Page 47 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

47

We departed for London the next morning. Charlotte, bless her, gave us one of Porty’s best teams for the first leg, as much to annoy him, I think, as to expedite our return home.

I wept twice upon the journey, both occasions in my sister’s arms.

The first time, we cried together—in relief that Evan and Mr. Kent were still alive and free, and for the sobering fact that we did not know when or if we would see them again.

The second time the tears were mine alone. They had welled up from some deep and private part of me as we had driven through a dense forest, the smoky smell of November permeating the carriage cabin. Although my sister discerned a difference from our shared tears and asked me what was wrong as she stroked my hair, I would not tell her why I wept so hard. But I knew that I was, in part, mourning a sense of inviolability that I had taken for granted, and which I no longer held.

It took us three days to reach Grosvenor Square, by which time the bruises upon my face had shifted into the greens and yellows of slow recovery and the pain in my jaw had dissipated into occasional discomfort.

What bliss it was to be home. To greet our staff and eat Cook’s fine dinner and to say good night to Julia upon the landing, each of us with our night candles, as we trod to our separate bedchambers. And waking again after a sound sleep to Tully’s cheerful “good morning” as she drew back the curtains, and dressing, and descending the stairs to the morning room for breakfast.

Everything as it should be.

And yet, we were a house in waiting. I could feel the silent expectation between Julia and me, as inevitable as our heartbeats, while we ate breakfast. What next? What next? What next?

“Shall I cut you some seed cake?” Julia asked, knife poised above the newly baked round.

“Yes, please,” I said.

She cut into the cake. I had noticed that she had not brought down the little gold filigree box in which she kept her blue mass pills. Had she given them up? Good God, I hoped so. I took a sip of coffee, stifling the question upon my lips. It was her decision. But, Lud, it was hard not to ask.

After breakfast we moved into the drawing room, as had been our routine for years and years. And the silent expectation still drummed: What next? What next?

The answer came midmorning. Julia sat at the little writing table near the window, catching up on the invitations that had arrived while we were in Lancashire. I sat before the hearth reading The Times , hoping I would not find a report of a highwayman recaptured.

A knock upon the door brought Weatherly into the room, his expression troubled.

“Lady Augusta, there is a man at the kitchen door insisting upon seeing you. He has a letter that he will not give up to me. He says it must be delivered into your hands only.”

“What does he look like?”

“He is dressed as a tinker, my lady, but his voice does not match his garb. Far too refined.”

“And you do not recognize him?”

“I do not, my lady, but I would wager he is a gentleman.”

Julia placed her quill back upon its rest. “I do not like the sound of this, Gus.”

“Weatherly, tell Samuel and Albert to join us in here, and to be ready for the possibility of violent action. Then bring our visitor here.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Julia rose from her chair and came to sit beside me upon the sofa. “Violent action?”

I shrugged. “It has happened before. I wish to be prepared.”

Our two footmen duly arrived, an air of suppressed excitement about them as they took up their positions inside the door. If nothing violent occurred, I suspected they would be greatly disappointed.

Finally, a knock upon the door and then it opened. Weatherly led a shabby man into the room, his coat smeared and dusty and an old tricorn upon grizzled gray hair. But all that could not hide the close-set eyes or the overly small mouth of Charles Whitmore.

I stood up, the force of the action bringing Samuel and Albert a step closer, and Weatherly looming behind our visitor. “Why are you here, Mr. Whitmore?”

“Mr. Whitmore?” Julia echoed. She rose from her seat. “Good Lord, why are you dressed in such a manner?”

“I am in disguise,” he said.

“Clearly,” Julia said. “I hardly thought this was a fashion choice.”

“We know you are a member of the despicable Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin, Mr. Whitmore,” I said, all my rage about Miss Hollis and Jenny rising to the forefront again. “Women have died in that place. Give me a reason why I do not have you thrown out upon the street.”

Samuel and Albert exchanged full glances and stepped even closer. Whitmore clearly noted their advance but did not blanch. More staunch than I thought.

“Lady Augusta, I ask you to read this before you take any action,” he said. He thrust out a packet. “It is from a mutual friend. Please, it is important.”

What mutual friend could we have? I eyed him warily but took the packet. There was no direction upon the front, but all three of its folds were sealed with a separate blob of red wax. A letter, then, from someone who wanted to make sure I knew I was the first to open it.

With three flicks of my thumb, I broke each of the seals and spread the single sheet of paper.

5th November 1812

My dear Augusta,

Behold, the favor.

Trust him. I do.

George Brummell

“What does it say?” Julia asked, leaning over to read the short missive. “Oh Lud, so this is his favor. Are you sure he wrote it?”

I read the note again. It was, indeed, in George’s hand. But a favor involving Charles Whitmore? And could I really trust a man who was a member of the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin, even if George Brummell did?

“What is going on?” I demanded. “What favor does Mr. Brummell wish me to do for you?”

He looked pointedly at our footmen and Weatherly. “This must be a private conversation.”

I glanced at Julia. She nodded. “You may go,” she said to our footmen. “You, too, Weatherly. Thank you.”

Upon their somewhat reluctant departure, Mr. Whitmore motioned to the sofa opposite us. “May I sit? It has been a hectic few days.”

I gave a curt nod, although I sensed Julia’s concern about his shabby self upon her sofa.

We all sat. Mr. Whitmore removed his greasy tricorn and placed it on the sofa beside him—Julia giving a soft cluck of horror—then clasped his hands together, his brow furrowed.

“I believe you know I am undersecretary of the Alien Office?” Julia and I nodded. “It is the responsibility of my department to ensure that foreign spies do not obtain information about England or smuggle it out of our country. As you can imagine, a crucial task during this drawn-out war with Bonaparte. It has also become our task to root out dissent among our own people.”

“The Luddites,” I said, with some accusation in my voice.

He inclined his head. “Indeed, and I understand your discomfort with the idea. However, it has come to our attention that a much more highly ranked problem has become embedded in our society. A person, or perhaps people—we are not yet certain—who have collected harmful information about highly placed officials and are using it to protect themselves and influence the outcome of government and military decisions. We know the identity of one of the perpetrators and we are now trying to discover how deep the rot has penetrated.”

“That is indeed a grave concern,” I said. “But what does it have to do with us?”

“You and Lady Julia, and also Lord Evan Belford and Mr. Kent”—he paused to allow his knowledge of our connection to settle—“have inadvertently become noticed by the architect of this villainous activity. As you are quite aware, he has already attempted to kill Lord Evan, and now he knows about your association with his lordship.”

“We thought you were trying to kill Lord Evan,” Julia said.

Mr. Whitmore gave a thin smile. “Quite the opposite, my lady.”

“Who is trying to kill him, then? And why?” I demanded.

“Lord Milroy.”

“Milroy?” Julia said. “He has the reputation of being devoted to pleasure and gambling and not much else.”

I recalled my clashes with the man and the hideous wagers written in the Exalted Brethren’s wager book. The kind of pleasure he took was in the pain and humiliation of women. And perhaps their deaths.

“I have heard whispers that he is a kingmaker and has some influence,” I said.

“That is more to the truth, Lady Augusta,” Whitmore said. “He takes great care to be seen living a rake’s life of dissipation and indulgence but is, in fact, a very shrewd manipulator. We believe he is under the impression that Lord Evan saw something that would destroy his position in society. Lord Evan tells us that he cannot remember seeing any such thing, but despite Lord Milroy’s self-proclaimed love of cards and dice, he is not a man who takes chances.”

“You mean Lord Evan saw something at the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin twenty years ago?” I queried. “It does not seem enough of a reason to order someone’s death, the mere possibility that they have seen something.” I felt a leap of logic. “Did Milroy orchestrate Lord Evan’s duel with Sanderson?”

“Maybe so, though it would be a haphazard way to dispatch someone. I believe there is more to the story and I have tried to discover it, but to no avail.”

“Ah, so you are not a member at that club by choice, are you?” I said.

He grimaced. “I am not.”

“You are there to watch Lord Milroy.”

He nodded. “I am.”

A dangerous occupation considering the nature of Lord Milroy. Mr. Whitmore was, indeed, far stauncher than I had thought. Even so, maintaining surveillance upon an alleged spy did not grant amnesty regarding the other activities of the club. “Did you know about the women being murdered in that dreadful room downstairs?”

Mr. Whitmore sat up straighter. “I swear I did not. I have never been down there. It is for particular members only. I attend the club only to watch Milroy and his associates.” He could see my distrust and placed his hand upon his chest. “I swear upon my honor, Lady Augusta.”

“So that is why you have come to us dressed as a tinker,” Julia said. “You think Milroy knows we are connected with Lord Evan and you cannot risk being seen here, visiting us.”

Mr. Whitmore nodded, a wry smile upon his small mouth. “Lord Evan and Mr. Kent told me you were both clever.”

Julia sat forward. “You are in contact with them? Are they well?”

“They are both well and safe. And mention of them brings me to the favor. The events in Lancashire have made it quite urgent that they disappear from England for some time for their own safety. As it happens, the Alien Office has an important mission in France that needs attention. Lord Evan and Mr. Kent have agreed to discharge this mission.”

“What?” Julia said, her hands clasping in agitation. “You are sending them to France? Into the war?”

“They have elected to go. Since Mr. Kent can no longer work as a Bow Street agent and is clearly a man of worth, I have offered him a position in the Alien Office. He has accepted and so now works for me. In Lord Evan’s case, he has been offered a pardon on the successful completion of the mission, although I rather think he would have accepted it without the reward.”

“A pardon?” I echoed.

“A full royal pardon,” Whitmore replied.

Good God, a royal pardon. All past deeds undone. The slate wiped clean. With such an acquittal, Evan could live once more in society.

I sat forward. “What is the favor you ask of me, Mr. Whitmore?”

Whatever he asked, I would do. Anything to secure that pardon.

“You are to go with Lord Evan and Mr. Kent to France to bring back someone who cannot fall into the hands of Bonaparte. Mr. Kent was a cavalryman and campaigned in France, so he is well qualified to lead you, and will have the details of the mission. He speaks fluent French, as does Lord Evan. I believe you do so as well?”

I nodded. “Every lady knows her French. It is drilled into us in the schoolroom. How long do we have?”

“As long as it takes. The safety of the person in question is of utmost importance.”

“Who is it that we bring back?” I asked.

Mr. Whitmore shook his head. Apparently, that was information I was not yet to have.

“But why does Augusta have to go?” Julia asked. “If Mr. Kent and Lord Evan are going, is that not enough?”

“It is of the utmost importance that a woman of rank be part of the mission. The person cannot be retrieved without your sister’s presence.” He wet his lips. “It is not only Lady Augusta that we ask, Lady Julia. We also ask that you go, to serve your king and country. We cannot afford to send over only one lady in case she…” He stopped.

“Dies?” I supplied.

He ducked his head. “Quite.”

“I do not wish to be a spy,” Julia said. “It is a ridiculous idea.”

“You will definitely not be spying,” Whitmore said quickly. “That would be a death sentence if you were captured. We ask only that you go as what you are: two ladies of noble rank, who are attempting to travel through France to return to your home in”—he paused—“Sweden.”

Sweden again. Evan had proposed to take refuge there with Hester.

“How are we to be Swedish?” I asked. “We do not speak the language.”

“Your French will suffice and you will have legitimate papers. In addition, since ladies of your rank would never travel without servants, you may take two people, but no more, and you must trust them implicitly, for your lives could depend upon their discretion and resourcefulness. Lord Evan tells me you have a man who has proved himself most useful and trustworthy.”

“Our butler.”

“If he is to accompany you, he may know the dangers he may face, but not the goal. The fewer people who know, the better.” He sat back. “Do you agree to go, Lady Augusta?”

No wonder George Brummell had refused to tell me anything about his favor. It was rather more dangerous than those he had granted to me. Moreover, Whitmore’s rather glancing reference to capture and death had not gone unnoticed. Still, I had made George a promise, and frankly, nothing was going to stop me from helping Evan obtain that pardon.

“I will go on one condition, Mr. Whitmore,” I said. The inevitability of my agreement was not going to stop me from making my own demand.

He eyed me warily. “What is it you want?”

“I want the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin shut down. I want that place gone before I go to France.”

Julia angled a glance at me. The implacability in my voice had surprised her, but she had not seen poor Miss Hollis or Jenny.

Whitmore frowned. “But that is our main source of information about Lord Milroy.”

“I do not care. If you want me to go to France, then it must be closed.”

“Even if we do close it down—which is nigh impossible considering its membership—it will just move somewhere else, Lady Augusta. There are always clubs like it.”

I knew he was right. There would always be such clubs catering to the baser nature, and there would always be brutal disregard for the lives and bodies of women. Still, I had to do something to avenge Miss Hollis and all those who had died or been hurt for the sake of men’s lust and amusement.

“That is my condition, Mr. Whitmore. Do you agree?”

“You are set upon this?” he asked, his mouth set in grim lines.

“I am. It is not negotiable.”

“Then I find my hand forced. I agree.”

I sat back, triumphant. “Excellent. And that means I agree—I will go to France.”

Perhaps now I understood why George thought we were cut from the same cloth, for I had to admit I was filled with rather too much elation at Whitmore’s capitulation, and excitement at the thought of the mission ahead. A good deal of fear, too, of course, but far more excitement. At least for now, from the safety of my own home.

Whitmore gave a nod of acknowledgment. “I am relieved you will do so. Frankly, you are essential to the entire enterprise.”

It occurred to me that Mr. Whitmore seemed to have no doubts about my ability to take part in this mission. I was, to him, a competent and required presence. Not a worthless, overbearing spinster or deficient female. Was this how men felt all the time? This intrinsic acceptance of one’s significance? No wonder they walked through life expecting so much as their due.

“And you, Lady Julia?” he asked.

“I need to think about this,” she said. “I cannot give an answer so quickly. There is too much to consider.”

Whitmore had clearly not expected Julia to refuse an answer, for he turned to me. “Perhaps you could persuade your sister, Lady Augusta. I am sure you do not wish to go without her. As I understand it, you are a formidable pair and work most effectively when you are together. You would have a much better chance of success if you both went.”

I looked at Julia, who had her mouth set at its most Colebrook mulish. It was true, we were formidable together and it was hard to conceive of doing this without her at my side. Until a few days ago, I might indeed have tried to sway my sister’s answer. Perhaps even chivvied her into voicing it now.

“It is Lady Julia’s decision, Mr. Whitmore,” I said firmly. “She must choose her own path in her own time.”

Julia looked sideways at me, her mulishness shifting into a small smile: Behold the new Augusta.

I returned the smile: And behold the new Julia.

She gave a small, perplexed frown: I am not new.

I raised my brows: Are you not?

“You have a day to think about it, Lady Julia, but no more.” Mr. Whitmore stood and picked up his tricorn. “We have arranged a smuggler’s boat from Walmer to take you across three days hence.”

“Three days?” I repeated. Good God, how would I get everything prepared and travel down to Walmer in such a short time?

“Three days,” he confirmed. “Lord Evan and Mr. Kent must depart the country as soon as possible.” He placed the tricorn upon his gray wig. “Speaking of those gentlemen, I have two messages that I am obliged to pass on to you, for I gave my word.” He drew a preparatory breath. “Lady Julia, Mr. Kent has bid me say, and I quote: ‘On no account do as Mr. Whitmore asks, my love.’?” He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by the final endearment. “And Lady Augusta, Lord Evan says, ‘I will see you soon, Renegade.’?” He reached into his grimy pocket. “He also asked me to give you this.”

He passed across the item. A small glass pot of arnica balm, a written direction upon it in Evan’s hand: Use it.

I laughed, perhaps more from the fact that I would see my love soon than from the pot of balm. “Tell him—” I started.

Mr. Whitmore stopped me with a raised palm and a shake of his head. “I am sorry, Lady Augusta, I cannot pass on a message. I will not see Lord Evan before he, and you, leave England. It is too dangerous.” He turned to my sister. “We will be in contact soon for your answer, Lady Julia.”

“And you will arrange for the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin to be closed down before I go,” I reminded him. “If you fail me, I will not step foot on that boat.”

“I understand. I will send word when it is done.” He looked at Mr. Brummell’s note in my hand. “May I?” he asked, reaching for it.

In reflex, I passed it to him. He took the few steps to our hearth and threw the note into the fire, watching the wax spit and the paper curl into flame.

With that, he bowed and departed the room.