Chapter Twenty-Four
A tall man stood there, another beside him. Both men’s faces were obscured by shadows.
Hetty stilled the clink of coins in her pocket as she climbed down, having heard of some people being robbed, sometimes just for their handkerchiefs. Genevieve followed her to the pavement, unusually silent. Hetty couldn’t be sure that a scolding tirade wouldn’t erupt from Genevieve’s lips and get them both shot.
She hurriedly spoke before the duchess could. “We has nothin’ of value ’ere,” she croaked, her voice lowered to a bark by the fear that tightened her throat.
The tall man grabbed her by the arm while the other attempted to drag the struggling Genevieve into the light cast by a street lamp. “What business do you have here?” the tall man demanded.
“They look like pigs, they do, miss,” the jarvie offered from his seat. “From Bow Street I’ll be bound.”
The light fell on the tall man’s face. Hetty gasped. “Is it you, Lord Strathairn?”
“What the devil?” He whipped off her hat. “Miss Cavendish. Why are you dressed like that and talking that way? Those clothes reek of the stable. And why are you following Lord Fortescue?”
“We are most worried about Gee,” Genevieve said, finding her voice.
“I’m sorry, Lord Strathairn.” Hetty finally remembered her manners. “I’d like you to meet Duchess Châteaudunn. Lord Fortescue’s sister.”
Lord Strathairn’s accomplice whistled. “I’ll be damned!”
“I appreciate your concern, Your Grace.” Lord Strathairn spoke through clenched teeth. “But you’ll make matters worse for the baron if you remain here. Please go home.”
“I demand you tell us what this is about,” Genevieve said, having regained her poise. Her voice rang with imperiousness, and the other man hesitated then made an awkward bow.
“It’s secret government business that does not concern you, Your Grace,” Lord Strathairn said in a cool tone. “Have no fear. We shall keep your brother safe. Please leave now or you’ll both spend the night in a Bow Street cell.”
“Guy’s on secret government business?” Hetty gasped. That would certainly account for his odd behavior. “If you’re sure…”
“We’ll guard him like a baby.” The Runner–if indeed he was one–gave a guffaw which was cut short by Genevieve’s icy glare.
“I do hope so, monsieur,” the duchess said. “There will be trouble should you fail.”
Once back in the hackney, Hetty instructed the jarvie where to take them. He moved the horse on without further comment, apparently struck dumb by what he’d witnessed.
“What on earth is Guy involved in?” Hetty asked. She’d experienced cold fear before but was now chilled to the bone.
The hackney turned the corner into Grafton Street and passed a lane behind the hotel. Hetty caught sight of two men exiting from the rear of the building.
“Look, there’s Guy!” Hetty clutched Genevieve’s sleeve. She hung out the window. “Stop the carriage!”
The jarvie cursed as he pulled the horse up.
Genevieve craned her neck. “They are entering a carriage.”
“I can’t run in these shoes! You go! Tell Lord Strathairn,” Hetty said. “I’ll keep their carriage in sight.”
“Oui.” Genevieve climbed down onto the pavement. She paused. “But what if we lose you?”
“Hurry! Tell Lord Strathairn. He will follow us.”
As the duchess ran back to Albemarle Street, Guy’s carriage passed Hetty’s. She watched it go and shouted to the jarvie. “Don’t lose sight of that carriage!”
“You meet all kinds in this ’ere job,” the jarvie said with a crack of his whip.
The hackney moved at a clip to the next corner in time for Hetty to see the carriage that bore Guy trundle down Dover Street toward Piccadilly.
Hetty looked back. Lord Strathairn was half a block behind driving a curricle, the other man beside him. Had they forced Genevieve to go home? Hetty bit her lip. Genevieve would be furious.
At Piccadilly, the hackney was slowed by a stream of evening traffic. Ahead, a slow wagon loaded with wares rattled along at a snail’s pace. With mounting horror, Hetty watched Guy’s carriage disappear into the gloom. “Have we lost them?” she yelled, trying to make herself heard above the noise of clattering wheels and pedestrian chatter.
“Not bloody likely,” the jarvie yelled back. “When Pete sets his mind to it, he doesn’t fail.”
“There they are,” Hetty called. “They’re heading toward the Strand.” She had no idea if Lord Strathairn still followed or was held up in the traffic.
They traveled under the stone gateway of Temple Bar and the nearby Inns of Court where judges, barristers, and silks wandered the courts and chambers in their robes. Then the printing shops, churches, inns, and coffee houses in Fleet Street. Ahead, Guy’s carriage turned into Bridge Street, where a motley crowd overflowed the pavements. “Could they be heading for the river?” she yelled.
“Looks like it,” Pete yelled back.
A group of sailors gathered in a pool of lamplight to eye a pair of well-dressed gentlemen intent on some evening’s entertainment.
As Guy’s carriage turned into Earl Street toward Puddle Dock, they barely avoided a cat streaking across the road. They stopped outside a warehouse, only feet from the moss-covered steps leading down to where a sea of masts swayed on the Thames. Boatmen rowed passengers over the river during the day, but it was now deserted but for one lantern lit wherry winking out on the river.
“Smokey business,” Pete muttered. “Best we stop ’ere.” He pulled up the horse at the top of the lane, beside a pen filled with ducks and fowl settling for the night.
Hetty covered her nose at the stench of manure mingling with sea-coal smoke. Fingers of mist rose from the water and curled around them while clouds shrouded the moon in a ghostly haze. Muffled by the mist, it was deathly quiet but for the creak of boats rocking on the swell.
In the poor light, Hetty jumped down onto the sandy gravel in time to see two vague shapes enter the building. She whirled around with the hope of finding Lord Strathairn coming behind them, but the lane was empty.
She shuddered as a rat scuttled across the ground intent on its own pursuits. “You can leave me here, Pete.”
“You shouldna go after ’em, miss,” Pete said. He removed his hat to scratch his head. “Don’t like the looks of this ’ere place at all. They might be ark pirates, being so close to the river as they are.”
“What are ark pirates?”
“Those who rob an’ plunder on the river, miss. Anyways, there’s something smoky goin’ on behind that door.”
“Go, if you’d rather.” She reached into her pocket and drew out some coins for him, dismayed at how much her hand shook.
“Hold on a bit,” Pete said, deep furrows forming in his brow in the light from the lantern he held. “I didna say I’d leave, did I? You might be a bit dicked in the nob, but you ain’t short of pluck, and I ain’t about to cast you to the birds of a feather in that there place. I’ll stay ’til your friends show up, that I will.”
Relieved, she smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you, Pete. I’ll go and see if I can hear what’s being said.”
“Not sure you should, but you be careful, miss.”
“I will.”
She picked her way down the lane toward the warehouse, edging around a stinking and rotting animal corpse on the ground. The mist thickened, extinguishing all light. She faltered, unable to see the way. Distant sounds reached her, echoing through the fog. Was it a carriage? She stood still, unsure whether to return to the hackney. Had Pete decided to leave after all? Moving closer, light flickered around an ill-fitting door at the side of the warehouse. She crept forward and placed an eye to the crack. She could make out only blurred movement in the flickering candlelight and the indistinct hum of voices. Frustrated, she hesitated. Should she go and find Lord Strathairn?
An arm around her waist pulled her backward off her feet. A smothering hand covered her mouth and nose, clamping down on her scream.
*
Guy was convinced they’d lost Strathairn when he and Forney left by the rear of the hotel. He looked around the bare candlelit warehouse at the dozen men who stood to greet him. They had been sitting at a table drinking brandy. Heavy curved wooden ribs marched across the ceiling like the inside of a whale’s belly. An anchor propped against a wall alongside a pile of fishing nets. The strong smell of rotten fish lingered in the air.
“Please take off your coat, baron,” Forney said, hanging his on a peg near the door.
Guy did the same, ruing the fact that his new gun was in the pocket. He fought to appear calm as he greeted each man around the table. So far, none had questioned his authenticity. Whenever a man eyed him, however, saliva dried in his mouth and his heart banged against his ribs. Despite John’s instruction, he was poorly prepared for this dangerous gamble. One question could strip him bare.
The last man in the room to be introduced was a Monsieur Delany, a short, dark-haired man with shifty brown eyes.
Delany leaned forward and shook Guy’s hand. “Baron, it’s good to see you again. We met that memorable night before Napoleon escaped from Elba.”
Every muscle in his body tense, Guy forced himself to smile and speak warmly. “Oui. It is good to see you again, Delany.”
“Your contribution to Napoleon’s escape was the result of great cunning,” Delany said.
Away from the halo of light cast by the candles on the table the rest of the room lay in shadow. Guy stepped back and turned his head to hide the absence of a scar. When had Vincent been wounded? Did these men know of it?
“We are eager for you to lend your astute advice to this new plan, Baron.”
“I am eager to do so.”
Forney handed him a glass of French brandy. “Raise your glasses, gentlemen. We toast our future success.”
Guy tossed back the liquor and welcomed the burn sliding down his tight throat.
“I’ve thought long and hard about where we strike, and when,” Forney said. “We must learn from mistakes of the past. If Fawkes had been better prepared, King James, his family, and the aristos would be no more.”
“That was because the schemer Francis Tresham gave them away!” Delany said, his gaze around the room ferocious.
Forney rubbed at the deep grooves on his forehead. “Today, it is even more difficult, for the palace is searched by the yeomen of the guard before every state opening of parliament. We need the element of surprise like the successful assassination of Spencer Perceval in the lobby of the House of Commons.”
“I vote we assassinate the cabinet when they’re all together and establish a Committee of Public Safety to oversee a radical revolution,” said the Frenchman, Robillard.
“I should think many would thank us if we shot Liverpool,” offered Diprose, a fair-haired Englishman.
A ripple of amusement passed through the room.
“Which is why we won’t,” Forney said. He took Guy’s arm and pulled him into the light. “Baron, I want you to take charge of this mission. I place our future success in your hands.”
“I would be honored,” Guy said. With growing dread, he stepped up to the table where detailed diagrams of a possible assassination plot were spread out over the surface. These men were not so amateurish after all. Details of the route taken by a carriage down Pall Mall, with times and access routes marked. Who would be where and what role they would take, was carefully detailed. Was it to be the Regent? And might it be a credible plan? He rose from studying them and caught sight of Delany staring at him with a puzzled expression. “Who is our target then, Forney?”
“Princess Charlotte,” the count said.
“The princess?” Guy suppressed a shudder. They were fanatical, and very dangerous because they did not care what risks they took.
“As she recently announced she is with child, we need to act now. Her death removes the only heir to the throne before she gives birth. The public see her as a sign of hope, a contrast to her unpopular father and her mad grandfather. Her death will further destabilize the Regent. The princess is popular. Her death will throw England into deep mourning. The best time to strike is when she goes to church.”
Guy struggled to keep his horror from registering on his face. He leaned over the detailed plan, then shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
Forney’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not, Baron?”
“Because Napoleon wouldn’t. You must know that he counts on Princess Charlotte to help secure his release. She is sympathetic about his exile because of her distress for her mother, so badly treated by the English. Such an act would put the authorities on the alert, which won’t help our cause to free the general. We can do better than this. Let’s not rush in where angels fear to tread. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll come up with a better plan.”
“But that is the genius of it,” Forney said. “Bonaparte is mistaken to look to the princess for help. He won’t get it. If we act on this, the English aren’t so likely to suspect Napoleonic sympathizers when searching for the culprit.”
Guy’s fingers itched to pummel the man to the ground. “You would condemn Napoleon to exile by removing his last shred of hope. He would be very angry indeed. I’d hate to be the one to tell him.”
“Yes, there’s that to consider,” said Jackman, a tall thin Englishman. The rest murmured their agreement. “There’s no saying the princess will survive childbirth. A better choice would be the Regent.”
“That was recently attempted. The Regent’s carriage windows were broken.” The other Englishman called Simmons, pushed himself forward. “It could have been a gunshot, although no further evidence was found. But now Lord Liverpool’s government has reacted with force. The Habeas Corpus Act has been suspended, and anybody under the merest suspicion of conspiracy can be thrown into Newgate and kept there.”
The majority in the room voted against the murder of the princess or the regent. Relieved, Guy released a breath, only to stiffen when Forney spoke again. “I have also considered Lord Bathurst, Secretary for War, and the Colonies. He would be a cruel loss to the government.”
“Mm. An excellent idea. Give me those twenty-four hours. I’ll come up with a fail-proof plan,” Guy repeated.
“Every hour we delay makes it more dangerous,” Diprose said, stalking up and down. “Whitehall will get wind of it.”
“Still, we can’t go off half-cocked.” Forney folded his arms. “Baron, you have your twenty-four hours. Once the new plan is formulated, we will act.”
As they moved toward the door, it opened. A burly man entered with a young lad struggling in his arms. “See what I found lurking outside.”
Forney glared. “A stable boy, Smith?”
Smith eyed the boy’s chest. “This boy has a fine pair of cat’s heads!” He whipped the lad’s hat off, and red locks fell to cover her shoulders.
Forney’s mouth dropped open. “Qui est-elle?”
Guy groaned inwardly as he met Hetty’s frightened gaze.