“And,” Sebastian added, “if you were running this plot, how long would you leave between achieving that final deployment to the target and detonating the gunpowder?”
Drake sat back and stared at Michael, then glanced briefly at Sebastian. Those were excellent questions via which to explore what might come next. “If it were me…”
Facing forward, Drake turned his mind to the notion. He juggled what he knew, what he could estimate and project. After several minutes’ silence, he said, “Moving that much gunpowder, in whatever disguise—and there really aren’t that many ways to move gunpowder across water without risking ruining it—all in complete secrecy… As to the time it would take, even I would need days, if not a week, to arrange that, even if I’d been hoping to have the pleasure and had all my plans worked out.” He paused, then went on, “As we’ve already discussed, it’s unlikely the mastermind has activated those plans yet—he would be aware that the longer his pawns know about a plot like this, the more chance of something leaking out and bringing the authorities down on their heads. No—he’s careful and intends to succeed. He’ll have a plan, but he’ll only start contacting people and getting matters organized once he’s certain all has gone as he wishes.”
Some of the tension that had gripped him eased. He paused, then more lightly said, “Operating on the assumption that if I can’t move more rapidly—and I have contacts and powers he can’t possibly have to call on—then he can’t manage things any faster, we have at least…four days, more likely five, before those barrels are deployed to their target.
“However, once the gunpowder is moved into position”—his tone hardened, and he felt his features do the same—“I predict we’ll have very little time to stop the detonation.” He met Sebastian’s eyes. “If I were he…then assembling the barrels at the target is the point at which his entire plot is at maximum risk. If the gunpowder is found, the plot fails, and the target—being a place of note and therefore almost certainly under guard of some sort—is not going to be the type of place where gunpowder will remain undetected for long.”
After a heartbeat, he qualified, “By long, I mean more than twelve to twenty-four hours, and much will depend on how the gunpowder is concealed or disguised. Given that it seems he’ll be using pawns to move the gunpowder into position, then he’ll most likely want them well away, and possibly even murdered as well, before he lights the fuse—or orders it lit. Again, given his cautious nature, that might—might—stretch things out for longer than twenty-four hours, but that’s not something I would wish to wager on.”
Sebastian drew in a breath, then let it out on a long exhalation. “So”—he looked at Michael—“we need to intercept the gunpowder before it reaches the target.”
Drake also turned to Michael. “One thing to remember—the ultimate target might not be the place the gunpowder moves to next. We can’t assume that, although to this point, we’ve been talking as if we have. If your men spot the barrels being moved, they need to follow and get word to us as soon as possible.”
Somewhat grimly, Michael nodded.
Beside him, Cleo said, “Here’s another question. You’ve stressed how careful and also how cunning our mastermind has been thus far. He’s used the Young Irelanders as a façade, and now he has, you believe, drawn the local Chartists into being his pawns.” She fixed her bright hazel gaze on Drake’s face. “But won’t he assume you’ll see the pattern—that you’ll get hold of the local Chartist leaders and interfere?” Her gaze steady, she tipped her head. “Surely he’ll be planning on using someone else—neither the Chartists nor the Young Irelanders—for the upcoming stage?”
Drake blinked. He sat back and thought, then, slowly, he nodded. “You’re absolutely right. He’s used the Chartists just enough to implicate them and force me to deal with them, to contact and question them. They might be able to lead us to where the barrels currently are.” He met Michael’s gaze. “But by that time, the barrels—or at least the gunpowder—will have been moved.” He flashed a faint, tense smile at Cleo. “Cleo’s right—he’ll use some other group. But who?”
After a moment, Sebastian suggested, “Some group he trusts?”
Michael snorted. “Who would a bureaucrat trust?”
Antonia leant forward and poked Drake’s arm. “If you were in his shoes, who would you use?”
Drake thought, then grimaced and met her gaze. “I would use people who are completely innocent and have no notion of what they’re doing. As I said, the last move leading to the final deployment at the target site is absolutely critical. I would find some way to make the transfer of whatever container the gunpowder is in look like something normal. Something so ordinary in day-to-day life that people will do what’s needed without any idea of what they’re shifting into place.”
“That means,” Cleo said, “disguising the barrels or whatever container the gunpowder is in as something else. Something not gunpowder.” She frowned. “I really don’t think there are that many types of containers that are useful for moving gunpowder.”
After a moment, Drake shrugged. “My suggestion is pure speculation, but that’s what I would do—disguise the gunpowder as something harmless and unremarkable that would normally be found at the target site.”
At that moment, they heard footsteps approaching, a swinging stride that slowed, then hesitated outside the door.
They all turned to stare at the door that, as Drake had noticed earlier, stood fractionally ajar.
Then a polite tap sounded on the panels.
Drake glanced at Sebastian, who called, “Come.”
The door swung open, and Finnegan came in. He saw them, and his face lit; he turned and shut the door. He started across the room, but then glanced briefly back at the door—which, once again, had eased open. Drake assumed the latch was faulty.
Finnegan halted beside Drake’s chair, his face radiating delight. “Success, my lords, my ladies.” He swept them all a flourishing bow.
Drake forced his lips to remain straight. “Cut line. Out with it. What have you found?”
The look his ebullient gentleman’s gentleman bent on him suggested Drake was no fun, but when Drake coolly arched his brows, Finnegan straightened and announced, “The dead gentleman’s name, my lord, is Mr. Lawton Chilburn. The bootmaker knew, of course. His boots are numbered, so it was simply a matter of checking his ledgers, and I confirmed that Mr. Chilburn had all the same characteristics as the dead man, including that rather distinctive scar across the lower part of his face.”
“Excellent work. Thank you, Finnegan.” The name struck not a single chord with Drake. He glanced, brows raised in invitation, at Sebastian and Antonia, then at Michael and Cleo, but they all looked as mystified as he.
Drake tipped back his head and appealed to the room at large, “Who the devil is Lawton Chilburn?”
For a second, silence reigned, then a primitive sensation—a ripple of awareness—brushed across his nape.
He tensed.
It can’t be. She’s nowhere near.
But then, from behind him, came the gentle tap of a lady’s high heels on the parquet floor and the telltale rustle of silk and stiff petticoats, and the words “Lawton Chilburn is the youngest of Viscount Hawesley’s four sons” fell like the tones of a bell on his ears, uttered in a voice he immediately recognized, no matter that he’d avoided its owner for years.
A voice that sent a chill through him—along with a thrill he didn’t want to feel.
Ruthlessly clamping an unrelenting hold on every reaction and impulse he possessed, Drake ensured his impassive mask was in place, smoothly rose, and turned to face the woman—the lady, the noblewoman—who had swept into the room.
He inclined his head. “Louisa.”
His gaze had locked on her pale-green silk skirts; as he straightened his head, he couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling upward, over her tiny waist, smoothly up over the alluring curves of her breasts, over the glimpse of throat that showed between t
he peaked collars of her dress, to her pointed chin, perfect alabaster complexion, and the striking, animated features that had driven any number of his peers to drink.
Her pale-green eyes, lushly lashed with black, were similar to her grandmother’s, her father’s, and Sebastian’s in hue, but her soul infused them with such vibrancy they literally sparkled with life—more vital and less distant than those of the others of her family blessed with eyes of that curious shade. Those entrancing eyes looked into his, and Drake felt his gut tighten.
Then, with her lips lightly curving, she transferred that disturbing regard to the others, all still seated; she swept them with her bright, imperious gaze. If she noticed that only Antonia and Cleo were smiling back—and in Cleo’s case, her smile was tentative—Louisa gave no sign. Her own smile bloomed, ineffably radiant and warming. “I understand,” she said, and the timbre of her voice—a husky contralto that feathered over any red-blooded male’s senses—made Drake mentally curse, “that congratulations are in order.”
Sebastian had managed to blank his expression, but his eyes were filled with a species of horror.
Michael, on the other hand, stared—rather more openly perturbed—at his sister. “We thought you weren’t returning until tomorrow.”
One finely arched black brow rose. Her own expression a serene mask, Louisa considered Michael for several seconds—long enough for him to become aware of the implications of what he’d just blurted out—then her smile deepened a fraction, growing subtly more edged. She glanced at Sebastian. “I heard of your news, and of course, I hurried home. And now I discover that we have two engagement balls and two weddings to which to look forward.” She smiled entirely genuinely at Antonia and bestowed an approving nod, then included Cleo with both smile and gesture. “Excellent work, ladies.”
With that, she swung to face Drake. Her gaze clashed with and effortlessly captured his. “And clearly, it’s just as well that I returned without delay.” With an expression that was close to a playful pout—a truly enchanting moue, an expression only she could pull off—still holding his gaze, she walked behind the sofa on which Michael and Cleo sat to claim the armchair beyond, angled to the gathering. She sank down with a susurration of silks, her gaze still holding Drake’s. “I understand,” she said, sitting upright with her forearms on the armrests, strikingly like a queen on her throne, “that you’ve all been having quite an adventure.”
From the corner of his eye, Drake saw Antonia draw breath to speak. Before she could, he baldly asked, “How much did you hear?”
His question, devoid of any tone that could be considered remotely encouraging, drew Louisa’s gaze, which had drifted expectantly to Antonia, back to his face.
Her expression remained serene, but there was an intensity in her eyes he found deeply unsettling. She studied him for a long moment, then calmly replied, “All of it. I was in the gallery when you arrived. I followed you and”—she waved toward the door—“listened.”
That was why the door had been ajar and also explained Finnegan’s curious behavior.
Drake flicked a glance at Finnegan. The Irishman had good instincts; he’d stepped back in a self-effacing way, but was watching Louisa as if she was a strange and unpredictable creature of uncertain and potentially dangerous powers.
Which was not far from the truth.
She hadn’t shifted her gaze from Drake’s face. Knowing that, when she wished, she had well-nigh-inexhaustible patience, he ignored her long enough to glance at her brothers. On his left, Sebastian met Drake’s eyes with a look of almost panic-stricken consternation. Michael, to Drake’s right, still appeared overtly horrified.
Both were as aghast as Drake at Louisa’s advent, at her transparent intention to deal herself into this mission. Yet the message in her brothers’ eyes was clear.
Both had too much experience of their sister’s exceedingly willful ways to attempt to deny her.
Which meant that dissuading her from pushing her way into his mission fell entirely to Drake. His the battle to ensure she kept her distance, from him as well as from all possible danger.
And somehow, he had to succeed.
Because the very last person Drake needed helping him was Lady Louisa Cynster—widely known, for excellent reasons, as Lady Wild.
* * *
* * *
Dear Reader,
I had great fun crafting Michael and Cleo’s romance—although they were neither the opening act nor the grand finale in the on-going drama, they still had plenty of hurdles to overcome on their way to their emotional just reward. I hope you’ve enjoyed this second act in the Devil’s Brood Trilogy—if you feel inclined to leave a review here, I would greatly appreciate it.
And now the scene is set and, indeed, the players have already taken the stage for the third and final act. Louisa and Drake’s story, oh-so-aptly titled THE GREATEST CHALLENGE OF THEM ALL, will soon be released—and as you might expect with those two characters, the sparks do fly. See below for dates, preorder links, blurbs and links to excerpts.
In addition, as the trilogy’s storyline, of all my many works, draws on real events of those times, as I did with the previous volume, I’ve included an Author Note (see Table of Contents) in which I detail the historical facts that feature or have influenced what is otherwise a work of fiction. If you want to know: How much of this is real? that note is for you.
So we know the problem Drake, Louisa, and the others face—and the clock is inexorably ticking. Not only has the gunpowder vanished, but a murderer is removing all witnesses to its location. Stay tuned for the thrilling final volume as Louisa joins forces with Drake, and assisted by Sebastian, Antonia, Michael, and Cleo, they race to uncover the truth—of the location of the gunpowder, the mastermind behind the plot, and his target—in time.
Before one thousand pounds of gunpowder is detonated somewhere in London.
Stephanie.
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COMING NEXT:
The thrilling third and final volume in the Devil’s Brood Trilogy
THE GREATEST CHALLENGE OF THEM ALL
on July 13, 2017
A nobleman devoted to defending queen and country and a noblewoman wild enough to match his every step race to disrupt the plans of a malignant intelligence intent on shaking England to its very foundations.
Lord Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea, eldest son and heir of the Duke of Wolverstone, must foil a plot that threatens to shake the foundations of the realm, but the very last lady—nay, noblewoman—he needs assisting him is Lady Louisa Cynster, known throughout the ton as Lady Wild.
For the past nine years, Louisa has suspected that Drake might well be the ideal husband for her, even though he’s assiduous in avoiding her. But she’s now twenty-seven and enough is enough. She believes propinquity will elucidate exactly what it is that lies between them, and what better opportunity to work closely with Drake than his latest mission, with which he patently needs her help?
Unable to deny Louisa’s abilities or the value of her assistance and powerless to curb her willfulness, Drake is forced to grit his teeth and acquiesce to her sticking by his side, if only to ensure her safety. But all too soon, his true feelings for her show enough for her, perspicacious as she is, to see through his denials, which she then interprets as a challenge.
Even while they gather information
, tease out clues, increasingly desperately search for the missing gunpowder, and doggedly pursue the killer responsible for an ever-escalating tally of dead men, thrown together through the hours, he and she learn to trust and appreciate each other. And fed by constant exposure—and blatantly encouraged by her—their desires and hungers swell and grow…
As the barriers between them crumble, the attraction he has for so long restrained burgeons and balloons, until goaded by her near-death, it erupts, and he seizes her—only to be seized in return.
Linked irrevocably and with their wills melded and merged by passion’s fire, with time running out and the evil mastermind’s deadline looming, together, they focus their considerable talents and make one last push to learn the critical truths—to find the gunpowder and unmask the villain behind this far-reaching plot.
Only to discover that they have significantly less time than they’d thought, that the villain’s target is even more crucially fundamental to the realm than they’d imagined, and it’s going to take all that Drake is—as well as all that Louisa as Lady Wild can bring to bear—to defuse the threat, capture the villain, and make all safe and right again.
As they race to the ultimate confrontation, the future of all England rests on their shoulders.
Third volume in the trilogy. A historical romance with gothic overtones layered over an intrigue. A full length novel of 129,000 words.
Click here to read an excerpt