How to Plan a Wedding for a Royal Spy (27 page)

Will's eyes narrowed to irritated slits. “Evie, I certainly hope this . . . episode wasn't some benighted attempt to manipulate me.”

She spluttered. “Of course not! How can you even think that way?”

“How can I
not
think that way, given our history?” He shook his head in disgust. “God, we're a fine pair, aren't we? Do you think we'll ever be able to simply tell each other the truth?”

“Now you're just being beastly,” she said, trying to hide how his words wounded her. “Besides, I'm not the one who's been doing all the manipulating around here. That would be you.”

“I don't have time for this.” He grasped her chin between his long fingers and gave her a hard stare. “Get one thing straight, my love. You and I
will
be getting married, whatever happens to Beaumont. At this point, I really don't care if the man spends the rest of his life in the bowels of Newgate prison.”

“Don't you dare threaten me, Wolf Endicott,” Evie huffed. “I have no—”

“There's another thing you should know about me by now,” he said, cutting her off. “I never make idle threats.” And then he hauled her, still protesting, from the room.

Will stalked down the deserted alley, automatically flicking his attention from one potential trouble spot to another. He paid particular attention to the doorways cast in shadow by the encroaching dusk and the overhanging roofs of tenement buildings. The houses of St. Giles leaned into each other, crowding out light and air and any sense that there was life beyond its prison-like walls. No wonder the Irish who lived in the stews—and anyone else who had the misfortune to abide there—hated those who didn't. Mayfair was only a few blocks away, with its gleaming white mansions, prosperous shops, and well-fed residents, but it felt like another country so acute was the difference. Given the circumstances, Will could hardly blame those who sought to destroy their masters.

But if years of war had taught him anything, it was that violence carried consequences that shadowed a man for the rest of his life. Even when necessary, it stained the soul and destroyed the innocents who stumbled into its path. If Will and Alec didn't stop this conspiracy, innocents would surely be harmed, including Evie, Bridget O'Shay, and even Michael Beaumont, who now seemed guilty of little more than misguided compassion.

He passed a gin house with a few rough-looking characters clustered in the dank doorway puffing on their pipes and eyeing him with interest. Will slipped his hand inside his coat to grasp his pistol, making it obvious he was armed. That movement, combined with the glare he directed their way, did the trick. Two of the men melted back into the tumble-down shop. The remaining cove returned him a toothless sneer that would have been comical but for the hatred that deformed his narrow features.

Who could blame the poor devil? Will's boots alone could probably keep the man and his family in food—or drink—for a year.

He cut through a laneway that led to Vine Street, then through the Charlotte Mews to Woburn. Dusk had now fallen heavily from the sky, bringing premature darkness to St. Giles. Fortunately, he'd always had good night vision, and his eyes quickly adjusted. His passage was aided by the occasional gleam of a lamp or candlelight from a window of one of the many tenement houses, or from the gin shops and pubs that dotted the narrow passageways through the rookeries.

Over a day had passed since Evie provided him with the information she'd gleaned from Beaumont. Will, Alec, and Aden's men had spent almost every moment of that time searching the stews, trying to track down O'Shay and the other suspected Ribbonmen. Will had also questioned Bridget O'Shay again, a weepy affair with passionate denials that her brother was involved in any plot. Her tune had changed, however, when he brought up the Battle of Garvagh and the role of the Ribbonmen. The girl had gone quiet and still for several moments, her sobs cutting off in mid-gasp. With a little more prodding, she'd finally admitted that her brother
had
been involved in the incident at Garvagh but swore he'd promised to leave that all behind when they moved to England. Then she burst into tears again, babbling something about him
getting involved with bad men
.

Will hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd pressed Bridget hard for a possible location where O'Shay and the others could be hiding out. Obviously afraid of losing her employment or bringing the law down on her own head, the girl had finally pointed him in the direction of a particularly noxious warren of tenement buildings in the heart of St. Giles. It wasn't much to go on, but it meant they could focus the search. And only a half hour ago, Alec had sent a message to Aden's house reporting that they'd found the tenement where O'Shay was holed up. Will had been consulting with Aden when the note arrived. He'd immediately left to join Alec, who'd promised to hold off on taking action until he arrived.

He rounded a corner into a small square fronted on all sides by three- and four-story houses, most looking on the verge of collapse. Will melted into the deeper shadows of a convenient doorway, ignoring the scuttle of what was likely a rat across the top of his foot. He stood motionless, taking in the scene and analyzing possible escape routes, as he waited for Alec to find him. A foolish charge across the square would announce his presence in the clumsiest of fashions. O'Shay might not have thought to post lookouts, but a stranger would be noticed in an instant. Word would pass swiftly enough through the tenement to give anyone wanting to flee a head start.

A minute or two later, Alec's form seemed to dissolve and detach from the wall of the building across the square and ghost around the perimeter to meet him. He loomed up before him like a grim specter, wearing plain, black clothing and sporting an unshaven face and a low-slung cap that made him look as disreputable as any of the criminals who lurked in the dark. Despite his size, Alec had a tidy knack for adapting to his environment. No one who saw him tonight would believe he was heir to a wealthy earldom.

“Are we sure it's O'Shay?” Will murmured.

“Aye, and he's still there.” Alec leaned against the rough plaster wall of the building behind him, as if settling in for a chat with one of the locals. “He's on the third floor, toward the back.” Will caught a quick gleam of Alec's white teeth when he grinned. “I managed to get up there and grab a quick glance at the bastard before he disappeared inside his room. Based on your description, it's almost certainly him. Even better, there's only the one stairway in the building. He'd have a hell of a drop if he tried to escape by the window. Still, I put two of Aden's men around back, just in case.”

“Who's watching him now?”

“Carrington has his eye on the stairs. O'Shay is alone, from what I can tell, so the three of us should be able to easily handle him.”

Will nodded. “Let's get to it, then.” The hairs were starting to bristle on the back of his neck. All his instincts told him they were running out of time.

And he couldn't help worrying about Evie. He'd extracted a halfhearted promise that she would stay clear of St. Margaret's and the Hibernian Association. She'd protested that the church and its buildings were perfectly safe, what with Father O'Kelley and Mrs. Rafferty in residence and with a constant stream of congregants, but Will didn't want to take any chances. Since Evie's agreement had sounded grudging at best, he knew he couldn't count on her staying safely at home. Certainly not if someone at her blasted charity needed help. She'd be off like a shot then, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it short of tying her to a chair. Even then she'd probably manage to slip away. She'd grown into the most stubborn, principled person he'd ever met, and he knew she'd make any personal sacrifice if she thought it was the right thing to do. Those qualities were going to try his patience, but they were some of the very reasons he was so bloody in love with her.

He stumbled, disconcerted by the simple, sheer force of the thought that had slipped so easily into his mind. He did love Evie. He'd
always
loved Evie, though he'd allowed himself to think it was something else, and not what it truly was. Apparently, he'd not been wise enough to admit it until now, when it was almost too late.

“What's wrong?” Alec whispered.

“Nothing. I just realized something, but it doesn't matter.”

“Are you sure?”

Will smiled, even though he doubted Alec could see it in the enveloping dark. “It matters a great deal, actually, but I'll tell you about it after this is over.”

“That sounds ominous.”

A moment later, Alec motioned for silence as they approached the doorway of the building where O'Shay was hiding. He cocked his head, then pulled Will into an alley that ran between the dilapidated structure and the one next to it. It couldn't have been more than a foot wide, so they were forced to cram themselves in.

Will held his breath when footsteps sounded. A couple exited from the building. The man held the woman by the arm, talking to her in a genial Irish accent about their children. They hurried across the square and were swallowed up by the black maw of the laneway.

“How many people live in this building?” Will asked as he slipped from their hiding place. Alec's broad shoulders, however, were wedged in so tightly that Will thought he might have to yank him out. But his cousin finally wriggled free, grunting a low curse when the sound of ripping fabric accompanied the movement.

“Dammit, and this is one of my favorite coats,” he complained.

“Remind me never to use your tailor. Now, stop being an idiot and answer the question.”

“I'd say there are at least four or five families per floor, but let's hope they have the brains to stay in their rooms. They should, I expect. Once nightfall comes to St. Giles, sane people generally stay indoors.”

They crept around to the front of the building and slipped through the battered door, which hung loosely on creaky hinges. St. Giles smelled like dung, urine, and rotting garbage at the best of times, but the outside air was as fresh as May in the Kentish countryside compared to the foul atmosphere they encountered inside the tenement house. Will resisted the impulse to gag at the clashing smells of bodily waste, mold, tobacco, and cooked cabbage.

“Awful,” Alec said with a grim shake of the head. “Makes you wonder how anyone can survive it.”

“I can only suppose the alternative was worse,” Will said. He had to wonder exactly how bad Ireland could be to make the stews of London a better choice.

A tall, lean man appeared from under the staircase. He was dressed in black and moved with the silent economy that marked him as one of the brotherhood of spies.

“Anything?” Alec asked, not bothering to make introductions.

“Just the couple you saw a few minutes ago,” Carrington replied in a low murmur. “I slipped back upstairs to check on O'Shay. He's still in his room, and I'm sure he's alone.”

Will nodded. “Then let's get to it.”

The three men moved as quietly as possible up the old staircase, although they couldn't prevent the occasional creak or groan warping up from the decaying wood. Fortunately, the hallways were far from silent. Behind closed doors babies wailed, mothers yelled at their children, and thumps and clattering crockery signaled the making of evening meals. They probably could have charged up the staircase bellowing drinking songs for all anyone noticed.

O'Shay, however, would be a different story. The man might well know by now that he was being hunted and be straining to hear even one sound out of place.

They made it to the third floor without encountering any of the inhabitants and crept down the hall to O'Shay's room. They'd agreed on a plan on the way up—Alec would kick in the door and Will would go in first, hoping to immediately take down O'Shay. The others would pile on, if necessary. Given what a bruiser O'Shay was, Will assumed it
would
be necessary.

He counted off, one, two, three with his fingers, and then Alec's boot lashed out to deliver a shattering blow. The door crashed open, half-coming off its hinges. Will went in swift and silent, taking in O'Shay's dumbfounded face as the man tried to lumber up from a low bed in front of a small grate. Will caught the Irishman in the midsection before he could make it all the way to his feet. They crashed heavily into the bed, Will's shoulder connecting painfully with the wooden frame, and then rolled together onto the floor. Fighting with vicious desperation, O'Shay's huge hands grappled for purchase around Will's throat.

Will wedged his palm under O'Shay's chin, shoving up and snapping his head back. For a moment, the big man's hands loosened from around his throat, and that was all the time Will needed to twist enough to knee O'Shay in the gut.

He heard the
oof
when his knee connected, and O'Shay doubled over. A moment later, Alec and Carrington were dragging the Irishman off him. O'Shay continued to struggle, but he was gasping for breath and it took but a half a minute for the two men to slam him down into the wobbly cane chair—the only other piece of furniture in the dismal, low-ceilinged room.

By then, Will had his pistol pointed straight at O'Shay. “Stop fighting,” he snapped. “Because I'll have no trouble putting a bullet in your knee to slow you down. And I'm bloody sure a wound like that won't stop the hangman from doing his duty.”

His threat halted O'Shay in mid-struggle, and he sat fairly still while Alec tied his hands with a length of rope he extracted from an inner pocket. But that didn't stop the Irishman from uttering a low string of curses as he glared at Will, his dark eyes glittering with hatred. O'Shay might be guilty of treason, but he didn't look the least bit intimidated by his capture.

“Good. Now we'll have a little chat.” Will stowed his gun in his pocket. “And I suggest you answer my questions with a great deal of frankness if you want to avoid the noose.”

“No chance a' that, I reckon,” O'Shay retorted. “You bastards have already made up your mind that I'm guilty, and that's the end a' it.”

Will met Alec's gaze, both aware that Beaumont had made the same point.

“We might be able to argue for clemency if you tell us who your intended target is and give up your coconspirators,” Alec said.

O'Shay rolled his eyes at them. “I don't
have
any coconspirators, you bleedin' idiots. Whatever it is you're after, you got the wrong man.”

Will pulled Beaumont's letter from his pocket and held it up in front of O'Shay's face. “Then why is your name on this list?”

O'Shay leaned forward to peer at the piece of paper. Then he jerked hard against the rope that bound his wrists to the back of the chair. Will had to admit that if the man was playacting, he was doing a damn fine job of it.