July 1820
London
Every sort of vice could be found in London, if one knew where to look. In the filthy rookery of St. Giles, one didn't have to look very hard.
The fight had already started, a bare-knuckle match between two street fighters in a grimy pub cellar. The favorite, an Irishman native to St. Giles, was short and stocky and known for fighting dirty; in St. Giles, fighting dirty was applauded. The challenger was an African, dark and formidable, and jeered by the crowd. The cellar was packed with men who had paid their farthing at the door and were intent on recouping their money by placing bets with any and all takers. A musty odor of old smoke, spilled beer, and dried sweat clung to the walls. Before the night was over, there would be a sharp scent of freshly spilled blood as well.
One spectator, a little too short to see over the rest of the crowd, wormed his way through the room. From time to time he bobbed on his toes for a glimpse of the fighters before resuming his search for a better vantage point. At last he seemed to find one that suited him, settling into a place against the wall.
“I’ve got five quid on the Moor," he said to the man beside him, a tall fellow in the hard-worn clothes of a drayman.
The taller man removed the cigar from between his teeth and blew out a puff of smoke. "The Irishman's favored."
The newcomer, Mr. Phipps, scoffed. "Bloody idiots, the Irish. Look at the Moor—solid muscle, a long reach, and such power! He could beat a dozen Irishmen."
In timely demonstration, the African fighter struck, pounding several quick hits to his opponent's belly. The Irishman staggered and looked for a moment as if he would fall to his knees, if not collapse altogether. Phipps raised a fist in triumph.
His companion shrugged. "Perhaps. But the crowd wants the Irishman to win, Mr. Phipps. If the African wins, the losses will be heavy." He paused meaningfully. “The crowd won’t take it well.”
"You've got no appreciation at all for the sport, have you, Brandon?" Mr. Phipps said crossly.
"No."
In the ring, the Irishman landed a punishing blow to his opponent's chin, and the African fell back to his seconds, reeling. The frenzied crowd roared, and even the colorless Phipps let out a shout. Brandon didn't move, his eyes still restlessly roaming over the spectators.
"You're the only man I know who wouldn't relish this assignment," Phipps told him in a low voice."There's men out doing a lot worse than watching a good mill." Brandon gave a quiet snort. Phipps shook his head and sighed, reluctantly turning from the fight. "Well, where is Pearce?”
"There." Brandon tilted his head, indicating a man in a green coat across the room. "He met them a quarter hour ago and took a packet from them. Paid in coin."
"And the Blackwoods?"
"By the ring, near the corner." Brandon dropped his cigar and ground it under his heel. "They bet very heavily on the Irishman."
Phipps nodded. "Good work." He pushed up the brim of his cap and wiped his forehead, and his other men, scattered around the room, took note and maneuvered toward the three men.
Brandon eased away from the wall. His job was done now. "I'll leave you to it." Keeping his head down, he started for the door at the back of the crowded room.
"One moment." Phipps pressed a folded paper into his hand. "Condolences," he muttered.
Brandon automatically closed his fist around the note and shoved it into his pocket. "Why?"
But Phippshad already disappeared into the crowd surging toward the ring. A scuffle on the far side had broken out, and was growing larger as more men turned from the staged—and probably fixed—match between the African and the flagging Irishman, and enthusiastically joined in the fight among the spectators.
He had no interest in that. His responsibility had only been to keep an eye on things until Phipps could arrive to arrest his suspects. Sir Thomas Broughton, senior partner of Stowe and Broughton Bank, had grown alarmed by some forged stock certificates presented at his bank, which had been signed by two clerks, brothers Albert and Henry Blackwood. But they couldn’t have engineered the entire scheme, and Sir Thomas was anxious to catch the primary thief before the bank suffered a catastrophic loss.He had turned to John Stafford, chief clerk of the Bow Street Magistrates Court and spymaster for the Home Office, and Stafford had set Brandon to watching the Blackwoods.
Watching was Brandon's specialty. Patiently and silently, he had followed the brothers to every pub, cockfighting pit, and street fair in London, trying to discover their conspirator. After several weeks of dogged monitoring, he had an answer: Simon Pearce, partner in the same bank.
This, he knew, would cause a furor. Pearce’s father was a Rear Admiral of the White, politically well connected. Pearce himself was ambitious, gregarious, charming—and a rabid gambler. Accusing him of embezzlement would require delicacy.
Or perhaps… not.
Despite Stafford’s pontificating about justice and the law, Brandon had seen too much while working for him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Admiral Pearce put his oar in, paid off Broughton, and only the Blackwood brothers would see the inside of Newgate while Simon Pearce quietly resigned his position. And all Brandon’s careful watching and sleuthing would have gained was a prison sentence for two idiot clerks.
The roar of the crowd grew louder, punctuated by cracks of a whip as the fight organizers tried to keep order. The African was being assaulted from outside the ring as well as from within, as the Irishman's supporters realized how close their bets were to being lost. Phipps's men were probably taking advantage of the fight to cover their purpose, if they hadn't started the brawl in the first place.
Brandon pushed through to the rickety stairs, taking them two at a time. When he emerged into the back of the dingy pot-house, the owner gave him a sharp glance.The bare-knuckle fight going on in his cellar was hardly secret, but it was illegal all the same. Brandon's lip curled at what the man would think if he knew several fellows from Bow Street were down there right now.
Instead of leaving and fixing suspicion on himself, he leaned against the counter and motioned the publican over. "When does the African fight again?"
The man's expression eased. "Thursday next."
Brandon grunted and dropped a few coins on the counter. "A pot of heavy wet."
He took the mug of ale and carried it to a small table. The room was busy, with men coming in for a drink before disappearing down the back stairs. This drinking house was well-known in St. Giles for its ring. When men couldn’t be found to fight, a cock-fighting ring was erected in its place. The profits from the taproom couldn't compete with the profits from the cellar, he thought, grimacing as he sipped the soured ale.
He pulled his woolen cap lower on his forehead and drew the guttering candle close before unfolding the note Phipps had passed him. Stafford didn't waste a moment, sending him to spy on someone else before this job was even concluded.
But that wasn't what the note said.
The bench scraped along the floor as he jumped to his feet, holding the paper close to reread it. He glanced toward the stairs to the cellar, then jammed the note into his pocket, leaving behind his barely-touched ale and heading out the door.
He strode through the narrow, twisting streets of St. Giles, jumping over the sewers running in the gutters and ignoring the catcalls of the prostitutes. Crossing Great Russell Street was like crossing the River Styx from the Underworld back to earth, or at least a better part of London. As he went north, the buildings seemed to expand and brighten, the cramped poverty of the rookery giving way to spacious gentility. The houses here were clean brick edifices, tightly fitted together with neatly swept steps and painted railings, their windows dark mirrors for the gas street lamps. There were still thieves here, but they kept to the shadows.
After a few streets Brandon turned into an alley and went to the back stoop of a small house near the end. The door was locked tight for the night, but he didn’t bother to try it. Instead he braced one hand on the door, stepped up onto the short railing beside the steps, and reached upward to grab the ledge of the window. He pulled a knife from the sheath strapped under his upraised arm and wriggled the flat of the blade beneath the sash of the window, twisting the knife until he could fit his fingers into the opening. With one hard shove the window slid up; holding the sill with both hands, he pulled himself up and through the open window, into the house.
Brandon glanced around as his feet hit the floor, but no sound of running footsteps betrayed alarm—not that it would have really mattered, except to his pride. The owner of the house left that window unlocked for just this purpose. He closed the window and went in search of the man.
Light seeped from beneath the door of the master's study. Pausing only a moment to listen for voices, he turned the knob and slipped into the room.
"What the—? Bloody hell," exclaimed Sir James Peterbury, leaping to his feet in alarm. "You nearly scared me witless, man!"
"Sorry for that," said Alec Brandon. He held up Phipps's note. "Did you know?"
James looked at the note, then back at Alec's face. "I presume you mean your brother's death," he said quietly. "Yes, I knew. I wanted them to tell you at once, but they insisted you were vitally occupied."
Alec's tense anger drained away. He dropped into a chair and hung his head. "He died months ago." There was nothing he could have done, but he still should have been told. After all, there was nothing he could do about it now, either. He rubbed one hand across his stinging eyes. "Damn it. I should have been told."
James took the other chair by the fire. "My mother wrote that it was a lingering illness contracted in the winter. No one thought it was terribly serious, but he just grew worse and worse. Freddie never was very strong." The Peterburys no longer lived only a few miles from Alec's family, but James's mother and Alec's mother were still fast friends and wrote to each other often.
Alec nodded. He hadn't thought of his older brother in some time, but James was right. Freddie had been a scholar, a musician, a learned and kind man, a steady, capable presence—not like Alec, the wild boy who’d fallen into one disaster after another as a boy and then joined the army, eager to be sent to war. “And… the rest of my family? Are they well?”
"Your mother and sister are well, as are Frederick's widow and children." James cleared his throat. "I understand a cousin has stepped in to manage the estate. I suppose he thinks he's inherited everything now."
He knew what James was thinking. That cousin hadn’t inherited anything, because Alec was still alive—but only a handful of people knew that. Most of the world believed Alexander Brandon Hayes had been a traitor to his country, killed during the battle of Waterloo and ignominiously dumped into an anonymous grave to be mercifully forgotten. Only James Peterbury and John Stafford knew otherwise.
Alec took a long, measured breath. He gripped his hands together until his knuckles went white. He’d vowed not to go home until he had cleared his name. He’d hidden from his family, allowing them to believe him both dead and dishonorable. He’d suppressed his fury and fear and allowed James to do the investigating he burned to do. And when that failed, he’d swallowed the last of his pride and taken John Stafford’s offer, spying for the Home Office. James had arranged it, arguing that it would win favor with men like Stafford and Sidmouth who were more capable than he of finding the truth about those incriminating letters from a French colonel, discovered in Alec’s rooms after Waterloo.
But now Freddie was dead and Alec was being sent home, unmasked and still tarred with treason.
"I'm returning to Marston," Alec muttered.
His friend's face lit with satisfaction. "I knew you would. It's time, you know, and I've been thinking about your situation. Wellington is Master of the Ordnance now and has politics more on his mind than old battles. If we could secure an interview with him, and have your present employer put in a word—"
"Wellington, who said he would have shot me himself if the French hadn't been good enough to do it first?" Alec shook his head. "I won’t go to Wellington without proof."
James fell silent. Both of them knew it was highly unlikely any proof of Alec's innocence would surface now. "It's still the right thing to do," he insisted. "Going home."
James meant that his greater duty now was to his family—his mother, his sister, his brother's widow and children. Alec wasn’t so sure, but it didn’t matter. His gamble hadn’t paid off.
He sighed and held out Phipp’s crumpled note. "I haven't got a choice."
His friend took it and read. Stafford was sending him home to Marston, not out of tender compassion for Frederick's death, but to find a missing man. Sergeant George Turner had gone to London to see Colonel Lord Pickering, a Deputy Commissary General for the army, and never returned home to Marston. He'd been gone for almost four months now, and his daughters had appealed to Pickering, who had asked Stafford to look into it.Just another spy's task on the surface, and a routine one at that. Only a terse line at the end—I regret to inform you of the death of Frederick Hayes this past spring—gave any indication Stafford was aware of the ramifications of sending Alec on this particular mission.
"Bloody cold of him," remarked James. "Who is this Sergeant Turner he wants you to find?"
"I've no idea." As usual, Stafford gave little information. He often sent Alec out almost blind, expecting him to quickly find his way and report back how things stood so Stafford could assign other agents most effectively. Alec had done much the same thing when he was in the army, helping guide Wellington's army around the countryside of Spain and Portugal. This time, though, Alec thought he deserved a little more explanation.
"What's Turner done, I wonder?" James murmured. "Pickering is a proud man. I can't see him taking up for a lowly sergeant."
Alec wondered, too, but Stafford wasn't above doing favors for people with influence, and Pickering was certainly in a position to command Stafford's notice. No, Alec's greater question was why Stafford had chosen him for this job. There was no question of masquerading as an old army mate of the missing sergeant or a clerk from the Chelsea pensioner board, not when everyone in Marston would recognize his face and revile his name. He would have to return as himself, with all the attendant complications.
"It doesn't matter what he's done, or who he is. Pickering wants him found and that's enough for Stafford. I wouldn't think anything of it if Turner hadn't gone missing from my own village." Alec took the letter back. "Stafford might have the courtesy to explain that part at least."
James hesitated. “Do you plan to refuse? I believe you should go, but perhaps not like this…"
Alec wished he could. But if he said no, how would Stafford react? The man knew who he was and what he was accused of. Alec had made a deal with the devil, and now he was caught in its coils. "What choice have I got? He doesn’t respond well to being challenged.”
"Perhaps this means he's discovered something." His friend sat up straighter. "It would be just like that old parsnip to keep it to himself and squeeze a few more months of service from you. He promised all along to do what he could to restore your name. This"—James shook one finger at the note—"must mean he thinks the time is ripe for you to go home! He'd never expose one of his best men without good reason."
Alec said nothing. It was true that John Stafford and Phipps had known exactly who he was when they hired him as one of their agents. It was true they had pledged to do what they could to help his cause. But sending him home like this could hardly be beneficial.
Part of him wondered if it might be a sign that Stafford had become convinced Alec actually was as guilty as he appeared. Rather than admit that he’d hired a traitor, how much easier for Stafford just to send him on an assignment that would get him killed.
He supposed he would know when he reached Marston. If soldiers were waiting to arrest him, it was over. If not… if Stafford’s errand was real… Perhaps he had discovered something. Was there any way to know?
Probably not. And he had no alternative.
"Would you write to my mother? Tell her …" Alec hesitated. It was unfair to ask James to explain his actions. "Would you tell her to expect me?"
"Of course."
Alec flexed his hands, suffocated by apprehension. Could he do this? What would his family think of him, first for disappearing and then for returning? What had happened in their lives since he became someone else? He had dreamed for so long of going home, but not like this; he had imagined going home an exonerated man, not a spy in truth. "Thank you. I wouldn't want the shock to kill her on the spot."
"I'll send it tomorrow," James promised. He eyed Alec somberly. "Is there anything else I can do? You only have to ask."
As if he hadn't done enough already. James had believed him when he denied committing treason, helped him get out of Belgium right under the nose of the whole British army, given him clothing and money while he recovered from his wounds sustained at Waterloo, and then found him a not-quite-respectable job as a spy for the Home Office. Suddenly Alec felt the burden of that loyalty. If he could never prove his innocence, it would reflect very badly on James.
But James was all he had. The only other friend he could have trusted with his life had died at Waterloo. Without James, Alec would be a dead man and he knew it.
"I'll leave by the end of the week.” He rose and put out his hand. "Thank you for everything."
James shook his hand. "Promise me one thing." Alec raised his brows in question. "When you catch the bastard who really did write those letters to the French, tell me. I want to see him hang."
"You may depend on it," Alec vowed.
His friend didn't smile. “Stay here until you go. You look awful.”
"Small wonder," said Alec wryly. "Don't all dead men, before they rise again?"
