Chapter 67
CAMBERLEY MANOR, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
Mid-morning, eleven days after leaving Phoebe, Slade was shown to General Bolingbroke’s study.
From the reconnaissance reports he’d received from Harbert and Company, this was the time for Bolingbroke’s morning ride.
But it would end soon, and Bolingbroke would return.
He had to move quickly. With excited gratitude, Ludlow, the footman, recounted the other servants’ tales of how Slade had administered aid to him when he’d been shot and unconscious almost five months ago.
“They said you were a bona fide war hero, colonel. And that you and the healer saved my life. I am forever in your debt, sir.”
Slade had been on a mission of revenge five months ago, using Peter’s expertly crafted muskets to ingratiate himself to Bolingbroke.
Plotting Bolingbroke’s downfall in revenge for the part he’d played in Sylvia’s death had been the only thing that mattered.
And no one except Phoebe could have made him deviate from his plan.
He’d had nothing to lose then. Now, five months later, he had a beautiful wife and a grand future with her to look forward to, and things were changing for the better with his father and brother.
He had so much to lose now if this didn’t go well.
Ludlow was only too happy to show Slade into the general’s study to await the general’s return.
After Ludlow exited the study and closed the door, Slade spotted the desk Bolingbroke’s valets and his maid, Omelia Swindlehurst, had mentioned at the local pub months ago when he’d bought them enough ale to drown a herd of wild horses.
Slade stepped between the desk and its upholstered chair.
His hands went for the handle of the desk drawer.
He pulled and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge.
He withdrew the ring of master keys, courtesy of Harbert and Company, from his saddle bag and started to try key after key.
He’d been in contact with them during the past three months regarding bribes Bolingbroke had taken, encouraging them to leak the information to the gossip columns.
On the fifth attempt, the lock clicked open.
His lips curled upwards as he slid open the drawer and sifted through its contents.
Slade was pleased when in no time he found a document titled “Glenfinnan Mission.” He slipped it into his saddle bag and buckled its flap.
Slade closed the drawer, pocketed the keys, then sat down on a nearby leather Chesterfield chair. And patiently waited.
Fifteen minutes later the door swung open. The man who walked in didn’t look like the pristinely attired aristocrat and army general he’d negotiated an arms contract with months prior. Slade noted with satisfaction this man looked haggard and tired.
General Bolingbroke eyed Slade with a hint of surprise. “MacLean, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Slade stood up and they exchanged a cursory handshake. “Are the American longrifle muskets still performing to your liking, Sir Henry?” Slade asked.
Bolingbroke appeared distracted, as he answered. “Yes, yes, I still receive compliments on their excellent craftmanship.”
Slade took a seat once more. The general walked over to his desk and perched on its edge, exhaling in a long-drawn-out sigh as if exhausted. “No doubt you’ve seen last week’s Daily Courant?”
The level of rancor and contempt strumming through Slade’s veins in Bolingbroke’s presence was surprisingly lower in intensity than he’d expected.
His priorities had shifted since he’d taken Phoebe to wife.
Perhaps, she had loved the hate right out of him.
In truth, all he yearned for at that very moment was to go back home to his wife and start their new life together.
Slade suppressed a triumphant smile. “I have.”
Agitation swarmed the general’s harsh features. “Lies! All lies. The soldiers I sentenced to transport were all criminals. The Daily Courant falsely represented those men as innocents. Someone is trying to destroy me, MacLean. And when I find the bastard, I will rip out the man’s gullet.”
Every bone in Slade’s body should have clamored to reveal who the person was.
He should have reveled in the satisfaction and basked in the glory of bringing this mountain of corruption, in front of him, to his knees.
He should have hissed venomously in Bolingbroke’s ear “This is for Sylvia, your daughter, born out of wedlock when you slept with the Scottish governess in the Highlands twenty-four years ago. The one who killed herself because of what you and I did.”
Slade also suspected that Bolingbroke had either scared or attempted to hurt Phoebe the night she’d fled from Camberley. But he had no way of knowing for certain, and confronting Bolingbroke about it would reveal too much. He would much rather Bolingbroke stew in his ignorance.
Slade reclined in his chair and eyed the general, a casual smile lifting the side of his lips. “It’s my sincere hope you find the one responsible,” he said as he brushed a fleck of lint off his sleeve. “In the meantime, are you in the market for additional muskets?”
The general clicked his tongue. Muskets appeared to be the farthest thing from his mind.
The rest of the meeting with Bolingbroke was innocuous.
Slade returned to his room at the local inn, a copy of the latest Daily Courant folded and tucked away in his pocket.
Its front-page headline detailed Hawley’s transportation to the penal colonies after a three-month imprisonment and trial for stealing army weapons.
Slade set to work making a copy of the documents he’d taken from Bolingbroke’s study.
He took the originals to Magistrate Higgins two days later.
The introduction to Higgins had been made by Lucia’s father, prompted by a note from Lucia, who’d thought Slade was taking revenge against Phoebe’s former employer.
Which was only half the truth. Then, several days later, Slade rode into the Royal Scots Greys’ garrison at Burntwood.
He strode into General Seymour’s office and slammed the copy of the documents onto his former direct report’s desk saying, “Here is your non-existent evidence against Bolingbroke.”