The Tavistock Plot

by Tracy Grant

  "Thank you," Julien said. "They had the weapons on their side. Challenging."

  "Who hired you?" Malcolm asked Julien's captive.

  Julien's captive's gaze flashed to that of Kitty's prisoner. "Out for pickings," he muttered.

  "I don't think so," Kitty said. "You seemed to have a very specific target in mind."

  "Just the first rich idiot who happened by." The man was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and his voice had the sound of north London.

  "I'm cold," Malcolm said, "and I'm tired. There are more of us than you and we have the weapons now." He pressed the knifepoint against the throat of the man Julien was holding. "Let's do this the easy way. Tell us who hired you."

  The men exchanged glances again. "You wouldn't," said Kitty's captive. He was slighter than his companion and his voice sounded more youthful. "You don't look like a man who'd kill in cold blood."

  "No?" Malcolm said. "Perhaps not. But let me put it this way. Refuse to talk and we'll take you to our friends at Bow Street and have you up on charges of attempted murder. The penalty is hanging and I happen to be personally acquainted with the chief magistrate. Tell us what you know and we'll let you go free."

  Both men let out rough laughs. "What do you take us for?" Julien's captive said.

  "Men who know a good bargain when they see it."

  "And what bloody guarantee do we have that you'd keep it?" the man demanded.

  "My word. Who hired you?"

  The pause before they spoke was long enough for a gust of wind to shake the trees overhead and douse them with shards of ice.

  "Don't know his name," said Julien's captive. "Gentleman. Leastways, spoke like one. We never did see his face. Not much of it, anyway. Met us in the alley behind the White Hart in St. Giles. He had his hat pulled low over his face and his coat collar turned up and he stood in the shadows. Sounded as though he had a cold."

  "When was this?" Malcolm asked.

  "'Bout six tonight. He told us the job and handed over the money. We were to have more sent to us tomorrow if we were successful."

  "Successful at what?" Mélanie said.

  The men fell silent again. Julien's captive rolled his gaze towards the knife Malcolm was holding to his throat. "Him—the one we jumped first—wasn't supposed to leave the park alive."

  "The man who hired you told you I'd be in the park tonight?" Kitty asked.

  "Sometime between nine and midnight." Julien's captive stared at her. "Bloody hell. You're a woman."

  "Would that have made you turn down the job?"

  "Well, it'd have made me think twice about it."

  "What else did the man tell you?" Julien asked in a voice as even and lethal as the knife Malcolm held.

  "Told us to wait by the Serpentine. Said we could keep all the money we found on him—her—but we were to bring him anything we found in writing. He made sure none of us could read."

  "Where were you to find him again?" Kitty asked.

  "We weren't. He said he'd find us."

  Malcolm reached into his pocket, pulled out his card case, and flicked it open with one hand. He took the knife away from his captive’s neck and held out a cream-colored card. "If this man ever contacts you again, you'll let me know."

  The captive stared at him. Julien exchanged a look with Malcolm and undid the man's bonds. Kitty did the same for her prisoner.

  "I did give you my word," Malcolm said to the two men.

  The men stared at him a moment longer, as though perhaps the cloudy sky were obscuring his true motives. Then they turned and ran before Malcolm or any of the others could change their minds.

  Kit stared at Malcolm. "Good God, Rannoch."

  "I take my word rather seriously." Malcolm struggled out of his sodden greatcoat and squeezed the water from its folds.

  "But they tried to kill Mrs. Ashford—"

  "Malcolm's right," Kitty said. "It was professional, not personal. The sort of thing Julien might have done."

  "'Have done' being the operative words," Julien said. "And not precisely the sort of thing."

  "They were much less adept than you," Kitty said. "Thank goodness. But it would be a bit hypocritical to put them beyond the pale because of their skill level. Besides, I don't think any of us fancies having to explain ourselves to Bow Street."

  "Quite," Malcolm said. His gaze suddenly sharpened in the moonlight. "Kitty—"

  Julien had already moved. He caught Kitty as her knees gave way. "Stay with me, Kitkat. Mélanie!" His voice had a sharpness Mélanie had never heard before. He was tugging at his cravat one-handed while he held Kitty. "She's bleeding."

  "A flesh wound," Kitty muttered, but she was sagging against Julien as he pressed the cravat to her chest. Malcolm yanked off his own cravat and gave it to Mélanie. Mélanie bent down and bound Malcolm's cravat over Julien's to staunch the bleeding. Malcolm held the bandage in place while Julien held Kitty.

  "Two of them had pistols," Kitty said. "I managed to trick them into firing early, but one of the shots winged me. Then someone got me with a knife. Not the most organized of attacks. If they had hired a marksman to lie in wait in the trees with a rifle, he could have picked me off easily. Still, I suspect they'd have succeeded in the end if you hadn't all happened along. I'm all right, Julien."

  "My intrepid darling, you're nothing of the sort."

  Mélanie knotted off her makeshift bandage. The flow of talk didn't deceive her. She'd once seen Raoul direct an entire skirmish with a musket ball in his shoulder, only to collapse from loss of blood when the enemy were routed. Julien's and Malcolm's gazes said they knew the same. "You need to see a doctor," Mélanie said. "Or at least I need my medical supply box. Malcolm, you look quite fetching dripping wet, but it won't be very helpful if you catch pneumonia. We need to get inside."

  "Yes," her husband said. "Kitty, can you walk as far as Berkeley Square? We can meet you and St. Juste there."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I can." Kitty's voice was level, but Mélanie was close enough to hear the labored sound of her breathing. "Meet you? Where are you going?"

  Malcolm looked down at Kitty for a moment, face tight with concern, then glanced at Kit. "Where were you meeting the others?"

  "Others?" Kit repeated. The fitful moonlight bounced off his gaze. He had been standing by in silence, as though torn between wanting to help, concern for Kitty's state of undress, and the quite sensible realization that there was little he could do.

  "You and Kitty weren't meeting by the Serpentine," Malcolm said. "You were both on your way somewhere."

  "Don't try to argue with him, Mr. Montagu." Kitty straightened her shoulders against Julien's chest, though she made no attempt to pull away from the curve of his arm. "It's time we told the truth." She regarded Malcolm for a moment. "You can do what you want with me, but do I have your word you won't turn my companions over to the law?"

  "You know I can't promise that," Malcolm said.

  "If you think they don't pose an imminent risk."

  Malcolm was silent for a moment. "All right. Yes."

  Kitty nodded. "I'm afraid it's a bit of a walk."

  "For God's sake, Kitty—"

  "I'm perfectly capable of walking." Kitty swiveled her head round. "Julien, you've always been a bit more sensible about these things than Malcolm. Tell him I'm not about to collapse."

  Julien's brows were drawn but his mouth quirked slightly. "You wouldn't let yourself collapse."

  "Precisely."

  "Cold comfort," Malcolm said.

  "The bandage stopped the bleeding," Mélanie said. "As long as we get a clean dressing on before infection sets in, she'll be all right."

  "Thank you, Mélanie." Kitty pulled away from Julien. "Let's go."

  Kit put out a hand as she stepped forwards. "Are you sure—"

  "Yes," Kitty said.

  Mélanie wasn't sure whether they were talking about Kitty's wounds or revealing whatever they were involved in. Or both.

  Julien mo
ved to Kitty's side and put his arm round her. Kitty made no attempt to pull away again. She led them away from the water, through a dark landscape where flashes of moonlight threw twisting tree branches into relief against a charcoal sky, to the walled Deer Pound. Three men were waiting, grouped tightly together. Difficult to tell for a certainty, but they appeared to be arguing. Suddenly, four additional men rushed onto the scene. One of the original three fell to the ground. Another launched a left hook at one of the newcomers. Kitty started forwards. Julien pulled her back. "They can handle it." He looked from Malcolm to Mélanie.

  "Go." Kitty pushed Julien. "I promise I'll stay out of it."

  Mélanie was already running, Malcolm beside her, Kit close behind. Malcolm grabbed a man who was attacking a tall man with clear, sharp-cut features that were plain in the moonlight. Simon. Mélanie grabbed a branch and brought it down on the head of a second man grappling with a shorter, gray-haired man she'd never seen before. She looked up to see a third attacker rushing at Malcolm from behind with a knife drawn. One of Simon's companions ran between, grabbed the knife-wielder's wrist, and sent him spinning. In the same instant, Kit screamed and the fourth attacker went running, propelled by Julien.

  The other three attackers hesitated a moment, then fled after their friend.

  "Probably little sense in chasing them." Julien held out a hand to Kit, who had been knocked down. "I doubt they know more than the first group."

  "Quite." Malcolm turned to the man who had rescued him from the knife-wielder. The man was turned away from Mélanie, but the angle of his shoulders brought a shock of recognition.

  "O'Roarke," Malcolm said. "I have to say I didn't expect to find you here. Good evening, Simon." Unlike his greeting to Raoul, Malcolm's voice betrayed no surprise, but Mélanie could hear the fear and pain that underlay it.

  A weight like a musket ball settled in her chest as she looked from Raoul to Simon.

  "Hapgood." Malcolm addressed the gray-haired man, then turned to Mélanie. "Mr. Hapgood, who happens to own the building in which our friend Thornsby was lodging as Montford. Hapgood, my wife, Mélanie Rannoch. I assume the rest of you are all acquainted."

  "Jesus, Malcolm," Simon said. "What happened to you?"

  "Someone tried to kill Kitty." Malcom turned to Kitty, who had joined them in the Deer Pound. Julien was already at her side and had an arm round her again. "She's much worse off than I am, she's just better at hiding it."

  Simon took a step towards Kitty. "Are you—"

  "I'll live," Kitty said. "But I wasn't anticipating the attacks."

  "None of us were," Simon said.

  "It's time we told the truth," Kitty said. "Past time."

  Simon met her gaze and gave a curt nod.

  "Thank God," Raoul said.

  Malcolm shot a look at him.

  "He's not part of this," Kitty said. "He advised me to tell the truth some time ago. Well, actually this morning, but it seems like centuries ago. And like you and Mélanie, I assume he followed one of us tonight."

  "Hapgood, actually," Raoul said.

  "O'Roarke got here just before the attack," Simon said. "I don't know if you'll believe us—"

  "I think I do." Malcolm looked at Raoul. "You wanted to warn them against us?"

  "No," Raoul said. "Well, not exactly."

  "As I said." Malcolm held his father's gaze for a moment.

  "Explanations are undoubtedly called for," Kitty said, "but not here. Malcolm, do you think you can walk as far as Berkeley Square?"

  "For God's sake, Kitty, I'm not the one who was shot and knifed."

  "No, you were dunked in freezing water. You're obviously shivering, and as Mélanie said, you're at risk of pneumonia. But unlike you, I'll take your word for it that you can make it to Berkeley Square."

  Julien grinned and tightened his arm round Kitty.

  Mélanie took Malcolm's arm. "I'll catch him if he's about to collapse."

  Kit looked among the group. "But—"

  Raoul touched his arm. "Explanations later, as Mrs. Ashford said."

  They trudged through the park, out the Grosvenor Gate and past the cool white townhouses of Upper Grosvenor Street to Grosvenor Street and the wide expanse of Grosvenor Square. A party of guests emerged from one of the candlelit houses. Of one accord they all ducked into Charles Street to avoid being seen. God help them if they encountered any of their friends. Even her and Malcolm's reputation for eccentricity might not be able to live this down.

  They continued along Grosvenor Street and turned down Davies Street. Malcolm had his arm round her. She could feel the shivers that wracked his body, and his steps were a trifle erratic, but he remained upright, as did Kitty. In a short time, Mélanie realized, she was going to have to confront the truth of whatever the hell Kitty and Simon and Kit had been involved in. Not to mention Raoul. And how Malcolm would react to it. And how she would react herself.

  They were almost at the point where Davies Street met Berkeley Square when a voice stopped them. "Here now! What are you lot doing?"

  It was a night watchman, lantern raised, brows drawn.

  Malcolm seemed to have been concentrating solely on keeping his footing, but at that, he raised his head. "We're on our way home. My name's Rannoch. Malcolm Rannoch. My wife. And some of our friends. We've been at an entertainment."

  The watchman gave a rough laugh. The lantern cast light over his ruddy face. "You expect me to believe—"

  "Yes," said Malcolm. "I do."

  The watchmen peered at them. His gaze moved past Mélanie, then came back to linger on her. There were advantages to having one's likeness displayed in print shop windows. "Bloody he—" He coughed. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. Madam. Mrs. Rannoch. Sorry to have troubled you."

  Mélanie shepherded the erratic band up the steps to the fanlit door of the Berkeley Square house without further incident. Laura opened the door, relief evident on her face. Along with a number of questions.

  "Kitty's been hurt," Mélanie said. "We should send to Hill Street for Geoffrey."

  "Of course—" Laura began.

  Kitty shook her head. "You can tend to it, Mélanie. You did an excellent job patching up Julien last month."

  "This is worse."

  "All the same. We don't want to bring anyone else into this. Even someone like Geoffrey Blackwell."

  Mélanie had to concede that was a valid point. She nodded. "Go into the library. I'll get my medical supply box. Laura, could you boil some water? Malcolm, you need to change before you do anything else or you'll be ill. Raoul, can you hunt up dry clothes for the others?"

  She started upstairs to get her medical box without waiting to see if they acceded to her requests.

  Chapter 21

  "You can stop being brave now," Mélanie said, when she and Malcolm were in the privacy of their bedchamber. She'd already picked up her medical box, but when she saw how Malcolm's hands were shaking, she tugged off his coat and went to work on his waistcoat buttons with more dexterity than she'd ever shown in an amorous encounter.

  "I'll live." He pulled his shirt over his head. "Kitty could have been killed."

  "It was horrible." She grabbed a towel from the washstand and wrapped it round him. "But she wasn't. As long as the wound heals cleanly, she'll be fine."

  "This time."

  "The same's true for all of us." She handed him a fresh shirt, then began to fumble with the clasps on her pelisse, which was not exactly dry either. "There's no doubt Thornsby was lodging with Mr. Hapgood?"

  "Hapgood admitted as much to Roth and me this afternoon, though not that he knew who Thornsby really was."

  Mélanie pulled off her pelisse. "What do you think—"

  "No sense in speculating until we talk to them." He looked at the torn lace on her sleeve. "You're going to have a bruise on your shoulder."

  "Minor damage. I'll mend, and Blanca can mend the gown."

  He stretched out a hand to touch her face. "We listen to the evidence and we each make
up our own mind and act as we see fit. Same as we've always done."

  "And if we make up our minds differently?"

  Malcolm pulled on his dressing gown. "It won't be the first time we've been on opposite sides. Only this time, the battle will be out in the open."

  Laura had already brought in a jug of hot water by the time Mélanie got to the library. Laura or Julien had given Kitty a glass of whisky, which Kitty was sipping as though determined to prove she could hold her hand steady. Julien sat beside her on the sofa, gaze trained on her, not touching her, but a handsbreadth away. The others hadn't come down yet.

  "I'll make coffee," Laura said. "I imagine everyone could use it. Along with whisky."

  Kitty gave a faint smile. She had got her coat and waistcoat off. The makeshift bandage was stained red, as was the shirt, but the blood had begun to dry. Mélanie set down her medical supply box and also a clean dressing gown she had brought with her. "Do you mind if we cut the shirt? It will be easier."

  "By all means," Kitty said.

  The bullet scrape on her shoulder really was little more than a scratch. The knife cut was more serious. The bandage was soaked through with blood, but the wound appeared to have stopped bleeding. It was a long, jagged cut, but it did not appear particularly deep. It would not require stitches. Mélanie doused a towel with vinegar. Julien reached for Kitty's hand. Kitty's fingers closed round his own, white-knuckled, but she sat still while Mélanie cleaned and bandaged the wound.

  "The dressing needs to be changed twice a day," Mélanie said, knotting off the ends of the new bandage.

  Julien nodded. He was holding the linen steady while she tied it.

  "Compresses at night would be good." Mélanie snipped off the ends. "And if you don't want to go to a doctor, come back to see me in two days."

  "Given what we're all involved in, I suspect I'll see you well before that," Kitty said. "You're a wonder, Mélanie, thank you. Now perhaps you could hand me that dressing gown you were kind enough to bring before the others come in? Malcolm and Raoul and Simon and even Mr. Hapgood would be all right, but I think poor Mr. Montagu would be shocked to find me in déshabille."