Cautious, ever alert, I made my way toward the waterfront, trusting luck to guide me to Skinner’s warehouse. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, had no sort of plan in mind, but I would worry about that later. I wasn’t going to burst in on a band of dangerous rebels and demand they cease their activities, nothing so dramatic as that. I wanted information, and maybe I’d be able to conceal myself somewhere and eavesdrop. I knew now that trying to reason with Cam would be a waste of time, would only anger him and make things worse. I had tried to talk to him about it before, as had Bancroft, and neither of us had made the least dint in his fierce determination. No, talk would be futile at this point, but if I could somehow learn what they were planning to do next Thursday, I might be able to prevent Cam’s participation, if not to thwart the plan entirely.
Bloody, foolhardy Scot! Would he ever come to his senses? Probably not, I realized. Cam was Cam and I really didn’t want to change him, I just didn’t want him to get his silly head blown off or see him swinging from the end of a rope. As I plunged on through the dark streets I thought about our encounter in the kitchen this afternoon. Nothing to worry about, I assured myself. His pride had been sorely wounded, yes, and he’d been angry. He felt I had deceived him, gone behind his back and made a fool of him somehow, but he’d get over it soon enough. It was absurd for him to feel threatened by my writing, and Cam would surely see that. He was one of the most successful writers in the country with a vast, loyal following who eagerly awaited his next book. I couldn’t hope to compete with him, nor would I dream of trying. Poor, darling Cam, he was so terribly sensitive beneath that harsh, thorny facade.
I was nearing the waterfront now, a dark, sinister area at night, a labyrinth of gloomy warehouses and seamen’s taverns, bridges spanning the Thames, ghostly ships bobbing on their moorings. I could smell tar and salt and canvas, fish and hemp and the horrid stench of the water itself. The Thames was always awash with refuse and garbage, and bloated corpses were not at all uncommon. No wonder there was so much disease in the city, I thought. Heavily armed night watchmen patrolled some of the warehouses, their swinging lanterns like fireflies in the distance, and bawdy maritime ballads were raucously sung in the taverns. I moved through the labyrinth, anxious now, worried about the time, wondering how I was ever going to find Skinner’s in this darkness.
A swollen silver-gray moon rode high in an ashy sky filled with ponderous black clouds while below everything was pitch black, the light spilling out of the taverns only intensifying the gloom. I reached the docks, at the water’s edge now. Waves sloshed noisily against the hulls of the ships that rocked in a tightly packed row, only a few feet between them, their masts soaring up in the night like thin, skeletal fingers. A great bridge spanned the river nearby, and I heard giggling and panting noises as a prostitute entertained a customer against the stone railing. I strolled along apprehensively, the wooden planking uneven beneath my feet, water slapping, sloshing, ships creaking and groaning as though in agony.
A church bell tolled in the distance, one, two, three … eight, nine, ten, eleven times. It was eleven o’clock! They’d be there now. Lusty cries and the sounds of smashing furniture and breaking glass broke the silence as a fight broke out in one of the taverns downriver. I stopped, standing beside a huge barrel that smelled of tar, a coil of rope atop it. What to do? This was absolutely futile. I could wander around in the darkness all night long … if I didn’t have my throat slit or wasn’t gang-raped by a pack of drunken sailors. My nerve was disappearing fast. A trembling was beginning to stir inside. No one was entirely fearless, not even Duchess Randy. Whatever had possessed me to take such an insane risk?
Footsteps approached. I cringed, and then I scolded myself and drew myself up, fierce, hostile, prepared to knee and claw and wound. Miranda James might cringe, but Duchess Randy had been in dozens of situations a hell of a lot worse than this. A lantern swung, the dim yellow-orange rays swirling in a slowly moving circle that illuminated sections of wooden planking, a pair of scuffed brown boots, legs clad in navy blue and the skirt of a heavy navy-blue jacket. The rest of the man was in shadow. He was humming a ditty to himself and stumbled now and then, the lantern swinging in wide arcs. I heaved a sigh of relief. One of the watchmen, clearly the worse for drink. I stepped from beside the barrel, directly into his path. He jumped and gave a hoarse cry, frightened out of his wits.
“Evenin’,” I said amiably.
The man backed away, raised his lantern and stared at me with wide, terrified eyes. Broad-shouldered, stocky, he had a fleshy, pockmarked face and shaggy black hair streaked with gray. Finally realizing I wasn’t a murderous ruffian intent on plunging a knife into his heart, he gulped, shook his head and took a hefty swig of rum from the bottle he carried in his free hand. I smiled a friendly, reassuring smile.
“Didn’t mean-ta spook ya, luv,” I said.
“Jesus! My ’eart near leaped outta my chest. You shouldn’t oughta pop out at a soul like that, wench. You ain’t one of th’ regular girls, are you? ’Adn’t never seen you ’round ’ere before.”
“Come down ’ere to meet a bloke. Said ’e’d be waitin’ in front-a Skinner’s ware’ouse, but I ain’t familiar with th’ waterfront. ’Fraid I’m lost, luv. Think you could ’elp a poor workin’ girl find ’er way?”
The watchman grinned. “You’re way off course, wench. Skinner’s ain’t on th’ docks. It’s back be’ind these ware’ouses, near dry dock. Walk back to th’ bridge, go up th’ street till you pass a yard with boats settin’ up on blocks. Skinner’s is right beyond it, one uv a row-a ware’ouses, alleys between ’em. ’As a big white sign over th’ front. Ya can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, luv. You’re a sweet’eart.”
“Watch yourself, wench, Lotta unfriendly types wanderin’ around ’ere at night.”
I blew him a kiss and hurried back toward the bridge and followed his directions. Less than five minutes later I passed the boatyard, and there was just enough moonlight for me to discern the white sign hanging over the windows of one of the warehouses across the way. No lights were burning, at least not in front. I approached the warehouse and started down the narrow alley that separated it from the warehouse on the left. A cat yowled, leaping out of the darkness. I gasped, paused, my heart pounding. It was terribly dark here, blacker than black, and I could hear rats scurrying in the garbage that littered the ground in great piles. Far away, at the very end of the alley, a dim yellow glow shone into the darkness, coming from a window set high up in the wall, a mere slit of light, barely visible from here. Taking a deep breath, I moved on down the alley toward the light, rats darting in every direction, garbage scattering.
The window was small, at least eight feet from the ground, several old crates piled haphazardly along the wall beneath it. It was open to provide a bit of air to those inside, but the curtains were drawn, the light streaming from an inch-wide slit where they hadn’t quite come together. Hearing a murmur of voices, I hesitated only a moment, then nimbly but cautiously climbed up until I was crouching directly in front of the window. Crates wobbled precariously beneath me as I changed my position and peered through the slit in the curtains.
There were seven of them, sitting around a table in the center of the large, cluttered room that was apparently some kind of office, and another, a tall, husky blond youth, stood in the shadows just beyond the misty circle of light shed by a single lamp sitting in the middle of the table. Cam sat beside the man named Ian, their faces grim, deeply shadowed. The man sitting on Cam’s right had broad, rugged features and thick yellow-red hair, a nasty scar on his cheek, and the other four were turned away from the window, only their shoulders and heads visible from where I crouched. Several papers and a large map covered the surface of the table.
“—set, then,” Ian was saying. His voice was harsh, only one side of his mouth moving as he spoke. “We’ll go over it one more time.”
“Do you really think it’s necessary, cousin?” Cam said d
ryly. “Everyone here knows his role, knows what he’s to do.”
His cousin. Of course. That explained the family resemblance. Cousin Ian bristled, his blue eyes full of hostility.
“You may have financed most of this, Cam, but I happen to be in charge. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that in mind.”
A faint, ironic smile played on Cam’s lips. The two men clearly detested each other, perhaps because they were so much alike, but while Cam’s bitterness and hostility was held in check and contained behind a cool, civilized facade, his cousin had no such polish. Violence might seethe beneath the surface, and he might be harsh, but Cam was not a vicious man. Ian was, vicious as any cutthroat who roamed the streets, a testy, fiery, violent man as dangerous as a rattlesnake and as quick to strike. I sensed that at once, and a cold shiver seemed to move down my spine.
“We’ll start from the beginning,” he said harshly, baring the teeth on the right side of his mouth. “The house is here”—he pointed to a spot on the map—“two miles outside of London, a charming retreat surrounded by woods and conveniently isolated. Cousin Cam rented it for Arabella as soon as they returned from Scotland. She’s spent very little time there, but she’s spoken of it with great fondness to Cumberland, saying that she’d love to spend some time there with him, far away from the bustle and strain of court.”
“We know all that,” the man with the scar said impatiently. “She has an apartment at the palace, luxurious quarters generously provided by The Butcher, but she’s shy, demure, hates being on public display. She’d prefer to stay in the country house and have him visit her there, but he has refused to consider it. And now—”
Ian shot him a savage look, cutting him short, then continued in the same harsh, matter-of-fact voice.
“She has finally persuaded him to spend a few days with her there. They will leave next Thursday—after Cumberland’s men have checked the place out. They’ll find nothing, for the eight barrels of gunpowder have been stowed away in a hidden cache in the wine cellar, behind a stone wall that opens only when you press a secret lever. A ‘priest’s hole,’ I believe it’s called.”
He paused, looking at the other men, enjoying himself. Words rang in my mind. I had asked Cam what he had done with the money Sheppard had given him for Spoils. I used it to rent a very elegant house in the country, just outside London.… The rest of it went for perfume, a number of elegant satin gowns and eight barrels of gunpowder. Are you satisfied? I hadn’t believed him. I had thought he was taunting me. Every word had been true. Lady Arabella was one of the conspirators. Cam had brought her back from Scotland—she must have gone there after her husband’s death—and she had come to London with the express purpose of fascinating Cumberland and winning his confidence. Her great beauty and the Duke’s previous interest in her had made her task quite simple. Financed by Cam, wearing the perfume and the satin gowns he had bought her, she had easily seduced the Duke of Cumberland, and now she was going to lead him into a trap.
“Cumberland’s the most hated man in England,” Ian continued. “He never appears in public without a heavy guard, never travels without a troop of his private soldiers. The sod lives in fear of assassination and has taken every precaution—that’s been our problem. Till now there’s been no way we could possibly get to him. For over a year we’ve had to cool our heels, plan after plan worked out, discarded—”
There was a loud, rustling noise in the garbage nearby, followed immediately by a dull thud on the crate next to the one on which I crouched. Turning my head away from the window, I peered at the crate. There was just enough light for me to see a furry gray form as large as a grapefruit, a long, scaly tail writhing to and fro. My blood ran cold. I started. The crates wobbled noisily, threatening to collapse. The enormous rat dove into the garbage and scurried away.
“What was that!” one of the men exclaimed.
“Probably a cat,” Cam said calmly. “I heard one yowling when I arrived. The alley’s full of plump, savory rodents.”
“I don’t like it! Maybe we should—”
“Shall we get on with it!” Ian snapped. “I don’t care to be here half the night. Relax, MacLeod, it was just a cat. After the house has been thoroughly checked out, Cumberland and Arabella will leave London, traveling with ten handpicked men. Cumberland’s personal cook, his valet, and two of his men-servants will have gone on ahead to prepare things, a very small staff for the king’s son, but Arabella has stressed that she wants privacy, as few servants as possible. The cook will prepare a lavish meal. The menservants will serve it in the dining room. The valet will be upstairs, turning down the bed, laying out the Duke’s linen nightshirt and his sleeping cap—”
“Do you have to tell us every bloody detail!” The man with the scar said impatiently.
Ian gave him a vicious look, impatient himself, aggravated by these interruptions. Cam leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, a bored expression on his face. The husky, good-looking blond youth was no longer visible, must have stepped back into the shadows. Still shivering from the sight of the rat and the fright he’d given me, I balanced myself carefully on top of the crates, craning my neck as I peered through the slit in the curtains. The alley seemed to be full of sinister noises now, but I forced myself to ignore them, forced myself to concentrate on what was happening inside. Ian continued to talk.
“After dinner, after Cumberland has gone upstairs to prepare for bed, Arabella, kind, thoughtful creature that she is, will carry four bottles of excellent French wine out to the men standing guard around the house, said wine to be shared among them. The gracious lady will see that each man has a glass of it, to make their long vigil a bit less unpleasant, and half an hour later all of them will be sleeping like babies. The drug’s very potent.”
“What if she slips up?” MacLeod broke in. “What if she makes a mistake and gets the wrong bottles of wine? We’ll go charging in and—”
“The bottles are clearly marked!” Ian snapped. “I placed them there in the rack myself. Arabella knows exactly where they are. She’s no fool, MacLeod. She has as much to lose as we do. She’s not going to muck up. Just be sure you don’t!”
“Up your arse! What makes you think you’re so goddamned superior? I for one could do without your smug, condescending manner, treating the rest of us like we’re dolts, bossing everyone around!”
“You want out?” Ian asked. “You’re perfectly free to get up from this table and walk out.”
“Yeah, and you’d put a knife in my back, wouldn’t you, you sod?”
“Right between the shoulder blades!”
“Are we going to massacre each other,” Cam asked dryly, “or are we going to get on with things?”
“I don’t know why he has to be in charge!” MacLeod protested. “You’re the one who put up the money for all this, Gordon. You should be directing it, not him.”
“I was under the impression we were all in this together,” Cam said. “After Cumberland has been disposed of, it would give me considerable pleasure to watch you and my dear cousin cut each other to shreds, but until then I suggest you both cool down.”
MacLeod mumbled something I couldn’t make out, and although his back was to the window, I could imagine his expression. Ian’s clear blue eyes were full of hatred as he stared across the table, his sharp, lean face a chilling mask with the heavy red-brown wave slanting across his brow. Several moments passed. The tension that crackled in the air inside was almost visible. The other men were uncomfortable, shifting about uneasily in their chairs. Cam still leaned back with his arms folded, bored, above it all.
“Arabella will distribute the wine,” Ian went on irritably, “then go upstairs and keep The Butcher occupied. At precisely eleven o’clock we’ll leave the Green Oak Inn, which is approximately half a mile from the house Cam rented. We’ll go to the house, slip in, overpower the four servants and bring the eight barrels of gunpowder up from the cellar. They’ll be placed in the sitting room directly
below the bedroom. Arabella will join us. The fuse will be lighted, we’ll all scurry out into the woods, the house will go up like a tinderbox and Cumberland will be blown to kingdom come.”
“How do we know he won’t hear us bringing up the barrels?” the man with the scar asked. “How do we know he won’t wake up, and—”
“He’ll be sound asleep,” Ian assured him. “Arabella will persuade him to drink some of the wine, too.”
“The servants—we gonna leave ’em in the house?”
Ian nodded, eyes cold, without feeling. “We’ll garotte them before bringing up the barrels. They’ll have seen our faces. We can’t afford to let them live.”
I crouched there on top of the crates and listened with mounting horror as he talked about the murders of four innocent men in such a cold, matter-of-fact voice. How could Cam possibly be related to such a monster? How could he possibly be a part of such a diabolical plot? I shivered. I had heard enough. I carefully climbed down from my precarious perch and stood in the alley for a moment, shaken to the core. Rats scurried in the garbage, filling the alley with scratchy, rustling noises, and shadows seemed to move in the darkness, blacker than black, surrounding me, closing in. A dark form approached slowly, stealthily, moving along the wall.
Once More, Miranda Page 46