Chapter Fifteen

The Stonebridge Mansion in Mayfair, London…

The Next Evening…

Stonebridge entered his home in Mayfair, tired and dusty from his frantic ride to London from Oxford. He had not ridden to Town with Grace and Aunt Harriett despite every cell in his body desiring he do so. He knew he had to travel on ahead, at a faster pace, so he could meet with Cliff before Grace arrived in Town as she would expect delivery of the lockbox's contents upon her arrival, assuming the box did indeed belong to her father. He expected Cliff to be waiting for him; he was not disappointed.

"Your Grace, Lord Dansbury awaits you in your study," stated his butler before he had even removed his great coat.

"Thank you, Ledbetter."

"Your Grace."

He entered his office to find Cliff relaxed on one of the leather sofas, his booted feet propped on a low table before him. One arm was spread across the back of the sofa; his other rested on the arm. He held a glass of brandy in his hand. The table underfoot was scattered with papers.

He barely glanced at his seated friend before loosening his cravat and taking the chair opposite the sofa. He didn't beat around the bush.

"What did you find?"

Cliff laughed. "What? No ‘How was your trip, Cliff?' ‘Did you run into any trouble along the way, Cliff?'" in typical Dansbury style.

The duke just looked at Cliff, who shook his head, set his drink on the side table, and fortunately got on with it.

"Right. So what would you like to hear about first, Duke? The will naming Mr. Smythe as Miss Radclyffe's guardian—you know, the man Miss Radclyffe didn't acknowledge she knew when she and I met him in Oxford just last week? Or how about a partial copy of a formal Writ of Execution for the life of one Prime Minister Pitt the Younger from the Society for the Purification of England? The idiots. Oh, I know, how about your father's personal notes from his hunt for the would-be assassin?" Cliff smirked, his entire manner dripping with sarcasm, as he picked up a small leather-bound journal from the table before him and shook it in the air before replacing it back amidst the scattered papers.

"Damn…"

"Indeed."

"Did you read my father's journal?"

"Yes." Cliff passed him the journal. "I've marked the most interesting pages. He mentions the Society and the usual suspects involved there, but with the addition of one new name we haven't heard in connection with them before: Swindon."

"Swindon? I'll admit he holds similar views as that of the Society, but Swindon? He barely leaves the comfort of his own sofa. I cannot imagine a person less likely to involve himself in secret society meetings."

"All true. He's a right lazy bastard, to be sure, or a cunning one. Just consider the possibility, and he does have an estate near Stonebridge Park. Also, your father mentions our would-be assassin, Murphy, in his notes. Are we still holding him, by the by?"

"Yes, MacLeod has him. He's pretending to befriend him in order to get him to open up more."

"Good. I don't know how your father found out about Murphy; he just identifies him as the assassin. And he suspected Murphy had headed straight for Swindon's estate to convalesce from his injury."

"Well, it all fits, but it's difficult to look past Swindon's character and picture him in a role of power like this. And he would have to be in a position of power for no one to have suspected him of being involved in the Society before now."

Stonebridge relaxed down into his chair and banged his head on the back as he stared up at the coffered ceiling and tried to make sense of a world where a lazy coward could be responsible for murder.

"Yet a difficult theory to swallow, to be sure," added Dansbury.

"And this writ of execution? I suppose Swindon's signature isn't conveniently printed there amongst the others?"

"Of course not. The document appears to have been partially burned, such that at least two signatures might be missing." Cliff started laughing, though he tried to control it. "Oh, I can't help it. I'm trying very hard not to laugh at these clowns for writing up a formal document spelling out their intent to murder the prime minister. What arrogant bastards. It's a solicitor's dream come true to be sure. I'd give anything to know who the scribe was. I wonder how much they paid him off to keep quiet. Look at the detail in the stationary heading…" Cliff leaned forward to hand over the document. "It's meticulous and gold leafed on top of that."

Stonebridge didn't bother to take it, but continued staring at the ceiling. "Good. It should make it easy to track down the scribe then. An expert will be able to come up with a list of people who have the skills and not many will have that kind of talent. Not to mention that they each have their own signature style. It works to our advantage."

"I really hate to mention this, but Radclyffe was known for having this talent. It was one of the many things I learned from our Grace…Miss Radclyffe…while on our journey to Stonebridge Park."

The duke lifted his head and looked over at his friend at his mention of Grace by name. He wanted to shout: "Yes, and what else did you discover about our Grace over the thousands of miles you traveled with her, practically alone?" But that would have shed too much light on his inner turmoil. As it was, Cliff looked pointedly at his clenched hands. Bad enough he gave away subtle signs at every turn. And Cliff was far too observant to miss them.

Stonebridge relaxed his hands and laid his head back to ponder the ceiling again. Huh. There was a crack in the plaster and a missing piece of dental molding. After a moment while each man sat in silence, considering their own inner thoughts, he said, "I'll find out if there is someone who can verify this as Radclyffe's work while you're in Oxford."

"Oxford?"

"Yes, to speak with Mr. Smythe. You're better than I at persuading people to talk. We need to find out why he was named Miss Radclyffe's guardian and why she went to live with Swindon instead."

"Fine. It just so happens I have Mr. Smythe's direction and had promised to connect with him in future. He's moved in with his sister for now. I'll leave tomorrow afternoon." "Smythe is not with his sister."

"He's not?"

"No. I've reinstalled him in the quarters above the bookstore for now." Stonebridge knew Cliff would question his motivation for taking care of the situation in Oxford personally. His friend didn't disappoint.

"I see. Ah, Ambrose? What are your intentions toward Miss Radclyffe? Do you care for her?"

Stonebridge sat up from his reclined position and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He looked his friend in the eye.

"Cliff, we've been friends for a lifetime, and for all that you know better than to ask me a question you know I have no intention of answering. And—" The duke took a breath and looked down to his feet for a moment before he looked back up at Cliff with renewed conviction. "—you know how important it is that I do my duty to the dukedom. Nothing is more important. Nothing."

The duke stood and made his way to the far side of the library to pour himself a glass of brandy. There was nothing else Cliff could say to that.

Cliff did not track his movements, but rather, picked up his own drink from the table before speaking, his back to the duke. "There was another interesting item in the lockbox I have yet to mention."

Stonebridge practically dropped the decanter onto the bar. He set down the crystal stopper and waited. The crystal rolled in a semicircle until it tapped the side of the vessel with a clink.

"There was a sealed letter to Miss Radclyffe from her father."

"Go on."

"In it, Radclyffe urges her to go to Smythe and to stay away from the earl. I believe Radclyffe was frightened for her welfare, and I think Smythe might know more than we realize. It's even possible, depending on whose side we find he was on, Radcliffe was murdered for what he knew. I've never asked Grace about the circumstances surrounding her father's death."

The room was quiet for a full minute before Stonebridge resumed pouring his drink. When he could speak, he said, "Nor I. Right, then. All the more reason to make haste. Oh, and make sure you don't cross paths with Miss Radclyffe and Aunt Harriett on your way. I'll hold onto these documents until your return."

"And what am I to say to Miss Radclyffe when I do see her? She'll be expecting these items upon her arrival to Town."

"I'll leave the explanations up to you—you're the charismatic one, remember? I'm sure you'll think of something. But for now, officially, the lockbox turned out to be empty."

The seated man shuffled his feet beneath his desk and squirmed, red faced, as he tried to suppress a cough. A cloud of smoke billowed over his shoulder and swirled about his head, making his eyes water and his lungs burn. The cloaked man standing behind him took another long draw of his cigar. The cloaked man would kill him without hesitation should he demand the man cease smoking or even suggest discomfort because of the smoke.

"We understand that Miss Radclyffe arrived at the bookstore…unexpectedly," came the gruff voice from behind him.

The seated man looked straight ahead and spoke to the emptiness before him, for he was not allowed to look upon the man standing behind.

"I-It was unexpected to be sure. B-but my man said there was nothing left for her to find; the place had been cleared of everything by the time she arrived."

"Good. However, Himself is not pleased. There are too many loose ends about for our comfort. Your job was simple: keep Miss Radclyffe in hand and under guard."

"And I am. I shall. She is here by invitation of Lady Ross, who is powerful in her own right…"

"Silence! I did not ask for excuses. Do what you must to bring her back under your control."

"O-Of course." The seated man released a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had been worried his life would end here…tonight.

"Secondly, Himself is concerned that you have not secured the duke's loyalty. I trust we will be hearing news of an engagement in the near future?"

"Absolutely, without a doubt."

"Further, to prove your loyalty, we have a new task for you, a new…problem…that needs to be resolved. Dansbury. His appearance in Oxford was most distressing to Himself. We want you to take care of it."

The seated man's relief at being spared was short lived, as a document, landed on the desk before him. The fancy lettering of the heading stood out clearly despite his watering eyes—brought on by the smoke still encircling his head, not fear, of course:

Writ of Execution

The seated man paled. Dansbury would not be an easy man to kill.