“I see we will forego the usual pleasantries, then,” Baldwin commented dryly as he came to stand across from Lord Desmond. “That should save us a considerable amount of time.”
Desmond’s eyes roamed over Corbyn. “Who did you bring with you? I don’t believe we’ve met…Lord Evan,” he probed, pausing as he examined the cards his butler had given him.
“Who I am is not important,” Corbyn replied as he moved to stand by the mantel over the fireplace.
Desmond grunted. “This should be interesting,” he muttered under his breath.
“We are sorry about your rally earlier,” Baldwin said. “It was most unfortunate that shots were fired in Fieldstone Square, causing everyone to flee.”
“That was most unfortunate,” Desmond agreed, “but I was informed that the perpetrator was shot trying to detonate a bomb.”
“That is correct, but Marie referred to it as ‘machine infernale’,” Corbyn shared.
Desmond’s face paled slightly. “That is impossible,” he muttered. “I haven’t heard that term in years.”
“We discovered that Carbon had a daughter who was just as capable of making bombs as her father was, and she was harboring quite the hatred for you, even after all these years,” Baldwin said.
“Why me?”
Corbyn picked up a vase off the mantel and replied, “You were one of the agents assigned to ensure Napoleon was assassinated, but when Carbon failed, you abandoned him and his fellow conspirators.”
“I don’t know what you are speaking of,” Desmond declared.
Corbyn placed the vase down. “It matters not,” he replied. “You did your job, and I have no doubt that you followed your orders. We just wanted to inform you that Carbon’s daughter had every intention of assassinating you today at the rally.”
“But we foiled her plans,” Baldwin interjected, “along with a group of radicals who were planning a revolution.”
Desmond looked at him with newfound respect. “You are an agent,” he said. “Of course, that is why you were gone for so many years.”
“Not anymore,” Baldwin replied. “This was my last case.”
Desmond offered him a sad smile. “The desire to be an agent will never go away. The danger, excitement…” His voice trailed off. “I miss it every day.”
Corbyn’s voice drew back his attention. “Unfortunately, we do come bearing some bad news.”
“More of it?” Desmond asked.
Corbyn shook his head. “Informing you about Marie was more of a professional courtesy, but we wanted to give you a warning before this news became public.”
Glancing between them, Desmond inquired, “Which is?”
“One of the radicals arrested today was your solicitor, Mr. Tom Walker,” Corbyn shared.
Desmond waved his hand dismissively. “I work with many solicitors, so his arrest will hardly impact me.”
“Mr. Walker has decided he doesn’t want to die for the cause, and he has offered something up in exchange for his life,” Baldwin explained.
“Which is?”
“Proof that you stole money from the workhouses that you are contracted to run,” Baldwin replied plainly.
Desmond chuckled, albeit nervously. “That is a horrendous accusation.”
“It is, and Mr. Walker says that he has been compiling proof over the last few years,” Baldwin shared. “Apparently, he really loathes you.”
“That is impossible,” Desmond declared. “He has no proof. He is clearly lying.”
“I am relieved to hear that, because if he does have any proof, it will discredit you,” Corbyn said. “And it will ruin your chance of ever running for Prime Minister.”
“Furthermore, you will be forced to resign as the contractor for those workhouses, and I can’t imagine how the public will react to an earl stealing from the poor,” Baldwin remarked.
Desmond’s face paled further. “I am being set up,” he insisted. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Baldwin asserted.
“You must believe me, Hawthorne,” Desmond appealed, panic in his eyes. “Mr. Walker is just trying to save himself.”
“Frankly, I don’t,” Baldwin replied. “I believe you were culpable in stealing that money from the workhouses.”
“Regardless, we need more workhouses in the rookeries,” Desmond pressed. “The Poor Laws are outdated, and we need a new way to fund building them.”
“I agree, but you won’t be contracted to run them,” Baldwin replied.
Desmond frowned. “You aren’t going to help me push this bill through Parliament, are you?”
“No,” Baldwin responded with a shake of his head, “but I will recommend that we update the Poor Laws to incorporate new laws on workhouse conditions.”
“That isn’t enough,” Desmond said, his voice rising.
Baldwin took a step closer to him and replied, “If you hadn’t profited off the poor, then your passionate argument may have worked on the other members of the House of Lords. But I am not fooled by you, no matter how loudly you speak.”
As Baldwin turned to leave, Desmond’s defeated voice met his ears. “It was such a trifling amount of money,” he said. “What if I returned it to the workhouses?”
“That would be a start,” Baldwin remarked, “but it won’t solve all of your problems. Nor should it.”
Not bothering to wait for Desmond’s response, Baldwin walked out of the room and Corbyn followed closely behind. They didn’t speak until they stepped back into the coach and it started rolling down the street.
“Do you suppose we did the right thing by informing him of the investigation?” Corbyn asked.
“I do,” Baldwin replied, “but it won’t matter now if they don’t press charges. Just the allegations will ruin his reputation.”
“He will never be Prime Minister now.”
Baldwin shook his head. “No, he most assuredly won’t.”
“Now on to things that are much more pleasant,” Corbyn said. “It is time for you to travel to Miss Dowding’s townhouse and woo the lovely young lady.”
“It is,” he replied. “I hope it isn’t too late for her to receive callers.”
Corbyn pounded on the top of the coach, and the coach started slowing down. “This is where I get out.”
“Why?”
Corbyn smirked as he opened the door. “I need to get back to work. We have a cell full of rebels that need to be interrogated before they are deported or hung for their treasonous acts, including their leader, Morton,” he said as he
