Page 75 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“Just make sure you deliver,” was the last warning. “Otherwise, you are just as expendable as you might not believe.”
Chapter 27
Studiously ignoring the Bow Street Officers annexing him like bookmarks, Heath’s mind went back to the night before. Someone had set that fire, just like someone had injured the knight and had killed the Viscount. Whoever had done all three, by person or by proxy, was certainly aiming to frame the Earl.
Heath mulled over the information he had gained over the past months and knew the Earl of Allerton, though easily influenced by the opinions of his friends, was no traitor to the Crown. Which was why he, a spy from the Crown, had been placed into the home in the first place.
Months ago, the intelligence officers at Westminster had been clued into a racket of lords that were doing everything from avoiding taxes to importing illegal goods from France and drugs from the East. Lord Allerton had been targeted as he was associated with many of them who, like Swanville, were no sympathizers to the monarchy.
London was his true home, not Staffordshire, where admittedly, he had been born. His countryside accent was just as carefully crafted as were all of his skills. He had no fear of going with the constables as just one call to his handler and he would be free in mere hours. He wanted to go back and tell Penelope the truth about who he was and what he had been doing in her home.
I just pray she will not think that falling in love with her was a part of the assignment.
The silence was heavy in the carriage, but Heath did not feel anxious at all. He was never uncomfortable with silence, in fact, silence let him think clearly. Who was behind the attacks on the Earl? He was still sure that Swanville was behind them but then the burning of the stable did not fit. What would an international criminal supporter gain from rendering a stable to ashes?
No, this felt personal. It was aimed at hurting someone, but who? What was so precious in the stables that it would devastate someone? The carriage jolted over a bump just as the answer smacked him harder than a jilted mistress would have. Penelope! She was the only one who had something precious in the stables—Bessie.
But then…Penelope had said that a stable hand had told the Earl that he had seen him, Heath, go into the stables. Had the attack been meant for him then? If that was true, there was only one person who would want him dead.
‘Do you think I am blind, servant? I see how you look at her. Who do you think you are? Penelope will never look upon you with favor. You are the help. She’ll only be with me.’
Hillbrook. It had to be Hillbrook, hell, Penelope had even said it too. He had gone to the lengths of nearly killing Penelope’s horse to get rid of him. The man was more manipulative and malicious than he had thought.
The putrid smell of London hit him first before he could see the buildings rising from the slum’s outer lands. There was a delay over the Westminster Bridge and Heath only breathed when his lungs burned, so foul was the river beneath them. Eventually, they got to Bow Street Headquarters, and as he stepped into the main building, he turned to them.
“I request to speak with the Magistrate,” he said, expecting them to refuse him and they did with derogatory scoffs. Smiling, he then said. “Then I suppose the Prime Minister will suffice then as I am an Agent for the Crown. I am Heath Murray, the surviving son of Erasmus Murray, Recorder of London and the last High Steward of Staffordshire.”
He had counted on seeing dropped jaws, but the stunned widening of their eyes was enough. Heath had casually left out the additional title of Crown Agent for his father as it was not necessary. He would get the attention he needed without it.
“If you need confirmation about my identity, he will give it to you,” Heath finished.
“This way, My Lord,” one said while sweat began beading on his face.
He was led to a room more situated as a study or a library than a holding cell. Taking a seat, Heath looked down on his bandaged hands and smiled softly. Penelope Dawson, the firecracker who had stolen his well-guarded heart. He owed the truth to her and as soon as this issue was solved, he would give it to her.
‘I know…er…you wouldn’t happen to have a far-removed cousin with your looks and charm who just so happens to have a title, do you?’
He had not allowed himself to laugh at Penelope’s question then, but he did now. Thinking back to that night, he wondered what her reaction would have been if he had told her that his real title was Viscount, with a vast estate in the countryside of Staffordshire that was manned by a skeleton staff while he acted out his duties to the Crown.
As a man of six-and-twenty, Heath had been groomed to follow his father’s footsteps from as soon as he could read. He had entered the Service at nine-and-ten and had fulfilled seven long years in it. He knew nine languages, had extensive knowledge of weapons and ammunition and could fight with the best of them. He had seen, done and suffered much more than many would have in three lifetimes and there were days he felt…old. Was it time for him to end it?
If I want to settle down with Penelope…I might have to. That is, if they will let me…
‘They’ referred to a set of men who held power behind the one man he did know, Lord Wethington. They, had sent him to the Allerton’s home after this covert operation in Ireland, were men in the echelons of the government, men he did not know and felt it was in his best interest to not know.
He had told Penelope not to worry because he would be cleared in hours by the men above him after he gave in his report. It might take time for them to get word to the Prime Minister’s Office, and he needed to get his report in order.
Standing, he went to ask for some paper and a pen from the guard there who nodded and went for them. Pacing to a window, Heath looked down at the bustling city below. Men hurrying about their business and hawkers plying their trade.
Women had children by their side and pairs rode in carriages. The ordinary man worried about taxes, clothes, household duties and putting food on their tables. They were so ignorant of what it took to give them that sense of idyllic peace, and with him standing on the other side of the coin and knowing the sacrifices and pain and sleepless nights of nameless soldiers, he would rather it be kept that way.
“Pardon me, My Lord,” the constable said nervously while handing the papers, pen, and an ink well to him. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.”
The salve his father had given him had worked miracles. Instead of being unusable, his hands were only tender. Taking a seat, Heath began to jot down what he had discovered from the day he had been placed in the Earl’s house. He wrote how the Lord was easily impressionable by his friends but not a traitor, and how there were no untoward and illegal activities in the house. He wrote down his suspicions of Swanville for the killing of the Viscount Shirlling, and Hillbrook when it came to the fire at the stables.
Another constable came in and asked him if he needed anything to eat and while working, he said, “Only coffee, if you have it.”
