by Jo Beverley
It didn’t matter as long as she didn’t escape. Delaney shepherded Isaac to safety. Mark followed as rear guard.
When they arrived in Laundry Lane, Hawkinville said, “You got him, then. Good work.” He gestured to some soldiers to arrest Isaac.
“I promised him safety,” Mark said.
“That promise wasn’t in your power to give.”
“He’s a pawn. He’s only been responsible for one thing that could have done serious damage—the second exploding letter. He says Solange forced him into that and I believe him.”
“What of all this? There is no bomb?”
“He says it’s a dud.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes. You don’t have any wish to hurt people, do you, Isaac?”
Isaac’s eyes were shifting around the angry faces and armed soldiers and he had a death grip on Delaney’s hand. It was to him he spoke. “None. Truly. I particularly didn’t want to damage the gasometer. I’ve been reading all about gas.” In a moment he transformed, glowing with excitement. “We can light up the world with gas. No more night. Heat it, too. No more cold. Gas engines. Like steam engines, but better. Gas fireworks. Gas ships. Big, big balloons powered by gas.”
Hawkinville looked as if he wanted to shoot Isaac on the spot, and Mark had qualms about setting the man loose in the world, but Delaney was smiling. “You have some very interesting ideas, Isaac. They should certainly be explored.” To Hawkinville, he said, “If we can sweep aside the one unfortunate letter, there’s really nothing to hold against him. May I pledge the Rogues to take charge of him?”
“How? If he takes it into his head to burn up the world with his precious gas, he will.”
“I won’t!” Isaac protested. “I don’t like hurting people.”
“We can say he assisted us here today,” Mark said. “It’s true.”
Hawkinville shook his head. “We’ll review this later, but he’s in your charge now, Nicholas. Our priority is to seize Solange Waite before she proves to the world that your idiot lied.”
Nicholas winked at Mark and steered Isaac away. They were already talking about heating a house with gas-powered pipes.
“What will the woman do when she realizes that Isaac has escaped?” Hawkinville asked.
“Fire the projectile. Let’s go and watch.”
“Watch?”
“I trust Isaac on this. It seems he truly doesn’t want to harm the gasometer.”
Hawkinville muttered about lunatics and madmen, but he went with Mark to one of the houses opposite Solange’s row. They took a position by an open window.
Mark said, “Have a soldier fire a shot toward that window there. One who can be trusted not to hit it.”
The musket ball smashed into brickwork beside the window and some of the soldiers gave a muted cheer.
Mark heard Solange call, “Isaac?” Did he hear the string of French curses, or only imagine them? He saw movement in that back room but had no clear sight of her. “Any moment now,” he murmured, praying he’d been right.
There was a great twang! He instinctively ducked, but the metal cylinder hurtled over the rooftops. Then they heard an appalling crunch, followed by a cacophony of falling bricks.
“Not damage the gasometer, you said!” Hawkinville ran for a front room to see what had happened, but Solange was in the window opposite now, her expression telling Mark all he needed to know. She screamed her frustration, the red-faced personification of fury.
Mark pulled out Beaumont’s pistol, praying it shot true. He steadied himself against the window frame, calming his breath. Then he aimed and fired. He’d aimed for her heart, but the gun fired high. The ball went into her screaming mouth.
She fell out of sight as Mark slowly lowered the smoking pistol with a shaking hand. Right or wrong, he’d killed a woman, if not in cold blood, then with cool, clear calculation. And he’d do it again in the same situation.
Hawkinville returned. “The gas engineers will have the final say, but it looks like superficial damage. You fired a shot?”
“Solange Waite is dead.”
“Good work, but let’s make sure.”
Mark went with him across the communal yard and back into the house. An officer was already coming downstairs. “One dead woman, sir. No one else.”
“He’s dealt with,” Hawkinville said. “Satisfactory,” he said to Mark, “especially if she was the linchpin as you say. Now to find something to link Waite to this.”
“You won’t. He dislikes violence and destruction.”
“Then he steers a damned odd course.”
“He longs for glory and deludes himself about how it can be achieved. By all means arrest him. Hold him and frighten him with the possible consequences. The lack of habeas corpus allows that. That, along with having to face what Solange planned, should break him. He’ll help you destroy the Brotherhood and be grateful to be allowed a quiet, scholarly life. Without Durrant his writings will lack all fire.”
“I wish we could hang him, but you’re probably right about him going free. When people like him are found not guilty, it makes matters worse. What of Durrant and the others? Pity we can’t tie them to this. We don’t have much else that would hang them.”
“Tregoven will disappear. He has no true conviction. He’ll find some other slimy way to try to glitter. Durrant will probably attach himself to another prominent speaker, so you might get him one day. There’s Ezra Croke, but he’s nothing more than a bookkeeper. You could squeeze him if you want to know any secret contributors to the cause, though as best I know, Waite funded most of it himself. Now, I go to prove to my bride-to-be that I’ve survived.”
“I assume I can’t call on you again?”
Mark was tempted, but he said, “Only for the theoretical end of things.”
Mark traveled back to Belcraven House with Arden, who complained of his tame part of it. “Though Beth would have no patience with pointless heroics.”
“I hope Hermione agrees mine weren’t pointless.”
Their ladies berated them, but with shining relief. Mark took Hermione to the drawing room and confessed what he’d done. “It was necessary, love, but I promise, only advisory roles in the future.”
“Truly?” she asked.
“Truly. I don’t regret killing Solange, but it was different to killing people in the war. I don’t want to be in that situation again short of the most dire need.”
She drew him down onto a sofa. “I’m glad. I don’t want you in danger, but more than that, I don’t want you scarred inside.”
He kissed her tenderly, at length. “How delightful to be betrothed,” he said, “and this permitted.”
“Being married will be even better. The license?” She was eager for it now.
“Somehow it slipped my mind. I’d better drag myself away and get it.”
“Then we could be married tomorrow.” But then she added, “I do worry that you’ll grow bored.”
He laughed. “With a too-prosperous estate, a poorly cared-for house, and Rogues watching my every move as husband?”
“They have no right.”
“I’m glad of them. You have no other men to protect you.”
“I have you, and I need no protection from you. When I think on it, you have no protection from me.”
He chuckled. “I could probably summon some army friends if you turn overwhelmingly violent.”
“That smug look could tempt me, sir. There will doubtless be times when I want to hit you with a poker.”
“Which is where we began our adventures.” He kissed her soundly. “I’m off to get that license, you bold piece, so you’ll soon be mine in all senses of the word.”
* * *
They married the next day, in a simple way Hermione found perfect, in Edgar’s room, with the Ardens in atten
dance, along with Thayne’s friend Beau Braydon, and Nolly and Peter standing by.
She’d discussed the Rogues with Thayne the evening before.
“They might like to attend. I feel perhaps I should invite the ones in Town for Roger’s sake.”
He’d picked up on her reluctance. “But they do tend to take over. Arden will do, love.”
“I’d forgotten he’s one. Perfect. Edgar’s room’s too small for more in any case.”
They were alone after having signed the rapidly drawn-up settlements. Thayne had made no objection to restrictions or demands and the Ardens had witnessed them. As the evening was mild, they’d strolled out in the garden, which was delightful even without the lamps. They’d remembered the past and shared more of their lives during the five years they’d been apart.
There, Thayne had given her an unusual gift. “About the new Marquess of Carsheld,” he’d said.
“Porteous?”
“You felt he was cleverer than you to find coal on the estate, but I had someone look into it. Pure luck, love.”
“Luck?”
“More new developments. Apparently there was an obstacle to deep mining called the ninety-fathom dyke, but it’s been recently overcome. Carsheld didn’t do anything for his new wealth. Other landowners and their engineers approached him.”
She’d stared at him. “I don’t know whether to be pleased not to have been foolish or outraged at the injustice of it. If Father had lived another year . . . !”
He kissed her. “Don’t we have good fortune enough, love? In all meanings of the word?” Which was completely, perfectly true.
For the wedding she’d chosen the pink evening gown. It wasn’t suitable for day wear, even though she’d added a white silk shawl, pinned together at the front, for decency, but it was perfect. She’d fashioned a pin with white silk rosebuds and fixed the shawl in place with it at the front of the bodice. When she entered Edgar’s room, she saw Thayne’s eyes light.
She beamed back at him. His dark blue coat sported bright brass buttons.
She went to Edgar, who was sitting in a chair with a rug over his knees. He took her hand. “I’ve had a talk with him,” the old man said. “He’ll do.”
“Of course he will.”
“If I’m giving you away, I’ll know and approve. I’ll be a father to you if you’ll let me, Hermione.”
She kissed his cheek. “Of course I will, with thanks.”
“Then you’ll take a father’s gift.” He brought out a long red box from under the rug and gave it to her.
“I hope it’s not sharp,” she teased as she took it. The cover was fine leather.
“Served you well enough, so don’t complain. Open it.”
She did, expecting jewelry, but inside was a slender, pale carving.
“Jade,” he said. “It’s supposed to give long life and happiness to the owner.”
“A precious gift,” she said, showing it to Thayne.
He said, “Amen,” then looked at Edgar. “I may have her, then?”
“And if I said no?”
“Despite your age and infirmity, I’d insist.”
“Good man. Get on with it.”
They joined hands and faced the clergyman and simply made their vows.
An hour later they set off for Hartwell, the Ardens’ country retreat in Surrey, where they’d begin their honeymoon. Hermione had feared it would be too grand, but though luxurious, it was a small house set in rustic gardens and completely delightful.
She had to laugh, however, when she saw a nightgown and a nightshirt spread neatly before the fire to be warm. They hadn’t brought attendants. He didn’t yet have a valet, Nolly wasn’t really a lady’s maid, and they wanted to be alone, so she asked, “How?”
“Simple planning. But that doesn’t mean we have to wear them.”
“We certainly do. I expect . . . Yes,” she said, opening an adjoining door. “Here’s my dressing room, and you must have a matching one.” She grabbed the nightgown. “Off you go, husband, till we meet again.”
She needed help to undress, so she rang for a maid, but once gown and corset were off, she dismissed the woman. She washed and put on the pristine nightgown, then sat to brush out her hair. She took her time, enjoying the delay. Enjoying the tingling anticipation building inside her.
Eventually she put down the brush. It was time. As she went to the door, however, she felt oddly nervous. The last time, the first time, it had been in white-hot passion fueled by her grief and relief. This. This was different.
She looked at her golden wedding ring, smiled, and went in. He was standing by the bed in his nightshirt. He’d extinguished the candles, so the room was lit only by firelight.
“Wife,” he said.
“Husband,” she replied. “How perfect this is.”
“From first to last and ever more.” He turned back the covers. “Will you, Lady Faringay?”
She climbed onto the bed, still decently covered. “With pleasure, Lord Faringay.” She grinned at him. “I wonder how other couples do this.”
“In all ways known and then some,” he said, joining her and pulling the covers over them. “But this is perfect for us.” He gathered her in against him, cloth thick and rumpled between them. “This is home and hearth and tranquil days. That’s what I want for you, my love, and what I’ll strive to give you.”
“Thank you,” she said, turning to kiss him. “But perhaps I should mention that I’m not completely averse to adventures in bed, sir.”
He laughed. “For some reason, you don’t surprise me one bit.”
Epilogue
Faringay Hall, October
The blast of a horn from the gatehouse warned Hermione that guests were arriving. She went to her room for her warm cloak and then ran downstairs, pausing to send some servants off to the kitchen. They’d been scrubbing the join between the stair treads and risers, which hadn’t been touched for an age. She’d found the whole house like that—superficially in order but with no deep cleaning ever done. Many of the hangings had been too moth-eaten for use.
The house was full of servants as she tried to correct years of neglect, and she was glad to be providing employment for so many, but she’d wanted to present a more normal appearance for their first guests.
Thayne was coming from the back of the house, where he’d doubtless been fighting the records and ledgers. He’d thrown out the old estate steward just as she’d dismissed the upper servants in the house, but that meant that their weeks here had been tumultuous and busy.
After a week at Hartwell they’d traveled north to visit Polly and her family. William had looked curious about the rapid marriage, and had perhaps seen a resemblance to the groom who’d returned her on the road to Tranmere, but he’d not asked questions. Polly had been so excited by the visit, the marriage, and Edgar’s gift of ten thousand pounds that she’d not probed. It would have come to that in time, but Hermione had used the excuse of a house needing much attention to keep the visit to just three days.
William and Thayne had rubbed along together well enough, especially as Thayne had asked William’s advice on estate management. He had the knack of getting along with people.
She smiled simply to see him and he smiled back. All was in order there. Their love only deepened and their private times were perfect. She knew, however, that the ghosts lingered for him. Though it would draw on her capital, she intended to have the whole house repainted and some of the furniture changed. She would erase the memories.
What to do about the French Wing, she didn’t know. She was tempted to tear it down, but she didn’t think Thayne was ready for such a decision, especially when his mother had killed herself by throwing herself off the roof walk.
It had happened the winter before last when a great storm had split an elm near the house and men had set to c
learing the dangerous branches. No one had thought about how Thayne’s mother might react. She’d heard men and violent sounds and run up to the roof to see the danger. Presumably the roughly dressed men wielding axes and mattocks had triggered her deepest fears, for the wall around the walk was too high for an accidental fall.
Thayne hardly spoke of it, but she knew he felt guilt. The tree would have had to be dealt with, but if he’d been here instead of infiltrating the Three-Banded Brotherhood, he might have arranged the event better. Hermione couldn’t argue that was untrue, so only time would heal it, but obliteration of the French Wing would help.
They went out together to greet the chaise and the curricle bowling down the well-tended drive. That had been her most recent achievement, and completed only in time.
Braydon was driving his showy curricle and Edgar and Peter were in the chaise. She watched with pleasure as Edgar climbed out with very little assistance and walked toward her with only his cane.
She went to meet him, noting the normal color of his skin. “I assume you’ve paid Grammaticus, then.”
“I have, but the man’s a foolish wretch.”
She left Braydon to Thayne and walked with Edgar toward the house. “He’s thrown it all away on cards or dice?”
“Not that. He’s still refusing to tell anyone the details of his magical mushroom.”
“Why, now he’s proved it works?” She gave him her arm to go up the six steps.
“As to that, the doctors are being doctors. Only one case. Can’t be entirely certain. But I had a word with some East India Company men and they’re interested in paying him well for the formula. Grammaticus gets greedier at every turn, however. He’s now insisting on setting up a workshop to produce the cure and sell it as doses. Might work if he was willing to travel to India, but not as he is. And he’s not a well man. He often seems on the edge of an apoplexy. When I think of the people who’ll die for lack of his secret, I wish we could put him on a rack.”
They were in the hall by then. “Please be calm, Edgar, or I’ll lose you to an apoplexy.”
He shook his head and looked around. “A tolerable house, I suppose.”