction James never expected. “What do they intend to do? Shoot him?”
“I’m not certain,” James said. “The conspirators seemed interested in the theatergoers’ waiting carriages. However, as long as Liverpool is not in Covent Garden tonight, what they have planned is irrelevant.”
“And these conspirators are...?” Watson asked.
“Once I have captured them, I will make a full report to Lord Sidmouth.” James meant to appeal to the Home Secretary on Kensworth’s behalf. If he could get David to call off the plot, leniency might be an option, although James didn’t have high hopes, considering Sidmouth’s stance against political agitators. For Kensworth, though, he would try.
Watson frowned but finally shrugged. “Very well. I will report directly to the Home Secretary at a suitable time later this morning.”
James watched his liaison saunter off, not at all unhappy to see the last of Harry Watson. Now he could concentrate on talking sense to David.
After that, he could focus on Amelia. His assignment was nearly over. He was almost free.
He returned to Taviston House, his step lighter than before, and the footman patiently let him in again. He needed a change of clothing and to deal with the mess that was his face, but more importantly he needed time to think of how best to approach Kensworth’s brother. He’d ascertained earlier that David had returned home, and both of Sidmouth’s men were again watching Kensworth House so James would be alerted if he left.
At the second-floor landing, he paused. Amelia’s room was to the right. His was to the left.
This was his brother’s house; propriety demanded he go straight to his chamber. Propriety also should have forced him to send Amelia away the other night. Giving in to temptation hadn’t served them well. Their wedding was in the distant future, and they had no hope of keeping up a continued liaison under his brothers’ and mother’s noses.
With reluctance, he turned to the left.