Chapter 21
James
The embers crackled in the hearth. His heart pounded in his chest. The scent of faded leather and dust hung in the air. Kate’s lips parted in a silent gasp. But all of it felt distant. Unreal.
The only thing his mind could hold was the weight of Henry’s token in his hand.
Shock gave way to revulsion. Then anger. Each sensation sharper than the last. He knew with dreadful certainty that the token, rather than the charm or keepsake he had imagined it to be, was connected to the mystery of Henry’s death.
His fingers clenched the metal object until it dug into his palm. He dropped his chin. Everything inside him fractured into a thousand tiny pieces, one for each moment of guilt and regret.
A soft hand closed around his free one.
Kate.
The slow caress of her thumb over his knuckles anchored him, pulling him back to the room. The grief and rage still simmered below the surface, but they no longer threatened to tear him apart.
He met her tender, tear-brightened gaze, a silent entreaty from Kate that nearly undid him. He focused on her touch and forced himself to breathe. She deserved more than a man held together by duty and grief.
It was time for answers.
Westmarch’s expression held a hint of sympathy, but his eyes remained watchful and calculating. He was assessing James, surely wondering what had shaken him so badly.
“Westmarch, I think it is time you share what you know,” James said, his voice carrying an authority he had never used with his mentor. Firelight flickered on the wall behind him.
Westmarch didn’t flinch. “First, I need to know where you got that token.”
“Henry.”
Westmarch raised both hands in front of him in a calming gesture.
“James, I swear to you, before now I had no reason to connect Henry’s death to the Arcadian Circle.
I believed he died because of the smuggling inquiry you were pursuing together, not because of the rumors I had sent him to examine.
” The tension stretched between them like a taut wire.
“But I can shed some light on the token’s symbol. ”
James wanted to cast the cursed thing from him, to hear it strike the floor and roll into some forgotten corner where he would never have to feel its weight again.
Instead, he closed his fist around it until the metal bit into his palm. If the token was no longer his penance, then it would become his purpose.
Whatever had happened to Henry had not been random. The token, the names, and the shipments in that ledger were undeniably connected. The people behind Henry’s death were hiding in the shadows, and James would see everyone responsible brought into the light.
Westmarch took a seat in an upholstered chair that was dwarfed by his large frame. James lowered himself onto the sofa beside Kate. The velvet of the cushion was oddly soft against the stark coldness in his chest.
“You both understand the nature of my obligations at the Home Office in Whitehall,” Westmarch said, turning to face them fully. “Matters of treason fall strictly under my charge.”
James and Kate both nodded. Westmarch’s work was the very thing that had first brought him into the confidence of both families years ago, under circumstances no one involved was likely to forget.
“For a few years now, there have been whispers of a group intent on destabilizing the government. Rumors only. Nothing I could carry into Whitehall without being laughed out of the room. Or worse, alerting anyone involved that I was aware of the group.”
Westmarch tapped one finger against the edge of the chair. “Then, a few weeks ago, an old acquaintance wrote to me. Isaac Fletcher. He wanted to meet.”
James leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Is that where you disappeared to these last few weeks?”
“Yes,” Westmarch said. “Fletcher would not come to London. He believed he was being watched. I had to meet him where he felt safest, and even then, he would speak only in fragments. Speed was necessary and secrecy was essential.”
“What did he tell you?” Kate’s voice remained steady and alert.
Westmarch walked to the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back, and faced the fog pressed against the glass. “He had recently left service as secretary to a Member of Parliament and claimed the rumors were true. Midnight meetings. Aliases. A conspiracy with money, influence, and reach.”
“And evidence?” James asked. “Did he give you anything we can use?”
“He promised it, both names and proof. We arranged to meet three days later so he had time to retrieve it.” Westmarch braced himself on the window frame. “He never arrived. The next morning, a body was found near the river.”
“Then we have nothing.” James’s heart sank. This battle was over before it had begun. The token pressed into his palm again, a small vicious reminder that guilt was not finished with him.
Westmarch tilted his head toward the desk. “No. We have the ledger.”
James followed the gesture to the desk where the copied pages of the ledger lay scattered like a deck of cards. Proof of a conspiracy he could not see in full yet.
“Until today, I had rumors, one dead acquaintance, and no names I could trust,” Westmarch said.
He moved to the sideboard and picked up the crystal decanter.
He poured himself a shallow measure of brandy, then turned back to them and leaned against the side table.
“The ledger changes that. It gives substance to everything Isaac told me.” He swirled the amber liquid in the glass, taking a sip before setting the rest on the sideboard.
“Then why are we still standing here?” James demanded.
“Because haste is not the same as action.”
James bit back his reply. The rebuke landed more like a command than a suggestion.
“Mr. Fletcher did not identify anyone involved?” Kate asked.
“He was killed before he could tell me. What he did give me was a clear understanding of their purpose. This group means to destabilize the current government and replace it with one of their own making—one that concentrates wealth and power into their hands.”
What the devil had they stumbled onto? This conspiracy was larger than anything James had encountered during his years working for the Crown. “And how exactly do they mean to accomplish this new order?”
“They sow chaos and division by any means necessary, including violence,” Westmarch explained. “They are also prolonging the war with France by providing money and information to the enemy.”
James scoffed. “Oh, is that all?”
“There is more,” Westmarch said. “They use an image of a serpent coiled around an oak leaf to identify themselves to other members. They call themselves the Arcadian Circle.”
Kate’s face paled. James’s fist tightened around the token, around the serpent and the oak.
Henry had been carrying their symbol the night he died. Had he found it? Taken it from someone? Hidden it as proof? Whatever the truth, Henry had come closer to the Arcadian Circle than James had ever known.
The ledger’s list felt like an army already at the gates. James glanced at Kate in the morning light, and the air seemed to leave the room. He loosened his cravat, his mind racing. How could he keep her safe from an enemy that seemed to reach into every corner of their lives?
That conspiracy had already cost Henry his life. James’s every instinct demanded action as well as answers and a punishment, even blood if justice required it. He could not wait. He would not.
His thumb moved over the token’s edge, and another thought struck him.
Henry’s list.
He tucked the token into his waistcoat pocket, though the imprint of it remained in his palm. Then he reached inside his coat and withdrew the paper he had carried since Brenton Hall. “There is something else.”
“What is that?” Westmarch asked.
“Twelve names. Twelve aliases, I believe.” James stood and held it out. “A list Henry sent to Brenton Hall before he died. It only recently came into my hands.”
Westmarch crossed from the sideboard to take it, then laid Henry’s list beside the ledger copies. “One name has been marked. The Sentinel.”
Kate rose and moved to the desk, studying the page. “I have seen some of these names.”
James came to stand beside her. “Where?”
“In the ledger. Not all of them, but enough.” She touched one line, then another. “They were not entered as the other merchants were. They were tied to separate, coded entries.”
Westmarch’s features darkened as he studied the list. “Not merchants or informants, then.”
James’s voice lowered. “Agents. And if there are twelve principal aliases, perhaps the men directing it.”
The parchment seemed to darken before him. It was all connected. Every piece he had been chasing tied back to one thing. The Arcadian Circle.
Then he remembered the date. “Henry’s list also pointed to one other thing.” James tapped his finger on the page. “The twenty-second of February.”
Westmarch stiffened. “The Privy Council.”
“Precisely,” James said, his mind already calculating the risks.
“The Regent has only just gained the full power to rule in his father’s place, and the government is already unsteady.
Even one death at that council meeting, in a room filled with senior ministers, parliamentary figures, and men close to the Crown, would send panic through every government office. ”
“You should have told me this sooner.” Westmarch had gone pale.
James’s jaw clenched. “Like you, I wasn’t certain what any of this meant until this moment. And you were not available to be told.”
“We need a plan,” Westmarch said. “And there is something you do not know.”
Of course there was more. James forced the rest of his questions aside and asked the one that needed answering first. “And why are you telling me all of this?” he asked, challenging him. “You ordered me to find stability. Unless your definition has changed, I have not met the condition yet.”