“I’ll admit”—St. Clair nodded—“your ability to attend society functions as well as to slip through the rookeries and slums with equal aplomb has had its uses. However, your elevation in rank might also prove beneficial to our cause. You will now have entrance and status in areas we haven’t yet plumbed.”
“Thus far, I’ve yet to accept any of the invitations that have flooded Haverly House here in London. Truth be told, I haven’t felt up to it. I know I’m the duke now, but until I have to actually be him officially, I’m in denial.”
“Many men would think they’d been blessed to inherit the Haverly title and lands.”
Marcus shook his head. “I wish heartily that I had not. The cost was too great.”
“Of course. To lose your father and your brother the same day. I offer my condolences again.”
“I appreciated your note, though I understand why it had to be encoded. My mother was mystified by a card from ‘John de Camp.’ I told her it was from an old Oxford classmate, and she was satisfied.”
“How is your mother bearing up?”
“Devastated and dramatic by turns. She’s now on a mission, however, and having a purpose has refocused her attentions, so she doesn’t dwell as much on her losses.”
St. Clair paused. “A mission? Pray tell.”
Marcus shifted in his chair. “Now that I am her only surviving son, she’s taken it upon herself to find me a wife as soon as possible. As if I needed a bride at this juncture. I want to be left alone to do my work, and if the title is a complication I cannot avoid, a wife is one that I can.” He shrugged, trying to dislodge the weight that pressed his shoulders. He shouldn’t have to think about the dukedom or a wife or any other part of his life while he was here in this room where he had accepted his first assignment so long ago. This room that gave him both a sense of peace and of excitement, and most of all fulfillment, as if he was doing exactly what he was put here on earth to do. “What have you learned while I was buried in Oxfordshire? Any new leads?” He barely held out hope. For months now their investigation into the contacts and acquaintances of the late Viscount Fitzroy had gone nowhere. The man had tried to kill the Prince Regent, and they knew for certain that he’d been hired for the job, but thus far, they had been unable to discover who had ordered the murder. A pity Fitzroy had been killed while trying to evade capture, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Yes, actually. Which will explain why I was away from London when you arrived. I was in France. We’ll talk about that, but first, tell me what you’ve done in my absence.”
“With the deaths of my father and brother, I’ve had to be at the family estates and away from London, but as soon as I returned, I began working my contacts, checking in with informants.” He perused his mental list. “I shouldn’t be surprised anymore, but it seemed the higher up the social ladder I was searching, the lower down the social scale I had to go. I spent several evenings in pubs in Seven Dials and St. Giles, letting my contacts find me.”
“And what did you discover?”
Marcus grimaced. “That birthright doesn’t exempt men from being scoundrels. I found a baron and a viscount who are alcoholics, one well-born young man with a strong fondness for opiates, and another who beats his wife.”
St. Clair bent a sharp glance at him. “I can’t think you let that last pass without some action. What did you do?”
His boss knew him well. Marcus would never abide the mistreatment of a woman. He’d seen too much of it in war-torn areas. The conquering army pillaging or the retreating army seeking retribution from the locals for their defeat. Women bought and sold, beaten and assaulted. It turned Marcus’s stomach, and he’d severely punished such violence when he’d found it amongst his ranks. God had created man to provide for and protect women, not to prey upon them. Protecting women was one area where his faith and his work required the same actions, and he didn’t mind the crossover.
“I sent Partridge to visit him. Partridge hardly had to say a word, just stood there looking as big as the Eiger, his arms crossed and muscles bulging. He let the young man know if he so much as laid a finger on his wife in anger again, he would find himself press-ganged into the Royal Navy, where he would be flogged round the fleet as his initiation. He knows he is being watched from now on.”
“It pays to have someone as fearsome as Partridge on the payroll, does it not? Remind me where you found him again.”
“Languishing in a Spanish prison. He’d been taken at Corunna and spent years in prison. The French refused to exchange him, fearing to meet him in battle again. When we retreated from Bussaco, we freed the political prisoners being held there, and Partridge has been with me ever since.”
“Corunna seems such a long time ago. The French celebrated then, but they’re worried now. I gathered much intelligence on my latest trip behind enemy lines.”
Marcus focused his attention. “What did you learn?” That his boss had ventured into France when their country was embroiled in a long war with that country didn’t surprise him. They had both made multiple trips into enemy territory over the years, spying, scouting, intelligence gathering.
Such was the work of agents for the Crown.
“If an absence of information counts, then I found plenty. Since old Boney disbanded the consulate and wiped out my network there, I’ve had to cultivate new contacts within the French government. It isn’t difficult to find disenfranchised aristocrats who despise their emperor, but it does take time to find individuals with pertinent information and to earn their trust.”
“Did you find anything that would indicate where the assassination attempt originated?”
“Thus far I have been able to track no connection between Viscount Fitzroy and anyone in the French government who might have ordered the assassination of the Prince Regent. Nor can I find anyone in France who would’ve specifically gained by his death at that time. While there might have been a momentary boost to French morale, it wouldn’t have changed overall strategy for either country. Not as if someone were able to assassinate Napoleon.” His eyes gleamed at the thought. To lop the head off the beast—no matter how close that head stood to the ground—would send the French government into an uproar.
Marcus considered this information. “If the link isn’t in France, it has to be domestic. Someone who would’ve risen in power if the Prince of Wales was assassinated. While his daughter would be the next in line for the crown, the Duke of York would have been appointed the next regent. We considered York for a while, but that’s as absurd now as it was then. None of the Prince Regent’s siblings seems particularly fond of him, but none is actively looking to murder him either. What of those who support the Duke of York over the Prince of Wales? Have you been able to make any connection between Fitzroy and any of York’s confidants?”
St. Clair pushed his chair back and rose. “That’s what’s so confounded frustrating. There are myriad connections because London society is so small. Familial, business, social. Everyone has dealings with everyone else. However, I have been able to narrow it down a bit. For the longest time, I couldn’t understand what would make Fitzroy agree to attempt the murder. Was the payment he would receive really the motivation? He was wealthy enough himself, with a healthy bank account as well as being his uncle’s heir.” St. Clair moved around the room, trailing his fingers along the books on the crowded shelves, pausing before an oil painting of Hampton Court on a sunny day.