“Lord Thorpe’s investments are heavily weighted towards slaves in Jamaica,” Menzies Lennox pointed to a ledger containing a dense column of figures.
“Immoral but notillegal. He is not alone in owning slaves in the colonies,” Lionel noted.
He sat at the desk in his study, Lennox standing at his shoulder, drawing Lionel’s attention to the relevant sections of the ledger with a bony finger.
“Quite so. And that is where his shipping concerns come into the fold,” Lennox added, drawing out his yarn once more. “It has been extremely difficult to uncover. Lord Thorpe and his partners cover their tracks extremely well. Fortunately, there is a weak link in their chain. Namely—the wealthy but somewhat feckless Sir Gerald Knightley. Fond of gambling and wenching in the rookeries of London, and therefore vulnerable if one has loyal sources in such places. As I do.”
Lionel suppressed a sigh of impatience. “And what does this weak link tell us, Lennox?” he asked, playing along.
“That ships belonging to Lord Thorpe and his partners are collecting slaves from the African continent and shipping them to Jamaica from British ports. Quite contrary to law. Sir Gerald has bragged in the wrong ear about the wealth he is accruing by not using a middleman, as he puts it. They are effectively running their own illicit slave market out of British ports, namely Bristol.”
Lionel thumped the table, feeling the sweet thrill of victory. Or at least the taste of it. Here was the evidence that Thorpe was making his money by immoral means. Lionel could use that to tarnish his name, begin to erode his position in society. With Lennox’s expertise, the evidence of criminal wrongdoing would follow and that would be the completion of his revenge. He frowned, mind racing ahead to possibilities and plans. The session with Lennox had been long, involving multiple complex books of accounts and ledgers. Lionel had insisted on seeing every step of his detective’s work, not wanting to overlook anything, no matter how apparently small the detail. Their meeting had begun after Lionel and Cecilia had concluded their breakfast. Lennox had been waiting impatiently in Lionel’s study, eager to impart his latest discoveries.
Glancing out of the window, Lionel could see that the sun was well beyond its noon height. While he felt alert with the urgency of potential action to be taken, his eyes felt gritty. An empty brandy decanter stood on the desk next to a candle that had burned down to a melted wax mess. A plate had been cleared from the desk that morning by one of the servants, food broughtto Lionel in his office the night before. Lennox had not been present, but there was plenty of work from previous visits.
“May I say, Your Grace, that with this turning point reached, I would suggest some time spent away from this mission,” Lennox said, suddenly diffident.
He walked around the desk to resume his seat, picking up a tumbler of scotch that had been poured for him. Lennox was a man for whom there was no hour too early for a wee dram.
“What? Not on your soul, not when we are this close,” Lionel muttered, “I must speak to some of my contacts in the Lords, begin to lay the seeds about what Thorpe might be up to or involved in.”
“I would recommend circumspection, Your Grace,” Lennox reiterated, putting the glass down and steepling his fingers in front of his face. “I have reason to believe that in the five years since the attempt on your life—five years of yourself remaining withdrawn from high society—Lord Thorpe has been busy building a network of allies in town. There is rumor that he has the ear of the Regent. Because of the military connection, you understand.”
“Military?” Lionel asked.
“Lord Thorpe had a commission in the Middlesex Rifles, the Prince of Wales Own Middlesex Rifles. That regiment wears the feathers of Wales and he is inordinately proud of any regimentwhich he sees as belonging to him. If he has the Regent’s ear, there will be others.”
Lionel reached for his own glass, though he had no taste for it. Fatigue was a heavyweight behind his eyes. As was the guilt for the conspiracy against him he had thrust Cecilia into. Last night had not been the first time he had heard the clocks chime two or three in the morning. Cecilia had been fast asleep when he went to bed. How many nights had that been? Part of him reasoned that it could not have been many, while at the same time, a more honest voice said that it was, in fact,toomany.
He had promised her he would not allow his thirst for vengeance to consume his time. When was the first of the luncheons Cecilia had arranged to take place? Lionel shook his head, dislodging the stray thought, recognizing the sudden divergence from the matters at hand as the signs of tiredness.
“There will also be those at court envious of his growing influence and ready to tear him down. I will write to those I believe I can trust and find out who is who,” Lionel reaffirmed, more to himself. “If he truly is my half-brother, of which there is no doubt in my mind now, then this cat-and-mouse chase has become far more personal.”
The pieces were coming together like a jigsaw, each one sending through him a frisson of pleasure—an anticipation of unraveling a riddle within his grasp. A sensation all too familiar, but peculiar nonetheless. Vengeance had gripped him so over the last half-decade—at times, it felt he had little room in his heart for all else.
“I completely understand, Your Grace. But why not let me sniff those people out? A few days in London and I am sure I can deliver a list of names to you of those ready to help drag Thorpe down,” Lennox stated reasonably. “If I may speak as plainly as is the habit of my country, you look tired. Take care that this project of yours does not consume you.”
“Why?” Lionel narrowed his eyes, feeling the sting of anger at Lennox’s presumption. Yet, deep down, he understood Lennox was being truthful, both about the plain-speaking manner of the Scots and the fatigue that gnawed at Lionel, feeling as though it were soaked into his very bones.
“If I may be so bold. When I met you, there was nothing in your life except your pursuit of revenge. You were an arrow with one purpose. I could appreciate that very much, I have been that arrow myself. But then you married and a married man can never be single-minded again. As I also discovered late in my life. Marie was taken away from me and I subsequently returned to my old ways. But for ten years, I gave up the pursuit of lawbreakers and became a husband.”
Lionel sat back in his chair, stroking his chin. “Ah. You are saying that I am losing my focus?”
“No, no, no, Your Grace. I would not presume so far. But that is precisely what I mean. Not everything in life must concern your revenge. You too have the opportunity to be… a complete man. Not just an instrument of vengeance. You have a duty as a husband, do you not?”
“A duty that is uppermost in my mind,” Lionel snarled, straightening.
He drew breath to deliver a stinging rebuke to the Scotsman, harsh words to put the man in his place. Then he stopped himself.
Was his duty as a husband truly uppermost?
As Lennox had revealed newer and newer information to him, the obsession had begun growing once more. Once, it had been the entirety of his world. Then it had been pushed back as Cecilia filled his life. To be a husband and potentially a father had begun to fill the space once occupied by his need for revenge. Fresh evidence had stoked that need once more, rekindling smoldering embers into a quick flame. And even his own health had been secondary to the need to know more about Thorpe’s life and businesses. With the need to find the chink in his adversary’s armor, sleep had been sacrificed, and even when he sought his bed, it had been long in coming, held back by thoughts of revenge and how it might be enacted.
“Perhaps you are right,” Lionel muttered. “Quite right. And I thank you for your candor, Lennox. It is timely and necessary. That will be all for today. Please be my guest for as long as you would like.”
“Alas, Your Grace. The call to action is too strong for me without my Marie by my side. I will go to London and begin the task of discovering Thorpe’s allies and enemies. I shall have a dossier for you to examine within a fortnight.”
Lennox stood and bowed, taking his leave. After he had left, Lionel hobbled to his feet too. It had been a while since Cecilia had massaged his leg last and the pain was gradually returning—though it was no fault of hers for he had scarcely made time for such activities as of late.
