The Stanforth Secrets Read online

  “Remember the first viscount. Remarkable man,” stated the Duke. “He would have handled the matter right.”

  “Assuredly, Sir,” responded Lord Liverpool.

  “The papers were given to Stephen?” hazarded Justin with a puzzled frown.

  “No,” said the Earl bitterly. “He, we can be sure, was the one person who could not have been given them. We don’t know to whom they were passed by the sailor, nor have they ever been seen.”

  “Some damned traitor destroyed them,” barked the Duke with disgust.

  “That is possible, Sir,” said Lord Liverpool. “On the other hand, we have clear evidence that the French are still searching for them. We intercepted a message recently which fiercely enjoined an agent here in London to discover the papers and destroy them, for his own safety as well as the safety of others. Unfortunately, we could not discover for whom that directive was intended, though we destroyed yet another of their message-lines.” He slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair. “We need that list! Even in my own office I cannot be sure who is to be trusted. The part of the list we received revealed some traitors we had never expected. . . .”

  The Earl collected himself. “We must do everything in our power to gain those papers, if they still exist. The chance is small, but we must try. Poor, brave d’Estrelles never made it to Wales. We can only assume the French blew him out of the water and thought the message had gone to the deep with him. . . .”

  “Brave man, brave man,” muttered the Duke.

  “Brave indeed, and his ruse was successful. The sailor, by name of Samuel Wright, made his way unhindered to Dublin, and then took ship to the port of Lancaster, disembarking at Sunderland Point, close by to Heysham, as you doubtless know. Once in the village—he is well remembered there, for they don’t get many strangers—he discovered Lord Stanforth was in London and sent off a message. He made no secret of the fact that he had a package for the viscount and settled down peacefully to wait, ambling around the village, talking to the fishermen. We can only deduce his instruction was to give his package to no one but the viscount, and to wait patiently for him to come.”

  “You say ‘We can only deduce,’ ” said Justin. “Why can Mr. Wright not speak for himself?”

  “He is dead,” said the Earl baldly. “Drowned in Morecambe Bay.”

  Two men dead, thought Justin with a chill. No, more. That ill-fated fishing boat used by d’Estrelles must have had a crew. “If a message was sent to Lord Stanforth, it must have gone to Stephen.”

  “Yes,” said the Earl in a voice frosted with disapproval. Justin felt resigned. What had poor Stephen done? “The letter arrived at your cousin’s house in Clarges Street. The sailor’s message so bewildered him,” he added icily, “that he showed it around all over London, asking what people made of it!”

  There was a growl from the royal personage, and Justin struggled to keep a straight face. It wasn’t funny, but it was so typical of Stephen.

  “One of my young men, Cardew Holmes, happened to hear of it and put two and two together. He nabbed your cousin and brought him to me. I sent the viscount to Lancashire to collect the message. Holmes was sent with him to keep him in order.” There was a touch of disbelief in Lord Liverpool’s voice as he commented, “It took Holmes a whole twenty-four hours to persuade the young man to treat the matter with urgency—”

  “Should have told me,” growled the Duke. “I’d have damned well put a squib up his backside!”

  “I’m sure you would have, Sir. It occurred to none of us that he would not immediately perceive the importance . . .” He broke off and shrugged. “When he was brought to understand the situation, however, Lord Stanforth did set off with great enthusiasm. According to Holmes it was . . .”

  “Hair-raising,” supplied Justin with a sigh. “Stephen always did drive faster than his skill allowed, and he would have loved the excuse of urgency. That was when . . .”

  “That was when he was killed, yes. September second. Holmes merely suffered a broken leg, but your cousin broke his neck.” A slight inclination of the head indicated sympathy not apparent in his voice.

  A mutter from the royal Duke might have been “Good riddance.” Justin decided he really couldn’t plant a facer on the son of the king just to defend poor Stephen’s memory.

  “What happened to the message?” he asked. “Presumably you sent someone else quam celerimae.”

  “Of course we did. By this time, however, almost a week had gone by since your cousin had received the letter. The day before my man got there, the sailor paid his tab at the inn and left. The next day his body was washed up on the sands. The innkeeper said he’d earlier gone up to the Hall, but nobody there admits to having seen him.”

  “So you think he passed his package on. To someone at the Hall? Who?”

  Lord Liverpool regarded his thin fingers. “It is hard, of course, to imagine anyone at Delamere Hall being in league with the French. . . .”

  “Impossible, I would have thought,” said Justin firmly. “Who was there at the time?”

  “Lord Stanforth’s—I mean Stephen’s, of course—mother, the Dowager Lady Stanforth. She is something of an invalid, I am told, and does not go about very much.”

  “Her wits are wandering,” said Justin bluntly, “and she never leaves the house unaccompanied.”

  Lord Liverpool gave a little cough. “Quite. Your uncle Mr. George Delamere was there. Upon your cousin’s death, of course, he became Viscount Stanforth, so the sailor might have given him the package, except that, by the time he succeeded to the title, Mr. Wright was already dead. In addition, he is . . . er . . . generally held not to be the sort to become involved with intrigues.”

  “He was one of the stupidest men I’ve ever met,” said Justin uncompromisingly. “Result of a childhood brain fever. It’s to be hoped the sailor didn’t give his precious cargo to him. Or is that the problem?”

  “Would that we knew,” said Lord Liverpool bitterly. “When my man got to the Hall, George Delamere denied any knowledge of the sailor or his business and flew into a rage if pressed. Everyone we have asked is in agreement that George Delamere could never have been a French agent, and what other reason could he have had for denying receipt of the package?”

  Justin thought his Uncle George had never needed reasons for his strange starts, but couldn’t imagine why he would deny receipt of the package. “What of the staff, then?” he asked.

  The Earl shrugged. “The lower orders can be bought, as we all know, but all the staff at Delamere have lived there forever. Some families go back to the Domesday Book. As there was no plan to send the documents there, it is scarcely believable that one of the staff suddenly decided to become a traitor. Also, it is unlikely that Samuel Wright would have passed his package on to a servant.”

  “Perhaps then, he was persuaded to give his package to another local worthy. The parson perhaps, or the justice?”

  “The Reverend Sotherby was absent all during this time. The justice is Sir Cedric Troughton, whose land runs alongside yours. He is a man of the old style, who lives on his land. Lancaster is as far as he travels. It is very difficult to imagine a reason for him to deal with the French.”

  “It seems to me you are out of suspects entirely,” said Justin.

  Lord Liverpool considered his long fingers. “There was one other inhabitant of the Hall. Your cousin’s widow, Chloe, Lady Stanforth.”

  Justin looked up suddenly. “You suspect Chloe?” Astonishment was succeeded by anger. Beautiful, enchanting Chloe. It was bad enough what he and Stephen had done to her reputation six years ago, but this . . .

  Lord Liverpool pursed his lips. “Suspect is a trifle strong, Stanforth, but there is, as you point out, a shortage of candidates. Chloe Stanforth was the only person in residence of Delamere Hall that night who had her wits about her. With her history of . . .”

  Justin sat tight-lipped and refused, this time, to offer derogatory details about his family.

/>   Royalty had no such qualms. “Eloped from the schoolroom at seventeen. Led a damned rackety existence with your cousin, jollying up with the scaff and raff. Who knows what bad influence she might be under?”

  Justin decided again, with much more regret, that he couldn’t bloody the man’s nose, but that didn’t mean he would allow Chloe to be abused.

  “Chloe might be unconventional, Your Highness,” he said firmly, “but, with respect, she’s intelligent and loyal. She would never turn traitor. What possible motive could she have, Sir?”

  “Lover,” spat out the Duke. “Women’ll do anything for a certain type of man.”

  Justin told himself bitterness over the behavior of his pretty mistress was doubtless coloring the Duke’s point of view.

  Lord Liverpool cut in before Justin could voice the protest on his lips. “Remember, Stanforth, you haven’t seen the young woman for three or four years. Ladies are flighty creatures, and I gather her marriage was not entirely happy. We do not suspect evil intent, but who knows into what foolishness she may have been led? Whoever is involved, we urgently need to gain possession of that list if it still exists.”

  Her marriage was not entirely happy. The marriage he had largely brought about. . . .

  Justin dragged his mind back to the matter in hand, thought of the growing count of deaths in this affair, and frowned. “Do you think they are in danger at the Hall, Sir?”

  “It is to be hoped not,” said Lord Liverpool. “We have no sign of activity there, but it is hard to believe some Napoleonic agent didn’t overhear your cousin blabbing about his letter. This is one reason we have not instigated a more open search of the area. After all, if the French become sure the package is in the Hall, they could well blow up the place, and the list would be lost forever.”

  And a score of good people, thought Justin, chilled.

  “Smugglers!” snorted the Duke of York. “In Lancashire!”

  Justin was bewildered and Lord Liverpool looked put out. “We sent a carefully selected troop of the Fifth Light into Heysham,” he explained, “claiming rumor of smuggling. They conducted a pretty thorough search of the cottages and the area in general.”

  Justin wondered what the locals had thought of that. It was true there was a little contraband brought over from Ireland, but not enough trade to warrant a full-scale search. He supposed they all muttered about crazy southerners and went on with their business.

  “What of the house?” he asked. “Has that been searched?”

  If anything, Lord Liverpool looked even more uncomfortable. “We have introduced someone into the house who has had no success. Now you will be in an excellent position to take on the matter.”

  “But it’s over a year ago, Sir. The trail will be stone cold.”

  “Do you think we don’t know that? As long as your uncle was Lord Stanforth, however, we saw no benefit in enlisting his aid. Then, when he died and the succession was in doubt, there was no one to look to. As I said, we have done what we could. The local people there are a secretive lot. You may be able to find out more.”

  “Chloe would have been able to sort this out months ago,” said Justin bluntly. “The estate manager says the local people adore her.”

  Lord Liverpool cleared his throat. “We really didn’t think we could take that risk, Stanforth, and I believe it would be wiser to keep her in the dark a little longer.”

  “Consider that an order, Stanforth,” snapped the Royal Duke. “I understand she’s a pretty little witch, but keep your wits about you. No business for a woman anyway.” This was accompanied by a glare at Lord Liverpool.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Justin coldly. “Could I ask whom you have sent to investigate from within the house?”

  The Earl cleared his throat. “We . . . er . . . could hardly send a man after your uncle died and it was a house of women,” he said a little uncomfortably. “It had to be someone with a reason for staying in the house, and someone we could trust.” One bony finger came up to rub his noble nose. “We sent the Dowager Duchess of Tyne.”

  Justin stared. “Chloe’s grandmother? Good Lord, Sir. She must be eighty!”

  “Not quite, I believe, and still with good health and all her wits. She has an excellent reason for being there to support her granddaughter in her bereavement, and she and her family have always been staunch supporters of the Royal family. It is sad to relate, but the taint of the Stuarts still lingers in some of our oldest families, making their allegiance not totally trustworthy.”

  Justin gritted his teeth as he thought of the sons of these families spilling their blood in Spain, but he kept his counsel. If he had once been as wild and impulsive as Stephen, time and the war had taught him a great deal.

  “Has the Dowager discovered anything?” he asked coolly.

  “No. She too rejects any idea that Chloe Stanforth might know of the message, but then the young lady is her granddaughter and they are close, I believe. She will welcome your arrival, Lord Stanforth.”

  Gathering that this disturbing interview was over, Justin rose. “Very well, Your Highness, My Lord.” He directed a bow to each in turn. “I don’t hold out much hope but I will do my best. There have been a number of deaths in this affair. I am concerned for the residents of the Hall.”

  He was struck by a sudden thought. “Do you think Stephen was murdered too?” he asked sharply. “And what about Uncle George?”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Stanforth,” said Lord Liverpool. “Cardew Holmes was with your cousin. It was simply a question of reckless driving. Poor Holmes took months to get his nerve back after that ride. Your uncle died of a seizure. He was nearing fifty and a tub of lard with a young wife. He was safe in his own home when it happened, with his old friend Humphrey Macy at his side, and all the Lady Stanforths nearby. Including,” he added with an edge, “the intelligent and trustworthy Chloe.”

  “I promise to restrain my imagination, Sir,” retorted Justin. “If I may be excused, Your Highness, My Lord, I find myself anxious to get up to Delamere as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the Duke of York casually. “Glad to see you keen on the job, Stanforth. Vitally important to the nation. Keep us posted, eh? We need those lists. Can’t let the Frogs have ’em back.”

  Justin made two more formal bows and escaped.

  If it hadn’t been for the presence of two of the most important men in the kingdom he would have dismissed the whole thing as a joke, or at least an insane alarm. There’d been enough examples of botched orders and incompetence in the army to teach a man to look at information many times over but . . .

  He made his way quickly to Brookes, where he was staying, and sent orders for his curricle to be ready early the next day. He’d drive himself up to Lancashire, traveling light and leaving his man and baggage to follow along more slowly. Justin was looking forward to savoring the fertile English countryside again, even if in the foggy damp. His return to Delamere, however, was not going to be quite as he had expected. Murder, espionage . . .

  He was sitting by the leaping fire in the lounge, sipping a glass of Madeira and turning over the strange situation in his mind, when a clear voice broke into his consciousness.

  “God save the nation! A damned Delamere’s turned up.”

  Justin turned to see a slender, beautiful young man with silky buttercup hair, mischievous clear blue eyes, and a wide smile.

  “Randal?”

  “Who else?” said Lord Randal Ashby, walking over to join his friend. “But what the hell? . . . Good God, I forgot,” he said suddenly sober. “My dear fellow. Accept my condolences. It was a damned shame for Stephen to go off like that so young.”

  Justin rose and took his friend’s offered hands. “I know and it hit me hard, but I’ve thought since he would have preferred it to old age. That could just be Peninsula thinking, though. We were always telling ourselves old age was an unpleasant prospect.”

  It occurred to him that was the
sort of thing civilians didn’t like to hear, but there was nothing but sensitive sympathy on Lord Randal Ashby’s face. Both twenty-seven, they’d been at Eton and Oxford together, and Randal had taken part in many of the mad escapades they’d indulged in six years ago—he and Stephen, Randal and Verderan, Marlowe and Sterries—all of them supposedly studying at Oxford, but spending a good deal of their time elsewhere.

  Perhaps following the same train of thought, Lord Randal said, “Hal Marlowe avoided old age at Cintra didn’t he, and Grantly Sterries at Corunna? I understand it was a close thing for you there too, Justin.”

  The viscount nodded. “Leg. If I hadn’t taken my mother’s advice and taken along my own barber-surgeon, I’d have lost it. Rees was a treasure. I lent him to all my friends. There’s no real medical care, Randal. . . .” He recollected himself and looked up with a smile. “I’m sorry. It must be the weather. Damned dismal.”

  “I’ll give you damned dismal,” retorted Lord Randal sharply, “if you think I’m too fragile a plant to hear the truth about the war. Anyone of sense knows things are bad at times. I tell you, though, I’d have been there alongside you if my father would allow it.”

  Justin nodded understandingly. He knew all about the Duke of Tyne’s poor health, his obsession with the succession, and Randal’s older brother’s disinclination to marry. “Chelmly’ll have to marry one day,” Justin assured his friend.

  “By then the war will be over,” said Lord Randal glumly, then smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Justin, but I hate wasting time here when I could be doing something.”

  “I understand, and it is the most . . . I can’t really describe it. Ordinary life seems very dull by comparison. Safer, more comfortable, but dull. I tell you though, Randal, and you’re likely to be the only one I ever tell, even if I hadn’t inherited Delamere and a pile of problems, I’d have sold out anyway. I’d just seen one too many gutted horse, one too many severed limb, one too many corpse.”