“My wife was nearly murdered in front of the Haymarket, and they can’t be bothered?” Gabriel asked with incredulous fury. “By God, I’ll go to Scotland Yard and stir up a hornet’s nest.”
“You’re welcome to try, my lord. But they’ll only waste your time with jibber-jabber. They won’t act. There’s so much corruption throughout the department and the entire police district, it’s impossible to know who to trust.” Ransom paused. “I’ve been pursuing the investigation on my own.”
“How can I help?” Gabriel asked.
“Actually, it’s Lady St. Vincent’s help that I need. Before I explain, you should know there’s a stinger at the end of it.”
Gabriel stared at him for a long, pensive moment. “Go on.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, Ransom pulled out a small notebook with a few loose pages tucked inside. He extracted a slip of paper and showed it to Pandora. “Do you recognize this, my lady? It was in the bag of materials you brought from the printer’s office.”
“Yes, it’s the little scrap I found at the printer’s works. It looks like a sample of typographic lettering. It was the reason I followed Mrs. O’Cairre out to the warehouse. She’d dropped it, and I thought she might have need of it.”
“These aren’t typographic samples,” Ransom said. “It’s a cipher key. A combination of alphabet letters that are used to decipher coded messages.”
Pandora’s eyes widened with interest. “How exciting!”
That drew a quick smile from him. “Actually, in my world it’s rather mundane. Everyone uses cipher messages—police and criminals. The department employs two full-time cryptographic experts to help unravel all the materials we acquire.” He turned serious again. “Yesterday I came into possession of a coded telegram that couldn’t be deciphered with the latest cipher key from our central office. But I tried this key”—he gestured with the slip of paper—“and it worked.”
“What does it say?” Pandora asked.
“It was sent to a known leader of Caipíní an Bháis, the group of radicals Mrs. O’Cairre was connected with. It concerns a reception that will be held at the Guildhall tomorrow evening for the Prince of Wales.” Pausing, he carefully tucked the cipher key back into the notebook. “The telegram was sent by someone in the Home Office.”
“Good God,” Gabriel said, his eyes widening. “How do you know that?”
“Usually, telegrams sent from the Home Office are written on blanks printed with a special number that allows them to be sent free of charge. It’s called a frank number. It makes the telegram more liable to scrutiny, as the clerks in the telegraph office are instructed to make certain the privilege isn’t being abused. A clerk saw a frank number on a coded message, which is against procedure, and passed it to me. It was a careless mistake for the sender not to have used an unidentified blank.”
“Why in God’s name would someone from the Home Office conspire with Irish anarchists?” Gabriel asked.
“There are ministers in Her Majesty’s government who are fiercely opposed to the idea of Irish Home Rule. They know that if Irish conspirators commit an act of public violence, such as an assassination of the Prince, it would end any chance of Home Rule. There would be mass reprisals for Ireland, and the deportation of thousands from England, which is exactly what anti-Home Rulers want.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Pandora asked.
Ransom frowned and leaned forward, tapping the fingertips of both hands together lightly. “My lady, I think the man you saw in the warehouse is going to be at the reception. I think he’s from the Home Office. And now that Mrs. O’Cairre is dead, you’re the only person we have who can identify him.”
Gabriel replied before Pandora had a chance to react. His quiet voice contained the intensity of a shout. “Go to hell, Ransom. If you think I’ll let you put my wife in danger, you’re insane.”
“All she would have to do is attend the reception for a few minutes to see if he’s there,” Ransom said. “Once she points him out, you could whisk her away to safety.”
“It is a limited outing, if you think about it,” Pandora said to Gabriel reasonably.
Her husband gave her an incredulous glare. “Helping to foil assassination attempts against the Prince of Wales is not a bloody limited outing!”
“My lord,” Ransom said, “if the conspiracy goes as far as I fear it might, Lady St. Vincent won’t be safe until this man is identified and arrested. You’ll have to guard her every minute, and keep her confined and out of public view indefinitely.”
“I’ll have no problem with that,” Gabriel snapped.
“But I would,” Pandora said softly. She met her husband’s gaze, reading his anguished fury and gave him a faintly apologetic smile. “You know I would.”
“You’re not going to have your way on this,” Gabriel informed her in a hard voice. “No matter what you say or do, it’s not going to happen.”
“Who would have thought my first outing would be to see the Prince of Wales?” Pandora commented lightly as she descended from the carriage in front of the Guildhall.
“Who indeed?” came Gabriel’s surly reply. He helped her down carefully, while Dragon made certain the skirts of her formal gown didn’t brush the sides of the doorway. She was dressed in gleaming pink satin, the skirts embroidered lavishly with gold thread. A layer of gold-spangled gauze veiled the bodice and helped to conceal the small bandage over her wound.
She glanced at Dragon, who didn’t look any happier about the situation than her husband.
Despite Dragon’s brooding expression, he cut a fine figure in formal evening clothes, which had been purchased and altered with lightning speed at Winterborne’s. It had been agreed that he would accompany Pandora and Gabriel inside the Guildhall and attract far less notice if he were dressed like the other men present.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Pandora said with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “We’ll stroll into the Guildhall, I’ll point out the man from the warehouse if he’s here, and then we’ll go back home.”
“This is lunacy,” Gabriel muttered.
Dragon kept silent, but his expression was one of complete agreement.
“As Mr. Ransom remarked,” Pandora told Gabriel, “I’ll be much safer when this collaborator is caught. And Mr. Ransom did agree to let you have five minutes alone with him, although heaven knows why you would want to talk to such a dreadful man.”
“We won’t be talking,” Gabriel said curtly.
They crossed a paved limestone courtyard to the massive vaulted entranceway of the Guildhall, a magnificent stone civic hall built in the fifteenth century. Recent restorations had lent it the grace of Gothic spirit and detail, but it possessed a fanciful mixture of styles and ornamentation. The Guildhall was used for all manner of civic functions, including banquets and annual public meetings hosted by the Lord Mayor, and balls and receptions for royalty.
An enormous crowd had amassed in the courtyard, the glittering mass funneling into the entrance of the south porch.
Pandora regarded the gathering with amazement. “There must be two thousand guests here.”
“Closer to three thousand,” Gabriel said. “Damn it. If you’re caught in a crush . . . if someone bangs into you . . .”
She clung to his arm. “I’ll stay close to you.”
In another minute, they saw Ethan Ransom approaching, lean and elegant in evening clothes. Pandora stared at him, struck by a sense of something familiar about him. The way he walked, the shape of his head. “How odd,” she murmured.
“What is it?” Gabriel asked.
“I just had the sensation that I’ve experienced this before . . . as if I’m reliving something that’s already happened.” She made a face. “Dr. Gibson warned me to expect this for a few weeks, after having undergone amnesia.”
Ransom reached them and bowed to Pandora. “Good evening. You’re a vision, my lady.”
She smiled and curtsied. “Mr. Ranso
m.”
As they proceeded toward the entrance, Gabriel asked, “Shouldn’t there be more uniformed officers for a crowd this size? So far I’ve only seen two.”
“There should,” Ransom said sardonically. “A spectacular lack of police presence, isn’t it?” Glancing at the rows of mounted Coldstream guards and ceremonial honor guard officers, he commented, “No real weapons. But thank God there’s plenty of gold braid, epaulets, medals, and shiny breast plates. If the anarchists attack, we can blind them with our sparkly decorations.”
They entered the Guildhall and proceeded down a long, wide corridor that opened to the towering great hall. It was a breathtaking space, with a lofty oak roof comprised of intricate arched ribs, and elegant wall panels shaped like Gothic windows. A temporary wooden floor had been built over the stone floor for the event, to give the hall the appearance of an ancient baronial manor. The rectangular hall was divided into eight bays, with an orchestra playing at the west end, and a huge dais at the easternmost end. Imitation marble columns formed the sides of an arcade arch on the dais, with swaths of green cloth and an acre’s worth of flowers spread lavishly all around it. A pair of heavy golden state chairs had been positioned at the front of the dais.
Pandora’s uncertain gaze moved over the crowd. The hall was packed full of people, with more pouring in. Even if the man from the warehouse was here, how was she supposed to see him with so much happening all around her? Waltzing couples whirled in time to the exuberant orchestra music. People clustered in laughing, chatting groups. The high-pitched tone began in her ear, and she lifted a hand to tap it away.
Gabriel escorted her along the side of the hall. “Try to look at the room in sections,” he said close to her good ear.
They moved slowly around the room, pausing often to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances. Gabriel introduced her to what seemed like a hundred people. Gabriel possessed an impressive recall for names and details, remembering to ask after someone’s aunt who was in failing health, or about the progress of an elderly gentleman’s written memoirs. The main topic of conversation, not surprisingly, was Pandora’s experience at the Haymarket a fortnight ago. The assault, which was assumed to be an act of street thievery gone wrong, was pronounced shocking and abominable, and occasioned a great deal of sympathetic interest. Receiving so much attention made Pandora feel uncomfortable and shy, but Gabriel kept the conversation flowing smoothly.
The orchestra played beautifully, releasing music into the air as if it had wings, waltzes swooping and gliding and darting everywhere. The Mockingbird Waltz. The Fairy Wedding Waltz, the Evening Echoes Waltz. Another tune began, and after the first few strains, she and Gabriel glanced at each other as they recognized “Sally In Our Alley” played in waltz time. They both began to laugh.
Just over Gabriel’s shoulder, at the eastern end of the Great Hall, Pandora caught a glimpse of a man with pale straw-colored hair, and her amusement vanished. Startled, she drew closer to Gabriel, half-hiding behind him, and peeked again. She recognized the broad, square face, the bunched chin, the pale complexion.
“You’ve seen him?” Gabriel asked.
Pandora nodded. “He just walked out from behind the dais.” She took an extra breath before continuing. “Now he’s headed along the north side of the room.”
Gabriel turned to glance at the man, his eyes narrowed into bright slits.
Ransom joined them, wearing a social smile. “That’s him?” he asked, his gaze flickering to the light-haired man and back.
Pandora nodded.
“That should be Mr. Nash Prescott,” Ransom said quietly. “An Under Secretary at the Home Office. Occasionally I take orders from him.”
Pandora glanced at the man again. He reached the door opposite the great hall’s entrance, and went outside.
“He’s leaving,” Gabriel said.
“Damned if he is,” Ransom muttered, and went after him, striding through the mass of waltzing couples and causing a few minor collisions.
“I wonder what he was doing behind the dais?” Pandora asked.
“I’ll find out.” Gently Gabriel turned her to face Dragon, who had approached them. “Watch over her,” he told the other man. His gaze fell on a stone bench inserted deeply into one of the room’s eight bays. “Pandora, go sit quietly over there for a few minutes.”
“I’d rather—” she began, but he had already begun to walk away.
Pandora stared after him with a frown. “Well, this is anticlimactic,” she said, while Dragon accompanied her to the stone bench. She heaved a sigh. “Back to sitting in corners.”
Dragon didn’t reply, only wandered restlessly around her.
Pandora watched the couples dancing, admiring their grace and quickness. She liked the way the abundant skirts swirled around the gentlemen’s legs before whipping around in the opposite direction. A graceful woman tripped slightly on a patch of flooring just a few yards away, and her partner automatically compensated. It made Pandora feel slightly better about her own dancing. If an accomplished woman like that could make a mistake—
Her thoughts were interrupted as Dragon came to stand by the bench. He ran his hand lightly over some of the wall paneling, pushed on it, even gave it a knock or two.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, perplexed.
“Don’t know.” He continued to pace.
“Why don’t you sit?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I feel itchy.”
“Dragon, I’m not unsympathetic, but footmen really shouldn’t mention their personal—”
“Not that kind of itch. And I’m a bodyguard tonight, not a footman.”
“You’re right,” Pandora said. “As a matter of fact, you look the perfect gentleman.” She noticed another couple having difficulty on the same area of the floor. This time it was the gentleman who stumbled, as if his shoe had caught on the edge of a plank. “Perhaps some lovely woman will see you from across the room,” Pandora continued, “and say to herself, ‘who is that stranger with the dashing beard? I wish he would ask me to dance.’”
“I don’t dance.”
“Neither do I.” More couples waltzed past them, Pandora frowned as she saw yet another woman trip. “Dragon, how difficult would it be to lift up one of these floor planks?”
“Not difficult. It’s a temporary floor. But they won’t like it if I rip it up during a dance.”
“Perhaps when there’s a lull in the dancing, you might help me look at something. I’ve seen three couples trip in the exact same place on the floor. Right over there. I’m sure it’s only a badly laid plank. But now I understand what you mean about feeling itchy.”
The strains of the waltz dwindled, and the orchestra struck up “God Save The Queen” to announce the Prince of Wales’ arrival on the Guildhall grounds. As etiquette demanded, everyone stood in the room, arms at their sides, and sang along with the anthem.
Dragon, however, wasn’t at all concerned about etiquette. He walked around and between the earnestly singing couples, staring down at the planks. Pandora went to join him. With her thin-soled slippers, she could feel a slight looseness in some of the boards . . . and a definite edge where one hadn’t been installed properly.
“It’s this one,” she whispered, testing it with her foot. A few people shot affronted glances at her—it was very bad form not to sing the anthem.
Reaching into his formal evening coat, Dragon withdrew a slender, well-worn leather roll, shook out a sturdy metal pick, and knelt on the floor.
Four trumpeters entered the room, followed by a quartet of stewards with silver wands. The orchestra played as the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress proceeded to the dais, followed by city officers, aldermen, and members of the Common Council.
As Dragon pried at the edges of the plank, people around them began to protest.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” one man demanded in outrage. “You’re interfering with the Lord Mayor’s speech,
and furthermore—” He stopped as Dragon pulled up the board and set it aside.
Pandora looked down at the row of neat brass cylinders fitted into the space between the temporary floor and the original stone floor beneath. “What are those?” she asked Dragon, although she was afraid she already knew the answer. “I hope they’re some kind of ventilation device.”
“They are,” Dragon muttered, pulling up another floor plank to reveal another row of gleaming cylinders. “They’ll ventilate the roof right off the building.”
“Bomb!” a man near them screamed. “The floor is lined with bombs!”
The music stopped, and chaos erupted inside the great hall. Earsplitting shrieks rent the air, while the crowd stampeded and surged toward the entrance and exit doors. As Pandora stood there, stunned, Dragon leapt up and pulled her into the lee of his body, shielding her from being trampled.
“Where is Lord St. Vincent?” she asked. “Can you see him?”
It was impossible to hear Dragon’s reply above the roar.
As the fear-maddened crowd pushed, jostled, and elbowed its way toward the doors, Pandora huddled against him. In a minute she felt Gabriel’s arms close around her, and she turned toward him blindly. Without a word, he picked her up and carried her to the side of the room, while Dragon blocked the people who pushed against them.
The three of them reached the shelter of an inset arch, and Gabriel lowered Pandora’s feet to the ground. She clutched the lapels of his coat and looked up at him desperately.
“Gabriel, we have to leave here now.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right,” she insisted. “There are bombs beneath the floor, lined up like sardines in a tin. A tin that’s going to explode into a million pieces.”