In desperation I cried, “Please, my lord, we mean you no harm. We’ve come to help you.”
He turned to me in surprise, as though wondering how such an obviously insignificant person would dare to entreat him.
“Isabel White has been murdered,” I hurried on. “We believe that the same man who forced you to serve him is responsible. His henchmen tried to abduct me and nearly killed my brother. Isabel claimed that he has launched a plot that threatens the kingdom. Our only chance to stop him is to band together.”
Lord Russell’s hands slowly unclenched; he regarded me with shock. “Isabel was murdered? How did it happen?”
I was filled with relief that he appeared ready to listen, and amazement at my own boldness. I recounted the details of Isabel’s death; then Mr. Slade described the murder of the merchant Isaiah Fearon. As he told about discovering that Isabel was a courier between radical societies and her master who abetted them, the prime minister took on the aspect of a man beholding the ruin after a siege of a city.
“How did you connect me to all this?” he said.
I explained what we had read in the book Isabel had sent me. Now Lord John Russell staggered over to a marble bench and sat down heavily.
“Then it’s true that an intimacy with Isabel put you in thrall to her master?” Mr. Slade asked.
Lord Russell nodded, in evident relief at confessing what he must have kept a dark secret. “It all began in the year 1844,” he said. “I was battling the Tory opposition to grant civil rights to the Irish and regulate the factories. My wife was gravely ill. I had invested money in ventures that proved unsound, and I lost a fortune. I was forced to borrow heavily to cover my expenses. I became so distraught I could not rest. I took to roaming the town at night, in search of a diversion. One evening I found myself in a gaming club. It was there that I met Isabel.”
Shadows like bruises obscured the prime minister’s face; the gay music from the house mocked his unhappiness. “She was a hostess at the club. Ordinarily, I would never consort with a woman of her kind. But Isabel was beautiful. I was lonely and vulnerable and smitten.”
Here was verification of the tale in Isabel’s diary, I thought, glancing at Mr. Slade. But his attention remained focused on Lord John Russell.
“I continued to meet Isabel, at disreputable taverns and lodgings,” the prime minister went on. “Eventually I began to tell her my troubles, as I suppose many men do with their mistresses.” He grimaced in self disgust. “She said she knew someone who could give me financial assistance. At first I refused, for I knew the money would come with strings attached. But as I neared the verge of financial ruin and a mental breakdown, Isabel’s repeated offers grew more tempting. One night she brought me five hundred pounds from the man she called her master. I accepted it, as I did further payments.”
His posture withered with shame; I pitied him.
“What was asked of you in exchange?” Mr. Slade said quietly.
“Nothing at first,” Lord John Russell said. “I severed my relations with Isabel in 1845, when I took my wife to seek medical advice in Edinburgh. My financial position improved, and I thought myself rid of problems. But then…” His expression turned doleful. “Early in 1847-some six months after I became prime minister-Isabel waylaid me outside the Houses of Parliament. She told me that her master ordered me to pay him ten thousand pounds. I was horrified. I said I could not and would not pay. But she said that unless I did, my wife would be told of my adultery. My wife was still in poor health, and the shock might have killed her. Therefore, I did an unpardonable thing.
“At the time I was responsible for the Treasury and funds ear-marked for relief efforts in Ireland. From those I stole ten thousand pounds to pay Isabel’s master. Yet his demands did not end there. Soon Isabel told me that he wanted me to ensure that certain ships left England without inspection or interference.”
“Which ships?” Mr. Slade said in a tone of controlled eagerness.
“I don’t recall, but they belonged to various trading firms,” Lord John Russell said. “They all were bound for the Far East.”
“What was their cargo?” Slade asked.
“I preferred not to know. I deduced that they conveyed Englishwomen to be sold to wealthy Oriental men. I told Isabel to inform her master that I refused to aid an illegal, immoral trade. But she said that he had spies at the Treasury, and he knew how I had obtained the money I had paid him. And unless I let the ships pass unimpeded, her master would expose me as an embezzler. The scandal would ruin my political career.”
These, then, were the threats by which her master had subjugated the prime minister. Greed, poor judgment, and fear can weaken the most powerful of humanity.
“I had no choice but to obey. But since you’ve told me that Isabel’s master finances radical societies, I fear that the ships had a purpose even more harmful than I believed.” Lord John Russell’s pallid face looked ghastly ill. “He must intend to disrupt order in Asia and undermine British dominance there, as he has in Europe. His ships must have carried information, troops, and weapons to confederates overseas.”
Mr. Slade nodded. I wondered if guns manufactured by Joseph Lock had comprised part of the ships’ secret cargo. Perhaps he, too, had been forced to serve Isabel’s master and had provided the guns against his will. Had he later discovered the treasonous purpose for which the guns were meant, then killed himself rather than face exposure? Perhaps Isaiah Fearon had transported the guns, and died because he was a link in the chain that joined Isabel White and Joseph Lock to the man who had ruled them all. I recalled Isabel’s claim that the villain aspired to the power of kings.
“Who is this man that coerced you?” Mr. Slade urgently asked.
The prime minister shook his head. “I never met him. I don’t know his name. Isabel refused to tell me. She was my only link with him.”
And the deaths of Isabel, Lock, and Fearon had broken the chain. Slade said, “Can you direct me to the gaming club where you met Isabel?”
Lord John Russell said he couldn’t recall, for he had tried to forget those troubled times. Animosity sharpened his expression. He rose stiffly and said, “I could be hanged for what I’ve done. If you tell your superiors what I’ve said, I shall deny everything. My word should easily prevail against yours, and you’ll find yourself in graver trouble than I.” Yet he couldn’t hide his terror that his deeds would come to light.
It was clear that Mr. Slade perceived the advantage he held over the prime minister, for he said, “Miss Bronte and I will protect your secrets, under one condition.”
A dour, raspy chuckle emanated from Lord John Russell. “You would bargain with me? Your audacity is remarkable.” He made as if to leave, but ventured only a few steps before reluctantly pausing.
“Should Isabel’s master contact you and demand more favors, inform me at once,” Mr. Slade said. “Determine who owns any ships you’re asked to give safe passage from England and what cargo they carry. Help me identify and apprehend the villain, and I will shield you from exposure and punishment.”
Lord Russell considered. “If you receive an anonymous letter addressed to you at the Foreign Office, you should heed it,” he finally said, then left us.
“There seems little more to be learned here,” Mr. Slade said. “We may as well go.”
Yet he did not move. He regarded me with a strange look that stirred a fluttering sensation in my breast. The trees and darkness isolated us from the crowd at the ball; our only companion was the marble Aphrodite, immobile and silent.
“Your speech to the prime minister carried the day,” said Mr. Slade, and I heard new respect and warmth in his voice. “I congratulate you.” He added gruffly, “I must also tell you how lovely you look tonight.”
Such a stir of pride and happiness arose in me that I could not answer. The night seemed to swell with a freshening breeze, the slow turning of the heavens, and the tide of hope that lapped at my heart.
I am no fanciful young maiden who believes that a summer eve harbors magic, or that a beautiful gown, a waltz, and a successful collaboration can influence destiny. But my relations with Mr. Slade altered that night, and in the days which followed, they continued altering, to my joy and hazard.
21
What transpired at the ball caused me such tumultuous emotion that I tossed in my bed that night, my mind awhirl; I then fell into dreams of waltzing with Mr. Slade. I awoke breathless with anticipation of what the day
