he feared she soon would. “She’s only involved with the trust to protect Howard.”
Marcus Braddock mumbled, “That makes sense. Who else does she have but him?”
Me. But Pearce didn’t dare utter that aloud. “Her shop. That’s how she got caught up in this mess. As long as Howard’s being blackmailed, her charity’s under threat.” He stole a glance out the window at the storefront. They were still in front of it, the carriage not yet moving, most likely on the general’s orders. “She loves this place. She’d protect it like a mother would a child.” He grimaced at Amelia’s lack of trust in him. “But she also knows more than she’s telling.”
“Any ideas what, exactly?”
“None. But I’m going to find out.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” Marcus interjected. “I just came from Westminster. Late yesterday afternoon, Howard introduced a bill to create your turnpike.”
“It isn’t my turnpike,” he grumbled, his jaw tightening. But he wasn’t surprised that Howard had acted already, and without Pearce’s consent. If Amelia was right, her brother was desperate. “The bill’s not going anywhere. Parliament dismisses in less than a fortnight. He doesn’t have time for it to go through all the steps necessary to be enacted.”
“Apparently, he does. The second reading is expected in two days.”
“Two days?” Surprise rang through Pearce, followed immediately by dread. Amelia had no idea what her brother had done, or how quickly he was moving to push it through. “A bill usually waits two weeks between readings.”
“There’s not expected to be any debate, so no reason to hold it up. It’s only a turnpike trust, after all. We’ve passed over two dozen of the things just this last month,” Marcus muttered. “He’s made clear to the other members that he’s eager to have it approved and given royal assent before the session ends.”
Pearce’s chest constricted with a sickening jolt as he remembered the look of betrayal he’d glimpsed on Amelia’s face earlier when she spoke about losing Bradenhill. Hearing this news would devastate her.
“He’s announced the names of the five trustees,” Clayton informed him. “You and himself, of course, along with Sir George Pittens, Mr. James Markham, and Sir Robert Graves.”
Pearce scanned the list. “Are we certain they have ties to Scepter?”
“Not yet,” Clayton answered. “But we can’t take any chances and have to assume they do.”
“Do we know anything about their connection to Scepter’s leadership?” Frustration filled his voice. Not all of it because of Scepter. “I thought the Home Office was supposed to be good at espionage.”
So far, Clayton’s men at the Home Office and the Bow Street investigators who teamed with them had turned up next to nothing specific about Scepter and its plans, and what reports they had discovered contradicted each other. It was as if Scepter knew it was being tracked and was purposefully leading a campaign of misinformation and confusion.
“Damnably hard to track down Scepter when we’re busy cleaning up Prinny’s latest mess,” Clayton grumbled defensively, kicking out his long legs. But the casual pose belied the aggravation seething inside him that the Home Office was increasingly playing nursemaid to the Regent these days. “And none of our usual channels have been able to provide anything concrete about who might be leading the group or their motives.” His expression turned grim. “Right now, your connection to them through Howard is the best chance we’ve got.”
“So you’ll keep after Howard about the turnpike,” Marcus said. An order. Not a request.
“Yes, General,” Pearce answered, as if they were still in the field with Marcus still their commanding officer. To the men who’d served with him, he always would be.
“And Miss Howard?” Clayton interjected. “Do you think there’s any worth in pursuing her?”
Pearce grimaced. Wasn’t that a damnably ironic question?
“I think,” he drawled, “that I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Eleven
“Do you see Sandhurst anywhere?” Freddie craned his neck as he led Amelia inside Devonshire House. They handed over his coat and her wrap to the footman waiting at the door, along with their tickets.
“No.” But then, she wasn’t exactly looking. She only wanted to leave.
She would put in her obligatory appearance in the ballroom on Freddie’s arm, then she would feign a terrible malady of some kind or other, helped along if necessary by a vial of a noxious concoction that Maggie had slipped into her hand when she’d finished dressing her. Guaranteed to cause sickness, her maid had assured her.
Although as nervous as she was at the prospect of seeing Pearce again after their earlier encounter,