The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  The change in the young woman was marked. Her expression, which had eased, tightened and closed. She clasped her hands, again very tightly, before her. “No, ma’am—m’lady. I ain’t heard nothing at all, and I don’t know where he is.”

  Her tone was wooden, and the phrases sounded rehearsed.

  Louisa endeavored to keep her frown from her face. “When did you last see him?”

  Mrs. Sawyer had to think before she replied, “Thursday morning, it were. He left for work as usual—heading for seven, that would be.”

  Gently, Louisa nodded. She kept her tone even and unthreatening. “We know he didn’t arrive for work on Thursday morning. We, and Mr. Flock and your husband’s friends at the brewery, and also Mr. Beam and those at the association, wondered if, by chance, he’d come home…before going off again.”

  Her jaw tight, Mrs. Sawyer shook her head from side to side. “No, ma’am—m’lady.” She now watched Louisa as if she was some dangerous animal liable to pounce. “He ain’t been back since he left for work that morning.”

  Louisa didn’t want to pressure the woman—a young wife with a missing husband—yet she felt compelled to say, “Have you heard about the other three men who worked in the brewery and have also gone missing?”

  Mrs. Sawyer nodded, another overtly careful gesture. When Louisa waited and said nothing more, Mrs. Sawyer reluctantly conceded, “I did hear there were three others gone missing.” After a second’s hesitation, she added, “And that two of them have turned up dead. Murdered.” Her voice shook on the last word. She clamped her lips shut and gripped her fingers more tightly.

  Louisa couldn’t decide if Mrs. Sawyer was being open with them or not. Perhaps her stiffness was simply her way of coping with a horribly frightening situation.

  “Did your husband go out with those three now-missing men on Monday night?”

  Drake’s quiet question drew Mrs. Sawyer’s gaze to him. For several seconds, she stared, biting her lips and patently debating what to say. Eventually, she offered, “He was out that night—helping someone, he said—but I don’t know anything more about that. I don’t know if it was them—those three who’ve gone missing—or some others.”

  When Drake glanced at Louisa as if to ask if she had any more questions, she fractionally shook her head. She turned back to Mrs. Sawyer and thanked her for her time.

  With a nod and another bobbed curtsy, Mrs. Sawyer retreated behind her door, but she didn’t close it—not until Louisa and Drake were walking down the street toward the carriage.

  When Louisa finally heard a distant click, she glanced back, then, facing forward again, declared, “I’m really not sure what to think of that performance—because that’s just it. It felt as if she was parroting a part.”

  Drake nodded. Halting beside the carriage, he reached for the doorlatch. “Sadly, that doesn’t mean that Sawyer is still alive—only, if I read between Mrs. Sawyer’s lines correctly, that he escaped a first attempt and, subsequently, went into hiding somewhere.”

  Louisa sighed and met his eyes. “And we can’t even be certain of that. Mrs. Sawyer might just be more given to clinging to hope than the average woman.”

  Drake opened the door and tipped his head into the carriage. “Let’s go to Scotland Yard and see if Triggs and Sawyer and anyone else has turned up there.”

  CHAPTER 28

  O n taking Cleo home the previous afternoon, Michael had discovered that her parents had arrived from Norfolk. After greeting them and being warmly embraced by Cleo’s mama, he had perforce had to weather an interesting if slightly fraught interview with her father, Jack, Lord Hendon.

  In truth, the Hendons had been delighted with his and Cleo’s news, and contrary to Cleo’s anxious expectations that the older couple would want to derail him and her into discussions of engagement balls and weddings, Lord Hendon and Lady Hendon both had been more eager to hear of Drake’s mission and the undertaking that had thrown Michael and Cleo together.

  Between them, he and Cleo had given her parents a potted history of the mission to date.

  Lord and Lady Hendon had listened closely, thrown in the odd question, then had exchanged a long look before Lady Hendon, backed by Lord Hendon, had made it unequivocally clear that Michael and Cleo, and Drake and the others, too, had their unqualified support in dealing with the threat of the putative plot first.

  “Let’s get the villains caught and cleared away,” Lord Hendon had said, “before we turn our minds to the trappings of matrimony.”

  Wise words, Michael had thought.

  He’d been even more impressed when Lady Hendon had suggested, and Lord Hendon had supported, the hosting of an impromptu dinner—not to spread the news of their engagement, at least not primarily, but to pick the assembled brains of several of the Hendons’ friends and Lord Hendon’s ex-colleagues.

  “While they’re all retired from the army and the positions they once held,” Lady Hendon had explained, “they all worked at one time or another with Drake’s father, and they will assuredly have valuable insights to offer regarding Lawton Chilburn and this other, nasty ex-military man.”

  Consequently, Michael had returned to Clarges Street an hour later and sat down to dinner with the Marquess of Dearne and Sir Rafe Carstairs, along with their wives. All the company were interested in hearing of the plot, and once Michael and Cleo had outlined the problems and the questions currently before them, everyone, the ladies included, had debated and discussed the possibilities far into the night.

  The upshot was that Dearne, Carstairs, and Hendon had all strongly recommended that a connection between Chilburn and an unknown military man should be assumed. “Ask your questions as if that was a known fact,” Carstairs had advised, “and see what you uncover.”

  The three, along with their wives, had also clarified just where he should ask and given him some names that would hopefully prove useful in trawling through the military establishments for some clue as to Chilburn’s associates, and especially any hint of any man who might fit the bill of their diabolical garrotter.

  Consequently, at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, Michael had presented himself at the adjutant’s office in Kensington Barracks, located at Kensington Gate, which was the home of the Household Cavalry. Drake had earlier learned that Chilburn had served with one of the cavalry regiments. On learning that Michael had been sent his way by no less a personage than Dearne, the adjutant had been happy to confirm that Chilburn had been bought a commission by his father, but hadn’t stuck the course and had sold out after little more than a year. The adjutant had studied Michael, then rather primly offered, “Not really up to snuff.”

  Michael had nodded and asked if any there had served with Chilburn. A few stalwarts had, but even with Dearne’s recommendation, the experienced guardsmen could offer little help. “He sold out years ago,” one explained, “and we haven’t seen him since.”

  Michael had returned to the adjutant and asked about any cavalryman who had served concurrently with Chilburn and had subsequently served with any regiment in India. The adjutant had checked his records, but hadn’t turned up any such man.

  From Kensington Gate, Michael had headed to Knightsbridge, to the barracks there, the home of the Horse Guards. As he’d been instructed, using Dearne’s and Hendon’s names, he asked the sergeant in charge of the records if there was anything known of a Chilburn or any member of the connected families—he’d had Louisa make him a list of the relevant surnames—who had served in any of the Horse Guard regiments that had toured overseas, especially to the subcontinent. The sergeant had taken his list and carefully checked, but had turned up precisely nothing.

  Now, with the clocks about town standing at well after ten o’clock, Michael approached his final port of call for this exercise—Wellington Barracks off Birdcage Walk. Home to the Foot Guards—the Coldstream, Grenadier, Scots, Irish, and Welsh Guards—the regiments stationed at Wellington Barracks supplied all the guardsmen who protected the two royal res
idences in London as well as the Tower, still regarded as a royal compound.

  Michael knew several officers personally. He found two in their digs. After engaging in the usual banter, Michael asked his questions. Both his friends were fly enough not to inquire why he wanted to know if they could tell him anything about any Chilburn, or any member of the connected families whose names Michael read out for them, or even any acquaintance of the above who had served in the guard regiments in any capacity, especially if that man had at any time served in India.

  After duly wracking their brains, his friends shook their heads. However, as both were quick to point out, them not being aware of such a man didn’t mean he didn’t exist.

  Asking them had been a long shot, but Michael would have kicked himself if he hadn’t and later discovered the pair had known the identity of the wretched garrotter.

  After exchanging news of their shared acquaintance, Michael left them and made his way to the main office.

  There, using Carstairs’s name to good effect, he obtained a list of all the officers commanding details of guards on duty around the capital over the next week. On scanning the list, he discovered that all of his friends’ names were on it, as well as those of some of Sebastian’s friends, and it was likely Drake knew others as well.

  It had occurred to Michael that if they failed to find the gunpowder over the next few days, then it was likely the officers on his list would be the ones in the front line—the men they might need to alert, even if on the quiet, to the existence of the plot and the terrible threat it posed.

  He folded the list, stashed it in an inner pocket, then grimly strode out into Birdcage Walk.

  CHAPTER 29

  G riswade sat behind the desk in the tiny parlor of his lodgings on the first floor of a respectable building in George Street. In the dim daylight seeping into the room through the uncurtained side window—daylight rendered soft and gray courtesy of the fog hanging low over the nearby river—he was debating which were his most urgent bills when a knock fell on his door.

  He hadn’t heard anyone climb the stairs, but then, he hadn’t been listening, and the stairs led to three other sets of rooms as well as those he occupied.

  Frowning, he hesitated. Few called at his rooms.

  When the knock came again, rather more forcefully this time, he collected the bills, thrust them under a ledger, then stood and, quickly and silently, crossed to the window that looked over the street.

  A lace curtain gave him some cover; he peered past its edge and saw his sister Monica’s coachman seated on the box of what Griswade assumed was Monica’s carriage.

  “Huh.” He let the curtain fall and walked to the door, treading heavily so she would know he was coming.

  He opened the door and nodded. “Monica.”

  She stepped forward, came up on her toes, and planted a sisterly peck on his cheek. “Bevis.”

  She walked into the room and sat in the armchair before the small hearth.

  Griswade closed the door and went to stand before the fireplace. When, after settling her skirts, Monica looked up at him, he asked, “What brings you here?”

  She considered him for a moment, then said, “I wondered if you’d heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  She sighed. “I thought not. Simply stated, Lawton has been murdered.”

  He stilled. Then he asked, “Really?” Lawton murdered didn’t fit the script he and the old man had written.

  Monica frowned. “Yes, of course—really! What do you take me for? That’s hardly something I would joke about.”

  He waved her down. “Yes, of course. My apologies. I was just…surprised.”

  “As were we all. Even though one half expected to hear Lawton had met a bad end, an actual sordid murder came as something of a shock. As you might imagine, the family is…exercised.”

  “Do you have any idea how he was killed?”

  “We ladies are not supposed to know, but it seems he was shot.”

  Shot? He managed to keep his lips shut. He reached to the side, drew up a straight-backed chair, and slowly subsided onto the seat. “Do you know when he was killed?”

  Monica studied him, clearly wondering why he was interested. “I understand Hawesley was advised of the death on Thursday evening, but the authorities had taken several days to realize the body was Lawton’s, so I assume he was killed sometime earlier in the week.” Monica’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Were you and he involved in something?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No—I just wondered. I haven’t seen Lawton for…months, it must be.”

  Not since before the old man had seen fit to pit them against each other.

  Logically, some part of him had known that Lawton was dead—there really was no other possible explanation for his sudden vanishing act. Any other occurrence, and they—or at least Hawesley—would have heard within a day or two.

  But shot?

  Thieves, footpads, and London’s lowlifes didn’t carry guns.

  Lawton shot dead was like a trumpet blast announcing that someone—someone backed by the authorities, but playing in the shadows—was after them. That was not good news.

  Monica heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Anyway, I just came to make sure you knew Lawton had died and that the funeral will be on Monday. At noon, at St. George’s.”

  Griswade rose as his sister came to her feet. “Sadly, I have a prior engagement.” And a few more funerals to arrange.

  Monica shook her head in resignation. “I’ll tell Mama.” She met Griswade’s eyes. “You might drop in and see her sometime.”

  He kept his face expressionless. “Perhaps in a few weeks.”

  Monica sighed again and walked to the door.

  Griswade escorted her outside and handed her into her carriage. He stood on the pavement and watched the coach rattle away.

  If some opponent had dealt himself into the old man’s game, then the very last event at which he needed to be seen was Lawton’s funeral.

  And regardless of his sister’s imaginings, he very much doubted anyone would miss him.

  He turned and went inside.

  CHAPTER 30

  A s noon approached, Sebastian stood beside Antonia and did his best to project an appropriately interested and engaged demeanor.

  He was the only male in attendance at the gathering in his great-aunt Horatia’s drawing room overlooking Berkeley Square.

  As virtually all the more than twenty ladies present were either related to him or about to become related to him, he couldn’t claim to be cowed into nervousness. He’d tried to make himself invisible, but he was the tallest by far, and even though he’d attempted to hang back, metaphorically hiding behind Antonia’s skirts, that hadn’t worked, either.

  He’d accepted that he’d had to attend if he didn’t want to find himself wearing a white suit to the church, or something equally ridiculous, but there seemed to be so many questions and decisions to make, his head literally spun.

  How did ladies deal with such things?

  He sipped from his teacup and had to own to a newfound and still-evolving respect for his mother, his aunt—who had traveled down from Scotland for the upcoming event—and all the other ladies.

  Luckily, Antonia had thus far fielded most of the questions.

  He contented himself with listening and nodding when appealed to.

  Then one of the few who was not a relation—thank God!—leaned over and, using the end of her confounded cane, stabbed him in the calf. When he set his cup on its saucer and dutifully turned to Lady Osbaldestone, it was to find her regarding him through gimlet black eyes. Obsidian eyes like a basilisk’s, as his father and the Cynster males of that generation had always maintained.

  “You,” Lady Osbaldestone informed him, “whether by luck or remarkable planning, have timed your engagement ball well. There are precious few weeks in this season when all the major families are in town, but with Parliament sitting again, everyone who is anyone is back in resi
dence. I predict you’ll have an excellent turnout. Given few others of your station are likely to announce anything similar over this time, you’ll have no competition. If you must get engaged at this time of year, it is, in fact, quite a good time to make a splash.”

  Sebastian murmured some suitable rejoinder, but something in the ancient arch-grande dame’s words had sent a ripple of presentiment across his nape and down his spine.

  Something she’d said had pricked his instincts.

  It took him more than ten minutes of pretending to pay attention to all Antonia was telling him before he worked out what.

  CHAPTER 31

  Rather than rushing straight to Scotland Yard and arriving while Sir Martin was enjoying his lunch in one of the neighborhood taverns, Drake had suggested that he and Louisa—and her long-suffering coachman and groom—stop at the Crown and Keys public house on the Strand. The fashionable watering hole was more or less on their way.

  On entering the low-ceilinged dining room, Drake had steered Louisa to one of the booths along the wall. Once they were served and the girl had withdrawn, he picked up his cutlery and cut a slice of the house’s famous beef pie.

  “Perhaps we should”—Louisa set down the glass of wine she’d sipped—“re-examine where we are.”

  Drawn in by the delicious aroma wafting from the pie, Drake signaled with one hand for her to proceed.

  “Well.” She poked at the venison stew she’d ordered. “We know the gunpowder is now in fifteen barrels marked as containing Bright Flame Ale. We know those barrels are no longer in the Phoenix Brewery, and we can surmise that they’ve been moved, one way or another, to some holding area, as it were, most likely but not necessarily on the north bank of the Thames.”

  He swallowed. “Almost certainly on the north bank. If our mastermind is intent on making a political statement of some kind, then there’s nowhere south of the river that would trump a long list of places north of the river.”