Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  Drawing a shaky breath, she attempted to calm herself. She needed to check on the countess. Soon they’d be preparing for the evening, and the countess was looking forward to the concert.

  Sophia refused to mention anything about Elliott dismissing her. He could deliver the news himself.

  Her own actions were the only things in her control at this moment. She rose and rinsed her face, hoping to erase the outward signs of her upset. She was determined to make the most of her last few days here, and that started with the concert this evening. She might never have another chance to attend one, certainly not with the countess.

  She planted a smile on her face despite the tightness of her cheeks. Then she lifted her chin and walked to the countess’s room, hoping she could make this evening special for both of them.

  Weary to the bone, Elliott entered Prime Minister Gladstone’s waiting area in the Foreign Office building as late afternoon eased to twilight. The rest of his day had been spent checking with as many sources as he could with the hope of discovering where and when the violence Mrs. Lawrence had confirmed would occur.

  The who part of the equation had been identified. Dmitry Popov, a Russian anarchist Elliott had met in Paris, was at the heart of the plan. He was a music critic and composer, but of late his political interests had taken precedence over his career.

  Popov was determined to make a statement that would capture the attention of not only the Queen and London, but also the world. That meant a prominent building or event, possibly with hundreds of people in attendance.

  Yet how could they stop the plan if they didn’t have any further details?

  Despite the urgency of the situation and such high stakes, the image of the anguish on Sophia’s face as he’d shut the carriage door gripped his thoughts and refused to let go.

  She’d left him no choice other than to force her from his life. Her personal safety mattered far more than either of their feelings. While he knew he’d done the right thing, that didn’t make it any easier. He ached with the loss.

  Viscount Rutland rose to greet him. “Aberland. I thought I’d join you for your briefing with the Prime Minister.”

  “Excellent.” Elliott appreciated the man’s presence, especially given his own distraction.

  Though Rutland spent most of his time in the office and had little field experience, his sharp mind and instincts made his input helpful.

  “Perhaps you can assist in making sense of all this,” Elliott said.

  “It is a puzzle, isn’t it? The Russian anarchists have done a good job of providing false leads to cause confusion.”

  “We have to determine the facts soon, else we will be too late.” Impatience burned in Elliott. He was certain an attack of some sort was imminent. Beyond that, little had been confirmed.

  “The prime minister will see you now,” Mr. Lyttelton, Gladstone’s private secretary and nephew, announced as he held open the door for the men.

  Gladstone rose from behind his desk to greet them, his lips drawn, a sure sign of his concern. With thinning white hair, sparse mutton chops, and a solemn demeanor, he was an intimidating man.

  “My lords,” he said as he nodded. “I hope you come with news. The Queen is as anxious as I am for a report.”

  His poor relationship with the Queen was well known. Elliott didn’t envy his position of delivering more bad news.

  “Yes and no,” Elliott replied. “Dmitry Popov is planning the attack, but the target and timing remain elusive. Most clues indicate something in the next day or two.”

  “My sources point to Popov as well,” Rutland agreed. “I have taken the liberty of putting together a list of events that should draw significant crowds in the next two days with the hope we can cross reference it with the information gathered and narrow the options.” Rutland withdrew a piece of paper from his breast pocket and spread it on Gladstone’s desk.

  After several minutes of sharing what each had learned and comparing that to the list, the target soon became clear to Elliott.

  “The Royal Albert Hall.” His heart sank. “Popov is a composer and made it clear he thinks the hall is an atrocity.” The very place his grandmother and Sophia were going this evening.

  “Surely he isn’t planning something for the concert being held in a few hours?” Rutland appeared horrified at the thought.

  “I think that is exactly what he’s doing.” Elliott’s chest was so tight he could hardly breathe.

  “That gives us little time,” Gladstone said.

  Rutland shook his head. “Destroying the concert hall when it has only been open a few weeks would be a blow not only to London but to the Queen personally.”

  “Precisely why he would choose it,” Elliott added. “Hundreds of people, perhaps even thousands, will be in attendance.” His gaze met Gladstone’s then Rutland’s. “Including my grandmother and her companion.”

  Gladstone pulled his watch from his vest pocket. “Let us hope we can find a way to stop the attack. I will send word to as many men as I can to aid you.”

  “My carriage is outside.” Elliott was already striding toward the door. Despite his efforts to keep his loved ones safe by keeping his position a secret, they were in more danger than he could’ve imagined. His heart raced, his limbs felt heavy, and a thick fog clouded his brain.

  “What will we be looking for?” Rutland asked, directly behind him.

  Elliott drew a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. Now more than ever, he needed to think and act clearly, but at the moment doing so felt impossible. “My guess would be some type of explosive. Popov has experience with them and it would injure many as well as destroy the concert hall.”

  They were soon riding through the crowded streets in Elliott’s carriage toward the hall.

  “Where would be the logical spot to place the explosives?” Rutland leaned forward, his gaze holding Elliott’s.

  His practical questions shifted Elliott’s focus from panic and worry to the task at hand.

  The best way for him to protect his grandmother and Sophia was to stop the attack. As impossible as it seemed, he needed to try to set aside his personal fears for their safety and shift his efforts toward halting the terrible plan. Lives were at stake.

  “Perhaps under the hall, where the foundation is.” But the hall was a large place. Even with the assistance of the other men who were supposed to join them for the search, chances were slim they would actually locate the explosive, especially since they didn’t know what they were looking for.

  “We will find it. Have no worries,” Rutland said, as though sensing his concern. “Your grandmother and her companion will not even realize something was amiss.”

  Elliott nodded, appreciating the confident words even if he didn’t believe them.

  “The hall was built over Gore House,” Rutland said. “I’m certain you remember Her Majesty laying the foundation stone. That would’ve been in May of 1867.”

  “That’s it,” Elliott declared. “What better statement than to put the explosive near the very stone the Queen placed herself?”

  “Brilliant. If memory serves, that is under Stalls K, Row 11.”

  Rutland’s wealth of information might just save the day. “That is where we shall check first.”

  Night fell in full as they crossed the city toward the hall in South Kensington. Elliott prayed they would arrive in time and find a way to stop this madness.

  Sophia alighted from the carriage behind the countess at The Royal Albert Hall. They had enjoyed a delightful dinner at the Chatfield’s, and she was looking forward to the concert. Apparently, they weren’t the only ones as the street was filled with traffic.

  She smoothed the skirt of her pale yellow gown, one of the new ones the countess had insisted she have. Sophia had never been overly concerned with fashion, but she liked the cut and color of this one. The matching cloak fit snuggly over the bustle and the fastener was a flower fashioned out of the fabric. The maid had swept her hair into
a high chignon but left one long ringlet to trail over her shoulder.

  She knew she looked her best, but she felt brittle, as though she might shatter at any moment. It had taken incredible effort to smile and act normal with the countess as they moved through the evening, and it was long from over. Enjoying the events was impossible for Sophia, but she didn’t want to ruin it for the countess. Her only hope was to focus on the moment and not think of tomorrow or the day after.

  “Very striking.” She studied the round domed building made of red brick with torches lighting the entrance.

  “Isn’t it, though? I have heard there is a terrible echo inside,” the countess whispered, as they made their way up the steps toward the entrance amidst the large crowd. “Can you imagine how disappointed the Queen must have been when she heard that?”

  “How unfortunate, especially for a concert hall.”

  “They have placed a decorative canvas awning in the roof in an attempt to improve the acoustics.” The countess pointed to the ceiling where the canvas was clearly visible.

  “Does it solve the problem?”

  “I understand it helps. The lighting is impressive. A special system was installed in the hall that lights over a thousand gas jets in less than ten seconds.”

  Sophia murmured appreciatively as the countess shared other details.

  Three levels of seating inside the rounded interior allowed everyone attending to both hear the concert and have an excellent view.

  They slowly made their way toward their seats. Luckily, the countess had her cane to assist her. This much standing and walking would no doubt tire her.

  Daphne and her sister, Letitia, her husband and two other couples were already seated. They exchanged greetings as they took their seats.

  Sophia had never attended an event like this. She enjoyed music, and, despite the sadness that weighted her heart, anticipation filled her as the musicians took their place on stage in the center of the hall.

  “Oh, dear.” The countess glanced around her seat and the floor. “I seem to have dropped my fan. I had it when we entered the hall.”

  “I will look for it,” Sophia said, rising.

  “I’ll accompany you,” Viscount Frost, one of Lettie’s friends offered. “I need a breath of fresh air.”

  His wife, Lady Julia, smiled. “Don’t be overlong, else you’ll miss the opening performance.”

  Daphne had mentioned to Sophia that the viscount didn’t care for crowds. No doubt he welcomed the excuse to escape for a few moments.

  “Thank you,” Sophia said as they walked up the aisle, already searching for the missing fan.

  “My pleasure,” the handsome viscount offered. His gaze swept the floor as well.

  The crowd had thinned considerably with most people having taken their seats. They neared the entrance before Sophia spotted the familiar fan. She bent to retrieve it when someone caught her eye.

  Rising slowly, she studied the man who lingered near the entrance. He shifted as though unsettled or anxious, tugging at his cravat as if it choked him.

  “Do you know him?” the viscount asked as he stepped nearer.

  “No.”

  “He doesn’t act as though he’s here to enjoy the music.”

  Before Sophia could reply, the man stiffened, eyes wide as his attention caught on something. She followed his gaze, her heart pounding at the sight of Elliott and Viscount Rutland rushing into the hall. The pair headed directly toward an interior door, their urgency noticeable even from this distance.

  “Isn’t that Aberland?” Frost asked. “Where are he and Rutland going?”

  “I’m not certain, but that man is following them, and he appears very unhappy at their arrival.” Another man followed as well. Without a second thought, Sophia hurried after them, certain the danger Elliott had mentioned was directly behind him.

  Nothing Elliott did slowed the heavy pounding of his heart. All he could think about was his grandmother and Sophia somewhere inside the concert hall. His worry made it difficult to think, to focus.

  The last thing they needed was a panicked crowd. Requesting well over a thousand people to leave the hall in an orderly and expedient manner would take time they didn’t have. The other men Gladstone had sent for would have to help with the evacuation.

  Luckily, Rutland had been to the hall before. “There’s an access door here,” he directed, opening it to reveal a set of stairs.

  Several lanterns waited at the top, no doubt left for maintenance purposes. Elliott lit one before they hurried down.

  The music rumbled below the stage as the musicians warmed up, vibrating the stone foundation. Elliott felt that vibration to his toes, the sensation worsening his simmering nerves.

  “This way,” Rutland said. “Stalls K are just there.”

  Within moments, Rutland navigated to that section of the foundation. Massive columns supported the structure. Rutland stopped abruptly before the red granite stone the Queen had laid with a golden trowel nearly four years prior.

  A dusty wooden box sat on the floor beside the column. Elliott nearly passed by, only to stop and stare. Dusty and dented, it looked like something a worker had inadvertently left behind, but it caught Elliott’s notice.

  He knelt beside it, noting recent fingerprints smudged the dust. A quick examination revealed the dust was actually talcum powder. “This could be what we’re looking for.”

  The box was approximately two feet by two feet and about a foot tall. Big enough to contain explosives. He tried to lift the lid but to no avail.

  “Locked?” Rutland knelt beside Elliott.

  “I believe so, but I don’t see a latch.”

  “This side is hinged. The opening must be on the other side,” Rutland said.

  Elliott lowered to the ground so he was at eye level with the lid. He pulled a knife from his boot and slid it carefully along the crack. A little wiggling of the blade provided a satisfying click.

  He held Rutland’s gaze for a long moment then returned his attention to the lid. “Are you ready?”

  Rutland licked his lips. “As ready as I will ever be. Is field work always this nerve-wracking?”

  “Rarely.” Elliott returned his knife to its sheath then used both hands to slowly raise the lid. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he held when nothing happened.

  A tattered piece of canvas hid the contents. Moving slowly, Elliott lifted the cloth. He had only seen explosives one other time, in Paris. This one was similar. The sticks of dynamite were wired to a small clock. The relentless ticking was audible even over the music being played above them.

  “I’m guessing that when the alarm rings, the fuse will light, causing the dynamite to explode,” Elliott said.

  “They must expect these casks of liquid paraffin to explode as well.”

  Elliott glanced over his shoulder to where Rutland stood next to several wooden casks of the fuel. “Then we had better make certain we diffuse this. More barrels may be placed throughout the building.”

  “Halt.”

  The deep voice with its distinct accent caught Elliott’s attention. A man stepped out of the shadows into the lantern light. The pistol he held caused Elliott’s mouth to go dry. “Popov. Surprised to see we’ve discovered your ridiculous plan?”

  “Not so ridiculous when there is nothing but rubble standing in place of this despicable hall.”

  Another man joined Popov, bigger and broader, with a nasty grin on his face.

  Elliott glanced at Rutland, hoping the man knew how to fight. From the surprise on the viscount’s face, he hadn’t expected this.

  Movement in the shadows behind the Russians drew Elliott’s gaze. The face he briefly glimpsed before the darkness hid her set his heart racing.

  Sophia.

  No. Not after the sacrifice he’d made. The idea of her and his grandmother nearby had been difficult enough. But to see her in the middle of this terrible situation was unbearable.

  If anything happen
ed to her...

  He swallowed back the thought. He refused to allow that, especially not when he’d ended things between them so badly, hurt her so terribly.

  More than anything in this world, he realized how much he wanted the chance to tell her he loved her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophia watched from the shadows with her heart in her throat as the anxious man, his cohort beside him, pointed a pistol at Elliott.

  She didn’t pretend to understand what was happening, what these men wanted, or what Elliott and Rutland were doing down here. She only knew the gun could end Elliott’s life.

  Elliott slowly stood when she wanted to scream at him to take cover. She knew he’d seen her and was no doubt angry with her for following him once again. In this moment, she didn’t care, nor did she care that he didn’t have any feelings for her. She only wanted him out of danger.

  But how?

  Frost bent close from where he stood behind her, his whisper barely audible. “I’ll take the one with the pistol. You distract the other.”

  Distract? Her mind went blank at the request. Perhaps that was for the best. If she thought this through, she’d be paralyzed by fear.

  That would never do. Not with Elliott’s life at risk.

  She stepped forward and looped her arm around the second man’s arm, taking him by surprise. “Lovely hall, isn’t it?”

  The large man stared at her in surprise then struggled to free his arm, but she held tight and stomped on his foot.

  Her efforts were small but provided the distraction Frost requested. Frost hit Popov’s hand before he could react to her presence, knocking the pistol to the ground, then struck Popov in the stomach. Elliott rushed forward to drive his fist into the larger man’s jaw, and Sophia shifted out of the way.

  Rutland scrambled forward to retrieve the gun, while Elliott pinned the other man to the floor.

  Sophia’s breath stopped as she saw the contents of the box beside the column. “What on earth?”

  “You’ll never determine how to stop it,” Popov declared as he struggled to extract himself from Frost’s tight grip.