Most Secret Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Most Secret

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  He took a quick look over his wall

  toward the house. A faint glow escaped chinks in the shutters in several windows of the house. No lights shone from the buildings that were probably the stable, barn, and dairy. No servant would be doing chores in the dark.

  Rising again to a crouch, he followed his wall toward the one ahead, rather than go back the way he’d come. He would get back to the road from the other side of the property. There was a hut near the meeting of his wall with the one that ran east-west. It would give him a little cover from anyone who might be looking out of the house when he went over.

  At the end of the wall, he took a deep breath, unfolded himself, and hopped over—

  “Umphf!”

  —and came down on something that was remarkably uneven.

  It gave way with a thud and an almost musical jingling. And that muffled “Umphf!” It wriggled. Trying to disentangle himself and scramble to his feet, Alex felt something chilly and tube-like under his hand: the barrel of a musket. Now he heard furtive noises around him. Oh, damn.

  “Make a sound, and you are a dead man,” whispered a husky voice behind him. “My bayonet’s at your throat.”

  Most Secret

  by

  Kathleen Buckley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Most Secret

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Kathleen Buckley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by RJ Morris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2078-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2079-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my mother,

  Helen Dorothy Burgeson Buckley,

  who read to me.

  As she did not care for children’s books,

  she read me the novel Lorna Doone

  (and many other books and stories

  seldom encountered by five-year-olds).

  Chapter 1

  “I suppose you are off to visit your cross-grained old uncle again,” Jane’s stepmother remarked. “As often as you go to see him, he ought to make you an allowance, to defray the cost of your keep.”

  Jane concentrated on tying the ribbons of her bergère hat before the mirror in the narrow entrance hall. Did her mantua become her? The paneled walls were a pallid pea-soup green, which made her gown’s light blue look peculiar. She did not intend to argue with Elvira about her uncle with the footman standing ready to open the door for her.

  “Furthermore, you are his heir, although that would change if he took a wife. He might even get a child of his own. Mind, if you see any sign of his marrying, you must scotch it.”

  “He does not often go out in society.” How humiliating that the conversation would be repeated in the servants’ hall.

  “It makes no difference, Jane. Mrs. Cosgrove tells me her brother has seen him often at Drury Lane, and you may imagine what that means.”

  “Yes, indeed. Plays,” Jane agreed.

  Elvira Stowe made a moue. “You are foolish to suppose that bachelors frequent the theater only for the plays.” She nodded knowingly. “And besotted men of Roger Markham’s age have been known to marry unsuitable women.”

  “Uncle is very fond of the theater, which is but a short distance from his house.”

  “Really, Jane! Unmarried men go to see the actresses. There is a chamber called the green room where men may meet the actresses when they are not on stage. We do not talk about the result of meetings with such females. Need I say you must not discuss such things? But I owe it to your papa to supply you with the worldly knowledge you lack. To return to important matters, it is not only actresses you must guard against. If his housekeeper designs to make herself a good marriage, you must prevent that, as well.”

  “If that is how good marriages are made, perhaps I should seek a position as housekeeper to some well-to-do elderly gentleman, by way of ensuring my future.” She might otherwise have pointed out that the cost of a housekeeper should be considered as a credit against her food, clothing, and pin money. They had not employed one for several years, since the last one packed her trunk in disgust. Somehow Elvira Stowe never had the time to advertise the position or interview applicants. The prospect of such exertion quite overwhelmed her, though it never kept her from social events. Meanwhile, someone had to oversee the servants, make out menus for the cook’s guidance, order supplies, and keep the household account book. The week after the last housekeeper’s departure, before Jane had taken over her responsibilities, lingered in her memory as what it must be like to live in the American wilderness, or in the days before civilization. Late, ill-cooked meals, unwashed bed linens, dirt and disorder, no fires laid, the servants bickering.

  Mrs. Stowe raised her pale eyebrows and attempted to look down her elegant nose; Jane was several inches taller than she.

  “Really, Jane! I don’t wonder that you are unwed—at your age, too!—when you say such things. Please try to govern your tongue, at least when you are in company. You put us all to the blush.”

  Foolish to have expected her stepmother to appreciate irony. And it was hard to imagine how Jane could cause her family embarrassment when she was all but invisible. When they visited or attended dinners or assemblies, Stepmama, beautifully gowned, lost her customary languor and scintillated, if by scintillation one meant a steady stream of inconsequential chatter, flutterings of her fan, and flashing smiles. Jane, clad in gowns chosen by Elvira as suitable for a lady almost past marriageable age, did not shine. She could not make up her mind. Was her stepmother’s motive to prevent any diversion of attention from herself or was it simply economy? What with Elvira’s mantua-maker’s bills, one of the boys being at Eton and one at Oxford, besides Rupert’s young man-about-town ways, there was not much money left over
for a mere spinster stepdaughter’s wardrobe. It was not as though she were in her first season, as Elvira pointed out, when she might be expected to attract a suitor. Nor even in my fifth or sixth season.

  “Mind you make sure Cook has not forgotten anything. We should have a Frenchman, not a rude old countrywoman like Mrs. Merry.”

  A French chef would hardly tolerate Stepmama’s ways or be willing to work for what Papa would pay, but all she said was, “Cook has everything well in hand, and I promise to be home in plenty of time.”

  “I want everything to be perfect for the Pleasaunces.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. There is nothing to worry about.” Her oldest half brother’s betrothal to Mistress Claire Pleasaunce would not be broken off over a bad meal. The footman, hearing a coach rattle to a halt, opened the door for her, and she hurried out before her father’s wife could say anything more or find some errand that Jane could do on her way.

  As she stepped out the door, her eye paused as it always did at the clumsy obelisk at the center of Red Lyon Square. She had heard someone claim Oliver Cromwell was buried there, after his moldering body was disinterred and hanged in Red Lyon Fields at the Restoration of the monarchy over eighty years ago. It seemed an odd thing to do, and if it had been done, there was no need to commemorate it with an ugly monument. A statue of a king or queen, such as some squares possessed, would be preferable. How much it would help was open to debate, the space being a long rectangle, calling to some people’s minds a burying ground rather than a square. In sunlight the effect was less grim, and the summer’s frequent rain had at least cleared the air of the dust, soot, and smells. Even after a day or two of fair weather, the houses and streets looked washed and cheerful. She would have enjoyed walking, for the first half of August had been cool, and the day was only pleasantly warm. But though her uncle’s house was not very far, a lady could not walk alone in London, particularly in some of the streets she would pass through. Cook could not spare the scullery maid and Elvira could not do without the upstairs maid.

  Visiting Uncle Markham was always a pleasure to her, one she looked forward to every week. Jane found his dry wit amusing, though Elvira called him cross-grained or crochety or eccentric. He did not suffer fools gladly, which was the real source of Elvira’s aversion to him. Jane rather wished she could emulate him, but that would not be helpful in family life. She did not enjoy raised voices and slammed doors.

  She was ushered into his library and inhaled the incense of tobacco and leather bindings. “I like this house,” she said after the exchange of greetings. “There’s history here.”

  “Ay, near a hundred and fifty years of it. ’Tis not to the modern taste, though it’s served me well. It was close to my office when I was still in the importing business, and the wharfingers and bargemen did not hesitate to seek me out after hours, as they might in one of the fine squares. I’m comfortable here. But it’s not a fashionable neighborhood. It’s not even genteel,” he admitted. “When you inherit it, like as not, you’ll sell it or let it.” The footman came with lemonade for her and a bottle of claret for him. “Not that you’ll be taking possession soon. I hope to live another fifteen or twenty years. But I’ve been remiss, Jane. Sometimes one fails to notice the passing of years. Why aren’t you married, girl? You must be rising four-and-twenty.”

  “Five-and-twenty, sir.”

  “That woman, I suppose. Didn’t make a push to introduce you into society, and your father would never notice. Humpf! Mark me, Jane, it’s time you married, and the sooner the better.”

  “Eligible gentlemen do not wash up on my doorstep like jetsam on the shore,” she replied lightly. Loyalty to her father kept her from saying more.

  “That is why one’s parents should take the matter in hand. However, since obviously they will not, I must. You will not wish to continue to be dependent on your father or on your half brothers.”

  That thought had occurred to her in the past year or two. It was fatally easy to dwindle into the daughter or poor relation who stayed home to care for aging relatives, and she did not anticipate coming into her inheritance for many years. Assuming Uncle does not marry an actress and beget children!

  “Only today I suggested to Stepmama that I should seek a post as a housekeeper to some older gentleman. I’ve seven years’ experience and manage a household economically.”

  “I warrant you neither your father nor your stepmother would give you a reference—for how could they admit their daughter was doing a servant’s work? Further, you should have a home of your own. You could come to live here.”

  “How would it look, to leave my father’s house to live with my uncle? I don’t wish to cause them embarrassment.”

  “I could suffer a sudden decline in health and need my niece to live with me rather than leave me to the mercy of my housekeeper.”

  “What, when you are still so vigorous my stepmother fears you will marry and have issue?”

  Markham gave a shout of laughter. “Who? Mrs. Jennings? She is ten years older than I, and if she were ten years younger, she would still not be my choice for a bride. Your inheritance is secure. But as a reason for coming to live with me, my…er…failing health is a good one.”

  “Until they heard how often you spend your evenings at Drury Lane, or see you coming home at dawn from some card party…or whatever.”

  “A point to you.” He grinned. He still had strong, white teeth of which he was rather vain. “Does that woman not take you to balls and the theater?”

  “She does…” How could she explain without disloyalty to her father?

  “But she treats you like a poor relation, and your papa does nothing. Come, is that not the truth?” He already knew the answer, of course. She could not imagine how, when he seldom attended the same entertainments. He was very well informed about a number of things she would not have expected to come to his ears. “You should not let her choose your gowns, my dear, for that pale blue is not your best color.”

  “That’s a point to you, sir,” she admitted.

  Uncle Markham sat frowning for a few moments. “I chanced to see your half brother come off a ship lying at anchor two days ago, when I was visiting with an old business partner of mine.”

  “Really? Rupert?”

  “I wondered if he had perhaps an interest in some cargo.”

  “I don’t think Rupert has any business dealings at all, let alone any that would take him aboard a ship, Uncle.”

  “It occurred to me he might be interested in smuggled spirits or wine. He has always seemed to be a young man with expensive tastes. That’s the trouble with being reared with greater expectations than the family income will support. Better to grow up in a household where it’s understood the sons will have to engage in some profession or genteel trade, as I did.”

  “I misdoubt his purse would pay for more than a bottle or two.”

  Markham laughed. “You’re a cynical miss. It must give your papa and Mistress Stowe fits.”

  “It would if I spoke as freely to them as I do to you, sir.” Not that I do not occasionally forget to mind my tongue.

  They talked of other things, but Jane thought he seemed pensive. And when she rose to take her leave of him, he said, “If something should happen which makes it impossible for you to continue to live in your father’s house, you must come to me. Promise me that you will not hesitate to do so.”

  Jane agreed, wondering if he were thinking of Rupert’s marriage. If he and his bride took up residence in the Stowe home as would be customary, it would certainly make a great deal more work for her and be uncomfortable for everyone, as the house was rather small, with only three stories, apart from the basement and attic. Rupert and Claire could each have a bedroom, though it would mean shifting Matthew to Adam’s chamber, and Adam to a smaller one, but the couple would have to share a dressing room, and they would not have a separate parlor nor Claire a boudoir. But the Pleasaunces had offered to give them a suite of rooms in their own larg
er house, so that danger seemed remote.

  ****

  After his niece left, Roger Markham sat frowning for some time, before taking quill in hand to begin a letter.

  My dear Tony:

  No doubt you recall as clearly as I that bad business thirty years ago with Captain O’Brien. You never did regain full use of your left thumb, did you? We were both younger then, and perhaps more forgiving than we ought to have been. A few days ago, I called on an old business partner east of the Bridge and saw a family connection of my niece leaving a ship called the Sea Mew. Rupert Stowe is a young gentleman of little judgement or character, and he is unlikely to be engaged in any legitimate business. You know I was against my poor sister marrying into that family. I asked my friend about the Sea Mew, and you may imagine my surprise when he mentioned that the captain was Daniel O’Brien. I am sure you are concerned about events in North Britain, given what I have heard of the Young Pretender’s presence in the Highlands, so I pass along my admittedly vague suspicion. What may have brought the Sea Mew and her captain to England, I will not speculate. I should have been sorry to see O’Brien executed, but I would be more sorry still to have my dear niece’s family involved with that man.

  I trust you and your family are well.

  R. Markham

  From Anthony Lattimer to Roger Markham:

  Dear Hodge,

  I received your letter with both consternation and gratitude. I well remember O’Brien and those days. Odd to think that he is now as old as we, for I always think of him (when my thumb aches) as the laughing young scoundrel he was then. I heard that after Sheriffmuir he betook himself to the Caribbean but then some years ago returned to this side of the water and the Isle of Man, and subsequently was to be found in Brittany. If he is now in London, with things again on the simmer in the north, he may well be here on the same business as formerly. There is no reason to suppose his character has changed, even if his hair is now grey. However, as it is barely possible that your Rupert Stowe went aboard merely in search of smuggled brandy or the like, and given that his family is well connected, I will investigate the matter unofficially first. I intend to send an idle but clever young rogue to look into it. He wanted to go into the Army, but his family felt that his keenness of mind and his sometimes unconventional approach to problems would not be appreciated there. Or even tolerated. He does, however, have a flair for ferreting out information, which made him vexatious when he was younger. He will give his name as Alex Gordon. It is a thousand pities that the stage is no career for a gentleman, for he would excel upon the boards.