oline Linden Daughters Daughters Hvert Deoline Linden Daughters Daughters Hvert DeLord Sidmouth, Wonderful he Home Secretary, favored cracking down on these activities, and he did
o with force. A prot
est march at St. Peter's Field in Manch
ter
(August 181
was broken up by the cavalry, killing 15 peof le. In
ebruary of 1820, a plot to assassinate the Cabinet ministers in ha house on Cato St. was thwarted, and the conspirators were tried for treason. Sidmouth has spies all over the country, infiltrating the radical revolutionary groups and reporting to his spymaster, John Stafford, who was also Chief Clerk of Bow Street. Some of these spies did more than report, however; they became agents provacateur, agents who actively stirred up and promoted violence within these groups in order to have something to report to Sidmouth. As a result, the government's case against many of the accused radicals was weakened and even rejected outright.
My spies are based on this point: what if Stafford had decided to recruit a better class of spy, more honest and even with some ties to respectability, to make his prosecutions more solid? Of course, he might not be entirely honest with them, either…
She called herself Madame de la Tource and claimed to be related to French aristocracy. She was handsome, in a bold way, and she liked to entertain, although most respectable people would never dream of attending her salon. Like most Frenchwomen, she had expensive taste and an imperious attitude, and she treated her servants with disdain.
Which meant that when the household next door acquired a striking new footman, none of Madame's maids thought twice about making eyes at him. Working for Madame didn't offer many benefits, and if a bit of fun with the neighboring servants were the only one a girl could discover, so be it.
Tom, the second footman of the Greaves household, was tall and handsome, with sharp hazel eyes and the finest calves in London. He was dark and charming and gave an air of being meant for so much more than a footman. Before long, there was nearly open strife belowstairs for his attentions, and within a fortnight, Tom could have had any of Madame's maids for a wink and a crook of his finger.
And the evening of Madame's spring soiree, he winked at Polly, Madame's ladies' maid, slipping through the open kitchen door behind her.
"Good eve to you, Miss Polly," he whispered as she hastily arranged a tray of tarts for the guests. Polly gasped, almost upsetting her tray, but recovered quickly.
"And to you." She turned around and set down the tray on a table. Tom's shoulders looked even broader up close, and Polly felt a thrill of excitement that she might explore them, personally, tonight. "No work tonight at Greaves's?"
He shrugged, lounging against the door but staying in the shadows. "Not much. The master's away, so I've a night out. Got a bit of a to-do here, aye?"
Any fool could see that, with people coming and going and various guests playing on the pianoforte at intervals. Madame's guests weren't the most dignified sort. Polly wiped her hands on the edge of her apron. She was supposed to be serving those guests, having been pressed into extra duties tonight like all the servants. But Tom was here, with a wicked twinkle in his eye…
"Not much." Tom's mouth curved knowingly. "Not too much for me to take a minute, that is," she amended coyly. "If you had a minute to spend with me…"
"Tonight, Poll," he said, "I've got more than a minute to spend with you."
Polly abandoned her tray of tarts without a backward glance.
She spirited him up the back stairs into the only room she knew would remain undisturbed during the evening, the mistress's dressing room. All was proceeding very much according to Polly's fondest wishes when Tom lifted his head in an air of listening. "Hush," he whispered, catching her hands. "Hush."
She paused, listening intently. From the next room came the sound of voices, a man and a woman. Madame had come back upstairs, with a companion. "Bugger all," she gasped. "I'll be sack—" Tom cut her off with a hand over her mouth, and she remained silent, hardly daring to breathe. It was one thing to sneak away from her duties, and another to be caught by the mistress doing it.
"You 'ave been ignoring me," Madame was whining in her thick French accent. "You 'ave hardly been to see me this fortnight, and I miss you…"
"Yes, yes," said a man over her complaints. His voice was distinctive, sharp and hasty. "Don't fret. Look what I've brought you."
There was a moment of silence, then a rapturous gasp. "Oh, Gerald, you darling man—"
"Yes, look," he interrupted her. He didn't sound like a man eager to bask in her gratitude. "Look." Another moment's silence. "I can't give you more."
"Oh, Gerry." Her tone had turned wheedling. "You say that every time. It is not so much, is it? And I do depend on you so, Gerry…"
"Yes." He sounded nervous now. "But be wary what you do with it. It's an awful risk I took…"
She laughed, a confident trill of amusement. "Oui, but for me, Gerry, you would risk anything, non?"
"I shouldn't," he said. Almost pleaded. "I can't do it again, please don't ask me…" In the dressing room, Polly's brow wrinkled. In response Tom slipped his finger under the shoulder of her neckline and gave a tiny tug. She jumped and grabbed his hand, setting off a small tussle, during which neither clearly heard what was said next in the other room.
"We should go back downstairs now. Your guests will miss you, pet." Gerry still sounded nervous, but there was an undercurrent of relief in his words. Madame laughed again, a moment later the door opened and closed. Polly exhaled loudly.
"Thought we'd be treated to a real show for a moment there," said her companion, his fingers still running along the edge of her undone bodice.
"Hush!" she scolded him. "Madame would flay me alive."
"Can't have that, can we?" He squeezed her bottom in one hand. Polly gulped back a sigh and tried not to melt; he had such lovely hands. "I suppose you'll be tossing me out, then."
She pulled a face even as she slid from his lap and began tugging her dress back into place. "Not because I want to."
"Who's the bloke? Not the master, I gather."
"Not the master, just the money. Sir Gerald somebody." Polly squinted in thought as she put her dress to rights. "Walton? No, Wollaston. Some fancy gent in the government. The Treasury, that's it. Madame's quite pleased to have such an important one, for all he's a fool. He's the one what pays for all her jewels and whatnot. Thinks he's God, and wants to be treated like it."
"All gents feel that way." Tom leaned back and put his hands behind his head as he watched her with hot, dark eyes. Polly frowned in pique despite that look. He hadn't removed more than his gloves and queue wig. She'd not had so much as a glimpse of his finer assets.
"I've got to get back," she told him. He just continued to look at her bosom. "Do you hear me? I've got to get back to my post."
"All right." He sat up with a sigh and plopped his powdered wig back on his head. He pulled on one glove, then looked around. "Where's my glove?"
"I don't know," she said. The clock on Madame's mantel in the other room chimed the hour and she jumped. How long had she been up here with him—a quarter hour? Half?
"I can't find it," he said, searching around. Polly hadn't yet tidied the room from Madame's whirlwind dressing, and female clothing littered every surface.
"Haven't you got another?" Now that it was clear she wouldn't have any fun, Polly began to feel anxious about being discovered missing. Cook would complain to Madame if she were missed, and the other girls would be sure to tattle on her if they knew she had Tom up here. No matter how clever his hands, she didn't want to lose her employment over Tom. She tossed aside some gowns as he looked behind the chaise.
"No, I haven't."
Polly sighed in distraction. "I don't see it. And I've got to get back."
"Go on, then, if you aren't of a mind to help." He got down on his knees and looked under the chaise where Polly had been sure she would be tumbled good and proper. She eyed his finely shaped arse for a moment, but the danger of getting the sack weighed too heavily.
"Well, don't be too long about it. If the mistress finds you here, I'll be turned out without a reference, I will."
"I heard you. Go on, then."
Polly didn't like his tone, but now was not the time to argue. She hurried to the door. "Don't take on, Tommy. I'll make it up to you, I vow." She winked at him. "Not before tomorrow, though." One corner of Tom's mouth curled lasciviously, and she slipped away, feeling like a queen among maids.
The left-behind footman from next door rummaged under the chaise until her footsteps died away completely. Then he got to his feet and crossed to the door she had exited, listening for a moment before rushing to the other door, the one to Madame de la Tource's bedchamber. With only a swift glance inside to assure himself the room was empty, he slipped through the door, closing it softly behind him.
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