Adam Blake & the Spymaster: The Adam Blake Chronicles, #1

By John C De Groot

A delightfully disgraceful romantic and often dangerous romp through the 18th century Georgian Age of Enlightenment by Adam Blake, the illegitimate son of Sir Francis Dashwood, Master of the Hellfire Club of the Monks of Medmenham Priory and Annie Blake an orphan from the Foundlings Hospital in London.

With the endorsement of King George III and the threat of war increasing between England and France over the independence of the American Colonies, Adam is reluctantly groomed as an agent of the Crown by the King's Spymaster Viscount Barrington and sent to America.

Charles Beaufort Duc De Montmerency, a French agent who has murdered Countess Caroline Adam's first love, has sworn to kill Adam after having been wounded by him and thwarted in his attempt to establish a spy network.

The security of Britain the fortunes of its army and the safety of its spies rest in Adam's hands, whilst he is torn between Lady Eleanor, a fellow spy, and Sophia Schwartz the self professed daughter of his deceased mentor. But all is not as it seems as intrigue and danger rush Adam towards an unexpected and deadly conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C De Groot
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215865606

John C De Groot

Albert Einstein said that ‘it is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge’. That was certainly the case with my high school history teacher, who brought history alive and started my fascination in Ancient and Early Modern history. There are countless mysteries that still remain unsolved and I have a real suspicion that we have lost or forgotten more knowledge than we have ever gained. After a career in business, business support and as a trainer for Dale Carnegie, I did some consulting. It was a client who once said to me that ‘I was a useful man to have around’, based to some degree on my ability with the written word. When retirement loomed his words, my interest in history and a very patient and supportive wife encouraged me to ‘put pen to paper’ and with heart in hand resulted in my first book ‘The Quest for Eternal Life', the first in the ‘Last Librarian’ Series. That was several books ago in a growing portfolio.

Book preview

Prelude – Mayfair London 1922

The article in the newspaper was starting to annoy me intensely, until I had to declare out loud in the privacy of my own drawing room.

Damned politicians! Lloyd George is an incompetent idiot!

And in my disgust I threw the newspaper down causing it to end up in a crumpled heap upon the Wilton.

I was still fuming when Charles appeared at the door. I’m sure I don’t know how he does that. One moment he’s not there and the next he’s standing there in his inimitably calm manner with his smug and rather haughty expression, as if ne’er shot nor shell would affect him. I’m convinced butlers spend half their off-duty time trying to perfect that look.

The Honourable Mister Stanley is here, My Lord, the wing collared, bow tied, tail-coated fellow said with a brief bow, completely disrupting my anger..

Yes, what ho, Charles. Send him up, eh. I commanded.

Stanley’s my oldest son. A tall beanpole of a man taking after his mother somewhat, Lord bless her soul. I’m his height, but more the middleweight boxer figure although my stomach has overtaken my chest in recent years, but still not a bad figure for sixty. Still catch the ladies eyes now and again. Stanley’s twenty seven now and trying to build a career in politics like we’ve all done before him.

Ah, here he is, his blond hair still falls in a large wave across his forehead just like when he was younger. And I see that Charles is hovering behind him.

Hello Stan, old chap. What’s potting? Haven’t seen you for ages. Pour yourself a scotch. You know where it is.

Charles has just looked skywards raised an affronted eyebrow and backed out of the room. He probably wanted to make a formal announcement of Stan’s arrival, as is his wont of course, but Stan’s given him a bit of a dismissive wave of his hand.

You shouldn’t be so Cavalier with Charles, you know Stan, he’s just doing his job. I chided.

Butler’s are a bit old fashioned, don’t you think. Stan responded.

Actually no, but we can have that discussion another time, I said a little abruptly.

Anyway, how are you Pater? Stanley asked, crossing to the small drinks cabinet and pouring himself a generous glass of my best whiskey. I saw him eyeing my discarded newspaper as he poured.

What’s this. Reading the Daily Mail, what! Stanley exclaimed, not waiting for an answer to his question about my health.

I leaned to one side from my wing chair and picked up the now dilapidated and scattered pages of the newspaper and searched through them.

Ah, here we are!, I declared holding up part of the newspaper where the words Daily Mail and the date the 15th September 1922 the front page announced. Sometimes the tabloids give an interesting view of things, I added in a matter-of-fact tone. Have you seen the damned mess they’ve got us into in Turkey, just listen to this.

‘Leader of the Turkish national movement Mustafa Kemal stated that Our demands remain the same after our recent victory as they were before. We ask for Asia Minor, Thrace up to the river Maritsa and Constantinople. We must have our capital and I should in that case be obliged to march on Constantinople with my army, which will be an affair of only a few days. I much prefer to obtain possession by negotiation, though naturally I cannot wait indefinitely.

I can tell you pater, Stanley interrupted my reading, that neither the army the politicians nor the public come to that want war. Between you and I it’ll cost the Conservatives the next election if they give territory away to the Turks and decide to dissolve the coalition with the Liberals.

Mmmm, I mumbled made a face and waved my own now half full glass of scotch. Anyway, to answer your earlier question I’m doing just fine, especially since you sent those boxes. But more of that in good time. Now sit down, sit down and tell he how goes your venture to become a Conservative Member of Parliament for, where is it?

Winchcombe pater.

Yes Winchcombe.

Well, Stanley looked glum, it’s all been a bit of a mess since the first general election after the Great War. The Conservatives are struggling to gain support and I’m not sure we’ll have made up a lot of ground before the general election in November. It’ll be hell if we have to govern with a minority."

I’m sure you’ll do well Stan.

I hope so, he replied a little more cheerfully. I was in London and wondered if you’d had chance to look at what was in those boxes I sent. Stanley said changing the subject. I guess he wasn’t up to one of our lengthy political arguments right now. He knows I’m a staunch Liberal.

I have, I have. Did you look at them before you sent them? I asked him with a bit of a sideways look.

Didn’t really have a chance. Did I tell you what a mammoth task it’s been to clear out the attics at Charnley Castle. I saw they had something to do with the family history, looked like memoirs of some sort and I knew you had an interest in our ancestors, so I just had them packed up in tea chests and sent on. Glad to have them out of the way to be honest.

I looked at him with one of my long practised steely and mischievous looks with a glint in my eye.

Haven’t seen that look in a long time Pater, in fact, not since you returned from Egypt at the end of the war in 1918, with your arm in a sling and a black patch over your right eye. And by the way, you’ve never told me the story of how that happened, he said a little hurt.

I wasn’t going to tell him it was the result of a scrimmage with the husband of a rather pretty French lady who’d returned home unexpectedly. Nearly lost me trousers that time, what. But I digress.

My name is James Blake seventh Baron Moorfield and its about time this young fellow learned some respect for our forebears, so I put my glass down rather decisively on the side table and jumped up from my chair.

Come with me Stan and let me show you something.

Stanley followed me out of the drawing room, down the passage and into the library. There six tea chests are stacked beside the tall window overlooking Down Street in London’s Mayfair. A seventh chest is open beside a reading table and some of its contents are strewn across the table, illuminated by a brass lamp. I strode across to the table, picked up a single page lying on top of a pile of handwritten manuscripts and handed it to Stanley.

You may find this interesting Stan, it was written by Adam Blake the 1st Baron Moorfield,  as I sat in one of the two tub chairs beside the table. Stanley was looking at the page with a ‘what now’ expression and then at me, before sitting in the other chair. He read for some minutes with some obvious difficulty, frowning often and re-reading some passages. Eventually he looked up blinked and shook his head.

I can’t make head-nor-tail of some of the writing. Was he drunk when he wrote it.

Not drunk Stanley, old, dying and writing in what would have been the style of the day. Here let me read it and explain it to you. I reached across and retrieved the page from Stanley’s outstretched hand.

Hrrumph, I cleared my throat, balanced my half moon spectacles at the end of my nose and with a bit of a fierce look at Stan over the rim, read.

‘It’s the 3rd November 1830 and I’m writing this note in the library of Charnley Castle. The snow is thick on the ground outside and that damned Alfred still hasn’t brought more logs for the fire, but never mind there’s no time to waste as it’s my seventy seventh birthday and I don’t think I have much time left anyway. I’ve had a grand life and a greater share of the good things of life than most, plenty of birds of paradise and even a diamond or two of the first water.

Seeing Stanley’s confused expression, I stopped reading.

You might guess that a bird of paradise was a woman of easy virtue, but a diamond of the first water was a particularly beautiful woman. Stanley nodded. I continued.

‘Even had some close shaves and always managed to come out right. Even when I didn’t have a sixpence to scratch with. Had a mill’, That’s a fist fight, I elucidated. ‘with the Prince of Wales once. Anyway, I digress.

Always been one to keep a diary of sorts, at least ever since I was in my twenties. For the past couple of years I’ve gathered together almost everything I’ve written and have added more to fill in the gaps, so to speak. You may ask why I’d go to all this trouble. Well, to be honest the estate’s in the suds and if something isn’t done it’ll be in the basket.’

He was in financial difficulties, Stanley said, but on the next line he says he’s swimming in lard. Surely that means the opposite?

Exactly right! I confirmed, before reading on.

‘Personally I’m actually swimming in lard, but I can’t let on otherwise it’ll be snatched away by those damned hangers-on who call themselves friends and relatives, and it’s one of the reasons I’m writing this tome. Now read on carefully.’

I looked up at Stan and removed my spectacles.

You can almost imagine a white haired, rheumy eyed, bent old man crouched over this paper in the ill-lit library of Charnley Castle, quill in hand and probably swathed in blankets and maybe a bed cap against the cold.  I couldn’t help but project the wonder and spirit that had been inspired by our ancestor. I replaced my spectacles and started to read again.

‘Before I go any further you must know that according to some I am a hero and to be looked up to as a fine example of Georgian manhood, but to others who perhaps know me better, I’m an unrepentant charlatan and opportunist much of which is true I’ll admit here, whilst some have spread damned hum and Banbury stories in my opinion.’

Rumours and falsehoods, I explained before Stan could ask.

‘Should you read my papers you may make an opinion of your own as to which I am, but if I am as accused by the latter then they are character traits that I inherited from my parents who I know were Annie Blake and my father, who was either Sir Francis Dashwood, Richard Grenville or John Wilkes and most likely the former.’

The quill pen wanders off a bit here. Perhaps his mind was wandering too. I mused to myself.

‘You may find my story from upstart to Bon Ton, from below hatches to rolling in blunt interesting, entertaining or simply a bag of moonshine, but I pen here and in the papers I leave behind me, the true story of my life.’

Stanley raised a questioning finger.

Bon Ton? he asked.

The upper classes, the fashionable society, I replied.

Ahaa, and below hatches to rolling in blunt, must be what we’d say is rags to riches.

You’re getting the hang of this old boy! I exclaimed as I put the note down on the table and removed my spectacles..

Stanley seemed a little lost for words, so I had to save him.

So it seems that Adam Blake, The First Baron Moorfield, Knight of Malta and the recipient of numerous awards for bravery was the by-blow, or as we know it the illegitimate son of a Lord of the Realm and a servant. Whilst he was a very capable fellow he was a self-professed coward and fraud, but seems to have had the luck of the devil by finding himself in the right place at the right time to almost by accident achieve the impossible, I added, rubbing my hands together as I considered that it was great news. The letter I’ve read to you was written and signed simply Adam Blake and dated the 3rd day of November 1830.

And what’s in these tea chests are his memoirs. Stanley said slowly.

Exactly, and if they are all like the papers I’ve read so far in this first tea chest they make very interesting reading, but they wouldn’t help your political career if they became public!

What do you intend to do with them pater?

Why, my boy! Read them all, of course!

Part One – Before the Storm

Chapter One – Annie Blake

Annie Blake sat up naked in the four poster bed. It was unseasonally warm on this Spring night and the drapes for the bed had been drawn back and the window thrown open. A warm breeze moved the lace edgings of the heavy curtains, now fastened back either side of the tall Georgian window. The faint light of a waning moon made the room a silvery haven safe from her real world, for the moment at least. One moon beam fell on an ormolu framed oval mirror on the mahogany dresser. She caught her reflection in it and immediately turned her head away closing her eyes tightly. It was still difficult for her to look at herself.

‘I must remember why’, she said sternly to herself, clamping her teeth together and compressing her full lips into a firm line. The man in the bed next to her stirred, grunting in his sleep and mumbling something unintelligible.

’A dream, perhaps’, she thought. She sighed and dropped her eyes to her hands, folded in her lap on the brocade coverlet. ‘Silk sheets make no noise’, she frowned, ‘not like the cotton sheets on the iron bed in my room at Medmenham Priory’. That room and her position as a Ladies Maid in the household of Sir Francis Dashwood were a world away from the luxury of this room.

Sir Francis stirred again and this time he rolled over onto his back and his eyes flickered open, bloodshot now from the orgy of drinking, blaspheming and debauchery earlier that night.

Annie looked down at him as he cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes. ‘He’s not a bad man’, she thought and shook her head slightly.

Can’t sleep, Annie, he said gruffly, but with a sleepy boyish smile.

It’s a beautiful night.

Sir Francis looked around.

Aye, ‘tis that Annie, and he reached across and cupped her pert breast in his hand. She gently took his hand and placed it unresisting on the coverlet.

Aye well I’m fair exhausted from the evening. Dare say I’d not be any good to you anyway, he chuckled softly, smiled a genuine smile at her. You’re a pretty light o’ love Annie, and with that he turned over and almost immediately started to snore gently.

‘And the damage is already done Sir Francis’, she sighed, ‘you and the other members of the Order of the Friars of Wycombe. What I don’t know is who the child’s father is, and I’m sure a child is growing in my body as there’s been no flow for the past two months, but her thoughts weren’t sad or angry and there was certainly no regret.

Annie was an intelligent woman of now twenty one years. She thought back to when it had all really started.

She’d been an orphan, had no idea who her parents were and knew that Annie Blake wasn’t in fact her real name, as everyone entering the Thomas Coran’s Foundling Hospital in London was baptised with a new name. All she knew was that she’d been left in a basket outside the doors to the Hospital in Bloomsbury along with a token from her mother to identify her should her parents ever return to claim her, but they never did.

The boys and girls were housed separately in opposing wings either side of a chapel in the impressive new buildings, lived by strict rules, wore uniforms and were properly schooled. By the time she was seven she could read and write and had the beginnings of an understanding of simple arithmetic, geography, history and music. She’d been a good student and had a genuine interest in most of the subjects. The teachers were very strict and some, whose physical methods of discipline were excessive were hated by the orphans, but Annie also learned very quickly to stay out of trouble. It earned her the scorn and bullying of some of her contemporaries until one day she retaliated and broke the nose of the ring-leader, a big girl with a piggy face who bullied other girls into following her lead. It was the only time that Annie got into real trouble and found herself in the Directors office. It cost her two weeks of extra kitchen and slop duty, but it had been worth it as she was then left alone by the bullies, who went off and found easier targets.

Annie was fifteen when she was lined up in the hall with other girls of a similar age. A large smartly dressed and rather fierce looking man with a red face and whiskers, and a diminutive woman dressed in a black dress with a white collar who looked even fiercer, arrived with one of the Directors. They’d walked up and down the line occasionally peering more closely at individual girls or asking them questions. The bewhiskered man had stopped in front of Annie, bent down and looked at her. She’d dropped her gaze, but he’d put out his hand and lifted her chin with a forefinger.

What’s your name girl?

Annie, sir. Annie Blake.

Well, Annie Blake, he’d said with some severity, what’s two plus two?

Four, sir, she’d answered without hesitation.

And how many ducks make five?

Why five sir, she’d answered a little surprised at the simple question.

Who’s the King of England, then?

King George, sir

He’d looked at her with a frown and narrowed eyes, as if the answer wasn’t good enough.

King George the Second, sir, she’d added.

The man had smiled instantly changing his fierceness to amiability. Annie had automatically smiled back.

Good, good, he’d nodded.

Open your mouth and stick out your tongue?

Annie had obliged.

Now show me your hands?

Annie held out her palms. He reached out turned her hands over and nodded. Then he’d called to the lady in black.

Let us see you walk to the far end of the room and back again.

Again Annie obliged, but even before she’d resumed her place in the line they were talking earnestly with the Director, and Annie saw the large man pass an envelope to him. Then they were all dismissed. Annie knew what had happened, she’d been told about it many times by the other girls, most of whom had gone now. Even so she’d not been in the line-up before.

An hour later with all her worldly possessions in a cloth bag tied with string, and still wearing the Foundlings Hospital standard dress, Annie found herself sitting in a carriage opposite the big man and the small woman. The streets of London rattled by until eventually they were in the countryside when the big man spoke for the first time.

Annie, my name is Mister Pierce and I am the Butler at Hedgington House. This is, he motioned to the woman beside him, Missus Peabody the Housekeeper. Missus Peabody acknowledged Mister Pierce with a brief nod. You will be working at Hedgington House under Missus Peabody’s supervision. When we arrive she will take you off to start your training. Do you understand?"

I think so sir? Annie had responded, not really understanding. But she was soon to learn that if she’d thought that life at the Hospital had been hard, life and work at Hedgington House was to be even harder. 

Another hour later they’d driven through high wrought iron gates, attended by a gatekeeper and were scrunching up a long driveway and around the back of a grand country house. The carriage had stopped in a huge stable yard at the back of the house and Annie stepped down onto the neatly raked gravel surface and into a new world.

Chapter Two – Annie’s Boy

Annie had become a confident girl while at the Foundling Hospital. It had been an environment where children either thrived, survived or died; she’d learned how to survive and with growing confidence had thrived, learning some valuable life lessons that would stand her in good stead for the future. Even before she entered her teens she’d realised that she was strong, not only in physical strength, but more importantly in her mind. She followed the rules, did her work without complaint, learned as much as she could and stood her ground against all-comers, earning their respect and giving her space and a comfort that she knew who she was. By the time she was in that line-up and was selected for a servant apprenticeship in Hedgington House, she was already an attractive girl. It was to be her good looks and sharp mind that would be the keys to her future.

Missus Peabody had taken Annie to her tiny office next to the kitchens and leaving Annie standing had taken her place behind her small desk and looked Annie up and down, a process that would have unnerved a lesser girl, but Annie had stood demurely and confidently. Eventually Missus Peabody had harrumphed and frowned.

You’ll start as a scullery maid, she said sternly, fixing Annie with narrowed eyes. You’ll be under the guidance of Missus Moss the Cook. You’ll do everything she tells you. Do you understand?

Yes Missus Peabody.

You’ll be taken now to your room and you will present yourself in the servants dining room at precisely seven thirty.

Yes Missus Peabody.

Without further ado Missus Peabody stood.

Follow me girl, and she strode from the room to the servants lounge where a young man in his early twenties in a footman’s uniform and an even younger girl in a black dress and white apron were sitting.

Rebecca!

Yes Missus Peabody, the girl called Rebecca responded, jumping up.

Take Annie here to the room that Alice shared with Rosemary. She can have Rosemary’s bed.

Yes Missus Peabody.

With that Missus Peabody had abruptly left the room.

Rebecca was a dark haired girl with pale skin and dancing dark brown eyes. She looked at Annie for a few moments before a cheeky smile appeared.

Come on then Annie. and she walked past Annie, giving her a knowing look as she brushed past.

Annie followed her up several flights of gradually narrowing and less well cared-for stairs until they’d arrived on a bare landing with several small wooden doors leading off. Rebecca walked to the furthest door and turning the brass knob thrust the door open, indicating with her head that Annie should go inside. 

The small room with its ceiling slanting sharply down to a tiny window contained two iron beds with thin mattresses and pillows, a thin blanket folded neatly on the end of each, a wooden chair and a small table bearing a chipped porcelain bowl and a jug that didn’t match. There was nothing on the bare wooden floor.

That’s your bed, Rebecca said pointing to one of the iron beds.

Thank you Rebecca, Annie had hesitated. What happened to Rosemary?

She’s dead! Rebecca declared. Make sure you’re at supper at seven thirty, and she’d run off without another word closing the door behind her.

Annie sat on her allocated bed, put her cloth bag on the bare floor beside her and for the first time in as long as she could remember she cried. 

She could hear someone walking down the corridor. The footsteps stopped at her door and as it swung open a dowdy looking girl around the same age as Annie was revealed. The girl hesitated as she closed the door speaking with her back to Annie.

You must be Annie. I’m Alice, and unbidden she came across and sat beside Annie who was still wiping her eyes.

Hello Alice.

Where are you from? Alice had asked.

The Foundlings Hospital.

Alice was silent she was staring at her hands that she was wringing in her lap.

Rosemary was from Foundlings, she said softly, and a tear ran slowly down her cheek.

Impulsively the two girls hugged each other and from that moment on they became firm friends.

Three years later Annie was nineteen and an Upper housemaid. Her rapid progress up the ranks of the servant hierarchy was in no small part due to the fact that she had developed into a very pretty, well mannered and presentable young lady. These attributes lent themselves admirably to duties that required interaction with both the family and visitors and, like footmen, she was expected to be more presentable and display those good manners. She now had a room of her own on a lower floor than the one she’d shared with Alice. She had better furniture, a carpet and a small wardrobe in which she kept the dresses and clothes more suitable to her new position. As an Upper housemaid it required her to work closely with the other Upper servants including the Steward, who was the highest ranking in the