The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  “All right. So somewhere on the north bank, but, we believe, not yet at the final target site, as we have Saturday and Sunday to get through before all the offices and institutions fill again and an explosion at some government building will become a major event.”

  He nodded. “We know the four men Chilburn recruited came from the Phoenix Brewery, and although the bodies of two of the four haven’t yet turned up, finding them won’t get us any further.”

  “Not unless Jed Sawyer’s body doesn’t appear, suggesting he may still be alive. If so, and we find him, he might be able to point us in the direction in which the barrels have gone, but…” Looking across the table, she met his eyes. “We’re running out of time, aren’t we?”

  He held her gaze and didn’t immediately answer, then he looked down at the remnants of his pie. “We don’t know, and we can’t say, but…” He paused, then went on, “Without laying our hands on the gunpowder, I can’t see how we’ll stop its detonation, not now it’s so close to wherever it’s intended to go.” After a moment, his voice lower, he added, “I feel as if time is tightening, that we haven’t got much of that commodity left.”

  He glanced up and realized that she was…not exactly dithering—he couldn’t imagine that—but uncertain. His instincts sharpened. So did his gaze. “What is it?”

  There was command enough in his voice to bring her gaze to his. After a second of further debate, she grimaced. “I can’t help but wonder, given the date.” She drew breath and said, “Is there any possibility that this”—she waved—“is some sort of rerun of Guy Fawkes?”

  He regarded her for several silent seconds, then pushed away his plate. “Damn!” Grim—grimmer—he held her gaze. “I thought of that yesterday and told myself it was too ridiculously fanciful a notion. But if it’s occurred to you, too…”

  She shrugged. “Gunpowder. Plot. Fifth of November coming up. We have all the right ingredients, and Parliament is sitting as well.”

  He stared unseeing across the booth, then he refocused on her face, on her eyes. “I want to discount it as absurd, but is it?”

  For several moments, they stared at each other, then he stirred and started to get to his feet. “I need to speak with Greville.”

  “No,” she countered, collecting her reticule, “we need to speak with Greville. Preferably the others, too, but at least the two of us.”

  He arched an arrogant brow, but before he could disagree, she rose and rolled on, “And I know just when to approach him.” She paused before him, met his eyes and held them. “The Home Secretary will be at Sebastian and Antonia’s engagement ball tonight. All the ministers will be. We can cut Greville out from the crowd and speak with him privately.”

  He suddenly saw what she was offering. “Without Waltham.”

  “Exactly.” She turned and led the way from the dining room. “I can confirm that Sir Harold’s name is not on the guest list.”

  Drake followed her out of the inn, dwelling on the prospect of speaking with Greville without Waltham present. They’d reached the carriage before he realized that if he wished to avail himself of that golden opportunity, there would be a price. He grasped Louisa’s hand and helped her up, then joined her in the carriage. He leaned back against the squabs and fixed his gaze forward. “All right. But just you and me—the others will all be too much in the limelight.”

  “Done.”

  He glanced sidelong at her and saw a small, intensely feminine smile curve her lips. But she didn’t turn to catch his eye. Instead, she declared, “Now it’s on to Scotland Yard to see if Sir Martin has any new dead bodies on his slabs. Ugh.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Sadly, Sir Martin had not one, not two, but three more bodies of men killed by garrote lined up in the morgue. Knowing that the Chartist militia had lost four men, but the bodies of only two had turned up, Sir Martin had alerted Inspector Crawford, who had sent for Mr. Beam.

  The lanky secretary, looking even more pasty than on his previous visit, arrived on Drake’s and Louisa’s heels.

  However reluctantly, Beam once again did his duty, steeling himself and inspecting the bodies. He instantly identified the first. “That’s Malcolm Triggs—the other driver missing from the brewery.” He examined the other two bodies, then backed away from the slabs on which they lay. “I’ve never seen those two before.” He turned to Drake. “I’d take an oath that neither are—were—members of the association.”

  Drake narrowed his eyes. “So Jed Sawyer isn’t here?”

  Beam shook his head vehemently. “Those others, they’re definitely not Sawyer.”

  Drake frowned.

  Beam swallowed, then glanced at Sir Martin. “If that’s all…?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Beam.” Louisa smiled graciously when Beam swung her way. “You’ve been most helpful. If these gentlemen have no further questions for you”—she arched a brow at Sir Martin, then turned her interrogatory look on Drake—“then indeed, I believe you can return to your office.”

  Beam bowed. “Thank you, my lady.” He glanced at Drake. “My lord?”

  Drake nodded. “Thank you, Beam. Yes, that’s all—you may go.”

  Beam went.

  As the door swung shut behind him, Sir Martin humphed. “That’s interesting.”

  “In what way?” Louisa inquired.

  “Well, with all these deaths, the River Police are being extra-vigilant about keeping their eyes peeled for floaters—ahem. Bodies in the water, that is.” Sir Martin tipped his head at the first of the occupied slabs. “The Chartist brewery driver was killed between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago. My best guess would be on Thursday morning.” He moved on and looked down at the sheet-draped bodies of the as-yet-unidentified men. “These two, on the other hand, were killed last night.”

  “You’re suggesting they’re not of the same group,” Drake said.

  “Indeed—and as the River Police are now picking up the bodies more quickly after they’ve been put into the river, they say they’re fairly certain these latest two were put into the water from the north bank, somewhere not far from Blackfriars Bridge, rather than from the south bank, which was where that Chartist chappie was slipped in, near where we found the bodies of his two friends.”

  “So not Chartists and most likely not workers from the Phoenix Brewery.”

  Louisa frowned. “So who are they? Why did our garrotter kill them?”

  “That, my dear, is indubitably one of our pressing questions.” Sir Martin raised his gaze and fixed his best stare on Drake. “But the most important question at this point is who this madman—our garrotter—is.” He spoke with more passion than Drake was accustomed to hearing from the jaded surgeon. “You have to stop this beggar, Winchelsea. I keep calling him a madman, but he’s certainly not mad. He’s cool, calculating, and entirely coldblooded. We now have ten bodies—ten!—we can attribute to him, and if the other killings you say are associated with this plot are added to that, we’re up to thirteen. In a bare week!” Sir Martin’s glare gained in ferocity. “Find him, for God’s sake! And make sure you stop him.”

  Stony-faced, Drake nodded stiffly. “We’re trying—and yes, we’ll try harder.”

  With that, he gathered Louisa with a glance and followed her from the morgue.

  CHAPTER 33

  O n leaving Sir Martin’s domain, together with Drake, Louisa walked upstairs, and they called on Inspector Crawford. They shared what news they had, and Drake warned that the Chilburn family might attempt to apply pressure to curtail the investigation, a possibility that left Crawford unimpressed. After confirming he had no new information to impart, she and Drake quit the building.

  While at the brewery the previous day, she’d noticed a sign listing the brewery’s opening hours. She halted beside Drake on the pavement. “The brewery will be closed by now. They shut at noon on Saturdays.”

  Drake humphed, then waved her to the carriage. “I’d hoped we wouldn’t need another meeting, but Michael, or even Seba
stian and Antonia, might have learned something, and if you and I are to bend Greville to our cause this evening, we’ll do better knowing as much as possible.”

  He paused beside the carriage and drew out a tablet and pencil.

  She watched as he swiftly penned two notes. After folding them and inscribing names and an address on each—one to St. Ives House, the other to Clarges Street—he beckoned to two of the boys lounging in a loose group opposite the Yard’s main doors. In a murmur, he told her, “The boys hang around hoping to be hired to ferry messages, not just by the constabulary but also by the newsmen and the various members of the public who find themselves in the vicinity and needing to contact family or friends.”

  The boys came pelting up and halted, all but quivering in their eagerness.

  Drake handed one note to each boy, reading out the names and address on each. “You’re to take these to the addresses first, but if neither the gentleman nor the lady are in and the butlers tell you they’re somewhere else, you’re to take the message on and deliver it so that it reaches either the gentleman or the lady. Can you do that?”

  The boys assured him they could. He paid them handsomely and added that they would be tipped well on delivering the notes.

  The pair sped off, tacking through the crowds filling the pavements and covering distance far faster than any carriage.

  Drake opened the carriage door and offered his hand.

  She grasped it, climbed up, sat, and met his gaze. “So where to for us?”

  Drake stared at her for a moment, then stated, “Home.” He looked up and directed the coachman to drive to Grosvenor Square, then joined her in the carriage.

  As the horses leaned into the traces, he settled beside her. “What do you know of the timing of the various segments of Sebastian and Antonia’s event?”

  Obligingly, she ran through the schedule. “That, of course, is assuming nothing changes at the last minute, but that rarely happens at Mama’s events.”

  He grunted. “I imagine not.”

  She tipped her head, clearly thinking. “It’s hard to say when Greville will show his face. He might come early, he might come late. It’ll be best if I get Crewe to have one of our footmen keep an eye out for the Home Secretary and let me know the instant he appears.”

  Drake envisioned the scene. “We’ll need a medium-sized room—not as small as that antechamber, but not as big as your library.”

  She nodded. “I know just the place.”

  They fell silent. Long enough for Drake to notice how relaxed, how comfortable he now felt in her presence. Over the past days, he’d spent hours jolting about London, seated beside her in that carriage. Apparently, repeated exposure had smoothed the jagged edges from what had previously been a much more tense and senses-jarring experience.

  Or perhaps the change was an outcome of their most recent private interlude and the decision he’d subsequently made.

  Regardless, change had occurred, and he wasn’t averse to the result.

  CHAPTER 34

  By midafternoon, Sebastian had escaped from Berkeley Square only to be informed by his mother that his presence was required in the St. Ives House back parlor for a final council of war.

  The ladies foregathered didn’t use those words, but in Sebastian’s opinion, Wellington and his adjutants were amateurs compared to this group. Every last little detail was subjected to a final exhausting scrutiny and a definitive decision declared.

  Why he had to be there was a mystery; he would have happily delegated any influence he might have to Antonia and left it at that.

  He owned to relief when a footman appeared with a note on a salver; he fell on it as evidence that life still went on beyond the purlieu of his engagement ball.

  The note was from Drake. Sebastian unfolded the single sheet and read.

  Antonia materialized beside him. “From Drake?” When, frowning, Sebastian nodded, she prompted, “What does he say?”

  “That we have a meeting to attend at four o’clock in the Wolverstone House library.” Sebastian glanced at the ladies engaged in a spirited debate about something. “Will we be able to get away?”

  “For that, yes, although I hope that by then, we’ll have reached the end of our deliberations.” When his gaze returned to the note, Antonia shifted to read over his shoulder. “What else has he written?”

  “He raises the prospect that this plot might be an attempt at a rerun of Guy Fawkes. Presumably with the intention of getting it right, this time.”

  “Good gracious! Guy Fawkes?” Antonia paused, then more cautiously said, “I suppose I can imagine why, but…who would actually have the gall to attempt it?”

  “Indeed.” After a moment, Sebastian raised his gaze and looked at the ladies—many of them society’s grandes dames—arrayed on the various sofas and armchairs. There were three duchesses, a countess, and numerous aristocrats of other degrees.

  A few seconds’ thought had him walking forward until he stood at the circle’s edge, beside one of the armchairs. When a break in the discussions occurred, he spoke up. “Ladies, this has nothing to do with the ball tonight. More, it’s a somewhat sensitive question, one I hope you will keep under your collective hat.” He had the attention of every lady in the group. “The question is this. Have any of you heard the slightest whisper—even if you assumed it was in jest—about anyone planning to recreate the efforts of Guy Fawkes?”

  Silence ensued. The ladies all stared at him; every one of them had husbands who sat in the lords or were related to noblemen who did or, in Caro Anstruther-Wetherby’s case, had a husband who sat in the Commons.

  Then his mother looked at Drake’s mother. Silks susurrated as the ladies exchanged glances around and across the group, wordlessly communicating.

  Finally, after another shared glance with Drake’s mother, Sebastian’s mother raised her gaze and met his eyes. “No. We have heard nothing, not even a whisper, in jest or otherwise.” After the barest pause, she asked, “Is such a plot afoot?”

  Sebastian glanced at the note in his hand. “That’s what we’d all like to know.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The St. Ives town carriage Louisa had commandeered drew up outside St. Ives House. Drake descended to the pavement and handed her down.

  She shook out her skirts, then looked up at her coachman and her groom. With a smile, she said, “I don’t expect to need the carriage again today.”

  “Very good, my lady,” the men chorused. Both saluted her, then the coachman shook the reins, and the carriage rattled off for the mews.

  She turned and regarded the front door of her home.

  After a moment, Drake inquired, “Aren’t you going in?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t really want to.” She glanced at him. “If I show my face, I’ll be drawn into the arrangements, and I don’t like my chances of creeping in undetected.” She arched a brow at him. “What’s the time?”

  He drew out his watch and consulted it. “Twenty minutes short of four o’clock.”

  “You called the meeting for four. Do you mind if I wait at Wolverstone House?”

  “Not at all.” He turned, and side by side, they walked the short distance to his home. He ushered her up the steps, then unlocked the door with his latchkey. As he opened the door, he caught her eye. “I warn you—my father and some of my brothers might be in.”

  She smiled and followed him inside. “I daresay I’ll cope.”

  Hamilton appeared from the rear of the hall. He bent a disapproving look on Drake and bowed low to Louisa. “Lady Louisa.” Straightening, he said to Drake, “You’ll find the duke and Lord Tobias in the library, my lord. The duchess is presently visiting St. Ives House, and the rest of the family are out.”

  “Thank you, Hamilton.” Drake arched a brow at Louisa. “The library? Or would you prefer to wait for the others in the drawing room?”

  “If we’re not interrupting your father or Tobias, then we might as well go straight to the library.�
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  Together, they strolled down the corridor, then Drake opened the library door, and she swept in.

  Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, was seated behind the desk that dominated one end of the long room. As she and Drake entered, the duke’s gaze rose from the letter he’d been perusing and fixed, rather disconcertingly, on them.

  Blithely ignoring the effect of that dark and distinctly penetrating gaze, with a confident smile, she walked forward and curtsied deeply. “Your Grace.” She rose. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Drake’s father had risen as she had. His smile—reminiscent of one of Drake’s more charming efforts—bloomed as he rounded the desk. “Louisa.” He took her hand and half bowed. “The pleasure is entirely mine, my dear.” He glanced at Drake, who had been collared by Tobias, who had been lounging in one of the library chairs, then looked back at Louisa. “Minerva is with your mother, I believe, dealing with urgent social matters.”

  She grinned. “Indeed. The engagement ball of the Cynster heir is, I’m sure, destined to be the pinnacle of the social year.”

  The duke smiled in response, but his eyes were sharp, his gaze shrewd. “I would have thought you would be in the thick of it.”

  “I daresay I would have been, if other matters”—she gestured to Drake—“hadn’t taken precedence.”

  His Grace’s brows rose. “Precedence over such an event?” He turned to Drake as, along with Tobias, his heir joined them. “I take it”—and Louisa noticed the change in the tenor of the duke’s voice—“that this more important happening is some evolution of the mission that’s sent you hither and yon over the past weeks.”

  Drake nodded. “We’ve yet to get to the bottom of it, and the plot remains ongoing.” He glanced at Tobias, standing beside him; at thirty-one years old the son of the house closest in age to Drake, Tobias was an elegant gentleman of much the same ilk as his older brother, but a touch more easygoing. Drake returned his gaze to his father’s face. “I”—his gaze dipped to her, and he smoothly amended—“we were wondering if, in your estimation, a rerun of the Guy Fawkes plot is at all likely.”