An Irresistible Alliance

by Stephanie Laurens

  Turning, Sebastian regarded Michael. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” His smile broadened into a grin. “I’m sure our esteemed great-aunt would be delighted to see you.”

  Michael shuddered. Horatia was one who could be counted on to feel that, as Sebastian had finally taken the plunge, being the next in line, it was now Michael’s turn. “Thank you, but I believe a tray in my room will suffice.”

  Sebastian chuckled.

  Michael glanced up the grand staircase. “I take it the parents are in residence?”

  Sebastian nodded. “They’ll be leaving shortly. I’m off to Green Street first.”

  “Grandmama?”

  “Had apparently gone to visit Lady Osbaldestone in Hampshire. Papa sent the traveling coach with the news, so I expect we’ll see both of them here shortly.”

  Michael shook his head. “And once Louisa gets back, the triumvirate will be in residence.”

  “Heaven help us all,” Sebastian murmured.

  “The triumvirate” was the label their cousin Christopher had coined for the trio composed of their grandmother Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, her bosom-bow and grandest of the older grandes dames, Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, and Louisa. It was undeniable that Louisa looked set to take up the social mantle the older ladies had carried for decades; she possessed the same remarkable—and rather scarifying—propensity for knowing everyone and everything that occurred within the upper echelons of the ton.

  Sebastian stirred. He glanced at the stairs, then, his expression sobering, searched Michael’s face. “Did you get anywhere regarding the gunpowder?”

  “To borrow your words, yes and no.” Briefly, Michael outlined his meeting with Cleo Hendon, how she’d inveigled her way into playing an active role in the mission—“she more or less blackmailed me into including her”—but that, through her, they’d obtained a list of the carters who ferried gunpowder around the capital.

  “So,” Sebastian said, “the names of the men who fetched the gunpowder from Kent have to be on your list.”

  Michael nodded. “From all we learned from the guild and also from the carters themselves, there’s very little likelihood any other carter would have been able to do the job. The carts themselves and the horses—the rigs—are critical, and there are only so many of those. Fourteen, as it happens. We’ve already eliminated five, and we plan to continue the search tomorrow.”

  Sebastian nodded. After a second, he murmured, “It sounds as if Cleome Hendon takes after her mother.”

  Michael frowned. “How so?”

  Sebastian regarded him in surprise. “Haven’t you heard the tales?” When Michael looked his incomprehension, Sebastian went on, “Apparently, Lady Hendon—Kit—once led a smuggling gang operating on the north coast of Norfolk. I gather that was how she and Jack Hendon met. He was working covertly for the army, back in ’12, I think it was, and he was leading a rival gang. I heard she—Kit—eventually got shot, but obviously, she lived.”

  Michael couldn’t suppress a weak groan. “Shot?” Then he straightened; his features hardening, he shook his head. “That settles it. No matter how determined she is to see action, once we find the carters who collected the gunpowder, I’ll return Cleo to her office and chain her to her desk if need be.” The notion of her being shot…

  Sebastian laughed. “Good luck with that. If she’s anything like her mother…”

  Michael set his jaw. “Regardless, one way or another, I’ll manage it.”

  Sounds from above drifted down the stairs.

  Michael murmured, “I believe I’d best play least in sight.” He glanced at Sebastian and nodded. “Good luck.”

  “And you,” Sebastian returned. “Both with the mission and the feisty Miss Hendon.”

  Michael snorted and strode to the stairs. He went up them quickly and silently. He managed to swing into the corridor to his room before his parents opened their door. He heard his mother laugh at something his father said, then she called down to Sebastian. Smiling, Michael opened the door to his room and walked into the quiet.

  * * *

  His quip about having dinner on a tray in his room had been intended as a joke, but as it transpired, that was exactly what he eventually did.

  First, he spent over an hour sitting before the fire in his room, considering ways in which he might ease Cleo Hendon out of the mission—whether he could hold her to the wording of their agreement, which hadn’t specified her actually participating in any action.

  From what he’d already learned of her, combined with the information Sebastian had imparted, he didn’t like his chances.

  Eventually, he realized he was hungry, rang for Tom, and asked for a tray.

  Later, he debated going out and hunting up his friends, but…the endless round of the clubs, the parties, visits to gambling hells, theatres and their green rooms, and all the other usual pursuits of a gentleman about town had paled. If he was truthful, they’d been losing their luster for some time.

  In the end, a balloon of fine whisky cradled in one hand, he sat and stared at the flames in the hearth and found himself imagining what Cleo Hendon was doing at that time.

  * * *

  The Dog and Duck tavern at the northern end of Red Lion Street, just off the Whitechapel Road, was the haunt of honest laborers, hardworking navvies, and off-duty jarveys. Even clad in his oldest clothes, the man felt out of place, but he hadn’t chosen the spot for his own comfort but that of the men he sought to suborn.

  With his wide-brimmed hat once again pulled low to shade his face, he sat with his back to the wall, close by a corner of the taproom, a mug of ale on the table before him, and waited.

  The four men pushed through the doors just before the stipulated hour of ten o’clock. They blended in with the local crowd far better than he, but in case they missed him, he raised his mug and, when they looked his way, saluted them.

  They nodded and made their way to his table. With a wave, he invited them to sit. Dragging up stools, they did.

  “Ale, gentlemen?”

  The one who seemed to be the leader of the four glanced at the others, then nodded. “A pint wouldn’t go amiss, sir.”

  The man smiled an ingenuously charming smile and signaled to the serving girl.

  Once she’d taken their orders, then ferried four pints and an extra for him to the table and left, he leant forward and, one after the other, met the four men’s gazes. “I know you’ve been ordered to assist me by your superiors, but I wanted to say that I—and O’Connor and the others—appreciate your willingness to be a part of an action that we hope will put the cause front and center in the government’s mind again. I will definitely make sure that your names are made known further up the chain.”

  Unsurprisingly, the four Chartist militiamen looked pleased. “Happy to help,” one assured him.

  He smiled genially—conspiratorially. “Well, then. Let’s get down to what we need you to do.” He took them through the next steps of the plan as dictated by the old man. He felt reassured when the leader as well as two of the others asked questions about exactly how the barrels needed to be handled. Given they were talking about gunpowder, caution, to him—as apparently, to them—seemed wise.

  To his relief, they appeared to grasp the intention of the ploy without him having to reveal any more details, and they were quick to suggest ways to accomplish the required tasks in complete and absolute secrecy.

  Finally satisfied that, between them, they had a foolproof plan—one that would deliver to the old man’s specifications without a single hitch—he nominated the date for the proposed action. “Do you think you can be ready to move on that night?”

  Again, he was relieved that they didn’t rush to agree but, instead, thought it through, discussing whether it was certain they would have this or that in place by then.

  But at last, the leader met his eyes squarely and nodded. “Yes—we can manage that. We’ll need to do a bit of finagling to get the transport arrang
ed and get copies of the keys, as well as get all the barrels sorted, but you’ve given us enough time—we’ll be ready.”

  “Excellent.” The man allowed his approbation to show. “Another round?”

  The four exchanged glances, then the leader grinned. “We could handle that.”

  The man signaled the serving girl, saw the four resupplied, then eased back from the table. “I need to leave, gentlemen, but before I do…” He picked up his almost-empty mug and raised it. “To our mutual enterprise! May all go well.”

  The four grinned, raised their mugs, and drank heartily.

  The man drained his mug, set it down, and stood. He nodded to the four. “I’ll meet you at the rendezvous at eleven o’clock that night—and don’t forget to muffle the wheels.”

  “We won’t,” the leader promised. The other three nodded, eager and enthused.

  Still smiling, with a last salute, the man left them.

  Chapter 5

  The following morning, Michael strolled into the front hall of the Hendon town house at precisely thirty minutes past eight o’clock. Despite having fallen into bed at what was, for him, a ridiculously early hour, he’d tossed and turned, and what sleep he’d eventually found had been filled with dreams.

  Disturbing dreams.

  At his age, certainly, he found the contents unnerving. It had been a very long time since he’d dreamt of a woman in that fashion.

  Admittedly, his mind had already been filled with thoughts of her; how to deal with her was the subject that had kept him tossing and turning. Yet he would have sworn he was too old and surely far too experienced to have such vividly erotic dreams. Aside from all else, the last thing he needed was for his wayward libido to fixate on a lady with such termagant-like qualities.

  The sound of light footsteps drew his gaze to the head of the stairs. He watched Cleo descend, stepping lightly, a bright, breezy smile on her face, her enthusiasm for the day—for continuing to pursue the mission by his side—brimming over and washing in warm expectation over him…

  None of which helped—either in getting a handle on what he should do with her or in corralling his restless libido.

  “Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well?”

  “Passably.”

  She smiled and spread her hands. “As you perceive, I’m ready to proceed.” She shifted to allow the butler to drape a bright-blue mantle over her shoulders. The particular hue brought out the red glints in her hair and matched the color of the full skirt and fitted jacket she’d chosen to wear.

  Michael stared at her. He’d met her only the previous day, yet there she stood, somehow effortlessly anchoring his world…

  What the devil was this?

  He managed to keep his frown from his face and let all her chatter about which carter they should try first slide past him.

  Once she’d secured the ties of her mantle and set her reticule dangling from her wrist, he offered her his arm.

  She paused, her gaze colliding with his, but then she smiled a touch shyly and set her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Indeed,” she continued, as he nodded at the butler, sending that worthy to open the door, “I meant to thank you for your protective escort last night.” She looked down as they walked through the doorway and into the cool of a gray morning. “I would never have been able to go into those taverns without your support, and we would never have learned all we did if you hadn’t been willing to protect me in that fashion.”

  He halted on the porch and, frankly dumbfounded, stared at her. She was thanking him for acting as he had? Regardless of the circumstances, most of the females in his family would have labeled his behavior presumptuous and overly possessive.

  But Cleo glanced up at him and smiled, her gaze open and direct. “If you hadn’t made me feel so safe, I would never have been able to manage those men and our questions so smoothly.” Her smile brightened. “So thank you.” She looked ahead. “Oh.”

  Again, she glanced up at him, this time arching a brow. “No hackney today?”

  The question broke through his distracted daze. He looked at the small, anonymous, black town carriage waiting at the curb. “I decided having Tom along wouldn’t hurt.” For extra protection, but he left the words unsaid. He was still grappling with the notion that she didn’t mind—indeed, even welcomed—the manifestation of his protective instincts.

  He led her down the steps, across the pavement, and helped her into the carriage, then realized and asked, “The first address?”

  She gave him the name of a lane, and Tom—a font of information on London’s byways, which was another reason to have him drive them—informed them it was a tiny lane just north of the old Ratcliffe Highway. Assured by Tom that he could find it, Michael climbed into the carriage and shut the door.

  As he sat, Tom flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled smoothly off. Michael saw that Cleo had pulled out the list and was poring over it.

  “With any luck,” she said, “we ought to be able to get through the entire list today—or at least to the point of speaking with the carters who fetched those barrels from Kent.”

  He murmured a vague agreement and leant back against the squabs. Once they found the carters who had transported the barrels into London…what was he going to do then?

  * * *

  Tom pulled up at the entrance to the tiny lane. Michael helped Cleo down to the cobbles, then firmly took her arm and steadied her along the roughly surfaced ground.

  Once again, he assumed the position of “my lady’s guard,” a role that, he had to admit, suited him to the ground, especially now he knew she didn’t resent his more high-handed and overt actions.

  Her acceptance of his protection had calmed something inside him, as if her attitude had pleased and placated some disgruntled and grouchy beast.

  Cleo found the relevant door, knocked, and this time found herself dealing directly with one Walter Feeney. With Michael at her back, and the Hendon name to recommend her, she quickly got the answers they required.

  Feeney hadn’t been the carter who had ferried barrels from Kent into London on Wednesday morning. “I was off to the mill up by Wapping that day.” He also had no notion which carter might have taken the job, nor had he loaned his cart in recent weeks.

  They thanked Feeney, then carefully—with her having to rely on Michael’s supporting grip on her arm—made their way back down the lane.

  She remained exceedingly aware—hyperaware—of Michael’s nearness, but the fluster of the previous day, while still present to some degree, was steadily giving way to…a certain curiosity.

  Certainly, the temptation to experience and savor thrills and reactions that, to her, were altogether novel had grown to the point of compulsion.

  She felt certain that the reason she felt able to indulge—to dwell on the thrills and sensual frissons—was because she was convinced, to her bedrock convinced, that with him, she was safe. That she would always be safe, no matter the situation.

  He might be dangerous in that particular way that men like him could be dangerous to ladies, but she knew to her bones that he would never, ever, be dangerous to her.

  They reached the carriage, and he helped her in. She drank in the aura of effortless strength that she sensed through his grip on her hand and, as she sat, allowed her gaze to linger on the clean lines of his profile as he spoke to Tom. She greedily absorbed the way he moved—so fluid and graceful despite being a large man—as he entered the carriage and sat beside her.

  Her senses flared. Facing forward, she looked inside and confirmed that her lungs had seized again, restricting her breathing and leaving her nerves sparking and her wits oddly giddy.

  “Cleo—the next address?”

  What? She looked at him. “Oh—yes.” Hurriedly, she consulted the list. “I don’t think it’s far.” When she found what she thought was the nearest address, Michael relayed it to Tom, who confirmed it was close.

  As they set off, she
leant back against the seat and bludgeoned her wits into order. Then she glanced at the list again. “Six down, eight to go—and I believe several of the other addresses lie in this area.”

  * * *

  When they alighted at their next stop, at Michael’s suggestion, Cleo showed Tom the list, and the groom-cum-driver confirmed that all the carters they’d yet to interview lived in the areas on either side of Cable Street, between Well Street and Cannon Street.

  Tom assured them they should easily be able to find all their marks that day, provided said marks were at home. Still, it was Saturday, a day of rest for the gunpowder carters, and so it proved to be. They found three more of the men on their list over the next hour and a half, but none of the three had any more information than the previous six.

  As, her arm looped with Michael’s, Cleo picked her way down the narrow lane that Tom had assured them would deliver them to their next port of call on Cains Place, she was less aware of Michael’s physical presence than of a nagging worry that her brilliant idea to work their way through the list of gunpowder carters would somehow prove a false trail.

  She glanced at Michael’s face. “Could we have overlooked something? Some way in which barrels of gunpowder might have been moved without using any of the gunpowder carters?”

  He looked down and met her eyes. In the rich brown of his, she could see that he, too, had started to question their assumptions.

  After a moment, he grimaced, then looked ahead. “One has to wonder, but I keep coming back to the carts themselves. Anyone could, theoretically, drive a cart laden with gunpowder, but after hearing the descriptions and seeing Joe Carpenter’s cart, while I can imagine it might be possible to transport ten barrels a short distance in an ordinary cart or two, I seriously doubt ten barrels could have been transported from Kent to London other than in properly reinforced carts drawn by heavy teams of horses.”