A Courtship of Conspiracies (Crown & Cipher #1)

Chapter 1

James

Hampshire, England

James William Campbell, the sixth Earl of Brenton, was riding home to propose to a lady he had not seen in five years. A woman who would likely rather see him at the wrong end of a pistol than at the altar.

In fairness, the idea to propose was not entirely his own.

Lord Westmarch, his superior at the Home Office, had made James’s task perfectly clear: marry, establish a household, and demonstrate he was not the reckless liability he had become during recent months. Only then would he be permitted to resume his duties as an agent of the Crown.

Only then could he avenge Henry’s death.

He ignored the icy rain slipping past the collar of his caped greatcoat and the thickening mud splattering his clothes and Hessian boots. His thoughts remained fixed on the unpleasant duty that brought him home.

James approached a sweeping bend in the lane and caught sight of thin gray ribbons of chimney smoke dancing above the chestnut trees.

He urged his horse into a canter. Passing through the wrought iron gates, he followed the long avenue flanked by neatly trimmed hedgerows.

He surveyed Brenton Hall with a careful eye.

It was an impressive manor, built by generations of Campbells over more than a century. The grand facade, a masterpiece of symmetry with a gabled roof and tall sash windows, presided over an expansive park that had once been the perfect kingdom for a young boy who believed in happy endings.

Since inheriting the earldom after his father’s death five years earlier, the responsibilities of the title weighed heavily on him, settling into a persistent ache in his chest. He was a man divided.

There were the public responsibilities: the protection of his mother and sister, the management of a sprawling estate, and his seat in Parliament.

Then there were his secret duties to the Crown.

Better left to the shadows, they demanded a different sort of toll.

He exhaled and eased his grip on the reins.

Near the stables, he slowed Apollo. He dismounted and gave crisp instructions for the head groom to give the horse a brisk rubdown and a generous helping of oats.

After a farewell pat to the stallion’s neck, he climbed the front steps.

Before he touched the large oak door, it swung open, beckoning him inside.

A rare smile came despite himself when he saw the aged butler, a man who had long tolerated his childhood mischief.

“Welcome home, my lord.” Barlow helped James remove his dripping hat and greatcoat, ignoring the water puddling on the polished floor. “Your chambers are prepared, and a fire has been lit. Cook will ensure your meal is laid once you have refreshed yourself.”

“Excellent. My new valet is arriving tomorrow with the rest of my effects. Would you see that he is properly settled?”

With assurances from Barlow that all would be taken care of thoroughly and quickly, as matters always were at Brenton Hall, James ascended the grand staircase, its balustrade polished to a deep shine.

He moved past the oil portraits in gilt frames, the appraising, watchful eyes of his ancestors.

They were more than just paint and wood; they were judge and jury of the legacy he was tasked to uphold.

James climbed the stairs with weary determination.

Despite frequent visits to deal with estate matters and meet with his steward, he had not participated in local society for years.

His life was a tangle of obligations, and if he were honest with himself, there was one person in the neighborhood he had been hiding from most of all. One person he could avoid no longer.

He should have visited at least once. Now his absence felt indefensible. There was no acceptable reason for him to be away for so long, at least not one he could share.

Warm after a bath in his dressing room, James entered his study to find a blazing fire lighting every corner of the stately room.

He sat in the leather chair at his father’s large mahogany desk.

Even after the hours he had spent sitting there, he did not think of it as his own.

He traced the family crest engraved on the heavy signet ring on his finger.

Not for the first time, he desperately wished his father were here.

What wisdom would he offer? What counsel would he have for his son who courted failure at every turn?

James forced his attention back to the task before him. This next undertaking would test him as no other had, but it was the only path if he were ever to find the retribution he wanted. No, the retribution he needed.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket, drawing out a small round coin.

He rubbed his thumb along the front of the aged metal, the once-rough edges now smooth.

This token was a reminder to do what was necessary, no matter the cost. Guilt stirred, familiar and deep, threading through the unwelcome memories of that night.

His grip tightened on the edge of the desk until he forced himself to release it.

He would see this finished.

He could not live in a world where those responsible for Henry’s death did not face justice. The knowledge settled like iron in his chest: until his debt was paid, there could be no peace. No forgiveness. No future.

James shoved the memories aside, returning to the papers stacked neatly on the desk and the savory steam rising from a venison pie, a welcome comfort after several days of poor fare on the road.

Cook had prepared his favorite dish, and the servants were accustomed to his preference for dining in the solitude of his study.

Marriage, however, would likely bring an end to such routines.

A wife would expect the formality of the dining room, though it was impossible to guess what else she might require.

He had not seen Kate since shortly after his father had passed, her youthful face streaked with tears and her expression full of a concern he had been ill-equipped to answer.

He had no wish to linger on that memory.

Years of shared history made the prospect of seeing her again even more daunting, to say nothing of the resentment she surely harbored after years of his calculated silence.

He reached for the tall pile of neglected correspondence, sifting through field reports from his steward and tossing invitations for local assemblies and dinner parties into the roaring fire with a flick of his wrist. He almost threw the next letter in as well until he noticed it bore a wax seal he knew as well as his own: Henry’s family crest.

He stopped. It had been nearly two months since Henry’s death.

How had a letter from Henry only reached him now?

James ran his thumb over the hardened seal.

He had not visited Brenton Hall since the fall harvest. His steward only forwarded correspondence concerning the estate.

This letter could have been sitting on his desk for some time.

Unease twisted inside him. He needed answers.

“Barlow!”

The butler entered, unperturbed by the urgent tone. “Yes, my lord?”

James held up the letter, the paper crinkling in his hand. “When did this missive arrive?”

The butler examined the folded paper closely. “It is difficult to say, my lord. Different members of the staff collect the post, but I shall make inquiries to see if anyone recalls this specific piece.”

“Do so. I want to know exactly when this was left at my door.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Left with his own thoughts, James reached for the letter. Memories tinged with regret and anger assailed him, but his curiosity finally overcame his hesitation at visiting a ghost.

He broke the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, a list of twelve names and a date written in a hurried script:

One name, The Sentinel, bore a small deliberate mark. Why would Henry mark only one? There had been rumors of a traitorous secret society, and Henry had been attempting to discover and track its members. Was the marked name someone he had identified? Perhaps the most dangerous one?

James clenched the letter. Had Henry sent him the name of his killer before his death? His friend and fellow agent had seemed on edge in the weeks leading up to the night he was killed. James knew better than to question another agent’s secrets, but the fact that Henry hadn’t confided in him stung.

If James had known—if he had made a different choice—he could have prevented the events that followed. But now he had Henry’s final warning, a trail that might lead to his killer.

The Sentinel. It was not a name, but it was a target.

And the date above it, the twenty-second of February, was a mere six weeks away.

The numerals sharpened on the page. The significance was immediate.

It was the night of the Privy Council meeting.

The Prince Regent remained under restriction, but at that meeting, he would finally be allowed to make changes to his cabinet and staff.

Every high-ranking government official would be present.

Could the clandestine society be planning something? Henry’s list seemed to suggest so.

And if Henry had marked The Sentinel on the same page with the date, it stood to reason there would be a connection. Would his killer be in attendance, hidden among dark coats and chandelier light?