Too Dangerous For a Lady (4 page)

Good God.
“It won't explode in the prime minister's hands,” Mark said.

“It will if we plan it correctly,” Solange said.

“Why not?” Waite asked, but attentively.

When Mark had infiltrated the Three-Banded Brotherhood three years ago, he'd known he wasn't actor enough to pretend to be lowborn, even with a scruffy appearance, so he'd constructed a story of being a lord's by-blow. He claimed to have been raised by the family but then unfairly ejected, which had given him a hatred of the nobility and a thirst for their blood. Waite had liked the idea of a scion of the nobility in their midst, and Mark's knowledge of that world was part of the reason he'd been brought into the inner circle. His other skill was organization. Good thing none of them knew that had been honed in the army.

“Such a man doesn't open his own correspondence,” Mark said. “The damp letter will either be discarded or left to dry by a secretary or clerk.”

That had them all frowning. Thank God.

Waite said, “It is an intriguing idea, Isaac. We'll think more about it. . . .”

“Love letters,” Solange interrupted. “A perfumed billet-doux. Might not that be opened by even a prime minister, and be set to dry by him?”

“Not all men have secret lovers,” Mark said.

Solange smirked. “If they don't, they wish they did. They will wish to see.”

Mark had to admit that to be possible, silently damning the woman.

“Isaac must work on this immediately,” Solange said. “Only think of such devices exploding all over London on the day the Spencean Crusade arrives there and the mob pours out to join them. Rioters smashing windows, armed mobs breaking open the prisons as we did the Bastille, and at the same time key men alarmed, perhaps even crippled by Isaac's letters. It will be glorious!”

“It will achieve our end,” Waite said, trying for a more sober note, but with the same glitter in his eyes. “My dear, you and Isaac must travel to London with all speed to prepare the letters. Granger, you know the world of the
powerful. You will go with them to choose the targets and decide how best to ensure the men open the letters themselves.”

Returning to London quickly fit in with Mark's plans, but he had no intention of traveling with Solange. “We could set out on the night mail coach,” he said, knowing what the reaction would be.

“Me, I do not travel on an overnight coach.” Solange had a terror of being outside four strong walls at night, probably because of a guilty conscience. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“You follow on, then,” Mark said. “I'll go ahead and get things under way.”

“An excellent plan,” Waite said.

Tregoven was eyeing Mark. “Not sure why you came north, Granger. We've needed no fancy organization here.” Tregoven had been tossing darts like that recently. The Crimson Band was aware that the government had spies within subversive organizations, and they were alert for a traitor in their midst.

“Plans can go awry,” Mark said.

“With you around?” Tregoven asked.

“You imply?”

“Information seems to be leaking fast these days.”

“If any of us is suspect, it should be the one who can't resist cards and dice.”

Tregoven half rose, but Waite waved him back into his seat. “We will not bicker on the brink of victory. There need not be a traitor around this table. In fact, I can't imagine how that might be. There will be agents in this inn simply because I am here, but they will discover nothing unless we allow cracks in our unity.”

“Or speak t-too loud,” said Durrant.

He'd pointed out the thin walls and suggested dining elsewhere, but Waite hadn't liked the implication that he'd chosen their meeting place poorly. He'd instructed his
bodyguards, the Boothroyd brothers, to stroll up and down the corridor in case anyone paused to listen at the door. This parlor was bracketed by the two bedchambers used by Waite and his wife. Mark did wonder whether the marriage was consummated. It was a strange mating.

The security arrangements were inconvenient, as Mark had a few new details about tomorrow he must pass on. He would dearly like to know more about the exploding letters, in particular the chemicals Isaac planned to use, but saw no way to ask and the meeting was over.

He rose. “I must pack and buy a ticket.”

Waite blessed him with a smile. “We all know your fine mind will ensure success in London, Granger.”

“If the Spencean Crusade arrives, sir, London will be primed and ready to explode.” Mark picked up his wineglass, which still contained an inch. “To the revolution!”

They all repeated the toast and drank, but Solange made her own toast.
“À la lanterne!”
The old cry of the vicious Jacobins. Hang the enemies from the lampposts—men, women, children, they hadn't cared.

Everyone else rose, rolling shoulders, gathering papers, but Waite asked Durrant to remain to discuss messages to be sent along the route.

Mark turned to the door, but heard Solange say quietly,
“Il y a une autre question à discuter.”

W
aite and his wife often spoke in French between themselves and none of the others thought anything of it. None of them spoke much French, but Mark had had a French mother and spoke it well. He'd kept that secret, which had enabled him to pick up a number of details not revealed to the others. Such as the fact that Solange now had something else she wanted to discuss with her husband.

Waite turned to Durrant. “Isaac deserves a drink, my friend. Take him below for some gin. I'll send for you soon.”

Durrant pulled a face, but he steered Isaac out of the room.

Tregoven approached Waite, doubtless with some oily words of praise. If there was a traitor here other than himself, he'd pick Tregoven, who'd sell his mother for money, but at the moment he was being useful. He was delaying the private words between Waite and his wife.

If Mark didn't immediately prepare for his departure, someone might notice, so he left the room. Nathan Boothroyd was patrolling the corridor. His brother, Seth, was nowhere in sight.

The Boothroyd brothers were close to identical—stocky, muscular young men with limited brains, but well able to follow commands. Mark thought of them as dogs—short-legged, muscular hunting beasts, but for some reason they always dressed well. Nathan was in brown jacket and
breeches, striped waistcoat, white cravat, polished boots, and tall beaver hat.

“You can go now,” Mark said. “The meeting's over.”

The square face showed no expression and Nathan went into the room to confirm the order. Very well-trained beasts. Mark hurried on his way, hoping Waite dismissed the guards.

He entered the room he was sharing with Durrant, shoved belongings into his valise, and then ran down and across the road to the George and Dragon, a much grander place where the London coach would halt. He bought a ticket, left his bag there, and hurried back to the King's Head.

When he entered, he saw both Boothroyds coming downstairs. They went into the taproom, and a glance showed Durrant and Isaac already in there. Surely Waite would have dismissed Tregoven quickly when his wife clearly wished to speak to him.

No time to waste.

He went upstairs and turned into the corridor toward Waite's parlor, but then ducked back out of sight. Tregoven had just left the room. Fortunately the man needed to go in the opposite direction to reach his own room, but Mark resented every second it took for him to do so.

Once the corridor was empty, he hurried to the parlor door, hoping the flimsy structure of the King's Head would allow him to hear. He wasn't optimistic. Conspirators spoke softly.

However, the words were clear. Waite and Solange must feel safe when speaking French. He felt lethally exposed standing there with his ear to the door, but if anyone came, he would knock and say he had a final question.

“Revolution is not for the softhearted,” Solange was saying, with a sneer in the tone.

They were arguing?

“May I remind you that your revolution failed, perhaps because the bloodbath became too deep for most.”

“It failed because it was betrayed! By those who saw only a vehicle for their own aggrandizement.”

Tregoven had recently portrayed Waite in a toga and crowned with a laurel wreath, but he didn't react to the words. Instead he said, “We are pure of purpose.”

A pause made Mark take a step back in case one or the other came to the door.

But then Waite said, “Need you have put Isaac's plans in writing? Such a document could hang us all.”

“Plans seem to fly out of his head as quickly as they fly in, and this must not be lost. The details are beyond my memory.”

“Even so . . .”

“The notes will be safe with me. You foolish men respect women too much.”

“Not generally,” Waite said drily.

“Most respect the sober, middle-aged lady, and all of you underestimate women's brains. Even if they imprison us all, they'll never imagine I know anything of importance. I'm a mere wife. An appendage, and too decent to search.”

“If they suspect you, they'll find a woman to search you.”

“I won't hide them in a pocket, silly man.” Mark was astonished by the scathing dismissal in Solange's voice.

“Where, then?” Waite asked. “Come, Solange, if anything happens to you, I need to know.”

“Very well. I have a secret section in the lining of my spare corset. A very stiff, whaleboned corset. Nothing will be found there unless it's ripped apart. I must go now to prepare.”

Mark hastily retreated, but he did it backward in case the door opened before he could reach the bend in the corridor. Just as well.

Solange came out and stared at him. “Not on your way yet?”

“A final question. Waite is still in there?”

“Yes.
Bonne nuit.
”

Mark only just stopped himself from responding in French. He hoped his hesitation would fit with confusion over the switch in language. He simply bowed to her, but as she went into the room next door, he wondered whether that had been a test. Solange was a very clever woman, and she wouldn't hesitate to order the Boothroyds to dispose of anyone she believed a traitor. His predecessor in the Crimson Band had been found beaten to death in an alley. If she suspected him, stealing her notes might be even more dangerous than he'd thought, but he had to do it. Now he had to speak to Waite first.

He knocked and entered to find Waite looking worried. Perhaps he was having doubts about his wife. The more distrust among the Crimson Band, the better. “What do you want?” he asked curtly.

Mark asked a few pointless questions.

“You're becoming fretful, Granger. Losing your nerve?”

“Only concerned that everything goes perfectly this time. We've had bad luck recently. The attempt to assassinate the Regent. The Blanketeers. The plan to explode the armory.”

“Bad luck or betrayal, and the suffering in the country won't last forever.”

“I can't help hoping it won't.”

Waite sadly shook his noble head. “You have too tender a heart, Granger. Remember that everyone will benefit when the rot is dug out and the state is whole again. Even amputation is to be blessed if it heals the patient.”

“Thank you for reminding me, sir. We will meet again in glory in London.”

Waite straightened, a new light in his eyes. “Yes, this time we will succeed. You will see wonders.”

Mark lingered, hoping Waite would let something slip about the wonders, but that was all, so he had to leave. He
hesitated outside Solange's room, but there were things he must do before attempting to get the details of Isaac's new idea. He had new nuggets of information about tomorrow's gathering to pass on, so he found a quiet corner and wrote them down.

He advised the magistrates to move in early but handle the true Spenceans as gently as possible. Oppressive force would be oil on the fire and Waite was ready to exploit that. He considered adding a warning about exploding letters, but that danger was directed at London and he'd carry the news himself—if all went well. He rolled the paper thinly and tucked it beneath the cuff of his shirt. He went downstairs, hoping it would take Solange a long time to unpick and then repair her spare corset.

He strolled into the taproom and ordered a glass of punch. As he sipped, he looked around idly and soon spotted his contact. Tom Holloway was sitting at a table close to the fire, and not by chance. There'd be nothing suspicious in another man going to warm himself nearby.

By the stocky, middle-aged man sat a book, half-hanging off the table, again not by chance. Mark walked toward the fire and knocked the book to the floor. Apologizing, he picked it up, replaced it, and moved on to enjoy his drink in the fire's warmth, his note passed on.

He must linger for a few precious minutes, just in case he was watched, though the only Crimson Band member here now was Isaac, abandoned by Durrant. Isaac was sipping gin and staring blankly at the wall. At moments like this the young man looked such a dull pudding. Would that he were.

Mark checked his pocket watch. Twenty minutes till the mail coach passed through, and it wouldn't linger for a missing passenger. He should go upstairs, but could he get more information out of Isaac? He had to try, and with luck Holloway would catch a bit of the conversation.

Mark went over. “That ABC stuff. I don't think it'll work.”

“What do you know?” Isaac muttered.

“No one of importance will open them,” Mark said. “So they won't have any impact.”

Isaac smirked. “Wait till you hear about the gas.”

“The gas?” Mark asked loudly.

Isaac scowled and sipped his gin. “None of your business.”

Mark leaned in to speak quietly. “It is if you'll need new supplies in London. I'm off soon and I'll be there a full day ahead.”

Tell me what you need and it might tell other chemists what you're up to.

“Oh, I'll have what I need,” Isaac said, with a hint of sly humor.

Mark would dearly love to question him more, but neither Solange nor the mail could wait. He drained his glass, took leave of the young man, and went upstairs, trying to come up with a devious plan. He failed. Brute force be it, then. He opened the first door he came to. A half-dressed man turned, startled.

“My apologies!” Mark said, and moved on.

The next one rattled against a latch and someone called, “What do you want?”

Mark moved on, hoping that person wouldn't bother to open the door to look out. The guest didn't, but luck could last only so far.

He heard voices in the next room but silence in the one after. He again went in, ready to apologize, and at last found a deserted room. He took a pillowcase off one pillow, rearranged everything, and went on to Solange's bedchamber. The first danger was that Waite had joined Solange there, but that seemed remote. The next was that he'd lingered in the parlor, with only a thin wall between.

That was in the lap of the gods.

Mark approached Solange's door, unable to slow his heart rate.

This could go wrong in so many ways.

He could easily lose his hard-won position in the Crimson Band and could even lose his life. The risk was worth it, however, and it felt good to be taking direct action instead of conniving. Spying from within the Three-Banded Brotherhood was surprisingly tedious work.

A couple came out of a room and he had to stroll in an opposite direction until they turned to go downstairs. Once they had, he returned to the parlor door, steadying himself as he approached. He knocked, then flattened himself against the wall.

Solange opened it. “What?”

As she stepped out to look, he pulled the pillowcase down over her head and bundled her back into the bedroom, kicking the door shut. As he'd hoped, she was fighting rather than screaming and he saw why. She wouldn't want people to see the folded papers on the table along with a partially unpicked corset and sewing things.

He picked her up and flung her on the bed, then rolled her up in the woolen coverlet. It wasn't easy. She might look like a soft matron, but she was sturdy and strong. Breathing hard with the effort, he tucked her up tight, grabbed the papers, and left. He was halfway toward the stairs and escape when he heard another door open behind him.

Waite's?

He tried the door by his left hand and thank God, it opened. He went inside and closed it, heart thundering. When he looked around, he saw yet more good fortune. The room was in use but lit only by a low fire, and if the occupants were there, they were in the half-curtained bed asleep.

He pressed his ear to the door and heard Solange say sharply in French, “The papers. They're gone!”

“Who?”

Jupiter, it
had
been Waite, and Solange had freed herself far faster than he'd hoped.

Then, distantly, he heard the clarion call of the London
mail. He could just make it if he ran, but he was trapped here. The Waites could still be in the corridor, and even if not, he could bump into any of the Crimson Band on his way through the inn and the game would be up.

His only option was to stay concealed. They'd assume he'd left on the coach and thus could not be the thief. He'd stay in this room until the inn was sleeping and then slip away.

That was when he'd heard something behind him and turned to find a lady arming herself with a poker.