CHAPTER Twelve
Harry set off for the Home Office the next morning with a song in his heart and slight leather burns on his wrists. All was right in his world — the sun was shining, the children hadn’t done anything worse than soap up the banisters in order to conduct banister races down the main stairs, and he had left Plum lying exhausted in his bed, her raven hair tangled and spread out around her, a smile on her face as she slept. He whistled a jaunty little tune as his carriage bowled along the streets of London, making a mental note to remind Plum that the choice of tonight’s activities was his, and Gladiator’s Revenge was most definitely in the cards. He much looked forward to wielding his sword in a manner that was sure to keep her captivated.
“Lord Rosse?” A slight young man with suitably deprecatory tones bowed and murmured Harry’s name as he handed over his hat and gloves to a Home Office flunky. “Lord Briceland is waiting for you. If you will come this way.”
Harry was escorted into a small office at the back of Whitehall. The tall, thin man with a wispy blond mustache who was seated behind an immaculate desk rose as he entered, holding out a pale hand. “Lord Rosse, what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you from the PM and others, I feel as if I know you.”
Harry greeted the new head of the Home Office, and took the offered seat. “I take it you’ve read my report?”
“With great interest, yes,” Briceland said, leaning back in his chair. “I must tell you, I find it difficult to believe that you willingly allowed yourself to be used to prove Sir William’s guilt. What the PM must have been thinking…but it’s not my place to question either his or your actions. The plan proved fruitful and you did acquire the proof needed to charge Sir William with treason.”
“Just so. About your information — as you will have read in my report, I can find no proof that Sir William was working with anyone but the anarchists who were later hanged. I checked and double-checked my notes with the various informants and runners employed by me at the time, and no word of another individual was ever breathed. As far as I can find, Sir William was alone in his perfidy — at least as far as individuals in the Home Office went.”
Lord Briceland offered Harry a cigar. He shook his head, desirous of ending the interview as soon as could be managed. He had a wife to smother with attention, not to mention five hellion children who were at that moment quite probably up to some nefarious plan or another.
“I understand your reticence to believe that there was another individual involved, but I believe that not to be the case. I called you to London because the PM assures me that there is no one better to sniff out the truth than you.” Briceland pulled open a drawer, extracting a limp, stained, much-battered piece of parchment. He handed it to Harry. “What you see is a letter that was sent to us anonymously. As you might notice, it is dated some fifteen years ago.”
Harry glanced at the letter, his eyebrows rising at the date. “It was written the day before Sir William took his own life.”
“Yes,” Briceland said, leaning back in his chair. “Please read it. I assure you it concerns you enough to justify calling you to town when you must be wishing to be with your new wife and family.”
The letter was not addressed to anyone, although it was signed “Bill.” This will find you after I am dead, the letter read. Do not despair of my death; I always knew the price of freedom would be a high one. All I ask is that you avenge my death, seek my murderer and strike at him as surely as he has struck me. I do not lightly ask this of you, for I am certain Rosse has a friend in Addington, and the PM is stalwart where his friends are concerned, but I have faith that in this you will not fail me. Harry looked up. “Interesting. Your informant gave you no clue as to who it was addressed to, or how he gained possession of it?”
“No information whatsoever. It was sent as you see it with no accompanying note. You can see my reason for concern; the letter contains an obvious threat to your life.”
Harry handed the letter back with a slight smile. He liked the new head to the Home Office, but never again would he put himself in a position where his life could be destroyed by treachery — not now, when there were so many other people dear to him. Until he had proof of the identity of the man believed to be behind the attacks he would disregard Briceland’s concern about the threats against him. “One that is fifteen years old, yes. I believe it’s safe to assume that whomever the letter was sent to decided not to act on Sir William’s urging.”
Briceland leaned forward to take it, a frown between his brows. “Regardless, the fact that the letter should come to light now indicates that the grudge against you by this unknown person might well still pose a threat to you.”
“I hardly think so,” Harry said as he got to his feet. “But if it will make you easier, I will do a little investigating as to who Sir William’s friends were. I doubt if many of them are left, but it can’t hurt to check.”
The two men shook hands, Briceland accompanying Harry to the door. “Rosse, a word of caution, if I may. Do not take this threat lightly because it is of long standing. I understand that you lost a governess to a house fire recently.”
Harry smiled. “A tragic event, I agree, but one due to a faulty flue and not the hand of Sir William reaching fifteen years beyond the grave.”
“Have caution,” Briceland repeated. “You might be surprised to learn just how far-reaching Sir William’s influence was.”
Plum rose from where she had been clutching the closestool, shakily wiping her face with a damp cloth. This was the fourth morning she’d woken feeling extremely ill, and although the other days could be excused by the less-than-wholesome food they’d eaten at inns on the way to London, she was no fool. She had been carefully keeping track, and although her monthlies were never of the terribly reliable variety, the fact that she’d missed two, plus the morning indispositions confirmed her hopes and desires and dreams…only sweet St. Genevieve, how was she to tell Harry? Not only had the man insisted that he would not give her a child — only spilling his seed in her twice in the two months of their marriage — but just the night before, when they arrived in town after four days of travel with the children, he was growling very detailed threats about locking them up in a garret until it was time to return home.
Perhaps now was not the time to inform him there was another child on the way. She only hoped she would be able to keep her extreme joy and happiness at finding herself with child dimmed to a level he would not fi nd suspicious.
Another wave of nausea overtook her. She lunged for the closestool, just barely making it before her stomach relieved itself.
“I’m joyous and extremely happy,” she told herself between retches. “I just can’t let anyone know that yet.”
Somehow, she thought as she heaved over the porcelain bowl, she doubted if that would be too difficult. Besides, she had other things to occupy her mind, one item in particular — Charles. What his intentions were, and how she was to keep him from telling everyone what he knew were uppermost in her mind, but selected secondary considerations such as how to shield Harry so he wouldn’t hear of Charles’s return from the watery grave also filled her thoughts.
“Are we ready for our morning excursion?” she asked as she — joyously, and with much happiness — clutched the banister while descending to the main hall. Particular care was needed around stairs, as one never knew when the children might decide to arrange for a concealed trap. Harry was becoming very adept at avoiding the traps as he clattered down the stairs, leaping gracefully over steps made slippery with grease, but with the precious burden she knew herself to be carrying, she would have to be particularly careful.