She waited until they were sufficiently distant from the constable on duty outside the office before slanting a glance at Sebastian’s face. “Where are we going? And who are we visiting?”
He met her eyes. They’d reached the front hall. He halted before the stairs.
She halted beside him and noted the way his gaze swept their surroundings before returning to her face.
“Go and change,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the stable.”
She threw him a haughtily censorious look—those words had sounded far too much like an autocratic command—but knowing his imperviousness on that front, without further ado, she went up the stairs.
* * *
By the time Antonia had changed into her dark-gray velvet riding habit, pulled on her boots, settled her riding cap at the correct angle on her piled hair, swiped up her gloves and crop, and started down the stairs, her mind had had time to sort through the morning’s exchanges, and once again, concern floated at the forefront of her brain.
Concern for Sebastian, that the fact he was being accorded special freedoms beyond that granted to other guests would mark him as in some way associated with the authorities—and he had been the one to find Ennis.
Surely the murderer would be moved to wonder if Ennis, when found, had, in fact, been dead or still dying. Still able to speak.
She asked directions from a footman, then strode briskly out along the path to the stable.
Sebastian was standing in the stable yard, the reins of a large gray hunter in his hand. A lighter-weight, leggy chestnut mare bearing a side-saddle was tied to the railing nearby. Sebastian was chatting to the stable master, a grizzled older man with a knowledgeable eye. He smiled when he saw Antonia and dipped his head.
Sebastian turned. His pale green gaze raked her. “Good.” He handed the gray’s reins to the stable master.
Antonia went to the side of the chestnut, intending to free the reins and walk the horse to the mounting block, but before she even touched the reins, Sebastian caught her about her waist, turned her, then lifted her to the saddle.
She lost her breath; for a moment, she lost her wits and all ability to think.
But the instant he released her, her wits returned in a rush.
When he handed her the mare’s reins, she narrowed her eyes on his faintly smug expression—yes, he’d definitely done that on purpose, just to see what would happen. And he’d seen and now knew. As she watched him stride to the gray, take the reins, then fluidly mount, she silently vowed revenge.
He compounded his sins by arrogantly collecting her with a mere glance, then urging the gray into a trot.
Counseling herself against acting precipitously, head high, she brought the chestnut alongside the gray and bided her time.
Once they were out of sight of the stable, trotting briskly across the fields and angling toward the coast north of the estate, recalling her earlier worry, she called to him, “Don’t you think us being allowed to ride out is going to mark you as working for the authorities?”
He met her eyes. After a moment, he looked forward. “I’m my father’s son. You’re your father’s daughter. We outrank all the others here by a country mile. No one’s going to wonder over a police inspector allowing us to wander as we please—they’ll just see it as proof that rank still wields power.”
“Ah.” She hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but now he mentioned it…
“Come on.” He urged the gray into an easy gallop. “We need to find out if he’s there.”
He, who? And there, where? But there was no point trying to converse at this speed. She thumped her heel against the chestnut’s side and pushed the horse faster.
Presumably, she would have her answers soon enough.
The first answer—where they were going—came sooner than she’d expected. They’d veered to the coast and followed the bridle path along the top of the cliffs, but had gone only a few miles when she saw the uniquely curved walls of Walmer Castle ahead. Shaped like a four-leaved clover, the official residence of the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports was impossible to mistake.
And that, of course, answered the question of whom they were hoping to speak with.
As Sebastian led the way up the graveled drive, she shook her head. “Wellington?”
Sebastian glanced back at her. “He comes down here every autumn. He may be nearly eighty years old, but he’s still sharp as a tack, and he’s still Commander-in-Chief of the army and keeps his ear close to every political ground there is. If anyone can give us a rapid but accurate assessment of the potential of a gunpowder threat, it’s him.”
They left their horses at the stable. The stable lad confirmed that the Lord Warden was, indeed, in residence. Side by side, Sebastian and Antonia strode along a hedge-lined walk to the drawbridge leading over the dry moat to an iron-studded double door made of ancient timbers inches thick.
Sebastian tugged the bell chain. A minute later, one door was hauled open by a neat individual, who left them standing in the panelled entrance hall while he took Sebastian’s card to his master.
Wellington’s secretary soon appeared with the news that His Grace would be delighted to grant them an audience.
Antonia hid a grin and followed the secretary, a dapper little man, along a corridor and up a curving stair to a large room in one of the towers. She’d met the Iron Duke several times, although not recently, but his acerbic wit and sharp tongue were legendary, and she remembered them very well.
The long room into which they were shown was instantly identifiable as Wellington’s own. A narrow camp bed rested against the wall farther down the room, and various mementos of his numerous victories were mounted on the walls or lay scattered here and there on side tables and chests. The great man himself was seated in a Bath chair, a shawl draped over his knees. He still sat rigidly upright, and there was nothing whatever impaired about the mind behind his large, slightly protuberant eyes. As they entered, he set aside the clutch of papers he’d been perusing and, with a smile, waved them to the chaise at his left.
With an answering smile, Antonia curtsied, then rose and went forward.
“My dear Antonia.” Wellington held out his hand, fingers waving for her to give him her hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” Taking her fingers, he gallantly raised them to his lips, then gently squeezed them and released her. “I hope you will forgive an old man for not rising—the manners are willing, but the flesh, I fear, has grown frail.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I’m delighted you were able to receive us.” She glanced at Sebastian. “I had no idea we would be calling on you, or I would have brought a gift.”
“Huh.” Wellington’s still-incisive gaze shifted to Sebastian. “Playing his cards close to his chest, is he? I wonder why?” Wellington’s lips quirked as he held out a hand to Sebastian. “Well, young pup? What can I do for you in your father’s name?”
Sebastian smiled and shook the duke’s hand. “Not in my father’s name this time. As it happens, he doesn’t yet know about this. I’m here—staying at Pressingstoke Hall—at Winchelsea’s behest.”
“Aha! Another of our more promising youngsters.” Folding his hands in his lap, Wellington waited until Sebastian settled on the chaise beside Antonia, then commanded, “Start at the beginning, go through to the end, and don’t leave anything out.”
Sebastian complied. Wellington might be already at an age that, in others, would be regarded as their dotage, but there were few in England with a clearer grasp of all matters political and military, and Sebastian had enormous respect for the duke’s unique combination of experience and acuity.
As if demonstrating that he hadn’t lost any of his famed mental sharpness, Wellington posed several pertinent questions, pushing Sebastian to elaborate on his suspicions alongside his facts.
He concluded his recitation of events with his and Antonia’s recent meeting with Inspector Crawford and Sir Humphrey. “The most urgent issue on my plate as of this momen
t is to get a letter to Whitehall detailing Ennis’s warning, such as it is.”
Wellington nodded. “Yes—that must go and with all speed. Winchelsea is unlikely to be back from Ireland, but regardless, the Home Secretary needs to know of this, early days though it is. One never knows with matters such as this what snippet of information will connect with another and give warning of something major. Have you written this missive yet?”
“Yes.” From his pocket, Sebastian drew the letter he’d prepared during the restless watches of the night.
“Good man.” Wellington pointed to the bellpull. “Ring for Moreton.”
His secretary answered the summons, and after scrawling his name across one corner of the envelope, Wellington consigned the letter into Moreton’s care with explicit instructions it be sent off by courier immediately.
When the door closed behind Moreton, Wellington returned his attention to Sebastian. “Now as to this plot.” Wellington paused, then he sat back, once more folding his hands in his lap. “What are your thoughts on it?”
Understanding that his grasp of the situation was about to be tested, Sebastian marshaled his wits. “The two words Ennis uttered…the way he said them was distinct. The first word was gunpowder, and that, itself, was the point. It stood alone. To me, it seemed that Ennis saw the fact that gunpowder was involved was the most critical point he needed to convey.”
Wellington nodded. “Indeed. Impending death, I have often observed, sharpens the mind wonderfully. I believe you’re correct in thinking that the involvement of gunpowder is of paramount significance.”
“So what does that tell us?” Sebastian answered his own question. “That whatever is planned, it’s deadly serious and likely to end in deaths. If gunpowder is involved in a secretive way, there really is no likelihood that the proposed use will be either innocent or minor.”
“Precisely.” His gaze locked on Sebastian’s face, Wellington continued, “Ennis said gunpowder because he knew he hadn’t time to say much more, and that single word establishes not just the substance but also the seriousness of the threat he sought to expose.”
Sebastian nodded. “So to the second word, which, as I said, was separate. Here. Although distinct, I believe it was secondary to the first—that Ennis meant that the gunpowder was here, not that he intended to tell me something else about ‘here’ but ran out of time.”
“But where is here?” Antonia asked. “There are so many possible interpretations.”
Wellington inclined his head. “I take your point. However, given this is gunpowder we’re talking about, I believe your best option is to assume Ennis meant the specific—namely that he meant Pressingstoke Hall itself—and then, if there is no sign of it there, or of it ever having been there, extend your search outward to the immediate area.” He paused, then went on, “Given Ennis was dying and knew it, we have to assume that his ‘here’ means somewhere close. Anywhere farther than the immediate neighborhood, and I think he would have tried for another word.”
After a moment, Sebastian said, “That brings us to the next question arising from Ennis’s warning—who is behind this?”
“Certainly, the evidence points to the Young Irelanders, or at least their more militant fringe. However…” Wellington paused as if consulting his capacious memory. Eventually, his expression faintly puzzled, he continued, “I have to say it’s not something I would have expected. The government came down hard on those involved in organizing the rebellion, and that was only two years ago. It takes time to regroup after a defeat like that. I wouldn’t have anticipated any violent attack—much less one involving gunpowder—from that quarter so soon.”
Wellington grimaced. “However, with Winchelsea hearing rumors of a Young Irelander plot, and Ennis being Anglo-Irish and possibly a sympathizer, as well as having other Anglo-Irish in the house, it’s difficult not to make the obvious connection.” Wellington stared at the floor in front of his chair, then raised his head and frowned at Sebastian. “I don’t like wagering the nation’s security on what might, in the end, be mere coincidence. We have precious few facts to draw on in terms of who might be behind this—for all we know, it could be the Chartists, although, in their case, even more than the Young Irelanders, we’re dealing with a group who have been reduced to a vestige of their former strength.”
“And if it isn’t either of those two groups?” Antonia asked.
Wellington snorted. “Then it could be anyone. Anyone with some wild idea of upending the government. Or, indeed, the Crown.” Several moments passed in silence as the great man cogitated, but then he looked at Sebastian and shook his head. “My advice, young Cynster, is to put aside the question of who is behind this action and, instead, focus on what Ennis rightly identified as the item of critical importance—the gunpowder.”
Sebastian held Wellington’s gaze for an instant, then nodded. “Yes. That needs to be first in our order of battle.”
Wellington grinned. “Your father always knew to keep his priorities in mind…” Wellington’s expression grew distant, then he refocused on Sebastian. “Ring for Moreton again. There’s something I should give you before you go.”
Moreton duly appeared, and Wellington demanded his writing desk. With it balanced on his knees, he swiftly wrote, then signed. After blotting the document, he handed it to Sebastian. “If you run into officious difficulties, just wave that in their faces—it should get you through.”
Sebastian read the document and smiled. “Thank you.” He folded it carefully and tucked it away with the other letters he was carrying. Then he rose and looked at Wellington. “And thank you for your counsel, Your Grace.”
Wellington wagged an admonitory finger at him—at them as Antonia rose and joined Sebastian. “Don’t get sidetracked—locate that gunpowder. Once you do, how much of the stuff has been assembled will give you a clue as to the target. Once you have the target, you’ll be several steps closer to identifying who the devil is behind this plot. Eliminate the danger first, identify the target, then go after the perpetrators.”
* * *
They’d spent longer than they’d bargained for with Wellington; consequently, they galloped most of the way back. It had been years since Antonia had enjoyed such an exhilarating run, with the fresh breeze off the sea rushing past her cheeks. After one brief, assessing glance, much to her appreciative approval, Sebastian concentrated on nothing more than keeping his gray in the lead.
He was only a yard ahead of her when they thundered onto the rear drive. Reluctantly, they drew rein, easing the horses to a trot, then a walk as they turned into the cobbled stable yard. The stable master saw them and sent grooms running to take their reins.
With his usual fluid grace, Sebastian dismounted.
Antonia slid her feet free of the stirrups. But before she could slide down, Sebastian reached her mount’s side and, with his customary high-handed arrogance, reached up, closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her down.
She’d been expecting him to do so and had planned her revenge.
She tipped forward as he lifted her; the shift in her weight had him taking a half step back, then he instinctively locked his legs and steadied…but by then she’d placed herself in the same space, so close that he had to ease her down his body, more or less breast to chest.
She’d thought she’d been prepared for the jolt to her senses.
She’d been wrong.
It was searing, like a sensual flame passing down the front of her, leaving an urgent longing—to seek more of the contact, more of the heat, more of him—in its wake.
Her heart raced; her lips throbbed. She felt warm all over and faintly giddy with wanting.
But the effect on him—the tension that gripped him—was even more telling.
More thrilling and enlightening.
She kept her eyes locked on his as she battled the urge to reach up and drag his lips down to hers—and let the thought shine in her eyes.
His muscles locked; his featu
res set like stone.
He was waging a battle of his own.
If they’d been anywhere more private, she might have added her weight against his good intentions, but…
Instead, she found enough strength, enough determination, to shift one hand and pat his chest while she smiled into his sea-green eyes.
His grip about her waist tightened; his jaw looked like it might crack.
When he finally lowered her the last inch, and her boots touched the cobbles, she made no effort to step back.
Her message was simple: Two could play at this game.
And she was only too willing to engage.
Sebastian recognized a gauntlet when he saw one at his feet, but this was one challenge he’d elected to defer.
The sane part of his mind reminded him of all the good—nay, excellent—reasons why. The rest of his brain was urging him to pick up her gauntlet and counter—to riposte.
This was the sort of game in which that other side of him delighted; the temptation to engage was well-nigh overwhelming.
But he had his own agenda and had no intention of allowing her to divert him from it.
The need for control, to remain in control, especially in this game, and even more especially with her, came to his rescue.
With adamantine will, he set her down and stepped back—away.
He ignored his howling demons, but the best retort he could muster as he all but peeled his fingers from her waist was “We don’t want to be late for luncheon.”
Her eyes widened, then she looked down and obliged by turning toward the house.
At least she didn’t laugh.
He swallowed his hunger and strode sedately—distinctly stiffly—beside her.
After several paces, she glanced up at him.
He didn’t meet her gaze but felt the quality of it—pure female curiosity.
“I wanted you to kiss me, you know.”
Damned impertinent and overbold female. “I know.”