He folded his paper, placed it down and rose to meet them as they approached. “Your Highness,” said Henry with a short bow. A somewhat begrudging short bow, if Evie wasn’t very much mistaken. “May I present Miss Evie Frye. Miss Frye, Maharajah Duleep Singh.”
Evie and Mr. Singh greeted one another before Mr. Singh’s face became grave and he turned to Henry. “My friend, the plans you asked for have been removed.”
“Removed?” Henry’s face clouded. “By whom?”
“Crawford Starrick’s forces. Or someone employed by him.”
Mr. Singh saw Evie’s and Henry’s faces fall. “Yes, I thought you might recognize that name. I know where they are, but it is heavily guarded.”
Evie threw her shoulders back. “That part will not be a problem.”
Mr. Singh looked her up and down. “I thought not.”
* * *
It was a short while later that Evie and Henry were crouched on a rooftop, having raced each other to the top (winner: Evie) where they overlooked a fortress building they knew to be a Templar stronghold.
In there were the documents they sought, taken by Crawford Starrick, who had clearly reached the same conclusion they had.
However, he didn’t have the key. They did. And now they wanted the documents.
Problem one was the guards, though Evie didn’t think them too many. Henry counted guards at the windows of what might have been a small fortress but was well guarded. He saw men in the window, at the gate, guarding the grounds that surrounded it.
“We’re going to need a plan,” said Evie simply.
“I can provide a distraction for the guards while you discover a way inside,” Henry told her, and she looked at him.
“Really?” she said with a mix of concern and surprise, not sure if he was ready, and then—did she imagine it? Or did he blush?
“For you, Evie,” he said, “certainly.”
“Well,” she said, “once I’m inside, I shall find someone who knows where the papers are stored.”
“And we will meet later,” he told her, and turned to leave.
“Be careful,” she told his retreating back softly.
He provided just the distraction she needed. The guards on the near side began to disperse at the noise and she used the opportunity to scale the wall and let herself into a first-floor window. This was the administrative center where, if she wasn’t very much mistaken, the plans would have been stored.
She was either very much mistaken or the plans were elsewhere. She had a brief look around the office into which she had climbed but there was nothing there. Right, she thought, now for Plan B. Find somebody and interrogate him.
She went to the office door and listened carefully for sounds from the passageway. Satisfied, she waited and then, as a lone guard made his way past, yanked open the door, punched him in the throat, crooked her right arm around his neck and dragged him into the office. Closed the door.
He sprawled to the floor gagging with the pain of the punch and scarcely able to believe the sight of his assailant. In a second, Evie was standing astride him and he stared up at her with terrified eyes, babbling, “I swear, miss, I do not know where they’ve taken him.”
Her one hand held his collar, gauntlet fist drawn back, ready to threaten him with another, even more painful blow, but checked herself. Taken him?
“Taken who?” she snapped.
“The man dressed like you. The guards dragged him off . . .” the guard said.
Damn. “Henry.” She gathered herself. “The plans you stole. Where are they?
He shook his head furiously. “I don’t know anything about that.”
She believed him, and with a quick jab of the gauntlet left him unconscious. Now she had a decision to make. Continue her search for the plans? Or rescue Henry?
Except, there really was no decision.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Outside in the street, Evie got her first break when she ran into one of Henry’s urchin informants.
“They’ve got him, miss,” she was told. “They took Mr. Henry. We couldn’t stop them. They dragged him off in a red carriage. They won’t get far, though. One wheel looks like it was about ready to fall off. You can see the cart tracks. It looks all wobbly-like.”
She thanked them and thanked her lucky stars that the Assassins could count on the support of the people. Let the Templars try to track a carriage through the streets of London without the eyes and ears of the populace to aid them. Just let them try.
She followed the tracks made by the carriage, weaving her way through the crowded streets, just a fast-moving face in the crowd until she came close to Covent Garden, where she found the carriage, abandoned.
She dashed onto the piazza, hoping to catch sight of Henry and his captors, but there was no sign of them. A trader nearby was looking her way with an admiring glance, so she hurried over—time to use her feminine wiles. “Did you see some men get out of that carriage?” she asked him, with the sweetest smile she could manage.
He simpered. “Yes, they pulled someone out of that carriage. Dead drunk, he was. They carried him into the churchyard. Maybe he wanted a quiet place to sleep it off?”
Next to him was a stall selling oils. “Yeah,” called the trader, doffing his cap at Evie, “I saw them dragging someone out of the carriage after the wheel fell off. They said he’d hit his head. Not sure why they needed to take him into the church, but that’s where they went.”
Both were directing her attention across the piazza and to the familiar portico piers and columns of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church at the west end. Despite the tall buildings on every other side, it still loomed over what was London’s oldest square. On any other day, it would have been impressive, a sight to behold. Now, however, Evie looked at it and saw a mausoleum. She saw dread.
She thanked her two admirers, crossed the square and went to the churchyard at the back, glancing at the equally impressive portico at the church’s rear as she threaded her way through the darkened churchyard, quickly at first, then with more caution when she heard voices in the near distance.
She was at the back of the churchyard now, where the undergrowth was thick and untended, when she came across what she could only describe as a Templar encampment. In the middle of it was Henry, trussed to a chair, guards standing over him. With a jolt of shock she thought they might have killed him. His head lolled on his chest. On second thought there was nothing about the way they were talking that suggested he might be dead.
“Why did you bring him here?” one of the men was saying.
“The man is an Assassin,” replied his colleague. “We didn’t want him getting away before you had a chance to question him, now, did we?”
The first guard was anxious and jumpy about something. “He was more secure where he was before. I told you not to come here.”
“It can’t be helped. Now, wake him up.”
It was while the second guard was trying to shake Henry awake that Evie made her move, dashing out of the shadows with her blade drawn. She made short work of her opponents. She had no desire to prolong the fight even for the sake of her enemy’s dignity or her own pride. She merely finished it, quickly and ruthlessly.
How different she was from the callow Assassin who had first embarked on this mission.
Only when they lay at her feet did she go to Henry, rushing to untie him.
“Did they hurt you?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Listen, they sent someone back to move the architectural plans. Do you have them?”
Now it was her turn to shake her head.
“My capture has undone your plans,” he said, as they made their escape. “I’m sorry.”
Disconsolate, they made their way back to base.
SEVENTY-NINE
Crawford Starrick was preparing for a pa
rty. A very important party, one for which he had great plans.
A servant bustled and fussed around him, fixing his dinner jacket and waistcoat, flicking dust from the shoulders, adjusting his tie.
Starrick, meanwhile, admired himself in the mirror, listening to the sound of his own voice as he opined. “Order has bred disorder. The sea rises to flood the pubs and extinguish the streetlamps. Our city will die. Twopenny has failed, Lucy has failed, Brudenell, Elliotson, Pearl. All have gone into the night. It is up to me now. The Assassins have brought nature’s fury into our homes. Men have become monsters, barreling toward us, teeth out. Our civilization must survive this onslaught.”
His servant had finished his work. Crawford Starrick turned to go. “To prevent the return of the dark ages,” he said, “I will start anew. London must be reborn.”
EIGHTY
They were arguing again: Jacob and Evie. Watching them, Henry found his feelings conflicted. On the one hand, he hated to see the twins at each other’s throats, and yet on the other, he could feel himself falling in love with Evie Frye and wanted her all to himself. Selfish, yes. But there it was. Hardly worth denying. He wanted Evie Frye to himself and if she was at loggerheads with her brother, well, then that day would arrive even more quickly.
Meanwhile the argument raged on.
“Starrick is making his move,” Evie was saying. “The Piece of Eden is somewhere inside Buckingham Palace.”
“Let him have it,” Jacob retorted. He was still full of arrogance, noted Henry. In many ways, he had every right to be; so much of what he’d done had been so very successful. His latest triumph involved the assassination of Maxwell Roth. Henry could remember a time when he had leafed through documents full of Templar names given to him by Ethan. Thanks to Jacob, most if not all were out of action or incapacitated. Quite some feat.
And yet Evie, who was so fixated on finding the Shroud, couldn’t see past the devastation he had caused.
“I have seen your handiwork across the city,” she was telling her brother now. “‘You suffer the penalty of too much haste, which is too little speed.’”
He rounded on her. “Don’t you quote Father at me.”
“That’s Plato,” she corrected him witheringly. “I am dreadfully sorry this doesn’t involve anything you can destroy. Father was right. He never approved of your methods.”
“Evie, Father is dead . . .”
Now it was time for Henry to step in. “Enough! I have just received word from my spies. At the Palace ball tonight, Starrick plans to steal the Piece of Eden, then eliminate the heads of church and state.”
Which changed things.
Jacob and Evie looked at one another and knew that thanks to what was Starrick’s last throw of the dice, a final, desperate attempt to win back what the twins had so far cost him, he had unwittingly synchronized her obsession with the Shroud and Jacob’s need to wrest control via more traditional means.
What passed between them was that knowledge. A begrudging knowledge. But a knowledge all the same.
“Once more, for old times’ sake?” he said with one raised eyebrow, and for a moment she remembered what it was they had between them and she mourned its passing. Who could ever have known that carrying out their father’s wishes would end up tearing them apart?
“And then we’re finished,” she told him with a hard heart.
“Agreed with pleasure,” he said, and added, “So what’s the plan?”
The plan involved utilizing a relationship formed with Benjamin and Mary Anne Disraeli in order to steal invitations to the party—from none other than the Gladstones.
Evie set about arranging another meeting with Singh while Jacob was tasked with stealing the invitations—a job for which he was ideally suited. Being able to lift the invitation from a besotted Catherine Gladstone, Jacob also set about stealing the Gladstones’ carriage. The fact that the invitation stated that “swords must be left at the door” was, they decided, a matter best left to Frederick Abberline, who promised to smuggle the weapons they needed inside the Palace grounds. It involved Jacob’s having to steal a uniform. Meanwhile, Evie met with Duleep Singh, who told her the plans had been removed to the Queen’s personal papers in the White Drawing Room.
Now she knew where the documents were kept. Now, thanks to Jacob, they had a carriage. They had the means of smuggling weapons into the Palace. They had invitations.
The game was afoot.
EIGHTY-ONE
Prior to setting out, Evie studied the available plans of the Palace: the eastern frontage where they would enter, the West Wing, where the terrace for the ball would soon host dancing, and inside, the five floors and over seven hundred rooms.
There was only one she was interested in, though. The White Drawing Room, and it was to there that she would go as soon as she was able. Go to the White Drawing Room, steal the blueprints, locate the vault, find the Shroud.
She and Jacob sat in the Gladstones’ carriage, with the couple’s invitations clutched tight as they joined a procession of carriages making their way toward the Palace at the western end of the Mall. Did Evie imagine it, or was there a certain excitement in the air? After all, the Queen had mostly shunned public appearances since the death of the Prince Consort, Albert. She had been the subject of some lampoonery as a result. However, it was reputed that she was to be making an appearance at her own ball tonight.
As they reached the main entrance, Evie saw immediately that the Queen’s appearance was unlikely to be the night’s only talking point. Their coach passed Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone arguing with Palace guards who wore bearskin hats and carried rifles with bayonets attached. Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone in full flight were not to be trifled with, but then again, neither were the Queen’s guards, and the two parties seemed to have reached an impasse. Evie slipped down a little in her carriage seat as they passed, thankfully unnoticed by the Gladstones, still occupied in alternately threatening and pleading with the Queen’s guards.
Out of sight now, their carriage clattered on cobbles through the columns of the entranceway and into the front courtyard of the Palace. At the top of the queue, immaculately attired footmen were either shouting angry orders at coach drivers, or opening carriage doors so that the distinguished personages within might step out and make their way into the main reception hall. In there, they would ascend the grand staircase and from there make their way either to the ballroom or the terrace. The party was already in full swing.
Meanwhile, as they sat in their carriage and awaited their turn to be decanted into high society, Jacob and Evie exchanged glances. An admission of nerves. Good luck. Take care. It was all in the look they shared.
“I shall go to find the Piece of Eden,” she told him.
He pursed his lips. “As you wish. I am off to meet Freddie.”
The door to their carriage was opened and they looked out upon a bowing, blank-faced footman then to the steps that led to the open doors of the Palace, again flanked by footmen, and a steady stream of immaculate guests making their way inside.
Well, at least they looked the part. Jacob in a formal suit for the occasion, Evie in satin trimmed with lace, a bodice, satin slippers, skirts and wire ruches. She felt trussed-up. A turkey ready for Christmas dinner. Still, she blended in, that was for certain, except for where most of the female guests wore diamond-encrusted necklaces, Evie had the vault key hanging on a chain at her throat. She had been through an awful lot to secure that key. She wasn’t about to let it out of her sight.
Just as they stepped down from the carriage they heard a cry from some distance away. “That’s my carriage!” The plaintive, indignant shout of Prime-minister-to-be Gladstone, a shout that thankfully went unacknowledged.
Now they split up. Jacob slipped off to meet Abberline, secure weapons then somehow prevent Starrick’s plot to slaughter high society, while Evie had a White Drawing Room to
find. Like other guests, she made her way to the Grand Staircase, deliberately joining crowds and keeping a low profile as she was carried along in a tide of silks and suits and polite conversation and hushed gossip. She smiled and nodded if spoken to, playing the part of a young debutante to perfection.
Leaving the stream of guests for a corridor to her left, she heard a well-meaning voice from behind her say, “My dear, the ballroom is this way,” but pretended not to hear, slipping away, silently treading the luxurious Axminster in her satin slippers as she made her way deeper into the Palace.
She moved silently, like a wraith, every sense alert for guards so she would hear them before they saw her. Sure enough, she picked up the sound of approaching footsteps and a murmur of voices, so let herself into an office. It was sparsely furnished, closed shutters letting in the only light, and she stayed by the door, open a crack in order to let the guards pass.
As they did she peeped through the crack and got a good look at them. They wore the uniform of the Queen’s Guard but there was something about them. Something less ordered, less smart.
Imposters.
Of course. Starrick had infiltrated the Queen’s Guard, posting his own men inside and outside the Palace. How else could they hope to pull off what was basically to be a massacre? She swallowed, hoping that at this very moment, Jacob would be learning the same from Mr. Abberline.
She let herself out of the office and back onto the Axminster carpet, hurrying along the corridor. She found her way to the White Drawing Room and let herself in. There she hunted for the plans she needed, keeping one ear on anything happening outside.
She found them. Spread them out on a desk and bit her lip with the excitement of her find. Unlike the plans of the Palace she had already studied, these included everything. Every room was accounted for, every corridor and passageway marked. These were the Prince Consort’s personal plans.
Underworld Page 30