15th April, 1881
Your Grace,
Over a month has passed without word. I find myself fearing for your wellbeing. None of the staff knows of your whereabouts or the reason for your abrupt departure. Indeed, it is quite as if you have disappeared. If your absence is due to me, perhaps you could be kind enough to inform me so that I may make amends.
I do hope to hear from you soon. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind my recent increase in expenditures. I’ve commissioned an entire new wardrobe and have begun making a few, much-needed alternations to our London home. I’m sure you will agree that the paintings of the former dukes were decidedly de trop and much in need of replacement. I’ve had them sent to the attics.
Sincerely,
Daisy Trent
Daisy found herself being ushered into the salon of the Duchess of Leeds by a butler who looked as if he’d be more at home on the docks than he was in his formal attire. He possessed none of the formidable starch of Giles, and he seemed far too young for the position, tall and broad and commanding, with a head of black hair and a wicked scar running down his right cheek.
He was almost handsome, though not in the classical sense. Rather, his was a raw, brawny attractiveness that was most disarming in a servant who was meant to blend into the wallpaper unless he was required. This man would never blend into wallpaper. Damask could not possibly contain him.
The invitation from the duchess had arrived two days before, disarming Daisy, for she didn’t recall ever having much discourse with the Duchess of Leeds. And precious few invitations had been forthcoming for the American who had eloped with the duke who’d subsequently disappeared.
Daisy read the gossip sheets, even if she knew she shouldn’t. She was more than aware of her reputation and what was being said of her. It wasn’t pretty.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Trent,” the man masquerading as a butler announced.
Daisy entered the salon to an unexpected sight. The Duchess of Leeds sat on a gilded settee, surrounded by a bevy of dogs, an orange cat curled on her lap. One dog, a handsome terrier with an under-bite, rose and sauntered toward Daisy, sniffing her skirts.
Daisy didn’t think twice before lowering herself to the dog’s level, offering him her hand for a judicious sniff. He sniffed deeply for a few moments, pressing his warm nuzzle into her palm, before delivering a lick.
“Your Grace,” said the duchess, drawing Daisy’s attention back to her with a smile that only served to heighten her exotic beauty. She had rich chestnut hair, high cheekbones, and flashing green eyes. “It seems as if you’ve met with Hugo’s approval.”
“He is a dear.” Daisy removed her glove to rub Hugo’s satiny head. He rewarded her by getting onto his haunches and licking her directly across the mouth.
“Oh heavens, Hugo. Down, boy.” The duchess’s voice rang across the salon, cutting and authoritative. “My dear duchess, please do stand else I fear the little mongrel will stuff his tongue down your throat.”
Daisy laughed as Hugo licked her cheek. “I don’t mind.”
As a girl, she’d longed for a dog, and that same longing returned to her in a rush now, likely compounded by an entire month of loneliness and isolation. March had turned into April, the weather warming, spring blossoming over the city, and still her husband had not returned. No word. No indication he even still breathed. The pang in her chest tightened, and the little dog seemed to sense her distress, for his simple lick turned into a frenzy of wet, overzealous canine kisses.
“Oh dear heavens, you little scoundrel,” the duchess chided. “Down, Hugo!”
The dog at last obeyed, settling himself on his haunches and blinking up at her with large, chocolate eyes. Daisy gave his head another pat before she stood, recalling her manners as she swept into a curtsy.
“Pish, none of that now,” the duchess said, an open and friendly smile curving her lips and rendering her even lovelier. “I don’t believe in standing on ceremony.” She gestured about her airily. “I’m somewhat of a collector of strays, you see.”
A collector of strays—yes, it made sense, from the dogs, to the cat, to the butler. Daisy couldn’t help but wonder if the odd woman before her viewed her as yet another one.
“How kindhearted of you.” Daisy strove for diplomacy. “Thank you for your invitation, Your Grace. I find myself something of an outsider in London.”
“You mustn’t thank me. Do come in and get settled,” the duchess ordered. “And please, you must call me Georgiana, I insist. Ludlow will bring tea shortly.”
Daisy hesitantly found her way to a chair that flanked the duchess, Hugo trailing happily along with her and sitting on the hem of her skirts after she’d found her seat. They chatted politely until the unlikely butler returned, looking almost ridiculous as he bore a dainty silver tray in his meaty paws. Daisy didn’t miss the look the duchess exchanged with the man before he quietly retreated from the room once more.
Innocuous chatter continued over tea, Daisy grateful for the companionship and the distraction both. Georgiana, as it turned out, was a fellow American heiress. Having grown up largely abroad, she possessed the cultured accent of any lady to the manor born. Daisy felt herself warming to the garrulous duchess, who was quick to laugh and equally generous in her smiles. During the course of their tête-à-tête, she almost forgot the misery of her current situation.
Until Georgiana eyed her sympathetically over her tea and uttered the observation she least wished to hear. “You seem dreadfully in need of a friend, Daisy.”
Daisy nearly spat her tea all over her silk gown. Yes, she supposed she was dreadfully in need of a friend. But who was this odd woman she scarcely knew, who kept a menagerie of small animals and had a terrifying butler, to say so?
“I’m perfectly content,” her pride forced her to say.
The duchess wasn’t fooled. She tilted her head, considering her. “You look perfectly miserable, dear.”
Daisy firmed her lips, stifling the unwanted surge of emotion evoked by her would-be friend’s words. “I’m… ” Lonely, wretched, dejected, heartbroken. She swallowed. “A friend would be lovely.”
“Excellent. You may be surprised to learn that we have a great deal more in common than hailing from the same homeland.” Georgiana settled her teacup into its saucer. “I too have a husband given to abrupt disappearances and secrecy.”
Daisy considered her newfound friend, struggling to make sense of the implications of what she’d just revealed. During the time she’d flitted about fashionable London society, she had never seen the Duke of Leeds himself. “Is His Grace not in residence?” she asked hesitantly.
Georgianna’s sunny expression went uncharacteristically dark. “He claims to be in America on a prolonged hunting expedition. Naturally, I don’t believe a word of it.”
Daisy frowned, feeling uncomfortable with this glimpse into the marriage of two virtual strangers. “You don’t?”
“I found some correspondence in the fire grate of his study, half burnt. It was nothing but a few sentences, meaningless observations on the weather, and I couldn’t fathom why he would’ve gone to the trouble of burning such a thing.” Georgiana paused. “It was only later, when I found some other letters stuffed amongst his books, that I realized they were written in code. It wasn’t at all what it seemed.”
Letters written in code.
What in heaven’s name…
Daisy’s mind returned to the odd note she’d found in Sebastian’s chamber, folded in thirds. The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon. A shiver went straight down her spine. “Were you able to translate them?” she asked.
Georgiana nodded slowly. “My husband isn’t hunting game, Daisy. He’s in New York City. I haven’t yet worked out what it is he’s doing or why, but it’s something to do with the Fenians. What’s more, there was a name on one of the letters.”
Dread crept through her, uncoiling and then snapping tight around her heart like a manacle. Somehow, she knew what Georgiana was going to say next. “It was my name, wasn’t it?”
The duchess nodded. “So it only seems fitting, you see, that you and I ought to join forces and bring our miserable husbands to heel.”
Daisy set down her teacup with numb fingers as suspicion, hurt, and confusion warred within her. “What do you propose we do?”
Georgiana smiled, but this time, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll wage a campaign of our own. Men are not so different from dogs in some ways, you see. Both are quite territorial. By the time we’re finished, they’ll be begging to tell us the truth.”
30th April, 1881
Your Grace,
If you would deign to answer any of my letters, or to return to London where I await you, you would do me the utmost kindness. Your silence is as disheartening as your abandonment.
I do so fervently hope you won’t mind the soirees I’ve been hosting, which are sometimes quite dear in cost. I confess that I was startled to realize I’d spent nearly a hundred pounds on ice sculptures over the course of the month. To be fair, however, the sculptures were exquisite.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
April bled into May.
By day, Sebastian and Griffin oversaw the chemist’s shop, keeping their wits about them and their eyes and ears open. Their clientele was steady and predictable. No large-scale purchases of acids or glycerin. Nothing that would be cause for suspicion or alarm.
By night, they scoured the streets of Liverpool. Their intelligence from the Pinkertons in America was concise and clear. There would be an attack. The devil of it was that beyond knowing a bomb planting was imminent, they were helpless to stop the destruction from unfolding without evidence leading them to the origin of the conspiracy.
“All roads lead to Vanreid,” Griffin pointed out needlessly as they stood alone in their empty storefront one evening.
Sebastian stilled in the act of tallying their ledger from the day. Though he’d never been interested in trade, here was a part of his duty that he enjoyed. Numbers were so precise. There was no confusion when it came to arithmetic. One was either correct or incorrect, and there was not a bloody subjective thing about it. So unlike every other part of his life that he almost found peace in working over the leather-bound book with his pen. It was a diversion, at any rate, from missing Daisy and wondering what the hell she must think of his sudden disappearance.
Duty was a hell of a thing.
“Of course all roads lead to Vanreid,” he said at last, measuring his words with care as he finished a sum. “He is the primary source of funds. He owns the arms factory, the boats. He hides his every evil action beneath the pretext of innocent business. And yet, for all that, he remains the wily fox who has outsmarted us, gotten into the henhouse, and eaten every last fowl, for we cannot buy evidence against him.”
“Do you not think it odd, Bast, the way he can seemingly predict our moves?” Griffin asked from across the room.
He stiffened. Acting on information from American operatives, they had raided Vanreid’s ships on four occasions, only to be met with legitimate goods each time. Not a hint of dynamite or dynamite-making ingredients to be found.
“Do you mean to suggest I shared sensitive information with Daisy?” he calmly asked, his pen still scratching away on the ledger. It was better to involve himself in such tasks than to dwell on the growing doubt his best friend levied his way each passing day. As their mission had proved increasingly fruitless, the strain between them had only gotten worse.
“I would never question your loyalty, Bast.” Griffin’s tone was quiet, contemplative. “That, I think, is rather the point. Is your loyalty to her as strong as your loyalty to the League?”
He didn’t know the answer to the goddamn question, nor did he wish to consider it. Ten carboys of nitric acid, he read, and then he froze. “Did you arrange for a large sale of nitric acid today?”
“No,” Griffin snapped. “Don’t seek to distract me, Bast. It’s high time we had this out between the two of us. You haven’t spoken a word about her since the night I arrived.”
No, he had not. Daisy was a private matter, and to his mind, she had nothing to do with his obligations in Liverpool. She was, simply, his. And he would not discuss her as if she were an enemy or a suspect when she was the woman who owned his heart. But that was neither here nor there at the moment, for he was staring at a blank line where the scrawl of their assistant shop boy, James, indicated an inordinately large purchase of nitric acid, along with fourteen carboys of sulfuric acid.
They were to be delivered the following day to an address not far off. The lure had finally worked, damn it.
He jerked his head up to find Griffin pacing the shop floor, a scowl hardening his features. “I believe we need to pay a visit to one Reginald White.”
“What are you on about?” Griffin stalked over to him.
Sebastian pushed the ledger toward his friend, pointing to the entry in question. “Have a look for yourself. It seems to me that Reginald White purchased far too great a quantity for a mere painter. Indeed, it rather seems to me that the bastard bought enough to make dynamite.”
Griffin scanned the ledger, his jaw clenching. “Bloody hell. What do you know? It looks like we may have found our canary after all.”
Sebastian raised a brow. “Let’s go.”
The sun had long since set, all storefronts closed. Liverpool’s night denizens had come out to play in full, raucous effect. It was nigh onto midnight, which meant they hadn’t a moment to waste. Working with haste, they closed down the shop for the night, locked everything away, doused the lights, and moved on foot to their destination.
Number three Castle Street was a fairly nondescript building. No lights burned within. By the streetlight, Sebastian read the sign hanging over the small storefront. Reginald White, Painter & Decorator. They had reached their quarry, and he knew a moment of pure, unadulterated thrill. Here was the part of his work in the League that called to him, that felt like home. Danger excited him.
And yet, for some reason, tonight the excitement felt, after its initial rush… hollow. Perhaps it was because he knew that back in London, the most exquisite woman he’d ever known was organizing his library and wondering where in the hell he’d gone. Jesus, she was probably cursing him, hating him. When he finally did return, there was no telling if he would be able to win her back.
But this wasn’t the time or the place for that thought. For now, he was a pledged member of the League, and he had a mission to see through. For Daisy, and for every other innocent who would be an unwitting victim, he needed to cast Vanreid into gaol forever.
That’s it, old chap. Wits about you. Time to move.
“We’ll canvas the perimeter, make certain no one’s within,” he told Griffin lowly. You take the east, I’ll move from the west, and we’ll meet in the rear.”
“Done,” Griffin agreed, his hand going to the pistol he kept beneath his jacket.
“God go with you, brother,” they said in unison.
And then, they parted ways and sank into the night. Some twenty minutes later, they reconnoitered by a locked back door.
“No one’s inside,” Griffin grunted Sebastian’s thoughts aloud. “We need to gain access, see what’s within.”
Sebastian lit a match to illuminate the lock on the door. “Have you your bloody keys?”
“Does a stag shit in the woods?” Griffin asked triumphantly, extracting the ring of skeleton keys he always kept at the ready from his pocket.
He would have laughed had the situation been any less dire. Griffin’s gift was picking locks. He had seven keys, and if none of them fit a lock, Griffin could muscle the closest match into working. He’d never seen a door the Duke of Strathmore couldn’t break through with his innate feel.
Griffin turned his attention to the door. Sebastian’s match sputtered out, but it little mattered. In less than two minutes, Griffin had the door open. They stepped inside, shutting the portal behind them, and lit the gas lamps on low, walking with as much care as possible lest anyone let the rooms above the shop. The storefront seemed innocent enough.
Sebastian followed Griffin into the back room, and that was the precise location where innocent morphed into something decidedly evil.
“Carboys of nitric acid,” Griffin reported quietly. “Seventeen, in all.”
“Ten of sulfuric,” Sebastian added grimly.
The evidence grew more damning as they continued. On the boiler, a vat of nitroglycerin simmered.
“Bloody hell,” Griffin rasped.
It was in that precise moment that Sebastian’s gaze found a scrap of paper bearing a nearly illegible scrawl. He snatched it up, reading it thrice, sure he was wrong. Sure that no one, especially not the sort of enemy who had been brewing dynamite beneath the nose of England’s most elite spies for the past two months, could be so foolish.
“Fuck.” He scanned the contents again for good measure. Midnight. Dale Street. “There’s to be an explosion tonight at the police station.”
“Jesus. We’ve got to get there to warn them,” Griffin said needlessly.
Taking great care to leave the premises just as they’d found it, they backtracked together, turning down all the lamps, leaving and locking the door. Dale Street wasn’t far by foot, so they took off at a run. They’d almost reached the station when the explosion struck. The earth rumbled, the sound of the detonation reverberating in otherworldly fashion, blasting through his chest. Glass shattered. A woman screamed.
And at last, the war they’d been warned of had arrived at Liverpool. But Sebastian and Griffin had been too goddamn late to stop it. They halted in their tracks, watching the smoke rise in the wake of the blast, and the resultant commotion unleash.
“Fucking hell,” Sebastian breathed, smoke and the bitter ascent of sulfur burning his lungs.
“Hell on earth,” Griffin agreed bitterly. “Damn their hides. We’ll get them, Bast. We’ll get every last one of the rotten bastards.”
Sebastian watched the glow of flame, the smoke billowing into the air. He thought of Daisy, her innocence, the way he’d last left her, and his heart ached. Then he thought of her father, the duplicitous son-of-a-bitch who financed these godforsaken plots. And a part of him resented her, for being so innocent and good and naïve. For being the woman he loved and yet also the daughter of the enemy he needed to destroy. It wasn’t fair, damn it. Life was not fair.
Because nothing was as it seemed, and everything was about to change.