Helena’s fine brows rose. “Certainly there should be.” She glanced at Lady Osbaldestone. “I believe several of Hawesley’s siblings are here. I cannot imagine you would have thought to ask them, yet as we know so much of our grandchildren’s lives”—Helena directed a soft smile at Michael—“so, too, they may know something of their nephew’s. It will be worthwhile to ask.”
“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone shifted on the chaise and peered through the crowd. Then she beckoned Cleo closer and pointed. “There—the lady in the green turban and the one sitting next to her. They’re Hawesley’s older sisters. They have families of their own, and I doubt they will mind speaking of Hawesley’s black sheep.”
“Thank you.” With a smile and a curtsy, Cleo took her leave of the old ladies. With deferential nods, Michael followed her lead.
It took them some time to make their way to the other ladies, but as he and Cleo were the secondary focus of interest at the ball, once they’d paused beside the ladies’ small chaise, both ladies quickly moved to engage them.
He was impressed by Cleo’s verbal deftness in turning the conversation to Lawton by apparently suddenly recalling that she’d heard he’d died.
The ladies exchanged a glance, then the turbaned one turned to Cleo and conspiratorially remarked, “He was no great loss, my dear. Terrible to say such a thing of one’s nephew, but truly, he gave poor Lavinia—his mother, you know—gray hairs at every turn. Hawesley had quite washed his hands of him.”
“Oh yes.” The second lady tightened her shawl about her shoulders and took up the tale. “And that was years ago. He utterly denounced the boy—well, young man as he then was. A no-account profligate—I remember Hawesley calling Lawton that.”
“Why, I recall…” The first lady, apparently Lawton’s oldest paternal aunt, continued with a story illustrating, if nothing else, that Lawton’s family had, indeed, had their patience tried to the breaking point.
And the tirade, delivered as a duet, didn’t end there.
In the end, even Cleo had had enough. She put a hand on the turbaned lady’s forearm. “I’m sorry to derail such a fascinating tale, but we’ve just been summoned by Michael’s mama. If you’ll excuse us?”
Keeping her smile in place, she curtsied, and Michael half bowed, and in rapid order, they made good their escape.
“Phew!” Once they were safely screened by the dense crowd, Michael caught her eye. “We already knew that the Chilburn family isn’t exactly sincerely mourning Lawton, but after hearing all that, if I didn’t know better, I’d be inclined to suspect one of the family had done the deed.”
She threw him a warning look; it had been he and she who, firing simultaneously, had shot Lawton dead.
She looked ahead, then pointed. “I think I can see Sebastian and Antonia over there.”
Michael looked, confirmed the sighting, took her arm, and steered her to safety.
CHAPTER 38
Drake whirled Louisa down the ballroom. Tonight, she was gowned in an ethereal confection of gauzy silks in a variety of greens arranged to resemble a cascade of leaves. Her bare shoulders rose from a delicate screen of small “leaves” affixed to the sheath of her bodice, while the full skirt was formed by layer upon layer of the same translucent silks cut in the shape of larger leaves.
The result, in his eyes, rendered her distinctly fey—a nymph or perhaps a dryad—and also beyond alluring, especially as she’d chosen to wear her pearls again. Pearl bobs dangled from her ear lobes, and single pearls were scattered through her black curls, while a short rope of smaller pearls looped around the comb that anchored her upswept hair.
Given the effect her appearance had on him and suspecting it would affect others equally if not more so, in light of his recent decision vis-à-vis her, he’d decided there was no point putting himself through the aggravation of dealing with her usual court. Since he’d arrived, he’d managed to monopolize her time, apparently to her satisfaction as much as his; she’d neither complained nor attempted to draw her coterie of admirers to her.
That she was holding herself ready to deal with Greville the instant the Home Secretary appeared hadn’t hurt.
They swirled through the turn at the end of the room with elegant precision. As they once again started up the length of the ballroom, he scanned those congregated about the doorway.
“Stop looking,” she warned, “or people will notice and start watching us just when we don’t wish them to.” When he dutifully returned his gaze to her face, she bent a chiding look on him, then her features eased to their customary confident serenity. “I’ve asked Crewe to send a footman to find me the instant Greville darkens the front door. With luck, we’ll be able to intercept him immediately after he makes his bow to Mama and offers his felicitations to Sebastian and Antonia.”
As far as it went, that was an excellent plan and one he saw no reason to quibble over.
“I’ve been thinking,” she went on, and he refocused on her face and saw a frown lurking in her eyes, “about Lawton’s lodgings. We searched his rooms, but we were looking for papers and letters—anything that might have indicated who he was working with.”
He wondered where her unpredictable mind was leading her.
“And, indeed, someone had searched before us, and they, too, had been looking through his papers, so presumably there was something written—or at least the other party, the one who searched, thought there might be something written—that might implicate them. Them or others involved in the plot, or perhaps even details such as where the gunpowder was to go.”
She paused, frowning more definitely.
He looked up and steered her on. “I’m following so far.” Albeit rather less easily than, transparently without thought on her part, her feet followed his through the revolutions of the dance.
“We tacitly assumed,” she went on, “that whoever had searched before us would have found anything overtly incriminating and taken it away—but what if he didn’t find everything?”
It was his turn to frown, although he managed to keep the expression from his face. “Between us—that other party and the pair of us—I would have said the place was searched fairly thoroughly.”
“For papers left lying around, yes. But we didn’t search for any special hiding places. We didn’t even search Badger’s pockets.”
“True.” He’d been surprised that they hadn’t found any address book or the like. Most men carried one, but Chilburn hadn’t had one on him when he’d died, and they hadn’t found anything like that in his rooms; he’d assumed whoever had searched before them had taken it.
“And we didn’t really search Badger’s little room—not properly. We didn’t look for any hidey-holes in his area, either—at that time, we didn’t know he’d been killed.” She was warming to her theme. “If Badger hadn’t known something, then why was he murdered? Yet he was, so ipso facto, it’s likely he knew something the garrotter didn’t want him to reveal.” She raised her gaze and met his eyes. “We should check if Badger had written anything down and hidden it somewhere in his room.”
It was a long shot, but…experience had taught him never to discount such a cast.
Especially when proposed by a source such as she. He was learning to respect her instincts. Her logic might not always be entirely robust, but there was that uncanny perspicacity that ran in her family…he felt as if ignoring that would be to invite peril.
He was about to open his mouth and agree when movement at the edge of the dance floor caught his eye. A footman stood, hand half raised, trying valiantly to attract their attention without alerting the entire room.
Drake changed course abruptly, but Louisa adjusted without any misstep. He whirled her to a halt; his arm about her waist, he guided her out of the stream of circling couples at the spot where the footman waited.
The footman looked intensely relieved. “Message from Crewe, my lady—your gent is on his way up the stairs…” The footman’s gaze shifted to where the duke and
duchess were still receiving. “And there he is now.”
“Thank you, Gregory. You can return downstairs.”
Gregory bowed and departed. From beside Drake, Louisa surveyed Sir George Greville as he made his bow to her parents. “He’ll have to congratulate Sebastian and Antonia before we can whisk him away. Can you see them?”
“They’re standing to the left.” Drake paused, then said, “All right. Let’s head that way.”
They didn’t hurry. By the time they approached the small group that now contained Sebastian, Antonia, Prudence Cynster, one of Louisa and Sebastian’s cousins who was also a longtime friend of Antonia, and the Home Secretary, Greville had made his bow to the affianced couple, acknowledged Prudence, exchanged comments and pleasantries all around, and was on the verge of moving into the crowd.
Abetted by Drake, Louisa positioned herself so that when Greville withdrew from the group and turned, he found himself facing her.
The consummate politician, Greville smiled delightedly. “Lady Louisa.”
“Mr. Home Secretary.” She smiled and gave him her hand.
Greville bowed low. As he straightened, she flicked her fingers at Drake. “I believe you’re well acquainted with Lord Winchelsea.”
“Indeed.” Greville exchanged nods with Drake. His gaze remained on Drake’s face—that Greville wished to ask about the plot but knew better than to raise such an issue in the middle of a crowd was obvious.
She smiled more brightly. Stepping to Greville’s side, she linked her arm in his; he looked at her in surprise. “If I might suggest, Sir George”—she began to steer him through the crowd—“a few moments in a more private setting might be useful. For all of us.”
Drake fell in on her other side.
Greville noticed, and his resistance evaporated. “Indeed, Lady Louisa—a few quiet moments would be most helpful. I take it you have some place in mind.”
“Indeed, sir.” She guided him out of the ballroom into the large foyer, then along one of the wide corridors that led deeper into the mansion.
They didn’t go far. She halted before the second door along the corridor, waited while Drake reached past her and opened the door, then led the way inside.
Drake waited for Greville to follow, then brought up the rear and closed the door.
He glanced around. The room had been prepared for their use. The wall sconces and two lamps had been lit and shed a warm glow throughout a comfortable small parlor.
Still very much in command, Louisa waved Greville to an armchair facing the single sofa, while with a swish of her skirt, she claimed one end of the sofa, leaving the other end to Drake.
Greville sat, his gaze going from Louisa to Drake and back again.
Louisa smiled. “I should tell you that, along with Sebastian and Michael—and Lady Antonia Rawlings and Miss Cleome Hendon—I’ve been assisting Drake with this investigation.”
Greville looked uneasy. He glanced at Drake as if seeking confirmation.
Drake met his gaze levelly and said nothing.
Greville cleared his throat. “Have you found anything?” He directed the question to Drake.
“Something, but not everything, and not the most important thing—the gunpowder.”
“It’s still out there?”
“It is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“I should mention,” Louisa smoothly interjected, “that we—all six of us—have seen the evidence of the existence of this gunpowder, all ten hundredweight of it. We know it’s somewhere in London—almost certainly somewhere north of the Thames.” She paused, then almost pensively added, “Knowledge is one of those odd things—you can’t reverse it.” As Drake watched, she calmly met Greville’s eyes and quietly stated, “You can’t unknow it.”
Drake inwardly shook his head in wonder—and not a little awe. They’d barely started, and she’d already issued a very specific threat, one Greville had understood with perfect clarity if the faintly panicked calculation passing behind the Home Secretary’s eyes was any indication.
It was, Drake judged, time to step in. “There are, as it happens, several complications.” Greville’s gaze had swung his way as if hoping for rescue, but the word “complications” destroyed that hope.
“What complications?”
“First, a murderer who is ruthlessly killing his own henchmen after they carry out his orders. He’s killed ten men over the past week—we believe on the grounds that dead men can tell no tales. Add those to the three we believe Lawton Chilburn killed, and the count associated with this plot currently stands at thirteen. And there may be more bodies we’ve yet to find.”
Greville stared. “Chilburn? I heard of his death, of course—are you telling me he was involved in this?”
His lips thin, Drake nodded. “He was one of the…to use a chess analogy, knights who’ve been active in executing this plot. There is at least one other—the aforementioned murderer who is still out there and active.”
Greville looked faintly stunned. “So we have a murderer—a multiple-murderer—involved. And Chilburn—good Lord! Hawesley will have an apoplexy. Does he know?”
“Not yet. But,” Drake said, “let’s leave the ton scandals until they eventuate. Neither the existence of the murderer nor Chilburn’s involvement is the reason we’ve sought this meeting.” He paused, then said, “I’m sure you know what the date is. Put that together with ten hundredweight of gunpowder disguised as barrels of a popular ale and concealed somewhere in London on the north bank of the Thames, and Parliament is sitting.”
Greville’s eyes had progressively widened. “You can’t mean to suggest…”
Drake continued as if Greville hadn’t spoken. “And one last point which, in light of those facts, seems distinctly pertinent.” He captured Greville’s gaze and ruthlessly held it. “Unlike Guy Fawkes and company, these plotters have taken immense care to ensure that the powder they’ve amassed and, we suspect, are about to move into position at their chosen target is in excellent condition.”
Greville wasn’t a lauded politician for nothing; when his back was to the wall, he could think and scheme faster than most.
He didn’t look away but stared at Drake as he thought through all he’d heard, through the implications, and all he now had to fear.
Eventually, his lips tightened. He held Drake’s gaze for an instant longer, but finding no hint of softness there, finally asked, “What do you recommend we do?”
We, Drake noticed. Greville had realized that much, at least. “The least we should do is to mount a thorough search of all the likely buildings this group might target.”
Greville opened his mouth, but Drake stayed his protest with an upraised hand. “We will describe this search, occurring in the lead-up to the customary celebration of the anniversary of the Guy Fawkes plot, as an exercise designed to demonstrate to all concerned, but most especially to the public, that such a plot would never be allowed to threaten the realm again.”
Drake rather liked that turn of phrase; judging by Greville’s expression, the Home Secretary found it appealing as well. “It might even be wise,” Drake continued, “to encourage talk of such a search becoming an annual event to be triggered at some random date. Purely as an exercise in developing the necessary preparedness to deal with a similar plot should such a thing ever arise…” He smiled cynically at Greville. “I’m sure you can dress the matter up to best suit the government’s case.”
Greville’s gaze grew distant. After a moment, he nodded. “I take your point.” He refocused on Drake’s face. “Points.” Greville glanced again, briefly, at Louisa, then returned his gaze to Drake’s face. “Very well. You have the authority—my authority—to institute such a search. I take it you need nothing else to make it happen?”
“Your directive will be sufficient.” Drake paused, then continued, “I propose to conduct the search tomorrow, drawing in the guards to look for any of our specific type of ale barrel
s. It should be possible to complete a search of all government buildings within the day. However, it’s perfectly possible that we’ll find nothing tomorrow because the barrels won’t yet be in place. But we can’t know until we look.”
Greville frowned. “If you don’t expect the barrels to be there—”
“Greville, this plot hasn’t followed any of the customary rules thus far.” Drake allowed his frustration with political caution to seep into his voice. “I am not of a mind to take risks at this point. We know the barrels are close to their target. November fifth is Tuesday. How close to Tuesday the plotters will leave it before moving the gunpowder to their chosen target site is anyone’s guess. If it is already in place, then the sooner we remove it, the better.” He paused, then felt compelled to add, “My task is, as it always has been, to protect the realm from threats of this ilk. Your role in this is simple—to let me do the job I agreed to take on.”
To give Greville his due, he didn’t look away. After a moment, he inclined his head. “Yes. All right. So you’ll conduct a search tomorrow, but you consider it an outside chance that the gunpowder will be found. Is that correct?”
“In essence, the Sunday search will be a dry run. It will allow the guards to note all the places in which barrels might be concealed and, if possible, reduce access. Subsequently, if we don’t locate the gunpowder by late on Monday, I intend calling the guards out again, and we’ll conduct a second search starting at midnight on Monday. If, as we suspect, the plotters plan to strike on Tuesday, they will almost certainly have moved the gunpowder into position by then. If we still fail to find the gunpowder, I propose ordering a strict embargo on all barrels even approaching those buildings. Until we have the gunpowder in hand, no one—politicians, bureaucrats, or even the military command—will be safe.”
Greville had blanched. He was unconsciously twisting the ring on one finger.
Beside Drake, Louisa stirred. “We should perhaps stress that after the search on Sunday, which we expect to be unfruitful, we will continue pursuing the investigations that have brought Lord Winchelsea to this point and following all avenues those investigations suggest. Our aim is to locate the gunpowder, preferably before it’s moved to the target site, but at the very least, before it’s detonated.”