Regardless of what was best for the country.
Waltham had a habit of using the adjective “radical” when what he actually meant was the rather more cowardly “politically risky.”
Consequently, Waltham viewed Drake in much the same way as Drake viewed him—as a necessary evil to be worked around.
Inwardly resigning himself to failure, at least in terms of getting Greville to issue any warning to the constabulary or guards, and that had been an outside chance at best, Drake returned Greville’s greeting, shook his hand, then sat in the armchair angled before the desk. The angle allowed Drake an excellent view of his nemesis’s already disapproving countenance.
Greville, whose family’s ancestral estate shared a border with the principal seat of the Dukes of Wolverstone and who might therefore be classed as a neighbor of Drake’s, leant his forearms on the desk, clasped his hands on his blotter, and fixed Drake with a genuinely earnest regard. “I take it that threat you mentioned, the one involving gunpowder, has proved to be real.”
Drake inclined his head. Without emotion, he described the bare bones of the action to that point and outlined the salient facts—namely, that after investigating various rumors, and courtesy of an alert from Lord Ennis, who had consequently been murdered by the villains, they had uncovered a plot involving ten barrels of gunpowder, enough to destroy a large building. Furthermore, that cache of gunpowder was currently secreted in a section of London just across the river, unfortunately an area into which the authorities couldn’t effectively penetrate. He concluded, “The barrels are there, far too close. My agents are maintaining a watch over the area, but given the proximity of the river, it’s entirely possible the gunpowder will be moved, one way or another, to the intended target.”
He paused, then evenly stated, “I would strongly urge you to issue an alert to Scotland Yard and the constabulary, and also the various regiments responsible for guarding government buildings and the royal family, to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. If the gunpowder is successfully brought over the river, the constabulary and the guardsmen will be the last line of defense. If they’re warned, they’ll be watching, and there’s a decent chance they’ll be able to foil the plot at the very last gasp.”
Predictably, Waltham was frowning. “I heard about Ennis’s death—I thought he was killed by his younger brother.”
“He was,” Drake replied. “Connell Boyne was a Young Irelander sympathizer and believed he was acting for the cause, and that his brother had betrayed both him and that cause.”
Waltham’s frown deepened, and he directed a confused look at Greville. “But I thought you said you’d checked with your contacts in Ireland, and this wasn’t a Young Irelander plot.”
“It isn’t.” Drake paused to reinforce his hold on his temper; he’d already explained the Young Irelander connection in simple and unambiguous terms. “Several Young Irelander sympathizers, like Connell Boyne, were hoodwinked into believing they were acting for the cause. But they weren’t. Someone else is behind this.”
“Yes, but”—Waltham leant forward, an expression of earnest confusion on his round face—“what I can’t quite see is why, whoever this nebulous person is, it couldn’t simply be a matter of them seeing a good way to have someone else smuggle ten barrels of gunpowder into the country.”
That’s the point. Drake forced himself to draw in a breath. Then he tried another tack. He caught Greville’s gaze. “Ten barrels of gunpowder. One thousand, one hundred, and twenty pounds of the stuff. I agree with Waltham.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Waltham blink. “The vital question is: Why did this person—the one actually behind the plot—want that much gunpowder smuggled into the country?”
Greville knew very well what answer they should assume and act on, yet after a moment of holding Drake’s gaze, he glanced at Waltham, inviting his input.
An invitation Waltham grasped with both hands. “Well, who’s to say?” He gestured as if to indicate that the possibilities were endless. “Perhaps…he’s an explosives manufacturer and is running close to the wind and wanted to avoid the excise?”
Drake had to hand it to Waltham. Pushed to it, he’d come up with a scenario that wasn’t impossible. It just wasn’t the right one.
Greville now looked at Drake as if this was a debate—first one side, then the other.
Keeping his voice rigidly even, Drake said, “Thus far, every man drawn into assisting with this enterprise has been murdered. No matter how hard-pressed a manufacturer might be, killing man after man just to avoid excise is stretching the probabilities beyond breaking point.” He paused, then went on, “And the rider who attacked my agents last night and was subsequently killed was a gentleman, possibly an ex-cavalry officer.” In his earlier recitation, he’d withheld that little tidbit; he knew better than to share everything he knew, even with his supposed master.
Before Greville could comment, Waltham, his pasty brow furrowed once again, said, “I don’t know where that gets us. Are you sure the Chartists aren’t involved?”
“Quite sure. O’Connor and his lieutenants know nothing about this.” Drake omitted to mention the possibility that some of the local members might have been drawn into the plot; no need to give Waltham further rope to tangle them in.
“Yes, but…perhaps the local branch might have decided to forge their own path.” Waltham looked at Drake. “Several gentlemen—younger sons—flirted with the cause, you know.”
That was a dig at Drake’s own inclinations. Waltham didn’t like Drake’s political leanings, either.
Drake could see where Waltham was leading the conversation. If Drake said this was a Chartist plot, then Greville would feel forced to take action. But then potentially draconian retribution would rain down on the remnants of the Chartist movement—which would suit Waltham down to the ground. Drake calmly stated, “This is not a Chartist plot—that much is certain.”
“So it’s not a Chartist plot, and it’s not a Young Irelander plot, either.” Waltham looked with feigned puzzlement at Greville. “But who else is there who would undertake such a plot? This makes no sense—are we even sure there is a plot?”
Waltham sat back and regarded Drake as if having suddenly seen a light. “Perhaps this is, as we hypothesized earlier, a simple case of smuggled gunpowder, and some other beggar has seen a chance and stolen it. That’s why this gentleman ex-cavalry officer was involved—he was a mercenary some other manufacturer hired to steal his competitor’s smuggled goods, hoping to put his competitor, the one who needed the untaxed gunpowder, onto the ropes so he could buy him out.”
Drake stared at the now-almost-genial Waltham and felt a faint—very faint—stirring of respect. The civil servant had managed to conjure an explanation that covered most of the facts in such a way as to render the whole innocuous. No threat.
Finally, Greville spoke. “Could that be it? That this is all just a harmless—or at least relatively harmless, speaking from a government perspective—case of commercial subterfuge gone wrong?”
Drake studied Greville. He knew the man, even liked him on a personal level, but there was no doubt he was a canny politician, and after the suppression of recent years, Greville had very little stomach for being forced to act in any way that implied weakness or vulnerability. With a sharp eye to his own political future, Greville didn’t want this to be a political plot. More, he would cling to any fiction that cast the plot as being of no real threat to the population in general—that it somehow wasn’t the sort of action that fell within his remit. And in that, he would have no more ardent supporter than his principal private secretary.
“The way I see this,” Drake said, hoping to lead Greville into widening his view, “is that someone—at the most a very small group of people acting together, but almost certainly under the orders of a single person—has succeeded in arranging for ten barrels of gunpowder to be smuggled into London and secreted very close to the centers of government and of society. As yet, I hav
e no evidence as to who that person is or what their target is. There is nothing to say that this plot has anything to do with politics in the usual sense—only that whoever is behind it has an excellent grasp of current political realities.”
Greville shifted, uncomfortable with that subtle prod.
Smoothly, Drake went on, “But in my view, the critical point, as of this moment, is that those ten barrels of gunpowder constitute a strong, credible, and potentially quite urgent threat to the realm. Against the scenario of commercial misdemeanor so eloquently outlined by Sir Harold must be weighed the reaction of the public should Sir Harold’s proposed scenario not be true, and ten hundredweight of gunpowder is detonated somewhere in the capital.”
The light was behind Greville, yet Drake thought he paled. After a second, Greville glanced at Waltham. “Perhaps we might try an unspecific warning…?”
Waltham’s eyes flared wide; his concern was unfeigned. “Mr. Secretary, I’m not sure that would be wise. Can you imagine the panic if word got out—as it undoubtedly would? Why, especially with an unspecific warning, the man on the street would be looking in every direction in terror.” Waltham glanced at Drake. “The city might well become paralyzed by fear, with people imagining death lurking everywhere.”
Drake couldn’t dispute that, but if it were left to him, to ensure no word got out, he would issue a detailed warning under absolute secrecy directly to those responsible, ignoring the normal chain of command. Unfortunately, Greville was a different sort of man. He played by the official rules.
That was the reason Greville was behind the desk, and Drake—as his father had before him—chose to face it.
When politicians failed, the likes of the Variseys and Cynsters stepped in. For queen and country. That was the creed they’d been born to, an inalienable part of the mantle of nobility.
Greville knew well enough what he faced in Drake; aside from all else, he’d been the one to recruit Drake to fill his father’s shoes. Now he studied Drake, trying to feel his way toward what would placate his most dangerous of subordinates—dangerous because Drake was only nominally subordinate.
Finally, Greville ventured, “If I understood correctly, you cannot—at this moment in time—point to a specific target. Nor have you yet found evidence of who is behind this, hence their motives remain obscured.”
Curtly, Drake nodded.
Greville drew in a breath, then let it out in a resigned sigh. “In that case, my lord, I fear we cannot oblige you by authorizing any alert at this time. Until you can produce irrefutable evidence of an active plot targeting the government or the realm via a specific target, our hands are tied.” From beneath his lashes, Greville glanced sidelong at Waltham, then continued, “However, I wish you to continue to investigate this matter with your usual thoroughness and to pursue it to its conclusion. One way or another, this office will wish to know what transpires.”
Drake didn’t smile, especially not wolfishly, but that statement was the one thing he’d wanted and needed to take from this meeting—a clear directive to pursue the matter under his usual terms. He would have continued to pursue the villains—and the gunpowder—regardless, but with official standing, he could call on greater resources and was more likely to succeed.
For Waltham’s benefit appearing to be reluctantly resigned, Drake inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Fleetingly, Greville met Drake’s eyes and faintly grimaced. He recognized what he’d done; if Drake failed and the gunpowder was used and the threat Drake believed existed materialized… All responsibility for preventing that outcome now rested squarely on Drake’s shoulders.
When he’d walked in and seen Waltham, he’d known and accepted that that was the best he could hope to achieve.
With his customary grace, he rose and inclined his head to Greville. “Mr. Secretary.”
Greville rose and nodded back. “Lord Winchelsea.”
Drake flicked a glance at Waltham, who had more ponderously got to his feet. Sir Harold smiled a trifle smugly and half bowed.
Unsmiling, Drake regarded him for an instant, then turned and walked from the room.
On the steps of the building, he paused to look heavenward and draw in a cleansing breath. He considered the task that lay before him; he wasn’t in the habit of appealing to any deity, but if ever there was a mission for which invoking divine aid seemed appropriate, this was surely it. He was going to need all the help he could get.
Whoever was behind the plot was the epitome of a malignant intelligence. They—whoever they were—had thus far been at least one step ahead of Drake and his supporters, dangling the distractions of political movements and conspiracies and slowing and deflecting the investigation; the killing of their pawns had furthered that aim, creating a succession of literal dead ends. But if the recent interview had added anything to Drake’s perspective, it was that the malignant intelligence behind the plot knew a very great deal about what was and wasn’t possible in the political sphere, in government and civil service.
Drake shook his head and muttered to himself, “Despite not being a Young Irelander or a Chartist plot, this still feels as if there are political overtones of some sort involved.”
He wished he could define what they were, but regardless, ten barrels of gunpowder suggested the perpetrators intended to make a very public statement.
One it now fell to him to silence.
With a twist of his lips, he stepped down to the pavement. He’d always enjoyed a challenge. Seeing a hackney trotting past, he hailed it. With his boot on the step, he called to the jarvey, “Grosvenor Square. North side.”
* * *
At the same moment that Drake was speculating on the motive behind the plot, the ageing man who spent his days in the parlor of a manor house in Berkshire was fretting and fuming. His gnarled fingers picked restlessly at the blanket draped over his now-useless legs, the palsy afflicting his right hand distinctly more pronounced.
The light was starting to fail, the weak sun sinking behind a bank of clouds to the west, and still no one came. Specifically, the gentleman the old man considered his second lieutenant hadn’t reported as he’d been instructed most stringently to do, and now he was late.
For the fourth time in the past half hour, the old man reached for the bell on the table beside his Bath chair, intending to ring for his manservant, Reed—if only to have someone on whom to vent his frustrated agitation—when the sound of hoofbeats approaching stayed his hand.
Slowly, he released the bell, then he withdrew his hand and settled back in the chair. “At last! About time.”
He hunched, vulture-like, and waited to hear his lieutenant report that all had gone as planned.
But when the door opened, it was Reed who entered. A studiously blank expression on his face, he approached the Bath chair bearing a salver on which lay a sealed note.
“What’s that?” the old man barked.
“It’s a note from Badger, sir.”
Badger? Badger was his second lieutenant’s manservant. Through his man-of-business, the old man had established a connection with the manservant, just in case.
Just in case something happened to his second lieutenant.
The old man scowled. Cursing his weakness, he ignored the irritating shaking of his hand, reached out, and after two abortive attempts, succeeded in picking up the note. Carrying it to his lap, he fumbled and broke the seal. Unfolding the single sheet, he held it up before his face and, steeling himself, read the few lines scrawled across the paper.
His scowl deepened. His expression grew puzzled.
He reread the message. On reaching its end, he slapped the paper with his crabbed fingers and snarled, “Damn it! The fool tells me nothing beyond that his master didn’t return last night. What am I supposed to make of that?”
Unmoving, and apparently unmoved, Reed remained by the chair and, exercising prudence, said nothing.
After reading the missive yet again, the old man grunted and let th
e note fall to his lap, then, as if as an afterthought, he crushed the paper between his fingers. For several seconds, he stared unseeing across the room at the wide window that overlooked the dying garden.
This was the first hiccup in his carefully orchestrated plot—the very first stumble. The only step that, thus far, hadn’t gone precisely as he had planned. As he had instructed—as he had decreed.
A tremor of uncertainty rippled through him. For a moment, he couldn’t think. For a moment, he was simply an old man who wasn’t certain of anything anymore, who had lost control of his life and now felt the reins of his greatest enterprise slipping from his grasp…no! No!
He set his jaw and forced in a long, slow breath.
He wasn’t going to allow this setback—if it even was a setback—to rattle him. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—give up his revenge. Not now. Not when he knew he wouldn’t have any other chance—that this was his moment to seize, and he wouldn’t get another.
The plot would proceed—it had to. So he could die avenged. So that he could go knowing the satisfaction of having struck a mighty blow that ensured his country was, once again, ruled as it should be.
Knowing that he, through his bold actions, had changed history.
He let the rousing thoughts and the expectation of success infuse him and bolster him. For all he knew, whatever had happened was no more than a minor reverse; he could and would come about.
Gradually, the panic that had shaken him subsided, and his wits—those sharp and agile elements of intelligence that had served him so well throughout his long career—rose to the fore.
What was the current situation? His second lieutenant had, apparently, ridden out to attend to the action planned for the previous night, that of moving the barrels from the firework supply warehouse. Why would his second lieutenant not have returned home and, today, ridden out to report as arranged?
An Irresistible Alliance (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 5) Page 30