Chapter Eighteen

Oxford…

Grace's Store…

Dansbury walked into Grace's bookstore and stopped, surprised by the work in progress. A counter was being constructed at the back of the room, and there, amidst the dust and commotion was his quarry, Mr. Smythe.

Mr. Smythe, attentive to his surroundings, noticed him immediately.

"Lord Dansbury, what a pleasant surprise. Welcome back," Smythe said with a smile as he approached Dansbury, hand outstretched for a shake. He was a much more jovial and relaxed man than the one Dansbury met with Grace in this very room not three weeks before. He had a twinkle in his eye and a wide friendly grin. Even his clothes were less ragged, though still simple and tidy.

"Mr. Smythe, it's a pleasure to see you looking so well. I admit my friend said you would be here, but I am quite surprised to find all of this—" Dansbury gestured toward the room at large. "—going on. What is going on, by the by?"

"Ah, you see, the d…er, new owner and I met briefly the last time he was here, and we discussed recreating this counter here; like it was before…for…well, before. So that's what I'm doing, making it ready, as much as it is possible, for her. I mean, the new owner's return."

"I see." And indeed, Dansbury did see. He also noticed that Mr. Smythe did not mention Miss Radclyffe nor Stonebridge by name and had looked about him quite thoroughly before speaking of it at all. Smythe was being careful.

"Yes, the new owner appears to be a generous man. Why don't we go upstairs where we can find a cup of tea and speak in private?" Mr. Smythe gestured toward the doorway at the back of the shop.

"By all means. After you," Dansbury said with a smile.

Once upstairs, Mr. Smythe directed him to a comfortable chair in a cozy drawing room. The man brought out a tray of tea and a plate filled with bread and cheese. Mrs. Smythe was not at home, so it was just the two of them.

"I apologize for the mess. We've only just taken up residence within the last week, you see. Most of the pieces here belong to Miss Radclyffe. When the earl tossed us out, I had them all stored in a barn just outside of town until I could figure out what to do with it all. Lucky for me, His Grace swooped in and sought to restore everything for Miss Radclyffe."

"I noticed, before, that you did not refer to Miss Radclyffe or Stonebridge by name when we spoke downstairs. Why not? And why are you speaking so openly of them now?"

Mr. Smythe assessed him for a moment until he seemed to come to some sort of decision.

"The duke said you might be by here, and that I can trust you. Miss Radclyffe also seemed to trust you when we met before, which carries the most weight in my book. So I'll try to be frank and hope that I am as good a judge of character as I think I am. The earl is monstrous, and there is no doubt in my mind that he has people watching this place all of the time—he has done for years."

"Did you happen to mention this to the duke?"

"No, I did not. The subject never came up. As I said before, we met only briefly and the entire discussion centered on restoring this place, better than it was before, for Miss Radclyffe."

Dansbury measured the man before him and decided to trust him. He decided that the best way to approach the man was with upfront honesty.

"Mr. Smythe, the duke and I are part of a team of agents working for the crown. We're attempting to determine the members of a secret society of Englishmen who are determined to purge England of all immigrants. They call themselves—"

"The Society for the Purification of England."

"You've heard of them."

"Yes—sanctimonious bastards that they are, I know of them. Sorry, you were saying?"

"Precisely. Hmmm, we'll come back to how you know of them in a moment. As I was saying, we believe they are responsible for attempting to murder Prime Minister Pitt the Younger in ‘78 and for successfully murdering the previous Duke of Stonebridge the month after. We discovered a "Writ of Execution" calling for the assassination of the Prime Minister, though it is not intact with some of the names burned away. We suspect Swindon's involvement, possibly in some capacity of power."

"That doesn't surprise me, though I have no evidence to support it."

"Yes. Well, we also know that the former duke knew John Radclyffe. I must admit, we are attempting to discern Mr. Radclyffe's involvement in all of this. We want to determine the truth and hold the men responsible accountable for their actions. So I'll ask you straight out, was Mr. Radclyffe a traitor?"

"First, I can tell you, my lord, that despite suggestions to the contrary, Mr. Radclyffe, John, was sympathetic to the Irish. I know you do not hear it in me now, but I was born in Ireland myself. Through the years I have worked to refine my accent; despite it, John took me on as his apprentice and the decision to work out my Irish accent was one I made on my own. John would never be involved in any nefarious scheme to kill anyone—for any reason. John was the kindest man I knew; the kindest man I know."

Mr. Smythe paused to take a sip of his tea. Dansbury waited patiently for him to continue, pleased that his assessment of Mr. Smythe was spot on.

Mr. Smythe continued, "I can confirm that the previous duke and John were friends. They knew each other at Oxford. And they maintained contact with each other through the years. I actually have some of their correspondence, and I feel comfortable passing that on to you before you leave today. But you must pass them on to the duke."

"Why haven't you sent them on before now?"

"Well, that, my friend, harkens back to the problem of the earl. John warned me to be overly cautious where the earl is concerned. He warned me to put Miss Radclyffe's safety first, as I'm sure you understand. And when the earl took Miss Radclyffe, against John's express wishes, I knew that as long as she was under his control, I would be risking her life if I made a wrong move. And, like I said before, this place was being watched all the time."

"But why didn't you give the duke the letters when he was here?"

"As I said, there wasn't much time, and I didn't have them in my possession at the time. They were in the barn with the rest of John's things. I have them now, though."

"So you were aware that Grace was to be under your guardianship, then?"

"Of course I knew. John and I discussed it at length before his death. Unfortunately, the earl holds a lot of power and has wealth to back it up. I know it sounds unbelievable. The man is a coward and a pig. But he's paid everyone off—it's hard to know who to trust anymore."

"So I assume when I was here before, you did not acknowledge Miss Radclyffe due to the fact that the earl's solicitor was present?"

"Exactly. I was afraid for her safety, and felt it wise to remain silent."

"Indeed, it was the right thing to do. In the past, Miss Radclyffe indicated that her father acted in the capacity of a scribe outside of his work with books—a man of some renown in these parts."

"Aahh…I know what you're getting at—you want to know if he might have scribed the Writ of Executions?"

Dansbury did not answer, but Mr. Smythe was too astute to misinterpret his line of questioning.

"No, John did not scribe them. They were the work of another man—incidentally, a previous apprentice of John's."

"And you know all this, how, exactly?"

"Because I saw both Writs. The one for the Prime Minister and the old duke."

"What?" Dansbury jumped to his feet at this admission. He was incredulous. After all his years of sleuthing and interrogations, he never expected this. He returned to his seat and waited for Mr. Smythe to continue.

"They weren't signed copies, of course. The scribe, Mr. Will Jenkins, made copies of his work—and can you blame him? I don't mean to sound like I admire the man because up until a year and a half ago, he took a bribe to keep quiet about it all. That is straight up treason, through and through. But the nature of his assignment was worrisome—who wouldn't be, right? You've been asked to put something like this in writing? I don't think Mr. Jenkins realized it would make him paranoid for the rest of his life…but that's what happened. He became fearful and unreasonable and in his attempt to protect himself, he confessed everything to John—who had been a mentor. Immediately, John changed his will and brought me in on everything. Not a month later both Mr. Jenkins and John were killed—I believe by the earl's request."

Silence followed this admission. For a few moments all one could hear was the clock ticking on the mantel and the occasional burst of noise from the work ongoing downstairs. A shiver of unease swept through Dansbury. To think of Grace being under the earl's guard…he let the thought pass. He couldn't dwell on that now. Besides, she would be safe with Ambrose in London. He needed to finish up here and get back as soon as possible.

"Do you know where the copies are now?"

"I do. We hid them, immediately. We were both too frightened to have them anywhere near at hand. I'll take you to them before you leave—they're not here, of course. I do have other paperwork of John's that may or may not have information that might help you, besides his correspondence with the duke, of course."

"Thank you, Mr. Smythe, for being so forthcoming. You have been most helpful."

Beckett House, London…

"You wished to see me, Father."

Beatryce stood attentively just inside the door of her father's study. To say she was nervous would be an understatement. Her mouth was so dry that when she smiled, her lips caught on her teeth, making her feel awkward and embarrassed; she hated feeling that way, humiliated.

"Come in, Beatryce. Have a seat, daughter."

Her father stood while she dragged her feet across the room like a convict being led to the gallows. She kept her smile pasted on, literally, for it was impossible not to with such a dry mouth, yet she feared it looked more like a grimace to her father. She kept her hands clasped firmly behind her back—to steady them—and pressed on, confident her nerves would not betray her. She tried her damnedest to appear confident.

As she neared, she could see that while he had a smug expression on his face, her father's hair was standing on end—or what was left of it anyway—from repeatedly pulling at it or running his hands through it as he was wont to do. In addition, his neck cloth was loosened and slightly askew. He wore no coat or waistcoat—she could see both flung haphazardly across the back of his desk chair—and he stood with his arms folded above his ever-widening stomach with a riding crop tucked under his left arm. Dark circles on his shirt under both arms bore further evidence of his agitation, though excessive sweating was common for him even at the best of times. If possible, her anxiety increased ten-fold.

She sat gingerly in a club chair before his desk—desperate to look anywhere else, but too sensible to take her eyes off her father.

Her father eyed her in return with an open look of disgust upon his face, and she knew without a doubt that this interview would be unpleasant. But perhaps this time, it wouldn't turn to physical punishment.

She waited patiently for him to speak, his face growing redder by the second. Was it too much to ask for a convenient apoplexy to take his life?

"Daughter, I ask you this. Have I not raised you and given you every comfort? Every opportunity? Your every desire?"

"Yes, Papa." She knew better than to disagree, and she did have many fine things.

"Then why do you not show more gratitude by obeying me when I ask something of you? Do you not owe me? Do you not feel obliged to please me for providing for you? For giving you food and shelter and clothing?"

She knew better than to answer. No matter her response, it would be the wrong thing to say, so she sat still and attempted to look contrite yet sure, while she waited impatiently for him to continue. He would prey on her fear if he saw it.

"I've explained the facts of life to you many, many times before, yet for some inexplicable reason, you seem unable to remember these simple truths as I have illuminated them to you. If I didn't know any better, I would question whether or not you are mine. It's too late for that now, though; the world believes you are and that makes it real. So, I will remind you one more time—you are either with me, or you are against me. Period. There is no middle ground."

He began to walk around his desk. Her eyes widened with alarm. She couldn't help that as her fear escalated.

"So with that lesson fresh in your mind, do you recall what one specific task I asked

of you this year?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Let me hear you repeat it, daughter." He was directly in front of her now, looking down upon her seated self. He leaned back against the desk—he was too lazy to remain standing for long—and he involuntarily grunted as the air was forced from his lungs when he did. The desk groaned ominously beneath the added load. He was breathless simply from talking and walking the short distance around his desk, so little did he get out of the house. Yet still, he was a strong man, despite the excess weight, and she was right to be scared.

Her voice was barely a whisper as she said, "I am to bring the Duke of Stonebridge u-up to scratch." She hated that her voice caught as she spoke. She wanted desperately to stand up to this man she despised, her own father, and she hated herself for being intimidated by him.

He smiled, though it came across as a grimace as if he had just stepped on a bug or in a pile of shite—certainly no joy was reflected in his beady, piggy eyes.

"Indeed. Perhaps there is hope for you yet. Your mind might not be as unstable as I have feared. At least you are listening, at any rate. However," and here he unfolded his arms and grabbed ahold of the riding crop with his hand. She was well and truly afraid now. "You have yet to bring Stonebridge up to scratch and that leads me to believe that rather than working with me, you are working against me. I realize you are not a beauty, and anyone who tells you otherwise is outright lying to your face; however, I do not expect that to stop you from achieving our goals. Need I remind you what is at stake should you fail?"

He raised the riding crop as he said those last words, and she screamed in terror.

"Papa! No! Please don't hurt me!"

Her mind raced as she grasped for a way to break through to him. He had a manic look now; his anger was so fierce.

"You mustn't strike me. It will cause unnecessarily delays. I must be seen with the duke…to further our plans. If I am injured…" She choked on her last words, too frightened to speak further. She cowered in fear in her chair and attempted to make herself small. To offer him less of a target for his fury.

However, her father simply lowered his riding crop; sense seemed to penetrate his haze of anger.

"True. Too true. Yes, you are correct, daughter, this once. I shall let you off easy then, this time, but I'm warning you. Do whatever you must to bring about the duke's proposal, or you will dislike the consequences. For if you fail, I will have to find some other way to proceed, and you will then become completely unnecessary to me. To this family."

He threw the riding crop across the room, knocking over a vase in the corner. It shattered when it hit the floor. Her relief at having reached through to her father was short-lived. She flinched, expecting her father's wrath to return so he could blame her for the loss of the vase, but instead he looked at her, the smile on his face proving, as always, that he was completely unpredictable…or insane.

"You may be excused, daughter, but first, how about a kiss and a hug for your father?"

She stood and reached out to hug the man she loathed with every fiber of her being.

He was so large that her hands were unable to reach fully around his wide girth. He smelled sour, of onions and rotten turnips, and she struggled not to gag. She bussed him, reluctantly, on the cheek and tried again not to gag; then she pulled back to look up at him.

She masked her revulsion and drew on every ounce of inner strength. She forced a smile and appeared every inch the dutiful daughter as she said with conviction, "I shall make you proud, Papa."

She would do anything to bring the duke up to scratch. And confident her father was temporarily appeased, she turned and slowly quit the room, almost regally, yet all the while, her lip quivered with suppressed emotion.

The earl watched his daughter leave, satisfied she would do what was necessary to secure his future. He began to whistle, a jovial tune, as he made his way back around to his comfy chair. His whistling didn't last long, for he was already out of breath again with the effort…And he knew that, too, was somehow Beatryce's fault.