“But we’ve never been able to track any payment. You thought to follow the money when we first started our investigation. No deposit was made to his account. None of his gambling debts mysteriously disappeared. No land changed hands. We had to assume that the payment was never made. Either because Fitzroy died or because the prince didn’t.” Marcus did a quick walk-through of the early days of the investigation. He’d been so sure he would unravel the chain of command quickly.
Such hubris. They’d encountered one dead end after another.
“No, the only money we could find that changed hands was from Fitzroy to Percival Seaton, and we know why Seaton got paid off. He was Fitzroy’s ticket to being invited to White Haven and getting access to the Prince Regent.” St. Clair turned from the painting and clasped his hands behind his back. “How is Seaton these days?”
“Still properly chastened. He and his father have secluded themselves in the country for months. When one is out of favor with the Prince Regent, London can be an uncomfortable place.”
“Too true. So the Seaton connection proved to be a blind alley. However, my trip to France wasn’t without its rewards. I learned something about Fitzroy and his possible motivation.” A canary-whisker grin split St. Clair’s face.
“What?” Hope sparked in Marcus’s chest.
“His mother was French.”
Marcus slid to the edge of his seat. “No, that can’t be. I’ve met his mother. Lady Eliza Bracken. She’s as English as St. George himself, eldest sister of the Earl of Rothwell. Though now with her son’s treason and death, she’s left England for the Caribbean. The Bracken family has a sugar plantation there, I believe.”
“Ah, but Lady Eliza is not Fitzroy’s mother. She’s his stepmother. The woman who gave birth to him was French. Fitzroy’s family came from Brittany with William the Conqueror, and they still have deep ties there. When Fiztroy’s father, Sir Nathaniel Bracken, was sent as an attaché on a diplomatic mission to France in seventy-four, he met a distant cousin and secretly married her. She died in childbirth in Normandy, and Bracken brought his infant son home, married Lady Eliza quietly, and no one here was the wiser. Lady Eliza was a proper English lady, and they were able to pass Arthur Bracken, Viscount Fiztroy, off as their son. I postulate that Viscount Fitzroy never forgot his French ties and that perhaps he thought of accepting the mission to kill the prince as some sort of homage to her.”
Marcus thought for a long moment. “Perhaps, but how does this knowledge further our investigation?”
“I believe it narrows the suspect pool. Who else knew about Fitzroy’s mother? I didn’t, not until a fortnight ago. I only discovered it by accident, and that was while I was in France. So who here in Britain might have known about it and used it as leverage to either persuade Fitzroy or to coerce him into the assassination attempt?”
“You think someone blackmailed him into it? To keep his French birth a secret?” They’d gone at the problem before but could find nothing Fitzroy might have done to warrant blackmail. He was no saint. He wasn’t even a nice man. His treatment of women was appalling, but none of it seemed serious enough for that level of blackmail pressure. Not even his seducing and disgracing the daughter of a duke two seasons ago. The woman’s family hadn’t wanted revenge. They’d chosen to bury the incident, a task made easier when the woman died in childbirth. Marcus was godfather to the resulting child, the adopted son of his good friends the Whitelocks.
St. Clair pulled open the belly drawer on his desk and removed a folder. Leaning his hip on the corner of the desk, he perused it quickly before setting it on the blotter atop the other papers. “I believe the first place we should look is Fitzroy’s father’s associates on that trip to France. He was stationed in Paris at the embassy for more than a year, and he made many forays into Normandy, which is where he met his first wife. Someone there must’ve known about the marriage and the child.”
“Government House should have the records of his assignments in France.” Marcus had a clerk there in his employ who could get him the information. He’d send Partridge with a message this afternoon.
“I have those records here.” St. Clair stabbed the folder on his desk with his index finger. “You’re not the only one with contacts, you know.” He grinned and moved to the coal stove to fill a copper grog mug—relic of his days as a Royal marine. Marcus grimaced. He’d tried St. Clair’s coffee before. It was strong enough to dissolve a horseshoe. The pot had probably been simmering there all morning.
“Did the records give us a suspect?”
“Not a suspect. Five possibles.”
“Five? Are they all viable?” Real leads at last? He could scarce hope. Marcus’s hunting instincts sharpened. Perhaps they were finally getting somewhere.
“Each one viable to varying degrees, and each one delicate. These are men high up in both diplomatic and societal circles. Peers, members of the House of Lords, wealthy, and powerful. We shall have to tread lightly.”
St. Clair lifted the folder and passed it to Marcus, sipping on his coffee.
Marcus opened the flap and perused the names.
He knew three of these men personally, and knew of all of them. They were men of great influence. And they had all been in France at some point while Nathaniel Bracken had been stationed there.
His eyes met St. Clair’s. “What is our plan?”
“I’m glad you asked, Your Grace.”
Marcus lowered the folder, wariness stealing over him. “Sir?” For a brief period, he’d been able to forget about the dukedom and that part of his life. He’d been free of the burdensome yoke of the peerage and been a simple Crown agent. He didn’t like bringing that part of his life into this office.
“Your inheriting the title couldn’t have come at a better time. All these men, these suspects, are in the highest echelons of society and power. As a mere second son, you wouldn’t command their respect, but as a peer with wealth and power, and a new duke at that, they will be eager to make friends and to secure your loyalty to their causes.”
Distaste rose in Marcus’s chest. Those men who would not have stopped for him in the street a year ago would now fawn and flatter him, offer friendship and favors.
“As a duke, you’re in a very select club. No door in London will be closed to you. We’ve never had an agent so highly placed before. We haven’t had one we felt we could trust to recruit.” St. Clair resumed his seat, the leather and springs creaking. “Which brings me to my next proposal … or rather yours.”
“What is that?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the calculation in his boss’s expression.
“I believe your mother has the right of it. As the Duke of Haverly, you should behave as any titled unmarried man, establishing himself in society, searching for and securing a bride and setting up your nursery.” He held up his hand to stop Marcus’s protest. “Think of it. You’ve been invaluable as a largely mobile asset with access to the ton, but not a power broker. You moved easily in London society, but no one even noticed when you would disappear on an assignment for a few days or weeks even. However, your status has changed significantly. You now have influence, privilege, and prestige. You’ll be expected to wield it. If you do less, if you continue to act as before, people will notice and wonder. But if you do exactly as expected, assume your role, your responsibilities, your place in the House of Lords, et cetera, no one will think you’re anything other than what you are. And we can use that to our advantage.”