Too Dangerous For a Lady (18 page)

M
ark left Tranmere the next morning by boat for Warrington. At the Nag's Head he commented on the poster about the corpse by the road. No one seemed to have connected it to a man who'd hired a horse there, nor did he hear any suggestion that Seth Boothroyd had been there asking about Nathan. Hermione should be safe—unless Seth was still on his way. Or if Seth was going directly to Riverview House.

Mark climbed into the London coach trying to persuade himself that Solange couldn't possibly have discovered the exact address, but worry was agonizing. He prayed Hermione would set off for London today or tomorrow, because she'd been right, his clever lady. She would be safest there. As the coach rolled out into the London road, he hoped he'd arrive to the news that Solange and Isaac had already been found and jailed, and that Seth Boothroyd was with them.

At the first stage he considered leaving the coach and riding back. He could ride guard on Hermione and her party as they traveled to London. They'd travel slowly, however, with an elderly invalid, and he must make speed.

She should be safe.

“Should be” wasn't good enough, but it had to be.

After a twenty-five-hour journey, he left the coach in London, stiff, tired, but ready to put his plans into action. He went first to Hawkinville's house to report and get the
latest news. He'd never visited the Peel Street house, but he knew the way of it. He entered by the back of a house three doors down and passed through the cellars into number 32.

Major George Hawkinville was a tall, lithe man with an appropriately hawkish face and a fierce intelligence. Though not much older than Mark, he'd been awarded a baronetcy for his organizational work during the war.

“Have you breakfasted?” he asked. “No? Then do so as we talk. We had Braydon's report—clever, that—but I need to hear of recent events from you.”

Mark was glad enough to settle to excellent food and coffee as he told the tale, or most of it, and then asked for the latest news about Solange.

“Damn all,” Hawkinville said. “Your suggestion about chemical suppliers hasn't borne fruit as yet, nor the one about whores. Waite's house is watched, as are the lodgings of the other Crimson Band members, but there's no sign of the errant three. They could be in Timbuktu.”

“Solange won't be far from London. She's a city woman and London is her target. Unless Paris has become possible again?”

“The French are too weary for such passions. They'll erupt again, but not soon enough to affect this. We need you to find the damn woman before she does anything.”

“Have people been warned about the explosive letters?”

“Key people, yes.”

“And the gas?”

“Those notes weren't specific, so we don't know what to warn against. Sidmouth refuses to create panic.” The Home Secretary was notoriously both worried about the threat of revolt and determined not to feed the fire. “Our chemists don't believe there's any danger. Coal gas needs to build up to explode. How can it do that when burning in the street? Inside buildings the smell would alarm people before an explosion became possible.”

Damnation. Hermione's arguments about why she'd be
safe in London had been sound, but he'd rather have the entire Crimson Band behind bars. “So there's not enough to arrest Solange and Isaac, even if I find them.”

“We'd jail them anyway. But I can't deploy many resources on the search without more purpose. There are other targets, especially Thistlewood and his gang. Which is why you'll be useful, Faringay. I assume it is Faringay now?”

Mark shrugged. “It seems so.”

“I gather Braydon has offered Faringay a temporary home. Useful of you to draw him in.”

“None of my doing. He threw himself in. You're making full use of his talents?”

“Of course, though he doesn't have your remarkable inside knowledge.”

“Except all that I told him.” Curious, Mark asked, “Did you, too, tire of a tranquil life?”

“Never had chance to find out, but I wouldn't mind doing so. This keeps me away from my wife and child too often.”

Mark hoped he hid his surprise. Hawkinville, like Braydon, was not obviously domestic. “Congratulations,” he said, wondering what sort of woman had caged a hawk.

Hawkinville nodded his thanks. “Will you marry now your hidden life is over? There's inheritance to consider.”

“I'll have to think about it. For now, I must be off.”

He left then, having avoided telling Hawkinville that Ned Granger was going to live another day. He'd had plenty of time on the journey to assess the risks, and he'd decided that if Solange hadn't been located, he should visit Waite to find out what he knew. Hawkinville might try to stop potential waste of valuable talent. He'd fail, but why invite discord?

He took a hackney to Waite's Bloomsbury town house, unable to ward off thoughts of Hermione's reaction to this. He smiled at how vigorously she'd point out his folly, and
took out the scrap of grubby silk. Perhaps he should try to wash it, but he was afraid of its disintegrating.

Everything about her could so easily disintegrate. She thought him a common thief pursued by vengeful victims and demanded that he change. She might feel more kindly if she knew he was working for the government, but she had too much sense to imagine that made him any better a man to love and marry.

When they were together, anything seemed possible, as if they'd fallen into a fairy ring, but reality was harsher. He lived a dangerous life impelled by a cause he couldn't abandon. On the other hand, circumstances seemed likely to compel him to take on his true identity, and if the Crimson Band was destroyed, he might be able to take a less active role.

Unless he was addicted to danger and action, as Braydon seemed to be, and perhaps Hawkinville as well. What sort of life was that to offer any woman?

The hackney halted. He put away the rose, climbed out, and paid the driver. He'd asked to be let down around the corner from Waite's house. He'd normally knock on the front door, but his story required him to be cautious, so he went to the back and entered by the steamy, aromatic kitchen to be stared at by a plump cook, a scrawny footman, and some sort of scullery maid.

“Who are you?” the cook demanded, chopping knife in hand.

“He's been here before,” said the footman. “Visiting the master.” His narrowed eyes were suspicious, but only in a general way. Mark doubted any of the servants knew Waite was more than a reforming orator.

“I have indeed,” Mark said, “and he'll want to see me now.”

The footman sniffed. “I'll take you up, then. Come on.” No “sir.” Not surprising that the footman thought little of him. Nor did it matter. Mark's main concern was that Seth
Boothroyd be here, or a new bodyguard of the same type. Waite wasn't a man of violent action, but he was capable of ordering it.

The house seemed as calm and elegant as always, furnished tastefully with fine furniture and ornaments. Mark had never understood how a man who owned and enjoyed such a home could seek a chaos that would destroy it, but there had been wealthy men, scholars, and even aristocrats on the side of revolution in France. It hadn't saved them from a grim end once the mob ruled.

The footman knocked on the door to Waite's study and was told to enter. He did so and announced, “Mr. Granger, sir.”

Waite was behind his desk writing a letter, but he jerked to his feet, eyes wide. “Granger?” He was afraid. Solange had told him something. Unfortunate, but that might mean he knew where she was.

“Yes, sir,” Mark said soothingly. “Please don't be alarmed, though there are alarming matters.”

He slid his eyes toward the footman and after a moment Waite said, “You may go.” When the door was shut, Waite demanded, “Where have you been?” He'd recovered some of his patrician manner, but for a moment there he'd feared Mark had come to harm him.

“Here and there,” Mark answered, alert for sounds in the house that might indicate trouble. He heard none. All well so far. “May I sit, sir?”

Waite settled back in his big chair. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“You ask where I have been,” Mark said, sitting in the plain wooden chair that faced the desk. “The answer is, sir, in hiding whilst at the same time on the hunt.”

“You speak in riddles. I must tell you, Granger, that my wife believes you the traitor in our midst.”

“Believes” implied current communication. There was nothing for it. He'd have to try the bold move he'd devised. “Does she, sir? I regret to tell you that she is the traitor.”

“Solange? What madness is this? She is the one most ardent for our ends.”

“Precisely, sir. If I may explain.”

“Do so, but I fear you're fit for Bedlam.”

Many would agree. Mark hoped that Waite would follow his lead on the next, crucial question. “May I ask why Mrs. Waite claims I'm a traitor to the cause?”

“Because she came across you in Warrington, where you should not have been. She wrote to me from there, telling the whole tale.”

So that was it. The Crimson Band had a policy of putting as little as possible in writing, but he should have realized that Solange would ignore that. On the other hand, Waite's words might mean that he'd heard nothing from her since.

“She sent Nathan Boothroyd to demand an explanation of you,” Waite continued, “and you fled from him. That proved that you were the person who stole some vital papers from her in Ardwick, and therefore the traitor we suspected was among us. I was both shocked and hurt, Granger. Deeply hurt.”

Mark simply asked, “What vital papers?”

“You claim innocence of that?”

“I claim
ignorance
, sir, but I'm also puzzled. I thought it our policy to avoid putting anything of importance in writing.”

“Yes, yes, but the subject was complex and my wife believed it essential to record it. The papers were stolen from her room. We believed you innocent because you were already on your way to London, but then you were discovered the next day in Warrington.”

“Which looked like proof of guilt. I see. Permit me to tell you what really happened, sir. As instructed, I purchased a seat on the night mail from the George and Dragon, but then returned to the King's Head with an idea that Durrant could incorporate into a speech. Passing Mrs. Waite's
bedroom, I heard her speak. You'll remember, sir, that the walls and doors were thin.”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

“She said—your pardon, sir—‘Waite is weak. I'm done with him, but I'll sow discord before I leave.'”

Waite's cheeks flushed with anger. “What? I don't believe you.” But was there a hint of doubt?

“I found it hard to believe myself, sir, but the words were clear. A man replied, but in too low a voice for me to catch the words. I thought it was Tregoven.” If Mark had to cast lethal suspicion onto anyone, best it be Tregoven.

“Even more unbelievable,” Waite said, but he was frowning now.

“It has seemed to me, sir, that Mrs. Waite has become impatient over our lack of progress. She took the failure of the assassination attempt hard, and then the Blanketeers' March failed to reach London, and the Crusade came to nothing. Her enthusiasms have perhaps become a little rash. The exploding letters,” he added, and saw it find its mark. “At that moment in the inn I faced a dilemma. I needed to travel to London in case the Crusade bore fruit—”

“Which it did not.”

“Indeed, sir, but I didn't know that at the time. I also needed to do something about this new problem.”

“Why not come to me?” Waite demanded. It seemed he was swallowing the whole line.

“You don't believe me now, sir. Would you have believed me then? To be honest, I feared deadly reprisals.”

Waite didn't respond, but he looked away. He'd never been at ease with the sort of violence Solange took as matter of course.

“By then I'd missed the London mail,” Mark continued, “so I decided to linger in Ardwick in hope of learning more. Of learning that your wife was innocent and I had misinterpreted.”

“Which I'm sure is the case.”

Mark nodded, but went on. “Mrs. Waite planned to take a coach early in the morning, so I stayed the night at another inn, rose early, and found a place from which I could observe. You'll remember that there was much disorder that morning because of the Crusade, so when she chose to travel by way of Warrington, I didn't see that as suspicious. I watched her set out, then hired a horse to ride ahead. Once there, I waited to see if she'd continue to London, in which case I, too, would take a coach for London. I would arrive ahead of her, as I would travel through the night. Then I'd observe her again.”

Waite was taking in every word and weighing it. “What we have here is a series of misunderstandings, Granger. When my wife arrived in Warrington and saw you there, where you should not be, she was naturally alarmed. You were supposed to be in London, and her papers had been stolen.”

“Or so she said.”

“Of course they were! And of course she sent Nathan Boothroyd to discover what you were doing. Whereupon you fled.”

“So she said.”

“This is insanity!”

Mark played a trump. “Has Nathan confirmed her story?”

Waite stared, and then admitted, “Nathan has disappeared.”

“Ah,” Mark said, loading it with meaning.

“I will not believe that my wife concocted such a story and then sent Nathan away so he could not correct it. Nathan would come to me.”

“If he was able to, sir.”

“What are you suggesting now? That he's held prisoner?” After a moment, he shook his head. “No. No. This is all impossible.”

“It's alarming, sir, but consider. You only have the letter your wife sent to you as evidence of her story, and here I am, with a different explanation. I'm willing to confront Mrs. Waite with my suspicions.”