Chapter 3
Arch returned to Renforth’s house with the particular fatigue a man acquired in drawing rooms, where one had to be perpetually attentive and yet never frank, perpetually amiable and yet never earnest, perpetually present and yet never entirely oneself.
The night air, though chill, felt almost restorative after the scented warmth of his mother’s dining room, and he took a cleansing breath, in the hope the cold might cleanse him of polite conversation and strategic smiles.
He had survived the evening without offering offence beyond that of being a soldier.
Arch found, to his irritation, that he could not quite reconcile the memory of Miss Vale as the sharp-tongued girl with freckles and unruly plaits, who had once informed him that soldiers were a public nuisance, with the young lady next to whom he had dined.
She had become something altogether more formidable: auburn hair drawn into deliberate elegance, bright green eyes which missed very little, and a composure that suggested she had long since decided the world would not arrange itself properly unless she compelled it to do so.
He approached the house standing in the respectable St. James’ Square.
Colonel Renforth owned it in the same manner he owned most things: without show, without fuss, and with the comfortable certainty that it would serve his purposes.
A lamp burned in the lower windows, and Arch felt absurdly relieved by it, as if light in a soldier’s lodging signified something more than mere wakefulness.
O’Malley appeared, as if conjured, before Arch knocked on the door.
He was Irish, imperturbable, and possessed of a countenance that was earned by war—the air of a man who could carry a tray of liquid refreshment through an ambush without spilling a drop.
It had once amused Arch to discover that O’Malley’s loyalty was of the same unshakeable kind he valued in the field.
“Major Manners,” O’Malley said, taking Arch’s coat with an efficiency that discouraged complaints. “I trust the evening did not exhaust you beyond recovery?”
Arch handed over his hat and gloves. “It attempted to,” he confessed.
O’Malley’s mouth suggested possible sympathy. “There is brandy in the drawing room, sir. Colonel Renforth said you would require it.”
Arch paused. “Did he, indeed?”
“He did, sir,” O’Malley returned, as if this were simply good household management. “Mr. Baines has also expressed a professional interest in your survival.”
“If Baines has a professional interest in anything, it is usually the disruption of peace.”
“Then perhaps your survival is essential to his amusements,” O’Malley said in solemnity, and left Arch to find his way to the drawing room.
The room was not large, but it was comfortable in a manner suited to gentlemen who preferred understated elegance.
A fire burned low. The lamps were shaded.
A decanter stood open on the sideboard as if it were part of the furniture.
Renforth sat in a chair near the hearth with his usual economy of posture, which made him look both relaxed and ready to rise at an instant.
Baines lounged opposite him, long legs stretched out and a glass already in hand, whilst Stuart and Fielding occupied the sofa opposite.
Stuart looked up first. “The dutiful son returns.”
Fielding was the most quietly observant of them, with the mildness of manner that hid a mind like a blade kept carefully sheathed. He smiled and raised his glass in greeting.
Arch accepted the offered glass from O’Malley with gratitude and took the empty chair.
“How did our heiress perform?” Baines asked, and his tone suggested he already knew that the word was an insult.
Arch took a sip of brandy. It was good enough to make him almost forgiving.
“Miss Vale performed as if she were a martyr,” he said, “which is, I suppose, one way to distinguish oneself in Town.”
Baines leaned forward with relish. “Did she draw blood?”
“Not openly,” Arch replied, though he could still hear her calm, dangerous voice, “but she did not surrender her mind to keep the peace.”
Renforth’s eyes rested on Arch with that disconcerting, evaluating look that had kept men alive. “And you?”
“I surrendered nothing,” Arch said, because it was safer to sound arrogant than uncertain. “I merely endured.”
Stuart’s gaze flicked to the door, then back again, as if ensuring the house remained sealed against intrusions. “Endurance will be the most useful of your talents in the coming weeks.”
“It is not a talent I care to practice,” Arch replied, and took another sip.
Fielding lifted his glass. “To the nursemaid,” he said sardonically.
Baines echoed it with gleeful cruelty. “To being Miss Vale’s shadow.”
Arch fixed him with a look that would have silenced a lesser man. It did not silence Baines—nothing did. Baines had once continued laughing while being shot at, and Arch suspected this quality was either courage or moral deficiency.
Renforth’s tone cut through the amusement with the easy authority of a man who did not require volume. “Enough,” he said. “Manners has accepted the duty. We are here to support his efforts. Did you ascertain anything from Miss Vale this evening?”
“Nothing beyond what we already knew.”
O’Malley reappeared, replenishing glasses without appearing to listen, which meant he heard everything. Then he withdrew again, as silent as a shadow.
“What might that be?” Stuart asked.
“That her solicitor, whom she trusts implicitly, is a supporter of radical ideas.”
“Is she aware of it?” Fielding asked.
“That is unknown to me. I was told the information by our mutual godfather, Sir Percival Lockmore.”
Renforth gestured lightly towards the table where a small portfolio lay. “This is what we have on Kendall.”
“So he is known to us?” Baines enquired.
Renforth inclined his head.
Arch felt his irritation sharpen. The evening’s social theatre dissolved, replaced by something more familiar, more precise. “What have you discovered?” he asked.
Stuart reached for the portfolio and opened it with a quiet competence. “Kendall is not merely a solicitor,” he said. “He is a solicitor with friends.”
Fielding leaned back. “Would they happen to be friends with influence?”
“Influence is not a crime,” Stuart remarked.
“No,” Renforth agreed, “but the manner of acquiring it may be.”
Baines smiled as he read over Stuart’s shoulder. “We have a list.”
Stuart drew out a folded sheet. “Kendall has attended certain meetings in Manchester and was connected to Peterloo,” he said. “He has dined with men who speak loudly of representation and secretly of violence.”
Arch’s fingers tightened on his glass. “You have already set someone upon him?”
Renforth did not answer directly, which was as good as confirmation. “You were summoned today,” he said, “and it would have been negligent not to anticipate why.”
Arch had the distinct sensation of being both relieved and irritated. “You might have warned me,” he said.
“I did,” Renforth replied, “by offering your compliance.”
Baines’s eyes brightened. “We have wagered whether you would be provoked into proposing before the Season’s end.”
Arch ignored him with a discipline that should have been rewarded.
“It is one advantage to marriage, that we shall not be called upon to perform bachelor duties,” Fielding added.
Stuart returned to the topic at hand, “Kendall’s name appears in correspondence connected to a small circle calling itself the Friends of Liberty.”
Baines let out a low whistle. “A fine name. It sounds like a charity, which means it is either a fraud or a revolution.”
Arch frowned. “I have heard of them,” he admitted. “They publish pamphlets.”
“Yes,” Stuart said. “They publish pamphlets, and they also collect subscriptions.”
Renforth’s gaze held Arch’s. “Money is always the hinge,” he said. “Follow it, and you find the door.”
Arch’s mind moved swiftly. Miss Vale’s fortune. Kendall’s influence. Radical reformers; the timing of her delayed Season and Sir Percival’s anxiety. None of it sat comfortably. “Do we believe he is skimming from her estate?” Arch asked.
Fielding shrugged. “Greater men have succumbed to lesser temptation. A wealthy, orphaned, ergo vulnerable female who trusts him, and his ideals to support.”
“She does not seem opposed to unconventional ideas. In fact, she may be supporting him willingly.” Arch had to acknowledge the possibility.
“He may be careless,” Stuart offered.
Baines grinned. “Highly unlikely in a solicitor. They prefer danger to be written into contracts rather than encountered in alleys.”
Stuart looked down at the sheet again. “There is more,” he said. “Kendall has been seen with Mr. Thistlewood.”
Arch’s brows drew together. “Who is Thistlewood again?”
“One who was jailed for challenging Sidmouth to a duel,” Fielding said.
Arch exhaled slowly. “That is not a wise companion for a respectable solicitor.”
“No,” Renforth agreed, “which suggests Kendall is either foolish or committed.”
Arch set down his glass, because the brandy had ceased to be mere comfort and had become fuel. “Miss Vale trusts him,” he said, and found the statement more troubling than he liked. “She has known him since childhood.”
Stuart’s expression eased a fraction. “That is precisely why he is dangerous,” he said. “He will not appear a threat to her. He will appear to be a friend.”
Baines leaned forward, his eyes bright. “A friend with access to her accounts, her correspondence, her signature if she is careless, and her ear if she is lonely.”
Arch felt an unwanted heat rise at the word lonely, because he remembered Francesca’s controlled composure, the way she sat with her chin lifted as if refusing pity, and he thought of her being surrounded by strangers who would use her grief against her.
“She does not seem lonely,” he said sharply. “Perhaps angry would be a more accurate description.”
Fielding regarded him. “They often go hand in hand.”