Free Death of a Radical by Rebecca Jenkins Page B

emblem decorating one corner: blue cornflowers in a sheaf of corn executed in tiny, exquisite stitches. He returned it to Miss Lippett with a small bow. She sniffed.
    Up to that point he had been debating whether or not he should confess that he himself had witnessed the incident in question. At that moment he decided discretion was the better part and he would not offer up this information. He disliked strident females. Miss Lippett had her servant’s testimony, he told himself; there was no need for his involvement.
    â€œIndeed Mr. Prattman, I have come for the meeting,” he addressed the vicar. “But I fear that Colonel Ison and Mr. Raistrick have been delayed.”
    A look of pure panic crossed the vicar’s kindly, moonish face. “And Sir Thomas too.” He fixed his fellow man with a pleading look. “A terrible to-do. Miss Lippett was assaulted by a couple of ruffians, Mr. Jarrett.”
    â€œSo I understand, sir.”
    â€œVery distressing. In the open street. She is much upset.”
    â€œIndeed, sir.”
    Miss Lippett was impatient of such sentiment.
    â€œI wish to make my complaint,” she declared.
    â€œOf course, of course, dear lady; we need Pye, Mr. Raistrick’s clerk. Pye takes down the complaints.” Mr. Prattman’s gentle eyes beamed a silent appeal to Mr. Jarrett. Instead, it was Miss Lonsdale who came to his relief.
    â€œMiss Josephine, why do we not repair to a private parlor?” she suggested, her tone soothing yet firm. “Mrs. Bedlington may clean your coat for you and I am sure we both should benefit from refreshment. Mr. Prattman may send us the clerk to take down your complaint.”
    Miss Lippett’s face softened. She linked arms with Henrietta and patted her hand.
    â€œYou are my friend and a gentlewoman, Miss Lonsdale. I shall go with you. Send Pye to me,” she instructed Mr. Prattman with a curt nod. Henrietta Lonsdale piloted her charge out of the room. Jarrett watched them process down the corridor, the manservant following at a discreet distance.
    â€œMy man saw them,” Miss Lippett’s voice drifted back. “He saw the outrage.”
    Jarrett pushed back his chair, stretching out his legs as Colonel Ison called the magistrates’ meeting to order. Mr. Prattman had recovered his composure since his encounter with Miss Lippett. He sat looking up at thecolonel with pink cheeks, his rounded hands resting neatly on the table top. Frozen in an oasis of reverie, Sir Thomas of Oakdene Hall sat apart from the others, a little back from the table, both hands balanced on his gold-topped cane. Sir Thomas was the district’s sole baronet, heir to an ancient line. Although his Catholic faith excluded him from appointment as Justice of the Peace, the Duke of Penrith and his son the marquess excepted, Sir Thomas was the acme of Woolbridge society. Sir Thomas seldom voiced any opinion and it was the colonel’s habit to invite him to add the weight of his presence to the magistrates’ deliberations.
    â€œMr. Raistrick will be late,” announced Colonel Ison, giving the lawyer’s clerk a stern look. “It is inconvenient, Pye.”
    The lawyer’s clerk had a face so smooth it might have been fashioned from porcelain paste. He looked back at the colonel through dark almond-shaped eyes with an elfin detachment that might have been contempt. The colonel shuffled his papers.
    â€œWe will start without him.” The colonel paused impressively, his eyes traveling from face to face around the circle. “Discretion is of the utmost importance, gentlemen. This must not be discussed outside this room. I have called us together to invite my fellow magistrates to enact the Watch and Ward.” Mr. Prattman pulled a solemn face, expressing a little tutt. Colonel Ison half raised a warning hand. “I am apprised that secret combinations are organizing in this very district,” he