by Jo Beverley
“Thank you. I want Edgar to be able to at least try the cure, though I must confess my mind is full of Thayne.”
Beth smiled. “A bride is supposed to dream as her wedding approaches.”
“I’m not dreaming. I’m worrying. Or rather, I’m fretting because there’s nothing I can do.” She couldn’t stay still and rose to pace the room. “The poster could take days to prepare and print, but that mad Frenchwoman is planning to blow up London, perhaps this very day!”
“I thought the plan was for Drury Lane.”
“I don’t think they’re sure of that. I’m not sure they’re sure of anything!”
“And you want to solve all the problems.”
“I certainly would if I could. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. But there probably isn’t the urgency you see. You have no more reason for thinking something will happen today than the men have for thinking it will happen later. Come to the nursery. Children are an excellent distraction.”
That proved true, and after lunch with Edgar, Hermione agreed to sit with Beth and discuss the basic necessities of a wedding. The matter of which gown and what accessories did capture her interest, and then what clothes she would take on her honeymoon. Beth had offered the Ardens’ country home, Hartwell.
“It’s what’s called a cottage orné. Somewhat large for a cottage and very orné, but it’s a place for simple living.”
As time passed, the lamps were lit so Hermione could write lists. She had to admit that planning her honeymoon was delightful, because she’d be there with Thayne. A whole week or more with nothing to part them, day and night.
When Lord Arden joined them, she asked, “Is Thayne with you? Faringay, I mean.”
She blushed at the others’ amusement, but couldn’t help her eagerness.
“I’m sorry, no,” Arden said. “I left him at Braydon’s room many hours ago.”
“So you don’t know what’s planned?”
“No.”
Beth said, “We could invite him to dine. And Braydon as well, of course.”
“We could,” Arden agreed.
Beth went to her desk to write the note.
“I could take it,” Hermione said. She went even hotter, but sanity seemed to have escaped her. “I’m so restless. Perhaps he might need persuading. And we could discuss the wedding on the way back.”
Beth looked at her husband. “Is it safe?”
He was looking somewhat exasperated, but he said, “I can make it so. A closed carriage, with armed attendants.” He looked at Hermione. “My footman will have instructions to bring Faringay out to you. Don’t leave the carriage.”
That seemed excessive, but Hermione had won what she wanted, so she hurried to summon Nolly and put on spencer, bonnet, and gloves. They went down, but had to wait until the carriage came to the front door, by which time she was feeling all the eccentricity of her impulse. She couldn’t back out now, however.
The carriage was quite plain, and as well as a coachman, it had a groom at his side and a liveried footman at the back. She climbed inside feeling well guarded indeed. It was no great distance and the gaslit streets made it especially safe. They soon drew up outside a fine brick building and the footman went to knock. Hermione twitched to go with him, but she’d promised.
Time passed and she began to worry, but then Thayne came out of the house in hat and gloves and the footman swung open the door.
Hermione leaned forward to smile, but then a shape hurled forward, slamming the footman aside and barreling on into Thayne, howling, “Bloody murderer!”
The brute’s brother!
“Thayne!” she screamed, stumbling out of the carriage because she couldn’t stay inside. Not when Thayne looked so slender in the massive arms. She clung to the doorframe of the rocking coach. “Help! Someone!”
The footman was sprawled on the ground unconscious. She looked up to see the coachman struggling with his horses, but the groom had a pistol ready.
“I can’t shoot, milady! I could hit either of ’em.”
The brute seemed to be trying to break Thayne in two. She heard voices calling, but no one was going to be here in time.
Just then, Thayne twisted free and drove a fist at the Boothroyd’s throat, but the brute lowered his chin to take it, then grappled again, getting an arm around Thayne’s neck that looked likely to break it.
Kris!
Hermione dragged it out and ran toward the brute’s rocklike back, despairing that the delicate blade could even make a dent. Stick it in hard, Edgar had said. Go through leather, flesh, and even some bone.
Neck. She wrapped both hands around the hilt and drove the blade with all her strength into a spot between collar and hair. It went in! Like a knife through soft cheese.
The brute made an odd gargling noise and then crumpled, taking Thayne with him. They fell together, just as she’d fallen with Nathan when he was shot. Darkness threatened and she staggered to some railings and clung to them, her trembling legs almost too weak to hold her. Nolly rushed over to put an arm around her.
She watched Thayne scramble to his feet. Thank God he was all right. He came quickly to take her into his arms. “Don’t say anything.”
Say anything? She was struggling to breathe, but at last people were all around, babbling and exclaiming.
“What happened?”
“Attack.”
“Madman!”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Madman indeed,” Thayne said. “He attacked me. Thank God I got a knife into him.”
“That’s the truth, sir!” There were other supporting voices, but none of them could have seen. Not with how fast everything had happened and the darkness between the pools of gaslight.
“I must take care of the lady,” Thayne said. He picked her up and carried her into the house. She was glad of it, for she wasn’t sure her legs could hold her unassisted. He took her into a luxurious room, where he placed her on a sofa, then knelt beside her. “Are you all right, my darling?”
She found her voice at last. “Yes, I think so. But . . .”
“Not now. Say at little as possible. I must go back down.”
“No!”
He freed himself from her clutching hands. “Just for a few minutes. Look after her.”
“I will, milord!” Nolly said.
“Yes, sir,” said another hovering servant. A male.
“Sweet tea with brandy,” Thayne ordered, and then he was gone.
Hermione slumped back—and heard the straw of her bonnet crumple. “Not another one.”
Nolly took the damaged bonnet off and stroked her hair. “There, there, milady. Such nasty goings-on. I don’t know what happened, I’m sure I don’t. That madman attacking your gentleman, and then you running at him screaming.”
“I screamed?”
“Well, more yelled, I suppose, and you trying to hit him. Perhaps he collapsed from the shock.”
Nolly hadn’t seen the knife?
Hermione’s wits were returning, in scattered bits but still coming together enough for her to understand. Thayne had claimed he’d had a knife in order to protect her. It probably wasn’t a crime to attack someone who was attacking someone else, but a lady striking an attacker with a blade? Killing an attacker? That would be a nine-days wonder.
Nine days? The story would dog her all her life, and not to her credit. Many would think her mad. She grasped the offered cup and drank hot, sweet, brandied tea. It tasted marvelous and settled her nerves a bit, but as her mind cleared completely, she realized something terrible.
Her drawing had been for nothing.
She’d killed their means of finding Solange Waite.
Chapter 42
As soon as Thayne returned, she told him that.
“I’d realized. I’ll s
end a note to Hawkinville. He might have become philosophical about it by tomorrow. There are other ramifications, however. Seth being here and attacking must mean that Solange knows I’m Ned Granger. When this event gets back to her, she’ll know you’re involved again.”
“I could be any woman.”
“In the Duke of Belcraven’s town carriage? She’ll easily find out more and if she digs deep enough, she’ll learn that you’re the woman in Warrington, the one she sent Nathan after. My hope is that she’s too busy with her grand design to try to harm you, especially now she has no Boothroyd to employ, but we’ll have to take special steps to guard you.”
“And you.”
“I’ll be careful. But you could have been killed, and again it would have been my fault.”
Hermione still wasn’t feeling very strong, but he needed her to be, so she sat up and then stood, and put herself in order. “Not entirely this time. I came here.”
“And saved my life.”
“Thank heavens for the kris.”
“Is that what’s it’s called? A devilish weapon. I tucked it behind the umbrella stand because I couldn’t conceal it anywhere without slashing my clothes to ribbons.”
“Edgar gave it to me and insisted I carry it. Here.” She tore the sheath free of her stitches. “Use this.”
He took it. “You don’t want it back?”
She couldn’t prevent a shudder. “No. I hope to never be in such a situation again, but I don’t think I could use it. The feel of it. The sound he made . . .”
He took her into his arms. “I’ll take you back to Belcraven House.”
They went downstairs, where he did retrieve the kris and slid it safely into its sheath. When they went outside, she looked away from Seth Boothroyd’s sprawled body, which was being attended to. She was pleased to see the footman on his feet, though leaning against the carriage. He couldn’t be asked to travel on the perch at the back, so she told him to travel inside and he didn’t make much protest.
When they arrived at Belcraven House and told the tale, Arden said, “That’s the last time I give in to love’s idiotic whims.”
Hermione didn’t argue and when Beth suggested a quiet supper in her room, she happily agreed. She wanted to spend more time with Thayne, but she was still badly shaken. She’d killed a man. No matter how vile he’d been, it would take time for her to put it out of mind.
* * *
Thank heavens, her practical nature won out and the next morning, when she was told Thayne wished to speak to her, she could be calm and sensible. Until, that was, she entered the drawing room and saw him, and had to take his hands, smiling.
“I’m just come from Hawkinville,” he said. “We’re forgiven.”
“Without so much as a scold?”
“Perhaps a frown, but he’s soothed by having found the trail of Isaac Inkman. It contains some indelicate aspects.”
“If you don’t tell me for that reason, I’ll become extremely indelicate!”
“Very well. Isaac enjoys a whore now and then.”
She was annoyed to blush, but said, “And . . . ?”
“He doesn’t visit brothels, but when the mood takes him, Solange gets a woman in for him. Hawkinville had Isaac’s description sent to such places with the offer of a reward. He’s a very distinctive type. It seems he was in the mood yesterday.”
“You have the address?” Hermione said. “Mrs. Waite’s address?”
She didn’t know whether she was thrilled or terrified. It could soon be over, but please without putting Thayne in danger.
“Number 10, Great Peter Street, in Westminster. It’s being acted on now, mostly by the military.”
Without him. Thank heavens.
But then she saw his expression. He wanted to be in at the end.
She wanted desperately to keep him here, but he’d dedicated years of his life to this fight and it wasn’t as if he’d be on the front line. She managed a smile. “You must want to be there.” She had to add, “Without throwing yourself carelessly into danger?”
He kissed her hand. “I never have, love. My word on it.”
Even so, her courage failed her a little. “I always knew I could never be a soldier’s wife.”
“I’m done with army life.”
“You’re going into battle now.”
“Not really. The plan is to surround her, at which point she’ll have to surrender.”
“Truly?”
He grimaced. “I see you have a sense of Solange. That’s why I should be there. I might be able to guess what she’ll do and advise.”
“And if she decides to set off whatever explosion she has planned?”
“Then I hope we’ll have moved the nearby residents.”
I hope you’ll have moved. But how could he skulk at a distance and do the job? He’d do his best to keep his promise to her, but he’d also do what was necessary to protect others.
“You’d better be on your way,” she said, “before it’s all over. But after it’s over, remember the marriage license. All the plans are made.”
That got her the smiling kiss she wanted and she maintained her own smile until he had left. She wept then, but only a little. Tears were for grief, and he would return to her. He wasn’t fighting alone anymore.
Beth came in. “Are you all right?”
“After a fashion,” Hermione said, rather helplessly. “He’s going off into danger again.”
“I share all your feelings,” Beth said grimly. “When Faringay arrived, he told Arden what was happening. Of course Arden couldn’t resist, especially as he considers the attack on you and Faringay a personal insult, you being under his protection.” At Hermione’s expression, she said, “Truly. But it was also an excuse. He sent a message to Nicholas, which means that probably all the Rogues in Town are now dashing to help bring down the mad Frenchwoman. I could murder them all!”
Hermione shivered. “We can only hope Solange Waite doesn’t do it for us.”
* * *
Mark left the house thinking he was probably safer on the streets than he had been since returning to London. Seth Boothroyd was dead and Solange was encircled. He found a hackney and instructed the driver to go close to Great Peter Street, Westminster.
“Close to, sir?”
“Precisely.”
“Not very precise, if you ask me,” the old man grumbled, “but you’re the one as is paying the fare.”
Mark didn’t know where Great Peter Street was, but the hackney went down Whitehall, past the military headquarters and other government offices, and then between the Abbey and the Palace of Westminster. He hoped they still had a long way to go, but the carriage soon drew up. It was a residential street of the simpler sort, but very close to the seat of power. What exactly was Solange planning to do from here?
When Mark got down, the driver said, “This is Smith Street, sir. Great Peter Street’s just ahead. You can see the gasometer over the rooftops.”
Mark turned to look down the street to the one ahead. There indeed was the brick-clad cylindrical tower that was filled with gas by whatever chemical process the gas company used. From there it could be pumped through miles of pipe to light up Westminster, the heart of the British government.
Oh, Solange, you do have a warped kind of brilliance.
He’d read the notes he’d stolen in Ardwick, but they’d not made much sense to him. There’d been details of how gas was produced and delivered, including many technical terms. Chemists had gone over those notes and had been unable to work out what plan was involved. He thought they’d dismissed fire, but perhaps they’d not considered such a grandiose design. Could she set off a fire here that would race along the pipes into the Palace of Westminster?
He paid the driver and walked forward, looking for Hawkinville or anyone he knew. Hawkinville’s peo
ple wouldn’t be conspicuous. He came upon a group of people arguing with two soldiers.
“No one’s to go through just now,” one was saying. “Orders.”
“Whose orders?” a woman asked, shopping basket on hip. “Bet it’s that gas tower. We never asked for it to be put here. Dratted thing blew up four years ago. I suppose it’s going to do the same again.”
There was a general muttering, but no one tried to get by the soldiers. Mark looked at the tower again. Was Solange going to blow the whole thing up? He assumed the previous explosion had been an accident and clearly it hadn’t flattened the area, but it might have given her the idea.
How big an explosion was possible? Could debris reach as far as Westminster, killing hundreds and perhaps more? The death and destruction would be blamed on the gas company and the government. Could that ignite the mob and start an uprising when the government and all its offices were in disarray? If so, Solange would want to survive to take advantage of it.
He walked forward and one of the soldiers said, “No further, sir, if you please.”
“I’m with Hawkinville,” Mark said.
“Name, sir?”
“Faringay.”
Hawkinville must have prepared the way, for the soldier said, “Very good, sir. Go straight ahead and turn to the right. There’s a passage through to Laundry Yard.”
How mundane it all sounded. This would have been a quiet area before the gas station had been built and there must have been a large laundry to need a drying yard.
He turned into the gloomy passage and emerged into an area of rough green dotted with soldiers patiently waiting for orders and a few clusters of men in urgent debate. Hawkinville was conferring with three military officers.
He spotted Arden and Delaney and went over. “How did you get in?”
Delaney smiled. “Ever try to keep Arden out of anything? Hal Beaumont’s around, too.”
Mark remembered Delaney saying Beaumont was one of the Company of Rogues.
“Maggots?” he said drily.
“Maggots are very useful creatures,” Delaney said.