Page 75 of The Unfortunate Debutante
“Indeed.” Justice Ford rose. “Now if you will excuse me, I’m afraid I have another pressing matter I must contend with.” He tipped his head. “Evening, gentlemen.”
After the magistrate left the room, Pembrooke turned towards Simeon. “Would you care to join me at White’s for supper and some drinks?”
“Thank you, but no.” Simeon rose and walked over to his desk.
“You always say no,” Pembrooke said. “It would be fun.”
Looking down at the ledger and paperwork waiting for him on his desk, Simeon tapped his finger on top of the closed ledger. He was debating. He hadn’t been to White’s in years. But he had a lot of work to catch up on.
The image of Emma came to his mind. He would much rather spend the time with the charming Miss Pearson, but that was impossible. Perhaps he could do something that would please her.
“Why are you grinning like a bloody fool?” Pembrooke commented.
Wiping the grin off his face, Simeon glanced up from his books. “I have a letter I need to write.”
“A letter?” Pembrooke asked, awkwardly standing. “And who is this letter to?”
“My family.”
The sun was stilllow in the sky as Simeon rode in his coach towards Grange Gardens near Chester Square. He yawned as he leaned his head back against the plush bench. He’d spent most of the evening drafting a letter to his parents. Eventually, he wrote a simple, but sincere letter. He truly wanted to make amends with his parents, and he hoped they were receptive to the idea, as well.
The thought of telling Emma about posting the letter made him smile. Why did the mere thought of seeing her smile cause his heart to soar? She was quickly filling a void in his heart; a void he’d thought was impenetrable.
Is that wise, he wondered. Would his heart ever recover if Emma didn’t feel the same about him? He already knew the answer. No. Perhaps it would be best if he cut ties with Emma now. It would be much easier.
The coach came to a stop, and he lifted the curtain covering the window. He peered out and saw men and women flocking towards Grange Gardens. There were so many protestors that they practically encircled the coach, hampering any chance of forward progression. Putting his hand through the open window, he unlatched the door.
“I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he announced, stepping down onto the worn cobblestone.
The driver tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Very good, milord. I shall wait for you out front.”
Joining the hordes of protestors as they walked towards the gardens, he was grateful that he’d chosen to wear a brown waistcoat over a worn, white shirt and boots that had holes along the top, allowing him to blend in. He approached the iron gates of the pleasure gardens and saw that patrons were pushing through the ticket gate, ignoring the pleas of the workers to pay the two shillings and sixpence entrance fee. A fee that would be too great for most of these patrons.
Simeon filed through the gates and was stunned to find the garden was already filled to capacity. Based upon the appearances of the protestors, it was clear that they came from all walks of life. Some were sharply dressed in riding jackets, whereas others were dressed in dirtied shirts with rolled-up sleeves. But they were all here with one purpose in mind, to voice their disapproval of the Corn Laws.
Simeon’s eyes scanned over the gardens, briefly admiring the Rocco style. They featured a Chinese Pavilion, as well as several walks and a lake. A tethered, red-striped, oval balloon, with an attached wicker basket, was being showcased near the front of the north lawn. It was roughly seventy feet high and forty feet in diameter. The balloon’s wicker basket hovered barely over the lawn. It was a spectacular sight to behold, and people were lined up to admire it.
As he waded through the hordes of people, he heard his name being shouted over the din. “Martin!”
Turning, Simeon saw Pembrooke pushing through the crowd to meet up with him. He waited until Pembrooke came closer before saying, “Any signs of sabotage?”
Pembrooke shook his head. “None. I have searched the surrounding area and didn’t find anything Lord Revett might use to dissuade the protestors.”
Simeon’s eyes scanned the overcrowded lawn. Many of the protestors were forced inside of the Chinese Pavilion because the pathways were filled.
“Where are the constables?” he asked.
“I have no doubt that they’re here, but they have yet to make themselves known.”
Speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd, Simeon asked, “There are thousands of people here to protest the Corn Laws, so why hasn’t the militia been called out?”
“Indeed. Why do you suppose that is?”
“We’re missing a piece of the puzzle here.” Simeon frowned. “Spread out. Analyze everything.”
For the next short while, Simeon looked under every hedge bush, in every grove, and he even entered the Chinese Pavilion. However, nothing seemed out of place or suspicious. Could Lord Revett truly be allowing these protestors to meet uncontested to voice their displeasure of the Corn Laws? His instinct told him no.
He made his way back towards the north lawn and looked over at the tethered balloon. It was floating in the sky because it was filled with hydrogen gas. A terrible realization occurred to him. Hydrogen is flammable. Could that be Revett’s plan? No, not even the cruelest person would turn a balloon into a bomb.
