by Jo Beverley
Mark also remembered that Hawkinville was a Rogue-by-marriage. Another man was standing by. Lord Darien, whom he’d known somewhat in the army before he’d had the title and met a few days ago at a club.
“You a Rogue, too?” Mark asked him.
“I damned well am not,” Darien said, but with a touch of humor. “Hawk pulled in a number of military people a while ago. Quite a few of them are Rogues, but there are some normal humans.”
“Not favorites of yours?”
“We’ve made our peace. I married the sister of one. I have to admit they can be damnably effective, especially in matters where the normal processes are best avoided.”
“As now? There are soldiers everywhere.”
“For contingencies. The military are keeping people out of the area and have cleared people out of some of the houses, but they haven’t evacuated the closest ones yet to avoid alarming Mrs. Waite.”
“She’s in her house?”
“That’s the general opinion, but it’s stitch it as we go.”
Mark smiled at the common complaint of army officers—that the plans weren’t thorough enough. Mark went to Hawkinville, who nodded a greeting. “Know what’s going on?”
“Only to an extent. You have to admire her imagination.”
“I don’t have to admire anything about her. We assume she plans a massive explosion from her property, hoping to explode the gasometer.”
“Is that possible?”
Hawkinville nodded to the huddled group. “The chemical men are debating it, along with some of the army engineers. Those notes you stole were all about creating havoc by using the pipelines.”
“They seemed to be, but gas production was mentioned. What do the experts say?”
“Nothing but questions. How big an explosion might she begin with? Exactly what explosives? From what level of the house? How the devil are we supposed to know? One suggested she might fire a projectile of some sort, which set them off about penetration and ingress of air. Apparently air must mix with the gas for it to explode. Otherwise it would merely go up in flames.”
“Merely,” Mark said drily.
“A mighty fire would be unfortunate, but an explosion could hurl projectiles for a considerable distance. My question for you is, when threatened, will she set off the explosion?”
“She won’t want to blow herself up.”
“Sure of that?”
“Yes. Her aim is living triumph, not martyrdom. However, I suspect she’d rather die than live to go on trial and be executed.”
“In extremis she’d choose death. You should have killed her when you had the chance.”
“I know that now.”
“We have men positioned to shoot her if she appears at a window.”
“They should have orders to shoot Isaac Inkman if they can. He’s the one who’ll set it off.”
“Even if it kills him?”
“He’d enjoy the bang. Truly. He’s half-mad. Damnation—”
A woman shrieked. For a moment Mark hoped it was Solange, but he knew it was too shrill. He ran with Hawkinville and others out into Great Peter Street.
A young woman had broken through the cordon of soldiers. She was running toward the row of houses shrieking, “We’re betrayed, Solange. Betrayed!”
A shot rang out, shattering a window in a house. Solange must have shown herself, but there was no shout or scream to indicate she’d been hit.
Soldiers recaptured the young woman and dragged her away. One had his hand over her mouth, but she kicked and writhed like one demented. Why did people fight so hard to destroy?
Mark moved forward cautiously to get a view of the front of the house with the shattered window. That window was on the ground floor, but Isaac appeared at an unbroken one on the upper floor, his owlish face staring. No one fired. Mark cursed himself for not having a pistol, though it’d be a devil of a shot at this distance.
Isaac was dragged away and Mark moved back again to Hawkinville’s side. “The cordon’s secure?”
“As secure as can be in this warren of streets with hoi polloi desperate for a glimpse of the excitement. So she’s there.”
“And knows all’s lost.”
“Will she fire out at anyone who approaches?”
“Unlikely. My guess is she’s trying to escape. Can you have your men at the back show themselves? Deter her from trying to slip out that way.”
“If she slips out, we’ll have her,” Hawkinville objected.
“But not Isaac. She’ll leave him behind to set off the explosion. If she can’t get out, she won’t order him to.”
“Right.” Hawkinville nodded and left. Mark questioned what he’d just said. Might Solange decide that martyrdom was worth it?
Then he wondered about Isaac. Would he truly blow himself up? He was fervent about explosions, but was he willing to die for it? Did he believe there was chemistry in heaven?
“You have a plan?” Delaney asked.
He’d come up from behind, quiet as a cat. Mark saw Arden, Beaumont, and Darien on hand. “You men are mad,” he said. “This isn’t your war. You’ve never even been in the army, Delaney. Nor you, Arden.”
“All the more reason to act now,” Arden said, as if discussing a game of cards.
“We’ll only act if there’s anything useful to do,” Delaney said, sounding like a reasonable man. “I have strong objections to wasted lives.”
“No wonder you didn’t join the army, then. Yes, I have a plan, but it’s one only I can carry out. I need to discuss it with Hawkinville.”
He went over and indicated he needed to speak to Hawkinville alone.
“Yes?”
“I’m willing to gamble that Isaac Inkman can be persuaded out of the house.”
“Gamble how?”
“By going in there to persuade him.”
It was typical that Hawkinville only said, “What are the chances?”
“I truly don’t know, but I wouldn’t attempt it if I didn’t think it could work. You allowed Delaney and his people into this?”
“They’ve been in it all along to one extent or another. Arden less so. But they’re all useful fellows and not encumbered by official protocol.”
“I see.”
“If you’re going to do something, sooner will be better than later, for a range of reasons. But one is that I’m expecting someone from the Home Office to turn up soon to take charge.”
Mark gave a humorous grimace. “With all possible speed,” he said, and returned to the willing Rogues. “The plan is approved. I’m going in to talk out a deranged chemist.”
None of them showed alarm.
“What can we do in support?” Beaumont asked.
His empty sleeve made it impossible to be scathing, and in fact, some possibilities came to mind. “It would help if Solange can be kept busy with distractions from the front. Any and all.”
“Right.”
“And I need a pistol.” Beaumont supplied one. Mark checked the loading and priming. No one would object to that when the shot could be life-or-death.
“Right, then,” he said.
Delaney put a hand on his arm. “Hermione’s suffered your death once already.”
“For her sake I’d let someone else do this if I could, but I’m the only one who might get Isaac’s trust, and that could be key to all.”
Delaney nodded and no one else made an objection. “We’re under your orders, then.”
Chapter 43
Mark said, “I need the soldiers to shoot occasionally at the front of the house, but without killing people. Any other distraction that comes to mind.”
Arden nodded and went off.
“Hal and Darien,” Delaney said. “Any good at arson? Could you manage a lot of smoke from a house across the street?”
>
The two men hurried away.
Delaney turned to Mark. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“I’ll be your backup.” Before Mark could voice his protest, he said, “Only that, I promise. You know what you’re doing.”
Mark hoped to God that was true, trying not to think of Hermione and promises made. He remembered the scrap of silk in his pocket and fingered it, then ran down the street close to the wall where Solange couldn’t see him if she looked out. He’d seen a narrow passageway between two houses and he slipped into it. As he’d hoped, it brought him to the space behind her house and the backs of another row.
It wasn’t divided into individual yards, but instead was a shared open area with a well and a few small gardens. It was crossed by washing lines. Mark hoped the houses on the far side had been evacuated.
“Good that there aren’t individual walls to climb,” he said to Delaney, “but if she’s looking out, nowhere to hide. Even the washing lines are empty.”
Movement drew his eye to the opposite row of houses. A soldier was showing himself at the window of one, with a bright flash of scarlet. Another opened a back door to look out, rifle at the ready. That part of the plan was working. Solange would be mad to try to run out this way.
Despite thrumming urgency, Mark waited for the other distractions.
A rattle of shots from the street. A small explosion somewhere to the right. That should have her peering out at Peter Street, trying to understand. Trying to find a way to escape. Or had she given up? Was she preparing to depart in glory and take as many with her as she could?
He ran for the back of the house, counting doors to find the right one, hearing Delaney behind him. This one. He listened, but beyond that, there was no precaution to take. He opened the door and went in.
He found himself in a kitchen. Deserted, but with kettle steaming away on the hob. He heard footsteps above. Brisk. Solange’s? Where was Isaac? Would a bomb do most damage from the ground floor or the upper one?
The house was small. He moved forward into a dingy parlor that had a door that opened directly onto the street. Solange wouldn’t have enjoyed living in such poor surroundings. The ground floor was deserted and he saw nothing that might be a bomb.
He glanced back at Delaney, who shook his head in agreement.
Narrow stairs rose up from one side of the room. Mark took off his boots, cursing silently at having to struggle with Braydon’s Hessians. Delaney helped. His own came off easily.
Mark went silently upstairs, listening all the time for clues. He wanted Isaac, not Solange. He’d shoot Solange if he saw her—he was resolved on that—but then Isaac might set off the explosion in panic. Once he had Isaac under control, the main danger was over. He came to the top and saw two closed doors, one to his right, one to his left. Two rooms, one back and one front. The back one would look out on the gasometer, so if that was the target, the bomb should be in there. He hoped Isaac was with it and Solange in the front room, distracted by the mayhem.
He stepped toward the back room and opened the door.
Isaac was there, looking out of the window, his hand resting on a long, fat cylinder that was held at the back in a sort of sling. At first Mark could make nothing of it, but then he realized what it was. A beam ran across the room beneath the window. The sling—in fact some kind of woven rope—stretched back from it at great tension. When released, the cylinder would hurtle toward the gasometer like the bolt from a crossbow.
Dear Lord in heaven. And Isaac could release the mechanism at any moment.
“Very clever, Isaac,” Mark said as calmly as he could, closing the door behind him to lessen the chance of Solange hearing voices. Delaney would have to fend for himself.
Isaac turned sharply, but then grinned. “Told you it was a good plan, didn’t I? But what are you doing here? I thought you were a traitor.”
Typical of Isaac to be so absorbed in his explosive toy that he wasn’t aware of the drama all around, but that didn’t make him less dangerous.
“Not at all,” Mark said. “I’ve come to help. We just release the cord, and bang?”
“Bit of a delay, but that’s about right.”
“Are you sure it’ll work?” Mark asked, going closer. A pistol shot might possibly set off the explosive. If he couldn’t persuade Isaac to leave with him, it would have to be hand-to-hand. “Could be dangerous from here,” he pointed out.
“But glorious.”
Isaac had looked away as he spoke, however, and his tone had flattened. Was he lying? About what?
“Better not to die,” Mark said. “Come with me. I’ll get you out of here and you can try again another day.”
Isaac looked at him in that blank way that could make him seem simple. “You’re on Solange’s side?”
Now, there was a double-edged sword. Mark went with instinct. “No. She’s too cruel.”
Isaac sat down on a nearby stool and blinked at him. “That’s what I think. She talks me into doing terrible things.”
“Like this?”
“The exploding letters.”
“You seemed happy about those,” Mark said, his hearing alert for warnings. He could hear the occasional shot and some shouting, but nothing from within the house. How long would Solange leave Isaac unattended? What would Delaney do if she emerged, armed?
He forced his mind back to the main purpose. He’d thought Isaac better dead, but now he wasn’t sure. What was more, he doubted that Isaac was needed to deploy the weapon. If it was, in effect, a crossbow, Solange could release it alone.
“I was happy about the idea,” Isaac said. “It was a new one. Fun to try out an exploding letter and see that it worked. But she said it should have done more damage. She made me make a bigger one. When she heard it hadn’t hurt anyone, she got that look in her eye. You know the one?”
“I do.”
“It wasn’t my fault someone put it in a box. I didn’t let her know I was glad.”
It was hard to see Isaac as a victim, especially when he was sitting by the weapon he’d designed and made, but his story made some sort of sense. Solange had persuaded and intimidated far stronger men than he. When it came to it, until the first exploding letter, Isaac’s actions had all been experiments.
“What about this?” Mark asked, nodding at the long tube. “I assume if I cut the sling, it’ll fire at the gasometer?”
Isaac nodded, wearing a particularly idiotic grin.
Mark managed to speak calmly. “That will do a lot of damage. Can it be made harmless? We don’t want to leave it for Mrs. Waite to set off, do we?”
“I don’t mind,” Isaac said. “Could be fun.”
Idiot. Perhaps he was better dead.
Mark heard movement outside the house. He stepped closer to the window and saw some soldiers dodging around. They were distracting as ordered, but wasting their time. There was only this one window at the back. He could only pray no one tried a random shot at it and exploded the device.
“This isn’t my idea of fun, Isaac. How do we disarm it?”
“Don’t need to. Won’t do much good.”
“Disarming?”
“Firing.” Isaac patted the tube again. “I suppose I should have said it won’t do much harm. Disarm. Dis-harm. Interesting, that.” He suddenly scowled. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?” Mark asked, trying to adjust his face to patient friendliness.
“As if I’m annoying. But perhaps I am. I’m only really interested in chemistry. And aspects of engineering. Most people aren’t.”
“Which is why they can’t understand you. Try to explain this to me, Isaac. Why won’t the exploding projectile do much damage?”
“It won’t explode. It’ll just smash into the gas tower. According to my calculations, it’ll break some bricks,
but not even dent the gasometer inside.” He turned wistful. “It would have been interesting to see what would happen if an explosive missile broke into fourteen thousand cubic feet of gas, but I don’t think there’d be enough air.”
Mark managed not to roll his eyes, but what should be done with this man-child genius?
“Are you sure, Isaac? About little damage?”
“Oh, yes. But she won’t like it.”
“No. But I’ll deal with her for you.”
The door opened and Mark turned, pistol at the ready. It was Delaney. “It’s getting quiet in the street.”
“Who’s this?” Isaac had stood, his eyes wide. What had Solange told him might happen if he was arrested?
“He’s a friend,” Mark said. “He’ll help me get you to safety.”
Mark would like to have Delaney take Isaac away and stay to arrest Solange, but he remembered his promise to Hermione. He’d broken it, but with reason. He had no excuse to do more. Others could take care of her.
Delaney’s brows were raised and he nodded toward the device.
“It won’t do much damage. That’s right, isn’t it, Isaac?”
“I told you so! Do you think me a dunce?” A bang from the front of the house made him jump. “She’s coming. You said I’d be safe!”
Instinct. Mark grabbed Isaac’s arm and pulled him out of the room. Isaac broke free and ran downstairs, Mark and Delaney following. Then in the kitchen Isaac paused to take the steaming kettle off the hob.
“Outside,” Mark said, steering him toward the back door, but at sight of the soldiers, Isaac shrank back. “Come on. It’s safe.”
Delaney gave Mark the boots he’d picked up and took Isaac’s hand. “Come along. We’ll take care of you.”
Isaac looked at him and then let Delaney lead him out. Mark couldn’t help thinking, Like a lamb to the slaughter. Delaney couldn’t keep that promise. Isaac had been hand in glove with violent revolutionaries and responsible for two acts of violence.
They paused to one side of the door to put on their boots, taking turns to watch the door, pistol ready. The bangs and explosions had ceased at the front and the house might as well be uninhabited. What was Solange doing?