Rick shelley dirigent.., p.21
Henrietta (The Shackleford Legacies Book 4), page 21
Henrietta
THE SHACKLEFORD LEGACIES
BOOK FOUR
BEVERLEY WATTS
Copyright © 2025 BaR Publishing
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Cover art by wickedsmartdesigns
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Keeping in Touch
Alexandra
Also available by Beverley Watts on Amazon
About the Author
One
As one of King William IV’s most trusted intelligence agents, Raphael Augustin couldn’t deny that the discovery of a conspiracy to assassinate his Royal Majesty right under his very nose was at best embarrassing and worst…? Well, safe to say that twenty years earlier, it could very well have seen him clapped in irons and left to rot in his majesty’s dungeons. That’s if it hadn’t cost him his head.
Fortunately, the King had cause to thank Raphael for previously preventing two assassination attempts against members of the Royal Family and exposing a plot to smuggle weapons to Irish rebels.
But while such an exemplary record might have saved his head, it certainly hadn’t saved him from the blistering set down delivered by his majesty in the privacy of his bedchambers, after the garden party he’d been set to attend at the Duke of Blackmore’s country seat was summarily aborted due to a failed assassination attempt by his grace’s butler.
Neither had it helped that the man who’d ultimately saved the King’s life was another Frenchman.
Indeed, Raphael’s mood was further soured by the fact that as a result of said heroics, his countryman had spent the last four days on his deathbed, catapulting him from the hero of the day to hero of the decade.
And last but definitely not bloody least, Rafe had been left grinding his teeth after being instructed to offer Tristan Bernart a job once the investigation was finished…
Sighing, Raphael poured himself a large brandy from the decanter that had mysteriously appeared in his bedchamber two days earlier. There had been no note of explanation accompanying it, though Rafe suspected his royal set-down had been heard by everyone within a three-mile radius. Clearly, Nicholas Sinclair was not without sympathy. Which was just as it should be, since the whole bloody debacle had taken place under his roof.
Still, at least the King himself had finally departed with his entourage, leaving Raphael with the unenviable task of getting to the bottom of the whole deuced mess.
Lord Grey and the Duke of Wellington too had wasted no time before scurrying back to their own establishments, along with the rest of the guests – all evidently keen to ensure that they weren’t unwittingly harbouring any unidentified Revisionists in their own households.
They would all be investigated by Raphael’s network of agents over the coming months, as would the counterfeit Comte d’Ansouis who’d already been taken into custody. But first, Rafe needed as much information as he could get from the men who’d stumbled upon the conspiracy in the first place. While there was no evidence to suggest the Revisionists’ plot had anything to do with the July uprising in France a year earlier, the overthrowing of the French King Charles X and the ending of the Bourbon restoration had undeniably resulted in a surge of revolutionary activity across Europe. The connection might seem unlikely, but nevertheless it couldn’t be discounted without further investigation.
Unfortunately, getting an audience with the Duke of Blackmore was easier said than done. So far, Nicholas Sinclair had refused his request, citing the need for Tristan Bernart’s presence during the interview process.
Which left Rafe twiddling his thumbs with only the Duke’s in-laws for company. After three days, the Frenchman could only conclude that he’d never met a barmier family – and that was saying something, given that he’d lived in England since his parents had fled France during the Reign of Terror.
As a babe in arms, Raphael had had no idea that his family’s exile had been carefully orchestrated by the British Intelligence services. Neither was he cognisant of the fact that his father had been what amounted to a spy for the British since well before Rafe’s birth.
As minor French nobility, Etienne Augustin had enjoyed far more freedom for a much longer period than his wealthier counterparts, but perhaps inevitably, his name eventually came to the unfortunate attention of Jacobin fanatics, forcing him to escape with his family into the arms of France’s greatest enemy.
Raphael had been raised and educated in England with the specific purpose of one day returning to gather intelligence on French émigrés, royalist plots and the ever-shifting political landscape of post-revolutionary France.
By 1831, Rafe occupied a unique position in London society. Publicly, he was a charming courtier and cultural advisor, while secretly, he monitored the French émigré community for signs of sedition, tracked the movement of revolutionary sympathisers and managed a network of informants across both England and France.
Which was why the recently unveiled Revisionist plot had come as such a shock. In truth, Raphael hadn’t had even the faintest idea of their existence…
Henrietta loved all her cousins dearly, especially Roseanna and Francesca. The three of them had been close as children and were even more so now, though it had to be said that once they’d grown out of childish pursuits, Roseanna very often eschewed their threesome, preferring her own company. In truth, Henri had recently found herself a little worried that Rosie was turning into a recluse. Which just emphasised the old adage of never judging a book by its cover. How on earth her introverted cousin had managed to win the heart of a strikingly handsome Frenchman, who was apparently wealthy and certainly no footman, while simultaneously helping prevent a treasonous plot against the King, Henrietta had no idea.
And now, seated on a blanket next to Blackmore’s lake watching them speaking together, Henrietta felt the first stirring of a completely unfamiliar emotion. Jealousy.
Frowning, she looked down at her lap, surprised to see her fingers twining themselves together. It felt as if they belonged to someone else.
How could she be jealous of her cousin’s happiness? It went against everything that made Henrietta who she was.
Indeed, she’d always prided herself on being both practical and sensible, but with a well-developed sense of curiosity and a compassionate streak that admittedly sometimes got out of hand – the sheer number of waifs and strays employed at Redstone House gave testament to that.
Jealousy though? That had never been part of her character. But now, staring down at her twisting hands, she found herself wondering what would have happened if she’d met Tristan Bernart earlier. Before Roseanna.
Why hadn’t her father introduced them? If he and Tristan had been friends and partners for as long as it was claimed, why had she never known about it? Biting her lip, Henrietta stilled her fingers and forced the uncomfortable feelings deep down inside. Her father had many business friends and acquaintances. It would have been strange indeed for him to introduce them all to his family.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up, making an effort to join in her cousins’ banter. Peter was showing Victoria how to skim a pebble across the lake. Hampered by her skirts, Tory had requested Lilyanna’s help in lifting the hem off the soft mud at the lake’s edge and, to everyone’s amusement, both women were in danger of tumbling directly into the cold water. Fortunately, Peter was able to drag them both away from the edge before disaster actually struck, but the accompanying hilarity had likely been heard back at the house.
As she watched, Henri found herself joining in the laughter, and to her relief, the unfamiliar jealousy faded. Shaking her head at her cousins’ antics, she found her eyes travelling once more to the three figures standing in the distance. Clearly, Francesca was taking her role as chaperone very seriously, though she was facing away from the couple towards the lake.
Forcing her eyes away, Henrietta allowed her gaze to travel across the peaceful water. The day was warm but with the slightest hint of autumn, and the grounds were resplendent in their late summer adornment. Blackmore was beautiful at any time of the year and much grander than her family’s home in Torquay. The difference had never seemed to matter though, and the entire extended Shackleford family had spent many wonderful summers swimming in the lake and playing in the fields and meadows.
Abruptly, Henri’s gaze alighted on a small figure walking along the far edge of the lake. After a second, she realised it was the King’s man. The one left behind to supposedly get to the bottom of the conspiracy. So far, her uncle Nicholas had kept him at arm’s length due to Tristan Bernart’s injury, but Henrietta guessed that now the counterfeit footman was up and about, King William’s representative would want to hear about everything that had happened.
Watching the man’s progress, Henrietta found herself wondering about him. She’d barely paid him any attention, preferring not to catch the eye of someone rumoured to be a spy for the King – though what she thought would happen if they actually exchanged a sentence, she wasn’t entirely sure. It was merely that to her inexperienced eyes he looked dangerous. Though now she thought about it, she couldn’t actually remember anything about his features. In her efforts to avoid attracting his attention, she’d barely allowed herself to look at him, let alone speak. She didn’t even know his name.
As far as she was aware, he’d been taking his meals alone in his bedchamber – he’d certainly made little effort to socialise with the family. Likely he thought them all dicked in the nob. She found herself grinning again, wishing she could be present during the upcoming interview. Not that there was even the remotest chance of that – unless she could find somewhere within listening distance to eavesdrop.
The last week had been undeniably exciting, particularly to the younger members of the family, who’d been inclined to view the so-called conspiracy as a bit of a lark.
Until the bullet intended for the King had struck Tristan Bernart.
Henrietta shuddered as she remembered the sudden deafening silence after the shot rang out. Until that moment, no one had had the slightest indication that there was anything between Rosie and the supposed footman, and her abrupt, terrified cry had added another layer of unreality to what already felt like a fantasy.
During the days that followed, the sense that they were all living in a bizarre dream deepened, with the King demanding answers while his entourage searched every inch of Blackmore and Tristan fought for his life. It was only when the Frenchman was finally pronounced out of danger that the King returned to Whitehall, leaving his agent to pursue his enquiries. Though she hadn’t seen it for herself, Henrietta had been told that the Comte d’Ansouis had been taken under armed guard back to London. She suppressed another shudder at the thought of what would likely happen to him as a traitor.
Henri shook her head to rid herself of such maudlin thoughts. The whole family were going their separate ways on the morrow, and she was determined not to spend the last day with her emotions tied up in knots. She looked over at Roseanna, who was now walking slowly along the path skirting the lake, back towards their picnic. She was arm in arm with her beau, who was plainly still recovering from his wound, while Francesca deliberately dawdled behind. Even from here, her happiness was palpable and in direct contrast to her earlier envy, Henrietta felt a sudden bubbling of joy for her reclusive cousin.
If such happiness could happen to Rosie, whose wont was not even to leave her bedchamber unless forced, then it could truly happen to any of them…
‘Tare an’ hounds, I think it’s about deuced time Jenny and Brendan took you home,’ Reverend Shackleford commented sourly.
‘Ah dinnae ken wha’ the devil ye mean.’ Dougal Galbraith’s tone was the epitome of innocence, even as the grin on his face told a completely different story. ‘Ah bin thinkin’ tae stay a wee bit longer, see a wee bit more o’ Devonshire afore ah gae back tae Caerlaverock.’
The Reverend gazed at the Scot in horror. If Jenny and Brendan returned north without him, there was only one person who would be tasked with keeping the troublemaker in check. Augustus Shackleford gritted his teeth. Surely the Almighty wouldn’t be expecting still more from him? Wasn’t foiling yet another deuced treasonous plot enough to guarantee him celestial tea and toast when the time came? It had to be said that so far retirement was not turning out to be all the Reverend had hoped.
‘Ah ken ye be a busy man, Augustus,’ Dougal went on oblivious to his companion’s expression, ‘So dinnae fash yersel, ah’ll nae bother ye.
‘As ye ken, ah niver bin daft aboot all ye Sassenachs, an’ ah bin thinkin’ it be time ah put ma prejudices tae bed.’ He waited for a second, likely expecting the Reverend to pat him on the back for such words of self-sacrifice. However, when the clergyman said nothing, Dougal frowned slightly before throwing his hands wide and declaring dramatically, ‘As ye all be ma daughter-in-law’s family, ah’m gaun tae stay wi all o’ ye.
‘An ah’ll dae it one at a time…’
‘I had not anticipated your family members departing quite so swiftly,’ Raphael commented through gritted teeth. ‘One evening to question everybody involved is not nearly enough time.’
Nicholas Sinclair stared at Augustin impassively. He gave no sign that it had indeed been a deliberate ploy on his part to keep the agent from questioning his family, though clearly the Frenchman suspected as much.
‘We have told you everything we know,’ he responded truthfully. ‘I do not believe the conspiracy had anything to do with your countrymen aside from the fact that the Revisionists’ leader was impersonating one.’
‘You cannot say such a thing with certainty,’ Rafe retorted, trying to keep his anger in check. He looked around the Duke’s study. It was clear that none of the men in the room trusted him. ‘And I cannot discount the fact that Monsieur Bernart here is also French.’
‘As are you,’ Jamie Fitzroy commented mildly.
‘Why would he have gone to such lengths to save the King’s life if he’d been part of the conspiracy?’ In contrast, Adam Colborne’s voice was clipped.
Rafe spread his hands, unable to contain his frustration. ‘I am not your enemy, gentlemen. I am the King’s man, tasked with ensuring his majesty’s continued wellbeing.’
‘And I applaud you for that,’ Nicholas responded. ‘However, you must understand our concern. We are not in the business of putting our families in harm’s way. You have not been entirely truthful with us, Monsieur Augustin. You are not simply King William’s man – you are the head of his intelligence agency, and I’m given to understand that your remit is to search out and deal with rumours of French insurrection. In my opinion, what happened here has nothing to do with events across the channel.’
Raphael felt a calmness settle over him. The Duke of Blackmore was no traitor - of that he was certain. But he could not be so sure of the others around the table. Especially the sea captain. Roan Carew had been tasked with rescuing the real Comte d’Ansouis together with the man who’d taken his place - Etienne Babin. Rafe very much doubted it was his only clandestine operation on French soil. And Tristan Bernart had been working for the man ever since.
But it was becoming very clear he would get nothing more in Blackmore. He would return to the King and ask permission to question Roan Carew further.
‘What exactly dae ye think we could be guilty of?’ Malcolm Mackenzie quizzed him. Rafe looked over at the grizzled Scot. For a reason he wasn’t privy to - aside from the fact that the man had nursed Bernart back to health, the Duke’s valet of all people had been invited to the table.
‘It would be remiss of me to leave any stone unturned,’ was all Raphael responded. ‘I’m certain you are all very aware of Les Trois Glorieuses - the July revolution replacing King Charles X with his cousin Louis Philippe, the former Duke of Orléans. French insurrections rarely take place without some repercussions across the Channel.’
