Chapter Sixteen
After an early breakfast, Strathairn swore out a warrant at Bow Street and urged the constables to act immediately. Consumed with impatience, he prayed Irvine still lived as the carriage took him to Stepney.
At the surgeon’s house, he found Miles Irvine not only alive, but conscious. “Milord.” He weakly lifted his head from the bed. A bloody pad was fastened to his right side, his arm and leg bandaged.
Strathairn eased him down again with a hand on his good shoulder. “Easy does it. Can you tell me what happened?”
Irvine swallowed audibly, his eyes dark with pain. “We followed the countess to her dressmaker,” he said, his voice faint. “I was stationed at the back entrance and had two men guarding the front.”
“Yes, go on.”
“She came down the back stairs several minutes later, dressed in a dark blue cloak, and hailed a hackney. I managed to keep her in sight as it took her to a ramshackle house in a street in Seven Dials. Left my carriage and crept to the house to see her talk to a big brute of a fellow with shoulders like a five-barred gate.” He grimaced and laid his head back on the pillow.
“Take your time.” Strathairn waited as Irvine’s normally smooth-skinned face, was deeply furrowed in pain.
“Watched them through the window. The giant took metal parts from a crate—which fitted the description of the one Dawes brought ashore, milord! He assembled a gun on the table.”
“Assembled it? Did you recognize the type?”
“Never seen the like. A double-barrel rifle, but nothing Thomas Manton has made.” Irvine continued between gasps. “Brown lacquer, and the block, barrel and action parts fitted together like the fifth wheel on a carriage, real smooth like. It appeared to be breech loading…”
Strathairn’s eyebrows rose. “Hells teeth!”
Irvine nodded, his eyes wide. “They talked for several minutes… I wasn’t able to hear what they were saying… She emerged from the house without warning. I raced into the alley and fell over a pile of rubbish.” He dragged in a shuddering breath with a cringe of pain. “They heard me. The countess boarded her carriage and took off, and I was left to run for mine where it waited down the road. He shot me before I reached it.” Irvine gritted his teeth. “It was extraordinary, milord. He fired three shots in quick succession,” Irvine grimaced, “and I’m afraid he got me with all three of ’em.”
Strathairn stared at him. “There were no others there?”
“He was alone. The shots came from that rifle.”
Strathairn read the concern in Irvine’s eyes as they silently came to the same conclusion. It was a new style of gun not yet seen in England. “How did you manage to get away?”
“He came after me. While he was reloading, I managed to reach the carriage. Several shots struck the carriage as we took off, but they missed me and the jarvie who cursed me in fearsome fashion. Couldn’t blame him. Good fellow, didn’t desert me when most would have. Knew of this doctor and brought me here.”
“Well done, Irvine.” Strathairn nodded. “Do you wish me to inform your father?”
Irvine’s mouth tightened. “We don’t speak.”
Irvine’s father disagreed with his choice of occupation. Most fathers who cared at all did, including Strathairn’s own. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
“No, I’m cozy here, thank you, milord. The doc says I can stay for a while.”
“Get some rest. I’ll return this afternoon to see how you fare.”
Irvine coughed and closed his eyes. “Thank you, milord.”
The door opened, and a young woman brought in a tray with a steaming bowl, spoon, and a plate of fragrant bread.
“This is my daughter, Miss Gresham, my lord,” the surgeon said. “She is nursing Irvine.”
The pretty freckle-faced brunette curtsied.
Strathairn smiled. “You have my utmost thanks, Miss Gresham. A pretty nurse is exactly what Irvine needs.”
He left the house feeling a little more confident about Irvine. Was the countess here in England to take up her dead husband’s cause? An act of revenge? But the man with the gun made him suspect there was a good deal more to it. This time she would not be so gently handled. She would expect Irvine to have been dealt with, and might have considered it safe to return to Richmond.
When someone banged on the door, Strathairn was catching up on his sleep in the library. He had visited Irvine again last night and found him a little better. Then he’d returned to wait for news from Bow Street.
It was too early for the butler and most of the servants to be at their stations. He opened the door and cool, lilac-gray dawn light filtered into the hallway. He recognized Clancy, a Bow Street runner he’d had dealings with in the past. “A note for you, my lord.” Exhausted, the man drooped against the doorjamb.
Strathairn took the missive and nodded his thanks. “Do you require an answer?”
“No, milord.”
“Care to come in? You look as if you could do with a drink.”
Clancy’s brows shot up. “Kind of you, milord, but I’d rather get home to m’ bed.”
Strathairn returned to the library fire where he scanned the missive from Parnham. Countess Forney had been arrested during the night in Richmond as she packed her things. She and Crutchet were taken to Bow Street for questioning. They would appear before the magistrate at two o’clock.
He rubbed his tight scalp. Were they finally coming to grips with the situation? He went upstairs to bathe and change. His valet had laid out his clothes for the day and the hip-bath stood by the fire in readiness. Hobson had been his batman during the war and almost knew what Strathairn needed before he did himself. Strathairn lay back in the bath and wondered what the day would bring as Hobson poured more warm water over him.
“You look tense, my lord,” Hobson observed. “A massage will set you to rights.”
“No time, Hobson.” He stood, shedding water over the sides of the bath onto the floor, and stepped into the waiting towel. “After breakfast I must go out.”
An hour later, he was on the road in heavy traffic. An hour after that, he pulled his phaeton up outside the surgeon’s house. He alighted and threw the reins to his tiger, Jem.
Miss Gresham opened the door. She curtsied, a flush on her cheeks. “Good morning, my lord.”
“How’s the patient?”
“He is eating his breakfast.”
Strathairn swallowed the gasp of relief, seeing Irvine propped up by several pillows. The bed linen, although heavily mended, was spotlessly clean. Morning sun flooded through the window onto the embroidered coverlet. The aroma of hot food filled the air.
“Good morning, Irvine.” Strathairn drew up a chair beside the bed.
“Lord Strathairn.” Irvine struggled to remove the tray from his lap, attempting to sit straighter.
“Eat your tasty breakfast while it’s hot,” Strathairn said. The pinched look around Irvine’s mouth had gone, and while he still looked drawn, some healthy color had returned to his face.
“Take more than that to stop me.” Irvine tucked into sausage and eggs with good appetite. “I’ll be back at work in no time.”
“Forget it.” Strathairn shook his head. “Not until you’re fully recovered. Is there someone who can care for you at home?”
Irvine winked at the young woman who brought in two cups of coffee. “I’ve been invited to stay until I’m back on my feet. Very generous of them it is, too.”
“Indeed, it is.” Strathairn nodded and took the cup and saucer from the young woman. She flushed an even rosier pink and tugged the edge of her apron. “Thank you for the coffee, Miss Gresham.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.” She hurried from the room.
Once the door had closed, Strathairn leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I’m sure you are eager to learn of the latest development.”
Irvine paused, fork in the air, his eyes wide. “You’ve got one of ’em, my lord?”
“We’ve arrested Countess Forney. I’m on my way to Bow Street.”
“She’d better talk.”
“The constables will make certain she does.”
“It looks like her husband is dead, doesn’t it, my lord?”
Strathairn shrugged. “We seem to have a new enemy on our hands. And not one to take lightly.”
“We must locate the rogue before he strikes. Do you have any idea what he and the countess planned?”
“No, but the time is ripe for sabotage. Your description of this man is circulating London and the environs. Spies are on the lookout for him. We’ve had a few false alarms, but so far, nothing.”
As he left the surgeon’s house, he suffered a frisson of foreboding. So much was at stake. Stories of unrest in the north filled The Times. It was the opinion of many that any activists who spoke out of turn and egged the people to riot should be hanged. Meanwhile, angry industrial workers in the midlands threatened to riot. The atmosphere was combustible. It would take little to stir up open rebellion, which could tip over into civil war.
*
In Lord and Lady Fenwick’s drawing room, Lord Coombe solicitously arranged the shawl around Sibella’s shoulders as they listened to Ode to A Nightingale, the latest poem read by the slight pale consumptive poet, John Keats. The beautiful ode pulled at the heartstrings, but Sibella had trouble concentrating due to Lord Coombe’s ominous presence beside her. If he suffered regret for the way he had acted at their betrothal ball, he was not prepared to share it with her. Nothing more on the matter had been said, his manner coolly solicitous in the carriage.
He made her want to scream at him like a fishwife. His outrageous accusation warranted an apology or at least more discussion to clear the air. Worse, he made her feel guilt-ridden, although there was nothing she could do about her emotional state. She wasn’t even sure what sparked such a heated reaction. Jealousy, a human failing, she might have understood, but she doubted that was it. She’d seen vehemence in his eyes not passion. Not given to hysterics, she did not trust him.
Maria hurried up as soon as Lord Coombe left. “I’ve spoken to Harry. We are to visit the abbey when his parents arrive home.”
Sibella kissed Maria’s cheek, aware how much her sister hated the idea. “Thank you, dear one.” She couldn’t wait. Nor could she consider the possibility of failure.