Page 26 of Against the Wind

The marchioness smiled. “I had a feeling you would be a worthy partner.”

Martin arrived at the government building to find Ormond and John ensconced in a small windowless room, sitting at a table, bent over a stack of documents. The marquess glanced up as he entered.

“Ah, Martin,” he said, waving a sheet of paper in his hand. “You are just in time to examine the evidence.”

Nodding to John, Martin drew up a chair. “What evidence?”

Ormond handed him the paper, a page of handwritten notes. “John and I have uncovered a spy Sidmouth recruited out of Fleet Prison, where the man was biding his time with other debtors.”

“How did you learn this?”

“The Prince Regent has made available to us the work of the Secret Committees in the Commons and the Lords, formed following the attack on his coach. They were supposed to deal with the so-called conspiracy threatening overthrow of the government, but it seems Liverpool may have gone too far.”

“And the spy?”

“Recall when I first told you about your assignment that I said one of the ways Sidmouth intends to keep track of what is going on in the Midlands, if not to influence events there, is to enlist his own spies. In this case his name is William Richards, though he goes by the name William Oliver. According to our source, when he is in London he meets with his contacts at a public house, The Guardsman. It is in the mews where Wellington’s barracks were once located. I think you and John might want to pay him a visit.”

“Why would Sidmouth choose such a man?” asked John.

“A man from debtors’ prison might seem an odd choice for a government agent,” Martin said, “but consider that he would blend in well with the disgruntled. There are many unhappy men in Fleet Prison who blame the government for their circumstances.”

“Martin is right,” Ormond acknowledged. “As one who served time in debtors’ prison, he could more easily gain the confidence of the unhappy workers in the north. And he is not unintelligent. His occupation was that of building surveyor according to these records.”

“That is likely why Sidmouth sought him out,” Martin conjectured. “He would be able to read and write to report to the officials who are his contacts. And he probably speaks well enough to persuade those simple men in the north of the correctness of his ideas.”

Ormond picked up a file before him. “According to these records, Oliver traveled in April to the northern towns with a letter of introduction directed to the local officials. Its author was none other than Addington, the Undersecretary—and, not coincidentally, Sidmouth’s brother.”

“What did the letter say?” Martin asked. Sidmouth and his brother were deeper into this than he had at first imagined. The web of intrigue was growing ever larger.

Ormond shot John a glance. “Do you have it?”

The young man hurriedly sorted through a stack of papers. “Aye, here it is, m’lord.”

Reading silently the note he was handed, Ormond summarized. “The letter urges local officials to cooperate with Oliver and describes him as an ‘intelligent man deserving of your confidence.’”

“I see. Well then,” Martin decided. “John, I’ve only to stop by my family’s townhouse to change into my working clothes and then”—he leaned toward John—“you and I shall be raising a pint at The Guardsman.”

John grinned at the prospect.

“I think,” Martin continued, “it may be time for Martin Donet, the man whose parents were French revolutionaries, to make an appearance. Under the circumstances, I believe my parents will forgive me the lie.”

“A good choice, Martin,” said Ormond, chuckling. “Such a story should stir the heart of any man committed to bringing revolution to England, and that old disguise from your days in France will certainly work better than the garb you wear as Prinny’s shiny new knight. Sorry I am to be missing the performance!”

“Aye, sir,” John agreed. “And I’ll be happy to see it as yer assistant. My French is good enough for that.”

That afternoon, Martin and John climbed the short flight of stairs to The Guardsman. It was in a very old, plain, three-story Georgian brick building that once had been home, as Ormond claimed, to the First Regiment of Foot Guards, and was famous as the Duke of Wellington’s officers’ mess before becoming a London public house.

They stepped over the threshold into a small room with a bar to one side. Rays of bright sun from several large paned windows fell across a dozen scattered wooden tables. The air smelled of ale. Only a few tables were taken, and none looked to be occupied by a man who might be Oliver meeting with his friends. Through an opening at the rear of the tavern, Martin could see another room.

John paid the barman for two pints of ale, handed one to Martin, and they headed to the back. William Oliver—or the man Martin thought might be Oliver—was indeed holding court there, several men sitting around him, each nursing a tankard of ale.

Oliver appeared tall even while seated, with light red hair and a round, whiskered face scarred by smallpox. He was dressed better than the others, in a brown coat, black waistcoat, dark blue pantaloons and Wellington boots.

As Martin and John seated themselves at a table on the far side of the room, Oliver and his comrades turned to scrutinize them. A moment later their conversation resumed, but in hushed tones.

Martin had very good ears. Oliver’s speech revealed a man who had knowledge of worldly matters and a command of the English language far above his apparent station. The incongruity of the man’s dress, manners and speech would serve well the Home Secretary’s nefarious purposes.

“I tell ye, petitions are a waste of time!” Oliver’s voice rose above the whispers. “It’s only force that those bastards understand.”