Antonia opened her eyes wide. “I would have suggested asking Hamilton or Crewe, but I think you’ll find that we—our households—use our own carts or carriages. We wouldn’t hire carters, not on a routine basis—not enough to know the ins and outs of the trade.”
Michael nodded. “So who do we know who has dealings with carters—the sort of carters we’re after?”
After a moment, Sebastian offered, “You might see if any of Lord Hendon’s sons are in town. They would probably have some idea—or at least be able to point you in the direction of someone who liaises with carters.”
“And if you can’t find them, try at the Hendon Shipping Company office,” Drake said. “The company moves all sorts of goods from the docks to customers and warehouses all around London and the Home Counties, so someone in the office will surely know enough to steer you onto a worthwhile trail.”
“Where is the office?” Michael reached for his notebook.
Drake looked nonplussed. He glanced at Sebastian, who shook his head.
When Michael looked at her, Antonia shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”
Michael shoved the notebook back into his pocket. “Never mind. I’ll find it.” He looked at Drake. “My one remaining question—how much time do we have? If the gunpowder is already in London and has been since…” He broke off and looked at Sebastian. “When would the barrels have arrived here—in the capital?”
Sebastian looked at Antonia.
She frowned, then said, “The barrels left the Kent coast on the night of the day before yesterday or very early yesterday morning.”
Sebastian nodded. “That’s correct. So if they were brought straight up to town—and most likely they were—then they would have arrived in London yesterday, sometime in the morning.”
“So the barrels have been here, in town, for twenty-four hours already.” Michael looked at Drake. “How many days do you think we’ll have to find the barrels before they’re moved on, presumably to the intended target?”
“As I said earlier, we can probably count on a few more days, possibly up to a week.” Drake pulled a face. “Successfully deploying that much gunpowder, in secret, into position to blow up some government building or monument will require extensive planning, and these villains have been so very careful, I can’t imagine they’ll rush at this point.” Drake paused, then met Michael’s eyes. “Let’s just say that I’m not expecting to hear of any explosion in the next four or five days.”
Michael grunted. “That’s not quite as reassuring as you seem to think.”
Drake shook his head. “Regardless, there’s only one trail to follow, and you’ll need to follow it step by logical step. That’s all you—or we—can do. Incidentally”—he trapped Michael’s gaze—“if you do happen to locate the barrels, watch them rather than seize them. I hope to be back before they’re moved, and given that the Young Irelander connection has proved to be a deliberately misleading façade—and I’m fairly certain that this supposed Chartist involvement will turn out to be even less substantial—then our only avenue to identifying who is really behind this plot is via those barrels of gunpowder. If we find the barrels, we need to watch and wait, see who comes to fetch them, follow the barrels to their destination, then capture those involved before they have a chance to light any fuse. Up to this point, other than those directing the plot, everyone who has played a part in it, however minor, is dead. We need to seize someone still capable of speech.”
With that acerbic comment, Drake came to his feet.
The others all rose.
Drake led them to the door. “I’ll set out at first light for Leeds. If O’Connor reacts as I expect he will, I hope to return with the necessary contacts to halt any active support from the London Chartists—hopefully in time to stop the gunpowder being deployed, at least by them.” He opened the door, waved the others through, then followed them into the front hall.
While Antonia donned her mantle and Sebastian and Michael shrugged into their greatcoats, Drake stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his feet apart, and studied the floor.
When the others were ready to leave, he looked up—at Michael. “You’re right in thinking that, with the gunpowder now in London, some clock is ticking—it has to be—but unfortunately, we don’t know on what timetable this plot is operating. However, there are already so many aspects about it that are simply not usual—not the way such games are normally played—that I’m in two minds over whether there’s any need for urgency.”
Drake paused, then went on, “I don’t know how best to direct you. If—when—you find the gunpowder, if I’m not back, you should play it by ear. If you feel the location is safe enough—that it’s not the target and you can mount a suitable watch over the place—then do so. If the barrels are already at the target, or what might be the target, then exercise your discretion.” He glanced at Sebastian and smiled faintly. “In such a case, between the two of you, I’m sure you can arrange to seize the barrels.”
Sebastian nodded, as did Michael.
“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “By the time you return, we’ll have all in hand.”
Drake looked skeptical. “I can only hope.”
Hamilton took that as his cue to swing open the front door.
As the four walked toward the doorway, Michael glanced at Sebastian and Antonia, then looked across them at Drake. “One thing—we’ll need to be careful about sending any messages to St. Ives House. Louisa’s expected back in the next few days. Crewe seemed to think she would call in at Somersham first, presumably to see Grandmama, but given Louisa’s propensity for turning up when you least expect her…”
His features hardening, Sebastian nodded curtly. “Indeed—and we all know what she’s like. The very last thing any of us need is to have Lady Wild involving herself in this.”
Sebastian, Michael, and Drake all shuddered, Drake most violently—most feelingly—of all.
“Lady Wild” was Louisa’s nickname throughout the ton. Glancing at Drake, Antonia thought he had even paled a trifle. Intrigued, she caught his eye and arched a brow.
He correctly interpreted her unvoiced question; he waved her over the threshold and, as she stepped onto the porch, replied, “Her brothers have grown inured to her ways, but I have not. Her sheer recklessness makes my blood run cold.” He halted in the doorway.
Antonia turned and fixed him with a disbelieving look. “You? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
Drake arched his brows in his usual arrogant fashion. “Not at all. I am the epitome of sane and considered compared to Lady Wild.”
* * *
He sat in the shadows at a table tucked into a corner of the tavern in Weaver’s Lane. Patience didn’t come naturally to him, but tonight, confident and assured, with his wide-brimmed hat tipped forward to shade his face, he was prepared to sip his ale and wait for his contacts to arrive.
He might not be a guardsman, but he had his strengths; he could see why the old man had delegated this phase of the plan to him. There were, so the old man had informed him and the guardsman, three stages to the whole. And for each stage properly undertaken and successfully completed, he or the guardsman—whichever of them had been given that particular stage to run—would be awarded one third of the old man’s estate.
As gentlemen with no prospects but an innate taste for living well, both he and the guardsman had accepted the old man’s challenge. According to the old man, he would award the right to run the third and final stage to whichever of them completed their initial stage most cleanly—meaning who best ensured the old man’s wishes were carried out smoothly and in complete secrecy.
The guardsman had performed to the old man’s expectations in managing the first stage—in using the Young Irelander sympathizers to organize ten barrels of gunpowder, ship them to Kent, then transport the barrels by cart to London while leaving no trace that might lead back to either the guardsman or the old man.
Wrapped in the comforting shadows in the corner
of the tavern, the man raised his mug of ale and took a slow, savoring draft. He’d been summoned by the old man that afternoon and given the location of the barrels, along with the keys to the warehouse in which the barrels were currently stored.
At an earlier audience, he’d been made privy to the names of those he needed to gull and all relevant information necessary to carry out the second stage. As far as he knew, the details of the second stage hadn’t been shared with his competitor; the guardsman knew where the barrels were, but not where they were going.
As per the old man’s instructions, the man had spent the first three days of that week rattling around the coffee houses and eateries around Whitehall, armed with names, positions, and many useful facts. He’d crossed paths with various, mostly distant acquaintances, had imbibed and eaten alongside them, and subtly raised hares; without actually stating anything as fact, he’d planted the seeds of the notion that the Chartists were stirring and action might be imminent. As he understood things, the rumors were designed to ensure that one Lord Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea—a nobleman the old man seemed to despise and hold in unqualified contempt, yet at the same time, be distinctly wary of—went off on a wild-goose chase, the better to pave the way for a straightforward and unfettered run through the old man’s second stage.
That afternoon, he’d been happy to be able to report that all was in readiness to proceed, exactly as the old man had wished.
Yesterday, when he’d received a note from the guardsman informing him that the barrels had been delivered and describing their location, he’d progressed to contacting the local Chartist militia leaders via the London Working Men’s Association headquarters. That hadn’t been as difficult as he’d feared. As usual, the old man’s information had been uncannily accurate; how the old boy managed it while remaining immured in the country, the man really didn’t know, yet such an absolute grasp of every little detail and nuance of the situation commanded his admiration.
He’d only had to mention O’Connor’s name to be assured that his message would be conveyed to the right quarters and the leaders would meet with him. He’d dropped only one hint of impending action; that was all the workers at the club had required to leap on his request.
He doubted the local leaders would be quite so easy to gull, but he’d nominated this tavern as a meeting place and tonight at ten o’clock as the time.
It was nearing the hour now. He sat in the shadows and, despite the impatience—a wish to push on—that rippled beneath his skin, reminded himself that all good things came to those who waited.
Even more specifically, he reminded himself of all the good things he would be able to buy with even one third of the old man’s estate. Two thirds, and he’d live out his life in luxury. He felt confident of carrying out the old man’s wishes to his satisfaction, if not his outright approbation—approval enough, at least, to convince the old man to entrust the third and final stage of the plan, whatever it might involve, to him.
In truth, this stage of the plan could not have been carried out by the guardsman; even in mufti, all guardsmen were instantly recognizable. Their stance, their rigid posture, gave them away; the Chartists would have taken one look at the guardsman and steered clear.
He, on the other hand, was a chameleon. He also had an abundance of charm; he fully expected to have the local Chartist leaders eating from the palm of his hand.
Or to be more accurate, swallowing his tall tale whole.
Barely audible above the raucous din, the clock on the wall above the bar weakly chimed the hour—and the main door was shoved open, and three men entered.
They were heavyset, middle-aged, and just a touch suspicious. They scanned the tavern. He made no move to attract their attention, just waited.
Eventually, they saw him, and hesitantly, sliding between other patrons’ chairs, they approached.
When they reached the table where he sat, the oldest—the white-haired one in the center of the three—studied him, then asked, “Is it you we’re supposed to see, then?”
The man smiled thinly and, with a wave, invited them to sit on the three empty stools arrayed around the table. “Please join me, gentlemen.” He raised his hand and caught the serving girl’s eye. As she walked over, he asked the three Chartists, “What’s your pleasure? This round’s on me…or rather”—he lowered his voice dramatically—“on Feargus O’Connor.”
The three Chartists exchanged a glance, then the serving girl was there, and they ordered pints of ale.
When the girl retreated to the bar, the Chartists studied him anew with an interest that was easy to read. The oldest eventually asked, “What’s this about, then?”
From under the brim of his hat, the man glanced past the Chartists, then murmured, “Let’s wait until you have your drinks in front of you—no need to chance anyone overhearing.”
His caution had the desired effect; the three were now convinced he brought highly sensitive information. He’d long ago learned that little touches like that carried more weight than protestations.
When the Chartists had foaming pints before them and the serving girl had departed, the three lifted their pints, took deep sips, then lowered the mugs. All three glanced guardedly around, then bent expectant looks on him, on his face shadowed by his hat brim.
He suppressed a self-satisfied smile; this was going to be even easier than he’d thought. He leant forward, fixed his gaze on the face of the oldest man, and quietly said, “O’Connor sent me down. He’s…unhappy about the way things are going, but of course, he can’t be seen to be inciting any action. Not now he’s in Parliament himself. But he and the others up north feel the movement needs to ginger things up—to remind people we’re here and that we’ve still got demands, demands the high and mighty haven’t yet addressed.”
The three murmured their agreement, keeping their voices down.
They leant in as the man let his voice sink even lower. “We need to make a bit of a statement, see? O’Connor and the others have agreed on that, and that the statement needs to be made here in London. They’ve worked out a plan, but their orders are that I keep all the details to the smallest number of people, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t explain.”
The three exchanged glances, then the oldest looked directly into the man’s shadowed eyes. “All right. But if you’re not going to tell us what this plan’s about, what are we meeting for, then?”
The man smiled and eased back; he knew he would get what he wanted. What he needed. “All I—well, O’Connor, really—wants from you is the loan of some muscle. I need four reliable men, but not just any men. Men who know how to do what’s required—O’Connor and the others were sure you had the right men in your groups to help me carry out their plan.”
The Chartists didn’t even pause to exchange a glance. All three leant even farther forward. “What men?” the one on the right asked.
“Just four?” the man on the left queried.
The oldest man, the one in the center, asked, “What do you need them to do?”
He outlined his requirements.
And as the old man stuck away in the country had assured him, the Chartist militia leaders knew just the right helpers to steer his way. They promised him they would have all four meet him the following night.
“What name shall we tell them?” the oldest leader asked.
“Sharp.” The man was sorely tempted to claim to be a captain, but that might be one contemptuous step too far. “John Sharp. And we won’t meet here.” He beckoned the serving girl. “The Dog and Duck tavern in Red Lion Street. Same time—ten o’clock.”
The Chartists nodded readily, accepting his murmured comment that no one in Weaver’s Lane needed to see the four of them together again, or even him with four of their fellows.
He tapped the side of his nose. “Best keep everything under wraps. O’Connor doesn’t want any whispers getting around, not before the action.”
He left the three at the table, sipping the
second round he’d ordered for them. Only after he’d passed through the door into the welcoming darkness did he finally allow his triumph to show.
“Even easier than I’d thought.” The old man would be proud if he knew. Lining up the men to carry out the next stage of his plot had cost seven pints of ale in a dingy tavern.
The man in the low-brimmed hat strode off down the cobbled street, and the night swallowed him whole.
Chapter 2
Much to Michael’s frustration, it was after ten o’clock the following morning when he finally found his way to the steps of the Hendon town house. He could barely credit that it had taken him so long to learn the address. “That’s what comes of searching for ton addresses in London in October,” he grumbled. “Most of the ton are somewhere else.”
He’d assumed Crewe would know the address, but the butler hadn’t. Subsequently, Michael had rifled the desk in the library, but his father had taken his address book with him. Reasoning that, if the Hendon sons—there were three of them—were in town, then they would appear at one or other of the customary haunts for fashionable gentlemen, he’d shrugged and gone out on the hunt. But trawling through the clubs had yielded only the information that the Hendons weren’t about, and no one he’d been able to find knew of their London address.
In the small hours, annoyed over having wasted an entire evening, he’d returned to St. Ives House and his bedroom. There, he’d grumbled about the problem to his gentleman’s gentleman, Tom.
Tom was two years older than Michael and had grown up on the Somersham Place estate. He’d originally been Michael’s groom, then his sometime carriage driver. When the time had come for Michael to go on the town, and he’d been informed he needed a gentleman’s gentleman to keep his clothes and effects in order, he’d asked for Tom to be trained by his father’s man, and so now Tom effectively filled all three positions—personal groom, sometime carriage driver, and gentleman’s gentleman—to the satisfaction of all concerned.