Treacherous Temptations(8)

Chapter Five


The Fountain Tavern on the Strand, Westminster, August—1727

Hadley Blanchard drummed his fingers on the scarred oak table while sipping his third glass of Madeira. The languor he sought from the bottle to cool his nerves still eluded him, though one would never know by his languid sprawl, and the covert manner in which his hooded gaze tracked the crowded taproom. After five years of practice, his eyes were as attuned to the smallest details as his hearing had become to filtering individual voices out of a cacophony of conversation. He plied both skills as he waited.

From the corner table he’d chosen, a habit adopted long ago as a means of self-preservation, he missed little. The Fountain Tavern was a political hotbed and an ideal place to gauge the shifting winds. Yet, the snippets he’d snatched from the men around him annihilated his last hopes—with the new king the old guard had remained. For Hadley, that meant little chance to regain what he had lost.

Hadley had come to London with a dual purpose, for Barbara’s letter had come swiftly upon the heels of King George I’s demise. It was an occasion that had filled both Hadley and the Pretender with renewed hope—for James to reclaim his throne, and Hadley, his own titles and properties. Sent to England to act as a covert emissary for the exiled king, he’d adopted the guise of an Italian nobleman, adorned in exquisite and costly silks and an elaborate full-bottomed wig, complete with powder, patch, and all the frills and frippery of a Continental fop. The incognito was a measure he’d taken out of caution, for the years abroad had tamed his reckless nature. It had also taught him patience and prudence. He strongly suspected this meeting would be an exercise in both.

His heart sunk when Sir Richard Fiske entered alone. He despised dealing with such a perfidious intermediary, but he should have known the First Lord of the Treasury would not deign to meet him in person. The porcine baronet squinted through the tallow smoke until lighting upon Hadley and elbowing his way through the throng with an air of self-importance.

“Signore Fiske! Che piacere vederti!” Hadley rose and swept his hat in a grand and flourishing Italianate gesture.

“My dear Conte di Caserta.” The baronet smiled and gave a low scraping bow for the benefit of onlookers. He then hissed through his clenched teeth. “What the devil are you doing here? You are supposed to be in Rome dancing attendance on the Pretender. You jeopardize everything with your recklessness!”

Hadley waved to the vacant chair with a benign smile. He answered in a low murmur, “As a matter of fact, I am come on a mission at the Pretender’s behest, for he and his friends no longer trust His Majesty King George’s mail service.” They had very good reason, as Walpole had long ago put the postmaster in his pocket to open the mail of every known Jacobite.

“You carry dispatches? Who are the treasonous dogs?” Sir Richard demanded. “Anyone we know?”

“Perhaps,” Haldey replied, purposefully vague. “I do not yet have the names. All of the correspondance has been transacted in cypher. They are preparing the next step, however, and this requires a meeting. Thus, I am come as James’ most trusted emissary.”

Sir Richard rolled his eyes. “They still conspire to put Dismal Jimmy on the throne? How many times before they finally learn? ‘Tis such a tiresome business quashing traitors, but then again it’s capital entertainment to see their necks stretched. You will give me copies of all the correspondance of course.”

“In good time. But at the moment I have other business.”

“The devil you say! What business is more important than what we pay you for?”

“Personal business, Sir Richard. You promised me five years ago to do your foremost to see my title and lands reinstated, yet in all this time, I have seen no progress to that end. I now intend to petition the king for the return of my birthright.”

Sir Richard poured a glass from the open bottle and studied Hadley with a narrowed stare. “Have you indeed? And why the deuce would you believe anything would have changed?”

“Did I not prevent a threat to the crown by delivering Bishop Atterbury on a silver salver? For five years I have been your whore, copying private letters, carrying secret dispatches, and risking my neck. Do I not merit any reward for my loyal service to the Hanoverians?”

“You have already been generously compensated. You have no reason for complaint, whiling away your days in idleness in sunny Italy like a bloody prince.” Sir Richard drained his glass and signalled the drawer for another bottle.

“As you well know, my so-called princely lifestyle has been necessary to this entire enterprise. How else could I have provided the quality of information you sought? Yet I have seen disproportionate compensation for my efforts.”

“If the arrangement is no longer satisfactory, another could easily take your place.”

Hadley laughed, yet his resentment seared white hot. “You are all bluster, Sir Richard. You chose me for a reason—because I was perfect for the part and I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. You know damn well it would be years before you could gain any useful information from any one else. The Pretender’s friends are much more cautious than ever before. If, however, you are willing to assist me in my endeavor, I could be highly instrumental in putting another in my place.”

“What you want is impossible.”

Hadley arched a brow. “Oh, I think not. You are a very persuasive man when you wish to be, Sir Richard. Do you deny it was you who convinced the ministry to pin the crimes of others on my father? To posthumously impeach him?”