The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Guy Fawkes?” The duke blinked, but did not dismiss the idea out of hand. He was silent for several moments, then said, “I would have said not, but there’s always a chance of some fanatical faction deciding such a move will be in their best interests, especially in the wake of ’48.” The duke paused, then went on, “I always felt that the most disturbing aspect of the original plot was that it was only exposed through betrayal. Admittedly, the powder was damp and wouldn’t have made much of an explosion, but the fact remains that the authorities of the day were completely unaware of the existence of the plot until one of the plotters broke ranks.”

  “A betrayal,” Drake stated, “is unlikely to happen in the present case. To date, we’ve detected only two active agents, and presumably there’s someone directing the whole, but other than that, there seems no evidence of wider involvement.” Drake grimaced. “Or at least not intentional involvement in the true plot.”

  When the duke looked understandably puzzled by that cryptic utterance, Drake outlined the unwitting involvement of the Young Irelanders and the Chartists. “Although we’ve blocked further recruitment from Chartist ranks, we’ve no idea what group might be drawn in next.”

  “Hmm.” The duke put a question and followed it with more.

  Louisa watched as Drake’s father drew a brief but essentially complete summary of their investigation from his heir.

  Viewing the pair more or less face-to-face illustrated a circumstance she’d long considered a curious mystery—that Drake’s golden eagle’s eyes, which he’d inherited through his mother, should possess the same ability to make one feel all but dissected, mentally at least, as his sire’s very dark, bitter-chocolate-brown eyes. Plainly, the effect owed its existence to the power of the mind behind the eyes rather than their shade; certainly, when it came to the former, Drake was very much his father’s son.

  When Drake mentioned his previous meeting with Greville and their hopes of swaying the Home Secretary that evening, the duke’s brows rose cynically. “I see that, since my time, very little has changed. And at least I had the pressure of ongoing wars to spur the bureaucrats into action.”

  “I’m discovering that peace,” Drake responded equally cynically, “is much more difficult to preserve than to achieve.”

  The duke softly snorted in agreement.

  Drake glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, then met his father’s gaze. “It’s nearly four o’clock. I called a meeting here for that time. For obvious reasons, we can’t gather at St. Ives House. I suppose we could use the drawing room…”

  “No, no.” The duke collected Tobias with a glance. “This is a much better room for dealing with plots.” With a subtle smile curving his lips, the duke took his leave of her, then followed Tobias to the door. There, the duke paused. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Drake. “While this plot sounds intriguing, I’m rather glad it’s in your hands and not mine.” The duke’s gaze rested on Drake’s face. “As for dealing with Greville, I suggest you focus on what you, as my heir, can and should do, rather than on what Greville might authorize.”

  With that, the duke went out, and the door quietly shut behind him.

  She looked at Drake; his expression had turned thoughtful. “What did he—your father—mean by that last remark?”

  A frown in his eyes, Drake said, “I think—” He broke off as the door opened, and Cleo, followed by Antonia and Sebastian, walked in.

  They exchanged quick greetings, then Michael arrived. He shut the door, nodded to them all, and joined Cleo at one end of the long sofa. “So where are we?” He directed the question at Drake, who had walked to stand before the fireplace while Louisa had claimed her now-customary armchair.

  Concisely, Drake summarized what he and Louisa had learned that day—that of the four men Chilburn had recruited from the Chartist militias, the third had been found dead while the fourth remained unaccounted for, and in addition, two more unidentified men, apparently unrelated to the Chartists, had fallen victim to the garrotter.

  “Their bodies had been put into the river from the north bank somewhere near Blackfriars,” Louisa added from Drake’s left.

  “Any chance the fourth man—the apprentice Sawyer—might have escaped and be in hiding?” Sebastian asked.

  Drake inclined his head. “Given Sawyer’s body has yet to turn up, that’s possible, but with Mrs. Sawyer denying she knows anything of his whereabouts and no evidence to the contrary, there’s no way to tell. For all we know, Sawyer escaped, and his family has successfully hidden him, but we don’t have time to pursue that now.”

  “Oh,” Louisa said.

  He looked at her, but couldn’t make sense of her distracted expression. “What?”

  She shook aside whatever it was. “Nothing—although I do think we should pursue Sawyer if we continue to have trouble putting paid to this plot.”

  Drake still wanted to know what she’d thought of, but left the point for later. Swiftly, he sketched the notion that the current plot might be intended as a rerun of the Guy Fawkes plot and his consequent decision to beard Greville that evening. Then he looked at the others. “So what have you learned?”

  Sebastian and Antonia had spent all day corralled with relatives and close family friends, all of whom they’d previously questioned regarding Lawton Chilburn’s possible associates. “So we got no further on that score,” Antonia said.

  “However,” Sebastian said, “we were still trapped with the most powerful when your note reached us, mentioning the possible connection with Guy Fawkes. So I put it to them, but no one had heard any relevant whispers.”

  “But,” Antonia said, “with our engagement ball tonight and the better part of the ton expected, now that those ladies have been alerted, if there are any whispers circulating of such an attempt, I believe we can feel confident we’ll know of them by tomorrow.”

  Drake humphed, then conceded, “That’s probably the best we can do on that front.”

  Michael then explained the help he’d received from Cleo’s parents and their close friends. “Their names got me the assistance of those within the guards’ administrations in positions to know what we needed to learn. That said, although I asked at all three barracks and in some cases spoke with friends, no one knew of any current or past military man with whom Chilburn was known to associate. Indeed, the consensus was that Chilburn had served for little more than a year, and after he sold out, neither he nor those with whom he’d served maintained contact.”

  “Actually”—Louisa glanced fleetingly at Drake, then looked at the others—“that’s something we forgot to mention. Last night, Drake and I overheard Lawton’s two oldest brothers and one of his cousins discussing who they thought had killed Lawton. They put it down to either a frustrated creditor or perhaps someone seedier with whom Lawton had become involved. However, they were far more concerned that the investigation into Lawton’s murder might expose some underlying scandal that would tarnish the entire family.” She shook her head. “They really weren’t worried that Lawton was dead.”

  Drake snorted softly. “They were almost ready to applaud the murderer as long as his action didn’t backfire on them.”

  Michael huffed. “Lawton Chilburn seems to have been a remarkably unloved individual—there aren’t many men who have no close friends and, apparently, haven’t had for years. Incidentally”—he looked at Drake—“I also asked at all three barracks if their records showed any member of the Chilburn family or their connections who had been in the guards and served overseas. The answer was a resounding no.”

  Drake faintly frowned. “We’ve assumed that Chilburn’s associate, our garrotter, is English. There’s no reason he has to be. Or alternatively, he could be English, but served solely overseas. He might not be in our army’s records at all.”

  “Sadly, that’s true,” Michael said. “So when I called at Wellington Barracks, I took Carstairs’s advice and got a list of all the officers in charge of the details of guardsm
en who’ll be on duty around the capital over the next week.” He drew the list from his pocket and handed it to Drake.

  As Drake unfolded the list and scanned the names, Michael went on, “I know quite a few, and Sebastian”—Michael glanced at his brother—“I’m sure knows others, and you’ll be familiar with still others.” His gaze fixing on the list, Michael shrugged. “Just in case.”

  Drake handed the list to Sebastian, then his gaze returned to Michael. After a moment, Drake met Louisa’s eyes. “That’s what my father meant.” He glanced at the others. “My father was here when we came in. We told him what we knew thus far. While he had no insights to offer regarding the plot itself, with respect to dealing with Greville, Papa suggested I concentrate on what I, as his heir, can and should do, rather than on what Greville might wish.” He glanced again at Louisa. “I believe His Grace meant that, given the situation, if November fifth approaches and we still haven’t found the gunpowder, then loyalty to one’s friends and family overrides any consideration of political niceties. In other words, I, and Sebastian and Michael, too, should warn the officers in charge of the various detachments guarding buildings around the capital and alert them to the potential threat.”

  Sebastian nodded. “It would be dishonorable of us not to warn all the officers on this list. That’s something Greville cannot legitimately prohibit us from doing. He can’t ask us to act in such a way that would besmirch the honor of our houses.”

  Surveying the men’s faces, Louisa noted that all three looked, if not happier, then at least less grim.

  “Between us,” Sebastian said, scanning the list again, “I’m sure we can drop a preliminary warning into all these ears by tomorrow, and if not then, by Monday at the latest.”

  “And so you should,” Antonia declared. “The fifth is Tuesday—you can’t wait until then and hope to catch everyone.”

  There was universal agreement that as the plot might be a rerun of Guy Fawkes, their time to find the gunpowder and stop any explosion might soon run out, and therefore, they should warn the officers regardless of what Greville might say.

  “Speaking of Greville”—Drake glanced at Louisa—“Louisa and I plan to waylay him at the ball tonight, with a view to convincing him that a quiet search of Parliament, Whitehall, and all government buildings in the city is now warranted. I intend suggesting we label it an exercise and use the nearness to the anniversary of Guy Fawkes’s plot to paint it as a move to reassure the public that such a plot would never be allowed to threaten the realm again.”

  The others, even Louisa, looked impressed. “I like the twist of using the anniversary to our own ends,” she admitted.

  He’d thought she would.

  “And,” she continued, “without Waltham putting in his oar, I feel confident we can get the Home Secretary to see sense.”

  Given her tone and her grasp of duchessly command, no doubt learned at her mother’s and grandmother’s knees, Drake was actively looking forward to seeing what direction she hit Greville from and how the Home Secretary handled a challenge he almost certainly had little experience dealing with.

  The corridors of Whitehall and the rarefied halls of Parliament did not contain duchesses.

  Not even duchesses-to-be.

  Shaking aside several distracting images, Drake concluded, “Assuming Greville accepts my recommendation, I’ll mention our warnings to our friends and connections and assure him all will be handled with the secrecy the ton normally reserves for family scandals.”

  The others all nodded.

  “Time,” Sebastian said. “From the first, this plot has been odd, running very much to its own schedule. But now we know the gunpowder is almost certainly north of the Thames…”

  Grim again, Drake nodded. He swept his gaze over the others’ faces. “I think November fifth is the longest we’ll have to conclude this matter successfully.”

  Louisa rose, and the others followed suit. “That means we have only two more days in which to find the gunpowder and identify and seize those behind the plot and stop this madness.”

  CHAPTER 36

  L ater that evening, as the highlight of their engagement ball, Sebastian led Antonia onto the St. Ives House ballroom’s dance floor, twirled her into his arms, and with utterly besotted smiles on their faces, they stepped into their engagement waltz.

  They moved effortlessly—instinctively—together, tall and graceful, the epitome of marquess and marchioness-to-be, regal and yet worldly. So very much of their time.

  Antonia felt sure she was glowing; she felt as light as thistledown as Sebastian whirled her down the floor. She smiled into his eyes. “We made it.”

  His eyes hadn’t left hers from the moment they’d taken the floor. “There were moments over the last few days when I had to steel myself and not run.”

  She laughed, and the sound sank to Sebastian’s bones. Then she met his eyes again and murmured, “I would have run with you.”

  “We’d never have made it to Gretna Green. Someone would have seen us and wanted to know what we were about.”

  Grinning, they fell silent as they negotiated the tighter turns at the end of the room. When they were once more revolving up the long length, Antonia said, “Well, we’re on the right road now, socially speaking.”

  His expression radiating unalloyed happiness, he nodded. “The one leading to the altar, and from that, we won’t stray.”

  Antonia tipped her head. Lost in Sebastian’s eyes, she uttered the words that sprang from her heart. “It was always you for me. For me, it was always going to be this, here, with you.”

  “And for me.” His voice had deepened. A low rumble, it fell with absolute conviction on her ears. “I admit that I didn’t exactly know that, but my eyes are now open, and all I see is you.”

  No more words were said, but volumes were spoken, of what each meant to the other, of their hopes and dreams.

  Carried via the bridge of their gazes, sent winging with the power of what they’d discovered was the reality of what lived between them.

  Both were entirely unaware when other couples joined them on the floor. They were lost to each other, transfixed by the promise of a future shaped by, anchored by, and driven by their love.

  They revolved and dreamed of family and the future while the rest of the ton looked on.

  CHAPTER 37

  A t the end of the engagement waltz, Michael and Cleo found themselves at the far end of the huge ballroom. Since the beginning of the ball, in between greeting others and chatting with friends, both Michael’s and Cleo’s, and ducking subtle inquiries as to when their own engagement announcement and ball were to be—events that all involved had relegated to sometime after the plot had been successfully foiled—they’d kept their eyes peeled for any members or connections of the Chilburn family.

  Unsurprisingly, the viscount and viscountess had sent their regrets. Lawton’s eldest brother and his wife, appropriately attired in mourning, had arrived, but had stayed for only fifteen minutes. After greeting the St. Iveses and the Chillingworths and tendering dutiful congratulations to Sebastian and Antonia, the Chilburns had departed. Presumably, they’d been delegated to represent the family at the event.

  Now, as Michael and Cleo made slow progress through the quite staggering crowd, he bent and murmured in her ear, “I seriously doubt any of Lawton’s other siblings will appear.”

  “No.” Walking more or less in front of him, Cleo leaned back and spoke over her shoulder. “But I can’t believe there’s no one connected with the family here—there must be someone we can usefully question. It seems such a waste of an opportunity.”

  Given he felt much the same way—he had far more interest in furthering the mission than in being a part of the social throng—as he could see over most heads, he glanced around, paused, then bent to whisper in Cleo’s ear, “I hesitate to suggest it, but Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone are sitting on a chaise against the wall to our left.” When Cleo directed an eager, questioning
look at him, he added, “The thing is, you’ll have to do the talking. Both of them well-nigh terrify me.”

  She gave a gurgle of laughter, then, searching his eyes, realized he’d meant what he’d said. She patted his arm. “Never mind. I’ll protect you. Now, where are they?”

  He led her to where the pair of ancient grandes dames were holding court; despite the encroaching frailty of age, there were few in the ton who did not comprehend that, should they so decide, both ladies still could—and would—wield significant social clout. That they occasionally did kept everyone on their toes.

  As a Cynster, Michael ranked as one of the pair’s favorites, yet he’d spoken truly. Whether it was through eyes of palest green or jet-black, that both ladies possessed an uncanny ability to see through any obfuscation or façade had from his earliest years made him intensely wary.

  He loved his grandmother, but he respected her perspicacity even more.

  When they finally reached the old ladies, Michael bent and kissed his grandmother’s cheek, then accepted the gnarled hand Lady Osbaldestone held out to him and bowed over it.

  Cleo had already spent time with both ladies before the dinner party prior to the ball; she faced them with a bright, expectant smile.

  “Well, my dear.” Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, took hold of Cleo’s hand and studied her face. “How can we help you?”

  Apparently, Cleo did not find the question unnerving. She lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. “I believe you know that we”—she waved to include Michael—“have, with the others, been trying to learn about any associates Lawton Chilburn might have had. We wondered if there are any Chilburn connections, no matter how distant, present tonight—ones with whom we have yet to speak.”