Her steps slowed as she pondered that.
She reached the half landing, turned to ascend the next flight, but then her feet halted, and she stared unseeing at the stairwell wall as her mind—having moved on to the question of what Michael would be doing tonight—replayed his comments on that subject.
He would be going to Morgan’s Lane later, even though he believed—as did Winchelsea—that the barrels were unlikely to be moved that night.
She understood his and Winchelsea’s reasoning; although she didn’t know enough about how plots like this were conducted to evaluate their thinking, she was prepared to trust in their judgment. She could see no reason not to accept Michael’s assessment on that score.
But…
He’d told her of the disposition of his men, and now that he had, she recalled enough from her visits to the area to appreciate his strategy. However, if he did “drop by” as he’d said he would, then he would secrete himself in the same shadowy alcove halfway down the lane. It was the only possible hiding place in the lane—at least for a man of his size.
She paused to consider the notion that he might simply check with his men as they maintained their cordon around the area and then depart for some club or the theater or some soiree…and dismissed it. Over the last days, she’d seen enough of the real Lord Michael Cynster, the man behind the reputation, to be absolutely certain that, when he reached Morgan’s Lane, he would slip through the shadows and take up the only position from which anyone could be certain of getting a good look at whoever came to retrieve the barrels.
What if, contrary to all expectations, the villains came to fetch the barrels tonight?
Michael would be there, hidden in the alcove before the single door; he would be able to see anyone who approached the warehouse gates, and once the gates were open, he would be able to see anyone moving in the yard before the warehouse. He would see it all.
He would watch them leave…but what if he, or his men, unversed as they all were in the nuances of the commercial world, missed some vital clue? And because of that, lost the barrels’ trail?
They’d worked hard to locate those barrels, and following them was the only avenue that might lead to the villains behind the plot in time to stop the gunpowder being used.
And they hadn’t yet had a chance to replace the gunpowder.
Premonition didn’t just tickle her nape; it rose and swamped her.
The barrels would be collected tonight; regardless of any oh-so-rational arguments to the contrary, she was suddenly immutably convinced that was so.
Then she thought of Michael, alone in the lane, very possibly the only one of the watchers who might get a clear view of any of the villains’ faces.
And she thought of the villains who had so callously murdered everyone who might identify them.
She thought of the men who would come to fetch the barrels—men who had, to that point, proved so very cautious and canny. She tried to imagine being in their shoes.
They would check the lane, wouldn’t they? As Michael had noted, Morgan’s Lane might have been chosen because it contained the right sort of warehouse to temporarily hide the barrels, but it was also perfect in the sense that no room where people might be at night overlooked the lane.
If the villains thought to glance around to make sure that no one had seen them—not well enough to be any threat—they would see that alcove.
They might not realize anyone was in it, but if they were as careful and cautious as they had thus far proved to be, they would check.
And alone in the shadowed space, Michael would be trapped. The only one of his men who might see the villains approaching his hiding place would be the man he’d said would be stationed at the head of the lane—far too far away to be able to help Michael.
If the villains found Michael and realized he’d seen them, that he’d been watching them, for why else would he be there…
They’d already killed other aristocrats. Being a duke’s son wouldn’t save Michael.
But having someone else around might. Someone strolling in the lane, someone no one—Michael or the villains—would think twice about. Someone the villains wouldn’t see as any threat. Someone slight enough to slip into the two smaller shadowed nooks she’d noticed.
Premonition transformed into compulsion.
Her chin firming, determination welling, Cleo refocused on the stairs and continued her upward climb.
* * *
After returning Cleo to her home, Michael had directed Tom to drive straight to the mews behind St. Ives House. Consequently, Michael entered the mansion via the rear garden and the kitchen door.
He paused by the side table in the front hall to pick up several envelopes addressed to him—invitations by the look of them. On hearing a door open, he glanced around and saw Crewe coming out of the library, a tray balanced on one palm.
Michael had spent the drive home contemplating his options regarding one over-adventurous lady. Impulse prompted, and he asked, “Is my father in?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And the duchess?”
“I believe Her Grace is closeted upstairs with her modiste.”
Perfect. “Thank you, Crewe.” Pocketing the invitations, Michael crossed to the library door. He opened it and went in.
Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, sat behind the massive desk. He looked up as Michael shut the door and smiled affably. “We’d wondered where you’d got to. Sebastian said you were helping Drake with this latest mission.”
Michael strolled across the room. “It’s been…absorbing, to say the least.”
His father watched with amused interest as, on reaching the desk, Michael subsided into one of the twin armchairs facing the mahogany expanse. When he failed to launch into speech, His Grace arched a black brow. “Can I help you with something?”
Michael met his sire’s pale-green eyes. “As it happens, I hope you can.”
When his father simply waited, Michael cudgeled his brains for the right words, then mentally threw his hands in the air and stated, “In order to locate some barrels Drake—and Sebastian and Antonia before that—have been searching for, I enlisted the aid of Miss Cleome Hendon.”
His father’s brows rose—both of them. “Jack and Kit Hendon’s daughter?”
His lips firming, Michael nodded. “That’s her. I needed her help, and there was no viable alternative, but in return, she insisted on…”
The essential elements of his dilemma—at least as he saw it—tumbled from his lips.
His father listened; after a time, he set down the letter knife he’d been wielding and sat back in his admiral’s chair, the better to take in Michael’s plaint.
“So, you see”—Michael raked his fingers through his hair—“I can’t deny that she’s fulfilled her part of the bargain, and although I could fall back on the letter of our agreement and insist she no longer actively participates in any action, knowing how much she longs for adventure—and I don’t think it’s only that, but that she wants to be involved in this sort of mission, contributing to something important and meaningful—then…” A moment passed, then he looked up and met his father’s eyes. “I feel as if I’m skewered on the horns of a dilemma. I don’t want to shut her out of things—I want to give her what she wants. But even more, I need to ensure that she’s safe, and she won’t be if she continues to involve herself in this mission.”
His expression impassive, as it usually was, his father studied him for several seconds, then said, “And…”
Confused, he frowned. “And what?”
“And…why do you want to please her? To give her everything she wants? I assume that’s what you’re really saying.”
He felt faint color seep into his cheeks. He held his father’s gaze…but he knew he wasn’t hiding anything from those far-too-perceptive eyes. He drew in a breath, felt it fill his chest, then forced himself to state, “I want to please her because I think she’s the one for me, and when this is over?
??and assuming she’s still speaking to me—then I intend to pursue her and, eventually, ask her to be my wife.”
His father’s lips slowly curved into a smile. “Excellent. I’m relieved to hear you’ve worked that much out.”
He humphed. “Much good will it do me.”
“Let’s see if I can help.” His father’s gaze remained steady on Michael’s face. “From what you’ve said and from what I know of her family, I take it Miss Hendon—”
“Cleo.”
His father inclined his head. “Cleo is, in general parlance, a lady one might describe as being her own woman.”
Michael nodded. “Very much so.”
“And she knows where the barrels are?”
“She was instrumental in locating them.”
“In that case, even if you intervene and—unwisely, I’m sure you’ll agree—attempt to rein her in, how do you envisage preventing her from turning up and assisting with the surveillance?” Devil paused for only a second before going on, “The critical questions in such matters are these. First, is it in your power to stop her doing whatever she wishes? And second, regardless of whether you can, regardless of whatever you feel, is it in her best interests to do so?”
Silence lengthened as Michael digested that.
Eventually, his father continued, “When it comes to shielding them, as we feel compelled to, on some occasions, in some circumstances, our role becomes a matter of simply doing the best you can, coping in whatever way you can, protecting her however you can—meeting the challenge as well as you can—rather than attempting to constrain her.” He paused, then, his deep voice lower, said, “You have to allow her the freedom to choose and act on her choice, because ultimately, you want her to choose you and to act on that choice.”
Michael sat and let that wisdom sink in, then he heaved a huge sigh. He met his father’s eyes and grimaced. “So it’s as I thought.” He pushed to his feet. “I was starting to fear that was the case.”
His father grinned. With a chuckle, he waved Michael away. “Go and face your music. And good luck.”
Michael paused; meeting his father’s eyes, he inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Devil smiled. “My pleasure.”
With a resigned salute, Michael left the room.
Chapter 13
With his shoulders propped against the door in the darkness of the alcove in Morgan’s Lane, the only way Michael could track the time was to strain his ears for the peals of the bells on the other side of the river. The nearest bell was in the Chapel of St. John in the Tower. The great bass bong reverberated over the water, penetrating the rising river mist to bounce off the stone walls all around.
After circling the area and checking the positions of all his men, Michael had walked calmly down the lane and stepped into the recessed doorway. Tom, tonight stationed at the head of the lane, had assured him that not even a rat had stirred over the previous half hour.
And not even a rat had stirred since.
As best Michael could judge, it was close to half past eleven.
Angling his head, he glanced up at the sliver of sky he could see. Tonight, the clouds were fitful, sometimes completely blocking the moon, at other times streaming over it in shreds and banners. Regardless, a perpetual veil remained, weakening what moonlight there was to a sullen glow. As for the streetlamps, they were too distant to shed much illumination on the warehouse gates. Still, with any luck, if someone turned up to fetch the barrels tonight, there would be light enough for Michael to see them in the lane before the gates, both when they arrived and, later, as they quit the scene.
It was the river fog that posed a greater concern; initially just a fine mist, it was gradually thickening. Even as he stared across the lane at the section of the warehouse he could see, a thicker tendril of fog drifted past.
Michael shifted and risked a glance down the lane and inwardly swore. Closer to the river, the visibility was already down to twenty or so yards.
All in all, it was an excellent night for illicit doings.
Regardless of his comments to Cleo, he’d had a sneaking suspicion that tonight would be the night. More, after hearing her brilliant suggestion of substituting something non-explosive for the gunpowder, suspicion had converted to conviction. Admittedly, his certainty wasn’t based on any facts but rather on instinct, albeit informed by experience.
If the barrels remained in the warehouse until tomorrow, he had every confidence Drake would seize on Cleo’s brilliant notion, and the barrels would no longer be a threat.
To Michael’s mind, it was the likelihood of the barrels being rendered harmless provided they remained where they were until tomorrow that made the barrels being collected that night such a certainty.
In his experience, Fate never played fair.
Consequently, he was tense, on high alert, with his thumbs pricking and some primitive primal voice whispering a warning that, any minute now, the action would commence.
Ruthlessly, he quashed the temptation to lean out and scan the rest of the lane. He knew from where that temptation sprang; he was worried that, despite his careful words and her apparent agreement, Cleo would turn up. But his men had orders to keep their eyes peeled for a slight youth and, if they spotted one, to ascertain who said youth truly was, and if he proved to be her, to keep her back in relative safety with them. He’d set Tom at the head of the lane specifically for that purpose. If Cleo did arrive, he felt certain she would guess that he was in the alcove; he could rely on Tom to stop her before she entered the lane and came to join him.
Such arrangements, he felt, fell within the bounds of doing the best he could to protect her without constraining her. Constraining her would have been arranging with Morris, her coachman, and her groom to ensure she didn’t leave Clarges Street. He felt he’d done reasonably well in adhering to his father’s advice.
The minutes slid by. It was a cold night, but thankfully not yet freezing; his breath wasn’t condensing in telltale puffs before his face.
Then a figure blocked out the faint moonlight. He nearly started and shifted, but the short, cloaked figure sauntered smoothly past, heading up the lane.
He blinked. A streetwalker. He hadn’t expected to see a lady of the night in this area; as Cleo had noted, there were no taverns or even lodging houses fronting the lane. But from what little he’d seen in that fleeting glimpse—gold satin skirts and a froth of lace beneath an enveloping cloak with a hood—the woman belonged to one of the higher levels of the sorority; perhaps she was merely on her way home after a stint in the better streets over the river.
That made sense. Crossing the river by boat and walking up Morgan’s Lane was a relatively safe route given there was no one around to accost her.
He wondered if she’d seen him; regardless, she hadn’t paused, for which he was grateful.
The cold started to penetrate his greatcoat. He crossed his arms and settled his shoulders once more against the door, looked out through the shadows at the warehouse gates, and tried to tell his overstretched nerves that nothing was happening.
Not yet.
In an effort to make the minutes go more quickly, he conjured up a vision of Cleo in his mind and let his thoughts wander into imagining what she was doing, where she was, and what she was wearing at that very moment.
If nothing else, the distraction went some way toward alleviating the chill.
* * *
The man wore the same hat he’d worn in the Dog and Duck tavern when he’d first met these men. Once again, he’d tugged the hat low over his face, but tonight, he was dressed in a greatcoat over a hacking jacket, breeches, and boots. The greatcoat, jacket, and breeches had seen better days—he had no idea where his man had found them—but when it came to the boots, he’d refused a shoddy pair and insisted on wearing his own.
There were some levels to which a gentleman could not be expected to stoop. Not even for the old man’s plans.
As stipulated, he found two of the men
in Black Lion Court, a block to the east of Morgan’s Lane. At this hour, the lodgings and tenements were largely silent; no one paid any attention to the two empty drays drawn up to one side, the drivers waiting patiently with their huge horses semi-somnolent, heads hanging.
Quietly, he trotted his horse forward. He’d muffled its hooves and was pleased to note that the wheels of the drays and the heavier horses’ hooves were likewise swathed with cloth.
He drew up beside the drays and nodded to the drivers. “Are the others in place?” He kept his voice low.
The man on the forward dray nodded. “Aye. They’re waiting to help us unload and store, like you wanted.”
Given they’d got the drays, there was no need to ask if they’d gained entry to the required yard.
The other driver confirmed that, assuring him, “And we’ve everything we’ll need ready in the yard.”
“Excellent,” the man murmured.
“So where’re we headed?” the second driver asked.
The man couldn’t help his grin. “Just around the corner.” He hadn’t divulged their destination, deeming that a secret best kept until the last moment. “The barrels are in a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane.”
The man on the first dray frowned. “All the warehouses in Morgan’s Lane are locked up tight of a night. How’re we to get in without making any noise?”
“I have the keys.” The man turned his horse. “Let’s get going. Follow me.” He was suddenly keen to see the barrels, to take possession and unerringly steer the old man’s plot through this stage. Success would mean…a great deal. Especially if he performed well enough for the old man to grant him management of the final stage.
Somewhat to his surprise, he felt excitement mounting. Nevertheless, he kept the pace slow, walking his horse so that the drays’ horses plodded slowly and ponderously behind, and the carts made only the slightest of rumbles as they rolled out of Black Lion Court, turned west into Tooley Street for just one block, then turned right into Morgan’s Lane.