Page 10 of Against the Wind

John bowed his head. “Good day to ye, my lord. Aye, quite well.”

“Come in, then,” said Ormond. “We were just about to get started.”

“I heard ye married the Lady Mary, my lord, and now she is Lady Ormond. Will she be here?” the young man asked anxiously. “’Tis a year since I’ve seen her.”

Clearly John was taken with Ormond’s wife. It did not surprise Martin. He remembered his own first reaction to the blonde beauty.

Ormond smiled. “Yes, John. It is just as you say. The former Lady Mary is now my marchioness. I expect her in time for dinner, if not before.” He pulled out a chair for the young man and sank back into the seat next to Martin. “Prinny’s new task will require all our efforts. My desire, just so you know, is to keep my adventure-loving wife out of it if I can.”

“What’s it all about, then?” inquired Martin, setting down his brandy.

“The situation has been brewing for quite a while, and it involves some discontent among the common people. Even riots.”

“Riots in England?” Martin said, astonished. John, sitting beside him, gaped.

“Fortunately for you, Martin,” Ormond continued, “your sojourn in France allowed you to miss them. Indeed, I missed the beginnings while I was there. They have roots going back many years. While we were in Paris chasing Napoleon’s secrets, the followers of a General Ned Ludd caused quite a stir in the north counties.”

“Ah…the Luddites. I’ve heard of them.” Martin had a vague memory of someone passing through Paris telling him of the strong reaction of the textile workers to the machinery replacing their livelihoods.

“My wife argues vehemently for their cause, as you might imagine,” Ormond said. “The lace and hosiery workers lost jobs when the machines were brought in. They couldn’t feed their families. Since then, the weavers have joined in.”

“Interesting. We did not see this in France. Perhaps the war made this a lesser concern?” Martin suggested aloud.

“I suspect so,” said Ormond. “But in England it has become a problem of great magnitude. The economic depression, made worse by the wars with France, even led to an attack on the Prince Regent this last January.”

“An attack on Prinny?” Martin felt his brows rise. “So that’s what the old salts were talking about.”

“Gawd,” said John.

“Quite,” said Ormond, eyeing him. “His carriage was mobbed as it left Parliament, and the rabble threw rocks and shouted insults to the monarchy. The windows were shattered and glass flew everywhere. It must have been terrifying.”

“You said he is fine now. Was he hurt?” asked Martin.

“Amazingly, no. But the incident has sent ripples through the government.”

John stared, agog, and Martin shook his head at the attack on the monarch. It was bleak news indeed. Still, Ormond didn’t stop there.

“Parliament fears the revolutionary fervor in France has spread to our shores, and has, as you might find unsurprising, overreacted. They’re passing one law after another designed to keep the populace in their place. The Home Secretary, Viscount Sidmouth, the fool, and his sidekick, Viscount Castlereagh, have managed to get Parliament to suspend habeas corpus, making it possible for those suspected of treason to be imprisoned without trial. George Cruikshank, the caricature artist, has already published a drawing depicting Castlereagh hanging Lady Liberty.”

Martin shook his head.

“It gets worse,” Ormond said. “Sidmouth has also ordered the arrest of all printers and writers of materials considered inciting, so the press is up in arms. All this has only stirred the pot, I’m afraid.”

The marquess rose, pulled a map from a drawer and spread it on top of his desk, and Martin and John gathered around him. Pointing his silver letter opener to a spot in northwestern England, Ormond directed their attention to a certain town. “There was an incident. Just here.” The three men peered closely as Ormond continued, “Manchester, wouldn’t you know. In March there was a demonstration. Hundreds of cotton workers carrying blankets in the cold protested the government’s actions. Their aim, I’m told, was to march on London to gain the Prince Regent’s attention. It is said they were hoping for some say in government. It’s been dubbed ‘the March of the Blanketeers.’”

Martin nodded his head. “Ah, the Blanketeers. I can see Cruikshank’s caricatures now.”

“The government did not find it amusing, I can assure you,” Ormond chided. “The leaders of the march were arrested, but the fears of a revolution spreading to England have not faded in the weeks that followed. Sidmouth is sending out spies all over Britain to investigate what he believes are ‘centers of discontent.’ My own information suggests they may be making the situation worse. I even begin to wonder just who was behind the attack on the Prince Regent.”

“Are you suggesting these spies are acting as agents provocateurs?” Martin asked, horrified.

“Your French is exactly right. These spies might be creating disturbances rather than quelling them, increasing the opportunity—even the justification—for further repressive measures.”

“What does the Prince Regent expect me to do about it?” Martin wondered aloud. “I am a spy, myself.”

A smile spread slowly across Ormond’s face. “Ah, but that’s just where you come in, don’t you see?”

Perplexed, Martin held his breath.

“Prinny wants action taken but doesn’t trust Sidmouth’s lackeys. In that, I believe he is right. You, my friend, are to spy on the spies.”

Martin let out his breath. “Bon Dieu,” he whispered.

To which John added, “Blimey!”