“What about the rider?” Sebastian looked at Michael. “You said he was a gentleman. Do we know who he is?”
Michael grimaced. “He carried no cards, but Finnegan seemed confident he would be able to trace his identity.” Michael looked at Drake, who appeared sunk in consideration of some unappealing prospect. “You saw the body—did you recognize him?”
Drake looked up; after a second, he shook his head. “Never seen him before.”
“Has Finnegan had any luck in learning the man’s identity?” Sebastian persevered.
Drake glanced at him. “No. The man’s clothes weren’t his own—Finnegan’s sure of that. But his boots, on the other hand, were. Finnegan’s off chasing the bootmaker.”
Drake glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, then, with evident reluctance, bestirred himself. “I need to report to Whitehall.” He gripped the carver’s arms, preparing to rise. “We have ten barrels of gunpowder in the hands of unknown plotters secreted in an area that’s effectively impenetrable to the authorities and also far too close to any number of strategic political targets. I will, of course, urge Greville to alert the constabulary and the various regiments guarding such places, but”—Drake’s lips thinned; his expression was grimly mutinous—“I seriously doubt Greville will authorize even an advisory.”
“Good God!” Michael said. “Why not?”
“Because,” Drake said, cynical impatience dripping from his tone, “Greville, while at heart a good man, is an excellent politician, and given the current climate—meaning the public uncertainty lingering after the upheavals of ’48—he and his government colleagues will do everything possible to avoid alerting the public to anything of this nature. In Greville’s and his colleagues’ eyes, such news becoming public is certain to further erode confidence in the government, and that, they will not risk.”
Cleo frowned. “But if the plot succeeds and something is blown up…?”
Drake’s cynicism deepened. “That will be a disaster, and they will happily deal with it then—and paint themselves as decisive, active, and bold defenders of the people while they’re at it. And as we’ve already noted, courtesy of the mastermind behind this plot, they’ll have the perfect scapegoats to hand—scapegoats the public will readily accept.”
Aghast, Antonia stared at Drake as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “You mean to say that Greville—and the government—will happily sit back and allow this plot to succeed? That they’ll allow some monument or public building to be blown up?”
Drake looked down at her, then quietly said, “Not happily.” He paused, then glanced around the table, meeting the others’ eyes. “What I’m trying to instill into your heads is that Greville and his cohorts will sit on their hands and pray that something will happen and this plot won’t succeed—that will be their preferred outcome. But while they’ll hope for the best, they will refuse to do anything that might weaken or in any way damage their current position with the public, and meanwhile, they’ll prepare for the worst.” His voice weighted with world-weary cynicism, he concluded, “While an explosion of that size in central London might be the end of the world for some, it won’t be the end of the world for the government.”
The other four stared at Drake as his words sank in.
After several silent seconds, Drake grimaced. “I need to go.”
Sebastian shook himself. “Yes, go—and see if you can’t convince Greville to see sense. Meanwhile, we”—he glanced at the other three—“will go over the things we do know and work out what avenues we might pursue to get the answers to our burning questions.”
Drake nodded and started for the door. “I suggest we reconvene later this afternoon. It’ll take me that long to deal with Greville and his secretaries.” On reaching the door, Drake paused and glanced back. “However, we shouldn’t meet here.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “A group of individuals will be calling this afternoon to remove the body to a helpfully discreet private morgue, and I make it a point to never be in when that particular group calls. Better for them, and better for me as well.”
Michael shrugged and glanced at Sebastian. “No reason we can’t meet at St. Ives House. The parents might be around, but the back parlor’s out of everyone’s way.”
“I was given to understand,” Sebastian said, “that Mama expected to be out all morning, possibly all day, consulting with the countess and our numerous female relatives regarding our engagement ball. Papa mumbled something about retreating to White’s and playing least in sight, along with the earl, so we should have the house to ourselves.”
Drake hesitated, then asked, “What about your sister?”
“Apparently, she’s not expected until tomorrow.” Sebastian glanced at Antonia, who nodded.
“Very well.” Drake opened the door. “As soon as I return from Whitehall, I’ll join you at St. Ives House.”
The others murmured farewells and “Good luck.”
With a salute, Drake departed, leaving the door open.
Michael rose and drew out Cleo’s chair. On the other side of the table, Sebastian performed the same office for Antonia. In a group, they walked out of the breakfast parlor. Hamilton and a footman were waiting in the front hall to assist them into their greatcoats and cloaks.
Drake had already quit the house.
The four emerged onto the front porch. Michael and Cleo paused to take in the pewter skies, brisk breeze, and the bustle and sounds of late morning.
Antonia linked her arm in Sebastian’s, and they walked down the steps.
Michael offered Cleo his arm. When she looked up at him, he smiled. “Shall we?”
Cleo read the invitation in his eyes and knew it extended to far more than just a walk along the pavement, that it encompassed their future and all yet to come, of which this short walk was merely the first step. Their first public action as an affianced couple; she felt a smile unlike any she’d ever smiled before curve her lips. “Indeed.” She linked her arm in his, and together they descended the steps and set off in Sebastian and Antonia’s wake.
Chapter 17
Contrary to Sebastian’s understanding, the Duke and Duchess of St. Ives were at home.
At Sebastian and Antonia’s heels, Michael and Cleo walked into the front hall to discover the duke in earnest discussion with the duchess at the foot of the stairs.
The ducal couple glanced briefly at the newcomers—then both looked again, their gazes fixing on Cleo, on Michael’s arm and still gowned in her gaudy lady-of-the-night finery.
She blushed vividly, although even she could tell that Michael’s parents looked intrigued rather than shocked.
Michael and Sebastian shrugged out of their greatcoats and handed them to the waiting butler, then lifted the cloaks from their respective ladies’ shoulders.
By that time, the duke and the duchess had approached—the duke with a long-legged prowling stroll, the duchess with bustling, maternal intent.
Cleo braced herself, then dropped into a regulation curtsy—at least her full skirts were useful for that.
Michael stepped to her side. Taking her hand, he drew her up. “Papa, Mama—allow me to present Miss Cleome Hendon, the lady who has agreed to be my wife.”
“Really? Excellent!” The duke’s delight could not have been doubted; it shone in his green eyes and lifted the lines of his somewhat harsh-featured face. He smiled at Cleo. “Welcome to the family, my dear. We know your parents well, and an alliance with the Hendons of Norfolk is wonderful news.”
“Indeed.” Beaming unrestrainedly, the duchess pushed forward to envelop Cleo in a warm, welcoming embrace. “My dear,” she murmured in Cleo’s ear, “quite literally, I could not be happier.”
As the duchess stepped back, Cleo could see the sincerity of that statement in her face.
The duchess glanced at her husband. “This calls for a celebration—even if it is just an informal one over luncheon.”
The duke had offered his hand to Michael, along w
ith his enthusiastic best wishes. “Indubitably.” He turned aside to speak to the butler, who, it appeared, was struggling to maintain a properly impassive demeanor in the face of an overwhelming impulse to beam, too.
The duchess had tugged Michael down to kiss his cheek. “Well done,” she said as she stepped back. She glanced at the duke and the butler, still conferring. “Luncheon will be served virtually immediately.” She turned and surveyed Cleo’s gown. “Meanwhile, my dear”—with a gesture, she indicated the gown—“am I allowed to ask…?”
Cleo met Michael’s eyes briefly and opted for the truth. If the Duchess of St. Ives was to be her mama-in-law, anything less was unlikely to be wise. “I knew Michael was watching for some villains in Morgan’s Lane—that’s in Southwark—last night, and that although he had men around the area, none could be anywhere in the lane, and I decided that was too dangerous, and if I went in disguise”—with one hand, she waved at the tawdry gown—“then none of the men who came were likely to pay any attention to me, but just by being there, I would be able to help…” She shrugged. “And so it proved.”
The duchess regarded Cleo for several seconds, then looked at Michael. “Clearly, you’ve chosen well.” Smiling delightedly again, the duchess swung about and linked her arm with Cleo’s. “Let’s go into the dining room. Antonia?” The duchess collected her other soon-to-be daughter-in-law with a glance, and in high good humor, led the way to the luncheon table.
The footmen had scurried to lay the table for six. The duke sat at the head, the duchess at the foot, with their prospective daughters-in-law on either side of the duke and their sons flanking their mother.
A delicate chicken broth was the first course. As they supped, the duke studied Cleo. “I understand you, too, have been recruited to assist Drake with this latest mission of his.”
When she nodded, the duke smiled. “Did you know that, in years past, your parents have joined with us”—the duke nodded down the table at his duchess—“and Drake’s parents, and Antonia’s, too, in various missions?” The duke glanced at Sebastian and Antonia, including them as he said, “Just as you four are doing now.”
Cleo thought of all she’d heard of her parents’ past adventures. “I know they were involved in various intrigues, but I’ve never heard all the details.” She met the duke’s pale-green eyes. “I’ve never heard much of the others involved.”
The duke rolled his expressive eyes. “How like your father. Well, let’s see.”
He proceeded, with assistance from the duchess when his memory proved selective, to entertain his sons, Antonia, and Cleo with a recitation of numerous instances when her parents had worked hand-in-glove with the Cynsters and with others of the fabled Bastion Club to right various wrongs and, mostly, to expose and capture villains and wrongdoers of various stripes. “And then there was the incident of the Black Cobra. That was quite a lengthy exercise.”
After the duke described that action, the duchess told them of the West African scandal that had occurred twenty-five years ago. Cleo and Antonia were fascinated to hear of the role a fabulous blue diamond necklace had played in the unmasking of the villains.
“I’ve seen that necklace,” Cleo put in. “Mrs. Isobel Frobisher wore it to a ball when the Frobishers were in London a few years ago.” She paused, thinking, then offered, “The Frobisher Shipping Company is a major competitor, but there’s always seemed to be some closer connection—as if they’re a sister company of sorts. Now I’ve heard that story, I suspect that explains it.”
The duke looked down the table, met his wife’s eyes, and smiled the sort of smile only married couples could share. “It’s one of the great strengths of the British aristocracy—the way our generations connect and reconnect.”
The younger generation glanced around the table and grinned; they were, it seemed, living proof of that.
As the meal drew to a close, Michael mentioned his firming interest in investing in the import-export trade and his meeting with Geoffrey Cranmer and, through him, the Hepworths of Philadelphia. That started another round of discussion, which continued as they repaired to the back parlor, the room the family used for relaxation.
Taking possession of the longer sofa, the duchess drew Antonia and Cleo to sit on either side of her; all three ladies were soon engrossed in an enthusiastic discussion of engagement balls and weddings. The duchess appealed to her husband on some point, and the duke sank into the armchair opposite, the better to hear what was demanded of him.
“And,” Sebastian murmured, taking in his father’s delighted expression, “because he appreciates the view.”
Standing beside Sebastian behind the sofa, safely out of their mother’s and their intendeds’ line of sight, Michael smiled and nodded. “That—telling them—went a lot easier than I’d expected.”
“That’s because I did all the hard work,” Sebastian said. “Antonia and I broke the ground—or the ice, or whatever the appropriate analogy is. For them, it’s like a domino effect—I fall, and so you follow.” Sebastian slanted a sidelong glance at Michael. “After all, it’s always been that way.”
Slipping his hands into his breeches pockets, Michael snorted, but was too content to take brotherly umbrage. “I really don’t care how it came about or what anyone else thinks—Cleo is the right lady for me, and to me, that’s all that matters.”
His gaze resting on Antonia’s dark head, Sebastian murmured, “It’s strange how it happens. I was thinking of marriage, but never thought of her. You, on the other hand…”
“I wasn’t thinking of marriage at all—at least not until you and Antonia raised the prospect in my mind.”
“Still, don’t you find it strange that, one minute, you’re not thinking of them at all, and the next, they stand at the center of your universe, the fulcrum about which your life revolves? From complete unawareness to…”
“A connection so deep you can’t imagine how you lived your life without them in it?”
Sebastian grinned. “You’ve obviously been bitten by the same bug.”
Michael shifted. “The only part of it I don’t appreciate is that feeling of impending doom when they’re not where they’re supposed to be—safe beside you.”
“And even then,” Sebastian somewhat grimly added. After a moment, he sighed resignedly. “I fear we’re going to have to get used to that feeling. They’re not going to allow us to keep them safely locked away.”
“No.” His gaze on Cleo’s tumble of curls, Michael realized that, regardless, he was smiling. That contentment had slid deep and now circled his heart. That the simple happiness he now felt, and the eagerness to go forward and, with Cleo by his side, make of life what they could was a very long way from the ennui that had assailed him a mere five days before.
What a difference love makes.
At that moment, with him regarding Cleo with, he suspected, a besotted look on his face, she turned on the sofa and, spotting him, said, “Your mama has raised a very valid point—we need to inform my parents with all speed, before they hear our news from someone else. Despite the season, there are still a lot of people in town who are acquainted with Mama and Papa.”
Sebastian murmured, sotto voce so only Michael could hear, “And you don’t want Jack Hendon learning you’ve been dallying with his only daughter before you tell him your intentions are honorable.”
Michael glanced at his father, who arched his brows as if to say the challenge was Michael’s to meet, then Michael returned his gaze to Cleo’s face. “I suggest you and I write a suitably informative letter, and we’ll send it by courier direct to Castle Hendon.”
“We should include the promise to visit there as soon as we can,” Cleo added, “or else they’ll be in Clarges Street tomorrow, and we really need to concentrate on helping Drake.”
He nodded and glanced at his parents. “We haven’t told you the details, but we definitely need to continue to assist Drake with this mission.”
Standing shoulder to shoulder wi
th Michael, Sebastian added, “The threat is now very real, and by all measures, this plot, if successful, will be dire for England as a whole.” He, too, met his parents’ gazes. “We—the four of us—need to work with Drake to get to the truth of it, put a stop to it, and expose those behind it as soon as may be.”
The duke looked at the duchess as, suddenly entirely serious, she turned to him. Their gazes held for a moment in that indefinable communion of those who have shared all for many years, then the duke looked at his prospective daughters-in-law before raising his gaze to his sons. “It’s your generation’s turn to carry that torch. Do what you need to do—your duty to queen and country—and leave it to us to deal with society.” Devil Cynster grimaced. “That’s now our milieu. Pursuing traitorous villains and their foiling plots now rightly falls to you.”
* * *
The Home Secretary, Sir George Greville, received Drake in his inner sanctum, deep within the hallowed precincts of Whitehall. Drake had consulted Greville’s secretary and made the appointment for three o’clock, then had gone to Arthur’s. He’d fallen in with several acquaintances, enjoyed a pleasant lunch, and had still had time to review his approach to Greville before returning to Whitehall.
In selecting three o’clock for the meeting, Drake had hoped to avoid the presence of the minister’s principal private secretary, Sir Harold Waltham. Sadly, as Drake entered Greville’s office, the first obstacle his gaze fell on was the rotund figure of Waltham, ensconced in a chair on the far side of Greville’s large desk. Waltham had been scheduled to attend a briefing elsewhere, but clearly he’d checked the Home Secretary’s appointment book before departing and had elected to remain at his post, the better to shield his master from Drake’s influence.
Drake had a natural appreciation of and a healthy respect for those civil servants who were, so often, the ones who got things done. Waltham, in contrast, seemed to have made it his personal mission to ensure as little as possible was ever done; he frequently and forcefully spoke against Greville taking action of any sort, regardless of the pressure to act.
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