Cleo’s warning to Oldham had clearly been prompted by recognition of the danger looming. Michael had hoped that she would, therefore, be amenable to retiring from the field…

He was starting to feel like a gullible innocent himself. Of course, she’d insisted on embarking on a reconnaissance of Morgan’s Lane.

They’d agreed that finding and interviewing the last of the gunpowder carters would be a waste of time. However, as by then it was close to four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and, Cleo had assured him, most warehouses and the like would be closed, there was a limit to how much further in their investigation they could get that day.

Yet with the warehouses and factories shut and the area as quiet as it was likely to get in daylight, Cleo had argued that now was the perfect time to survey the warehouses in question and evaluate their approach for identifying to which of the three businesses Doolan had delivered the ten barrels.

Michael couldn’t, in all honesty, disagree. In light of Drake’s instructions, he had broader reasons for familiarizing himself with Morgan’s Lane and the siting of the three warehouses along it, but he wasn’t about to share those reasons with Cleo, equal partner or not. Not after learning that Doolan and his apprentice had vanished, apparently immediately after delivering their cargo. If he and Cleo were getting closer to whoever was pulling the strings in this plot, he needed—needed in a way he wasn’t about to question—to steer her away from that source of lethal danger.

With that goal in mind, he’d counseled himself that acquiescing to her presence now was the course of wisdom. Even in a lane in Southwark in the descending gloom of a late Saturday afternoon, with him by her side, she would be safe. More, including her in the initial reconnaissance would satisfy her curiosity, lull her into believing she was fully apprised of all that was going on, and divert her attention from the necessary subsequent actions, which had the potential to be significantly more dangerous.

The carriage rattled onto London Bridge. Michael glanced at Cleo’s face. She’d grown quieter, more serious, since they’d learned of Doolan’s and Dibney’s disappearance, yet even through the dimness inside the carriage, he detected a certain heightened interest, an increased focus on forging ahead—a sense of suppressed expectation over what they might find in Morgan’s Lane.

They reached the southern end of the bridge, and the carriage slowed as Tom turned left into Tooley Street. Within mere yards, they were surrounded by the meaner streets of Southwark.

Cleo swayed with the turn and the consequent jostling as the carriage wheels rumbled onto more roughly laid cobbles; her shoulder brushed Michael’s arm, and she sensed the solid strength of him seated beside her. The flutter of her senses was growing familiar, less and less a true distraction and more a strange sort of comfort. Also becoming familiar was the feeling of being safe—unquestionably, indisputably safe—while in his presence.

Given his reputation, she still found that curious.

Nevertheless, she was grateful for the freedom that feeling of safety granted her. As she scanned the fading and often dingy façades as the carriage penetrated deeper into this area of commercial buildings and ramshackle lodging houses, she didn’t think she would have felt at all comfortable getting out of the carriage had Michael not been there to accompany her.

As it was, when the carriage drew into the curb and Tom called down that Morgan’s Lane was just a few yards back on the right, she was eager to alight. She waited impatiently as Michael descended first. He looked around, then stepped back and offered her his hand. She gripped it firmly and stepped out and down. Once on the pavement, she shook her skirts straight, then took Michael’s proffered arm, and together, they strolled back along Tooley Street toward the top of Morgan’s Lane.

There were other people about, both men and women, mostly alone, walking here and there with the determined stride of those going about their business. In this area, no one strolled to take the air. Smaller carriages and conveyances of every stripe rattled past in a regular, noisy stream.

They halted at the corner and looked down Morgan’s Lane. It was wide enough to accommodate two narrow carts abreast. Scanning the façades she could see, Cleo felt buoyed by burgeoning determination. Doolan’s and Johnny’s disappearances—their presumed deaths—had only strengthened her commitment to exposing the blackguards behind the wretched plot, bringing the plot to an end, and seeing justice done.

Impatience prodding, she began to slide her arm from Michael’s, intending to start down the lane, but he caught her hand, trapped her arm, and after a swift—warning?—glance at her face, indicated that they should stroll on. With a small nod, she acquiesced, left her arm twined with his, and side by side, they walked evenly down the lane. His behavior was, she decided, a small price to pay for the freedom his being near gave her.

He murmured, “The lane runs more or less straight down from Tooley Street to the Thames.”

Drawing her gaze from the businesses on either side, she looked ahead. At first glance, a building extended across the far end of the lane, blocking the view of the river, but the building ended just short of the left side of the lane, and beyond the building’s corner, they could see open space and a few thin masts rocking with the tide.

He nodded toward the spot. “Let’s begin by walking all the way down. We’ll note the firework supply warehouses as we pass, then take a closer look at them on the way back. First, I want to get some idea of the lane’s relative position.”

She pondered that as they passed the first of the firework supply warehouses—a substantial building, its bricks darkened by grime, squatting at the end of the first short block on the left. A narrow alley ran along the warehouse’s side; it led into yet more lanes and alleyways. She glanced at Michael. “Do you think the location of the warehouse might mean something in terms of the plot? Of its purpose or target?”

His gaze scanning ahead, he eventually replied, “I think we can be certain that a warehouse in Southwark is not the ultimate destination for the gunpowder. As Drake emphasized, the real plotters have been very clever with their arrangements. It therefore seems likely that they chose a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane not just because it was a place they could gain access to but also because, in some way, it facilitates their plans.”

She “hmmed,” and they walked on.

The second of the firework supply warehouses lay midway along the lane on the right-hand side. It was a much more prosperous-looking establishment with a stout paling fence and chained and padlocked iron-railing gates. A small paved yard lay inside the gates; a single-story structure to the left of the yard had a sign, “Office,” on the wall beside the door, while across the yard and facing the gates stood a massive, high-roofed warehouse. The warehouse doors were bolted and padlocked.

Cleo took all that in as they paced past. They were walking steadily, fast enough not to attract any unwanted attention from the local populace. While most of the buildings fronting onto the lane appeared to be businesses—warehouses and factories of one sort or another—the smaller lanes and alleyways to either side led to lodging houses that in density of occupants seemed a bare step away from tenements. There might not be many people strolling the street, but the muted sounds of concentrated people—calls, arguments, the slam of doors, and the clash of pots—drifted on the dank air.

Those walking up the lane eyed them narrowly, but although their attire marked them as gentry at least, as this was a commercial district, their presence didn’t immediately raise an alarm; it was possible they were meeting with some business owner.

They came across the third firework supply warehouse at the end of the lane on the left-hand side, on the corner beyond which lay the open space before the riverbank. That warehouse was run-down and shabby; the paint on the façade was peeling, and the lettering—once gold but now a grimy brown—that proclaimed it to be “Wallington’s Warehouse, purveyors to the manufacturers of best quality fireworks” was barely legible. Nevertheless, the heavy double doors were firmly bolted and padlocked, and the windows all sported iron grilles as well as inside shutters.

After noting that security, as they walked into the open space before the river, Michael murmured, “I wonder if there are regulations about the structure of warehouses that store gunpowder.” He paused, then arched his brows. “Given the control the authorities attempt to maintain over gunpowder brought into the city, I suppose that shouldn’t be any real surprise.”

They walked the short distance to the riverbank. Even though the light was rapidly fading, a multitude of small craft were still plying the pewter waters.

“This is more or less the middle of the commercial stretch of the Thames.” Cleo waved across the gray, slightly choppy expanse. “There are stairs and wharves and piers everywhere on both sides, and that extends for quite a way both up and down the river.”

Instantly recognizable, London Bridge lay to their left. “That’s Billingsgate.” Cleo pointed to the next section along the opposite shore. “Then comes the Customs House and its embankment”—she swung her arm to the right—“then Tower Stairs.” Beyond that, still farther to their right, the gray walls of the Tower loomed over the river.

They both turned to survey what they could see of the bank on which they stood. To the left of the open space, a set of stairs led down to the water. When they looked right, they discovered a long wharf stretching the length of the building that ran across the end of Morgan’s Lane. Five small craft and two flat-bottomed barges were moored along the wharf.

Cleo glanced up. “Look!” She pointed to a cornerstone on the building on which the words “Gun Wharf” had been carved.

Michael grunted. “So if one planned to move barrels of contraband gunpowder by water, a warehouse in Morgan’s Lane is an excellent place to stash your illicit cargo.”

Cleo shrugged. “It’s also well placed for transporting barrels by road—north, south, east, or west, there’s major thoroughfares close by.”

He grimaced. “True.” After a moment, he went on, “I agree that, target-wise, the choice of Morgan’s Lane can’t be said to point us in any particular direction. It does, however, stand as yet further testimony to the careful planning behind this plot. Someone spent a lot of time looking into every detail.” He met Cleo’s eyes. “For instance, thinking to hide their barrels of gunpowder in a warehouse that legitimately stores barrels of gunpowder. Once their barrels are inside, even if others see them, they won’t immediately think the barrels out of place, as would happen in most other warehouses or stores.”

She nodded and reached up to tuck back a lock of hair the brisk river breeze had tugged free. “Perfect camouflage, so to speak. But how long before the warehouse staff realize they have extra barrels?”

“I suspect the answer to that is long enough.” He turned them back toward Morgan’s Lane proper. “By which I mean long enough for the plotters’ purpose, and according to Drake, that could mean anything up to a week.”

“Doolan delivered the barrels here—to one of these three warehouses—on Wednesday morning.” Cleo glanced at Michael’s face; his expression told her nothing. “A week doesn’t leave us much time.”

He didn’t reply, just urged her into motion. Still arm in arm, they walked back to the dogleg in the lane.

There, they paused briefly to run their eyes over Wallington’s Warehouse.

She humphed. “Not even an unshuttered window through which we might peek.”

Michael waved toward the rear of the building. “Does it have a back door?”

The answer was no; both rear wall and the other side wall abutted other buildings with not even a passageway between.

They returned up the lane and subjected the other two warehouses to similar swift examinations. The warehouse midway along the lane was hemmed in on all three sides; no chance of looking in, much less gaining entry, other than via the front gates and yard.

The first warehouse they’d passed, the one closest to Tooley Street, shared walls to one side and the rear, but the other side wall overlooked an alley. However, when Michael tried to peer through the small, high windows along the alley, he reported that they had grilles on the inside and shutters as well.

As they walked briskly back toward the carriage, Cleo shook her head. “You’re right—all three warehouses are locked up tight. We’ll need to come back when they’re open.”

Michael handed Cleo into the carriage, then after instructing Tom to drive to Clarges Street, joined her. It was time to bring this excursion to an end so he could get cracking on getting the necessary next steps into place.

From all he’d seen of the area as they’d checked around the warehouses, while Morgan’s Lane itself was primarily commercial, it was hemmed in on both sides by warrens of tiny lanes and alleyways teeming with humanity. The humanity was neither here nor there, but the warrens were an issue, one he would need to plan around.

His partner—with whom he’d agreed to share all information received, but to his mind, “information received” didn’t stretch to forward planning—had been sunk in her own thoughts, but as they rattled once more across London Bridge, she turned to him. “Can you think of any way we might locate the ten barrels before the warehouses open on Monday?”

He studied her face. “No.” Then he admitted, “I haven’t even thought how to approach the matter come Monday.”

She waved that aside. “I’ll just be Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company again. An extension of our earlier tale should suffice, and at least we can tell them that the particular barrels we’re searching for were delivered on Wednesday morning.”

He thought, then shook his head. “They—the warehouse staff—might not know they have any extra barrels. Not if they were somehow smuggled in and hidden.”

“Indeed.” Meeting his gaze, she smiled confidently. “But I assure you I can make each warehouse manager keen enough for our business for him to take us into the warehouse and show us all the gunpowder he has. He’ll be working from his inventory, so any extra barrels will quickly become apparent.”

Returning her smile, he inclined his head. “Very well. We’ll try that come Monday morning. Until then”—he faced forward—“we’ll have to have faith in Drake’s prediction that they won’t move the barrels yet.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her frown.

After a moment, she said, “I’m half expecting to find, come Monday, that there are no extra barrels in any of the three warehouses—that they’ll already have vanished. Tell me again—why does Winchelsea believe our plotters won’t move their hoard as soon as they can?”

“I admit I’m not that familiar with what might be involved in plots of this nature, but Drake was confident that the plot was being run in completely separate stages. The first stage involved getting the gunpowder and transporting it to London and, presumably, secreting it in one of the warehouses in Morgan’s Lane.” Through the deepening shadows, he met her eyes. “Drake believes that there’ll be a break of some sort before the next stage gets under way—and the removal of all those involved to this point lends weight to his thesis. He thought it likely the arrangements for the next stage wouldn’t have been made yet—that they wouldn’t be initiated until after the first stage had been completed and all was confirmed as successful to that point. I can’t claim to understand how Drake’s mind works—”

She snorted softly. “Who can?”

“Indeed. But if I understood his reasoning, it was that the most cautious plotters, and he definitely classes this group among those ranks, will strive to keep each stage of a plot separate, so that they eliminate the risk of anyone or any element from an earlier stage interfering with the successful outcome of a later stage. Drake feels that’s of particular importance in this case, but what that conviction is based on, I’m not sure I can explain.”

He briefly scanned her face, then rattled on, “If I recall aright, it was the duplicity involved in using the Young Irelanders, and what Drake is sure is the likewise false implication of the Chartists, that led him to propose that the true target of the plot is—very likely—something neither group, and possibly any other such group, would want to attack. Hence, the target has to be concealed, even from those involved in the execution of the plot—calling for a gap between the stages.”

“Hmm.” Her frown didn’t abate, but after several minutes of pondering, she mused, “That’s an awful lot of supposing on Winchelsea’s part, but as it is him…” She shrugged and looked forward. “I suppose we have to operate on the assumption that he knows of what he speaks.”

Michael didn’t reply. Drake’s instructions had been clear. If they located the barrels, they were to keep a watch on the cache and, if and when the barrels were collected, follow them. They’d tracked the barrels to Morgan’s Lane. Even if they didn’t know the precise location, that was information enough to mount a watch.

Which was what he was planning to do.

If nothing occurred before Monday morning, they would inquire at the warehouses. He had no qualms over including Cleo in the Monday excursion; aside from all else, with her understanding of the commercial world, she would know which way to step in order to gain the information they needed.

But as to the action he intended to mount between then and now…he had no intention of mentioning a word of that to her.

Sitting back in the increasing gloom of the carriage, he fixed his gaze on the passing façades and gave his mind over to planning.

Cleo glanced sidelong at her companion—her supposed partner in this mission. She had three brothers; she knew what that absorbed, sunk-in-his-thoughts look portended. Her suspicions grew apace with his silence. She waited with feigned patience for him to stir and inform her of his plans; she felt certain she could guess what they would be.

She’d floated the idea of the barrels having already been collected to test the waters, but he’d simply fallen back on Winchelsea’s theory that the barrels wouldn’t be moved so soon—and volunteered nothing more.

As the carriage rolled through Trafalgar Square and on toward Mayfair, she debated broaching the subject directly, but if she did, she had a strong suspicion he would attempt to veto any involvement on her part, and they would end having one of those interminable arguments that led nowhere and achieved nothing.

And, after all, if she was wrong about his intentions, there would be no harm done.