The gathering in the St. Ives back parlor broke up shortly before four o’clock.

Michael’s mother, still smiling delightedly, declared she was off to spread the glad tidings that she and the female half of the family now had two engagement balls to plan, with two weddings to follow. With hugs and kisses all around, his mother departed in a cloud of exuberant joy.

His father, also smiling but in a rather different way, rose and informed Michael and the others that he would be in his study and that, as he was expecting a visit from the family’s man-of-business, Montague, he would undertake to inform that worthy that there would be a second marriage settlement to arrange. With nods and that subtle, not-quite-cynical smile playing over his harsh-featured face, he followed his wife from the room.

As his father’s footsteps faded, Michael exchanged glances with Cleo, Sebastian, and Antonia, then they resettled on the two sofas that faced each other across the hearth—Sebastian and Antonia on the longer one, Michael and Cleo on the other. Relaxing on the damask beside Cleo, with her hand wrapped in his, her fingers lightly entwined with his, Michael felt settled, focused, and strangely complete, with their joint life stretching before them—an adventure on which they had already embarked.

He and she had agreed to leave writing to her parents until after the meeting with Drake, when they hoped to have a better understanding of how the next phase of the mission would play out. After learning of their parents’ shared past endeavors, they had no doubt that Cleo’s parents, like Michael’s, would understand their need to put dealing with the mission before all else.

Helping Drake end this mission was the most immediate next stage in their adventure.

Once settled, as Sebastian had intimated to Drake, the four of them spent some time revisiting the events of the mission thus far, evaluating what they could deduce with any degree of certainty. But when it came to defining what actions they should take, very little discussion was needed to illustrate the futility of proceeding in the absence of Drake and his various insights.

Seeking distraction, they turned to exchanging views on the few details of their engagement balls to which they’d thus far been made privy. The clock ticked on, and they segued to sharing somewhat lighthearted visions of their weddings.

Michael glanced at Cleo, then at Sebastian and Antonia. From the way all their gazes strayed again and again to the door, their interest in their weddings was, at that point, distinctly perfunctory; they were all waiting for Drake to join them.

Despite all matrimonial distractions, the mission—the need to find the damned gunpowder and expose whoever was already responsible for too many murders—still ranked uppermost in all their minds.

They were arguing the merits of the small church in Brancaster over St. George’s for Michael and Cleo’s nuptials when they heard voices and footsteps in the front hall—both indistinct given the distance between the front hall and the back parlor. They broke off their discussion and turned to look expectantly at the door, but no one appeared.

“The doorbell didn’t ring,” Sebastian pointed out.

Michael shrugged. “Must have been some household matter.”

They returned to their discussion of atmosphere over size, of comfort over style, and the likely impact of the weather.

Finally, the doorbell pealed. They fell silent, not, this time, swinging about to look at the door, yet waiting nonetheless. They heard the distant murmur of voices in the hall.

Several seconds later, Drake strolled in.

Drake had thought his expression inscrutable, yet after one searching glance, Sebastian arched his black brows. “No luck with Greville?”

Drake turned and shut the door, then walked to the armchair placed beyond the end of the shorter sofa. He allowed himself a resigned grimace. “No.” He tugged the armchair around so it faced the hearth, thus allowing him an unobstructed view of the occupants of both sofas, then sank into the well-padded comfort. “But I didn’t really expect to prod him into action, and the instant I saw Waltham was present, I knew the best I could hope to gain was permission—more accurately, formal authority—to continue with the mission. That, at least, I managed to secure.”

Antonia stared. “Do you mean to tell me that Greville refused to put out an alert?”

Her tone, Drake noted, was definitely in the same league as his mother’s or Sebastian’s—appropriate for a duchess-in-waiting. He waved with dismissive elegance. “Greville—and even more Waltham—are exceedingly leery of any situation that might panic the populace, especially if that situation has political overtones, as this plot has—” He broke off, then tipped his head slightly. “Or at least has been made to appear to have.” After a moment, he added pensively, “Given the current political climate, I’m not sure we can blame them.”

Again, he considered just how accurately the malignant intelligence behind the plot had read the politics of the day—not just read but understood the implications, the ramifications and impact on those who inhabited the corridors of power. “Indeed,” Drake mused, “I’m starting to suspect that the villain behind this plot—our opponent, as it were, and I’m increasingly inclined to think said opponent will prove to be singular, just one man—has crafted the Young Irelander involvement and any Chartist involvement we might yet discover precisely in order to effectively tie my hands, at least with respect to having any formal warning issued to the constabulary and the guards. After the retribution visited on both Young Irelanders and Chartists in recent years, neither Greville nor I would move against either organization without irrefutable proof that they were the instigators of the plot.”

Cleo humphed. “I can’t see how putting out a quiet warning to the right individuals is going to cause a panic. What will cause a panic is ten barrels of gunpowder exploding in the City or in Trafalgar Square.”

Antonia shuddered.

“Actually”—Drake pulled a face—“the more I think of it, the more I can see Greville’s point. Were I in his place, I would have issued the warning and used a degree of intimidation to ensure it wasn’t spread beyond those who need to know. However, on reflection, even doing that much would inevitably raise questions inside the government, the civil service, and the military, and it’s the answers to those questions—namely that the Young Irelanders might be involved, or the Chartists, or even worse, some group we know nothing about—that Greville doesn’t want to have to give.” He paused, then, jaw firming, went on, “And none of us would be happy were there to be fresh witch hunts mounted against the Young Irelanders and the Chartists because of this plot when, in fact, they know nothing about it.”

Sebastian grimaced, as did Michael, while both Cleo and Antonia sniffed in a disparaging way that suggested they thought the world would be a better place without politics.

“When it comes down to it,” Drake said, “we have no actual evidence of any specific plot.”

Michael snorted. “Other than ten missing barrels of smuggled gunpowder and numerous associated and otherwise unexplained deaths.”

Drake told them of Waltham’s thesis of some manufacturer attempting to avoid the excise and the barrels subsequently being stolen by a competitor.

Even Cleo was stunned into silence; she opened her mouth several times, but ultimately, could find nothing to say.

“Indeed,” Drake dryly concluded. “You have to hand it to the man—he had to invent that on the instant, and he managed to account for everything we’ve found in a way that rendered the whole unthreatening.”

After a moment, Sebastian caught Drake’s gaze. “But Greville didn’t suggest there was nothing to investigate? That in light of Waltham’s explanation, you should let things lie?”

“No. He’s not such a twit. I’m free to investigate with my usual thoroughness and pursue this matter to its conclusion.”

It was Michael who first saw the implication. “So…if things go boom before you can prevent it, it’s on your head?”

Drake inclined said head. “If not publicly, then certainly in my own estimation.”

“Good Lord!” Cleo exclaimed. “How unfair!”

“Whitehall.” Antonia’s tone dripped with contempt.

“Politics,” Drake stated. “Sadly, in this instance, there’s no way of avoiding that.” Courtesy of the cleverness of whoever was behind the plot.

After a second, Sebastian stated, “Well, we’re here to help.”

“Exactly,” Michael affirmed. “So what do we do next?”

Drake studied their expressions; Sebastian’s and Michael’s determination, he’d expected, and in truth, he wasn’t surprised to read a warning not to discount them in Antonia’s and Cleo’s faintly narrowing eyes.

After a moment, he suggested, “Let’s recapitulate. Then we can define the questions facing us and the most promising avenues we might pursue.” Settling his shoulders against the comfortable cushions, he fixed his gaze forward and tipped his head back. His gaze fell on the mirror above the mantelpiece. In its reflection, he noticed the door to the corridor was fractionally ajar; he’d thought he’d closed it. Yet given the position of the parlor and whose house this was, there seemed little reason to bother rising and shutting the door firmly; there was nothing to fear with respect to anyone overhearing their words.

He refocused on the plot. “The essential points are these. A group of Young Irelanders of the lower ranks, mistakenly believing themselves to be acting as part of an officially approved action, secured ten barrels of gunpowder from an Irish mill and successfully arranged to have said barrels transported by ship to a cave under the grounds of Pressingstoke Hall, Lord Ennis’s estate in Kent. That stage of the plot relied on Connell Boyne, Ennis’s younger brother. Expecting Ennis to be glad to support the cause to which he was no doubt sympathetic, Boyne told his brother about the gunpowder. Ennis agreed to pay for the delivery, but when Ennis insisted that the gunpowder go no farther and arranged to speak with me, Boyne panicked. Before Ennis could speak with Sebastian, who was acting as my proxy, Boyne killed Ennis, then, fearing that Ennis might have shared his concerns with his wife, Boyne killed her, too. With Boyne’s connivance, by night, the gunpowder was loaded onto two legitimate gunpowder carters’ carts driven by Terrance Doolan and his apprentice, Johnny Dibney, and conveyed into London. The following afternoon, Boyne himself was murdered, presumably by the man behind the plot or his proxy—his lieutenant.” He paused, then added, “Let’s keep that man—Boyne’s killer—in mind.

“Subsequently, we now know that Doolan and Dibney delivered the ten barrels to Shepherd’s warehouse in Morgan’s Lane in Southwark. They would have arrived on Wednesday morning, perhaps about nine o’clock, and the barrels were accepted into the warehouse by the foreman, one Eddie O’Toole—very likely another Young Irelander sympathizer hoodwinked into believing he was playing his part in some official plot.”

“Whoever’s been recruiting these men must have been quite persuasive,” Antonia observed.

Drake nodded. “He had to have known precisely which carrots to dangle to best appeal to them. Whoever he is, he’s also exceedingly coldblooded. Wednesday was a busy day for him—by all accounts, Doolan and Dibney were killed and their bodies slipped into the river sometime on Wednesday, most likely soon after they completed the delivery. Boyne was shot on Wednesday afternoon. O’Toole’s body has yet to be recovered, but he was last seen on Wednesday evening when he locked up the warehouse. He hasn’t been sighted since, and I doubt there’s any other explanation than that he, too, is dead.”

“Especially as it was almost certainly O’Toole’s keys our rider used to gain entry to the warehouse last night,” Michael said.

“Indeed.” After a moment, Drake went on, “At this point, I’m assuming that the murders on Wednesday were carried out by one man. Given the distances and the timing, that’s possible, but of course, there might have been more than one man involved. At this point, we can’t say. However, moving on, the barrels were left in the warehouse until last night, when a rider, accompanied by two drivers with unidentifiable brewery drays, used the foreman’s keys to gain access to and retrieve the barrels, locking up afterward and leaving no sign that the barrels had ever been there.”

Drake shifted his gaze to Michael and Cleo. “If you two hadn’t found the barrels, no one would ever have known they’d been there. I think that’s an important point, at least from our villains’ perspective, and, I believe, that explains what happened next. Meaning the barrels being moved to somewhere in the same area—moved, but not taken far.”

Drake paused, then went on, “When working with groups like the Young Irelanders, there’s always a chance that someone will find it all too exciting and mention something to their compatriots—even just that something is afoot. Such rumblings will inevitably reach someone like me. The villains, whoever they are, knew that. Appreciated that. So they designed their plot to not just take advantage of the gullibility of certain Young Irelander sympathizers but also to have a clean break—a point where, if I or anyone else started to follow the Young Irelander trail, that trail would come to an abrupt and uninformative end.”

He glanced again at Michael and Cleo. “The Young Irelander trail leads to the warehouse—then stops. The barrels are no longer there, nor is there any trace of unaccounted-for barrels ever having been there.”

Cleo caught his gaze. “By that reasoning, whoever moved the barrels on, and wherever they’ve been secreted, will have nothing to do with the Young Irelander movement.”

Drake nodded. “Precisely.”

“You think the local Chartists have been drawn into assisting,” Sebastian stated.

“That’s what I fear.” Drake grimaced. “At least I now have an introduction to the local militia leaders, and it’s possible we might learn more that way, but I’m not holding my breath that we’ll learn anything quickly enough.”

After several seconds dwelling on that, he straightened in the chair. “But let’s not get sidetracked. To summarize the present situation, we know the ten barrels of gunpowder are still within a specific area of Southwark. We’ve also killed one of the primary villains—either the man behind the plot if he’s acting alone or, more likely, one of his lieutenants. Given the man’s age—about thirty-six—then I would wager it’ll be the latter.”

“Aside from all else,” Sebastian dryly remarked, “the former would be too easy—the plot would likely end with the man’s death.”

Drake inclined his head. “Fate is never that kind.” He looked at Cleo. “One thing I wanted to ask. What, exactly, did he—our now-dead rider—say when he seized you?”

Cleo stared at Drake, then frowned and closed her eyes, the better to remember. She was back in the murky darkness of Black Lion Court, creeping along on the slippery cobbles… She tightened her fingers, gripping Michael’s; his hand closed more firmly about hers. A moment passed, then she drew in a long, slow breath, opened her eyes, and looked at Drake. “The first thing he asked was who I was and why I was there, then immediately followed that—as if it was more important—by asking who I was working for. Then he suggested I might be working for his cousin.”

“His cousin?” Drake glanced at Michael.

Also clearly thinking back, Michael nodded. “I was near enough to hear, and that’s what he said.”

Drake looked at Cleo. “What did you reply?”

She grimaced. “That I had no idea who his cousin was, and that’s when he panicked. I’d forgotten to speak like a streetwalker. He pulled out a knife and demanded to know who had sent me and who knew about, as he termed it, our little enterprise.”

“Our little enterprise.” His features hardening, Drake nodded. “So there’s more than one of them involved, and this plot won’t die with the rider.”

After a moment of thought, Drake refocused on Cleo. “Would it be true to say that the rider found your presence relatively unsurprising and unthreatening while he thought you an average streetwalker hired by his cousin to spy on what he was doing?”

Cleo nodded. “He was more…amused to begin with. Until he heard me speak.”

“Until he realized you weren’t a streetwalker but a real spy—one sent by the sort of agency who might recruit women of your class…” A moment passed, then, his jaw tightening, Drake met Michael’s eyes, then looked at Sebastian. “The rider knew enough to panic when he realized Cleo was a lady disguised as a streetwalker. Someone had warned him of what finding such a watcher as Cleo would mean.” His tone growing colder, his accents more clipped, Drake concluded, “Whoever is pulling the strings of this plot either knows about me, about what I do, or at the very least, that an agency such as the one I oversee exists.”

They all thought about that, then Sebastian said, “All those in Whitehall above a certain level know.”

His lips tight, Drake nodded. “Indeed.” He paused, then continued, “That would account for the…feeling I have that the mastermind behind this plot knows a very great deal about politics and government and how things are done. What is possible and what isn’t. Their harnessing of the wider situation has been masterly—it’s allowed them to throw up deflections and distractions. In hindsight, I think it likely they planted the whispers I heard to ensure I would go to Ireland, and more recently up north, to clarify what was going on—while the real action was occurring here.”

“But if they know that much, then presumably they know about ‘the sons of the nobility,’” Michael said. “That in such situations, you call on us.”

“They probably do know,” Drake said. “That’s why the rider had been warned. But in their view, getting me out of the immediate picture reduced the risk for them. And they weren’t at all concerned about me learning that the plot isn’t either a Young Irelander or a Chartist plot. If anything, that’s a part of their Machiavellian plan—it increases my, and Greville’s, reluctance to risk issuing an effective alert.” He shook his head. “The more I learn about our ultimate villain, the more I’m left with the impression that I’m playing chess with someone who knows more about the possible moves than I do.”

Drake didn’t bother stating that he’d never had to grapple with such a situation before.

Sebastian shrugged. “So he’s someone with an intimate knowledge of Whitehall, and he’s older and therefore more experienced than you.” He met Drake’s eyes. “Regardless, he’s going to have things go wrong—and one of those things is, as we speak, on its way to some helpful morgue.”

Drake held Sebastian’s rather pointed, pale-green gaze, then humphed. “All right. Let’s move on to what we need to know and what we can do to nullify this plot.” He paused for a second, then went on, “We need to find the gunpowder, defuse it as a threat, and then identify the blackguard behind the plot. The gunpowder comes first.” He looked at Michael. “Let’s accept we can’t go in, search, and seize it. That leaves keeping a tight cordon about that area as the only viable way to guard against the barrels being moved to the target and subsequently detonated.” He held Michael’s gaze. “Can you be certain the barrels are still there?”

Michael took time to assess before replying, “I believe so. They had no chance to move the barrels earlier, and we’ve tightened our watch. Tom reported that as of two o’clock, there’d been no sight of them. Plenty of activity—people and things going in and out, as you would expect—but not those barrels.” He glanced at Cleo. “Cleo passed on a description of the brand on the barrels—the stamp of the Irish mill—so the men know what they’re looking for.”

“I hesitate to ask,” Antonia put in, “but could the gunpowder be transferred into some other container—something our watchers won’t recognize and so allow past?”

Silence held them for a moment, then Drake said, “That has to be possible. So just keeping watch isn’t good enough.” He looked again at Michael. “Nevertheless, can you continue your tight watch—enough to guarantee the ten barrels from the Irish mill won’t slip through?”

Michael nodded decisively. “That, we can definitely do.” He glanced at Sebastian. “I’ve already sent word to the various households—to the butlers and housekeepers currently in charge—so they’re aware of our need.” His lips curved. “Unsurprisingly, all I’ve received in response are a host of avowals of unwavering support.”

Sebastian’s features briefly lightened. “It’s lucky that, these days, most branches and even twigs of the family keep their houses in London staffed throughout the year.”

“So we have the watch covered,” Drake went on. “And if the barrels are spotted leaving the area, we revert to our earlier plan—we follow rather than intercept, but as soon as the barrels reach any destination, we’ll move in and replace the gunpowder, then watch for whoever comes to deal with it next. Simultaneously, we’ll follow all those who’ve assisted in the move.” He paused, then added, “Ultimately, we need to identify whoever is behind this. Until we have our mastermind in custody, we can’t be sure we’ve fully deactivated his plot.”

After a moment, he went on, “One of the few things we can feel a degree of confidence in is that the next stage of the plot won’t go any more quickly than the last. It might even go more slowly, given that it seems likely he’s switched from using Young Irelander sympathizers to using the local Chartists. Whoever he is, he’s cautious to the bone.” Drake snorted softly and looked at Sebastian. “Very like a longtime bureaucrat.”

Michael glanced at Cleo, then looked at the others. “I’ll continue to manage the watchers, but as Cleo and I will recognize the barrels, and given the Hendon Shipping Company’s name and reputation, I suggest that she and I also see if, by asking around, we might stumble on some hint of where in the area the barrels might be hidden.” He grimaced. “It’s a long shot, but you never can tell.”

“Also,” Cleo put in, “we should learn what other types of barrels or containers are commonly taken out of that area. And a visit to the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder might give us some idea of other ways to store and transport gunpowder.”

Drake studied them. “Will you have time?”

Michael nodded. “We’ve postponed any official announcement until after this mission is concluded. My parents were here earlier, and over luncheon, we learned of the missions they assisted your father with—and the Hendons were often also involved. So we have precedent, so to speak. We’re not anticipating any distractions from that quarter.”

Drake’s brows had risen. “I’d forgotten about your parents’ past involvements. But that’s certainly a boon if it means you can continue investigating along the lines you suggest. We need to follow every avenue we can.”

He settled in the armchair. “So that covers the barrels and their possible movement. Next on our slate is the trail of dead bodies our villain leaves behind. Not his dead lieutenant—I’ll come to him in a minute—but the others. Boyne, the carters, the foreman. Our villain’s aim is quite clearly to ensure that he leaves no possible sources of information alive. However, if he’s continued following that pattern and killed the two drivers who helped him move the barrels last night, we might just have a potential lead.”

Drake glanced at Michael. “I have contacts—probably the same as yours—in the River Police. I’ll ask them to advise us immediately they pull any bodies from the river—those of men who’ve been killed since last night. Putting names and addresses to faces might be difficult, but we might get help with that via the Chartist militias. If we can identify the drivers and where they worked, then we’ll at least know where those drays came from, and someone there might know more.”

He paused, then acknowledged, “That’s a long shot, too, but as I said, we have to pursue every possible avenue.”

He drew in a breath, ordered his thoughts, and continued, “That brings us to the Chartists. I’ve secured an introduction to the three local militia leaders. I gather that each controls and speaks for a separate group of militiamen. Interviewing them has to be at the top of my list—if the drivers from last night haven’t yet met an untimely end, then alerting the Chartist leaders to the game they’ve been unwittingly drawn into might save those men’s lives and get us a good deal further forward. At the very least, those men will know where the gunpowder is now.” He grimaced. “That said, I’m not expecting anything to go so smoothly, and I don’t hold much hope for finding those drivers alive. But if I can convince the local Chartist leaders that continuing to assist in this plot is the last thing their headquarters wants them to do…if the villain intends to call on the Chartists for any further assistance—for instance, in moving the barrels to his ultimate target—that will disrupt his next step.”

Sebastian nodded. “All to the good as far as we’re concerned.”

The others murmured agreement.

“And that,” Drake continued, “brings us to our dead gentleman. Obviously, learning his identity is a matter of urgency.” Drake tipped his head toward Cleo. “Especially as we now know he was sufficiently trusted to be warned of the dangers posed by well-born spies.”

“I have to wonder,” Cleo said, “what sort of gentleman has a cousin who would hire a streetwalker to spy on him.”

After exchanging brief glances with Sebastian and Michael, Drake said, “It’s possible, even likely, that his assumption that you were his cousin’s spy relates to some family disagreement and has nothing to do with the plot per se. However, the remark confirms that our gentleman has living family.”

He paused, reviewing their options, then went on, “Finnegan’s pursuing the man’s name, and knowing his tenacity, he’ll find it. Once he does, we’ll need to meet again and pool our knowledge and resources to gather as much intelligence as we can about our mystery gentleman and his connections before we start actively investigating.” After a second, he added, “By all accounts, this man was confident and probably ex-cavalry. That’s a significant step above even Connell Boyne. I suspect our gentleman-rider will prove to be not the mastermind—that would be too easy—but a personal proxy. Someone who acted on the mastermind’s orders and reported directly to him.”

Drake turned toward Sebastian and Antonia.

Before he could speak, Antonia fixed him with a demanding look. “What about us? We want to help, too.”

Drake took in Sebastian’s steady gaze, one that hadn’t flickered despite Antonia volunteering his—their—services… Clearly, Sebastian had no problem with that.

It struck Drake then; Sebastian and Antonia were operating as one. Two people, but with one aim, one goal—one shared direction. He didn’t need to glance at Michael and Cleo to know he would see the same…togetherness between them.

But Sebastian and Antonia were officially engaged. Drake kept his gaze on them and picked his way forward with care. “I know you want to be in the field, as it were, but given that your engagement has been announced, if you turn your back on society’s expectations and devote your time to this mission too openly, you’ll call attention to its existence, and that won’t be helpful at all.”

Antonia’s eyes sparked, and her chin set.

Drake held up a hand to stay her transparently imminent protest. “However, one truly valuable contribution you two can make is to keep the spotlight off the rest of us. Until now, social pressure hasn’t been a problem, but with more and more of the ton returning to town for the autumn session, the invitations will start to descend even on my poor self. But you and your engagement can hold the spotlight well enough for me, Michael, and Cleo to be able to pursue our tasks unhindered. And once we have our dead gentleman’s name and need to learn more about him, while being feted and fawned upon throughout the ton, you will be in the perfect position to do that. You’ll have opportunities to slip in questions, and people will answer and instantly forget, too dazzled by talk of your upcoming nuptials.”

Antonia looked suspicious, but it was obvious she was tempted by the prospect. Eventually, she glanced at Sebastian.

He met her gaze, smiled, and lightly squeezed her hand.

Then they looked at Drake and both nodded. “Very well. We’ll act as a social shield for you three”—with a glance, Sebastian included Michael and Cleo—“and hold ourselves ready to assist on that point.”

Drake held up a finger. “And possibly with one other matter.”

Sebastian arched a black brow.

“It would be exceedingly helpful to know how many, for want of a better word, order-givers there are running this plot. I think we can agree there’s an older bureaucrat-like figure ultimately pulling the strings, but how many proxies does he have in the field, doing his direct bidding? We’ve speculated that the rider was one. Was the man who killed Connell Boyne another? Or was he the same man?” Drake arched a brow back at Sebastian. “If we’ve eliminated the mastermind’s only direct assistant, then we’ve removed an essential piece of his plan, and it will take significant time for him to recruit a new proxy. However, if our dead gentleman is one of a group, then we can assume the plot will continue, more or less as scheduled. We—Michael, Cleo, and I—can give you a sound description of our dead man. If you can compare that with men seen in the area around the time of Boyne’s murder, we might learn more.”

Sebastian glanced at Antonia. “We could take a day’s break from the social round and go down to Kent. We didn’t stay long enough after finding Boyne to inquire if any locals had seen anyone about.”

“We don’t need to go to Kent.” Antonia met Sebastian’s eyes. “We only need to go to Scotland Yard—Inspector Crawford would surely have made inquiries. He will know if any stranger seen in Kent who might have been Connell’s murderer matches the description of our dead man.”

“An excellent notion.” Sebastian looked at the others. “So what does our dead gentleman look like?”

Between them, Drake and Michael conveyed a detailed image of the man.

Cleo added, “And he has a scar anyone who got close enough—such as an ostler or barman—would have noticed.” She traced a line from the corner of her lips to the point of her jaw. “A fine slash, like a sword cut.”

Sebastian nodded. “That’s nicely distinctive. We’ll go to Scotland Yard tomorrow and see what we can learn.”

“Good.” Rapidly, Drake reviewed all they’d discussed, searching for other avenues they could explore.

Michael shifted, drawing Drake’s attention. “Two things we’ve yet to touch on—the timing and the likely target.” Michael glanced around their small circle. “Those barrels are in Southwark and, so we think, not yet at their ultimate destination.”

“Without knowing who’s behind this, we have little hope of identifying the target prior to the barrels reaching it,” Drake stated.

Michael inclined his head. “True, but I think we can all agree the target is highly likely to be over the river.”

Drake nodded, as did the other three.

Frowning slightly, as if following this line of thought for the first time, Michael continued, “So either via the river or across one of the bridges, the gunpowder must be moved again—and as we all agree, it’s not going to be just a short distance, this time, and so not so simply done.”

Michael looked at Drake. “If you were this mastermind, and you only just today learned that your people have been successful in shifting the gunpowder from the warehouse—a traceable place, as we’ve proved—to its new and entirely secret location, all ready for the next step, which for argument’s sake we’ll say involves moving the cache to a basement adjacent to the Bank of England, how would you proceed—and how long would it take you to get everything ready to take that next step?”

“And,” Sebastian added, “if you were running this plot, how long would you leave between achieving that final deployment to the target and detonating the gunpowder?”

Drake sat back and stared at Michael, then glanced briefly at Sebastian. Those were excellent questions via which to explore what might come next. “If it were me…”

Facing forward, Drake turned his mind to the notion. He juggled what he knew, what he could estimate and project. After several minutes’ silence, he said, “Moving that much gunpowder, in whatever disguise—and there really aren’t that many ways to move gunpowder across water without risking ruining it—all in complete secrecy… As to the time it would take, even I would need days, if not a week, to arrange that, even if I’d been hoping to have the pleasure and had all my plans worked out.” He paused, then went on, “As we’ve already discussed, it’s unlikely the mastermind has activated those plans yet—he would be aware that the longer his pawns know about a plot like this, the more chance of something leaking out and bringing the authorities down on their heads. No—he’s careful and intends to succeed. He’ll have a plan, but he’ll only start contacting people and getting matters organized once he’s certain all has gone as he wishes.”

Some of the tension that had gripped him eased. He paused, then more lightly said, “Operating on the assumption that if I can’t move more rapidly—and I have contacts and powers he can’t possibly have to call on—then he can’t manage things any faster, we have at least…four days, more likely five, before those barrels are deployed to their target.

“However, once the gunpowder is moved into position”—his tone hardened, and he felt his features do the same—“I predict we’ll have very little time to stop the detonation.” He met Sebastian’s eyes. “If I were he…then assembling the barrels at the target is the point at which his entire plot is at maximum risk. If the gunpowder is found, the plot fails, and the target—being a place of note and therefore almost certainly under guard of some sort—is not going to be the type of place where gunpowder will remain undetected for long.”

After a heartbeat, he qualified, “By long, I mean more than twelve to twenty-four hours, and much will depend on how the gunpowder is concealed or disguised. Given that it seems he’ll be using pawns to move the gunpowder into position, then he’ll most likely want them well away, and possibly even murdered as well, before he lights the fuse—or orders it lit. Again, given his cautious nature, that might—might—stretch things out for longer than twenty-four hours, but that’s not something I would wish to wager on.”

Sebastian drew in a breath, then let it out on a long exhalation. “So”—he looked at Michael—“we need to intercept the gunpowder before it reaches the target.”

Drake also turned to Michael. “One thing to remember—the ultimate target might not be the place the gunpowder moves to next. We can’t assume that, although to this point, we’ve been talking as if we have. If your men spot the barrels being moved, they need to follow and get word to us as soon as possible.”

Somewhat grimly, Michael nodded.

Beside him, Cleo said, “Here’s another question. You’ve stressed how careful and also how cunning our mastermind has been thus far. He’s used the Young Irelanders as a façade, and now he has, you believe, drawn the local Chartists into being his pawns.” She fixed her bright hazel gaze on Drake’s face. “But won’t he assume you’ll see the pattern—that you’ll get hold of the local Chartist leaders and interfere?” Her gaze steady, she tipped her head. “Surely he’ll be planning on using someone else—neither the Chartists nor the Young Irelanders—for the upcoming stage?”

Drake blinked. He sat back and thought, then, slowly, he nodded. “You’re absolutely right. He’s used the Chartists just enough to implicate them and force me to deal with them, to contact and question them. They might be able to lead us to where the barrels currently are.” He met Michael’s gaze. “But by that time, the barrels—or at least the gunpowder—will have been moved.” He flashed a faint, tense smile at Cleo. “Cleo’s right—he’ll use some other group. But who?”

After a moment, Sebastian suggested, “Some group he trusts?”

Michael snorted. “Who would a bureaucrat trust?”

Antonia leant forward and poked Drake’s arm. “If you were in his shoes, who would you use?”

Drake thought, then grimaced and met her gaze. “I would use people who are completely innocent and have no notion of what they’re doing. As I said, the last move leading to the final deployment at the target site is absolutely critical. I would find some way to make the transfer of whatever container the gunpowder is in look like something normal. Something so ordinary in day-to-day life that people will do what’s needed without any idea of what they’re shifting into place.”

“That means,” Cleo said, “disguising the barrels or whatever container the gunpowder is in as something else. Something not gunpowder.” She frowned. “I really don’t think there are that many types of containers that are useful for moving gunpowder.”

After a moment, Drake shrugged. “My suggestion is pure speculation, but that’s what I would do—disguise the gunpowder as something harmless and unremarkable that would normally be found at the target site.”

At that moment, they heard footsteps approaching, a swinging stride that slowed, then hesitated outside the door.

They all turned to stare at the door that, as Drake had noticed earlier, stood fractionally ajar.

Then a polite tap sounded on the panels.

Drake glanced at Sebastian, who called, “Come.”

The door swung open, and Finnegan came in. He saw them, and his face lit; he turned and shut the door. He started across the room, but then glanced briefly back at the door—which, once again, had eased open. Drake assumed the latch was faulty.

Finnegan halted beside Drake’s chair, his face radiating delight. “Success, my lords, my ladies.” He swept them all a flourishing bow.

Drake forced his lips to remain straight. “Cut line. Out with it. What have you found?”

The look his ebullient gentleman’s gentleman bent on him suggested Drake was no fun, but when Drake coolly arched his brows, Finnegan straightened and announced, “The dead gentleman’s name, my lord, is Mr. Lawton Chilburn. The bootmaker knew, of course. His boots are numbered, so it was simply a matter of checking his ledgers, and I confirmed that Mr. Chilburn had all the same characteristics as the dead man, including that rather distinctive scar across the lower part of his face.”

“Excellent work. Thank you, Finnegan.” The name struck not a single chord with Drake. He glanced, brows raised in invitation, at Sebastian and Antonia, then at Michael and Cleo, but they all looked as mystified as he.

Drake tipped back his head and appealed to the room at large, “Who the devil is Lawton Chilburn?”

For a second, silence reigned, then a primitive sensation—a ripple of awareness—brushed across his nape.

He tensed.

It can’t be. She’s nowhere near.

But then, from behind him, came the gentle tap of a lady’s high heels on the parquet floor and the telltale rustle of silk and stiff petticoats, and the words “Lawton Chilburn is the youngest of Viscount Hawesley’s four sons” fell like the tones of a bell on his ears, uttered in a voice he immediately recognized, no matter that he’d avoided its owner for years.

A voice that sent a chill through him—along with a thrill he didn’t want to feel.

Ruthlessly clamping an unrelenting hold on every reaction and impulse he possessed, Drake ensured his impassive mask was in place, smoothly rose, and turned to face the woman—the lady, the noblewoman—who had swept into the room.

He inclined his head. “Louisa.”

His gaze had locked on her pale-green silk skirts; as he straightened his head, he couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling upward, over her tiny waist, smoothly up over the alluring curves of her breasts, over the glimpse of throat that showed between the peaked collars of her dress, to her pointed chin, perfect alabaster complexion, and the striking, animated features that had driven any number of his peers to drink.

Her pale-green eyes, lushly lashed with black, were similar to her grandmother’s, her father’s, and Sebastian’s in hue, but her soul infused them with such vibrancy they literally sparkled with life—more vital and less distant than those of the others of her family blessed with eyes of that curious shade. Those entrancing eyes looked into his, and Drake felt his gut tighten.

Then, with her lips lightly curving, she transferred that disturbing regard to the others, all still seated; she swept them with her bright, imperious gaze. If she noticed that only Antonia and Cleo were smiling back—and in Cleo’s case, her smile was tentative—Louisa gave no sign. Her own smile bloomed, ineffably radiant and warming. “I understand,” she said, and the timbre of her voice—a husky contralto that feathered over any red-blooded male’s senses—made Drake mentally curse, “that congratulations are in order.”

Sebastian had managed to blank his expression, but his eyes were filled with a species of horror.

Michael, on the other hand, stared—rather more openly perturbed—at his sister. “We thought you weren’t returning until tomorrow.”

One finely arched black brow rose. Her own expression a serene mask, Louisa considered Michael for several seconds—long enough for him to become aware of the implications of what he’d just blurted out—then her smile deepened a fraction, growing subtly more edged. She glanced at Sebastian. “I heard of your news, and of course, I hurried home. And now I discover that we have two engagement balls and two weddings to which to look forward.” She smiled entirely genuinely at Antonia and bestowed an approving nod, then included Cleo with both smile and gesture. “Excellent work, ladies.”

With that, she swung to face Drake. Her gaze clashed with and effortlessly captured his. “And clearly, it’s just as well that I returned without delay.” With an expression that was close to a playful pout—a truly enchanting moue, an expression only she could pull off—still holding his gaze, she walked behind the sofa on which Michael and Cleo sat to claim the armchair beyond, angled to the gathering. She sank down with a susurration of silks, her gaze still holding Drake’s. “I understand,” she said, sitting upright with her forearms on the armrests, strikingly like a queen on her throne, “that you’ve all been having quite an adventure.”

From the corner of his eye, Drake saw Antonia draw breath to speak. Before she could, he baldly asked, “How much did you hear?”

His question, devoid of any tone that could be considered remotely encouraging, drew Louisa’s gaze, which had drifted expectantly to Antonia, back to his face.

Her expression remained serene, but there was an intensity in her eyes he found deeply unsettling. She studied him for a long moment, then calmly replied, “All of it. I was in the gallery when you arrived. I followed you and”—she waved toward the door—“listened.”

That was why the door had been ajar and also explained Finnegan’s curious behavior.

Drake flicked a glance at Finnegan. The Irishman had good instincts; he’d stepped back in a self-effacing way, but was watching Louisa as if she was a strange and unpredictable creature of uncertain and potentially dangerous powers.

Which was not far from the truth.

She hadn’t shifted her gaze from Drake’s face. Knowing that, when she wished, she had well-nigh-inexhaustible patience, he ignored her long enough to glance at her brothers. On his left, Sebastian met Drake’s eyes with a look of almost panic-stricken consternation. Michael, to Drake’s right, still appeared overtly horrified.

Both were as aghast as Drake at Louisa’s advent, at her transparent intention to deal herself into this mission. Yet the message in her brothers’ eyes was clear.

Both had too much experience of their sister’s exceedingly willful ways to attempt to deny her.

Which meant that dissuading her from pushing her way into his mission fell entirely to Drake. His the battle to ensure she kept her distance, from him as well as from all possible danger.

And somehow, he had to succeed.

Because the very last person Drake needed helping him was Lady Louisa Cynster—widely known, for excellent reasons, as Lady Wild.

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