But Michael had placed a cordon of men around the neighborhood and can state with certainty that the barrels haven’t left that area of dockside factories and warehouses.
Leaving the cordon of watchers in place, Michael and Cleo take the body of the dead mystery gentleman to Drake’s home. Hours later, Drake returns from the north. Later that morning, Drake summons Sebastian and Antonia to join them, and the five pool all they have learned.
At this point, the sum of their knowledge is:
- Ten barrels of gunpowder—over a thousand pounds of explosive—lie secreted within an area of London that the authorities cannot search without causing a riot.
- Although low-ranking foot soldiers of the Young Irelander movement, and possibly of the Chartist movement, have assisted with the plot, believing it to be an action approved by their leaders, neither the Young Irelander generals nor the Chartist leaders know anything about the gunpowder. It appears both politically radical organizations are being set up as scapegoats for whatever heinous explosion the gunpowder is intended to create.
- From what the late gentleman-villain let fall, there is at least one other higher-level villain directing the gullible men recruited as helpers.
- The higher-level villains are consistently killing said gullible men after their tasks are completed, presumably on the grounds that dead men can tell no tales.
- There has to be a mastermind behind the plot, and he is cautious, careful, Machiavellian, and politically adept, using the Young Irelander and Chartist movements to disguise, deflect, and most importantly, effectively tie Drake’s hands over raising any general alert via the constabulary and guard regiments about the capital.
- The identity of the dead gentleman-villain is yet to be determined, but his bootmaker is one possible source—Drake’s man, Finnegan, is checking.
At the end of their cogitations, the questions still before our heroes and heroines are:
- Where exactly is the gunpowder? If they can locate it, they can substitute something non-explosive and wait to see who collects the barrels and follow them to the true villains and, ultimately, to the mastermind.
- Who is the mastermind?
- What is the mastermind’s target, and why?
* * *
In the final scene from “An Irresistible Alliance” that leads into the opening scene of “The Greatest Challenge of Them All”:
Later that same day, our five investigators meet again and agree that they have little hope of identifying the target without knowing who the mastermind is.
They decide that:
- Learning the dead gentleman’s identity is their clearest route to identifying the mastermind. At that moment, they are awaiting information; once they learn his name, Drake, Sebastian, and Antonia will pursue that line of investigation.
- They need to learn whether the man who killed Connell Boyne was the dead gentleman or another of the mastermind’s lieutenants. Armed with a description of the dead gentleman, Sebastian and Antonia will approach Inspector Crawford at Scotland Yard, who must by now have a description of the man who shot Boyne.
- Michael will keep his watchers in place in case the barrels of gunpowder are moved again, but could the gunpowder be disguised by being put into other containers? Cleo and Michael will check with those likely to know, as well as subtly asking around inside the critical area, hoping to catch a whisper of the gunpowder’s specific location.
- Meanwhile, Drake will investigate any further dead bodies in the hope their identities might indicate where the gunpowder has gone. For instance, who drove the two drays on which the gunpowder vanished into the fog? Even if the men are already dead, they might have spoken to someone about the plot.
- Drake will also follow up with the local branch of the Chartists in case any of their men have been lured into assisting with the plot. If any have and are still alive, they might know where the gunpowder is. Also, alerting the Chartists will deny the villains further manpower from that source and possibly slow the deployment of the gunpowder to the intended target.
Finally, the five investigators attempt to place themselves in the mastermind’s shoes, and by working through the logistics and accounting for his cautiousness, they reason that they have a few days, possibly as long as a week, before everything would be in place to detonate the gunpowder. They also hypothesize that given the way the mastermind operates, the men he chooses to move the gunpowder to his final target site are unlikely to be attached to any group and might well be innocent of what they are doing—implying that the gunpowder will be disguised as something ordinary. How such a transformation might be achieved remains a mystery.
They have reached this point when Finnegan returns bearing news of the dead gentleman-villain’s identity. His bootmaker has identified him as Mr. Lawton Chilburn. The name means nothing to Drake, nor to Sebastian, Michael, Antonia, or Cleo. Frustrated, Drake demands of the world at large, “Who the devil is Lawton Chilburn?”
The answer comes in a voice Drake instantly recognizes.
Lady Louisa Cynster, Sebastian and Michael’s sister, sweeps in. She has eavesdropped, overheard all, and knows the critical answer: Lawton Chilburn is the youngest of Viscount Hawesley’s four sons.
Louisa makes it abundantly plain that she is dealing herself into the investigation.
Even though Drake is beyond certain that the very last person he needs assisting him is the lady widely known—for excellent reasons—as Lady Wild, he discovers he, who is otherwise unfailingly in control of his world, is helpless to prevent it.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1850
CHAPTER 1
Enthroned in an armchair in the back parlor of St. Ives House, Lady Louisa Helena Horatia Cynster watched Lord Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea, struggle to accept the inevitable. Could his reluctance be any more obvious? Well, he would simply have to get used to it. She’d had enough of playing by his rules.
She knew all about Drake’s “missions” and his coterie of gentlemen known as the “sons of the nobility.” What she wanted to know was: What about the daughters of the nobility? Weren’t they allowed to play a part in defending their country?
What about Boadicea?
Besides, as it appeared that Antonia Rawlings and Miss Hendon had been included in this intrigue, Louisa saw no reason why she—a duke’s daughter accomplished in wielding the power such standing bestowed—couldn’t play a part. An active part.
Naturally, she understood why Drake, and her brothers, too, wished to keep her far from their enterprise. But her brothers knew their place. Drake would simply have to grow accustomed to his.
It was time. And more, truth be told.
She could remember the precise moment when she’d realized that from her point of view, Drake was the outstanding candidate for the position of her husband. She could also remember perfectly well when she’d realized he knew that, too.
He, however, had evidently decided to avoid addressing the issue for as long as he possibly could.
They were not in love. How could they be when he’d ensured he spent as little time within ten yards of her as humanly possible?
Which, of course, was a very large part of the reason he didn’t want her anywhere near his precious mission.
Too bad. She was dealing herself into his game.
“I understand,” she said, allowing her words, clear and even, to fall into the pervasive silence, “what your intentions are at this point.” Briskly, she summarized, “Sebastian and Antonia to hold the social fort and, now we know the dead gentleman’s name, to learn as much as possible about him from those they meet in the ballrooms. Also, they will inquire of Scotland Yard as to whether Lawton was the man who shot Connell Boyne in Kent. If not, it would seem we have more than one killer involved in this intrigue.”
Drake opened his mouth, but she gave him no quarter—no chance to interrupt and seize the reins. “Meanwhile, Michael and Cleo—” She broke off to smile at the fair-haired lady sitting besid
e Michael. “I do hope I may call you Cleo?”
Cleo’s resulting smile held a touch of fascination. “As we are to be sisters-in-law, I hope you will.”
Louisa felt her smile spontaneously deepen; she rather thought she and Cleo would get on. She inclined her head and continued, “Michael and Cleo will make inquiries as to whether gunpowder can be transported in containers other than barrels specially made for the purpose.” She arched a brow at Michael. “I assume the men you have watching the area in Southwark are the footmen army.”
Michael blinked; it seemed he hadn’t realized she knew about his and Sebastian’s previous exploits that had led to the formation of said army. Slowly, warily, he nodded. “They know what they’re doing—we can trust them to keep watch.”
“And respond appropriately should they spot the barrels once again in transit.” She switched her gaze to Drake.
Apparently accepting that she was not about to withdraw, he’d subsided into the armchair he’d previously occupied and was regarding her through eyes of beaten gold; his expression said little other than that he was very definitely not amused.
She inwardly grinned. “As it’s already well past five o’clock”—on cue, the others all glanced at the mantelpiece on which a large ormolu clock resided—“then I assume it’s too late to call at the London Working Men’s Association.” At the slight flaring of Drake’s eyes—which for him denoted startled surprise—she smiled a touch patronizingly. “I understand that’s the headquarters of the London Chartists. However, like most such offices, they will have closed at five o’clock, so pursuing that line of inquiry will need to wait until morning.”
Drake nearly spoke—no doubt to insist she went nowhere near the London Working Men’s Association—but at the last second, his gaze steady on her face, presumably reading her preparedness to verbally engage, he bit the words back.
Smoothly, she continued, “Our most pressing need—and also the avenue most amenable to immediate pursuit—is to learn of Lawton Chilburn’s connections. His friends, his family, those with whom he associated. Anyone who might know with whom he was involved in recent days—or, indeed, who might themselves be his fellow conspirators.”
“You knew who he was.” Drake’s tone was studiously level. “What do you know of his family?”
“Three older brothers and three sisters—two much older, the other younger, yet still older than Lawton. All his siblings are married.” She paused to consult her memory. “His father is Viscount Hawesley of Ludworth, near Durham. His mother was a Nagle—she’s aunt to the current Marquess of Faringdale.” She met Drake’s eyes. “The branches of both family trees are numerous, so Lawton has a large number of cousins.”
She switched her gaze to Sebastian and Antonia. “Which events are you planning to attend tonight?”
From his expression, Sebastian had no clue. He glanced at Antonia, who recited, “The Carnabys’ dinner, Lady Ormond’s soiree, and the Marchmains’ gala.”
Louisa nodded. “I have to make an appearance at the Marchmains’, but as you’re covering those events, I’ll try my hand at Lady Chisholm’s ball and at the Mountjoys’ soiree, then end at Lady Cottlesloe’s. Most of the Chilburns should be in town, and at least some of them should be out and about in the ton tonight.”
Michael glanced at Cleo. “We need to compose and dispatch a letter to Cleo’s parents.”
“And I must return home before my household raises a hue and cry,” Cleo added.
“But later”—Michael looked at Louisa, then switched his gaze to Drake—“I can circulate through the clubs and see if I can turn up any of Chilburn’s friends. At the very least, I should get some inkling of what crowd he ran with.”
“Then tomorrow,” Cleo said, “we’ll check with the footmen and learn what types of containers are commonly passing out of that area, then I believe we’ll visit the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder. Someone there should be able to tell us definitively whether any other sort of receptacle can be used to transport gunpowder.” Gathering her reticule, she glanced at the clock and rose. “And as it’s past six o’clock, I need to be on my way.”
The men stood. Michael declared he would see Cleo home.
Louisa rose, clasped Cleo’s hand, and smiled warmly. “We haven’t had a chance to grow acquainted, yet I’m already certain we’ll be friends.”
Cleo’s smile was delighted and also intrigued. “I feel the same. Until tomorrow and whatever it brings.”
Louisa watched Michael and Cleo leave, then turned to see Sebastian arching a black brow at Antonia.
“Yes, I agree.” Antonia glanced at Louisa. “The Carnabys’ dinner is at eight, so we, too, must get on.”
They’d been acquainted all their lives; Louisa touched cheeks with Antonia. For her ears alone, Louisa whispered, “I can barely believe he finally came to his senses. How on earth did you manage it?”
Antonia’s smile turned mischievous. “It wasn’t that hard. I just needed the right time and the right place. And the right incentive.”
Barred by the company from requesting further clarification, Louisa released Antonia to Sebastian, whom she farewelled with a regal nod.
She and Drake watched the pair pass through the parlor door, leaving the two of them standing in the space between the sofas, separated by a perfectly decent two yards.
Although she wasn’t looking at him—was rather careful not to—she sensed his hesitation, his equivocation over being alone with her even in such innocuous and understandable circumstances. And it wasn’t any consideration of propriety that provoked the itch beneath his skin. She was twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake, and they were in her parents’ house with staff only a good scream distant.
No. It was the attraction that had always simmered between them that was making him glance at the door. To this day, she didn’t know if he was as affected by it as she was—if he felt it to the same extent, with the same unrelenting intensity. Like a roughened hand passing over already sensitized nerves in a manner that was simultaneously unsettling and the ultimate in temptation.
She didn’t know if that compulsive attraction presaged anything more than lust or if it might be a harbinger of something deeper. Something more profound, like love.
The most irritating aspect of her ignorance was the lowering thought that his reaction to her over the past decade was due to him—so much more experienced in such matters than she—correctly interpreting her fascination with him, not reciprocating it, and because of their families’ connection, rather than bluntly repudiating her interest, he’d elected to simply avoid her.
Presumably in the hope that she would turn away and, eventually, marry someone else.
She might have done just that—no lady of her ilk willingly remained a virgin for so long—except that from her earliest years in society, she’d measured every other gentleman against him, and invariably, those others had failed to meet his mark. Until she—and he—confronted whatever fueled their attraction, until they gave it its head and allowed it to rise or die as it would, she wasn’t going to be able to get on with her life.
With him or with some other gentleman. She was already twenty-seven years old. Waiting for Drake to make his feelings known—to accept or reject her in some unequivocal fashion—hadn’t borne fruit. It was time to learn the truth, one way or the other.
“What are you imagining?”
She glanced at him and found him regarding her through narrowed eyes. His demand—for demand it unquestionably was—was no longer couched in any gentle tone. His voice had turned hard, even harsh, with an undertone that was faintly menacing.
She quelled an urge to grin; if he was trying to send her running, she had the upper hand. “I believe I’ll concentrate on tracking down Lawton’s sisters and possibly his mother and see what they can tell me about him. I’m sure they’ll frequently send notes, even if only summonses to family events. They must know his address.”
Learning of Chilburn?
??s address was Drake’s top priority. With the man dead, the sooner Drake gained access to his rooms and any papers therein, the better.
Her limpid gaze on his face, Louisa arched her brows. “How are you planning on spending your evening?”
Avoiding you. “I’m going to start at Arthur’s, then quarter the likely clubs.” He hesitated, then acknowledged, “I—we—need to learn Chilburn’s address with all speed.” Of course, she’d focused on the critical next step.
Her lips curved playfully. “I wonder which of us will learn it first?” For a second, her eyes quizzed him.
Then before he could insist she promise that, if she did learn of Chilburn’s address, she wouldn’t venture there herself, Lady Wild’s smile deepened, and with a swish of her skirts, she swept past him and on toward the door. Without looking back, she raised her right hand and waggled her fingers. “Good luck.”
And then she was gone, leaving him staring after her, inwardly swearing while wrestling with a host of contradictory impulses.
A minute passed, then he set his lips. He felt his jaw clench, tried to ease the telltale sign, and failed.
With a muttered oath, he stalked out of the room and headed for the front hall.
CHAPTER 2
Seated at the scarred desk in his rooms above a tailor’s shop, Bevis Griswade stared at the old man’s missive and wondered what had gone wrong.
From the first, he’d been confident of winning the unstated competition between Lawton and himself for the right to direct the third stage of the old man’s plot. After his faultless execution of the first stage, culminating in the delivery of the gunpowder into the warehouse in London, he’d felt all but assured of gaining a full two-thirds of the old man’s estate, rather than just one third. When the old man had changed his mind over allowing him, Griswade, any insight into Lawton’s second stage and had sent a copy of the instructions Lawton had been given, Griswade had felt even more certain of victory, or at least that the old man was leaning his way.