A Thoroughly Compromised Lady. Bronwyn Scott
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pre-emptive action then. He was good at that. Jack took the liberty of pouring himself a brandy at the sideboard. He took a seat and expertly flipped up the tails of his evening wear, sliding a careful glance at Gladstone. He had personal reasons for not liking the man. Gladstone made no secret of his contempt for Jack’s inferior birth and first-generation title. But professionally, the man possessed an astonishing acumen for foreign intelligence.
‘Tell Wainsbridge what you’ve told me,’ William said.
Gladstone cleared his throat. ‘Venezuela is contesting its shared borders with British Guiana. They wish to extend their boundaries. It goes without saying that we are not interested in giving up our claims to that territory.’ Gladstone stood up and walked to a long table, gesturing for Jack to follow.
With a long finger, Gladstone traced the boundaries on a map spread before them. ‘The border in question is south-east of the Essequibo River.’
Jack nodded. He was one of the few who understood the magnitude of rivers in British Guiana. The marshy topography of British Guiana made coastal rivers the only thoroughfares into the interior. ‘This is no small contention. We’re dealing with approximately thirty-thousand square miles of property.’ In a land of marshes and rivers, such territory was worth squabbling over.
Jack looked up from the map, back to where William sat. This information was not new to him. Indeed, it had been at the root of his presence at the Fotheringay ball. What he didn’t know were the motives behind it. ‘Do we have any speculations as to why Venezuela is suddenly interested in this section of territory?’
For centuries, ever since Britain had first staked a claim to Guiana in the sixteen hundreds, Spain had not done more than establish a handful of missions along the border. The border had been undefined and peaceful. Of course, it was an independent Venezuela now, not Spain that shared the border. Perhaps after a little over ten years of independence, Venezuela was flexing its muscle in the region.
‘That’s where you come in, Wainsbridge.’ William leaned back in his chair, hands steepled.
‘Of course, anything, your Majesty. I am always at your service,’ Jack said easily, hiding his apprehension. He’d had to train himself over the last few years to stay alert in William’s presence. The man acted more like a retired naval officer—which he was—than royalty—which had been a far-fetched possibility once. It was easy to forget that the tall, white-haired man with a soft chin and friendly eyes commanded a nation. Being with the man felt almost ordinary, like being with a beloved uncle until one remembered that, unlike the uncle who could be refused, one could not refuse the king.
‘As you know, you’ve been asked to determine how real rumours of this border dispute are. I am interested in hearing how your evening went with the Venezuelan delegation.’
‘I met them, but just barely.’ Jack eyed Gladstone suspiciously. None of this was urgent or beyond what he already knew. Why the emergency summons?
Gladstone flicked a glance at William. ‘There’s been a further development. One of the gentlemen in the delegation is heavily influenced by a private and powerful consortium of Venezuelan businessmen who are eager to profit from the boundary dispute. We want to identify him as quickly as possible. It is believed the gentleman, whoever he is, may be in possession of a forged map that shows Venezuela’s “preferred” boundaries. He may try to pass it off as a legitimate document and use it as evidence to force a new treaty of limits.’
Jack immediately thought of Calisto Ortiz, his smooth manners and his ‘ombudsman’ attachment to the delegation—official but unofficial. Jack returned to his chair and sat back to give his report.
‘I think we can eliminate Adalberto Vargas. He’s the senior member, in his early fifties. From his manners tonight, he’s from a more traditional school of diplomacy. He’s not likely to be swayed by such risky and underhanded tactics like a forged map.
‘Neither would it be Hector Dias. He does not have either the suave mannerisms of Ortiz or the intellectual background of Vargas.’ Jack surmised Hector Dias was a man who’d no doubt begun his career in mid-level staff positions with various embassies and would likely end his career there as well. The cut and cloth of his clothes at the ball had certainly suggested as much. The man hadn’t the wealth at his disposal to match the wardrobes of Ortiz or Vargas.
‘So that leaves Calisto Ortiz,’ Gladstone put in, a note of triumph in his voice that it had been so easy to detect a likely candidate.
‘Yes. He’s the flamboyant charmer of the group. He’s also there as an ombudsman, so the rules he must follow are much more lax than the other two. His English is excellent, and his connections even more so. He’s a nephew to one of the regional Venezuelan viceroys with family connections to the governor. He’s a likely choice.’
‘We’ll start putting together a more detailed dossier on him now that we know what to look for,’ Gladstone said. ‘If he’s so well connected, British intelligence surely has information on his family. Perhaps he’s organising a plantation movement. Plantations are big business in that part of the world.’
‘Not that big,’ Jack scoffed at the theory. Gladstone scowled at him, the old antagonism between them rising.
‘I’d love to hear your ideas,’ Gladstone retorted.
Choosing to ignore the slight, Jack returned to the map and stared thoughtfully at the outlined area, an idea forming in his mind. Businessmen weren’t interested in the natural beauty of a land. There was something lucrative in the river valley, a valuable resource.
He spoke a single word to the room at large. ‘Gold.’
‘Gold?’ Gladstone replied, incredulous.
‘You forget, I’ve actually been to the region. I was there in 1830 after I helped Schomburgk on his Anegada expedition.’ Jack smoothly interjected his credentials into the conversation. His work there had laid the grounds for being awarded the viscountcy. ‘The river valleys are too wet and the forests in the interior are too dense for serious farming. Businessmen aren’t looking to put up a plantation community in this region. No profit.’ Gladstone looked like he’d gladly throttle him.
William broke in to defuse the tension. ‘We want to be certain in regards to what they’re after. We can use that knowledge to grease negotiations if we must. Until then, Wainsbridge, Ortiz is yours. I want to know what has made the area an urgent point of interest and how far they’re willing to go to get it.’
Dismissed, they took their leave of the monarch and made their way through Clarence House to the front door. Jack was glad he had his coach. He did not want to share a hackney with Gladstone. They stepped out into the night air.
Jack’s coach waited at the kerb but Gladstone couldn’t resist a final jab as Jack stepped up to the door. ‘I hear we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Dulcinea Wycroft.’
‘You hear the most amazing things, Gladstone,’ Jack returned.
‘I see them too, sometimes,’ came Gladstone’s cryptic reply.
‘You’ve never got over Lady Dulcinea jilting you.’ Jack’s reply was cool, but inside he was seething. Gladstone must have had men watching the ballroom that night, checking out the Venezuelan delegation on his own even though Jack had been given the job. He would not put it past Gladstone to have forced a meeting tonight simply to drag him away from Dulci.
Anger clouded Gladstone’s face. ‘Behind those clothes you’re nothing but a scrapper, a no-account country squire’s son. I can only imagine how many boots you had to lick to rise this far.’
‘Whereas I am sure you’re quite clear on the boots you’ve had to lick. No imagining there. Your family’s been currying favour since the sixteen hundreds. Dirty business that, two centuries of boot-licking.’ Jack stepped into his coach and held the door open for a moment. ‘Goodnight, Gladstone.’
He slammed the coach door and sank back against the squabs, less sanguine than he’d let on.