Revealed (38 page)

Indeed, Byrne was pale, far paler than usual, and his eyes were deep hollows of bleakness. The hand that gripped his cane so tightly shook with the effort. “My leg is killing me,” Byrne snapped. “Besides, you don’t look so well yourself.”

Marcus suspected that in an effort to keep on his adversary’s trail, Byrne had forgone the usual dose of laudanum that he had grown to rely on like a second cane. Had it gotten so bad that he could not make it through one day without the stuff?

But Marcus was in no condition to pursue it now.

“All right,” he sighed, “let’s do this.”

Two invalids, one known, one unknown, made there way out the door and into the hall, their bags having been sent down with a footman just ten minutes before. They had stuffed every article that had suffered some stain of blood that they could find into their trunks, including the linens, the sheets, and Phillippa’s dress.

Marcus had, with Byrne’s assistance, improved his appearance as much as possible, and hopefully his pallor and bleary focus could be attributed to the punishments for overindulgence. And considering the early hour, surely there would be only a handful of guests milling about. They had only to make it down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door.

Unfortunately, one of those guests milling about was Lord Hampshire, who had cornered a half-asleep Lord Sterling, and a concerned-looking Crawley at the top of the stairs.

Sterling looked as if he had been dragged out of his bed; Hampshire looked as if he had never entered his. No wonder, too, what with his party ending in the catastrophic demise of his prized stables. Crawley was dressed for the day but wore the expression of someone who had acquired little sleep.

“The stock was saved, thank the heavens,” Lord Hampshire was ranting, “but if you think I’m not going to bring this up at the next assembly, or to your departmental superiors, you’ve gone mad!”

“Now, Bernard, it was an accident; it had to be.” Sterling yawned, placating.

“This,” Hampshire shook a piece of parchment in his hand at Sterling, “is no accident!”

“Sir, Lord Hampshire is right to be concerned, especially considering—” Crawley interrupted, but then turned.

It was then that the gentlemen realized they were not alone on the stairs, as both Hampshire and Sterling turned together to see Marcus, supported by Byrne, approaching.

“Perhaps we should discuss this later,” Marcus could hear Sterling murmur. But Lord Hampshire was too invested and would have none of it.

“Ah! Mr. Worth, and uh, Mr. Worth! You’re both army men,” Hampshire began, intent on convincing the newest arrivals of his point. “After the affairs of last night, this was found tacked to my front door.”

He shoved the parchment under Marcus’s and Byrne’s noses. Marcus, without his glasses and rather unsteady, forced himself to focus on the paper. It was strategically singed at the edges, and scrawled in the middle was this simple phrase,
“Vive la France.”

Rather direct, in Marcus’s mind.

“Who found it?” Marcus asked, his voice weak and thready.

“I did,” Crawley piped up. “Surely this means something. Mr. Worth, you and I worked together a long time; this note is terribly provoking—”

Byrne took up the burden of conversation. “I rather think it’s a prank. After all, that business at the Whitford affair—he blamed the French for that, too, didn’t he?”

“Exactly! It’s as if they want us to invade again and beat their French asses back to the Mediterranean!” Lord Hampshire spat.

“Bernard, just because we are used to them being our enemy, doesn’t mean they are any longer,” Sterling reasoned. “I’ve not had enough sleep myself,” he said, and then, with a pointed look to the Worths, Marcus in particular, “and by looking at the two of you, I’d say you could use another few hours yourself.”

“We could,” Marcus managed to agree. “I did have a glass too much fun last evening.” He forced himself to give his most rakish smile. “But it will have to wait until we get to London.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? Mr. Marcus, you in particular look the worse for wear,” Sterling said as he peered at them with surprisingly bright eyes.

“Our brother expects us,” Byrne concurred, “and our sister-in-law will have our heads if we’re not on time.”

Then, with painful, perfect bows, Marcus and Byrne proceeded down the stairs.

It took all the control in Marcus’s body to keep his balance and not reach out for the assistance of the handrail. He knew eyes were on him, and he knew that he had to be perfect. He heard Hampshire continue to argue his point, saying that he would discover who did this, and if it really was the French, he would use all his influence in the House of Lords to bring about their punishment. Lord Sterling said nothing, and Marcus could feel his intent gaze burning a hole in the back of his head.

He tried to concentrate on the words, felt their importance, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. If he was right, was it really so simple?

But such contemplation would have to wait. Hampshire’s voice faded away, and Marcus went through the door of the house to the crisp, cool brightness of morning. He climbed with all possible grace into the carriage that waited just at the doors and collapsed with exhaustion on the seat. And as the horseshoes clipclopped along the gravel drive, blissful blackness claimed him once again.

The next few days were rather blurry. Marcus and Byrne went to Marcus’s bachelor quarters, assiduously avoiding Graham and Mariah’s (well, really Mariah’s) summonses to Worth House, which came almost hourly. Byrne finally managed to put her off with one dinner and a penned excuse from Marcus, saying he had a previous engagement. Whether or not Mariah interpreted that previous engagement to be with one Mrs. Benning, her not-so-secret hope for her brother-in-law’s happiness, she did not let on. However, she also stopped her constant requests for Marcus’s company.

Marcus, for his part, was not so comfortably ensconced. The doctor, a discreet man they had met trying to save soldiers’ limbs and lives in the Seventeenth Regiment, had changed his dressing, applied a gunpowder poultice, and prescribed rest. But once the fever broke in cool waves, Marcus did not want to rest. His bedding itched. His shoulder ached. He pushed himself to stay conscious as long as possible. In the first few days, it was never more than a few hours at a time.

But he was determined to use those hours.

Byrne would leave the house at night. Where he went, Marcus did not know, nor did Byrne choose to confide in him. He could have been tracking down leads, hunting for Laurent along the dockside, tracing his footsteps.

Or he could be drunk or worse, dulling the pain of his leg, of his existence.

Marcus didn’t know if his getting shot had shocked his brother into sobriety or sent him spiraling further. When he came home one morning, almost a week after the shooting, his stench strongly suggested the latter.

He must have been surprised to see Marcus sitting in the study, behind his desk, sorting through papers, but he made no mention of it.

Marcus looked up as Byrne entered, bearing a box from the market.

“Breakfast,” he grunted, laying the box on the table. In it were oranges, cheese, cold meats, and bread. A bottle of milk. Since there was no cook or kitchen in Marcus’s bachelor quarters, he, like most gentlemen, scrounged food from his club or Graham and Mariah’s, but he did keep a cupboard with stock necessities. Unfortunately, the small larder had become quite depleted in the past five days of bedrest.

“Thanks,” Marcus replied, as he tore off a hunk of bread. “Where’d you get it?”

“Market day in Covent Garden,” he answered. “You should be in bed.”

“There’s work to be done,” Marcus shot back.

“Not for you.” Byrne hobbled over to the seat he had taken to occupying. “I have been out there, you know, looking for him, trying to find a hint, a clue of anything. But there’re no leads. It’s like he doesn’t exist. And there’s no damn reason for these things happening.”

Marcus held up a piece of paper. “I think there is.”

It was the list—the list of society parties that had led Marcus on this not-so-merry chase for the past few weeks. “Why target these events?” he asked.

“Because they are hosted by people known for their patriotism,” Byrne guessed.

“No, they’re not.” Marcus countered. “The next two events on the list, the Gold Ball at Regent’s Park and the Benning Ball—no particular patriotism there. I think we have to divide this list in half.” Marcus proceeded to tear the paper in twain, flat across the middle.

“Oy!” Byrne said, “That’s evidence.”

But Marcus didn’t even spare him a look over the top of his glasses. “The first two, the Whitford Banquet and the Hampshires’ Racing Party,” he began, “those two are heavily patriotic, but more than that, they profited greatly from the war.”

Byrne’s brow furrowed, as he took the first half of the list. “True. Whitford’s arms manufacturing and Hampshire’s stud and stables were heavy suppliers to the army’s needs.”

“And their businesses have slowed since the end of the war.”

“But not completely. For God’s sake, we still have France under occupation; guns and horses will always be in demand,” Byrne argued. “Besides, if Laurent meant to damage the British Army by going after Whitford and Hampshire’s contributions, he seems to have fallen short.”

“Exactly!” Marcus exclaimed. “What’s he done? He stole a pair of guns and some schematics. He burned down a barn. Its not as if there aren’t hundreds of other private stables that supply the army, and its not as if Whitford’s schematics can’t be replicated. Laurent’s actions are more of a nuisance than a disturbance.”

“He also shot you,” Byrne drawled.

But Marcus dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “I got in his way,” he said, rising. “He went after Whitford and Hampshire because they are positioned to raise a fuss. Both are influential members of Society. Hampshire’s vocal in the House of Lords. Annoy them, and it’s to their benefit to raise the level of anti-French rhetoric in Parliament.”

And with that, Marcus moved quickly around the desk and pulled out a copy of the day’s
Times
, finding the article he searched for and handing it to Byrne.

 

“Read the society pages, and you’ll find that French expatriates are being given the cut direct,” Marcus said, indicating the next page. “This anti-French sentiment is infecting the Ton, and soon the middle class and servants will follow, until all they need is one incident, and we’ll be back at war.”

“But
why
?” Byrne sighed. “I’m tired. This whole situation makes me tired. I have to imagine most everyone else in this country is bloody tired of war.”

“But some people make their money from war,” Marcus argued. “And they miss it . . . All I have to do is figure out which person was making enough money off the war to want to start it again.”

“You suspect Sterling,” Byrne said, flipping the paper over, skimming the society pages.

“Yes,” Marcus replied. “But I’d need more solid evidence than just my suspicions. He was at both parties, but so were Crawley, Fieldstone, a hundred other people.”

“Yes, but he was in the stables.” Byrne looked down, then back up. “You could ask Mrs. Benning about his financial portfolio. I’d wager she knows more than his accountant.”