A Spy's Honor (17 page)

“Come, my lord. We haven’t much time,” Severs admonished as soon as John entered the room. Severs was Allerton’s valet but readily stepped in to assist John as well.

“I am in no hurry.” Indeed, why on earth would he rush to subject himself to an evening with Claire and her fiancé? His mission in life should be to avoid them at all costs. But he couldn’t seem to do that. He needed to investigate Kensworth anyway.

“Though time is short, I can still make you presentable,” Severs said, handing John a pair of black wool trousers—as if he had spent the day tramping through the park instead of finding Lord Stretton at Brooks’s. He couldn’t be
that
unkempt. But he had already learned it was best not to argue with Severs.

The time he had spent with Claire that morning had been magical—until it wasn’t. The episode with Olivia, the conversation regarding their parents, both had reminded him of the closeness and intimacy they had shared on their way to Scotland. Then she seemed to equate his departure with the way her father abandoned her and everything spiraled downward. She’d not cared a whit that he’d left to improve himself. For her.

The sooner he finished this damned mission, the sooner he could escape England once again.

In that pursuit, he had spent the rest of the day continuing his quest to find the traitor. Lord Stretton had willingly given John a clearer picture of the issues facing the government—from his radical point of view, of course. John had been able to scratch another peer from his list when Stretton told him of the death of that other peer’s mother-in-law. The family had been in deep mourning for the last week and a half, secluded in their London townhouse. The man couldn’t possibly have been traveling to his estate to meet with a coconspirator.

“Glove, my lord?”

John appreciated how matter-of-factly Severs asked the question. But, really, what did it matter anymore? Let everyone see what his cravenness had cost him. “No, thank you.”

Downstairs, outside the drawing room, he paused and glanced in. Everyone was already present.

Focus on Kensworth; forget Claire
. He repeated the commands, hoping to instill them in his brain.

As he entered the room, his gaze immediately focused on Claire and he realized it wasn’t his brain he had to worry about. It was his heart.

She was so beautiful in body and in spirit. Seeing her across the room, her yellow gown casting a soft glow upon her skin, her sable hair—but for a few tendrils—upswept, her smile bright and easy, made him want to march over, take her arm and announce to the room, “She’s mine.”

Because in his heart she would be forever his.

Unfortunately, she hung on the arm of Kensworth and her smile was directed toward the blond giant. No matter what John’s heart might think, to the rest of the world she was Kensworth’s.

“John, dear.” His mother captured his attention while a different blond giant blocked his view of Claire. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Cahill? I don’t believe you’ve met.”

Smiling politely, he greeted the middle Cahill brother and the man’s wife. Perhaps these two could help him clear Kensworth, so that he could forget Claire.

Right.

“I hear you have recently returned from Paris,” said Mrs. Cahill, blinking rapidly.

As far as John could tell she was fashionably dressed, with her dark hair pulled up into a sleek knot. Despite how formally she tried to speak, though, there was something in her accent that betrayed her common background. In researching Kensworth he’d learned that Mrs. Robert Cahill was the daughter of a shopkeeper. It must have been the shock of her life to find herself sister-in-law to a viscount.

Knowing that, John couldn’t help but want to make her feel comfortable here in his brother’s grand house. “No, not Paris,” he replied. A dingy little room in Bremen, not elegant Paris. “I was traveling all over Europe.”

His mother had wandered away, while Robert Cahill simply stood beside his wife, as still and silent as an oak.

“I would so love to see Paris. It’s such a romantic city.” Mrs. Cahill blinked excessively again and John realized she was attempting to flutter her eyelashes at him.

He took a step backward. “Paris isn’t any more romantic than any other city. Any place is romantic if you’re with the one you love.” Only by staring at the Axminster carpet was he able to keep his gaze from cutting to Claire. “But I hope you have the chance to visit Paris someday, if that is your wish.”

“Perhaps Robert and I can go next spring.”

John nodded vaguely and pushed his spectacles more firmly onto the bridge of his nose.

“Oh lud!” Mrs. Cahill screeched, clinging tightly to her husband’s arm. “What on earth is wrong with your hand? It looks as though someone cut off your fingers!”

She well expressed horror with a touch of disgust. Her hazel eyes were wide and her lips curled at the corner. The room, so recently full of muted chatter, had gone silent, except for the hurried swish of one skirt.

Any number of sharp rebukes came to mind, but he stuck with humor. “Do not worry overmuch for me, Mrs. Cahill. I find my only limitation is I can no longer count to ten.”

Then Claire was by his side. She ignored him, however, and reached across to take Mrs. Cahill’s arm. “Martha, I wanted to hear your ideas on the menu for the wedding breakfast. Come, walk with me.”

Claire’s voice was all that was polite, but John wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her forceful grip.

Mrs. Cahill, ever oblivious, said in a shrill whisper as she was escorted off, “Shouldn’t he wear a glove or something to hide that?”

Robert shrugged a massive shoulder and finally spoke. “Ladies. They simply cannot bear to look upon anything grotesque. Thank God He didn’t create another species so faint of heart.”

“Lord John, it’s good to see you again.” Kensworth stepped slightly in front of his brother. They looked so similar, John mused again, not only in their powerful builds, but in their blond hair and green eyes. While the faint-of-heart ladies most likely thought Kensworth the handsomer, John wondered if the brothers had ever been mistaken for one another.

He nodded in greeting. “I trust you enjoyed the ball last night?”

“As much as any man can enjoy a ball,” Kensworth said with a grin that faded only slightly as he continued. “My fiancée didn’t seem to find it quite so amusing. She left early with a megrim.”

“Another weakness of women,” Robert interjected. “Megrims are an excuse for women to leave any situation they don’t like.”

“Oh, I’m certain that’s not the case with Lady Claire,” Kensworth declared. “She seemed to take great delight in her waltz with you, John.”

Remembering Claire’s admonition that he had held her too close, John searched her fiancé’s face for any hint of condemnation. The viscount, despite trying to look as cheerful as Olivia in possession of one of her “shiny” treasures, appeared to be clenching his considerable jaw.

John nodded vaguely, uncertain what he could say to put Kensworth at ease. Best to turn the conversation to a subject that would advance his purpose. “You appear to take your parliamentary duties seriously, denying yourself a dance with your fiancée”—damn, that word was hard to spit out—“in order to speak of government business.”

Kensworth lifted a brawny shoulder. “I always take my duties, and my love for my country, seriously, and Claire supports me in that. I went into the army to support Britain. Now, by inheriting the title, I’ve been given an opportunity to fulfill my duties to England in another manner.”

John looked to see if Robert had any stultifying observation to make, but the younger man’s attention appeared to have wandered to the coffered ceiling of all things. Before turning back, John caught a glimpse of Claire. She was in the far corner, still speaking to Mrs. Cahill, although she looked anything but happy to have that lady’s opinion on the wedding breakfast.

Focus on Kensworth; forget Claire
.

John nodded. “Lord Stretton is impressed with you. He seems to think you’ll rank highly in the government one day.”

The viscount’s blond eyebrows made an advance on his broad forehead. “Been soliciting information about me, have you?”

“No, I’ve been asking for assistance in getting a seat in the Commons. Stretton mentioned you, as well as two others.” John had never meant to speak to Kensworth about that, but he couldn’t have the man thinking he was asking questions.

Kensworth glanced across the room toward Allerton. “You would seek
my
help in getting into Parliament?”

Hell and damnation. How had he got himself into this? He’d forgotten to tell Allerton about his unlikely defection to the Whigs. He’d best do that tonight, after the guests left.

He might as well say yes, though. If Kensworth were the conspirator, John couldn’t ask to be in a better position to bring him down. If the man were innocent, well, then, John might find himself becoming a reluctant member of parliament. He rather liked Kensworth, after all, except for the unfortunate fact that the man was engaged to Claire. That, he needed to overcome.

“Yes, I would,” he finally said. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve been abroad for so long, but I find myself at odds with much of the thinking of our Tory government.”

“Hmm,” Kensworth mused. “I might be able to help you. I’ve tried to sway Allerton to my side, but alas…” His green eyes contemplated John, contemplated the possibility. “What do you think of the government revoking habeas corpus? They’ve detained twelve men with it so far.”

John couldn’t help but respect the other man’s candor. No beating around the bushes here. “It’s unnecessarily restrictive. As they say, you catch more flies with honey. Although, the rabble-rousers have been using nothing but vinegar, so the government is more likely to respond in kind.”

The viscount’s eyes lit up as he slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “Exactly. Generally speaking, governments don’t act, they only react. So some see these ‘seditious’ acts and meetings as the only way to enact change.”

Now this was getting interesting. “Define these ‘some.’”

“Members of the Hampden Clubs, for instance.” Kensworth lifted a shoulder nonchalantly. However, his voice was hushed.

John managed to keep his expression blank, but only because he couldn’t decide if he should be shocked that Kensworth mentioned the club so freely in Allerton’s drawing room or if he should be disheartened that the man was looking guiltier by the moment. Oddly enough, he felt no glee or triumph in the idea that Claire’s fiancé might be discredited.

“Are you acquainted with some of these people?”
Please let him say no
.

“Acquainted!” Robert barked a laugh. “He is a member of the club in Hertfordshire.”

As Kensworth shot his middle brother a killing glare, the youngest Cahill, David, joined them. “Of course he’s a bloody member. All three of us are founding members.” He inclined his head toward John. “Are you interested?”

“Robert. David.”

Kensworth spoke in a low tone that promised a future rebuke. Were all older brothers capable of intimating such an action just by tone? Allerton certainly was. A hollow formed in John’s stomach, and it wasn’t from hunger. Why would Kensworth be this stupid? Or was he truly up to no good?

“You’re a member of the Lords. Why would you associate yourself with such agitators?” he asked, much more diplomatically than he felt.

“Perhaps you forget where I’ve come from,” Kensworth said, with more hostility than he’d ever shown John before. “I’ve only held the title for a short while.”

David defended his brother with a fiery passion illuminating his hazel eyes. “The Hampden Clubs promote suffrage for all men. That’s what Stephen wants too. Why shouldn’t they support each other? It isn’t a crime to belong.”

“They arrested members of the Middleton club last month,” John reminded the brothers in a harsh whisper. But this was a nightmare. Even if Kensworth wasn’t the assassin, which was not looking as unlikely as before, he was up to his ears in potential trouble. “You could be brought up on charges of violating the Seditious Meeting Act.”

“We aren’t so foolish,” David scoffed. “We never even have close to fifty people at our meetings. Besides, this is a turning point in our country’s history. Only namby-pambies will sit by and not participate.”

John looked at Kensworth.

“I know what I’m doing,” the viscount said. “If I, who once stood in these men’s shoes, do not assist them, who will?”

The man sounded so noble. But John had heard Sidmouth’s dire warnings firsthand. The Home Secretary wouldn’t hesitate to arrest Kensworth and bring him up on charges of treason.

“Come see what we’re about,” Robert offered.

“There’s a meeting on the eighteenth,” David added.

Kensworth nodded his agreement, apparently no longer upset with his brothers for their candor on the subject. He stepped closer to John. “An excellent idea. If you want me to help you get a seat in Parliament, come to the next meeting. I will be riding to Hertfordshire on Thursday next. You are more than welcome to ride with me and to stay at Wakebourne Hall.”

John stared round at the three brothers. He was being tested. Given the opportunity to infiltrate a Hampden Club meeting, he couldn’t say no. Still, he had qualms about the situation, including a ridiculous fear that Kensworth, even if innocent, would not come out of this unscathed. Not to mention it agitated him no end that he was so concerned about Kensworth. The viscount’s downfall would free Claire, wouldn’t it?

She still wouldn’t have you, you fool.

John looked the viscount squarely in the eye. “Thank you for your invitation. I accept.”

Just like that, Kensworth grinned as if he had reformed Parliament all on his own and stuck out his hand. John shook it just as Hadlow announced dinner.

Chapter Thirteen

Much to Claire’s relief, dinner was an enjoyable affair. She was seated by David, who, though younger than herself, had any number of amusing and adventurous tales to tell. He quite ably kept her and Emily entertained, but more importantly he distracted her from rampant curiosity about the handshake that had concluded the long discussion between John and Stephen.