A Spy's Honor (26 page)

Finally, the viscount shifted in his saddle and looked over. “I didn’t mean to offend you back there.”

John 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. John 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.

John 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 John 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 John up and down then smiled. “You would make a perfect clerk.”

John 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 John’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 John 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 John’s dire thoughts.

“Very well,” John 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 John 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, John 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 John 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. John 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 John, 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 John. “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.”

John 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 Cahill 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 he 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.

John 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? John 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 John 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. John 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 John Cartwright is?” Kensworth asked.

John 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.”

John accepted the ale offered by Kensworth, and the pair toasted the elderly Major Cartwright with the men around them. Kensworth introduced John round this smaller group, and a young man by the name of Hal Stickney questioned John 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 John 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, John 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 John 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, John 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 Cahill brothers. John 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 John’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 John’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.

Chapter Twenty-One

Wasting no time, John pushed away from the window and strode straight for Kensworth. It was entirely possible that there
weren’t
men outside awaiting orders to raid this meeting, but every instinct he possessed insisted that’s what was about to happen.

He grabbed Kensworth’s upper arm and pulled him toward the bar. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The burly blond resisted, of course. “The meeting isn’t over. I want—”

Despite his companion’s leaden feet, John propelled him onward. There was no time to argue. He turned to the room at large and yelled, “Ambush! Everybody scatter!”

Despite the chatter, his words garnered everyone’s attention. But he wasn’t going to stick around to see if they obeyed him or not. He pushed Kensworth into the tavern’s back room, his goal the rear door.

Men shouting, doors slamming, feet pounding—it sounded as if they had landed squarely in Milton’s Pandemonium. The others had heeded his advice, charging out the front.

John would look like the veriest fool if there wasn’t anyone here to arrest them, but if he was wrong, so be it. Ridicule was far more easily endured than Kensworth’s arrest. Claire would be devastated.

John’s announcement recalled Kensworth’s latent military training. The viscount moved willingly now and kept silent.

They neared the door, and John pulled Kensworth closer and whispered, “As soon as we’re outside, run for the horses. Whoever is out there won’t shoot.” Under the circumstances, it seemed ridiculous that any lawmen would offer such unnecessary violence. “The most important thing is for you to get away without being seen. Do you understand?”

“What about you?” Kensworth asked.

“Don’t worry about me. If we get separated, we’ll meet near the old well we passed.” John peered outside but saw no one. The exodus from the front had probably distracted everyone stationed back here. “Go!”

He gave Kensworth one last push, and they both raced for the church, John shortening his long stride in order to stay with him. One of the village shops shielded their view of the lane and vice versa, but in a flash they were both mounted and unfortunately could now see the lane. Could see men being chased.

Worry creased Kensworth’s brow. “My brothers…”

“Go, damn you!” John slapped the man’s horse on the rear, and rider and mount shot off into the darkened woods.

Turning back toward the village, John stealthily guided his bay along the shop’s wall until he could observe the lane.

A handful of men kicked dirt in front of the tavern, obviously frustrated at their lack of success. One angry voice rang out, “Not a single one captured! They must have a spy, someone who knew what we were about.”

A few others straggled back from the dark edges of the village, all but two empty-handed.

Hal Stickney had been caught. He twisted and struggled, but the men holding him weren’t about to let go.

John was certain this night’s work wasn’t Sidmouth’s, but he still couldn’t chance anyone taking note of his appearance. Despite his lack of involvement in the raid, Sidmouth would not appreciate John’s next action.

He took off his spectacles, a dangerous prospect in itself, loosened his cravat and slipped the linen up around his face, tying it off behind his head. Spurring his bay, he headed straight toward those who held Stickney. When they were close enough, he tapped his heels three times against the horse’s flank and pulled sharply on the reins. The bay reared up, as it had been taught.

The two captors released their prisoner, instinctively raising their arms to ward off flailing hooves.

The bay thudded back onto his hooves, and John reached out a hand to Stickney, shouting, “Come!”

The young man didn’t hesitate, reaching out to clasp John’s hand in salvation. As if they’d practiced the maneuver many times, John gripped the man’s arm and hoisted him up while Stickney swung his leg over the horse.

The rescue mission barely lasted thirty seconds, and then they were off down the lane, the bay galloping hard despite its extra burden.

After a mile slipped by and there was no sound of thundering hooves in pursuit, John slowed his mount. Ripping his cravat down to his neck, he turned slightly and asked Stickney, “All well?”