Page 4 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

4

It took an hour or so for us to settle on the advertisement for The Times .

MR LENNOX of Cheltenham. Renegade and Leonardo send their regards. Suggest meet at noon on Thursday 22nd at the place where it all started. Urgent. Respond likewise.

“Renegade?” Julia asked.

My cheeks heated, but I could not help smiling. “It is what he calls me.”

“I see,” she said, at her most opaque.

We debated using the name Hargate instead of Lennox, but Julia remembered that Mr. Kent knew that it had been Evan’s highwayman alias. Lennox, however, was a name Evan had used only a few times and so was not widely known. I hoped it would catch my love’s attention when he read the paper. If he was, indeed, currently reading the paper.

“I think we should tell Lady Hester that we are attempting to contact her brother,” Julia said. “She will, no doubt, wish to communicate with him too.”

Something clenched within me. “I think we should wait until he answers,” I said. “I do not want to raise her hopes if he does not. Besides, the fewer who know our plans, the better.”

Julia surveyed me for a long moment. “As you wish.”

Now, how best to get it to Printing House Square and the Times office? I glanced at the mantel clock.

“It is gone five o’clock,” I said. Damn, by the time we got there, the paper would be closed to notices. “Too late to put it in now. I shall have to wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Gone five?” Julia said. “Lud, we must dress for the Berrys’.”

In all the focus upon the advertisement and Lord Evan, I had forgotten we were expected at the Berry sisters’ soiree.

“I am not in the mood,” I said.

“Nonsense,” Julia said, leading the way to the door. “You love the debate. Besides, it will take your mind off Colonel Drysan’s revelation.”

I followed her from the room. I would go to the Berrys’, of course, but nothing was going to take my mind off the possibility that Lord Evan might be associated with the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin.

···

The Misses Berry held their famed “circle” at their home in North Audley Street. A rather modest abode, but neat and pleasant, rather like its two celebrated tenants.

We were met at the door by a young maid who bobbed a curtsy and took our wraps. Julia cast her eyes around the small hallway, painted in fashionable green and decorated with a rather flattering marble bust of the elder sister, Mary Berry, set upon a plinth. Sculpted, I remembered, by her good friend Mrs. Anne Damer.

“They have a new sideboard since we were last here,” Julia murmured. “Chesterfield. Very nice.” She cocked her head, eyeing the oak bureau that stood alongside the staircase that led upstairs. I suspected my sister would be consulting the Chesterfield catalog when we returned home.

“Lady Augusta, how lovely! And Lady Julia, always a pleasure,” Mary Berry said, arriving at the drawing room door, her dark eyes alight with welcome. Behind her, Agnes—a somewhat paler and shorter version of her sister—smiled her own greeting. They both curtsied.

Like us, Mary and Agnes were unmarried sisters in their forties, although they were not twins; Mary was one year older, and the more outgoing and famed of the two in the fashionable circles in which we all moved. Also like us, they were financially independent. However, where we had received our inheritance from our father, they had received an inheritance from Horace Walpole, the 4th Earl of Orford, although they were not related to him in any way. It was said Walpole had considered the Berry sisters some kind of family he had collected. An odd concept: a collected family. Mind you, such a family might be more congenial than one formed by the usual means, since it held more intent upon its membership.

“It is a larger circle tonight than usual,” Mary said, a twirl of her hand indicating the gathering as we followed her and Agnes into the drawing room. “By staying in London, His Highness has done us a great favor.”

She meant of course the number of politicians who sat or stood with drinks in hand among the poets and actors. Usually, Parliament would have retired and the lord politicians gone to their estates, but the war with America, alongside the war with Napoleon, had forced the Prince Regent to delay his usual sojourn to his beloved Brighton.

I spotted our new prime minister, Lord Liverpool, who already looked exhausted, and beside him a rather worried-looking Viscount Sidmouth, secretary of the Home Office, who had only come to the position in June. They were in animated conversation with Lord Milroy. I was sure he had seen me enter the room with Julia—a telltale flick of his eyes and pursing of thin lips—but he did not do me the honor of acknowledging my arrival. I was not overly distressed; I did not wish to speak to him either.

I counted only six other women in the room; Mary did not like to have too many of our sex at one of her drawing rooms. I once asked her why this was so and she said she did not want any gathering of hers to be thought of as a bastion of the bluestocking. She was, I thought, in great fear of being labeled blue and thus ridiculed. Perhaps this was why we were friendly but not great friends; to my mind, nothing would change if the rules made by men were not challenged by women.

“You are no doubt aware that your brother is here tonight too,” she added, leading us farther into the room. “We are very glad to welcome him. Perhaps he will also become a regular.” She peered around until her gaze fell upon a very familiar set of shoulders and head of thick chestnut hair: Duffy, his back to us, standing near the fireplace. “Ah, there he is, with Mr. Brummell.”

Good God, what was Duffy doing here?

I glanced at Julia: I will not talk to him.

Julia tilted her chin: You cannot ignore him.

“Ah yes,” Julia said to Mary. “We shall make our presence known to him now.”

Mary nodded her approval and bustled off to greet more new arrivals.

“I am not going to make my presence known to him,” I said under my breath. “I do not want to see him and I am sure he does not wish to see me.”

“We must at least greet him, or it will look odd,” Julia said just as softly and vehemently. She took my hand. “Please, Gus. Let us get it over and done with and then you can avoid him all night. Please. For me.”

I could not deny my twin. With a nod I allowed her to pull me along to where our brother and Mr. Brummell stood in conversation by the fireplace.

George, who was facing us, noted our approach and immediately made an elegant bow. “Lady Augusta, Lady Julia, good evening.”

Duffy stiffened at our names, which, to my shame, gave me some satisfaction: I was not the only one appalled by this encounter. He turned to face us.

“Mr. Brummell, good evening,” Julia said. “And, Duffy, how lovely to see you.”

We both curtsied to Duffy’s brusque bow.

“Sisters, I had not expected to see you at such a gathering,” he said.

“I cannot conceive why,” I said, as brusque as his bow. “Surely you are aware we come here often?”

He glared at me. “I was not.”

“Is Harriet here too?” Julia asked brightly. “I would so much like to hear about your wedding trip.”

“Of course not. She would not presume to attend such a gathering. Like me, she considers political discussion the purview of men. She does not interest herself in such matters.”

“Yes, it does take a good knowledge of current affairs and a keen mind to keep up,” I said smoothly.

Mr. Brummell, sensing familial discord, sent me a glinting, amused glance and made another bow. “Duffield, if you will excuse me. Lady Augusta, no doubt we will speak later.”

Upon his departure, Duffy leaned closer to me, his face flushed. “I cannot believe you left Duffield House and missed our wedding over the sale of a stupid horse. What kind of welcome into our family did that give Harriet?”

Since I had absconded from his wedding to rescue Hester from the asylum and not due to his underhanded sale of my horse, I could not answer. He clearly took my silence as further insult.

“No defense? Nothing to say. Of course not. What you did is unforgivable!”

“Surely not unforgivable, brother,” Julia said, placing a pleading hand upon his arm.

He eyed his favorite. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded. “This is a place for serious discussion, not gossip and cards.”

That I could at least answer. “Where we go and what we do is none of your business, brother.”

“Please do not make a scene,” Julia admonished us both softly.

Duffy turned to Julia. “No doubt she has dragged you along tonight, but really this is not the place I would wish to see you, Julia. You are both fast approaching the age where such pretensions will make you laughingstocks and the latest on-dit.” He mimicked a gossip’s voice. “ Oh, the Colebrook sisters, thinking they have anything of interest or relevance to say to the prime minister. If you do not care on your own account, then you can at least think how this reflects upon me and Harriet.”

I balled my hand into a fist. It was time to make my exit before I did something that would definitely become an on-dit.

“Good evening, Duffy,” I ground out. “I do hope you manage to keep up with the discussion.”

I turned and strode through the assembly of men, sensing Julia scrambling to keep up at my elbow.

“He is impossible,” I said when we reached the other side of the room.

“Well, it is over now,” Julia said, but I heard the hurt in her voice. She did not like us to quarrel, nor, I think, had she liked the idea that our brother would not forgive me. “Come, Gus, you cannot stand here boiling about Duffy. It is already obvious to everyone that there has been discord.”

My sister was right. I looked around the room for an acquaintance whose conversation would help me regain some composure. Agnes Berry was standing alone and was an interesting conversationalist, since she, along with her sister, knew everybody.

Upon that idle thought, an interesting fact rose to mind.

“Julia, am I right in thinking that Agnes Berry is a particular friend of Lady Deele?”

My sister, who was famed for her prodigious knowledge of society and its interrelations, looked at me in surprise.

“Yes, they have been friends since before Lady Deele married.” She raised her brow at such a salient feat of memory—not my forte, at all. “Well done.”

“We should speak to her. See if she has any information about Deele,” I said.

“Alas, we have missed our chance,” Julia said as we watched a notorious old roué—wearing the powdered wig and rouge of his heyday—approach Agnes. “Mr. Saxby has cornered her.”

Poor Agnes.

Julia looked around the gathering, her attention falling upon a man standing near the window. “Look, there is Charles Whitmore. We were introduced last year. Do you remember? At Lady Melbourne’s rout. And we have exchanged pleasantries at other events. He is an undersecretary at the Alien Office. Maybe he has something of interest to say.”

We both looked across at the gentleman in question, standing alone and watching Lord Liverpool and Viscount Sidmouth with keen intent. I had to admit, I had only a very vague memory of him, so they could not have been memorable meetings. He stood barely an inch above Julia, with close-set eyes and a jittery energy that kept one finger tapping his port glass. The Alien Office had been created in response to the war with France and Napoleon and was, perhaps, the opaquest of the government departments, designed to gather intelligence about foreigners on our shores. Their involvement with the Home Office and the Runners was not quite clear, nor were most of their activities.

“What do you hope to discover?” I asked. Was she aiming to find out about Mr. Kent? Surely a man as high up in the department as Mr. Whitmore would not know anything about a lowly Runner.

“No idea. But do come.”

She grabbed my hand, and so I was towed once again, this time to Mr. Whitmore.

“How lovely to see you here, Mr. Whitmore,” Julia said, with all her substantial charm aimed at him.

Mr. Whitmore, slightly horrified at being set upon by both of us, bowed. At close quarters, his appearance did not improve overmuch: his mouth was rather small and currently pressed into a forced smile, and his chin seemed to recede into his neck.

“There is something I wish to ask you,” Julia continued. “Are you acquainted with a Bow Street agent by the name of Mr. Kent? Our paths have crossed and I wish to know more about him.”

My sister, it transpired, had decided upon a direct attack.

Mr. Whitmore eyed her for a bemused moment. “I have met him as one agent among many, Lady Julia. I cannot say I know much about the man.”

“Tell me what you know, then.”

At the corner of my eye, I saw Agnes Berry extract herself from Mr. Saxby’s leering presence. I knew I could safely leave Mr. Whitmore under my sister’s capable interrogation, and so, with a murmured pardon and a smile of farewell, I made my way to Agnes’s side.

“Well done on getting away,” I said softly, nodding toward Mr. Saxby. He had latched on to Anne Damer near the windows, and I could see her leaning ever so slightly away from him.

Agnes bit her lip. “I told him I had to help Mary prepare for Lord Sidmouth’s address. I should have stayed, but he is so…”

“Indeed, he is so,” I said, and we shared a wry, female smile.

“I hope you will join in the debate again tonight, Lady Augusta,” Agnes said. “Last circle was so invigorating.”

I thought of Duffy’s pronouncement that I was a laughingstock for such oratory pretensions. “Indeed, I will. Do you know Lord Sidmouth’s subject?”

“I believe he intends to raise the specter of the French Revolution, the current Luddite outrages, and how to quell the revolutionaries.” She referred to the workers—called Luddites by the newspapers—who had rioted in protest at the introduction of machines that had rendered their skills obsolete. Agnes looked across at the home secretary, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “The use of the militia to quell the violence, writs to intercept mail, and even placing spies among the lower orders.” Her mouth pursed. “No doubt necessary, but there is something unsavory about a government spying upon its own people to root out dissent, do you not think?”

“Are you saying that such agents are in action now?” It was well-known that the French Directory had used spies, agents provocateurs, and informers to send thousands of people to la guillotine . Surely the British government did not follow such a notorious precedent of espionage. Particularly agents provocateurs. A disturbing thought.

“It is what I have heard from those who would know,” she said. Considering the circles in which she and Mary moved, her intelligence had some credence. “Although I know most governments must employ such creatures,” she added, “I cannot help but feel such maneuverings are despicable. It offends every sense of fair play.”

“You sound as if you are on the side of the revolutionaries,” I said archly.

Agnes clutched my arm in mock alarm. “For heaven’s sake, Lady Augusta, do not even whisper such a thing.”

We both laughed, but underneath her funning was a dark truth. It was too easy to be suspected of revolution these days, such was the extreme alarm of the government. On top of that was the fervor of those patriots who informed upon their fellow citizens to save England from the same fate as France. One only had to think back to 1793 and 1794, when men were executed or transported for gathering under the banner of reform. Even now, anyone could be under suspicion of being a dissenter, especially if one did not live within the confines of society’s expectations.

“I believe you are friends with Lady Deele, Miss Berry,” I said. Not the most adroit change of subject, but I could see that her sister had approached Lord Sidmouth, no doubt to prepare him to call for order.

Agnes smiled warmly. “Indeed I am. Are you acquainted?”

“No, but my brother is a good friend of his lordship and I know that Lady Deele is imminent with her first. I hoped to hear good news. I thought Lord Deele might even be here to ask, since I’ve heard he was in London.”

“Oh no, he is not in London. He is at Cordale, their estate. Only yesterday I received a letter from Lady Deele to report the happy news that she has been safely delivered with the heir and that Deele is so pleased he is staying awhile. It is most gratifying, is it not?”

“Very gratifying.” My gratification, however, was for an entirely different reason: Deele had not yet traveled to London and would now be temporarily diverted from his search for Hester. A brief respite, but one that might allow the poor girl to recover some strength.

“Lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Mary called out above the conversational hum, “please take a seat for Lord Sidmouth, who will be speaking upon the latest outrages in the north.”

With a nod, I parted from Agnes and claimed a chair near the doorway. Julia had found a seat beside Duffy; her conversation with Mr. Whitmore seemed to have ended rather quickly. Had she discovered anything of interest? I suspected she had another task now—to persuade our brother to forgive me. I caught a fulminating glance from Duffy, his eyes as narrowed as my own. Julia’s quest was, I suspected, futile, considering my own lack of forgiveness and his enduring disdain.

I turned my attention, along with my fellow guests, to Lord Sidmouth. If Duffy thought it unsuitable for a lady to debate among men, he was about to be entirely affronted.

As it happened, the evening’s debate did manage to distract me for a short while from my unease. Duffy departed soon after Lord Sidmouth’s address, but I did manage to make some very pertinent points before he left. Perhaps I should not have enjoyed the dark look upon his face when my neat skewering of an argument was applauded by Lord Sidmouth himself, but Duffy did bring out the worst in me. And I, alas, in him.

In the carriage home, I told Julia about my conversation with Agnes and the welcome news of Deele’s current location. She in turn reported the information she had managed to extract from Mr. Whitmore.

“He is not very forthcoming,” she said, “which I suppose is an excellent quality considering his position. He did tell me that Mr. Kent has the reputation of being overly dogged in his pursuit of the truth. Apparently, he sometimes continues to investigate when a case has been declared closed by his superiors. Twice he has been censured for such activity, although in both cases the wrong man had originally been arrested and then was released upon Mr. Kent’s evidence.”

“Well, that is all in Mr. Kent’s favor,” I said.

“I thought so too,” Julia said. “He is always gentlemanly in his thoughts and behavior, do you not think?”

“He is most gentlemanly,” I said, earning a tired but beaming smile from my sister.

And yet, it could not be denied that Mr. Kent was far from the rank of gentleman. And therein lay the problem.