The Courteous Cad (37 page)

“Those men and many others. Once accepted among the general public of Pentrich, Oliver orchestrated seditious meetings. It was he who provoked the men to revolt.”

Baines rubbed his hands together. “You are certain of this?”

“Absolutely. Oliver planned the armed march to London. He encouraged the people to believe they could successfully take their petitions to the king. If the monarch refused to hear their complaints, Oliver told them, then they must overthrow the government. When the rising was set and the men were preparing to march, Oliver informed the local militia.”

Baines caught his breath and then began to cough. “Upon my word, I have not been so astonished in my life! The same man who stirred the embers of revolt was employed by the prime minister?”

“And acting under the authority of the home secretary. Oliver was hired by Sidmouth as a spy to report on seditious meetings and treasonous plots.”

“But how are you so certain he was assigned and sent out by the government?”

“After the meeting during which the final details for the rising were put into place, I followed Oliver. He went directly to the militia and informed them of the very plans he himself had prepared.”

Looking down at the scrap of paper that William had given him earlier, Baines shook his head. Snatching up the message, he crumpled it and pushed it into his pocket.

“You
do
know, young man,” he said, “that this report— were it published—could end the career of Robert Banks Jenkinson, second Earl of Liverpool and prime minister of England.”

“And embarrass the king, the regent, Parliament . . . and, as a matter of fact, me.”

“Quite right, quite right.” Baines sat back in his chair. “Tell me how you have this information.”

“I was in Pentrich the night of the rising. I, too, was disguised as a disgruntled worker. I met Oliver and the other men, and I learned their plans.”

“But is your elder brother not Lord Thorne? What in the name of all that is sane were you doing dressed as a peasant in Pentrich?”

William shrugged. “I was following a pretty girl.”

“Good heavens.”

“Heaven has been very good indeed, sir. God, in His mercy, brought a golden-haired, green-eyed, impassioned young crusader into my life, and she woke me from my dark musings. From her, I learned that the welfare of my labor force must be uppermost in my mind.”

“Labor reform is not normally the occupation of the landed gentry.”

“No, indeed. Most of my peers are of the opinion that the lower classes will work harder if they are beaten regularly, compelled to labor from daylight to dusk, and given water porridge and black bread to eat. I have discovered, however, that my workers will produce better quality goods in greater quantity if they are treated well, educated, fed properly, and allowed occasional free time to enjoy their families and friends.”

“Astounding.”

“My reforms? Or my decision to follow the lady to Pentrich?”

“Both. Do I understand that you went to Pentrich to learn what the workers were plotting?”

“Yes, and to try to dissuade them from it.”

“But you are an advocate of reform. Why would you wish to halt a rising that had the stated aim of bringing about reform?”

“Reform can come in many guises,” William explained. “A law, a very good law, is what I believe can effect real change. This law must be drafted, taken before Parliament, and ratified. A revolution in manufacturing is inevitable, Mr. Baines. How much better if it could happen without marches and shootings and hangings.”

Baines took a sip of tea. Then another. Finally he focused on William. “Mr. Sherbourne, your story is implausible and preposterous. But I believe it. What I do not understand is why you have brought this information to me.”

“Because Oliver is here.”

“In
Leeds
!” Baines gave a violent jerk. His cup teetered on its saucer for a moment, then toppled over. As tea spilled across the white tablecloth, Baines leapt to his feet. “You have seen the man here, in this very town? Is he rousing the rabble?”

“You will have to determine that for yourself, Mr. Baines,” William said, standing. “I now consider my mission complete.”

“And you return to your lovely green-eyed crusader?”

William studied the floor, unable to speak. When he found his voice, he murmured an answer. “The woman I love challenged me to reform more than my mill. My entire life must be altered, I understand now. With that reformation comes responsibility that must part me from her forever.”

“You are a better man than I.” Baines rose and held out his hand. As William shook it, the newspaperman continued. “Thank you for information that will benefit not only the people of England, but . . . I hesitate to confess . . . may greatly benefit me, as well.”

“I am glad for you if it does, sir.”

“Will you come to Leeds again, Mr. Sherbourne? I should very much like to continue our discussions. The abolition of slavery—”

“I must stop you there,” William said, chuckling as he held up a hand. “I am in full agreement with those who advocate the abolition of slavery. But I have had quite enough of crusades for the time being. You will forgive me.”

“Then you must do nothing more ambitious than come to my home for dinner. I vow to refrain from all topics of controversy or sensation while you are my guest.”

“And a very dull time we shall have.” William smiled. “When I am recovered from my brief career as a spy, I shall visit you again, Mr. Baines, and we shall debate to our hearts’ content.”

The two men walked together across the outer office and bade farewell. As William left the building, he settled his hat on his head and stepped out into the street. It was time . . . past time . . . to complete the task before him.

“I have never had such a lovely evening in my life!” Mary declared as she descended the steps of Carlton House to await a carriage. “Prinnie looked marvelous, I thought.”

“Is it right to call the prince regent by such a familiar name, my dear?” Henry queried. Escorting Mary, he followed Sarah and Charles into the portico.

“Prinnie?” Mary asked. “And why not? We are among his acquaintances, and that is how he is known to his closest friends. Did you see Beau Brummell, Sarah? What can one think to say about such a man?”

“He has his own sense of fashion,” Sarah replied. “And an odd one it is.”

Prudence, trailing her sisters and their escorts, lifted her skirts and took the last few steps. Thank goodness she had managed to escape the growing number of eligible young men who were vying for her attention. Anonymity, she felt, was the only real benefit to a masquerade ball.

At her sisters’ insistence, she had gone as Helen of Troy— the face that launched a thousand ships. Her unspoken reason for accepting this guise was that she could wear one of her own gowns as her costume—a soft muslin in a pretty pink shade.

Mary dressed as Hera, the Greek goddess of marriage, women, and childbirth. Carrying a glittering scepter, she had arrayed herself in a gown covered with peacock feathers. Henry was Zeus, husband to Hera. In one hand he carried a painted wooden thunderbolt—which he had twice inadvertently poked into the portly abdomen of the prince regent and once into Mary’s peacock-garbed posterior.

Charles and Sarah were Romeo and Juliet. Their obvious pleasure in each other’s company overruled the tragic aspects of Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers.

Standing at the edge of the portico, Prudence tried to shake the sense of disquietude and unhappiness that had weighed on her for many weeks. She knew its source. William Sherbourne had not returned to her at the Delacroix estate in Derbyshire. No letter or message from him had been delivered. And since her return to London, she had neither seen nor heard from him.

Other than the aching sense of loss, Prudence thanked God that her health had been restored and her family were all well. Sarah and Charles delighted in each other, and their tea enterprise prospered. Mary and Henry, she felt sure, would announce their engagement within the year. Prudence was so glad they had found each other. Though she liked Henry very much, she had never loved him. Now and again, he had attempted to play the attentive beau, but his heart was not in it.

Looking down the street, Prudence wondered what was keeping their carriage. She was eager to return to Trenton House, sit by the fire and read for a while, and then drift off to sleep, lulled by thoughts of—

William?

Prudence stiffened with shock at the silhouette of a tall gentleman standing alone at the far end of the street. The profile of his face could not be mistaken. The curl of his hair. The bearing and demeanor she had admired so many times.

Unable to stop herself, Prudence started down the street. She could hear Mary and Henry guffawing about something or other. Sarah and Charles were laughing too. And now the gentleman tipped his hat at a passing couple. Prudence had seen that tilt of the head, that jaunty bow, far too many times to remain in doubt.

“William!” She called out to him in as hushed a voice as she could manage. “William Sherbourne.”

He turned. “Prudence?”

“William, is it really you?”

He squared his shoulders and made her a stiff bow. “It is I. Good evening, Miss Watson. I hope you are well.”

“I shall know how I am when you tell me why you are here, in London, at Carlton House, on this street.”

“I am . . . I have . . .” He took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. “Business. I am in London on business.”

“How long?”

“I have been here only two days. I leave tomorrow for Otley. And you?”

“We returned to town no more than a week after Pentrich.” She could hardly believe she was actually seeing this man who had so often occupied her thoughts. Yet, where was the teasing, mocking wit she had loved? Where was the dashing air of confidence? the warm brown eyes? the eager lips?

“I hope . . . I hope you are recovered from your illness,” he stammered. “I have wished to know that you are in good health.”

“I am well enough. Much better than when you saw me last.”

“Happy news,” he replied without the glimmer of a smile. “You must know already that I was unable to stop the rising in Pentrich. Brandreth and the others will hang for it.”

“Surely you do not blame yourself.”

“No. But I should have liked to prevent it.”

“Oliver was exposed,” she said. “The
Leeds Mercury
had it first, though
The Tattler
’s story was more entertaining.”

“Miss Pickworth?”

Prudence glanced over her shoulder at Mary. “Miss Pickworth enjoyed the scandal very much indeed. The home secretary and the prime minister were publicly shamed—a much-deserved censure, I thought. I am glad to know that at least one
agent provocateur
can no longer practice his deceits.”

“Ah, I see that your carriage has arrived,” William said. He made another stilted bow. “I wish you very well, Miss Watson.”

“William, wait—” She held out a hand. “Why do you speak to me in such a way? Are we not still friends? If you have been in London, why have you never called on us?”

“I was much occupied.”

“I see.” She noticed her sisters beckoning. Mary soon would set out to retrieve her. “Your brother and his wife? Are they well?”

“Very well.”

“Please give them my greetings.”

“Of course.” He rubbed his brow a moment before speaking again. “Prudence, please understand that I cannot . . . I am not at liberty to . . . I must not see you.”

“But why?” She paused as the truth rushed in like a sudden slap. “Is it because of that woman? the woman who died? Miss Bryse?”

His mouth fell open. “You
know
? You know about—”

“Prudence, for heaven’s sake,” Mary called out. “What on earth is keeping you?”

“Oh, William, can you please take tea with me tomorrow? We must talk. Will you come to Trenton House at ten?”

“I am sorry, Prudence. I . . . I cannot. I am . . . I am much engaged.”

“Engaged? To be married? You are—”

“Oh, Mr. Sherbourne!” Mary joined them.

“Mrs. Heathhill.” He bowed. “You are looking very . . . birdlike . . . this evening.”

Mary tittered. “Indeed, I am! We have just enjoyed the loveliest masquerade, and we are in high spirits. And how happy we are to find you here with us! Will you join us this evening? We go to Delacroix House to play at cards and eat far too many puddings.”

“You will not want me, madam. I always win at cards. And when I do not, I am not at all inclined toward puddings.”

“Oh, Mr. Sherbourne, how we have missed you. You always make us laugh!” She linked her arm through Prudence’s. “But we must away. If not this evening, do call on us when you can!”

“Excuse me, Mary.” Prudence removed her sister’s arm. “I shall join you in a moment.”

She glared until Mary gave a little shrug and hurried off.

“I have known about Miss Bryse for some time,” Prudence told William in a low voice. “Sarah learned the news from a friend. I have been alternately angry, sad, fearful, worried.”

“Your family cannot be pleased at our friendship.”