Whether it was hearing words such as “gunpowder,” “ target site,” and “detonated” uttered in Louisa’s distinctly feminine tones or simply the implications of the words, Greville visibly shivered.
“There’s one more thing.” Without waiting for any encouragement from Greville, Drake went on, “While arranging for the search tomorrow, we—Earith, Lord Michael, and I—will simultaneously alert the officers in charge of the various guard details to the real nature of the threat. In short, that there truly is gunpowder to be found. There’s no point in a search if the guards aren’t aware that there may well be something dangerous to find.”
Greville frowned. “Can’t you…? I don’t know. Invent something so there’s no chance of panic.”
“Not really, no.” Drake’s voice had taken on a gentle, almost hypnotic quality. From the corner of his eye, he saw Louisa cast him a wary glance, but he didn’t take his gaze from Greville’s face. “As you’re aware, there’s the matter of honor between families, at least among families such as the Cynsters and Variseys. And, of course, the Grevilles. Among the ranks of guard officers are many who are either friends or connections to whom Sebastian, Michael, and I owe a degree of loyalty. Not informing those gentlemen of the very real nature of the threat would be…put simply, not the done thing.”
“It’s certainly not something you can ask my brothers or Lord Winchelsea to do.” Louisa’s tone even more than her words made that beyond plain.
Greville was cornered, and he knew it. Tight-lipped, he nodded. “Very well. But I will ask you—and Lady Louisa’s brothers”—that was said with a stiff tip of his head her way—“to stress the importance of keeping a very tight rein on this situation. Nothing must find its way to the newspapers or be bandied about in any public forum.”
Drake inclined his head. “I’m sure all those with whom we will speak can be trusted to keep their lips shut.”
Greville’s jaw clenched, then he shook his head and muttered barely audibly, “Be it on your head.”
Louisa smiled brilliantly, effortlessly capturing Greville’s attention as, in a frothing of silks, she rose—bringing him, slightly flustered, to his feet. Her smile didn’t dim as she kept it fixed on his face, but the edges it grew could have sliced steel. “But you’ve already ensured that it is, haven’t you?”
It took Greville a second to connect the two sentences, then he flushed. Uncertain, thrown off balance by a threat he hadn’t until then correctly gauged, he jerkily nodded to Drake as he, too, came to his feet. “If you’ll both excuse me, I must get on.”
With that stilted farewell, Greville bowed—from a distance—to Louisa, then made for the door in uncharacteristic haste.
As the door shut behind the Home Secretary, Drake found his lips curving in an irrepressible smile. He glanced at Louisa. “I hope your mama doesn’t decide we’ve overstepped the mark in sending him fleeing.”
Louisa blinked. “Heavens, no—Mama would have said much worse. Especially about his last comment. Really! He’s lived all his life in the ton—he knows perfectly well what the unwritten rules are.”
And she, as her mother and grandmother before her, was one of the socially acclaimed protectors of those rules. As was his mother, if it came to that.
Drake drew in a breath, rapidly reviewed, then stated, “There’s nothing more I can accomplish here.” He glanced at her and formally inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Don’t be silly.” She looped her arm through his. “I’m going with you.”
He hesitated for a second too long before asking, “Where are we going?”
“To Cross Lane, of course. To search through Lawton’s lodgings in case there’s more to find.”
He gave serious thought to trying to deny her, yet looking into her eyes and seeing not only her stubbornness but also her obdurate determination and her unwavering commitment to forging ahead—by his side to the very end—he simply couldn’t. He sighed and agreed, “Of course.”
Together, they quit the room, went down the stairs, collected her cloak and his greatcoat, then walked out into the night.
CHAPTER 39
G riswade put paid to two of the merchant Hunstable’s four delivery men that night. It was almost too easy.
He’d kept watch on Hunstable’s premises over the past days and had discovered that two of his marks frequented the Crown and Anchor, the public house he’d previously used for his last meeting with the bargemen from the brewery.
So he’d already been familiar with the amenities the area afforded.
The bodies of the bargemen had slipped beneath the dark waters of the Thames the night before. In the darkness that engulfed the lower, riverward section of the street, it had been easy to cosh them senseless. Then the wire had come out, and he’d finished them off before rolling their bodies into the water at the nearby largely unfrequented water stairs.
Disposing of tonight’s pair had been even easier. They’d never seen him before, so when they passed him in the street, they’d had no idea he’d harbored any interest in them. Much less a murderous intent.
The cosh had fallen twice in rapid succession, and the rest had gone without the slightest hitch.
As he slid the second body into the water, he regretfully acknowledged that he wouldn’t be able to use the spot again. Luckily, the other men from Hunstable’s he had yet to dispatch drank at a different pub. He would deal with them tomorrow.
His grisly task complete, Griswade straightened and listened, instinctively checking for any sound, any suggestion that someone had seen him. All that reached him was the near-hypnotic lapping of the river against the stone. He’d always found the sound soothing—a lullaby for the dead.
With midnight approaching and all done for that day, he let his mind turn to the next. To the matters still outstanding to which he needed to attend.
It had proved extremely helpful that the days preceding the culmination of the old man’s plan included Saturday and Sunday. It was essential to remove all four of Hunstable’s men in such a way that the merchant wouldn’t have time to find experienced replacements before the crucial delivery. And killing four men in one night was stretching things, even for Griswade. But with the timing as it was, he’d been able to remove two tonight, and once he accounted for the other two tomorrow, there would be no obstacle left standing in the way of the grand finale.
Griswade smiled to himself, then peered across the dark water to make sure the latest body was slipping away on the tide. Reassured on that score, he turned and walked away from the river. As he trudged up the street and around the bend to where the lamp outside the Crown and Anchor still shed its welcoming light, his mind refocused on his one remaining niggle of uncertainty.
He’d killed Badger, then searched Lawton’s lodgings. In hindsight, he might have done better to reverse the order. It would have been easier had he thought to ask Badger for Lawton’s address book before strangling the little toad.
The problem was, he wasn’t even sure Lawton had kept such a book. He hadn’t found it when he’d searched, and he was reasonably certain Lawton hadn’t been carrying it when he’d been shot. If he had, surely by now, someone would have come calling, asking questions at least, even if they could have no real notion of what was in the wind, much less that he, ex-Captain Bevis Griswade of the Royal Hussars, was involved.
Regardless, if Lawton had kept any record of Griswade’s or the old man’s address—even just a jotting to aid his memory, never mind anything more incriminating—then the chances were that any such evidence was still somewhere in Lawton’s rooms.
When Griswade had searched, he hadn’t looked for secret hiding places; he hadn’t tested the floorboards or the bricks around the fireplace.
As he tramped through the night-dark streets, passing into and out of the cones of light shed by the streetlamps, his jaw set. He didn’t appreciate the niggling awareness of potential vulnerability that hung over his head like a sword of Damocles
. He didn’t have time for distractions, not now, not while he needed to focus to ensure that the old man’s plans ran smoothly. Not while he’d yet to secure the inheritance the old man had promised.
There was one surefire way of guaranteeing that no clue left by Lawton could come back to haunt him. His lips curving slightly at his own wit, he continued to stride west. He passed several available hackneys, but decided he didn’t want one—there was no need for any jarvey to remember a fare heading toward Cross Lane. Besides, it was too early yet, and he had preparations to make. By the time he had everything in hand and reached Cross Lane, the moon would have set, and the night would be dark enough, the street deserted enough, for his purpose.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1850
CHAPTER 40
It was after midnight when Drake, with Louisa beside him, walked into Cross Lane. With the St. Ives House staff so very busy, rather than attempt to have Louisa’s usual carriage brought around, he’d suggested they walk the short distance to the Wolverstone House mews and take his private carriage instead.
They’d left the carriage in the charge of his personal coachman-cum-groom, Henry, in Long Acre and had walked to the corner of Cross Lane.
Now, as they picked their way over the lane’s uneven cobbles with Louisa leaning heavily on his arm, Drake was rethinking the wisdom of acquiescing to her accompanying him. Cross Lane ran north to Castle Street, and just a few blocks to the west, Castle Street led into the notorious slum of Seven Dials, a fact of which he was all too aware. The potential for dangerous misadventure had been high enough when they’d first come there in the small hours of Thursday morning. Although nothing had occurred on that occasion, to again escort her, dressed in her finery with a king’s ransom in pearls dotted about her person, up the dark, narrow lane felt too much like tempting fate.
At least she was once again swathed in her voluminous velvet cloak; she’d put up the hood and was holding the dark folds tight about her, effectively concealing the shimmering silks of her dress. Even in the poor light, those layers of silk would have gleamed like a beacon of wealth and riches.
Tonight, there was no hint of fog, but the sky was heavy with cloud; there was little moonlight to pierce the gloom.
His senses at full stretch, he scanned the shadows. As luck would have it, while there were several groups of people at the far end, the stretch of the lane they had to cover appeared deserted. Despite his misgivings, they reached the door between the bakery and the stationer’s shop without incident.
As before, the street door was unlocked. They climbed the stairs, him in the lead, with Louisa’s hand locked in his, while with her other hand she managed her rustling skirts. On reaching the narrow landing at the top of the stairs, he wasn’t entirely surprised to discover that the door to Chilburn’s rooms had been locked.
Louisa had halted one step down from the landing. He glanced at her; in the dimness, he could barely make out her face. He released her hand. “Wait there.”
Predictably, she humphed, but stayed where she was.
He reached into his greatcoat pocket and drew out the lock picks he rarely went anywhere without. Courtesy of the prevailing darkness, he took more than a minute to ease back the bolt. After returning the picks to his pocket, he opened the door, stepped inside, and halted with his body blocking Louisa’s path, giving his senses time to stretch and search for any lurking danger.
There was none; he knew beyond question that the rooms lay empty. Smoothly, he walked forward, allowing her to follow him into the main room.
Louisa put back her hood and glanced around. The window overlooking the street had been left uncurtained, but tonight, very little light seeped in, and the room lay shrouded in shadow. Drake had gone to the sconce on the wall; she waited for him to light it.
The flame flared, then steadied; Drake reset the glass, then walked to the window and closed the thin curtains.
She shut the door to the landing, then studied the space.
What furniture there was hadn’t been moved, yet the room looked quite different from when they’d last visited—a great deal more bare. A collection of boxes was stacked on and around the circular table.
She went to the boxes, lifted the flaps, and peered in. “Someone’s packed Lawton’s effects.” She checked the contents of all the boxes. “His papers, cups, plates, clothes, blankets, sheets, and all.” She glanced at Drake; he’d walked to the doorway of Lawton’s bedroom. “I’m sure you’re more expert in finding secret places. I’ll search through what’s been packed while you look for any hiding place where Lawton or Badger might have concealed something helpful.”
Drake turned from surveying Lawton’s room. “This room’s been cleared out. Badger’s closet, however, doesn’t appear to have been touched.”
She crouched and opened one of the boxes on the floor. “I’ll look in there once I’ve finished with these.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Drake scan the room, then he walked to the desk and started examining it, hunting for secret drawers.
She left him to it and concentrated on checking through the contents of the boxes. All those on the floor contained household goods and linens and nothing else. She rose and opened the first of the four boxes on the table. “Hmm—they’ve put all his papers in one box. Do you want to look at them again?”
“Can you see anything other than papers in there? Any little black book or notebook?”
She hunted through the box. “No. Nothing but loose papers. Nothing that looks like something we haven’t already examined.”
“No use, then. Leave them.”
She was only too ready to do so. She moved on to the next box, which contained Lawton’s shaving brush, shoes, and other odds and ends, all of which she deemed entirely uninteresting. The last two boxes contained Lawton’s clothes.
Drake left the desk and moved toward the front of the room, examining the floorboards and skirting boards and the old wainscoting along the way, until he reached the window seat built against the wall below the window.
Louisa lifted out Lawton’s greatcoat. She put her hands in the pockets, then felt the seams and even ran her hands over the lining, to no avail. Next, she lifted out his smallclothes and set them aside, then quickly checked through his shirts. She humphed and set them on the pile as well. “These are of very good quality. Hoskins and Sons.”
“No one said Lawton didn’t have good taste.”
“Despite this place, he certainly seems to have preferred the finer things in life.” She reached deeper into the box and lifted out two coats of superfine. She carefully checked the pockets, even the linings. Nothing. A tweed hacking jacket yielded the same result. Grimacing, she laid the coats aside and peered into the box. Two pairs of buckskin breeches and one of twill lay at the bottom. She hauled them out and dutifully searched the pockets. Nothing in the buckskins, but from a pocket in the twill breeches, her questing fingers drew out a piece of note-sized paper.
She dropped the breeches on the pile and eagerly smoothed out her find.
“What is it?” Crouched beside the window seat, Drake had looked her way.
She read, then frowned. “That’s odd. This is an accounting from the Three Feathers posting inn in Reading. For a meal and ale.”
“What’s odd about that?”
“The date. October twenty-fourth. That was…the Thursday before last.” She paused and raised her gaze, staring unseeing across the room as she rapidly reviewed the details in her memory. “Chilburn met with the three Chartist leaders on that Thursday evening, here, in town. And he was here on Wednesday afternoon to receive that message from the shifty-looking character, along with the keys to the warehouse. He was actively engaged with running the plot, and it was moving ahead—all here in London.” She looked at the bill. “So what was so important in Reading that he left his doings here and traveled out there?”
When she glanced Drake’s way, he met her eyes and nodded. “Good question. Keep it.” He turned back
to the window seat. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
She tucked the note into the tiny pearl-encrusted reticule that dangled from a gold chain looped over her wrist. There was nothing else to find in Lawton’s clothes. She put them back in reasonable order, then shut the boxes.
Drake had moved on to the fireplace; on the wall opposite the door, it was located closer to the window than the rear of the room, facing the center of what had been Lawton’s sitting area.
Louisa turned and went to the doorway to Lawton’s bedroom. Bare walls, bare floor, bedstead with a lumpy old mattress. She walked to the chest of drawers, drew out the drawers and checked the undersides, and also looked to see if anything was affixed to the underside of the top, but there was nothing there. She raised the mattress; there was nothing hidden between it and the straps supporting it. After letting the mattress fall, she scanned the floor, including under the bed, but could see no sign of any loose board. If Lawton had had a hidey-hole, it seemed more likely to have been in the main room.
She walked back through the doorway. Drake was still testing the fireplace bricks. She turned to her right and went into the small, not to say tiny and cramped room Badger had made his domain.
As in Lawton’s bedroom, there appeared to be no sign of a loose floorboard or skirting board or even a place in the wall that might conceal any secret place. She felt the pockets and lining of the suit hanging on the back of the door and patted the spare shirt and collar on the shelf and found nothing.
She considered the bed, a simple truckle-like affair. Unlike Lawton’s bed, it hadn’t been stripped. Seeing no reason not to, she gripped the sheet and thin blanket and drew them off the pallet. She bent and examined the pallet, but found no slits or inexplicable lumps, bumps, or bulges; she even turned the pallet over, but other than stains, there was nothing to be found. Just to be thorough, she stripped the flat pillow and examined that, too, but still found nothing.