“Yes,” Westmarch said. “Fletcher would not come to London. He believed he was being watched. I had to meet him where he felt safest, and even then, he would speak only in fragments. Speed was necessary and secrecy was essential.”
“What did he tell you?” Kate’s voice remained steady and alert.
Westmarch walked to the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back, and faced the fog pressed against the glass. “He had recently left service as secretary to a Member of Parliament and claimed the rumors were true. Midnight meetings. Aliases. A conspiracy with money, influence, and reach.”
“And evidence?” James asked. “Did he give you anything we can use?”
“He promised it, both names and proof. We arranged to meet three days later so he had time to retrieve it.” Westmarch braced himself on the window frame. “He never arrived. The next morning, a body was found near the river.”
“Then we have nothing.” James’s heart sank. This battle was over before it had begun. The token pressed into his palm again, a small vicious reminder that guilt was not finished with him.
Westmarch tilted his head toward the desk. “No. We have the ledger.”
James followed the gesture to the desk where the copied pages of the ledger lay scattered like a deck of cards. Proof of a conspiracy he could not see in full yet.
“Until today, I had rumors, one dead acquaintance, and no names I could trust,” Westmarch said.
He moved to the sideboard and picked up the crystal decanter. He poured himself a shallow measure of brandy, then turned back to them and leaned against the side table. “The ledger changes that. It gives substance to everything Isaac told me.” He swirled the amber liquid in the glass, taking a sip before setting the rest on the sideboard.
“Then why are we still standing here?” James demanded.
“Because haste is not the same as action.”
James bit back his reply. The rebuke landed more like a command than a suggestion.
“Mr. Fletcher did not identify anyone involved?” Kate asked.
“He was killed before he could tell me. What he did give me was a clear understanding of their purpose. This group means to destabilize the current government and replace it with one of their own making—one that concentrates wealth and power into their hands.”
What the devil had they stumbled onto? This conspiracy was larger than anything James had encountered during his years working for the Crown. “And how exactly do they mean to accomplish this new order?”
“They sow chaos and division by any means necessary, including violence,” Westmarch explained. “They are also prolonging the war with France by providing money and information to the enemy.”
James scoffed. “Oh, is that all?”
“There is more,” Westmarch said. “They use an image of a serpent coiled around an oak leaf to identify themselves to other members. They call themselves the Arcadian Circle.”
Kate’s face paled. James’s fist tightened around the token, around the serpent and the oak.
Henry had been carrying their symbol the night he died. Had he found it? Taken it from someone? Hidden it as proof? Whatever the truth, Henry had come closer to the Arcadian Circle than James had ever known.
The ledger’s list felt like an army already at the gates. James glanced at Kate in the morning light, and the air seemed to leave the room. He loosened his cravat, his mind racing. How could he keep her safe from an enemy that seemed to reach into every corner of their lives?
That conspiracy had already cost Henry his life. James’s every instinct demanded action as well as answers and a punishment, even blood if justice required it. He could not wait. He would not.
His thumb moved over the token’s edge, and another thought struck him.
Henry’s list.
He tucked the token into his waistcoat pocket, though the imprint of it remained in his palm. Then he reached inside hiscoat and withdrew the paper he had carried since Brenton Hall. “There is something else.”
“What is that?” Westmarch asked.
“Twelve names. Twelve aliases, I believe.” James stood and held it out. “A list Henry sent to Brenton Hall before he died. It only recently came into my hands.”
Westmarch crossed from the sideboard to take it, then laid Henry’s list beside the ledger copies. “One name has been marked. The Sentinel.”
Kate rose and moved to the desk, studying the page. “I have seen some of these names.”
