Chapter Seven

The Earl of Swindon's study…

"Your Grace, come in, come in," beckoned the earl. "I presume the courtship is proceeding as expected?"

"Yes, of course," replied Stonebridge cautiously as he walked across the room. He said no more, though he was interested to see where this discussion was headed.

"Excellent. Excellent," continued Swindon, somewhat fretfully. The earl rubbed his hands on his trouser legs several times before he attempted to stand as manners dictated; the nervous action betrayed his discomfiture. It was sad, really, to watch the earl rock a few times in his chair before he could use the generated momentum to heft his bulk into a standing position. Needless to say, Swindon was a large man. And that was an understatement, if anything.

Ambrose was patient. He knew Swindon would not push for details regarding the courtship even if he had every right to do so. And so it was with patience and confidence that he took a seat in front of the earl's desk and waited serenely in silence. He used the disquiet to his advantage, silently prodding Swindon to get to the point of why he was summoned.

It worked. Only a few moments of awkward silence passed, while the earl poured both of them a drink, before he spoke. "I'm not quite sure how to broach this subject delicately; so, I'd like to be blunt…if I may…" His voice trailed off as he looked questioningly at Stonebridge, silently seeking permission to continue.

"Of course."

"I noticed you were introduced to my niece, Miss Radclyffe, this evening before dinner. She is, of course, not a blood relation of mine. She is the niece of my first wife and first cousin to Beatryce."

Stonebridge did not respond to the obvious pause to confirm or deny the statement, but he did sit forward, wary of the topic being introduced.

Swindon continued, still hesitant. "I'm sure you are curious as to why we have not mentioned her to you before now…not intentionally to deceive, mind you," he was quick to add, "but as you might be aware, we are cautious to whom and how we introduce her, for as I'm sure you know by now, she comes from trade, regrettably." The earl spoke slowly, choosing his words with care despite his request to speak pointedly.

Stonebridge acknowledged what was said and prodded Swindon to continue with a simple nod of his head.

"Not to mention she is a bit awkward; though quite friendly, I might add…" The earl's voice trailed off again.

Get to the point, man.

"I had hoped to give you time to become reacquainted with our family and see that we are upstanding members of society before we discussed the, um, situation with the Radclyffe girl, er, my niece…"

Another dramatic pause from the earl and Stonebridge was ready to beg him to spit it out.

"You see, her father owned a bookshop in Oxford—owned the entire shop and the apartments above outright, actually—and it was, all of it, bequeathed to Miss Radclyffe upon his death. Currently, the apartments have a tenant, and the shop is being leased to a former apprentice to her father, who continues to sell books there. At a healthy profit, I might add. I have been managing the estate on her behalf, of course, and as you might expect, it is all being held in trust to be given over to Miss Radclyffe upon her twenty-first birthday, which is in two months' time."

The earl hesitated again, nearly panting as if he was out of breath. As if he had run for miles and miles at top speed. After a minute or two and a mop of his brow with his handkerchief, he continued, "However, we fear she may be planning to take over the space and start her own business there after her birthday."

Finally. It was all out. The earl had spit the last bit out in a rush and was anxiously awaiting some sort of response. No wonder the man was so on edge. It must be killing him to have to announce his tie to someone in trade.

He must be afraid I am going withdraw my suit should I find out about Grace's plans.

All was quiet as both men considered the ramifications of Miss Radclyffe's potential actions. Stonebridge was relieved the topic wasn't about his encounter with Miss Radclyffe this morning. This scandal was easy, child's play, but he waited in silence still, knowing Swindon would continue to talk if only to fill the silence. He wasn't disappointed.

"We've tried talking with her and demand she give up her ridiculous notions. Ultimately, I think she will obey us on this; she really is a reasonable girl otherwise, but I-I just wanted to make you aware of the situation…just in case…you know…"

"I see." Stonebridge was relieved this was all the earl wanted. It was easy to promise to take care of things and much more difficult to explain his actions from this morning. "Not to worry, Swindon. This situation is easily remedied, should the need arise, of course. If Miss Radclyffe is as reasonable as you claim, she will see the folly of her ways, and it will not be an issue. And if not, she won't ignore a more substantial offer of compensation if it means providing her with a comfortable life in the country or in some other capacity, such as that of a companion to a lady of means."

The look of relief on Swindon's face was palpable. Clearly, the earl had worried he would call off the engagement over the threat of scandal and was relieved to know the duke was prepared to assist should the need arise. If that were his fear, Swindon really didn't know him at all, which, he admitted, was by design. He carefully kept his own council in public. In actuality, he couldn't care less whether or not Miss Radclyffe wanted to go into trade, so long as it was respectable, but now was not the time to delve into such broad social issues as class distinction. If keeping Miss Radclyffe out of trade was all that was required to keep Swindon happy, so be it. It mattered little to him either way.

Much later that evening…

Grace cautiously opened her bedroom door. It was late, well after midnight, and most, if not all, of the guests were asleep. Or, at least, they should be at this late hour. Still, in an attempt towards secrecy, she did not light a candle. The only illumination for her to see by was the glow from the banked fire and what little moonlight filtered in through her bedroom window; thus it was in near darkness that she peered left and right down the hall, squinting into shadows and looking to see if anyone else was about.

Concluding that the hall was indeed empty of guests, she tip-toed out of her bedroom. She pulled her door closed, carefully, with both hands, until it shut with a soft click. She let out the breath she was holding on a soft sigh then squared her shoulders and made her way toward the servants' stairs with purpose—albeit as quietly as possible.

She had left her spectacles lying somewhere around the house and needed to retrieve them. Despite the late hour and her every intention of getting a good night's sleep, she found herself unable to settle her mind. She was too wound up from replaying the events of the day and altogether too worried about her future in light of her destroyed journal. She knew the best way to calm her fears was to throw herself into some work— something tangible that would help her resolve her worries. Then, the elusive sleep might come with blessed relief. To do that, she needed her glasses.

Unfortunately, she was inappropriately dressed for her furtive trip, for she had already dismissed her maid after Bessie had helped her disrobe. Therefore, she knew her foray was risky, but the chances of coming across another guest at this time of night were slim to none. Besides, she wasn't looking to dally about, but rather to quickly make her way out and back to her room in all haste with none the wiser. To that end, she took the servants' stairs, just in case. It wouldn't do to run into a guest along the way on the off chance someone else was still up and about so late.

Stonebridge stared off into the fire as he sipped his brandy and thought over the day's events. Swindon had retired much earlier, but bade him to remain in the library for as long as he desired. What he desired, in truth, was freedom from thoughts of Miss Radclyffe which seemed to plague him persistently throughout the day.

To make matters worse, Cliff had enjoyed his dinner with Miss Radclyffe and couldn't stop singing her praises, the bastard. In his eyes, she was a paragon, with all her optimistic ideals, and apparently, she had a quick wit to boot. Too bad she was a wreck in every other way, or at least, every way that mattered.

Stonebridge was disturbed by how jealous he was over the ease with which she and his friend conversed over dinner. He was supposed to propose to Lady Beatryce this week and all he could think about was the walking disaster that was Grace Radclyffe.

Damn…

He slammed his fist on the table before he took another swallow of his brandy. He almost didn't recognize himself; he was behaving so out of character today. He relished the burn as the brandy warmed him from within. He couldn't settle his thoughts long enough to even enjoy a quick read before retiring, as was his ritual for the past fifteen years. Not only was Miss Grace Radclyffe physically dangerous to be around in person, but she was wreaking havoc on his orderly existence even when she wasn't around.

If he were to be honest, just for a moment, mind, he might admit he was purposely avoiding Beatryce and her repeated attempts to speak to him today. And for what? So he could sit here alone and contemplate some clumsy chit who would never, ever be a suitable duchess? Surely not. He simply felt it unjust to woo his intended when he was suffering such inner turmoil. Honest.

Yes, she (Grace) was beautiful. Yes, according to Cliff, she was intelligent and compassionate, but really, any future with her was impossible. He had an obligation to the duchy and she was wholly unsuitable.

So why couldn't he force her from his mind? He had only just met her—this morning, in fact—and already she seemed destined to remain entrenched in his brain. To make matters worse, every conversation since dinner seemed to be centered on her. No matter who he was talking to. Cliff, Swindon. Even some of the other guests tittered about her behind her back. Nasty old crones.

Right. Enough of this nonsense. He would go up to bed posthaste and get a good night's sleep—the nightcap should help with that. Cliff would find him should there be anything critical to report, which was fine. In his line of work, he was used to interrupted sleep caused by agency business. Then, tomorrow, first thing, he would ask Lady Beatryce to go for a ride and propose to her in the old folly near the lake he had heard mention of over dinner. He smiled. His sense of self and purpose was restored.

He downed the last of his drink and placed the empty glass on the table beside his chair. He was confident now that he had a plan to put his focus back on track with this marriage business. After a few more thoughtful moments, during which he tried in vain to block thoughts of Miss Radclyffe, he slapped his hands on his knees and stood, grabbing the empty snifter as he did. He was prepared to carry out his plans—sleep, wake, propose—without delay. He could do this.

A soft, unexpected sound from behind him caused him to drop his glass. It landed on the rug with a soft clink. The hair standing up on his arms told him without looking who had just entered the room. Or was it simply wishful thinking?

He pulled upon the last thread of his control as he turned about and painstakingly absorbed every detail of the vision standing just inside the doorway. Even though he knew it was she before he saw her, he was unprepared for the sight of Grace standing there silently before him. She was wearing a virgin-white cotton nightgown with a floor length long-sleeved wool robe—the nightwear of choice for the discerning spinster. And yet, she couldn't have looked lovelier if he'd conjured her image up in his mind wearing the most provocative of lingerie. Her hair was down and loosely braided in a thick tail that hung over her shoulder to her waist. She was dressed for…bed.

Ah, hell.

He was entranced. Yet how could this be? He had seen his share of women in the most provoking nightwear, guaranteed to inflame a man's desire, and yet nothing he had seen before had ever had him wanting to simply drop to his knees and worship a woman with all the passion in his soul. His quixotic thoughts were interrupted by her sudden nervous chatter.

"Oh, I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but well, I couldn't sleep and thought to read, and thought the library would have a most excellent suggestion, I mean, selection, of books…er, something to read, so I thought I'd have a look again, and learned also, that my spectacles…were…" Her voice tapered off.

They stood staring at each other for what felt like an eternity before he finally broke the silence. "Miss Radclyffe. Do you always run about your home, when any number of guests might be up and about, wearing nothing but your night clothes?"

His sudden surge of anger actually caught him by surprise. The thought of her running into another guest while wearing nothing but her night clothes, even if she were more covered than most ball gowns, set his teeth on edge and he was furious at the thought. What if Cliff had still been about? Perhaps that was what she was hoping for, to catch Cliff unawares? It didn't escape his notice that they had had an awful lot to say to each other over dinner. He even noticed his friend touching her arm a few times, and he shamefully remembered wanting to jump down the table and punch his friend in the face at the time. He had been horrified over the impulse.

"You weren't, perhaps, planning a rendezvous in the library with a certain marquess by chance?" He knew his face was rigid.

"A…what?" She stuttered. "You think…I can't…"

Grace was so angry she was at a loss for words, quite the opposite of her earlier verbal explosion of run-on thoughts. She had been unable to function properly for thoughts of the duke plaguing her all day, and now he was accusing her of setting up an assignation with another man? Such designs had never even crossed her mind, and she was simply stunned his thoughts would run in that direction.

For a moment, all she could do was stand there and gape at him. Finally, she pulled her thoughts together and twirled on her heel intending to leave…immediately. He was too much the insufferable boor to even waste her breath with a witty retort. To think she even considered this ridiculous lout for a single moment. Ugh. Well, now that she saw what he was like, he was well and truly made for Beatryce.

"Grace! Wait!"

She had almost made it out the library door before strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her back inside. He spun her around and pressed her against the nearest bookcase. She wasn't more than a hairsbreadth away from his chest.

He held her trapped, and the intensity in his gaze was back, but no longer cold. He sounded breathless, and she could smell brandy as his breath caressed her face. Shivers ran up her arms at his close proximity and the purposeful look in his eye. She was suddenly feeling too hot, and she knew she was blushing. His hands gripped the shelves on either side of her head now, and his knuckles were white with his grip, creating the perfect cage to hold her in place.

"Grace, I'm sorry."

He paused and held her gaze. For a moment, Grace allowed herself to stand there, locked in his sights. Despite her anger over his earlier implications, she undeniably longed for things that could never be. She was attracted to this man on a basic, animal level. It didn't matter that society frowned at their differing classes. His head drew nearer, and for a fleeting moment, she was confident he would kiss her, and oh, how she wanted it. But she was consciously aware that it would be a mistake. He was nearly betrothed to her cousin, and though her cousin and she were not friends, Grace would never betray her family that way, especially with a man she barely knew. It was wrong.

So before their lips could meet, Grace ducked under his arm and darted out the library door.

Stonebridge remained completely still. He closed his eyes as he tried to hold on to her lingering scent and the image of her staring up at him with so much intensity—with desire in her eyes. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned his head against the books where only moments before she had stood within his arms, within his reach. His heart still beat erratically.

He had nearly kissed her. And what a mess that would have been. And yet, he was completely undone, for it wasn't he who had stopped it from happening. He was inexplicably drawn to her. He, a duke, and she, a woman who was completely unsuitable for him in so many ways. On so many levels.

He didn't really know her, but she made him feel, damn it. She made him nearly lose his head in public, something he swore after his ruinous fight at Eton so many years ago, he would never, ever do again. Then, there was the irrational flare of jealousy sparked by her behavior. It was beneath him. Him! He, who always maintained the utmost self-control, a character trait that was essential in his line of work. And lethal to more than just himself if lost.

He slammed his fist into the books on either side of his head before turning to look for his brandy glass. He forced her out of his head. He had to. But he needed another drink to calm the fire still raging inside. For once, he sought oblivion.

"I didn't like that translation of Homer either, but you needn't take it out on the book."

Stonebridge didn't miss a step as he headed toward his empty snifter still lying on the floor. He was not in the mood for Cliff's brand of humor, and he was irritated, damn irritated, that he was caught unaware by his friend's presence in the room. Again. It was unusual for him to be so distracted. And potentially deadly.

He pulled it together and proceeded without missing a beat. As if this meeting was planned all along. As if nothing else had happened, or almost happened, in this very room.

"What do we know?"

Cliff sighed in exasperation. And Stonebridge knew his friend had witnessed far more than he would have liked. Fortunately, his friend chose to ignore what he saw. Good. For Cliff.

"No change on the current status of our informant. However, I do have a lot of news to impart. First, I received the information I requested from the Home Office. It seems that in the two years prior to the Irish uprising of 1798, the United Irishmen were actively rallying support for their cause: an independent Ireland completely free of English rule. As a result, many skirmishes erupted as tensions escalated. In an attempt to subdue the rebels and prevent a full out Irish Revolution, England's agents captured many Irish insurgents, including our man, Murphy. We have clear documentation that Murphy was interrogated and held prisoner for at least a year, and then nothing. No record of him having been released, hung, drawn and quartered. Nothing."

"Who was responsible for his interrogation?"

"There were many names listed over the course of the year; though, as with his release records, many pieces of documentation appear to be missing, tampered with, or plain incomplete. The most notable name we have on record is Lord Middlebury, but his interrogation was early on in Murphy's captivity. October 1796."

Middlebury? Good God.

"Also, there is a dated but unsigned letter in the file claiming that Murphy was spotted just outside of Bristol about a month after the paper trail ends. Based on the time frame, I suspect he was unlawfully released and secretly sent to Bristol. It doesn't make sense for him to head in that direction. It's not on the way to Ireland. Unless someone sent him there for a purpose. The timeframe is right; the letter is dated July 1797."

Bristol? Near my own home?

"Regarding the assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, there was no official investigation into any threats over the course of 1797; however, I have a note here from my contact at the Home Office that states there was an attempt on the PM's life during a house party at the home of the 9th Duke Stonebridge. At Stonebridge Park. In August of 1797. So, the timing is right."

In my own damn home??? How could I have not been aware of that?

"I see the look on your face, Duke. You're wondering how we never knew about the attack at Stonebridge Park. Well, remember, the attack was never officially investigated. My understanding is that William Pitt the Younger had many attempts on his life, and he often brushed off such attempts as inconsequential. It's by pure luck that my contact at the Home Office knew about it."

"But how could someone not make the connection? Someone attacks the PM in my father's home, and my father turns up dead a month later?"

"I agree it's odd, but then I believe that's why the ‘accident' was so elaborate—the point was to discredit your father's character so that no one cared to look into it too closely. Add to that the Society involvement? We're talking men with power here."

The duke's thoughts raced, reviewing, discounting, and revising all they knew about the case thus far. Would his father have taken it upon himself to investigate the assassination attempt on his own? Considering what he remembered of his father's character, absolutely. He was certainly tenacious enough. Might he have been killed for what he discovered? Without a doubt.

Most importantly, if his father had discovered something, would he have documented his findings? Absolutely. His father was also meticulous.

A month had passed between the assassination attempt and his father's murder. Knowing how powerful his father was, he was bound to have discovered something. Mightn't he have hidden what he knew at Stonebridge Park? If his father had been following someone in the area, it made sense he would keep his findings there. The Park had been searched, but they must have missed something.

"Do you realize what this m—" continued Cliff.

"Yes. Damn it." This new information had far reaching implications. Plus, murder and high treason? The sentence for a conviction of either charge meant death to the guilty party.

His mind whirled as he considered the culprit's possible identity based on this new information. There were only two families near Stonebridge Park who would have the connections necessary to have a prisoner released and the documentation tampered with: one was laughable, the lord too weak and lazy to be involved with something so daring and shrewd; and the other, well, the idea wasn't impossible—the family was well-known for their underhandedness, intolerance, and strong political ambitions—but the lord always seemed to be all hot air with no action—and real power to back him up. It was quite a stretch to believe he actually had the clout, connection, and confidence to pull off evidence tampering without getting caught.

"What about the Society itself? Any news there?"

"There's not a lot to add to what we already know. We only have three suspected members, but no concrete evidence: Lord Middlebury, Lord Nash, and Lord Marchant. Middlebury is the highest ranking known suspect, but the Lord Middlebury from that time period is deceased now, and there has been no evidence to suggest his son has followed in his father's footsteps, though it seems likely, given the family's reputation and Middlebury's individual personality. None of the three known suspects are believed to be the real power and money behind the group, though. Lords North and Fox were investigated, but were never officially considered. They would have been an obvious choice, of course, if one didn't know them well. They had always been quite vocal in opposition to Pitt, but they never supported the idea of secret societies, preferring instead to operate publicly so as to never jeopardize their political careers. There has never been even a hint of a suggestion as to who was or is the real power behind the group, and since the Society seems to have all but disappeared since Pitt left office, further investigation into their activities has all but ceased in the last five years. Honestly, I believe they are just biding their time, but that's my gut speaking. We need to find out who pulls the strings, then, I think, the pieces will fall into place."

"Right. Middlebury cannot be a coincidence. He may not have been the kingpin, but he does have an estate near the Park, and his culpability is obvious. Perhaps, if we find proof through that avenue, we'll discover the evidence we need to catch the rest of the men behind all this. Get the word out. Inform the rest of the team we'll be meeting at Stonebridge Park Monday next."

Bloody hell. My life just got a lot more complicated.