Drake nodded. “Precisely.”
“You think the local Chartists have been drawn into assisting,” Sebastian stated.
“That’s what I fear.” Drake grimaced. “At least I now have an introduction to the local militia leaders, and it’s possible we might learn more that way, but I’m not holding my breath that we’ll learn anything quickly enough.”
After several seconds dwelling on that, he straightened in the chair. “But let’s not get sidetracked. To summarize the present situation, we know the ten barrels of gunpowder are still within a specific area of Southwark. We’ve also killed one of the primary villains—either the man behind the plot if he’s acting alone or, more likely, one of his lieutenants. Given the man’s age—about thirty-six—then I would wager it’ll be the latter.”
“Aside from all else,” Sebastian dryly remarked, “the former would be too easy—the plot would likely end with the man’s death.”
Drake inclined his head. “Fate is never that kind.” He looked at Cleo. “One thing I wanted to ask. What, exactly, did he—our now-dead rider—say when he seized you?”
Cleo stared at Drake, then frowned and closed her eyes, the better to remember. She was back in the murky darkness of Black Lion Court, creeping along on the slippery cobbles… She tightened her fingers, gripping Michael’s; his hand closed more firmly about hers. A moment passed, then she drew in a long, slow breath, opened her eyes, and looked at Drake. “The first thing he asked was who I was and why I was there, then immediately followed that—as if it was more important—by asking who I was working for. Then he suggested I might be working for his cousin.”
“His cousin?” Drake glanced at Michael.
Also clearly thinking back, Michael nodded. “I was near enough to hear, and that’s what he said.”
Drake looked at Cleo. “What did you reply?”
She grimaced. “That I had no idea who his cousin was, and that’s when he panicked. I’d forgotten to speak like a streetwalker. He pulled out a knife and demanded to know who had sent me and who knew about, as he termed it, our little enterprise.”
“Our little enterprise.” His features hardening, Drake nodded. “So there’s more than one of them involved, and this plot won’t die with the rider.”
After a moment of thought, Drake refocused on Cleo. “Would it be true to say that the rider found your presence relatively unsurprising and unthreatening while he thought you an average streetwalker hired by his cousin to spy on what he was doing?”
Cleo nodded. “He was more…amused to begin with. Until he heard me speak.”
“Until he realized you weren’t a streetwalker but a real spy—one sent by the sort of agency who might recruit women of your class…” A moment passed, then, his jaw tightening, Drake met Michael’s eyes, then looked at Sebastian. “The rider knew enough to panic when he realized Cleo was a lady disguised as a streetwalker. Someone had warned him of what finding such a watcher as Cleo would mean.” His tone growing colder, his accents more clipped, Drake concluded, “Whoever is pulling the strings of this plot either knows about me, about what I do, or at the very least, that an agency such as the one I oversee exists.”
They all thought about that, then Sebastian said, “All those in Whitehall above a certain level know.”
His lips tight, Drake nodded. “Indeed.” He paused, then continued, “That would account for the…feeling I have that the mastermind behind this plot knows a very great deal about politics and government and how things are done. What is possible and what isn’t. Their harnessing of the wider situation has been masterly—it’s allowed them to throw up deflections and distractions. In hindsight, I think it likely they planted the whispers I heard to ensure I would go to Ireland, and more recently up north, to clarify what was going on—while the real action was occurring here.”
“But if they know that much, then presumably they know about ‘the sons of the nobility,’” Michael said. “That in such situations, you call on us.”
“They probably do know,” Drake said. “That’s why the rider had been warned. But in their view, getting me out of the immediate picture reduced the risk for them. And they weren’t at all concerned about me learning that the plot isn’t either a Young Irelander or a Chartist plot. If anything, that’s a part of their Machiavellian plan—it increases my, and Greville’s, reluctance to risk issuing an effective alert.” He shook his head. “The more I learn about our ultimate villain, the more I’m left with the impression that I’m playing chess with someone who knows more about the possible moves than I do.”
Drake didn’t bother stating that he’d never had to grapple with such a situation before.
Sebastian shrugged. “So he’s someone with an intimate knowledge of Whitehall, and he’s older and therefore more experienced than you.” He met Drake’s eyes. “Regardless, he’s going to have things go wrong—and one of those things is, as we speak, on its way to some helpful morgue.”
Drake held Sebastian’s rather pointed, pale-green gaze, then humphed. “All right. Let’s move on to what we need to know and what we can do to nullify this plot.” He paused for a second, then went on, “We need to find the gunpowder, defuse it as a threat, and then identify the blackguard behind the plot. The gunpowder comes first.” He looked at Michael. “Let’s accept we can’t go in, search, and seize it. That leaves keeping a tight cordon about that area as the only viable way to guard against the barrels being moved to the target and subsequently detonated.” He held Michael’s gaze. “Can you be certain the barrels are still there?”
Michael took time to assess before replying, “I believe so. They had no chance to move the barrels earlier, and we’ve tightened our watch. Tom reported that as of two o’clock, there’d been no sight of them. Plenty of activity—people and things going in and out, as you would expect—but not those barrels.” He glanced at Cleo. “Cleo passed on a description of the brand on the barrels—the stamp of the Irish mill—so the men know what they’re looking for.”
“I hesitate to ask,” Antonia put in, “but could the gunpowder be transferred into some other container—something our watchers won’t recognize and so allow past?”
Silence held them for a moment, then Drake said, “That has to be possible. So just keeping watch isn’t good enough.” He looked again at Michael. “Nevertheless, can you continue your tight watch—enough to guarantee the ten barrels from the Irish mill won’t slip through?”
Michael nodded decisively. “That, we can definitely do.” He glanced at Sebastian. “I’ve already sent word to the various households—to the butlers and housekeepers currently in charge—so they’re aware of our need.” His lips curved. “Unsurprisingly, all I’ve received in response are a host of avowals of unwavering support.”
Sebastian’s features briefly lightened. “It’s lucky that, these days, most branches and even twigs of the family keep their houses in London staffed throughout the year.”
“So we have the watch covered,” Drake went on. “And if the barrels are spotted leaving the area, we revert to our earlier plan—we follow rather than intercept, but as soon as the barrels reach any destination, we’ll move in and replace the gunpowder, then watch for whoever comes to deal with it next. Simultaneously, we’ll follow all those who’ve assisted in the move.” He paused, then added, “Ultimately, we need to identify whoever is behind this. Until we have our mastermind in custody, we can’t be sure we’ve fully deactivated his plot.”
After a moment, he went on, “One of the few things we can feel a degree of confidence in is that the next stage of the plot won’t go any more quickly than the last. It might even go more slowly, given that it seems likely he’s switched from using Young Irelander sympathizers to using the local Chartists. Whoever he is, he’s cautious to the bone.” Drake snorted softly and looked at Sebastian. “Very like a longtime bureaucrat.”
Michael glanced at Cleo, then looked at the others. “I’ll continue to manage the watchers, but as Cleo
and I will recognize the barrels, and given the Hendon Shipping Company’s name and reputation, I suggest that she and I also see if, by asking around, we might stumble on some hint of where in the area the barrels might be hidden.” He grimaced. “It’s a long shot, but you never can tell.”
“Also,” Cleo put in, “we should learn what other types of barrels or containers are commonly taken out of that area. And a visit to the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder might give us some idea of other ways to store and transport gunpowder.”
Drake studied them. “Will you have time?”
Michael nodded. “We’ve postponed any official announcement until after this mission is concluded. My parents were here earlier, and over luncheon, we learned of the missions they assisted your father with—and the Hendons were often also involved. So we have precedent, so to speak. We’re not anticipating any distractions from that quarter.”
Drake’s brows had risen. “I’d forgotten about your parents’ past involvements. But that’s certainly a boon if it means you can continue investigating along the lines you suggest. We need to follow every avenue we can.”
He settled in the armchair. “So that covers the barrels and their possible movement. Next on our slate is the trail of dead bodies our villain leaves behind. Not his dead lieutenant—I’ll come to him in a minute—but the others. Boyne, the carters, the foreman. Our villain’s aim is quite clearly to ensure that he leaves no possible sources of information alive. However, if he’s continued following that pattern and killed the two drivers who helped him move the barrels last night, we might just have a potential lead.”
Drake glanced at Michael. “I have contacts—probably the same as yours—in the River Police. I’ll ask them to advise us immediately they pull any bodies from the river—those of men who’ve been killed since last night. Putting names and addresses to faces might be difficult, but we might get help with that via the Chartist militias. If we can identify the drivers and where they worked, then we’ll at least know where those drays came from, and someone there might know more.”
He paused, then acknowledged, “That’s a long shot, too, but as I said, we have to pursue every possible avenue.”
He drew in a breath, ordered his thoughts, and continued, “That brings us to the Chartists. I’ve secured an introduction to the three local militia leaders. I gather that each controls and speaks for a separate group of militiamen. Interviewing them has to be at the top of my list—if the drivers from last night haven’t yet met an untimely end, then alerting the Chartist leaders to the game they’ve been unwittingly drawn into might save those men’s lives and get us a good deal further forward. At the very least, those men will know where the gunpowder is now.” He grimaced. “That said, I’m not expecting anything to go so smoothly, and I don’t hold much hope for finding those drivers alive. But if I can convince the local Chartist leaders that continuing to assist in this plot is the last thing their headquarters wants them to do…if the villain intends to call on the Chartists for any further assistance—for instance, in moving the barrels to his ultimate target—that will disrupt his next step.”
Sebastian nodded. “All to the good as far as we’re concerned.”
The others murmured agreement.
“And that,” Drake continued, “brings us to our dead gentleman. Obviously, learning his identity is a matter of urgency.” Drake tipped his head toward Cleo. “Especially as we now know he was sufficiently trusted to be warned of the dangers posed by well-born spies.”
“I have to wonder,” Cleo said, “what sort of gentleman has a cousin who would hire a streetwalker to spy on him.”
After exchanging brief glances with Sebastian and Michael, Drake said, “It’s possible, even likely, that his assumption that you were his cousin’s spy relates to some family disagreement and has nothing to do with the plot per se. However, the remark confirms that our gentleman has living family.”
He paused, reviewing their options, then went on, “Finnegan’s pursuing the man’s name, and knowing his tenacity, he’ll find it. Once he does, we’ll need to meet again and pool our knowledge and resources to gather as much intelligence as we can about our mystery gentleman and his connections before we start actively investigating.” After a second, he added, “By all accounts, this man was confident and probably ex-cavalry. That’s a significant step above even Connell Boyne. I suspect our gentleman-rider will prove to be not the mastermind—that would be too easy—but a personal proxy. Someone who acted on the mastermind’s orders and reported directly to him.”
Drake turned toward Sebastian and Antonia.
Before he could speak, Antonia fixed him with a demanding look. “What about us? We want to help, too.”
Drake took in Sebastian’s steady gaze, one that hadn’t flickered despite Antonia volunteering his—their—services… Clearly, Sebastian had no problem with that.
It struck Drake then; Sebastian and Antonia were operating as one. Two people, but with one aim, one goal—one shared direction. He didn’t need to glance at Michael and Cleo to know he would see the same…togetherness between them.
But Sebastian and Antonia were officially engaged. Drake kept his gaze on them and picked his way forward with care. “I know you want to be in the field, as it were, but given that your engagement has been announced, if you turn your back on society’s expectations and devote your time to this mission too openly, you’ll call attention to its existence, and that won’t be helpful at all.”
Antonia’s eyes sparked, and her chin set.
Drake held up a hand to stay her transparently imminent protest. “However, one truly valuable contribution you two can make is to keep the spotlight off the rest of us. Until now, social pressure hasn’t been a problem, but with more and more of the ton returning to town for the autumn session, the invitations will start to descend even on my poor self. But you and your engagement can hold the spotlight well enough for me, Michael, and Cleo to be able to pursue our tasks unhindered. And once we have our dead gentleman’s name and need to learn more about him, while being feted and fawned upon throughout the ton, you will be in the perfect position to do that. You’ll have opportunities to slip in questions, and people will answer and instantly forget, too dazzled by talk of your upcoming nuptials.”
Antonia looked suspicious, but it was obvious she was tempted by the prospect. Eventually, she glanced at Sebastian.
He met her gaze, smiled, and lightly squeezed her hand.
Then they looked at Drake and both nodded. “Very well. We’ll act as a social shield for you three”—with a glance, Sebastian included Michael and Cleo—“and hold ourselves ready to assist on that point.”
Drake held up a finger. “And possibly with one other matter.”
Sebastian arched a black brow.
“It would be exceedingly helpful to know how many, for want of a better word, order-givers there are running this plot. I think we can agree there’s an older bureaucrat-like figure ultimately pulling the strings, but how many proxies does he have in the field, doing his direct bidding? We’ve speculated that the rider was one. Was the man who killed Connell Boyne another? Or was he the same man?” Drake arched a brow back at Sebastian. “If we’ve eliminated the mastermind’s only direct assistant, then we’ve removed an essential piece of his plan, and it will take significant time for him to recruit a new proxy. However, if our dead gentleman is one of a group, then we can assume the plot will continue, more or less as scheduled. We—Michael, Cleo, and I—can give you a sound description of our dead man. If you can compare that with men seen in the area around the time of Boyne’s murder, we might learn more.”
Sebastian glanced at Antonia. “We could take a day’s break from the social round and go down to Kent. We didn’t stay long enough after finding Boyne to inquire if any locals had seen anyone about.”
“We don’t need to go to Kent.” Antonia met Sebastian’s eyes. “We only need to go to Scotland Yard—Inspector Crawford would
surely have made inquiries. He will know if any stranger seen in Kent who might have been Connell’s murderer matches the description of our dead man.”
“An excellent notion.” Sebastian looked at the others. “So what does our dead gentleman look like?”
Between them, Drake and Michael conveyed a detailed image of the man.
Cleo added, “And he has a scar anyone who got close enough—such as an ostler or barman—would have noticed.” She traced a line from the corner of her lips to the point of her jaw. “A fine slash, like a sword cut.”
Sebastian nodded. “That’s nicely distinctive. We’ll go to Scotland Yard tomorrow and see what we can learn.”
“Good.” Rapidly, Drake reviewed all they’d discussed, searching for other avenues they could explore.
Michael shifted, drawing Drake’s attention. “Two things we’ve yet to touch on—the timing and the likely target.” Michael glanced around their small circle. “Those barrels are in Southwark and, so we think, not yet at their ultimate destination.”
“Without knowing who’s behind this, we have little hope of identifying the target prior to the barrels reaching it,” Drake stated.
Michael inclined his head. “True, but I think we can all agree the target is highly likely to be over the river.”
Drake nodded, as did the other three.
Frowning slightly, as if following this line of thought for the first time, Michael continued, “So either via the river or across one of the bridges, the gunpowder must be moved again—and as we all agree, it’s not going to be just a short distance, this time, and so not so simply done.”
Michael looked at Drake. “If you were this mastermind, and you only just today learned that your people have been successful in shifting the gunpowder from the warehouse—a traceable place, as we’ve proved—to its new and entirely secret location, all ready for the next step, which for argument’s sake we’ll say involves moving the cache to a basement adjacent to the Bank of England, how would you proceed—and how long would it take you to get everything ready to take that next step?”