A Dangerous Madness Read online

  He’d had a sense then that they were more than just friends. Now he had his answer.

  The way they sat, talking quietly, was more than a meeting. It had the whiff of a council of war about it.

  This early in the afternoon, the club was relatively quiet and as James approached the group, they looked up from their conversation and Dervish indicated the fourth chair for him.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” James was struck by the easy way they sat together, none trying to show his superiority or assert himself as leader.

  It was calming.

  He lowered himself into the chair with less tension than he would usually feel, but it made no sense to completely drop his guard.

  Dervish waited until he was seated. “You must be acquainted with Aldridge and Durnham?”

  James inclined his head. “Yes. And I count Aldridge’s betrothed, Miss Barrington, to be a friend.”

  Dervish gave him a quick, hard look, and a frown, then tugged a little on his bright blue cravat, an item of clothing that seemed incongruous with his personality, yet suited him perfectly. “I thought we could discuss our findings together, in case there’s an overlap. Aldridge?”

  Aldridge had been watching James intently, but now he was all business, and gave a shake of his head. “I can’t find any evidence of an organized group of former soldiers beyond the smallish groups that put themselves out as watchmen or labourers. Some of them are living rough, or in such squalid circumstance, I wouldn’t blame them if they had got it into their heads to kill Perceval off, but if they had a hand in it, they’ve kept it very quiet. More quiet than I think they’re capable of, given what a diverse and ragtag bunch they are.”

  Dervish steepled his fingers. “Durnham?”

  Durnham leaned forward. “My contacts among the Luddites tell me they’re getting more organized, and more violent, but they know killing Perceval isn’t going to change things. The switch to more machinery in factories is being pushed in by the business owners, not the government, although the government is certainly taking the businessmen’s side.”

  “And the Catholics?”

  Durnham grimaced. “Perceval is loathed by the Catholics, especially in Northern Ireland, but they also know killing him won’t change anything. Things were bad enough before he got in to power, and they won’t change if he’s removed. And if they were found to be behind it, things would get even worse for them. They can barely manage as it is. I don’t think they would have risked this.”

  “That still leaves a very large field of suspects.” James tapped his fingers on the smooth, glossy oak armrest of his chair.

  “I know.” Dervish rubbed his temple, looked across at James with eyes that were blood-shot and dark-ringed. He hesitated a moment, and then looked at Durnham. “And your wife?”

  Durnham’s face hardened. “She’s still making enquiries.”

  James was surprised at how he’d gone from amenable to stone cold in a moment. Whatever Dervish was asking of him, asking him to confirm, was something he would rather not discuss.

  He slid a glance at Aldridge and saw him frowning, and then the frown cleared, as if he had worked out what was going on. “The common agitators, you mean?”

  Durnham gave a stiff nod. “The radicals. Some of them have the resources, and enough of a grudge, to pull this off.”

  James wondered how Lady Durnham’s name had come into this. Surely she did not have connections in that world…

  “When will she know?” Dervish asked, but he was clearly uncomfortable now, as if he regretted bringing the matter up.

  “I think you can take it as not having come from that quarter, unless she informs me otherwise. But she thinks not. Bracken…Bracken is still away, and no one else has the intelligence, the means, and the axe to grind that he does. Not that his people aren’t happy about this turn of events. They were probably the ones dancing in the street outside Parliament House.”

  Luke Bracken. James had heard that name. Read it, he remembered now, in Dervish’s report into gold sovereigns being smuggled out of England. He lifted his gaze and caught Durnham’s eye, but the man just stared back, calm and closed off. A mystery he might one day have the answer to, if he was invited to stay in this tight circle of men.

  “I’ve been busy looking into the traders up in Liverpool, seeing as that’s were Bellingham is from, and the profession he used to be involved in.” Dervish rubbed his face. “Most of them are terrified that Perceval’s Orders in Council are going to start a war with America. In fact, they say it’s a certainty. The Orders are interfering with the Americans’ trade, and the fact that Perceval was shot on his way to defend the Orders in Council in Parliament might be a message on its own. The problem is there are so many different trading interests, and all of them are bitterly opposed to Perceval’s policies. They were sure Perceval wouldn’t abolish the Orders, and that a war with America as well as Napoleon will cripple us.”

  “And did you find anything?” James wondered how he could have done, given the distance to Liverpool, and the hundreds of suspects in that area of enquiry.

  Dervish shook his head. “How did you get on?”

  “I’ve got a name.” James noticed they all turned their focus on him immediately. “What it means, I don’t know. And why I was given it at all is an interesting puzzle in itself.”

  “You don’t trust it?” Aldridge was watching him again. He had been an officer in the Peninsula Campaign, before his brother died and he inherited the family title. A man of action and intelligence. There was a challenge in his stare, as if waiting for James to prove himself, one way or the other.

  Or it may be because Aldridge’s betrothed had been to visit James just two days ago. Or rather, James’s chef, but she always came and said hello to James as well while she was there.

  James didn’t blame Aldridge for his annoyance. He wouldn’t like his future wife visiting a duke of ill-repute on a regular basis either. He was simply glad Giselle Barrington had the strength of personality to insist on visiting whomever she chose, and Aldridge for respecting her enough to say nothing about it.

  James raised his brows. “I don’t know that I don’t trust it. But it felt too easy. Too pat.”

  “Who is it, first of all?” Dervish sat straighter.

  “Lord Sheldrake.” He watched their reactions and gave a nod of acknowledgement. “I see you share my misgivings. I was being as subtle as I could be in a crowd of drunken gamblers with half-dressed women squirming on their laps, fishing for anything I could get on anti-Perceval sentiment. Sheldrake’s name came up. I challenged it, because the few times I’ve run into Sheldrake he’s never said a word about politics.”

  “I don’t think he’s ever set foot in the House of Lords,” Durnham said, his mouth twisting up in a wry grin. “Don’t know much about him.”

  “He was engaged to a Miss Hillier.” James didn’t know why he was suddenly uncomfortable—the broken betrothal would no doubt be common knowledge soon enough and Miss Hillier had not sworn him to secrecy—but he felt oddly reluctant to talk about her.

  “Was?” Aldridge asked.

  “Yes. Broke it off with her on Sunday evening, and took off for the Continent via Dover. Debt dodging.”

  “Miss Hillier?” Dervish tapped his lips. “Daughter of Sir Blanbury, although he’s passed on. I seem to remember she’s extremely well-off. If he was engaged to her, surely Sheldrake could have invoked his upcoming wedding as surety against any claim?”

  “I wondered that, too. She claims he told her the debts couldn’t wait, and he couldn’t delay payment any longer.”

  “Why didn’t he ask her for a loan?” Durnham’s tone said more than words could how distasteful such an occurrence would be, but he was right to ask it. James hadn’t thought of it.

  “Perhaps her money is in trust?” That was more likely. It could well be Miss Hillier couldn’t have lent him the money, because she personally didn’t control it.

  “You said ‘she c
laims’. You don’t think she’s telling the truth?” Aldridge propped his elbows on his thighs and steepled his fingers.

  “No. She’s hiding something. But aside from that, it’s interesting that the one name I was given was for a man who’s run for the coast and a fast ship.”

  “You think he’s been set up to take the blame, whether he’s involved or not?”

  “Well, it would be convenient if the only suspect was no longer in the country.”

  “And suspect, how, exactly?” Dervish shook his head. “What was Sheldrake supposed to have done? Paid Bellingham to assassinate Perceval? I struggle to imagine Sheldrake stirring himself to something like that. And his family fortune is long gone. He wasn’t being ruined by the government. There was nothing left to ruin.”

  James leaned back in his chair and kept his face impassive, although he sensed he was on the trail of something that was worth following and didn’t want Dervish to rein him in. “You’re right, which only makes his name coming up more interesting. What I’d like to do is interview Bellingham. See what he has to say.”

  Dervish met his gaze. “You and almost every one of Perceval’s close friends. They want to understand why Bellingham murdered him. They’re going to be furious when they learn Gibbs is hearing his case on Friday.”

  James blinked. “Friday? How has anyone had time to gather evidence? Perceval hasn’t been dead twenty-four hours yet.”

  “The wheels of Justice can turn quickly when they want to, especially when justice is not what they are trying to achieve.” Durnham’s voice was dry.

  “They want Bellingham tried and hanged as fast as possible, to make an example of him and get him out of the public eye?” Aldridge leaned forward in dismay. “But if he’s part of a conspiracy, we could lose the chance to find out who’s behind it.”

  “Vinegar Gibbs doesn’t want any hint of a conspiracy to come out, you can be sure of that.” James thought of the Attorney General. Sir Vicary Gibbs hadn’t come by the nickname Vinegar Gibbs for his sweet nature. “If Bellingham has made a statement that he was acting alone, you can bet Gibbs will do everything he can to keep him from changing that tune, and have him hanged before anyone thinks to dig deeper.”

  “I want to know if there is a conspiracy, though.” Dervish spoke quietly, and James wondered, not for the first time, the extent of the power Dervish wielded within Whitehall. He wouldn’t be surprised to find it was considerable.

  “Even if we can’t prove it definitively?” Aldridge asked.

  Dervish sighed. “I’d rather know the players than not. Even if I can’t move against them.” He and Durnham exchanged a look, and James wondered what other investigation had yielded that outcome.

  Perhaps one day he would be established enough in this small group to ask.

  “Can you arrange for me to speak to Bellingham, then?” The question was a courtesy only. James could get into Newgate on the strength of his title alone and Dervish knew it.

  Dervish gave a nod. “I’ll organize it for later this afternoon. I’ve had mixed accounts of the suspect. Some are sure he is mad, but many others have found him to be perfectly sane. I’d like your opinion.”

  “If it’s a conspiracy, then he’s sane enough.” Aldridge spoke quietly.

  “Bellingham says he killed Perceval to obtain justice for himself, as the government had turned down all his requests for compensation for something that happened to him in Russia seven years ago. He’s spoken to his Member of Parliament, all the relevant departments, there’s even a petition for compensation he submitted to the Prince Regent himself.”

  “Killing the head of state because you didn’t get compensation is hardly the act of a sane man.” James raised his brows.

  “Perhaps,” said Durnham, “Gibbs merely hopes he’s sane, so that he can, in fact, be hanged.”

  Because a hanged man couldn’t talk, and certainly couldn’t stir up the crowds.

  Chapter Six

  This was most likely a mistake.

  Phoebe stood on the busy pavement covered by her oldest cloak and looked up at the high walls of Newgate Prison. The blank, windowless stone rose up, frightening in its grim indifference.

  Around her, people went about their business, although she caught a tension in the faces of the people passing her by. A small crowd had gathered to one side, the men dressed like laborers, and Phoebe was willing to guess they were there to support John Bellingham.

  They were being watched by guards standing in front of the prison, but neither group approached the other.

  Now that she was here, she realized getting in to see the man accused of killing the prime minister would be impossible. She’d seen two men turned away already as she’d hesitated, gripped by indecision and nerves. And she had slipped out without her aunt, without a chaperone.

  They would not let her in.

  In a stroke of luck—because it certainly hadn’t been planning—the sharp wind blowing down the street made the raised hood of her cloak all too natural, but she had no explanation for her presence. No excuse to see the prisoner that would be believed.

  And what would she ask Bellingham anyway? If he knew Sheldrake? If Sheldrake had helped him carry out his plan?

  She turned to look for her carriage.

  There had been nowhere to stop on the crowded road outside the prison, and the driver had dropped her and told her he’d find a place further up Newgate Street to pull in.

  She could see it up ahead, and took a hesitant step toward it. She had not thought this through as she usually would before putting a plan into action, and as a result, she’d wasted her time.

  And yet… She turned back. The hard, stubborn knot in her chest that had driven her here would not loosen.

  She accepted she had no hope of seeing Bellingham, but she could watch the comings and goings of the prison and hope one of the men or women entering or leaving the narrow entrance would be familiar to her. Would offer her some lead.

  She had known Sheldrake since they were children, his father and hers had been first cousins.

  The two families had come together often, although she hadn’t understood as a child why her mother had not liked them, why their frequent visits caused arguments behind closed doors between her parents.

  With the benefit of hindsight and maturity, she could see how it would have grated on her mother’s nerves to be looked down on by Lady Sheldrake and her drunken, gambling-addicted husband, while they foisted their son under Phoebe’s nose and made unsubtle enquiries into her mother’s wealth.

  Phoebe wondered what her choices would have been if her mother had been alive when her father’s older brother had died and he’d become Sir Blanbury. Whether her mother would have ever allowed the betrothal her father had engineered to take place.

  Sheldrake himself had been slightly offensive, innocuous and dull. Even when they were younger and had played together, he had an annoying habit of underestimating her and condescending to her, but that fault was hardly unique among the men she knew.

  She had never, not once in all the years she had known him, suspected he had the nerve or the daring to get involved in something as huge as the assassination of the prime minister.

  A snide bet in his club’s books, or pushing a friend into a pond while out duck shooting, that was more his line.

  It shook her that he could hide so much from her. It made her doubt herself more than his small put-downs and absent-minded arm patting ever had.

  Frustration built in her.

  She refused to let this pass.

  She would get to the bottom of it, and she would understand what had driven the plump, selfish and self-centred man her father had manipulated her into accepting to involve himself in this affair.

  From behind her, the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral tolled the hour, and she decided to give herself another half hour of watching. Any later, and her aunt would expect an explanation for her absence.

  Phoebe moved a little closer to the pr
ison entrance and found a spot where she could stand that was out of the way of pedestrians.

  Then she settled in to watch.

  * * *

  John Bellingham sat calmly in his special cell, looking like a man taking his ease. That in itself set a bell ringing in James’s head.

  Bellingham’s jailer, Newman, stepped back when the door was opened and bowed to James for the fifth time.

  James fingered the guinea in his pocket as he gave the little man a nod in return.

  Newman had quick, beady eyes that missed nothing and James would have a private chat with him after he was done with Bellingham. The jailer would know exactly who had come and gone since Bellingham was brought here.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” James stepped into the cell.

  Bellingham rose from his chair, and gave a short bow. “Good afternoon.” He looked expectantly at James, waiting for an introduction, and then indicated the other chair beside the small writing desk.

  James sat and observed Bellingham, choosing to say nothing about who he was. He knew his title cowed some, made sycophants of others. He wanted Bellingham to treat him like any of the officials who must surely have seen him since he killed Perceval.

  Bellingham’s clothing was well-made, but ripped and torn in places, and James realized that he must be in the same clothes he’d worn when he shot Perceval yesterday afternoon. His handling on being taken into custody was obviously rough.

  Bellingham looked down and ran a restless finger over some notepaper on the desk. He was dark-haired and had a long, thin face. “Do you have my papers, sir? Or can you get them? They were taken from me after… They were taken from me, and I need them back to argue my case.”

  James frowned. “What papers are these, Mr. Bellingham?”

  “My notes. My petitions. The evidence to prove that I followed every step correctly. It will show the court can do nothing but acquit me, sir. Because I fulfilled every requirement, left no stone unturned. When there was no other recourse, I had to take the regrettable step of killing the prime minister, but there was not malice on my part in the act. It was purely justice. I had to administer justice for myself, because the government would not do it for me.” He sounded so reasonable, the hair on James’s neck rose.