Drake grimaced. He glanced again at the lists.
Louisa reached over, twitched them from Michael’s grasp, and started studying them again.
“Whether we have your army to call on or not won’t make much difference,” Drake said. “There’s no way we can search the cellars of two hundred and eighty-seven different inns without creating a wave of rumors—and we definitely can’t do it in time.”
Michael caught Drake’s eye. “You think that wherever the barrels are now, they must be near the target?”
Drake weighed the notion before replying, “Near, at least. It depends on the date chosen for the strike, but this latest move should at the very least take the barrels close to their ultimate position—” He broke off, then continued, “Actually, that’s a very good point. It’s week’s end. If, as we suspect, the mastermind has some government or institutional target in mind, then there’s no sense detonating his barrels during the next two days. However, if he intends using the gunpowder on a day next week—and I can’t imagine he’ll want to wait longer—then yes, the barrels cannot be more than one last step away from their ultimate destination. They must be close, but possibly not quite there.”
“Did you notice”—Louisa looked up from her perusal of the list of individual customers—“that there are seventeen army or navy establishments who had fifteen or more barrels of Bright Flame Ale dispatched from the brewery since Tuesday morning?”
Drake grimaced. “Paradoxically, armed service messes will be the hardest to search. Those who watch over their cellars are inherently suspicious of anyone who comes asking questions about anything, let alone wanting to examine their stocks of ale. Major bureaucratic incidents have been caused by less.”
Louisa raised her brows. “That sounds like the sort of situation our hypothetical ex-bureaucrat might know and seek to exploit.”
Drake straightened. “All this is speculation. What we know is that the gunpowder has been disguised as fifteen barrels of Phoenix Brewery’s Bright Flame Ale, and those barrels are no longer in the brewery. If they left via the brewery’s delivery system, they could have been delivered or be en route to any of two hundred and eighty-seven cellars across London. If the barrels were removed at night using the dead men’s keys to the yard, those barrels could be anywhere at all.”
“They might,” Cleo said, “even be on a barge.” She glanced at Michael. “The sort used to ferry ale barrels.”
Michael pulled a face. “Our men weren’t watching for ale barrels—they paid no attention to drays or barges carrying the things.”
Looking down, Drake grunted. “Once again, we’ve been stymied by exceptional planning. Until Cleo asked her old gunnery officer, everyone we know, including the experts, swore that gunpowder couldn’t be transported other than in gunpowder barrels.”
Louisa shifted. “If we discard all notion of hunting through two hundred and eighty-seven inns, taverns, and service messes, what are our ways forward?” Before anyone else could answer, she raised a hand, clearly intending to tick off her points on her fingers. “One, we have the addresses of the two still-missing brewery workers—the second driver and the cooper’s apprentice. We assume both are dead, but we should check.” She glanced at the sky, which was steadily darkening. “That’s something Drake and I can deal with tomorrow.” She didn’t look at Drake but continued with her second point. “Then there’s the question of whether more relevant bodies have turned up at the morgue, and if so, whose bodies they are, and what their identities might tell us.” She glanced briefly at Drake. “You and I can follow up there after checking the two addresses.
“Then,” she rolled on, “there’s the search for the mastermind’s remaining henchman—the one who favors the garrote. We suspect he might be military, or at least ex-military, and has served in India.”
Drake cut a glance at Michael. “We should ask in the lowest ranks of military clubs and see if we can turn up anyone who was known to be friendly with Chilburn, or who was recently seen with him.”
Tight lipped, Michael nodded. “I’ll make a start on that tonight.” He looked at Cleo. “In the hells and clubs. You can’t come.”
Cleo shrugged resignedly. “I ought to check with Fitch and catch up with office business, anyway.”
“We also ”—Louisa tapped her fourth finger and spoke more firmly—“have the question of Lawton Chilburn and his associates and connections. We know he spoke of receiving some inheritance, but don’t know if he meant that literally or used the words as a turn of phrase to disguise a windfall from some less reputable source. When I get back to Grosvenor Square, I’ll ask Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone if there’s any known family member or connection who might be Lawton’s benefactor, but as Lawton’s sisters knew of no one, that doesn’t sound likely. More likely, as was suggested, it was a turn of phrase, but I’ll check.” She drew breath. “Regardless, he was anticipating getting money from some source, and surely someone in the ton must have some inkling of what he’s been about.”
She frowned and, in distinctly severe accents, stated, “Someone knows more than they’re letting on. Sebastian and Antonia will have been monitoring the social reactions to Lawton’s death during the events they had to attend today, but there’s a range of balls and soirees on tonight, and now the ton has had twenty-four hours to digest the news of Lawton’s demise, we need to circulate and see what we can learn.”
Drake eyed her without expression. “Why do I get the idea that by ‘we,’ you mean you and me?”
Louisa smiled tightly. “Because that is what I mean. You, me, Sebastian, and Antonia—we’re on duty in the ton tonight.”
CHAPTER 25
By ton standards, it was still relatively early in the evening when Drake caught up with Sebastian and Antonia by the side of Lady Ferris’s ballroom. The pair had crossed Michael’s path as he’d returned to St. Ives House, and he’d filled them in on the day’s events and what was expected of them that evening—something Louisa had later verified.
At that moment, a waltz was under way, reducing the ranks of those standing by the walls, thus allowing those not dancing to converse in relative privacy. Antonia had taken to the floor, leaving Drake and Sebastian to their ruminations.
“So,” Sebastian said, his eyes tracking his wife-to-be amid the revolving couples, “it comes down to the questions of who moved the gunpowder, now disguised as ale, and to where.”
His gaze fixed on the dance floor as well, without glancing at Sebastian, Drake replied, “I was considering dropping a word in Fitzwilliam’s and Simmonds’s ears.” The pair were another two gentlemen he occasionally recruited; like Sebastian and Michael, they were members of the loosely termed “sons of the nobility.” “I thought to suggest they spin some yarn and check the cellars of the seventeen service messes on the brewery’s delivery list… But if we fall back on the argument of how I would run this plot, then even if we check those locations, I would predict we would find nothing at this point.”
“Because if a mess—or the building in which the mess or its cellar is housed—is the intended target, the barrels won’t yet be there?”
Drake nodded. “This plot positively reeks of politics. To my way of thinking, that means that, at the earliest, the boom won’t come until sometime on Monday…” He let the sentence trail off, momentarily distracted as, sparked by his own words, a notion that—surely—was far too fanciful flitted through his brain.
As his mind flirted with the prospect, the waltz drew to a close. The dancers swirled to a halt, then Antonia was returning, smiling as her brother Julius led her back to Sebastian’s side.
And behind Antonia and Julius came Louisa, laughing and angling her intriguingly enchanting smile up at a clearly smitten Lord Peter Wallace, who gave every appearance of being utterly in thrall. Literally entranced. Or ensorcelled.
Inwardly, Drake shook his head. It was an effort to keep his lips from setting in a disapproving line. Tonight, Louisa wore a ball gown of shimme
ring bronzy-colored silk, a hue that somehow heightened the impact of her striking features—of her lustrous black hair, of her pale skin, rose-tinted lips, and her startlingly clear, peridot eyes. In keeping with the latest styles, her shoulders were bare, but as usual, she’d eschewed all frills and furbelows; her gowns, and she in them, were all the more noticeable because of the lack of ostentatious decoration. That evening, the only addition she’d made to her own bounteous charms was a long—very long—rope of perfect ivory pearls that looped around her neck twice, one loop closely encircling her throat while the other hung over her breasts almost to her waist. The clasp of the pearls, formed from a large, flawless, oval peridot set in a frame of very fine diamonds, nestled just above her collarbones.
As she glided nearer and her gaze rose to meet his, he reminded himself that he had known for decades that she was dangerous. Supremely dangerous.
She was the sort of woman men fought wars for.
And given the effect she had on him, given his reaction to her laughing, teasing—wide-eyed and too-knowing—glance, she was more dangerous to him than to anyone else.
This was, in fact, the second time that evening that their paths had crossed. Earlier, while he’d circled Lady Humphrey’s ballroom, speaking to friends and acquaintances and hoping the crush would screen him from the gossipmongers, he’d spied his nemesis in gay converse with a circle of admirers. He’d pretended not to notice and hoped he’d remained out of her sight. Ruthlessly, he’d focused his mind on dredging for clues, hints, innuendos—anything that might cast light on Lawton Chilburn and his recent activities.
Although he’d quartered the large room, he’d heard nothing of any real interest, but judging by her scintillating animation, he’d suspected Louisa had fared better. Concealed—he’d hoped—within the crowd, he’d drawn close enough to overhear her declare that she was heading to Lady Ferris’s event. Only then had he recalled she’d intended to speak with her redoubtable grandmama and the even more formidable Lady Osbaldestone about Chilburn.
Now, meeting her vibrant eyes—for just one second, swept by a longing to lose himself in the pale green—he held firm against the temptation, yet he needed to speak with her.
He waited while she greeted Julius and glibly exchanged comments with Antonia about this and that—the usual chatter to be found in a ballroom.
Accepting that no other opportunity was likely to eventuate, resigned, he waited until the musicians commenced tuning up for the next measure. At least Louisa was of an age that he didn’t have to wrestle with the restrictions of a dance card.
Ignoring the incipiently dark looks thrown his way by Lord Peter, who clearly viewed him as a competitor of sorts—a thought Drake shoved to the back of his mind—he arched a brow at Louisa, and with the easy charm he could summon when it suited him, half bowed and smoothly inquired, “Dare I hope for the honor of this dance, my lady?”
She smiled her brightest smile; her eyes danced with an appreciation, an understanding, he inspired in no one else. “If you wish it, my lord.”
He hoped only he caught the teasing note in her voice, hoped even more that only he could read the blatant challenge in her eyes.
That only he understood its genesis.
He grasped the gloved hand she offered him, feeling her fingers fine-boned and delicate under his while she dismissed Lord Peter with boundless charm and one of her glorious smiles, then excused them to Sebastian, Antonia, and Julius.
When, finally, she turned to him, he drew her arm through his, anchored her hand on his sleeve, and led her to the dance floor. On gaining it, he released her only to draw her into his arms, then he stepped out, and they were whirling, revolving and circling, and for those moments, cocooned in a world of their own.
One in which they could share secrets and talk of matters that needed to remain private.
He looked at her face, surveyed her serenely confident expression, then met her eyes—and lost at least a minute while trapped within their web of enchantment. While the reality of how well they moved together, how effortlessly she matched his stride, how supple and svelte she was in his arms, impinged and distracted him.
As was becoming his norm, even once he’d realized he’d been ensorcelled, it took effort to pull free; he wished, fervently, that his inner self would cease being seduced by her, but that seemed to be nowhere in his stars.
Ruthlessly, he bludgeoned his wits into concentrating on the plot. Gunpowder. Over a thousand pounds of it. Somewhere in London under the control of a warped mastermind. “What have you learned about Chilburn? Did your grandmama and her visitor have any useful insights?”
Unlike him, she seemed to have no difficulty focusing on the plot while whirling down the room. “Insights, they had, although as to how useful, I’m not sure. Apparently, they both view Lawton Chilburn as a weak-willed, feckless younger son, a wastrel in every sense of the word. Worthless, unreliable, and untrustworthy were a few of the epithets they suggested for his gravestone. As for any inheritance, they said there’s an ageing bachelor uncle on his mother’s side, two spinster aunts on his father’s side, and several ancient connections, but Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone both felt that in all cases, any inheritance was unlikely to come to Lawton. Much more likely that it would fall to his eldest brother or, in the case of his aunts, to one or all of his sisters. Especially as the lack of esteem in which Lawton was held by his nearest and dearest seems to be reasonably well known.”
Louisa detected the frown forming behind Drake’s golden eyes. Of a curious shade of hammered gold, his eyes were more often than not unreadable, as, in general, was his face. But she’d noticed he was increasingly less on guard with her than he was with others. Nevertheless, as she studied his features, she still couldn’t guess what in her report had occasioned that frown.
Boldly, she asked, “So what did you learn?”
Briefly, his gaze dropped to her eyes, then he raised it as they continued to whirl. “In short, not a lot, but I’m struck that, in large part, Lawton’s acquaintances echo his family’s views. I found a few who had known him from schooldays, but while the general consensus described him as the sort always ready to indulge in some prank, none seemed to retain the slightest affection for him. I was left with the impression that Lawton had either cheated them and they knew or suspected it, or that he’d done something similar to sour them to the extent of severing all contact. Not one of them came even close to being willing to recommend him as a secretary.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Is that how you disguised your interest? By putting it about that you were thinking of hiring him as your secretary?” The possibilities rolled through her mind. “What a very good idea.”
He made a dismissive sound. “You usually get an accurate idea of how others view a gentleman by asking if his friends are willing to stake their honor on his character.”
She was honestly impressed and stored the notion away for future reference.
The waltz proved to be a relatively short one. Drake gave mental thanks as they whirled to a halt, then he realized they were at the other end of the ballroom from where they’d left Sebastian and Antonia. Before he could inquire if Louisa wished to be escorted thence, she claimed his arm—which, he supposed, answered his unvoiced question.
Girding his loins against the inevitable effect of keeping her so close—or at least wishing he could—he steered her up the long room.
The crowd was at its height, and their progression was slow, not least because they were constantly waylaid, their attention claimed by one group after another.
He found the sensation evoked by gimlet eyes, curious and unrelentingly fixed on him, irritating. He responded by affecting a distant, rather chilly mien and leaving the verbal replies to Louisa, which, of course, she handled with aplomb.
As they made their slow way up the room, he became aware that while he viewed such social interactions as dull and boring, having her on his arm lent the exchanges a subtly dangerous, almost t
hreatening edge—one that kept his mind and senses engaged. That kept him on his mental toes.
Several minutes pondering that odd occurrence led him to admit that, in this sphere, he didn’t entirely trust Louisa.
In all other public spheres, in all the exchanges and interactions they’d shared while investigating the plot, not trusting her had never occurred to him, not even in some distant recess of his mind.
Socially, however, while they were in a ballroom surrounded by the ton and not actively pursuing some clue, his instincts nagged at him to remain vigilant—over her.
She was Lady Wild; he should never forget that.
She was capable of almost anything.
Couples were gathering for the next dance, and those not intending to indulge stepped toward the sides of the room. Drake was cravenly grateful that Louisa gave no sign of wishing to join those crowding onto the dance floor; the sensations evoked by whirling down a ballroom with her in his arms tugged at impulses and instincts he was finding he needed to expend increasing effort to restrain.
When it comes to waltzing with Louisa, once per evening is enough.
He blinked, then almost laughed at the thought…except it was nothing more than the truth. Keeping his inner door firmly shut on all that she evoked—provoked—keeping his mind away from every last memory of their recent kisses, were battles he had to win. Neither he nor she could afford to be distracted at the moment.
With the waltz under way, their rate of progress increased. Then he noticed she was unobtrusively surveying the guests.
When she caught him glancing at her, she leaned more heavily on his arm, tipped her head closer to his, and murmured, “As one might expect, Lawton’s sisters aren’t here, but rather surprisingly, his sisters-in-law are, although they are in black and not dancing.” She glanced ahead. “It’s difficult to see that other than as a statement…”