This time, Tom drove the small black town carriage Michael had commandeered from the St. Ives House stable for the duration of the mission into and down Morgan’s Lane.

Tom drew the carriage up outside the first warehouse—the one on the left closest to Tooley Street. The hour was just nine o’clock; Cleo could hear the city’s bells pealing on the other side of the river.

Attired in his usual clothes—fashionable enough to mark him as a gentleman, but also sufficiently austerely styled to avoid drawing unnecessary attention—Michael stepped down to the cobbles. After a comprehensive glance up and down the street, he reached into the carriage, gripped her hand, and assisted her down.

She was garbed in her customary business style, in a fitted jacket and matching full skirt in a rich, warm brown worn over a white blouse adorned at the throat with a lace-edged mock cravat. A distinctly unfrivolous bonnet capped her head; she hoped the firmly fitting bonnet would restrain her wayward hair. Her cloak was a paler brown, as were her leather gloves and half boots. She’d selected each article with a view to strengthening the image she wished to project. She’d already decided on her story and the part she would play to induce the warehouse managers to reveal what she and Michael needed to know. Luckily, just being Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company was really all she needed to be.

A frown in his eyes, Michael was looking up and down the street. “Either the barrels are still here, in one of the three warehouses, or they had already been moved before Saturday evening.”

She opened her mouth to remind him of Winchelsea’s theory that the barrels would remain in place for a time… Instead, she said, “You mean that unloading the barrels here was just a staging point?” She studied his face. “That they were moved on more or less immediately?”

Continuing to glance about, he grimaced. “Put it down to the thoughts of a fevered brain in the small hours. Drake stressed how cautious these villains have been, to the extent that what passes for normal procedures—such as not killing your own helpers—are not being followed, so we can’t rely on anything being as one might think.” He met her gaze. “Knowing that the barrels were delivered somewhere here on Wednesday morning and that they haven’t been moved since Saturday evening doesn’t mean they’re still here.”

She considered that, then shook out her skirts and determinedly raised her head. “Against that stands the fact that our villains took the trouble to arrange for the barrels to be stored in a warehouse where the presence of such barrels, hidden among lots of similar barrels, wouldn’t be readily detected.”

He inclined his head. “There is that.”

“Indeed. They brought the barrels here, to what ranks as possibly the best hiding place they could find. If, as Winchelsea maintains, there’s a reason to have a pause between one stage and the next, unless they had a still-better place to secrete the barrels—and that’s hard to imagine—why run the risk of moving them again?”

He gripped her elbow. “Your reasoning is sound. I just no longer have faith in our ability to predict what these villains will do.” His expression set, he tipped his head toward the warehouse outside which they stood. “Let’s see what we can find.”

She faced the warehouse. “Indeed.” She took a step forward, only to have Michael halt her.

He eyed the façade. “How are we going to approach this?”

She smiled confidently. “You aren’t. I am.” She cast a swift glance over him. “Just back me up and look guard-like.” She met his eyes. “As you usually do.”

Michael stifled a grunt. He gentled his hold on her arm, steadying her over the cobbles to the warehouse door. He pushed it wide, then released her and followed as she swept—frigate-like—into the rather dim space.

She halted a few yards inside the door, in a cleared area that appeared to be some sort of receiving bay. Michael halted by her elbow, his expression impassive.

Directly ahead, two large laborers were manhandling crates onto a handcart. They barely spared a glance for Michael and Cleo.

But through a dusty window, a clerk in an office to the left saw them. He put down his board and came hurrying out.

The clerk halted before Cleo. His gaze darted from her to Michael, then back again. “Yes, ma’am?”

Her voice firm, her tones ringing, Cleo stated, “I am Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. I would like to speak with the manager, if you please.”

The clerk’s eyes had widened at the mention of the Hendon name. He bobbed repeatedly. “Yes, of course, Miss Hendon.” The clerk gestured behind him and started to back away. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll fetch him.”

Cleo regally inclined her head, and the clerk scurried back into the office.

In significantly less than a minute, a small, round man, his jacket straining to cover his paunch and with strands of greasy hair combed over his balding pate, hurried out of the office. Clasping his hands, rubbing them together, with his eyes alight, he came to stand before Cleo and bowed. “An honor, Miss Hendon.” He straightened. “How can we help you?”

“My family’s company has a long-standing client in Jamaica who has appealed to the firm for assistance in fulfilling an order for ten barrels of gunpowder.” Cleo held up a finger to stay the manager’s obvious exuberance and eagerness to launch into a sales spiel. “I should stress that this is not normally something our company does, but this is a special client. Consequently, we’ve made inquiries and have discovered that the local gunpowder mills have a waiting list. As our client’s need is urgent, I am making inquiries at those warehouses—such as yours—that supply various factories with gunpowder in one-hundredweight barrels.”

The manager was so eager to speak he was all but bobbing on his toes, but Cleo continued to hold up a restraining hand. “While I know you—and, very likely, several of your competitors—will be able to supply me with ten barrels of gunpowder, there is another stipulation. I will need to inspect the barrels to ensure they are suitable, especially with respect to the quality of their construction. As I’m sure you understand, the journey to Jamaica is a very long one, and from experience, we know that the barrels must be of a certain quality for us to be assured the gunpowder will still be useable when it arrives.”

“Of course, Miss Hendon.” The manager’s expression had grown calculating, as if he was running through a mental inventory of the barrels he had in his warehouse.

In distinctly superior accents, Cleo continued, “In the circumstances, we are prepared to pay a premium to secure suitable barrels. We are looking for barrels that have been delivered recently—within the previous week, if possible. The shorter the time they’ve been sitting in a warehouse, the better for our client.”

“Indeed, Miss Hendon.” The manager waved to a bench seat set before the office wall. “If you would consent to wait just a moment, I’ll consult my inventory, and then you may inspect our stock.”

“Thank you.” With a faintly arrogant, rather haughty air, Cleo allowed Michael to take her arm and steer her to the seat.

There, with a soft shush of skirts and petticoats, she sat.

Michael sat beside her. As soon as he did, with her head high and her gaze fixed across the warehouse, Cleo murmured, “While the manager shows me the barrels on his inventory, you’ll need to search for any barrels that aren’t on his list.”

He nodded. Before he could add anything, the manager reappeared.

“Here we are!” He brandished several sheets. “We had a delivery early last week—Tuesday, I believe it was.” He squinted at the top sheet. “Twelve barrels, all told.” He looked hopefully at Cleo as she rose. “If you’ll come this way?” He waved toward a narrow path that led deeper into the warehouse.

With a haughty nod, Cleo followed the manager along the path. Michael prowled at her heels. Piles of stacked merchandise towered to either side—crates of split bamboo, others trailing cotton fuses, still others stuffed with printed sheets, as well as large rolls of paper in a rainbow of colors.

The manager babbled, “We store our barrels toward the rear. They’re easier to move than the crates, you see.”

“Indeed,” Cleo replied repressively.

After one faintly startled glance back at her, the manager hurried on.

Amused—and greatly impressed by her invention of the persona of the haughty Miss Hendon and her execution of the role—Michael leant closer to her and, lowering his head, murmured, “I think I’m in love.”

Even as the words left his lips, as their import registered, something in him seized. He’d meant…

She glanced up, startled.

Almost equally off-balance, he met her wide-eyed gaze and saw the slight shiver she failed to suppress.

And understanding dawned.

She dragged in a tight breath. Her eyes narrowed, and she glared, then she faced forward and swept quickly on in the warehouse manager’s wake.

Leaving Michael…facing the truth.

The words he’d uttered had bypassed his brain. They’d gone from some point deep inside him straight to his lips.

Yet as he followed, more slowly, in Cleo’s wake, it seemed pointless to deny that, unsettling though the realization was, the sentiment he’d expressed was accurate.

Decidedly accurate, and a truth he—his inner self—had, apparently, already embraced.

They finally reached the area toward the rear of the packed warehouse where barrels—not just of gunpowder but also of materials such as fine sand and oil—were stored. He let Cleo and the manager go ahead and started searching. Given the two laborers steadily working in and out of the stacks of goods, he suspected that any barrels left elsewhere in the long building would have been quickly found and moved into the correct area.

The manager started pointing out large barrels to Cleo, the remainders from earlier deliveries of gunpowder, at which she turned up her nose.

Michael scanned all the barrels they passed. Most were smaller. The three he spotted of the right size were stamped and labeled as gypsum. There was no place he could see inside the warehouse walls where barrels might be hidden out of sight.

He caught up to Cleo as the manager was proudly displaying a stack of hundredweight barrels five wide and two high, but there were only four barrels in the upper row.

The manager was consulting his sheets. “We did have twelve. All delivered last Tuesday morning.” The manager looked hopefully at Cleo. “Perhaps you might take these nine, and then you would have only one more to find.”

Cleo didn’t immediately reply. She was peering this way and that at the barrels, then she pointed to a mark on one. “This brand—what does it signify?”

The manager perched a pair of spectacles on his nose, looked, then smiled. “That means these barrels hail from the Camfrey mill down Rochester way. And these”—he pointed to two dates stenciled on the barrel’s side, one above the other—“give the date the barrel was filled and the date we received it. Tuesday last.”

Cleo stood back and regarded the barrels, then turned to the manager. “If we fail to find ten barrels of a more recent delivery, we might come back.”

Michael was standing close again. With an effort of will, she blocked her awareness of his warmth, his strength, and put her mind to sweeping the manager before her, up along the other arm of what had proved to be an elongated horseshoe-shaped path through the warehouse.

She did her best to distract the manager with questions, yet most of her attention was focused behind her—on Michael. A swift glance behind showed he was, indeed, checking the other barrels stacked at the end of the warehouse.

When she and the manager reached the cleared area inside the warehouse doors, she filled the time until Michael joined them by inquiring as to the other warehouses nearby and asking which the manager thought might have received a recent delivery of gunpowder.

Not wanting to lose a potential sale, the manager professed to have no notion.

From the corner of her eye, Cleo saw Michael nearing the end of the path. She pasted on a superior smile and graciously thanked the manager for his time.

The poor man all but deflated as she turned away. With Michael once again assuming his guard’s position at her shoulder, she led the way out of the door and into the lane.

Michael reached past Cleo, opened the carriage door, and handed her up. He followed.

As he sat beside her, she asked, “No other barrels hidden away?”

He shook his head. “The closest I found were four barrels of flash powder. No gunpowder other than the barrels he showed you.” He glanced at her. “But at least we’ve now seen what barrels of gunpowder look like, and that was interesting about the stamp—the brand.”

“Yes. It seems that the barrels we’re after should carry a stamp from some Irish mill.” She glanced briefly his way, but didn’t meet his eyes. “So that’s one warehouse searched.” She peered out of the carriage window. “Should we try the one across the lane next?”

He hesitated, then said, “No. Let’s drive to the end of the lane and check the place down there.” When she arched her brows in question, he explained, “It’s closer to the river and appears to be a more disreputable enterprise. It seems more likely to be the place we’re seeking.”

She sat back. “You mean because it looks run-down, it’s more likely to have been chosen to provide a hiding place for items involved in an illegal plot.” She cast him a distinctly superior look. “I should warn you that in business, more than in any other endeavor, looks can be and often are deceiving.”

He humphed. “Let’s see.”

He leant out and told Tom to drive to where the lane made a dogleg into the area before the riverbank. Tom eased his horse forward and, a minute later, drew up before the front of Wallington’s Warehouse.

Once again, they approached with Cleo in the lead and Michael hovering behind her shoulder. She prayed that, this time, he kept his lips firmly shut. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by silly, ill-considered remarks.

To her relief, he obliged and remained silent as she swept into the warehouse. Outwardly shabby it might be, with its peeling paint and run-down air, but inside—as she had warned him might be so—Wallington’s Warehouse was a hive of well-organized activity.

It was easily three times as busy as the first warehouse; aside from all else, there were two other customers waiting to be served ahead of them. Rather than make any push to be served immediately, she joined the queue and patiently bided her time while both she and Michael surveyed the scene.

Crates and containers of all sizes and shapes were stacked literally to the rafters. Several heavy ladders mounted on wheels were being moved by pairs of men; they positioned the ladders beneath certain stacks, then climbed up and brought down various goods—for the waiting customers in some cases, but to Cleo’s experienced eye, the men also appeared to be filling orders.

This was a warehouse with a large clientele. She suspected the goods they stocked would turn over rapidly—probably too rapidly to allow any barrels to sit undetected for more than a few days.

Michael nudged her shoulder. When she glanced his way, he tipped his head toward the side wall. Cleo looked and saw barrels of the right size to be the ones they were seeking neatly stacked along the wall as far as she could see.

When she finally reached the head of the line, she found herself fronting a raised counter behind which a young woman, neatly dressed and with a pencil perched behind one ear, waited to serve them.

Cleo smiled. Although she trotted out the same tale she’d used at the previous warehouse, she delivered it with much less haughtiness.

The young woman confirmed they supplied gunpowder in hundredweight barrels. However, they brought in only five barrels at a time. When Cleo inquired whether they had any barrels currently available, the young woman—clerk or manager, Cleo didn’t know—consulted her inventory, which was kept in a set of neat ledgers of which Cleo approved. “We had five barrels delivered last Friday, but there’s only three of them left.” The woman glanced commiseratingly at Cleo. “I’m afraid that’s all we have at present, Miss Hendon. We could order more in, but if you’re in a hurry…”

They needed to search for barrels hidden in the warehouse. “Actually,” Cleo said, “would you mind if we examined your barrels? The three of them left? Given our client’s requirements, the only way we might be able to assemble ten barrels quickly is by orders to more than one warehouse.” She glanced at the three people now behind her, waiting to be served, then looked at the young woman, who was very conscious of the queue. “We’re happy to look at the barrels ourselves.” Cleo pointed to the side wall. “They’re just down there, I take it?”

The young woman looked relieved. “Yes, they are. And if you don’t mind, Miss Hendon, that would be a great help. I’ll be here if you need any further information or wish to purchase the barrels.”

With a nod, Cleo stepped away from the counter. With Michael at her shoulder, she walked to the side wall and down the narrow avenue that ran parallel to it, leading deeper into the building. Although most of the barrels along the wall were of other goods—flash powder and different types of mineral sands presumably used in manufacturing fireworks or explosives—they found the three barrels of gunpowder easily enough. Tipping her head to one side, she read, “The Rochford Mill, Gravesend.”

She stood and pondered the barrels, while Michael strode swiftly down the narrow avenue.

He returned in just a few minutes. When she looked at him, his expression set, he shook his head. “Other than what’s along this wall, there are no barrels anywhere.” He glanced around. “This place is so neat, they would stand out like…” He looked at her and improvised, “Masts on a ship.”

A smile much like a smirk curving her lips, she refrained from saying “I told you so” and headed for the door.

As she drew level with the counter, she saw the young woman farewelling the last of the previously waiting customers. Although two others were approaching, Cleo paused to say, “I noticed you sell bunting.” The customer who had been before her had left with a large parcel of crepe-paper ribbon. “We use quite a lot when our ships are involved in celebrations. I’ll let my head clerk know we can purchase more from Wallington’s.”

The young woman beamed; getting an order, any order, from the Hendon Shipping Company, certainly in this area, would be something of a coup. “Thank you, miss. I’ll be sure to warn my father to look out for it.”

Happy to have made the day of another young woman working in a family-run business, Cleo smiled and led the way out into Morgan’s Lane. “Well,” she said, pausing to resettle her gloves, “that leaves the warehouse in the middle.”

Halting beside her, Michael looked to where the largest of the three warehouses squatted midway down the lane on the opposite side. With its solid fence and iron-railing gates protecting the inner yard and the doors to the warehouse, it was the most impressive of the three establishments, but having now seen the activity behind the peeling façade of Wallington’s, he had to admit that business-wise, appearances could, indeed, be deceptive.

He glanced down to find Cleo regarding him quizzically. “Let’s walk while Tom turns the carriage.”

After instructing Tom to turn the carriage in the open area by the river and then follow them to the warehouse, Michael took Cleo’s arm, and together, they picked their way over the cobbles across the street and walked on to the larger warehouse.

They reached the gates, now standing open, as Tom drew the carriage to a halt beside them. Michael glanced at Tom. “Wait here.” Then he looked at Cleo. “Shall we?”

She smiled and swept into the yard.

The doors to the huge warehouse were propped wide, but a sign directed them to enquire at the office, and an arrow below pointed toward the low building that filled the space between the warehouse and the front fence on the left side of the yard. A sign declaring the building to be the “Office” was fixed to the wall by the door. Two drays were pulled up on the opposite side of the yard, and several men trooped back and forth from the warehouse, loading small crates and parcels. Both drays bore signs identifying them as the property of one of the city’s fireworks manufactories.

Michael paused for a second, taking in the activity, then lengthened his stride and caught up with Cleo as she made for the office door. He reached around her and opened it, and she walked in, head high, the haughty Miss Hendon to the fore.

The sight that met their eyes stopped them both in their tracks.

There were two customers heatedly arguing with two clerks over the raised counter. Farther back, in the area behind the counter, another older clerk and a red-faced man, rather better dressed than the three clerks, were conferring in frustrated and exasperated tones. Taking in the scene, with a hand at her back, Michael eased Cleo forward and to the side of the somewhat crowded area before the counter. When he pulled the door shut behind them, a bell tinkled, and the older clerk and the harassed-looking man glanced up.

Both blinked; the sight of Cleo and Michael, dressed as they were, was guaranteed to make the heart of any merchant in that area leap, and so it proved. The red-faced man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow, then, tucking the handkerchief away, he came forward. “Yes, ma’am? How may we help you?”

Cleo introduced herself and repeated the tale of her client in Jamaica; this time, Michael noticed, although she wasn’t as friendly as she had been with the woman at Wallington’s and her delivery remained reserved and precise, she didn’t assume any arrogant, haughty, or demanding attitude—judging, no doubt, that the harassed-looking man needed no further drama.

In that, she’d guessed correctly. When she reached her summation—her requirement for ten barrels of gunpowder, recently delivered and in excellent condition—the man groped for his handkerchief again. Then he realized where he was and to whom he was speaking and, with an attempt at dignity, offered Cleo a small bow. “Miss Hendon, we would be honored to fulfill your order…” The man’s gaze slid to the older clerk, who had followed him and stood nearby. “Indeed, I daresay we can, but you see”—he looked at Cleo almost pleadingly—“my foreman has failed to arrive, and we’re rather at sixes and sevens.”

Michael closed his fingers around Cleo’s elbow and lightly pressed, but she’d already realized; from the corner of his eye, he saw her open her eyes wide.

“Your foreman has failed to arrive? Where had he gone?”

“That’s just it, miss. He shouldn’t be anywhere else. Not to put too fine a point on it, he appears to have vanished.” He hurried to add, “Not that I hire any wastrels here, which only makes this all the more puzzling. Ellis”—he indicated the older clerk—“called me as soon as he arrived, and the gates and the warehouse were still locked. I’m the owner—Mr. Shepherd at your service, miss.” He bobbed again. “But as to the foreman, we’ve no idea what’s happened to the man, but of course, to you that’s neither here nor there.”

“Indeed.” Apparently deciding that searching for their ten barrels took priority over learning more about the missing foreman, Cleo fixed Ellis with a commanding eye. “I’m sure your inventory will allow you to show me all the barrels of gunpowder you have in stock.”

“It will?” Shepherd turned a questioning look on his clerk.

Ellis nodded. “Indeed, sir. If you’ll just allow me to find the lists…?”

Shepherd waved him off. Ellis scurried toward the rear of the office and pulled out a drawer in a cabinet. In less than a minute, he returned, waving two sheets. “These are the recent deliveries, sir—over the past two weeks.”

Ellis proffered the lists. Before Shepherd could take them, Cleo reached over the counter and plucked the sheets from the clerk’s fingers. “Perfect.” She scanned the pages; Michael glanced at them over her shoulder, then left her to it.

Eventually, she raised her gaze from the lines of tiny writing and smiled at Shepherd. “You appear to have quite a large stock of hundredweight barrels, Mr. Shepherd—exactly what we’re looking for. But I will need to inspect them.” With the lists, she waved toward the warehouse. “If we may?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Hendon.” Shepherd was only too ready to fall in with her suggestion. He peeked at the lists she still held. “I’m fairly certain I can locate our stock of gunpowder.”

With an encouraging nod, she gestured him on.

Shepherd led them into the courtyard just as one of the two drays pulled out of the gate.

The two men who had helped load it saw Shepherd and stopped. “Sir?” one asked.

Shepherd waved them to the other dray. “You continue with that. I’ll take care of this.”

“Aye, sir.” The men trooped back into the warehouse, heading down the far alley of the three that led into the depths of the huge building.

Shepherd led them down the middle alley; as at Wallington’s, crates, parcels, packages, and containers of all sorts were piled to the rafters. Michael spied many smaller barrels, but Shepherd led them on toward the rear of the vast space, to where another path ran across the warehouse, joining the ends of the three long alleys.

“Here we are.” Shepherd turned and halted before a quite shocking number of hundredweight barrels of gunpowder. The stacked barrels filled the rear-facing space between the ends of two of the long alleys.

Cleo consulted the inventory, then looked at the towering pile. “According to your inventory, you have twenty-eight barrels here.”

Shepherd was rapidly counting. “That seems to be the case.” He looked quite pleased. “We have an excellent relationship with a number of mills. I’m sure some of these will meet your client’s needs.”

Cleo studied the barrels. “Let’s see if we can identify which came from where and when.”

Michael stood to one side and watched as, under her direction, Shepherd verified the brand and dates stamped on every barrel.

When Shepherd reached the last barrel and turned to them in something akin to triumph, Cleo met Michael’s eyes. “So all the barrels delivered last week arrived on Tuesday or on Thursday, regular shipments from the normal mills, and all those barrels are present and accounted for.”

Michael held her gaze. Had they got it wrong? Had Doolan delivered the barrels somewhere else?

But if he had, why was this warehouse’s foreman mysteriously missing?

Coincidence?

Michael shifted closer to Cleo, lowered his head, and whispered, “Keep him busy. I’m going to search.”

She nodded infinitesimally and turned to Shepherd. “I would also like to look at some fuses. I assume they’re nearby?”

“Yes, indeed.” Shepherd stepped back and ushered her up the right-hand alley. “They’re this way. We have quite a selection…”

Michael turned and scanned the stacks of goods. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Lips tightening, he surveyed all he could see, trying to spot suitable places where ten barrels might be hidden. This warehouse was enormous, but most of the stacked containers—crates, parcels, packages, drums, tins, and the like—were too small and varied to easily conceal ten barrels.

Except for the rear wall; it was covered in widely spaced shelving on which were stacked open crates of tarpaulins of every size, color, and weight.

He started at one corner, poking and peering behind the stacked material. When he came to a heavy tarpaulin draped over some crates, he flicked it back—and there they were.

The barrels—all ten of them—were lined up beneath a shelf in the middle of the rear wall, concealed behind the heavy tarpaulin which had been artfully arranged to look as though it was covering nothing more than more crates of tarpaulins.

Michael stared at the barrels, then he let the tarpaulin fall and walked to the end of the alley into which Cleo had gone. She and Shepherd were a little way along, examining fuses of various sorts. “Miss Hendon?”

Cleo’s head snapped up, and she looked at him. “Yes?”

“It was ten barrels you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” She was already poking the fuses back onto the shelf.

“In that case, you might want to take a look at these other barrels.”

Shepherd frowned. “What other barrels?”

Cleo strode swiftly down the alley. Shepherd, puzzled, trotted behind her.

Michael walked back to the barrels, once more concealed. When Cleo and Shepherd joined him, he reached down, gripped the tarpaulin’s corner, flung the covering back, and waved to the barrels. “Ten. All from the same source.”

Cleo immediately crouched and checked the brand and the date stamp.

Shepherd’s eyes had grown round; they threatened to pop from his head. “But—but…I have no idea where these barrels come from. I don’t recognize that brand, and there’s no date for arrival into the warehouse.” He fished out the sheets of inventory Cleo had returned to him. In a furious flurry, he searched through the pages. “These barrels are not on our inventory.”

“No matter.” Cleo straightened and met Michael’s eyes, then she turned to Shepherd. “These barrels are from an Irish mill, quite a good one. We’d had word that such a shipment had been brought into London last week, and we’ve been trying to find anything half as good. I’m so glad we’ve located these—I know these barrels will be just perfect for our client’s needs.”

“Yes, but…” Shepherd stared at her; he wanted to make the sale, yet wasn’t sure he could. “I have no idea how these barrels came to be here.” He looked down at the pages in his hands. “There has to be a supplier…”

“Indeed.” Cleo gently took the pages from Shepherd, straightened them, then folded them and handed them back to him. “I suspect you’ll discover your errant foreman accepted the barrels and forgot to note them down. No doubt the supplier will eventually invoice you, and then you’ll know to whom to pass on the payment. Meanwhile, Hendon Shipping will take these barrels off your hands, and you can sit on the payment until whoever you owe it to claims it.”

Shepherd blinked.

Cleo took the man’s arm and inexorably turned him back up the central alley. “Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’ll have one of our gunners stop by and check the contents for quality.”

Michael took a last look at the barrels, then flicked the tarpaulin down. He checked the barrels were once more concealed, then followed Cleo and Shepherd.

He caught up with them in time to hear Cleo say, “Now, you will put a firm hold on those barrels for Hendon Shipping, won’t you?”

Shepherd was still blinking, but Michael wasn’t surprised to hear him reply, “Of course, Miss Hendon. I’ll let Ellis and the others know.”

“Excellent! Now”—Cleo glanced at Michael while smoothly continuing to Shepherd—“just when did your foreman disappear?”

“We haven’t seen him since he closed up on Wednesday,” Shepherd replied. “I hoped he’d be here this morning, but no…”

Wednesday. Michael met Cleo’s eyes. The foreman had been here to accept the barrels, then once he’d left the warehouse…

Cleo refocused on Shepherd. “Could I trouble you for your foreman’s name and address? We’d like to check, just in case he’s ill. He might be able to tell us from which supplier those barrels came.”

Shepherd eyed her for an instant, as if he was starting to suspect that something was seriously amiss. Then he licked his lips and waved toward the office. “Ellis has the address, but we have sent around, of course. His wife says she hasn’t seen him since he left for work on Wednesday morning…but maybe you, being a woman, will have better luck with her.”

They all returned to the office. Shepherd directed Ellis to supply the name and address of the foreman, then brightened as he informed his clerks of the hold the Hendon Shipping Company had placed on the ten barrels of gunpowder sitting along the rear wall.

From the blank looks on Ellis’s and the other two clerks’ faces, they had no knowledge of the ten mysterious barrels, either.

Ellis handed Michael a folded piece of paper carrying the foreman’s name and address.

Cleo thanked Ellis and farewelled Shepherd, then Michael ushered her from the office and shut the door behind them.

They walked to the gates and halted.

Cleo nodded at the paper. “What’s his name, and where does he live?”

Michael unfolded the scrap, read, and felt his lips tighten. “He lives in Webb Street, which I assume is not far away—Tom will know.” He drew in a long breath. “And as for the man’s name—he’s an O’Toole.”

Cleo’s brows rose. “Another Irishman.”

“So it seems.” He waved her to the carriage and followed.