Page 52 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

“What about your mother’s name?” Jonathan asked. “We’ve not tried it yet.”

“Her name was Isabelle.”

“Leave the journal, and I will try it. We can reconvene after supper to review the results.”

She hesitated but handed over her uncle’s journal. Jonathan had saved her from the crowds. He could be trusted.

Eighteen

As soon as he was alone, Jonathan grabbed a clean sheet of paper and rewrote the alphabet, using the Regent’s Consul code for all correspondence exchanged between members.

Perdita.

The lost princess of The Winter’s Tale—as invisible and forgotten as the actress who had captured King George’s heart when he was only a lad. Mary Robinson was tossed aside less than a year later. For many in the Regent’s Consul, the code word served as a warning: everyone was replaceable.

It took Jonathan no time to discover Wedmore hadn’t used the Regent’s cipher.

He cursed under his breath and dropped the quill, ink splattering across the paper. Whatever Wedmore was up to, he didn’t want anyone in the Regent’s Consul knowing about it—including his godson.

“Margrave,” Jonathan murmured.

The viscount was one of the good ones. Loyal, duty bound, staunch in his belief in the cause. Godfather be damned, Margrave would have fulfilled his mission if he had been assigned. And he would have had an easier time getting close to Wedmore, so why did Farrin send Jonathan?

Why had he threatened Jonathan’s fiancée unless he accepted the mission? Even now, Margrave was keeping watch over Eve and her husband, Ben. The viscount sent quarterly letters through the Consul to keep him apprised.

They were written in cipher, too, but not with a polyalphabetic system. It appeared to be idle chitchat to outside eyes, but there was a pattern. Margrave was certain his contacts wouldn’t pass their letters along to Farrin, but if they did, the correspondence would appear harmless initially.

Neither of them trusted the leader of the Regent’s Consul. Farrin was arrogant and power-hungry, but his longstanding friendship with the King made him untouchable. Clearly, Wedmore didn’t trust Farrin either, but the question was why.

Was Evangeline’s uncle involved in a plot to rescue Napoleon, or could there be another explanation for his secretive actions? If Jonathan could decipher the damned journal, maybe he would get answers.

He sighed, pushing away from the desk and crumpling the sheet of paper before throwing it into the unlit hearth. Returning to the desk, he pulled out another sheet and tried Evangeline’s mother’s name. He deciphered the first entry and sat back, lifting the paper to study it.

Gatherinxkqmyeopzfvlackgjyhrkdmidnighrnmbggeoffrecarvxyrsattwepvfljsntyalodkfyrvanmidzbfkjhtwaitsimlafyxproombmratfhdisappeevbglmabackrmbtjxlhagroucmyqfgonlyrevbnbsfsmytheyknqbqports.

“I think we are on to something,” he mumbled.

The first word was clearly gathering, and he saw midnight. Isolating the words he recognized and leaving blanks to fill in missing letters, he was left with: Gatherin__, midnigh__, Geoffre_, waits, room, back, they, __ports. Or perhaps it was simply ports. Either way, it was still unreadable.

Was Wedmore meeting someone named Geoffrey, or was he following him?

Jonathan sped through the next entries, hoping he would have something useful to show Evangeline. They could isolate the words together. Maybe something would spark a memory or uncover information she wasn’t aware she had. He was halfway through the journal when Dom’s valet reminded him that it was time to dress for supper.

Dom had kindly offered to share the man’s services, assuring Jonathan that the servant could be trusted.

After the valet helped him dress, the man nodded toward the hearth. “Do you wish to burn that with the household rubbish, sir?”

He had forgotten about his failed attempt from earlier, and it was best that Evangeline not discover it.

“Yes, thank you.”

The valet gathered the crumpled paper and carried it from the room.

Evangeline’s sister and brother-in-law didn’t accompany her to supper that evening, though Regina was reportedly recovering after sipping the restorative broth. The meal passed quickly, and Dom excused himself soon after, claiming talk of antiquities was too boring to bear.

“Forgive my bluntness, Miss Darlington,” he offered, not appearing the least bit apologetic.

“No apologies are necessary, my lord. You would only slow down the discourse.”