The woman’s lighter footsteps drew nearer. Drake recognized them—too light to be Victoria.
What the devil was Louisa up to?
“Mrs. Proudfoot? Are you there?” The Queen’s voice rang out from the storeroom at the top of the stone steps.
Obviously, Louisa was a superb mimic. Then Drake remembered she was considered a past master at charades.
The door at the top of the stairs had swung partially closed. Now it was pulled fully open, and Louisa appeared on the landing, wearing a dark velvet cloak with its ermine-trimmed hood up and drawn forward to shade her face.
She was several inches too tall to be Victoria, but seen in isolation, unless the viewer was very familiar with the Queen, the difference wasn’t easy to discern. The heavy cloak swathed her figure from head to ankles, disguising the lack of matronly weight, and the hood was so deep it effectively hid her features.
The cloak was one Victoria was frequently seen in, the ermine trimming distinctive.
Drake took in the spectacle with one swift glance, then refixed his gaze on Griswade’s face. Drake realized he was holding his breath, yet even now with, as far as Griswade knew, his queen looking down on him, the damned man kept most of his gaze and most of his attention trained on Drake.
A muscle twitched in Griswade’s jaw.
“Good gracious! What on earth is going on here?” Victoria’s outraged accents fell on their ears.
Mrs. Proudfoot had frozen, her gaze fixed on the cloaked figure. She’d realized the woman wasn’t Victoria. Drake thanked the Lord that, holding her as he was, Griswade couldn’t see Mrs. Proudfoot’s face.
“What is this all about?” Imperious demand rang in Victoria’s voice. Then the cloaked figure swept regally, commandingly, down the steps. “Unhand that woman at once, sir!”
Griswade almost flinched. He didn’t know what to do, but he plainly saw Louisa-Victoria as the lesser threat and stubbornly kept his gaze mostly trained on Drake. He hadn’t eased his hold on the garrote, and the pistol he held never wavered.
Louisa had enough sense not to get between Drake and Griswade. She fetched up on Drake’s right, blocking his view of the fuse still smoldering its way across the floor toward the barrels of gunpowder.
The cloaked figure regarded Griswade with the air of one stunned by his failure to immediately comply with her order. Then Louisa drew herself up with an aplomb that was pure Victoria and asked with terrifyingly regal disdain, “Do you know who I am?”
For a fraction of a second, Griswade’s gaze flicked to her, but instantly, he swung his eyes back to Drake. “I…” Griswade clamped his lips shut. He only had to wait a few more minutes… Drake could almost read Griswade’s mind. Shoot Drake, hit the Queen over the head, strangle Mrs. Proudfoot, and run like the wind.
“Great heavens! What’s this?” Apparently, the cloaked figure had just noticed the burning fuse.
Before Griswade could react, she took three steps toward it.
“Stop!” Griswade’s voice was a hoarse rasp.
The figure halted, reacting as if shocked that anyone would dare order her about. She was still more than a yard from the red end of the fuse.
His gaze still on Drake, Griswade licked his lips and pulled the wire tighter around Mrs. Proudfoot’s neck, bringing the poor woman once more to her toes—then quick as a flash, he pointed his pistol at “the Queen.” “Take one more step, Your Majesty, and your Mrs. Proudfoot dies. And so will you.”
With the pistol aimed unwaveringly at Louisa-Victoria, Drake was still held at bay.
The cloaked figure regarded Griswade.
Assuming he had “the Queen” under his control, Griswade’s gaze returned to Drake.
Then Louisa’s voice said, “All right. Not one more step.”
From the corner of his eye, Drake saw her bring her right arm out from under the heavy cloak. Almost unable to believe what he was seeing, he turned his head in time to see her send a pitcherful of water splashing and washing over the fuse.
The fuse sputtered and died.
Griswade froze, staring at the extinguished fuse in utter disbelief.
Drake was already moving.
Already plowing his shoulder into Griswade, driving the man against the barrels behind him, simultaneously locking both hands about the hand in which Griswade was holding the pistol and, by sheer, ruthless strength, forcing the pistol down.
There was only one safe place for a bullet to go.
With Drake’s help, Griswade shot himself in the foot.
Louisa had rushed in. Instinctively, Griswade had released his hold on the garrote to grapple with Drake; Louisa grabbed Mrs. Proudfoot and pulled her away.
On a bellow of pain, Griswade dropped the spent pistol and lunged for Louisa.
For Drake, it was a moment when the world stood still.
Louisa saw Griswade attack, but with Mrs. Proudfoot sagging in her arms, weighing her down, was unable to move—
Griswade didn’t so much as touch the ermine-trimmed cloak.
He might have been a coldblooded killer, but he’d finally crossed paths with someone even more ruthless. Even more skilled.
Drake clapped his hands on either side of Griswade’s head and sharply wrenched.
Louisa could barely believe how quickly and silently a man could be killed.
Or as the case was, executed.
After that one swift jerk, Drake removed his hands, and Griswade’s body crumpled to the floor.
For a moment, Drake looked down at Griswade’s still-twitching form, then he raised his golden eyes—solid beaten gold—to meet hers. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
His voice was deep, his tone harsh.
She held his gaze for a heartbeat, then haughtily arched her brows. “I’m not. If he’d lived, I would have insisted on a front-row seat at his execution.”
Somewhat to her relief, Drake’s distant, impenetrable, and impervious expression softened fractionally, then his lips twitched—which seemed to surprise him. He turned away, then bent and ripped the fuse from the barrel into which it had been set and flung it aside.
Louisa returned her attention to Mrs. Proudfoot. The poor woman was struggling to breathe while holding in her sobs. Louisa hushed her, then set about carefully peeling the wire of the garrote from her neck.
Drake came down on one knee on Mrs. Proudfoot’s other side and, with infinite care, took over the difficult task of easing the wire from the flesh into which it had cut.
Leaving him to finish the task, Louisa took one of Mrs. Proudfoot’s hands between hers and lightly chafed it. “You were exceedingly brave.” Drake eased the garrote completely free and tossed it aside, then together, he and she helped Mrs. Proudfoot to her feet.
Above them, heavy boots thundered down the stairs just as a rush of equally heavy footsteps came bursting through the front door. The two groups met in the front hall and milled, uncertain.
Mrs. Proudfoot had jumped. Louisa calmly patted her hand. “The cut on your neck needs to be bathed and salved, but no one will see any scars—not unless you wish to show them off, of course.” When Mrs. Proudfoot shot her a startled look, Louisa smiled. “Not many ladies can claim to have been wounded while assisting in saving the Queen from assassination.”
Mrs. Proudfoot blinked, then looked much struck—and much less cowed.
Thumping footsteps raced closer, then a gaggle of guards led by Mr. Proudfoot burst into the cellar. The Keeper rushed down the stairs, his eyes only for his wife, who he dragged into his arms and frantically clutched to his bosom. Quite overcome, he rocked from side to side. “Glynis! Glynis! I thought I’d lost you.”
“No, dear.” Mrs. Proudfoot patted his shoulder. She was rapidly regaining her composure. “Apparently it will take more than the likes of him”—she glanced at Griswade’s body and sniffed—“to make away with me. This gentleman came, and then Lady Louisa as well, and it all turned out all right.”
To Louisa’s mind, Mrs. Proudfo
ot’s precis was an accurate condensation of the essential facts. Drake had come, then Louisa had arrived, and now all was, once again, safe and sound and right in their world.
It took her and Drake, working together, fifteen more minutes to reassure the numerous senior officers of the Tower that the threat was, indeed, at an end. The realization that, purely on the basis of a uniform, Griswade had been able to freely enter the Tower and, without being challenged, gain access to the Jewel House mere minutes before the Queen had been due to arrive resulted in several red faces. The revelation that the officers’ mess housed ten hundredweight of gunpowder caused an even bigger furor and a great deal of discomfort. Better care would be taken in checking items admitted to the Tower henceforth.
Finally, Drake and Louisa, now hand in hand, freed themselves from the melee on the grounds of needing to report to the palace.
They emerged from the Jewel House to find guardsmen everywhere, but Henry, perched on his box in the shadow of the White Tower, saw them and set his horses pacing, guiding the carriage through the crowd to pull up as close as he could manage to the steps.
They descended and walked to the carriage. Drake opened the door, handed Louisa in, then called to Henry, “Buckingham Palace. I gather we’re expected.”
He followed Louisa into the shadows and the leather comfort of the carriage. He sank down beside her and leaned back against the squabs. His heart had slowed from its earlier thundering, but was still beating too fast.
The carriage rattled out of the Inner Ward, through the archway of Middle Tower, and out onto the street.
The side-to-side rocking as the wheels negotiated a gutter pitched Louisa against his shoulder. Instead of straightening and shifting away, she settled closer. Seconds later, he reached for her hand just as she reached for his. Their palms slid together, and they gripped, then twined their fingers and rested their linked hands on his thigh.
Uncounted minutes later, once the reality of her soft warmth beside him had finally penetrated to every level of his brain and the iron vise about his lungs at last released, he drew in a deep breath and, with his gaze fixed ahead, in an almost conversational tone murmured, “I have no idea how I feel about you doing what you did. Walking into a situation like that with only a pitcher of water for protection. It’s”—raising his free hand, he rubbed his temple—“a little hard to…accept.”
She didn’t immediately reply, then he felt her lightly shrug. “I didn’t have much time to plan. I’d crept to the door and smelt the fuse burning, so I went and got the pitcher of water and then organized some of the guards to help me pretend that the Queen had arrived.”
Drake couldn’t imagine the scene that must have ensued when she’d arrived at the Tower gates; he wondered how long it would take for the guardsmen she must have lorded—ladied?—it over to recover from the experience.
Matter-of-factly, she went on, “I couldn’t think what else to do, and in the end, it worked. The explosion didn’t happen, and the garrotter is dead. We won. The mastermind lost.” She glanced at him. “What more needs to be said?”
Her last sentence translated to: What else had he expected?
He decided she was right, or at least that there was no point arguing. Not yet. Perhaps later, when they were alone and not likely to be interrupted, and he’d worked out what he should do about her. About a wife as focused, as determined, as single-minded and as relentless as he.
One who would stand with him shoulder to shoulder and hold the line and never surrender.
A quiet voice in his mind softly scoffed. What could he say?
What could he do?
Effectively nothing, other than accept that being her husband looked set to be the ultimate, even predominant, challenge of his life.
CHAPTER 58
Both the Queen and Prince Albert needed to prepare for the state banquet that evening, which restricted the time available for Drake and Louisa to report on their foiling of the plot. Regardless, the royal couple insisted on hearing sufficient details to understand what had transpired. They received Drake and Louisa in Albert’s private drawing room, with only the prince’s private secretary and the Queen’s equerry in attendance.
After they’d performed the usual low bow and curtsy, Victoria waved them to sit in armchairs facing the royal couple, who were seated on the sofa side by side. “Very well,” Victoria said. “Lord Winchelsea, Lady Louisa, please start at the beginning. Lady Louisa’s earlier account was decidedly scant on detail.”
Advised by the equerry, who had met them downstairs and escorted them to the drawing room, of the need to be concise, Drake and Louisa were only too happy to oblige. They stripped the plot to its bare bones, commencing with the events at Pressingstoke Hall and the consequent involvement of Scotland Yard, then proceeding to the arrival and subsequent disguising and transporting of the gunpowder, noting the many murders ruthlessly committed to conceal the trail, eventually leading to the explosive being stored as ale in the cellar beneath the Jewel House.
Throughout their recitation, Drake made a point of ensuring that the suborning of several Young Irelander sympathizers and the hoodwinking of Chartist militiamen was seen for what it was—a deliberate manipulation to cast blame on the two organizations, blame that was not deserved. “Neither organization was involved in the slightest.”
“Good gracious.” Victoria shook her head as if overwhelmed by the scope of the intrigue. “I am greatly relieved to hear that.”
Albert looked grave. “The gunpowder is now in the hands of the Tower guards?”
Drake confirmed that was so and that all was now safe.
Albert looked directly at Drake. “And the men who executed this plan are both dead?”
Again, Drake confirmed that. “But they were merely the henchmen of the man who devised the entire scheme.”
“And who was that?” Victoria demanded. “Lady Louisa merely called him ‘an old gentleman.’”
Revealing the identity of the man they now knew to be the mastermind behind the entire plot required a certain degree of tact, given that it was Victoria’s own long-ago behavior, excusable though that had been, that was the root cause of the entire episode.
Drake left Louisa to skate over those facts, a feat she accomplished with her usual skill.
If Victoria recalled her run-in with Lord Hubert Nagle, she gave no sign; her only comment was that the Faringdales and Hawesleys would be devastated to learn that one of their own had acted so traitorously.
After inquiring as to the health of Mrs. Proudfoot and being assured the lady had taken no serious injury, Victoria regally thanked Drake and Louisa and extended those thanks to Sebastian, Antonia, Michael, and Cleo. “We are greatly indebted to you all. In times such as these, it is a relief to know we have such staunch supporters.”
Correctly interpreting those words as a dismissal, Drake and Louisa rose. Drake bowed low. Louisa sank into a deep curtsy.
“I have one last question,” Victoria said as they straightened. “We have been informed, of course, of the impending nuptials of the Marquess of Earith and Lady Antonia.” The Queen opened her protuberant eyes wide. “Should we expect to hear any further announcements of that nature?”
Drake glanced at Louisa, then held out his hand.
She grasped his fingers and smiled at Victoria. “Lord Michael and Miss Hendon expect to announce their engagement shortly. And…” She glanced at Drake.
“And”—his gaze trapped hers, his tone resolute as his fingers tightened on hers—“Lady Louisa and I expect to announce our engagement soon after. We anticipate marrying early next year.”
Her eyes danced, their teasing brilliance somehow conveying the words “Will we now?” yet she made no move to correct his statement, just beamed her happiness at the royal couple.
Victoria looked pleased and distinctly approving. “That is excellent news. Please accept our congratulations and do convey our felicitations to your brothers and their ladies, my dear.”
r /> “Indeed.” Albert, too, was smiling. “We are always happy to hear of such events among those we hold in our highest regard.”
Drake bowed again. Louisa dropped into another curtsy.
The Queen nodded a gracious, smiling dismissal, and together, Drake and Louisa stepped back two paces, bowed and curtsied again, then turned and walked toward the door.
The prince’s secretary and the Queen’s equerry immediately descended on Victoria and Albert, but the prince left the group and walked after Drake and Louisa.
He caught up to them as they reached the door.
Drake faced him. “Your Highness?”
Albert glanced up the room, saw the Queen engaged with his secretary and her equerry, then looked at Drake and Louisa and murmured, “I am concerned that even after the response to the previous attempts on Her Majesty’s life, Lord Nagle felt able to instigate this plot—one that very nearly succeeded.” Albert glanced at Louisa, then met Drake’s gaze levelly. “Even you, my lord, would not have been in time to prevent a great catastrophe had you not had help from a most unexpected source. By that, I mean no disrespect or censure—none indeed, you have my wholehearted thanks as I believe you know—but rather to point out that official vigilance alone has not, in this instance, deterred a nobleman from attempting to kill the Queen. It is therefore unlikely that even heightened official vigilance will succeed in that respect in the future.” Albert paused and looked down, then went on, “Of all the attempts on Her Majesty’s life, this one is unarguably the most serious. In the past, Her Majesty had always argued for leniency.” Albert raised his gaze to Drake’s face. “That cannot happen in this case. Lord Nagle must pay the full account for his crime. More, that judgment must be seen and understood by all.”
His gaze still on Drake’s face, Albert cocked his head. “What are your thoughts on this, my lord?”
Drake didn’t have to think to understand Albert’s reasoning. He nodded. “I concur, Your Highness. No one would wish to have such an incident occur again.” He bowed a courtier’s bow. “As ever, I am the Crown’s to command.”