Chapter Seventeen
ANDREW SAT IN front of Sir Reginald Palmer-Smythe, commander of the branch of the Queen’s Guard, trying his best not to explode. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gillie casting worried glances in his direction, but he was determined not to blow up. Even if the man was being an insufferable ass.
“The prince won’t have it,” said Palmer-Smythe, who would be attached to the Prince of Wales’s entourage in Edinburgh and had come to the city to conduct the advance work needed to ensure the prince would be safe.
“With all due respect, sir, His Royal Highness’s safety could be at risk—mortal risk,” said Andrew. It was five days until the prince’s arrival in Edinburgh, seven until the ball, and they still weren’t any closer to figuring out what Wark’s plot was. He and Gillie had finally secured an interview with the commander, and they’d arrived that morning hoping that the man would see reason.
They could not have been more wrong.
“Nothing you’ve said to me this afternoon has convinced me that there’s one bit of credibility to this threat,” said Palmer-Smythe, his mustache twitching with displeasure.
“There has been a significant amount of activity at the home of Harold Wark, a man who was found with a cache of weapons,” said Gillie.
“Harold Wark?” Palmer-Smythe snorted. “The man is on the prince’s organizing committee.”
“Which gives him an unprecedented amount of access to the prince during his stay,” said Andrew. “And access to the prince’s private schedule.”
“We have reason to believe that an attack will come at the ball,” said Gillie.
“If there’s an attack, which you have not convinced me is imminent, why would it be there?” Palmer-Smythe asked.
Andrew and Gillie exchanged looks. They had nothing more than their gut instinct to go on. Despite Lavinia’s efforts, they were still guessing and praying they weren’t wrong.
“Access,” said Gillie.
“And the opposite can be said for the ball,” said Palmer-Smythe. “Invitations only went out to the highest ranking of Scotland’s society. Every man there will be either a gentleman of impeccable breeding or a titan of industry. Mr. Wark is one of those men. So is the Duke of Livingston, at whose house the prince will dine that evening before attending the ball. He will be with the prince for a considerable amount of time, even allowing the royal carriage and the prince’s staff to rest in the mews behind his home while the prince dines. Does that make him a suspect? I should think not.”
Andrew sighed and ran an assessing eye over the man. Palmer-Smythe was hardly old enough to have seen action, let alone to have done anything more than study military strategy, and in Andrew’s opinion, theory and strategy were no substitute for real experience.
“Sir, were you ever in battle?” he asked.
The Queen’s Guardsman drew his shoulders back, ready to be offended by whatever he believed the implications of the question to be. “I’ve served Her Majesty loyally for nearly a decade.”
That was a no then.
“While I was never in the Royal Navy, my work brought me into enough skirmishes to have shown me that battles are fought differently in different places,” Andrew explained. “You have to understand the context of your surroundings to know the merits of an ambush over a siege or a phalanx. You ask yourself whether the enemy will have cover and whether he can beat a retreat if the battle isn’t going the way he planned. You prepare for the fight you’ll face, not the one you hope will materialize.
“After giving it a great deal of thought, I believe Miss Gibson is right. She argued days ago that the prince’s ball is the one place that makes sense for this attack. The parade is out in the open, it will be heavily policed, and you can’t control for the variables that might thwart an attack. The prince’s ball is a closed space with easy exits, if this group knows what they’re doing. It will also be a controlled environment where they can endeavor to isolate the prince. It would require little effort to slip in and commit an act of violence against the crown if you had the right sort of invitation.”
Palmer-Smythe’s face grew red and he shot up out of his seat. “That you’re suggesting that a peer of the realm or another such gentleman would be behind something like that is ridiculous.”
“You have nothing to lose in believing us,” said Gillie, leaning over the low table as she looked up at Palmer-Smythe. “Cancel the visit.”
Palmer-Smythe burst out laughing. “There is no chance of that, young lady. The heir to the British throne won’t be seen cowering on the off chance something might happen.”
“Then cancel the ball,” Gillie argued.
“No,” said the man.
“Then at least tighten security, flood the ballroom with guards, allow us access to the prince, and with any luck we won’t have to do anything rash,” she said.
Palmer-Smythe look at her askance. “If you two manage to secure invitations, which I very much doubt, because they were printed weeks ago and no one will be giving them up, then you may attend just like any other subject. However, if you think I’ll be bullied by the War Office about how to secure the royal who is my responsibility, then you’re both suffering delusions. This meeting has been nothing more than a waste of my time.”
“But what if it isn’t?” said Andrew quickly.
Disgust curled Palmer-Smythe’s lips. “But it is.”
“Sir—”
The man cut Gillie off with a shake of his head, addressing himself only to Andrew in a way he clearly knew would get the Scotswoman’s back up. “You two are distracting me from the real work that needs to be done here.”
“And what would that be?” Andrew asked.
“Making sure this visit goes off without a hitch,” said Palmer-Smythe. Then he picked up a stack of papers on his desk and began to shuffle them into individual piles.
They’d been dismissed. Palmer-Smythe didn’t see the urgency of their meeting, and it made Andrew want to shake him, rattling the teeth in his head until the Queen’s Guardsman saw sense.
If the prince is assassinated . . .
Andrew refused to entertain that possibility. It wasn’t just the prince who would be put in danger if Wark and his coconspirators were successful. By neglecting to do anything, Palmer-Smythe, the Queen’s Guard, Gillie, and he were all responsible for putting everyone who attended that party in a week’s time in danger.
Slowly he rose, a headache rolling through his head with brutal consistency. When Gillie caught his gaze, he jerked his head in the direction of the door. If Palmer-Smythe refused to listen to reason, they’d have to find their own way of preventing Wark.
Out on the street, Gillie planted her hands on her hips and huffed out a sigh.
“I’d call that meeting an unqualified disaster,” she said.
“The man is an ass who can’t see anything past the shine of his ceremonial sword.”
She turned to him, dismay etched on her face. “What are we going to do?”
He caught Gillie’s elbow and steered her down the street. “How far does your Mrs. Sullivan’s influence reach?”
“It depends what it is you want done,” she said.
“An invitation. Two, if she can get them.”
And all at once, Gillie’s features transformed from distraught to determined. “I’ll pay her a call right now,” she said.
“Good,” he said, sticking his arm out to flag down a passing cab. As soon as it rumbled to a stop, he unlatched the door and opened it, but then he paused, remembering something Lavinia had told him.
“Did your inquiries into Douglas come up with anything further?” he asked.
“Lavinia mentioned that he’s purchased one of Wark’s warehouses. Why would he want that?”
Gillie shrugged. “He wants to store things?”
“But aren’t his factories up in Glasgow?” he asked. “There’s plenty of shipping along the River Clyde.”
“Give me a day.” Gillie started to climb into the carriage, but paused, one foot on the step and one hand framing the door. “And what will you be doing?”
“Going over everything that Lavinia found for us at Wark’s dinner party. Given our lack of progress, I thought it would be wise to meet again,” he said.
In fact, he’d woken up with the dawn, wrapped around Lavinia in the warm depths of her bed, not knowing how he could wait for their prearranged Wednesday meeting to see her again. He’d sleepily suggested they meet after his appointment. She’d kissed him deeply before saying yes.
Every moment spent with her was pulling him in deeper, yet nothing could quell the insatiable need to claim her, own her, deserve her. He realized now that, even through his hate, he’d never stopped caring for her. She was supposed to be his life, and that tie was still strong.
“You two . . . ?” Gillie prompted.
He nodded, bracing himself for a rush of questions or a display of womanly emotion—positive or negative he couldn’t be certain.
Instead, Gillie’s features hardened. “How are you going to run her operation if you’re in love with her?”
He scowled. “No one said anything about love.”
He couldn’t think in those terms. That was the problem. Once the operation was over, he would leave and Lavinia would stay here. She’d made it clear enough that she loved this life she’d built up herself—one that didn’t have a place for him in it. The pull of attraction between the two of them was powerful, but it wasn’t enough for him to risk opening himself up to the hurt he’d felt all those years ago. And he suspected that this time, if he lost his heart to her, it might never mend.
“What are you two doing then?” Gillie demanded as the cab’s horse nickered. “Is it only lust? Because you should both be smart enough to know that even with the best intentions that never works.”
“You should go. This wait will be costing you shillings,” he said.
“Home can afford it. We need to speak of this, Andrew.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he said.
“There are rules in place about handlers and assets to ensure that assets stay safe. You know that emotions complicate things. They make us sloppy and prone to mistakes.”
“I know,” he muttered.
“How are you going to run Lavinia’s operation if you’re sharing a bed? Can you tell me that you’ll still do what’s best for the operation?”
“I don’t know!” he exploded, pushing a hand through his hair. It was a question that had been plaguing him since yesterday evening, when Lavinia had told him Wark had invited her to the prince’s ball. Surely it would be best to have an asset inside, keeping eyes on such a dangerous man, but a fundamental part of him couldn’t countenance it. The thought of her on Wark’s arm made him want to tear Wark in half.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he ground out.
“But it did, so face the consequences,” said Gillie sternly.
He dropped his head back.
“You don’t have a plan,” she said accusingly.
One of the first lessons Andrew had learned when he became a skipper was how not to let go. He’d learned that if he was angry or frustrated or terrified, he could ball that up and place it his chest, where it would burn brighter than coal, fueling him as he pushed himself to do things he never believed he would’ve been able to.
Over the past few days, he’d taken everything Lavinia had thrust at him and thrust him into—the pain, the joy, the anger, the lust—and shoved it onto that fire. It had burned down, purified, and hardened until, standing there on an Edinburgh street with his exuberantly dressed colleague who wore a sour face, he could see the truth of it all.
He was compromised, and that was compromising Lavinia, but he didn’t want to let her go. Not yet.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he finally said. “But I don’t want her to be hurt.”
“That is a risk in every operation, and you knew that when you agreed to take on this mission.”
He almost protested that the only reason he’d taken on the mission at all was because McKenzie, the only other option for a handler, was too much of a drunk to run anyone, but that wasn’t entirely true. He could’ve dug his heels in. He could’ve fought, pointing out all of the things that made him unsuitable to be Lavinia’s handler. The very things he was battling with now that they were lovers once again.
“The thought of her anywhere near Wark makes my skin crawl,” he said.
Gillie gave him a long, hard look, as though she could peer into his soul and see beneath all the layers even he wasn’t brave enough to look under.
“We are a week out from the prince’s ball. I cannot have you distracted by worrying about Lavinia. I like her as much as the next woman, but her first responsibility is to the mission. You should be able to order her to stand next to Wark’s side and seduce every last piece of information out of him if that’s what’s necessary.”
He focused a hard stare on the carriage door. If he kicked it, would the wood shatter before it broke his bones? Perhaps the broken bones would be good, a temporary relief from the truth he knew he needed to acknowledge and the pain that would come in its wake.
“Can you do that, Andrew?” Gillie insisted.
“No, I can’t bloody well do that and you know it,” he ground out.
His liaison nodded. “I didn’t think so. You know what you need to do for the good of everyone involved.”
Take Lavinia off the operation. Walk away. Cut the ties that bound them together.
“I don’t know if I can,” he said, his whole body sagging under the truth of that.
“It’s the best way to keep her safe, Andrew, and you know it. Your decisions have made her as compromised as you are, and she has none of the benefits of your training,” said Gillie, pulling herself up into the cab and shutting the door. “End things now or risk putting her in even graver danger.”
He stepped back as Gillie called Mrs. Sullivan’s address up to the driver, and watched her rumble off.
Moira smiled when Miss Gibson walked into the room in an ugly olive-green dress punctuated with wide brown bows that picked up the fabric to reveal a cream underskirt. The young woman with masses of curling red hair might try to hide behind loud clothing and a sometimes-sharp tongue, but Moira could see straight through her charade. The why, however, was still a mystery.
“Miss Gibson, what a pleasure,” she said. “What can I do for you today?”
Miss Gibson, however, looked past her shoulder at the painting that she’d propped up on the armchair to view. The young woman nodded at it. “I like that.”
“I do too. It’s by a young Englishman named Walter Sickert. He shows promise.” She smiled. “But I gather you didn’t come today to view my newest purchase.”
Miss Gibson pressed her lips together. “No. I came to ask whether you could secure two invitations to the prince’s ball in seven days’ time.”
Moira gave a laugh but the young lady didn’t join her. “Oh, you’re serious.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I was just going to have a cup of tea. Would you like to join me?” Mrs. Sullivan gestured to the tea cart, and Miss Gibson took a seat.
“I know it’s a tall order. I only hoped that—”
“When we first met, Miss Gibson, I wondered what our relationship would be. I’ve been contacted by the War Office several times, and Home specifically as well. Naturally, I’m happy to do whatever I can for my country and my adopted city. Edinburgh has been good to me since I moved here after my husband’s death.
“I tell you this,” Moira continued as she handed the young lady a cup of tea, “because there have been liaisons with Home whom I’ve helped because of duty and those I’ve helped because it gave me pleasure to assist a friend. I hope that you might consider me a friend, for that’s how I feel about you.”
Miss Gibson let out a long, slow breath, then took a sip of tea. “I admire you a great deal, Mrs. Sullivan. Your connections—”
“Oh, let’s not speak of connections. Anyone can cultivate those so long as they’re persistent and pleasant, and as a matchmaker both traits are vital for success. Possessing a great deal of money helps as well.”
Miss Gibson laughed. “I suppose it does.”
“I’ll do what I can to secure you the invitations. It may take me a day.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Moira said. “Although might I be so bold as to ask who they’re for?”
“Captain Colter and myself,” said Miss Gibson. “I’m afraid I can’t elaborate on why.”
“I understand. Dealing with spies has never been a particularly enlightening pursuit in my experience.”
“We are inclined toward secrecy,” said Miss Gibson with a smile. “Why do you ask?”
Moira sighed and adjusted the handle of her cup so it sat unambiguously at three o’clock. “I had hoped that Lavinia and Captain Colter might find their way back to some sort of understanding.”
“Oh, they have,” said Miss Gibson.
Moira looked up sharply. “They have?”
The young lady blushed. “That is to say, they’ve indulged in each other’s company.”
A grin spread across the older woman’s face. “Is that right?”
Moira knew something of Lavinia’s history with Captain Colter. Oh, her reticent friend hadn’t done anything so direct as to speak about the relationship openly, but over the years she’d been able to piece together the basic framework of Lavinia’s tragedy. Engaged young. Left alone. Married off. The one time they’d all stood in her drawing room not two weeks before had been enough to see the tension between the two had been unmistakable. That sort of energy only appeared between couples who’d known each other intimately.
“I don’t think Andrew is particularly happy about the consequences,” said Miss Gibson.
“Consequences?”
“He can’t possibly allow this to continue. Not when the prince’s life is at stake.”
Moira studied the young woman for a long moment. “That’s a very practical approach, Miss Gibson.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Then you’re not romantic?” Moira asked.
A flash of panic flitted over the young lady’s face. “How did this become about me?”
“Indulge the curiosity of your elder. Have you been fortunate in finding love?”
Miss Gibson shrank under her scrutiny, refusing to look her in the eye.
“There’s nothing wrong with a woman deciding that this isn’t the right time in her life,” Moira said softly. “But if you ever were to want help . . .”
“I should probably take my leave. I have a great deal of work to do,” said Miss Gibson, carefully putting down her cup of tea.
“Of course. I’ll send word as soon as I’ve secured the invitations.”
Miss Gibson hesitated but then stood, drawing her shoulders back as though preparing herself to make a grand pronouncement. “Mrs. Sullivan, I hope you won’t take offense, but the last thing I wish is to become one of your matchmaking clients.”
Moira laughed. “I understand.”
The young lady nodded once, as though that sealed their understanding, and then excused herself. Moira stared after her long after the door shut. Her instincts told her to hold back, that Miss Gibson wasn’t the sort of woman to be pushed, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.
With a shrug she turned back to her Sickert. Miss Gibson would come around eventually. They always did.