Death of a Radical (8 page)

A herd of cattle was crowding over the bridge harried by a couple of mastiffs. They were a highland breed, with rough reddish hides, wild eyed and snorting as their hooves slipped on the cobbles. Nat Broom did not mount the steps to the Bedfords' front door; instead he turned down Powcher's Lane. Through the movement, beyond the herd, Jarrett thought he glimpsed the man by the
stable yard behind the house. The beasts obscured him a moment and then he was gone. A thoughtful look on his face, the agent turned back up the hill.

He was crossing the yard of the Queen's Head when he heard a familiar step behind him under the arched passage leading in from the street. As quick as a scalded cat, Jarrett ran lightly up the gallery steps. Colonel Ison came into view below. Jarrett froze. Ison was wearing his uniform again. His expression was preoccupied. Jarrett took a further stealthy step back up the stairs. The man hadn't seen him. Just a foot or two and … The colonel looked up.

“Mr. Jarrett!”

“Colonel,” the agent responded, descending to the yard at an easy pace.

“I heard Lord Charles was back in town,” the magistrate responded, looking hopefully beyond him. Jarrett couldn't resist following his gaze, turning around to search the stairs and gallery. They were perfectly empty.

“The marquess has asked me to present his apologies. He has been delayed on other business.”

A door opened. The colonel glanced up. Bess Tallentyre stepped into view on the gallery dressed in full battle order. She was followed by a small man with close-cropped hair and dark, expressive eyes.

“Ah, the man of business!” a voice boomed.

The newcomer's presence filled the archway from the street. He was a large man—not overly tall but broad-shouldered in a way that belied his gentleman's clothes.
He carried a drover's stick. The face beneath the sweeping brim of his hat combined the nose of a Greek statue with sensual lips and the heavy chin of a pugilist.

“Mr. Jarrett!” The heavy staff swung out as the newcomer sketched a satirical bow. The mischievous gaze appeared to alight on the colonel as an afterthought. “And the colonel too.”

The powers of Woolbridge faced one another across Mr. Bedlington's yard. Colonel Ison was the gentry's magistrate; Mr. Raistrick ruled over the rest.

“A word with you, Mr. Raistrick,” the colonel snapped. Jarrett reflected—as he had before—that it was fortunate the two men detested one another. Woolbridge would be a dangerous place if ever those two found common cause.

“You'll have to wait,” Mr. Raistrick responded blithely. “I have an appointment.” He looked up at the pair standing on the gallery. “Sugden, isn't it?”

This was appalling. It had not occurred to Jarrett that the “big man” Bess had mentioned might have been Raistrick. As a solitary wanderer, free from the connected web of a settled existence, Jarrett had been used to keeping the sole record of the discrete parts that made up his life. It now dawned on him for the first time how the crowded nature of civilian society might shatter that discretion.

The little manager brushed past him, hurrying to greet the Justice. Bess floated down the stairs in his wake, her fingers caressing the wooden balustrade as she might
her lover's skin. She paused for the space of a heartbeat by Jarrett's shoulder.

“Have a care, Bess,” he murmured. “That magistrate is no rabbit.”

She slid him a side-glance from under heavy-lidded eyes. “No?”

“Raistrick's more of a wolf.”

She paused on the step below, twisting her waist to lean in toward him. Her freckled breasts curved up enticingly above the lace of her bodice.

“Well now,” she breathed, “it's been a time since I've played with one of
those.”

They had the attention of the entire company. Mr. Sugden watched them with a calculating gleam. Colonel Ison looked constipated. Magistrate Quentin Raistrick advanced, swinging out his staff. He looked up from the foot of the stairs. A crusted stain marked the front of his rich red brocade waistcoat.

“Introduce us, Mr. Jarrett.”

“Miss Tallentyre, Mr. Justice Raistrick,” Jarrett replied, as shortly as he could and continued by him into the yard.

Mr. Quentin Raistrick, attorney-at-law and Justice of the Peace, swept off his hat. His eyes were a smoky gray defined by brown lashes. With sinuous grace Bess extended a hand across the space between them. He captured it in brown fingers and slowly turned the palm up. He pressed his mouth to the inside of her wrist where the white skin glowed through the gap above the fastening of her glove.

“Miss Tallentyre,” he purred.

His eyes fixed on her face in a manner that was at once both masterful and hungry. Her lips parted as if the air had grown thin.

Jarrett watched the color flush Bess's cheeks. He could not believe what he saw unfolding before him. He had hardly been the duke's agent six months and here he was, confined in this backwater, watching the biggest rogue in the neighborhood pressing his nose against his past. Colonel Ison was staring at the tableau, his pose of lofty detachment at variance with the avid curiosity in his eyes. Baffled by this unexpected convergence, Jarrett muttered an excuse and fled.

Voices resonated down the corridor leading to the magistrates' meeting room. The top note was angry and female. Occasionally the indistinct murmur of a male voice attempted a counterpoint. Framed in the open doorway, the Reverend Prattman, Woolbridge's most prominent cleric and third Justice of the Peace, sat besieged behind a broad table. His hands gripped its edge as if the oak were his defense and anchor. Before him paced the eccentric gentlewoman who fell by the tollbooth. She held her heavy broadcloth coat in her hands. She spun it out in a vast arc, clipping the tip of the nervous cleric's nose, causing him to start back so violently he almost overset his chair.

“See! See the filth!” she cried, indicating with a grand gesture the stained coat that now lay on the table
between them. “I was pushed into the gutter! I!” She leaned over the table toward the shrinking Mr. Prattman. “I, a Lippett of Grateley, pushed into the gutter by a pair of mean vagabonds in broad daylight in the middle of the market!”

Mr. Prattman looked upward for his salvation and saw Mr. Jarrett hesitating in the corridor.

“Mr. Jarrett! Come in, come in,” he appealed. “Miss Lippett has suffered a terrible outrage; she is most upset.”

Mr. Jarrett winced. He had no wish to make the acquaintance of the absurd creature. Composing his most aloof expression, he stepped into the room.

The woman was dressed entirely in black serge, save for a small ruff of white lawn visible around the high neck of her gown. The curls that framed her face were wiry, reminding him of black lambs' wool. Back against one wall, he noticed the servant who had come to her aid by the tollbooth. He was observing the scene with an easy detachment, as if he had paid his ticket to some mildly entertaining play. Though not a vain man, Raif Jarrett was accustomed to meeting a certain softness in female eyes. There was none in those that regarded him now.

“I regret,” he said, “I have not been introduced.”

As the words left his mouth he became conscious that there was yet another person in the room; a pair of familiar gray eyes flecked with green observed him with distinct reproof.

“Miss Lonsdale! I did not see you there.”

“Evidently, Mr. Jarrett.”

Miss Henrietta Lonsdale was a lady of good family, the companion and stipulated heir of a wealthy aunt. Her borrowed status encased her in a confidence beyond the strict count of her years. They had made one another's acquaintance during the affair that had embroiled him on his arrival the previous year; she had proved an ally in his time of need. Although he never entirely felt he had Miss Henrietta's measure, he considered her a woman of distinction. He did not like her to think badly of him. She always dressed with taste, he reflected. Today she wore a sage green carriage dress of soft cord that set off her eyes. At present those eyes were making him uncomfortably aware that he was not behaving as a gentle man should.

“Miss Lippett,” Henrietta stepped forward. “You will not have made the acquaintance of the Duke of Penrith's new agent. May I present him to you? Miss Josephine Lippett of Grateley Manor, Mr. Raif Jarrett. The Lippetts of Grateley are one of our oldest families, Mr. Jarrett.”

“We trace our ancestors back before the Conquest,” Miss Lippett declared.

Mr. Jarrett made his bow.

“So this is the man, is it?” The creature looked him up and down. “You're not a magistrate.” Out of the corner of his eye, Raif caught a flinch of brotherly feeling in her manservant's expression. He seemed oddly independent for a domestic.

“No, no dear lady,” said Mr. Prattman hurriedly. “Mr.
Jarrett's opinion is much valued among us—indeed, he is come here today to attend our meeting at the colonel's invitation. Is that not so, sir? You are come for our meeting?”

Miss Lippett made an impatient gesture. A muslin handkerchief broke free from her cuff. It wafted down to rest at Mr. Jarrett's feet. Mr. Jarrett did what was demanded of a gentleman. He picked it up. It was curiously delicate for so mannish a creature. There was an emblem decorating one corner: blue cornflowers in a sheaf of corn executed in tiny, exquisite stitches. He returned it to Miss Lippett with a small bow. She sniffed.

Up to that point he had been debating whether or not he should confess that he himself had witnessed the incident in question. At that moment he decided discretion was the better part and he would not offer up this information. He disliked strident females. Miss Lippett had her servant's testimony, he told himself; there was no need for his involvement.

“Indeed Mr. Prattman, I have come for the meeting,” he addressed the vicar. “But I fear that Colonel Ison and Mr. Raistrick have been delayed.”

A look of pure panic crossed the vicar's kindly, moonish face. “And Sir Thomas too.” He fixed his fellow man with a pleading look. “A terrible to-do. Miss Lippett was assaulted by a couple of ruffians, Mr. Jarrett.”

“So I understand, sir.”

“Very distressing. In the open street. She is much upset.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Miss Lippett was impatient of such sentiment.

“I wish to make my complaint,” she declared.

“Of course, of course, dear lady; we need Pye, Mr. Raistrick's clerk. Pye takes down the complaints.” Mr. Prattman's gentle eyes beamed a silent appeal to Mr. Jarrett. Instead, it was Miss Lonsdale who came to his relief.

“Miss Josephine, why do we not repair to a private parlor?” she suggested, her tone soothing yet firm. “Mrs. Bedlington may clean your coat for you and I am sure we both should benefit from refreshment. Mr. Prattman may send us the clerk to take down your complaint.”

Miss Lippett's face softened. She linked arms with Henrietta and patted her hand.

“You are my friend and a gentlewoman, Miss Lonsdale. I shall go with you. Send Pye to me,” she instructed Mr. Prattman with a curt nod. Henrietta Lonsdale piloted her charge out of the room. Jarrett watched them process down the corridor, the manservant following at a discreet distance.

“My man saw them,” Miss Lippett's voice drifted back. “He saw the outrage.”

Jarrett pushed back his chair, stretching out his legs as Colonel Ison called the magistrates' meeting to order. Mr. Prattman had recovered his composure since his encounter with Miss Lippett. He sat looking up at the
colonel with pink cheeks, his rounded hands resting neatly on the table top. Frozen in an oasis of reverie, Sir Thomas of Oakdene Hall sat apart from the others, a little back from the table, both hands balanced on his gold-topped cane. Sir Thomas was the district's sole baronet, heir to an ancient line. Although his Catholic faith excluded him from appointment as Justice of the Peace, the Duke of Penrith and his son the marquess excepted, Sir Thomas was the acme of Woolbridge society. Sir Thomas seldom voiced any opinion and it was the colonel's habit to invite him to add the weight of his presence to the magistrates' deliberations.

“Mr. Raistrick will be late,” announced Colonel Ison, giving the lawyer's clerk a stern look. “It is inconvenient, Pye.”

The lawyer's clerk had a face so smooth it might have been fashioned from porcelain paste. He looked back at the colonel through dark almond-shaped eyes with an elfin detachment that might have been contempt. The colonel shuffled his papers.

“We will start without him.” The colonel paused impressively, his eyes traveling from face to face around the circle. “Discretion is of the utmost importance, gentlemen. This must not be discussed outside this room. I have called us together to invite my fellow magistrates to enact the Watch and Ward.” Mr. Prattman pulled a solemn face, expressing a little tutt. Colonel Ison half raised a warning hand. “I am apprised that secret combinations are organizing in this very district,” he continued.

“But we lack Mr. Raistrick and two more,” Jarrett interrupted. “I understood the Act requires that
five
magistrates agree to enforce its provisions.” And lawyer Raistrick at the very least is hardly likely to agree to supply his rival with an armed troop, he told himself privately.

“I have here the signed agreements of Justices Kelso and Fife, our Richmond colleagues,” responded the colonel, patting a pocket, “and as for Mr. Raistrick, he is merely delayed!” he concluded with a confidence that gave Jarrett pause. His voice quickening dramatically, the magistrate resumed his theme. “Combinations, gentlemen, and a preparation of hostile weapons! We are facing the winter of 1801 again. Who can forget that fatal hour? Then the troubles in Yorkshire were barely snatched up in time. The peace of this district lies in our hands, gentlemen. We must have the courage to take the necessary measures.”

“Secret combinations in the
Dale,
sir?” Jarrett interjected, braving the colonel's scowl. “To what purpose?”