Michael was still sunk in sleep when the sound of a brief tap at the door penetrated the pleasurable fog shrouding his mind.

His senses immediately informed him that Cleo still lay snuggled, safe and warm, by his side.

He raised his lids; squinting over the tousled red-gold mass of Cleo’s curls, he saw the bedroom door open.

Even as Michael tensed, Drake swanned in, his gaze downcast as he settled the sleeves of the coat he’d apparently just shrugged on. “Get up, you lazy beggar. If I’m awake, so should you be, and”—Drake halted and raised his gaze—“I understand you have something urgent—”

Drake’s gaze collided with Michael’s—over the top of the rounded, coverlet-covered lump that was Cleo, now shaking as, having woken and realized what was happening, she tried to control her laughter. Sensibly, she kept her head down.

“Ah.” Drake blinked rather owlishly. Then he swung on his heel and headed for the door. “Obviously, I didn’t see what I just saw.” He reached for the doorknob. “When you’re ready to emerge, I’ll be downstairs.”

He walked out and closed the door—gently—behind him.

Cleo raised her head and looked at Michael, hilarity bright in her eyes.

He met her gaze—and started to laugh.

So did she.

They rolled onto their backs and laughed uncontrollably, in Cleo’s case, until tears slid from the corners of her eyes. “Oh,” she eventually gasped. “What a way to meet the man. And we’ve not even been properly introduced.”

Michael was still struggling to rein in his laughter. “You didn’t see his face.” The memory temporarily robbed him of speech. When he regained control, he managed to get out, “I’ve never in all my life seen him so blank-faced with astonishment. If we’d taken a club to his head, he couldn’t have looked more stunned.”

Gradually, although amusement lingered, the impulse to laugh faded. Her lips still curved, Cleo met his eyes. “I suppose we’d better get up and face the day.”

Michael searched her eyes and saw her understanding that, for them, today would not simply be a continuation of their yesterdays. Today would be the first day of their future, the day that would usher in their tomorrows.

Through the events of the night, both in Southwark and there in Grosvenor Square, they’d acknowledged the power that now linked them by word and by deed, yet neither of them had uttered the critical word; they hadn’t put a name to that power.

He found her hand amid the rumpled sheets; he raised it to his lips and, holding her gaze, pressed a lingering kiss to her fingers. “I haven’t yet stated this, but regardless of whatever today and our tomorrows bring, I love you. And I always will.”

Cleo hadn’t needed to hear the words, but was grateful nonetheless. She smiled with all the joy welling in her heart and replied, “And I love you—now and forever.”

After a second during which they gazed besottedly at each other, she inwardly sighed, forced herself to glance briefly at the door, then returned her gaze to his eyes. “And given we routed Winchelsea, clearly, together, we’ll be able to handle anything life throws our way.”

Michael chuckled, kissed her soundly, then rose from the bed. “Come on—we shouldn’t keep the man waiting.”

Cleo grinned. She lay relaxed for a moment, cataloging the odd twinges and savoring the strange sense of contentment that permeated her body all the way to her bones. Until the past few days, she hadn’t understood the attraction of physical intimacy—had never understood why other ladies seemed to lose their heads over the activity. Now, however, she had to own to being completely won over—to the extent of wondering why she’d taken so long… Her gaze had fixed on Michael as, untroubled by his nakedness as men usually were, he’d walked across to the washstand. And there lay her answer. She hadn’t, until the past few days, met him—the critical factor. For her, intimacy wouldn’t be the glory it was without him.

She spent a moment reflecting on that, then, smiling still, rolled to her side of the bed. After sliding from beneath the covers, she hunted for and found her chemise.

They used yesterday’s chilly water to wash, which, aside from anything else, had the benefit of rendering them fully awake.

She needed his help with her corset; his nimble fingers made short work of her laces, testifying to his experience in that arena, which only left her feeling even more smug at the thought that she—Cleo Hendon, the unmarriageable businesswoman—had succeeded where all those other ladies had failed.

Of course, her gold satin lady-of-the-night gown wasn’t what she would have chosen to make her first appearance as Michael’s fiancée, but when she mentioned it, he pointed out that once Drake or anyone else learned the purpose of her disguise, they would appreciate and, indeed, approve of her appearance.

Once they were dressed and she’d reanchored her curls in a passable knot, he offered her his arm. His gaze captured hers as she laid her hand on his sleeve. “Are you ready to face whatever comes?”

She smiled. “As long as you’re by my side.”

He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers, set her hand on his sleeve, and together, they walked to the door.

As they left the room, Cleo recalled her thought of the small hours—that the act of intimacy was the greatest adventure that would ever come her way.

But that wasn’t and wouldn’t be so; what lay before them would trump even that.

Marriage, with all its many facets, would be the greatest, most consuming, most rewarding adventure of their lives.

With her head high and her gaze firmly fixed on their joint future, on Michael’s arm, she descended the stairs.

---

Hamilton came into the front hall just as they reached the bottom of the stairs; he led them to the breakfast parlor.

Drake, seated at the head of the table, rose. His gaze on Cleo, he bowed. “Miss Hendon, I believe?”

Her hand on Michael’s arm, Cleo curtsied. “Lord Winchelsea.”

Drake met her gaze as she straightened and smiled wryly. “Please, just Drake. After our earlier encounter, that seems more appropriate.”

Calmly, Michael stated, “Cleo has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

Drake’s smile was genuine, if faintly amused. “Congratulations to you both.” He shook hands with Michael, then claimed Cleo’s hand and bowed elegantly over it. Releasing her, he glanced at Michael. “So another Cynster falls courtesy of this mission. Your parents should be pleased with me.”

Michael grinned. “I’m sure Mama will be in touch with your mother to convey her appreciation.”

Drake sent him a mock-sour look, then waved them to the well-stocked sideboard. “I daresay you both have an appetite. Do join me.”

Michael couldn’t stop grinning. He glanced at Cleo and, at her nod, led her to the sideboard. Once they’d served themselves from the array of chafing dishes, Hamilton seated them beside each other on Drake’s right, then inquired whether they wished tea and coffee. On being informed they did, he departed to fetch fresh pots.

Drake looked up from his plate, fixed an inquiring gaze on them both, and arched his brows.

Michael sobered and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the front doorbell cut him off. The peal was followed by voices in the hall. Seconds later, Sebastian ushered Antonia into the room.

Michael and Drake rose, as did Cleo.

Drake murmured, “I sent for them. I thought they’d want to hear all we’ve discovered.”

Smoothly, Michael introduced Cleo to Antonia and then Sebastian.

Sebastian clapped Michael on the shoulder and smiled welcomingly at Cleo. “I understand you’ve been Michael’s partner in this mission.”

Cleo inclined her head and cast a glance at Michael.

The moment was too good to pass up; he took her hand and faced his brother. “As I’ve just told Drake, Cleo and I have decided to extend our partnership into wider fields, including marriage. You three are the first to know.” He looked pointedly at Sebastian and Antonia. “And that also means you two had better hurry things along, because we”—he glanced at Cleo and smiled with prideful intent—“are prepared to wait only so long before fronting the altar ourselves.”

“Wonderful!” Antonia stepped forward and hugged Cleo with transparent warmth and undeniable delight. “It will be a relief to have someone with whom to share the inevitable ton limelight.”

Despite her smile, Cleo managed to pull a face. “I’m not sure about the limelight. I rather fancy dodging it as much as possible.”

“That’s a dream unlikely to come true.” As Antonia turned to Michael, Drake met Cleo’s eyes and smiled warmly. “Again, my very real felicitations, Miss Hendon.”

She smiled back. “Please, just Cleo.”

Still smiling, Drake inclined his head. His gaze shifted to Michael, currently accepting Sebastian’s and Antonia’s wishes, along with what appeared to be a ribbing; lowering his voice, Drake said, “He’s a good man.”

“He is.” Cleo waited until Drake’s strangely penetrating—almost piercing—golden gaze returned to her face to state, “And a warning for the future—he and I will always be a team.”

Drake’s smile faded. “Antonia informed me of much the same thing. I’m unsure if that means my list of agents has expanded or contracted.”

Cleo arched her brows. “I suspect that will depend on the missions—and on you.”

“Hmm.” Drake moved aside as Sebastian came to congratulate Cleo.

Grinning delightedly, Sebastian squeezed her fingers, then bent his head and kissed her cheek. “I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am.” He released her and glanced at Michael. “At least now someone else will be there to keep him in line.”

Michael made a scoffing sound, but as his gaze returned to Cleo’s face, he smiled and didn’t disagree.

Drake had returned to the head of the table. “Perhaps,” he said, pulling out his chair, “we should get back to the business that brings us all here.”

Cleo and Michael returned to their places, while Sebastian seated Antonia opposite Cleo, then took the next chair along, the one opposite Michael.

Hamilton arrived with a large pot of coffee and another of tea. After pouring cups of tea for the ladies and setting a rack of fresh toast between them, he poured cups of coffee for the three men, then glanced at Drake.

Drake nodded. “Thank you, Hamilton. That will be all for the moment.”

Hamilton bowed and withdrew. The door quietly shut behind him.

“Right then.” Drake set down his coffee cup. He looked at Michael and Cleo. “What have you two learned?”

They shared the honors, allowing one of them to eat while the other spoke. Michael started, reminding everyone that his task had been to find the missing gunpowder. After he’d related how that had led him to Cleo, she took over, explaining the existence of the Worshipful Company of Carmen and the register of carters and carts. Between them, they described their pursuit of the fourteen carters registered to move gunpowder, culminating in the discovery that a carter named Terry Doolan and his apprentice had fetched the barrels from Kent, delivered them to a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane, and then disappeared.

Michael explained how he’d exploited family connections at Scotland Yard and, through them, confirmed that the bodies of Doolan and his apprentice had been pulled from the river, and that they’d been murdered, most likely soon after delivering the barrels to the warehouse.

“Doolan,” Drake murmured. “I assume he was Irish. Did he have any connection to the Young Irelanders?”

“Possibly a sympathizer,” Michael replied. “But no one knew him to be actively involved.”

Michael outlined the situation they found in Morgan’s Lane, with the three warehouses that might have taken in the barrels, and went on to describe the cordon of men he’d subsequently placed around the area to guard against the barrels being moved.

Cleo stepped in before he mentioned her appearance as a lad and leapt ahead to give a condensed version of how they had called at the three warehouses. “When we walked into the third warehouse, the one midway down the lane, we discovered the office in chaos because the foreman hadn’t been sighted since Wednesday—the day on which the barrels were brought into London and, as we later confirmed, stored at that warehouse.”

Michael flicked a glance at Drake, then looked across the table at Sebastian. “The dead bodies are piling up. I’m sure we’ll discover O’Toole, the foreman, among their number. Along with a few more besides. O’Toole was an Irishman, but again, not known to be actively involved with the Young Irelanders. In his case, he’s left a young family to which it seemed he was devoted.”

Her expression set, Cleo nodded. “He wouldn’t have left his family, so it seems likely he, too, has been murdered.” She drew in a breath, then continued, describing how they’d gone into Shepherd’s warehouse and found the barrels sitting under a tarpaulin along the rear wall.

Drake’s eyes opened wide. “So you’ve found them?”

Michael exchanged a grim glance with Cleo. “Yes, but they’ve vanished again.”

“What?” came from three throats.

Michael sipped his coffee, then pushed away his empty plate, sat back, and, step by step, detailed the events of the past twenty-four hours. He explained how Cleo had put a commercial hold on the barrels—and what that meant—but that a rider with two carts driven by two men who weren’t gunpowder carters had turned up close to midnight. This time, he didn’t shy from describing Cleo’s presence in the lane.

“Ah.” Drake nodded. “That’s why you’re dressed as you are. I did wonder at your…sartorial elegance.” Approval glimmered in his eyes, and in Sebastian’s.

Blushing slightly, Cleo lightly shrugged. Across the table, she met Antonia’s gaze. “Men always disregard women, and a lady of the night proved to be a sight none of the men involved thought particularly noteworthy.”

Her eyes met Michael’s, and he smothered a grunt; at least she hadn’t mentioned that he hadn’t recognized her until later. He quickly resumed his recitation of events. After explaining what happened once the barrels had been loaded and the carts had moved off again, surprising them all by going in what they’d deemed the wrong direction, he admitted, “If Cleo hadn’t been there, closer to the end of Morgan’s Lane and on the same side as the lane the carts took, as I couldn’t reach the corner in time, we would have lost sight of the carts and barrels at that point. But because Cleo was there, we know the carts went at least partway up Black Lion Court, but the court opens into a veritable maze, and where they went after that, we don’t know, because”—he broke off to draw in a deep breath; just thinking about what had happened next still made him tense—“we ended up tangling with the man directing the carts—the rider.”

Drake regarded them impassively. “Am I to take it his is the dead body currently residing in one of the outhouses?”

Michael nodded. Briefly, he ran through the action from the moment the rider had seized Cleo.

“A cavalry saber!” Sebastian exclaimed. “Was he a cavalry officer?”

Michael shook his head. “Other than the sword, and him knowing how to use it, there was nothing to say he was. However, it’s certainly possible that he was in the cavalry at some time in the past.”

“I checked the body,” Drake said. “He was older than us by at least a few years, so yes, that’s entirely possible.”

Michael briefly outlined the fight. Sebastian and Antonia hung on his words. At the head of the table, Drake listened with hooded eyes.

When Michael came to the point of the rider drawing a pistol, he blandly added, “I did the same. His shot went wide—mine didn’t.”

Cleo turned her head to look at him and smoothly added, “I had my revolver—I shot him, too. And I didn’t miss, either.”

Drake’s lips curved slightly. “That explains why our villain has two bullet holes in his chest, entering from two very different angles.” He met Cleo’s, then Michael’s eyes. “For the record, either shot would have proved fatal.”

Both Cleo and Michael grimaced.

Drake continued imperturbably, “While it would have been nice to have captured the man alive, I suspect that was never on the cards. Given how indefatigable our villains have been in silencing all possible sources of information about this plot, I seriously doubt our rider would have allowed himself to be taken alive. And even if we’d managed that feat, he wouldn’t have talked.” Drake’s features hardened. “As I think we all agree, there’s a clock ticking somewhere in the background, and there’s only so much time before this mission ends—one way or another. This man, I suspect, was of the inner circle. He would have known that—known he only had to keep quiet for just so many days, and his group, whoever they are, would succeed.”

After a moment of considering that prospect, Drake looked at Michael. “So what happened with the carts?”

Michael explained how the carts had vanished into the fog and described their subsequent search. “All futile, I’m afraid.”

“But it’s not a complete loss,” Drake said. “Although you lost sight of the carts, we know the barrels are still within a specific area of Southwark, and you have men keeping a close watch over the borders of that area.”

Michael glanced at Sebastian. “It’s the footman army—they won’t let anything escape them.”

“Good thinking,” Sebastian said. “I can’t imagine that our plotters’ intended target is in that area.” He shifted his gaze to Drake. “Which means we—or rather, the plotters—are still at least one step away from the gunpowder being used.”

Slowly, Drake nodded. “I agree. So we have at least a little time yet, and a decent hope of preventing the eventual deployment of the barrels.” He sat straighter. “And losing one of their number—a number that, I’m certain, won’t have been large to begin with—will have thrown a spanner in their works. It’ll take them at least a few extra days to sort themselves out—possibly even to realize the rider is missing, let alone dead.”

Antonia looked at Cleo. “You said all carts were registered. Is there any way of tracing the carts used to take the barrels from the warehouse?”

“Carters’ carts are registered, but the two carts used were drays…” Cleo paused.

“What?” Michael asked as she stared into space.

“I think,” she eventually said, “indeed, I’m fairly sure that the carts, which, incidentally, were definitely drays—they had lower sides and backs—might well have been brewers’ drays.” She glanced at Michael. “There are several breweries in that area, aren’t there?”

He grimaced. “Yes, but there’s no saying, even if those carts were brewery drays from one or other of those breweries, that the brewery was the destination for the barrels.”

“Given how busy brewery yards are, that’s unlikely,” Drake said. “The risk of the gunpowder being discovered would be unacceptably high.” He glanced at Antonia. “I can’t imagine any way of identifying a dray that’s been used to move barrels of gunpowder, not once the barrels are no longer on it.” He looked at Michael. “We’re more likely to discover the men involved—the drivers—by trawling the morgues.”

Grimly, Michael nodded. “I’ll speak to the officers at Scotland Yard and ask to be informed of any unidentified bodies they pull from the river. That seems to be these villains’ preferred method of disposal.”

Drake humphed. He leant his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. After a moment of staring down the table, he said, “So the barrels are somewhere in that area. Could we mount an effective search?”

“We searched the streets and all accessible yards and found nothing,” Michael said. “But as for searching the buildings…the area’s exceedingly densely populated. Ten barrels of gunpowder could be hidden in a single room, or in an outbuilding, warehouse, stable, cellar—the possibilities are endless. You would need to turn people into the streets and go through the entire area with the equivalent of a fine-toothed comb. You’d need a regiment to do it, and the populace might well riot.”

Drake grimaced. “I thought you’d say that.” He stirred, then straightened. “So searching for the barrels is out, and looking for the carts isn’t likely to get us anywhere.” He looked around the table. “Where does that leave us?”

Frowning at the tablecloth, Sebastian tapped a finger on it. “One question—why have they bothered to move the barrels at all?” He glanced at Michael. “Shepherd’s warehouse was a relatively safe location, at least for some time. Why not leave the barrels there? Yet they’ve moved them, but only a short distance. As far as I can see, that move wasn’t occasioned by anything we did—they didn’t know you were close, that you’d discovered the barrels. They didn’t know you were watching.” He looked at Drake. “Moving the barrels from Shepherd’s warehouse to somewhere else in that warren has to be a part of their careful plans. But why?”

A silent second elapsed, then Cleo lowered her teacup and sighed. “It’s possible someone—the rider, for instance—inquired at the warehouse yesterday afternoon, much as we did, just to make sure all was well with the barrels. The staff would have informed him that someone had put a commercial hold on the lot—and he would then have known he had to move the barrels quickly to some other spot.” She glanced at Michael, then looked at Drake. “Our interest in the barrels might have caused them to be moved.”

Drake weighed the notion, then shook his head decisively. “No. In order to have discovered your hold on the barrels, for no reason he could have known, he would have had to show his face—which is something these people have thus far been very careful to avoid—and, more, admit to an interest in gunpowder and those barrels in particular, specifically calling attention to barrels that, as far as he knew, no one left at the warehouse was aware existed, which was the whole point of secretly delivering the barrels into the warehouse, then removing the foreman. The rider knew the gunpowder was there—there was no reason for him to break with their careful habits and call attention to the hoard, and risk being identifiably associated with it. On those grounds alone, I can’t see him making inquiries and learning about your interest.

“But on top of that, these people do not move quickly—their cautiousness and deliberation have remained unwavering. Every little step in their plot has been carefully crafted and planned well in advance. For the rider to have learned of your interference in the afternoon, and by night, have organized two suitable carts with drivers prepared to work in secret and transport the barrels to some new place he’d organized…that would constitute a massive change from their modus operandi to date. At no time have they moved quickly. They haven’t changed plans. They’ve never moved without very carefully choosing the people to draw into their plot.” Again, Drake shook his head, if anything even more decisively. “No—Sebastian’s right. Moving the barrels last night featured in their plans all along. And therefore, it tells us something, if only we can figure out what.”

Another silence descended. This time, Michael broke it. “The carts rolled on.” He met Cleo’s eyes. “Even though, when all was said and done, we remained with the rider in the lane for ten or more minutes, the drivers didn’t come back to ask which way to go. And when we searched the lanes an hour or so later, we didn’t find the drivers or anyone else searching for the rider.”

Slowly, Cleo nodded. “It was all arranged—the drivers knew where they were going. The rider didn’t need to tell them anything else. Not that night.”

“Perhaps,” Antonia said, “that’s why the barrels are still in the area. With the rider gone, no one knows where next to send them.”

They all pondered that scenario. Eventually, Drake said, “We can but hope. That might give us a few more days, but eventually, whoever is ultimately directing this plot will realize they’ve lost the rider, and they’ll send in someone else.”

He paused, then went on, “That the barrels are currently somewhere in that area of Southwark means we still have a chance to follow them on. However, I have to admit that I’m growing uneasy over continuing with that tack. Given the proximity to so many potential targets, the next stage is likely to encompass moving the gunpowder into its final position…” He grimaced. “We’ll have only one more chance to intercept the barrels and catch the plotters—or at least learn enough to identify them. Time, indeed, is running out.”

Drake sat back and looked at Michael. “Can you keep your army of watchers in place?”

“At this time of year, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Drake drummed his fingers on the table, then glanced around at the others. “No matter how tight a watch we keep on the area, we have to accept that there’s a finite possibility that the gunpowder will be disguised in some fashion and successfully moved on to the target. These people have planned carefully, and so far, they’ve planned well.” He paused, then frowned. “This is such an abnormal plot, I can’t feel confident in predicting how it will unfold. However”—his tone grew more definite—“I don’t believe we should rely on foiling the plot purely through keeping an eye on that area of Southwark.”

Sebastian grunted. “So what did you learn up north? Any clues there?”

Drake’s expression turned grim. “It’s as I suspected—whoever is behind this plot, it’s not the Chartists. I spoke to O’Connor. He swore that after ’48, the movement had committed to pursuing its agenda by entirely peaceful, law-abiding means.”

Michael snorted. “He’s a politician now. Of course, he would say that.”

Drake inclined his head. “True. But in this case, he wasn’t lying. He all but tripped over his own feet to give me an introduction to London’s Chartist militia leaders and invited—nay, encouraged—me to contact them.” Drake sipped from his coffee cup, then lowered it. “Which I will do, but more on that anon. So that was O’Connor, but given I was up there, I scouted around among the general membership. I heard a lot of mutterings from the more militant members, but nothing of the ilk of using gunpowder to blow something up in London. Erecting a barricade and making a noise in the local town square is more their plane of operations.”

He looked down at his coffee cup, cradled between his hands. “I weighed things up and decided it was worth rolling the dice and making contact with the other Chartist leaders. O’Connor might be the head, but the others are still there and are rather better connected with the general ranks. They know me as a local—and therefore know enough to suspect that I might have the Home Secretary’s ear.” Drake’s lips twisted cynically. “That said, they have a fairly realistic view of their organization’s standing, and I hoped—believed—that in a matter like this, they would tell me the truth.”

He looked up and met the others’ gazes. “And I think they did, as far as they knew it. They denied—vociferously and with convincing force—that the organization had any involvement in a gunpowder plot in London or anywhere else. However, I got the distinct impression that they were uneasy over speaking for the London militia, and they, too, urged me to use O’Connor’s introduction.”

“So,” Michael said, “although the heads of the Chartist movement haven’t authorized any such plot, they acknowledge there’s a possibility Chartists from London might be involved?”

Drake nodded. “From what we already know, someone very clever has used Young Irelander sympathizers as foot soldiers in the first phase of this plot—namely for purchasing, transporting, and secreting the gunpowder in London. I suspect that the next phase—which I assume involves facilitating the deployment of the gunpowder to the target and possibly even detonating the stuff—is slated to be performed by members of London’s Chartist militia, under the guidance of the plotters, of course. However, the militia members will believe their orders are coming from O’Connor and the committee in the north.”

Drake drained his coffee cup, then set it down. “I’ll approach the local militia leaders, but I suspect that will get us nowhere, at least not quickly—not in time. If, as we suspect, the local leaders have allowed themselves and their members to be drawn into this…once they learn it isn’t an approved plot and they’ve been hoodwinked, the implications of ten barrels of gunpowder is so serious, they will be far more likely to deny all knowledge rather than assist me and risk being blamed and bringing the movement, O’Connor and all, crashing down.” Drake shook his head. “Despite talking to me being in their best interests, I expect to get nothing more from them than horrified stares followed—a few seconds too late—by protestations of complete and utter innocence. At least at first.”

Sebastian pulled a face. “Given the government’s heavy-handed response last time, in their place, we’d probably do the same.”

Drake humphed. “Which, again, testifies to the cleverness of whoever is behind this damned plot. You can see it, can’t you? If the plot succeeds and something major is blown up, there will be public outrage, and everyone will be searching for a scapegoat. And of course, once the gunpowder blows, it won’t be so hard to trace the plot backward—first to the Chartists, if, as we think, they’re the ones involved in this second stage, and subsequently to the Young Irelanders who brought the gunpowder into London.” He paused, then his lips quirked in reluctant, if grim, acknowledgment. “It’s ingenious, really. There will be so much outcry and fury, all directed at the Chartists and Young Irelanders, that no one will think of looking for who actually directed the plot.”

“Whoever they are,” Antonia dryly remarked, “it appears they bear no love for the Chartists or the Young Irelanders.”

“True.” Drake tipped his head her way. “And that’s something, ultimately, to bear in mind. But for now…”

When he didn’t immediately continue, Cleo crisply stated, “For now, as of this hour, we have ten hundredweight of gunpowder that’s gone to ground, so to speak, in a circumscribed area of Southwark. And we know that the instructions directing this plot aren’t coming from either of the obvious suspects, namely the Young Irelanders and the Chartists.” She raised one hand and ticked off her subsequent points on her fingers. “We don’t know who is behind the plot. We don’t know the motivations driving it. We don’t know what the next move will be. Most troubling of all, we have no idea what target the gunpowder is destined to blow up.”

She looked around the table. “Did I miss anything?”

“Clearly, having a business mind comes in useful in other spheres,” Drake remarked. “But no, that was a masterful listing of the major points we don’t know. I can’t see any important point you omitted.” He paused, then went on, “But one corollary of your last point is that, having no idea of the target, we also have no way of telling who or what needs to be protected. With that sense of time running out intensifying, it’s that point that exercises me most.”

“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.