The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Griswade had bided his time, then had come up behind the man. He’d stunned the fellow, looped the wire about the man’s neck, and pulled it tight as he’d dragged the man down a narrow ginnel that led to the water. Slipping the body into the waiting river had taken no time at all.

  Then he’d started after the last man.

  From what Griswade had seen of the four men as they’d worked to transfer the gunpowder, this man was the youngest—the most junior. He should be the easiest to bring down.

  Because of his earlier appointment, Griswade had accepted he would need to intercept this man closer to the yard. He’d noted the route the man invariably took to work and had plotted just where to attack.

  But either the man had been early, or Griswade had fractionally mistimed his appearance. The man had already passed Griswade’s chosen spot when Griswade had reached it, but luckily, the fellow had just been visible walking away into the fog.

  Griswade had followed.

  The slap of the man’s shoes on the cobbles was Griswade’s beacon. The fog grew even thicker; silently, he closed the distance between him and his prey.

  In the fog, keeping track of where they were and attacking at just the right spot, where an alley or gap between buildings would give him cover against someone accidentally coming upon them, was easier planned than done.

  Suddenly, the man’s footsteps stuttered. Not stopping, but…dancing?

  Griswade halted. Blind in the fog, he strained his ears. What was going on?

  Then the man’s footsteps resumed, louder but more rapid and fading as the man took to his heels and ran.

  Instinctively, Griswade gave chase, but after three strides, abruptly pulled up. Chasing his prey through an area the prey knew better than he did—heading toward the man’s workplace and workmates, no less—was the act of an amateur.

  Griswade blew out a breath. He would have sworn he’d done nothing to alert his quarry, yet for whatever reason, the man had panicked.

  Jaw setting, hands fisting, Griswade stared into the fog.

  After several seconds, he stuffed his garrote into his pocket. One more day wouldn’t matter. He knew what his quarry looked like. He knew where he worked.

  He would find him later. Whether later today or tomorrow, it would make no difference to the old man’s plan.

  And when it came down to it, steering that plan to its conclusion was all that mattered.

  Griswade swung about and strode out of the warren of lanes toward Tooley Street, his mind shifting to finding a hackney, rattling across the river, and buying himself a good breakfast.

  CHAPTER 14

  When, with the city’s bells pealing nine o’clock, Drake descended from a hackney outside the London Working Men’s Association, he wasn’t the least surprised to discover Louisa’s carriage drawn up to the curb as it had been the day before.

  At the sight of him, her footman, who had been lounging against the carriage, rushed to open the carriage door and hand his mistress down.

  Drake halted on the pavement where the short path led to the Association’s front door and watched Louisa glide toward him. Today, she’d opted for a walking dress in a shade of rich burgundy. With barely a flounce, only a narrow band of ribbon marking the waist, and no lace whatsoever, the gown shouldn’t have appeared fashionable, but it was cut superbly to showcase a figure guaranteed to draw eyes—not simply flattering but powerfully distracting.

  Just the sort of quality he could use in a partner in the interviews to come.

  Not that he had any intention of owning to that.

  She halted before him, her expression serene and untroubled.

  Swiftly, he searched her eyes and confirmed she truly did not feel any awkwardness over their interlude eight hours before—not in the slightest.

  Her eyes held mild challenge, but to his relief, that challenge wasn’t sexual.

  God only knew how he might have responded had she chosen to play such a card.

  Which, he realized, left him with nothing he wanted to say. No feeling he wanted to risk airing, not—as he’d so sapiently if belatedly noted in the small hours—while they were in public.

  Having kept his own expression inscrutable throughout, he stepped aside and waved her to the door. “Shall we?”

  A quick, quirky smile curved her lips, and with a dip of her head, she led the way.

  Once again, they found a small crowd of men lounging in the main room. And, as before, she and he immediately became the cynosure of all attention; conversations died, and the men turned to regard them. The scrutiny, however, wasn’t hostile but watchful.

  Louisa swept the gathering with a reassuring social smile, then headed for the office window.

  Alerted by the fading voices, Mr. Beam came to look out. The instant he saw them, he looked anxious. As, with Drake beside her, she halted before his counter, Beam blurted, “We’ve heard. All three of them dead.” He swallowed and lifted his gaze to Drake’s face. “Was it because of this false plot you were telling us about?”

  Drake nodded. “That seems certain. I can’t think of any other reason they would have been killed—all murdered within hours in exactly the same way, by the same man.”

  The man who’d spoken up the day before did so again. “Was it that other gent who came? The one they went to meet with?”

  Again, Drake nodded. “However, that man is now dead as well.” He glanced at Beam, then at the gathering men. “What I need to know now is what your three leaders agreed to do for that man.”

  The men exchanged glances, shifted and stirred, but no one volunteered a word.

  Drake continued, his tone even, yet compelling, “I have to warn you that regardless of that man’s demise, the plot with which your leaders unwittingly assisted him is still afoot. As matters stand, if the plot continues to fruition—to its intended end—then the Chartists may well be held accountable. The only way in which the organization might avoid that is by you telling me all you know and helping me to stop this plot.”

  Mutters arose, but no one stepped forward. The men turned inward, murmuring among themselves.

  It was, it seemed, a difficult thing for them to break with years of habit and trust such a figure of authority as Drake inescapably cut.

  Louisa glanced at Mr. Beam. The secretary was plainly torn, but he was, perhaps wisely, waiting on his members to give him some direction…or perhaps, given the way he was watching the milling group, Beam didn’t know enough to be helpful but knew some of the others did.

  She’d inserted herself into Drake’s mission not just in order to spend time by his side but also because the mission intrigued her, and she’d wanted to see what contribution she could make—and ultimately, she’d wanted Drake to see that having her working with him, alongside him, in this sphere was to his advantage.

  That said, she was loath to take the reins—to usurp his authority for however short a time—with this group. Yesterday, she’d lost patience and had spoken up, but once she’d said her piece and made her point and the men had fallen in with her directive, she’d stepped back and let Drake steer the resulting exchange.

  He was infinitely more intimidating than she was.

  However, when it came to persuasion…

  And this mission had become far too serious for her not to do every last thing—pull every last string—she possibly could.

  When the men showed no signs of coming to any quick, much less sensible decision, she drew breath and stated, “I would have thought you would have been all for avenging your leaders.” Her cool, clear words drew and trapped every man’s attention. Assured of her audience, she arched her brows lightly and boldly, one by one, met their eyes. “I hesitate to mention it, but from where I stand, you—by your underlying impatience for action in support of the Chartist cause and through passing the gentleman’s message to your leaders without urging caution, without, indeed, heeding Mr. Beam’s advice—contributed to your three leaders’ deaths. You gave them to that gentleman
. You set the stage and encouraged them to take to it. They were killed by the man into whose company you steered them—the gentleman with the scar across his face.”

  She paused to gauge their reaction; several of the men looked belligerent, but most appeared chastened, worried, and abashed. She moderated her tone. “Given all that, shouldn’t you, every last one of you, now work with Lord Winchelsea”—she waved a hand at Drake, looming, expressionless, beside her; she knew his teeth were gritted, yet he’d made no move to silence her—“to foil this plot and find justice for your leaders who have been so callously sacrificed? Shouldn’t you now take up the call and do all you can to bring down the others behind this plot and ensure that the Chartist cause—the cause your leaders believed so strongly in along with all of you—is saved from being besmirched and dragged down?”

  The men blinked. It was an emotional appeal, rather than a rational one.

  She kept her gaze steady, unflinching, and waited.

  Beside her, Drake remained unmoving.

  Mr. Beam, as well, studied the milling men without any sign of equivocation.

  Eventually, the men glanced at each other, and muttered questions started to circulate. “Did you…?”

  “Did anyone see?”

  “Perhaps…?”

  Finally, a man at the rear of the group volunteered, “Our three were to meet the man—the one with the scar who said he came from O’Connor—in the tavern in Weaver’s Lane.”

  Others nodded. One said, “That were last Thursday evening.”

  “All right.” Drake surveyed the men. “Does anyone know anything more?”

  A man to one side frowned, then, speaking slowly, said, “I was in the Weaver’s Lane tavern that night. I saw our three meet a man. I hadn’t heard they were to meet with anyone—I hadn’t been in here for a couple of days. And I can’t tell you if it was your man with the scar because I never saw the man’s face. He kept his hat pulled low the whole time, even when he got up and left.”

  “He left before the others? Your three?” Drake asked.

  The man, now the center of attention, nodded. “Aye. He did. Left our three with a fresh round before them and strolled out of the door. By the way he moved, I got the impression he—the man who left—was pleased.”

  “Did you hear anything of what was said?” Beam asked.

  The man shook his head. “Nah—I was at the bar, and they was in the corner. But later, Johnstone came to the bar, and we had a natter.”

  Johnstone was one of the dead leaders.

  Without further prompting, the man continued, “O’ course, I asked him—Johnstone—what the strange meeting was about. He said the man had brought word of some plot that O’Connor and the others up north had hatched, one set to make the cause front and center again. He said the man—the one they’d met—was running it and a right careful cove he was. He hadn’t even told them any of the details—he’d said that information was only for those who needed to know.” Frowning, the man paused, then went on, “That seemed strange, so I said that if he didn’t give them the details of the plot, what was the point of him meeting with them? Just to tell them—and us—that there was a plot on?”

  When, apparently caught in recollection, the man fell silent, Drake prompted, “And?”

  The man stirred and glanced at his mates, who were hanging on his words as much as Drake, Louisa, and Beam were. “And Johnstone said as the man had just wanted manpower. That the stranger had asked for four men to be sent to meet him at some other watering hole. I said he could have hired four men from anywhere, but Johnstone grinned and shook his head. He said the four had to be of certain trades and with a certain business, but between them, him and the other two leaders knew just the right men to tap on the shoulder.”

  The man looked at his friends. “Well, of course I asked what sort of men—what trades—were needed, but Johnstone just tapped his nose and said he shouldn’t say. That he’d already said too much.” The man’s face creased as, clearly, he wracked his memory. “Johnstone blathered a bit more about how great it was going to be to see the cause written up in the news sheets again.” The man raised his gaze to Drake’s face and met his eyes. “But he never said anything more about the four men the stranger had wanted.”

  Drake inclined his head in thanks. “So…the stranger wanted four particular men of your group, who worked at a particular business, and your leaders agreed to send the necessary four men his way.” With his gaze, Drake raked the assembled company. “Does anyone have any inkling at all as to which four men your leaders sent to meet with the scar-faced gentleman?”

  This time, the talk was a great deal more animated. Sadly, it soon became apparent that no one in the group had any idea what sort of tradesmen had been recruited, much less which individuals had been sent.

  Finally, Beam cleared his throat loudly, then rapped on the counter until the talk quieted, and the men looked his way. Beam looked back at them almost defiantly. “Now we’ve lost all three of our militia leaders, and with Mr. Lovett and Mr. Hetherington away in the country, it’s me who has to run this show—and I say it’s in our best interests, the best interests of the cause, to help the gentleman”—he nodded at Drake—“Lord Winchelsea here, and the lady, too, to find out what’s going on.” Beam’s Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed. “I say we should get the word out and see if we can learn which four men the leaders sent to meet with the scar-faced man.”

  The consensus was instant and unanimous. The group had, it seemed, been fired with the need to avenge their fallen leaders and protect their cause.

  Drake inclined his head to the men. While Louisa beamed her thanks, he turned and offered his hand to Beam. “Thank you.”

  Somewhat tentatively, Beam gripped the proffered hand, and they briefly shook.

  Drake released Beam’s hand, drew out his card case, extracted a card, and handed it to Beam. “A message for me delivered by anyone to that address—to the front door or the back as best suits—will always reach me.”

  Beam studied the card. “Thank you, my lord.” The secretary looked up and met Drake’s gaze. “I don’t rightly understand why you’re doing this—helping the cause—but you were right about the danger the scar-faced man brought to our leaders. If you’re right about the rest…”

  His expression grim, Drake replied, “Sadly, Beam, I fear I’m all too correct about the danger these plotters pose to the cause.”

  Apparently registering Drake’s use of “the cause” rather than “your cause,” Beam tipped his head quizzically, but when Drake only met his gaze levelly, Beam nodded. “We’ll send word the instant we learn anything, my lord. Anything at all about those four men.”

  Drake reached for Louisa’s arm. “In turn, if we learn any relevant information from elsewhere, we’ll be back.”

  With a last, heartening smile for Mr. Beam and a gracious nod to the other men, Louisa allowed Drake to escort her from the building.

  Once on the pavement, he released her, and she turned to study him. As usual, his expression gave nothing away. She fixed her gaze on his face and waited.

  He met her gaze—waited as well…

  Eventually, he sighed and volunteered, “I’m going to start trawling through the military clubs.”

  She arched her brows consideringly, then suggested, “If you first check with the army, you should be able to learn what branch of the service Lawton was in. We’ve assumed he was in the cavalry, but that was based purely on his use of a cavalry saber—a saber he might have picked up anywhere. For all we know, he might have merely been an enthusiast over fighting with such a blade.”

  Drake conceded the point with a grunt. “I’ll go first to Horse Guards and confirm his regiment and the dates he served, then I’ll call at the most appropriate clubs.” He waved her to her carriage.

  Turning, she walked in that direction, with him keeping pace by her side.

  “How are you planning to spend your day?”

  “First,
I’m going to call on several ladies,” she said. “Hostesses I know well enough to call on so early. I want to glean all I can about the Chilburn family before I approach any more of its members.” She glanced at Drake as they halted beside the carriage. “I keep remembering that comment Lawton made to Cleo about his cousin. If we can discover which cousin he meant, we might find someone with greater insight into Lawton’s recent life and acquaintances. Also,” she went on, “Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone arrived last night, and I want to pick their brains.”

  Drake snorted. “Better you than me.” Her grandmother and Lady Osbaldestone terrified his generation even more than they had his parents’. He thought, then added, “I’m going to call a meeting of our group at Wolverstone House at four o’clock.” He met Louisa’s gaze. “We need to learn if any of us has picked up any clue as to where the gunpowder is or who is behind the plot.”

  He opened the carriage door and handed her up.

  After releasing her hand, he stepped back.

  Surprised, she peered out at him. “Aren’t you coming? I can easily drop you at the barracks as I go past.”

  He looked at her. The question revolving in his mind was, quite simply: Is it safe?

  She must have read something of his uncharacteristic hesitancy, of the thoughts giving rise to it, in his eyes.

  Slowly, haughtily, but with a faintly amused and challenging air, one black brow rose…

  He wasn’t such a coward. Lips thin, he nodded. “Thank you.”

  He glanced up at her coachman. “Whitehall. Horse Guards.” Then he stepped up into the carriage.

  She scooted across the seat.

  He shut the door and settled beside her. Inwardly stiff and very much on guard.

  Of course, this time, almost certainly because she delighted in confounding him, she behaved in an exemplary fashion and refrained from inciting him to madness in any way whatever.

  After half an hour of easy, almost companionable silence, the carriage drew up across the street from the entrance to Horse Guards. He opened the carriage door, swung down to the pavement, saluted her, then shut the door and waved the coachman on.