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Another gentleman, Lord Montague, nodded and poured Charles a brandy, handing it to him. “There are more than a few spies at work here in England,” he said gruffly. “Sir Taylor has discovered as much.”
Frowning heavily at what was being implied, Charles looked about the room at the others and saw how some shook their heads, with others sighing heavily.
“Do you mean to say that Sir Taylor has been in difficulty?” he asked, realizing that he had missed a good deal since being away from town. “What has occurred?”
Lord Brandley waved a hand towards a couple of vacant chairs before taking one himself. Following closely, Charles sat down also and then looked about him. Something was worrying the men here, and he did not know what it could be.
“Sir Taylor had something of great value,” a gentleman named Lord Watts began, speaking from a corner of the room. “We do not know precisely what it was, for he was unable to tell us before he was taken.”
Charles swallowed hard, an icy chill rushing over him. “Taken?”
“Killed,” Lord Brandley said bluntly. “The French, we believe.”
A little shaken, Charles looked about the room again, where each of the spies – known collectively as “The King’s League” were gathered. Each of their faces showed both grief and anger – grief that they had lost one of their men and anger that his life had been taken by those who had infiltrated their country in order to send back information to their side. Charles felt his own spirits sink low, his own anger beginning to burn at what had occurred. Sir Taylor had been doing as he had been commanded, having given his time and now his life for the king. He had worked for many years for the king and had, in fact, recruited Charles to the cause some three years ago in 1812. It was sickening to think of him gone, struck down by an intruder in their fair England.
“I do not understand,” he said. “What happened?”
Lord Watt stepped forward, clearly aware of everything that had occurred. “The book you discovered,” he began, reminding Charles of his most recent success. “It was written in French, was it not?”
“Of course,” Charles replied quickly, a small frown flickering between his brows. “You know that I did not study it for long, however. I gave it to Lord Southway almost at once.” He and Lord Southway had worked together to root out a small group of French spies, who were passing information to each other via a small black book that looked to be as normal as any other. The French spies had passed messages by writing in the book and then placing it in a bookshop, hidden at the very back behind some large, old, dusty tomes that no one would ever have even looked at. It had taken some time to discover it, and then even longer to capture those who were involved, for Charles had been quite certain that he himself was being watched by those who sought to protect the French spies. However, all had come to a swift conclusion. They had managed to capture all of the spies save one, and he had thereafter discovered the book and taken it with him whilst Lord Southway dealt with the spies themselves. Thereafter, however, they had found themselves in a little difficulty, for the one spy who had managed to escape from them then sought reinforcements, clearly determined to get the book back by any means necessary. Charles had decided to create a diversion and had given the book to Lord Southway, who had taken it to another gentleman, who—whilst not in The King’s League—was known to them and was trusted by them. He had then returned to help extricate Charles from his difficult situation.
“Lord Southway took it to Lord Riggerton,” Lord Watt said slowly. “And it was there that we first became aware of the difficulties presented by this book.”
Charles frowned heavily, not understanding the difficulty. “Lord Riggerton can surely read French!” he exclaimed, looking around the group. “That cannot have been the trouble.”
Lord Brandley nodded. “Indeed, it was not. It was discovered that, whilst that book did contain messages of some description, they are written in a form that we cannot understand.”
“So, there is a code of some sort?” Charles asked, sitting forward in his seat and looking directly at Lord Brandley. “That is the difficulty?”
“It was the difficulty,” Lord Brandley said softly. “Sir Taylor discovered the key to understanding the message. He attempted to get it to us but was found by those who were searching for the small piece of parchment that contained the written decipher. We do not know where the parchment has gone.”
Charles closed his eyes tightly, feeling as though the victory he had achieved in gaining and securing the book had now been snatched from him. “Do the French have it?” he asked, aware of the heavy silence that had fallen on them all. “Do they have the cipher, and now will they come searching for the book?” He opened his eyes to see the others shaking their heads, and a small stab of hope pierced his otherwise gloomy demeanor.
“Sir Taylor was discovered by Lord Hogarth, just as the last of his strength left him. When Lord Hogarth asked if the French had the cipher, Sir Taylor seemed to indicate that they did not.” He shrugged, which did not fill Charles with any more hope. “That may not have been what was intended to have been communicated, however,” he said carefully. “That may be a mistake.”
“We must hope that Sir Taylor had it sent somewhere,” Charles muttered, leaning forward and shoving one hand through his hair, before placing his elbow on his knee and his forehead resting against his hand. “If the French have it, then they will certainly come for the book.”
“They do not know all of our faces,” Lord Watt said quickly. “I know that you believe you may be under suspicion, but—as yet—there is no such worry over the rest of us.”
Charles grimaced and sat up, his jaw tight. “It is not worry that drives me, Lord Watt,” he replied tersely. “It is more the fact that the French may have something of grave importance, which is required if we are to understand the messages within the book.” He saw Lord Watt look away, clearly a little embarrassed. “There must be something we can do.” He looked about at each and every gentleman within the room and felt the weight of their silence growing steadily heavier. No one said a word. There was not, it seemed, any particular idea about what they ought to do next, or where they should look to find this cipher. Charles closed his eyes tightly, his jaw working in frustration. He had no particular idea either, and it was this that irritated him most of all.
“The book is safe,” he confirmed, seeing some of the other men nod. “Who has it at present?”
“Lord Riggerton still has it in his possession,” Lord Brandley said quickly, as though wanting to try and remove some of Charles’s displeasure. “He is, as you know, one of the most talented amongst us when it comes to trying to decipher things such as this.”
Nodding, Charles took a long sip of his brandy and tried to think clearly. “We must ensure that it is kept safe,” he said firmly. “And we must go about our business in the knowledge that the French spies in perhaps all of England will be searching for it. They will not want their private matters to be read by us, nor will they want us to know their plans and intentions.”
Lord Watt nodded. “Indeed. Lord Riggerton has it kept safely here in London, but it might be wise to move the book from place to place in order to confuse anyone watching.”
Charles nodded again. “Yes, indeed. Have Riggerton make copies of some of the pages so that he might work on them when the book itself has been moved.” He saw Lord Watt glance at another gentleman, who hurried to a writing desk and began to write the instructions that Charles was giving. “Then have someone sent to Sir Taylor’s residence under whatever guise you wish. Have them look for any sign of the cipher so that we can be quite certain he did not send it to his estate.”
The gentleman writing nodded and wrote this down also.
“Aside from that, I do not know what we can do,” Charles replied heavily. “We are here to engage in the Season as gentlemen usually do whilst ensuring that we go about the king’s business and search for those who do not belong.” He looked around the group and saw the solemn faces, knowing that each and every one of them had given all they could to this cause. The death of Sir Taylor had torn at them—it was clear to see—and he could find nothing reassuring to say. It might well be one of them the next time. It might even be Charles himself.
“We will continue the search, wherever we think we might look,” Lord Brandley said quietly. “Retrieve answers from those we capture. Seek out the truth from those who have hidden it for too long.” A new sense of purpose filled him as he looked all about the room, seeing how the other gentlemen lifted their heads, evidently feeling much the same as he. “We will discover the truth, gentlemen. We must. We defend this country and remove those who come here to harm us. We have succeeded before, and we shall succeed again for we are The King’s League—are we not?” Rising from his chair, he raised his glass of brandy. “For the king!”
“For the king!” The other gentlemen raised their glasses, with those seated getting to their feet hurriedly, an obvious sense of pride evident on each and every face. Charles nodded to each of them in turn, knowing that he had managed to remind each of them what their purpose was. They served the king, using their influence and their standing to ensure the safety of both the king and England. No matter what their enemies threw at them, Charles was certain that they would, in the end, achieve the victory.
