My Scandalous Viscount (21 page)

“Herr Schweiber,” Beau greeted him.

“Lord Beauchamp. Thought I might be seeing you soon,” he remarked serenely, pausing to change tools.

“Why is that?” he greeted him. Beau closed the door behind him and sauntered in. He found Schweiber’s place oddly comforting—the familiar smells of gunpowder and oil, and the leather of the powder flasks on offer.

Hunting trophies and military memorabilia adorned the walls, honored gifts from the highborn hunting fanatics and military officers who revered the Hessian for his skill in making the weapons that had saved their lives.

Schweiber looked over the tops of his spectacles again. “You tell me.”

Beau leaned an elbow on the counter, watching the gunsmith work. “You know about my problem with Forrester.” He met his gaze. “Has he been here?”

Schweiber stared warily at him. “
Ja,
” he admitted after a moment’s hesitation.

“When? Why didn’t you contact me?”

“It was only the day before yesterday, and I was thinking it over.”

“What do you mean, thinking it over?”

The Hessian shrugged. “He said you were the problem.”

“Me?” Beau exclaimed.

“
Ja.
He told me you turned traitor.”

Beau looked at him in astonishment, then burst out in angry, cynical laughter. “Oh, that is Nick for you.” He shook his head. “Schweiber, surely you didn’t believe him!”

“I wasn’t sure whom to believe,” he said with an unsmiling, German stare.

“And you weren’t eager to pick sides,” he retorted matter-of-factly.

Schweiber shrugged.

“He didn’t attempt to threaten you into silence, by chance?”

“No, no. I’m too useful to get threats even from my most dangerous clients,” he said with a low chuckle.

“Well, I can assure you, I am following all the usual protocol. It’s Nick who’s left the Order’s purview. I need to find him before he does something rash. What did he want from you?”

“Sniper rifle.” Schweiber put down his rag and eyed Beau with cagey acceptance.

“Sniper rifle,” he echoed, nodding. “Did he say anything about the sort of shot he had to make? Ask for any unusual specifications on the gun?”

Schweiber shook his head.

“Did he give an address for you to send the bill to, or where to send the piece when it was ready?”

“No need for me to send a bill. He bought the best weapon I had on hand. He actually paid me up front for it. First time, far as I can remember.”

“How novel,” Beau said dryly.

“
Ja.
” The old man paused. “It did make me wonder.”

“What is it?” he pressed him.

Schweiber gave a guarded look. “He seemed agitated. He was acting so strangely that I told my apprentice to follow him—at a safe distance, mind you. Good apprentices are hard to find. Told the lad not to let himself be seen.”

Beau went stock-still. “Where did he go?”

“East End ganglands. The street was unmarked, but Michael can show you the place when he gets back from making his delivery.”

“Superb. Well done, Schweiber. Thank God somebody in this city has their wits about them besides me. When do you expect your apprentice back here?”

“Not until tomorrow. Delivery was in Leicestershire.”

“Send the lad to me as soon as you see him. Time is of the essence.”

“
Ja,
” Schweiber said serenely.

“Thank you, Hans.” Beau headed for the door, but he paused before going out. “Your boy was sure that Nick didn’t realize he was followed?”

The old gunsmith nodded shrewdly. “Michael prides himself on stealth. Wishes he could become an Order agent.”

Beau crooked a sardonic brow at him. “Talk him out of it.”

Schweiber smiled and reached for his polishing rag once again.

Beau gave him a slight nod of farewell, then he went back out into the darkness.

Chapter 22

T
hat night, Carissa was sitting around in the drawing room with the other ladies. Thomas was delighting them all, rolling a ball back and forth with each one of them in turn and ignoring his mother’s repeated assertions that it was time for the tiny lordling to go to bed.

“He’s our entertainment,” Daphne was explaining as she rolled the ball back to the tot.

The ladies had had a nice evening supper, followed by a stroll through the gardens at sunset and a halfhearted game of croquet on the green. But the most interesting part of Carissa’s introduction to the Order’s estate—aside from seeing her friends—was the tour of the property with an explanation of all security procedures from Sergeant Parker.

The Order’s trusty warhorse had been assigned as their chief of security, with a dozen more men under his command. The rugged, sun-weathered soldier was much tougher, she suspected, than his stocky, compact frame would suggest at first glance. Parker showed her three different escape routes from her chamber, depending on from which direction any threat might arrive.

He pointed out the several locks on her chamber door; he gave her a loaded pistol to keep in the drawer of the nightstand beside her bed; he showed her the rope ladder stored in her closet if she should need to escape out her third-story window. He then explained the haversack of basic supplies they had prepared for her to grab and go if they should come under attack for any reason.

She was fascinated. The pack contained some money, a water canteen, a small supply of dried foods, a pair of sturdy shoes, extra bullets for the pistol, and a compass.

“Understand, of course, my lady, this is all the last line of defense. The Prometheans have never discovered this place, but one must always be prepared.”

“Of course,” she had answered faintly though she wasn’t quite sure who the Prometheans were.

“Good. Now you’ll know what to do if the worst were ever to happen—if we ever came under attack here, and my men were overwhelmed. There’s no need to worry, mind you. I’ve no reason to believe we’re in the least danger of that at this time, but these are our procedures, and I’m showing you all this now because the Order believes in being prepared for any eventuality.”

She nodded uneasily.

“Now, in this situation, if you hear me or one of my men give you the signal to run, you take your pack, use your ladder, and climb down. Leave your finery behind. You’ll want to blend in with the surrounding folk. Lots of jewelry will make it easy to tell which woman’s the aristocrat.”

“You make it sound as though they would actually hunt me a-and the other ladies?”

“Aye, ma’am. As the wife of one of our agents, you’d be a very valuable hostage.”

Oh, dear God,
she thought.

“Has His Lordship ever mentioned what you should do if somebody grabs you?” Parker asked.

“No,” she answered, wide-eyed.

“Right. Groin. Throat. Eyes. Close range, those are your targets if you can’t get to your weapon. Just so you know.”

“Ah,” she murmured in amazement.

“So, then,” he resumed his explanation, “if you hear the signal from me, you go. Don’t wait to hear it twice. Flee into the woods and try to meet up with the other ladies but don’t wait around. It’s important to keep moving. If you become separated from the others, you must follow that stream—you saw it from the garden?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a path alongside it. Follow that brook downstream about two miles until you come to the coaching inn at the edge of the village, with carriages for hire. We prefer you hire a post chaise and drive yourself if you’re up to it. It’s better for you to leave the area at once. But if you’re not comfortable with that, you can use the gold in your pack to buy a ticket on the stagecoach to London. Either way, get to Dante House as quick as you can. You’ll be safe there. Don’t talk to anyone along the way if you can avoid it. Have you got all that, milady?”

“Yes. Thank you very much, Sergeant. I daresay our husbands chose the right man for the job.”

He had dropped his gaze with a modest smile. “They do their part, ma’am. I do mine.”

“Well, I appreciate your dealing so openly with us about it and not simply trying to shield us from the reality.”

He smiled ruefully. “Some of these things, I know, are hard to hear and frightening to imagine. But I’ve noticed in my years of service, ma’am, if I may say so, that Order men don’t marry namby-pambies.”

She was still musing on her lesson in personal security as Mara captured her son on her lap and tickled him. “You need to go to bed, sir!”

Thomas giggled happily. “No! I stay!”

“What’s that you’re looking at?” Carissa asked Kate, nodding at the magazine the young duchess was idly riffling.

“
La Belle Assemblée.
It’s actually quite silly, but they’ve got bits about all the attractions of the Season available in London right now. Honestly, I live there half the year and had no idea there was quite so much to do! Now I really appreciate it, after being stuck out here for weeks on end. All these entertaining plays and concerts and diversions right under my nose, and I’ve never gone to see them.”

“Like what?” Daphne asked.

“Kew Gardens, for one. It’s open to the public every Sunday, but I have never been there. And Vauxhall.”

“You’ve never been to Vauxhall?” Daphne exclaimed.

“No! I grew up in Dartmoor, remember?”

“You’re so deprived!” Mara teased.

“What’s wrong with Dartmoor?” Daphne protested. “It’s very picturesque!”

“Yes, well, it might as well have been the far side of the moon. There’s nothing to do but either read or watch the wild ponies.”

“We have got to take her to Vauxhall when all of this is over,” Mara declared. “You’ll love it, Kate. Music, fireworks, everything.”

“Don’t forget the trapeze lady,” Daphne reminded her.

“Oh, this one sounds eccentric!” Kate tapped the page. “A waxworks museum! ‘The Gala of History.’ Have any of you ever gone there?”

“Isn’t that in Southwark?” Mara asked.

“Yes! Just on the other side of the river, it says. Have you been there?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered wryly. “Unfortunately, I made the mistake of thinking it would be a suitable amusement for my son. And I’m sure it will be. When he’s fifteen.”

Kate arched a brow, peeking over the edge of her magazine. “Was it risqué?”

“No, it was altogether gory!” she exclaimed. “You and your Gothic novels, of course, you’d probably love it.”

Kate sat up straighter. “Really?”

“ ‘Guaranteed to send a chill down your spine.’ They have a sign over the door that promises as much,” Mara answered.

Daphne shot her a quizzical look. “And you brought a two-year-old there?”

“It was Jordan’s idea! Honestly, we didn’t know what we were getting into. There were supposed to be historical figures. I thought it would be educational.” She feigned a shudder. “Well, it was a history lesson, all right. All the most horrible scenes from human history on display. Roman Coliseum . . . Spanish Inquisition . . . French Revolution.”

Carissa’s head shot up.

“The lads would probably love it,” Daphne chuckled.

“I carried this little one out screaming,” Mara replied.

“Did you say French Revolution?” Carissa ventured, her heart suddenly pounding with an uneasy premonition.

“Oh, yes.” Mara rolled her eyes. “Guillotine. Marie Antoinette . . . and a basket of the most lifelike heads.”

Kate laughed. “Smashing!”

“I think the artist behind the place must be quite demented,” Mara drawled.

“Aren’t they all?” Daphne asked.

“Well, this one certainly takes particular glee in scenes of death and destruction.”

“Do you know the name of this artist?” Carissa pursued.

Mara shrugged. “No idea. Why?”

“Just wondering,” she answered cautiously.

“Would you like to see the advertisement?” Kate offered her the magazine.

Carissa got up and took it from her, carefully scanning the small, square advertisement for the Gala of History Wax Museum in Southwark.

Charles Vincent, Proprietor.

Charles . . . Southwark . . .
A memory was taking shape in the back of her mind, but it wouldn’t come clear.

Kate tilted her head. “You all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh, come,” Daphne teased, “don’t be a ninny. I’m sure the scenes of doom aren’t that realistic!”

Carissa managed a rueful smile. “It does sound horrid, though. But you’re right. Our husbands would probably love it.” Even as the conversation drifted on to another topic, her mind whirled.

The memory suddenly resurfaced at her probing.
Yes!
The bookshop in Russell Square, with all the radicals, artists, and intellectuals, where she had gone to hear Professor Culvert’s talk. The enigmatic conversation she had eavesdropped on after the lecture came rushing back into her mind.

Charles, you should not be here!

Why not? I don’t have anything to hide, do I?
She remembered the weird smile Charles had given the professor.
“You should come to my place in Southwark and see my latest scenes . . .”

She hid her shock from her friends, absently rolling the ball back to Thomas.

That had to be it. She could feel it in her bones.

The few painters’ names she had collected from the fine-art galleries had seemed unlikely candidates for her quest. The art dealers hadn’t been much help though they had tried. Was it possible she had been looking in the entirely wrong place?

But a wax museum . . . ?

Could this Charles Vincent who owned the Gala of History be connected somehow to Madame Angelique’s Alan Mason?
What if they’re the same man?

Mara had just confirmed a French Revolution scene at the wax museum, and Madame Angelique had reported that was the artist’s area of interest.

Carissa’s blood turned to ice water in her veins as a disturbing picture slowly began to emerge. For if Charles Vincent
was
Alan Mason, the artist whose prying questions could unnerve even Madame Angelique, then it was possible to trace a logical line from the French Revolution artist to Professor Culvert . . . back to his onetime protégé, Ezra Green.
No . . .

Could the head of the panel himself, in charge of investigating the Order, have been the one to hire Nick?

But why?

She forgot to breathe, staring at the floor.

Because it’s all a setup.

Her mouth went dry. She was shaking. Ice-cold.

If this was true, that could mean that Ezra Green’s motives had been not to investigate but to destroy the Order from the start.
Good God—Beau.
I have to warn him.
Bad enough he was facing this alone. Now she saw that the second Nick made his move, all their husbands would be doomed. And if Green was the one who had hired Nick, then he was in charge of when the assassination would take place.

He was in the perfect position. Ezra Green and his cronies could paint the killing as bloody proof that the Order was corrupt and too powerful.

All they had to do was catch Nick in the act, and if they were the ones giving him his instructions, where and when to pull the trigger, that part would be easy.

An even more terrifying question came to her.

Whom have they hired Nick to kill?

From what she had heard that day at Professor Culvert’s lecture, the Radicals hated nearly everyone. There seemed to be a few choice villains in their minds: the Prime Minister, the royal family.

What am I going to do?

She knew in her bones that she was onto something. She had to see this place, find out more about this artist.

No! Forget it! If you go against his orders, Beau will never forgive you. You know full well he sent you here as a test. This was your second chance, and if you fail, you might not get another.

Very well, what if she merely wrote out her warning in a letter? she wondered.

But that would mean admitting how she had snooped earlier at the bookshop—which she had never told her husband about—because she knew he would be furious. He’d have been shocked to hear she had dared to go checking into the old mentor of the politician who was giving him such headaches.

After the huge quarrel they’d just had, if she confessed now to her earlier round of snooping, he would probably hand
her
over to the press gang.

Anyway, even if she dared explain to Beau in a letter what she had done that day, what she had heard—though she had thought it meaningless at the time—what if her letter was intercepted by Green’s minions?

She knew the committee had Beau under surveillance. If she wrote a letter confiding her suspicions about who the real villains were, and they themselves got hold of it, that could spell serious danger for all of them.

No, she dared not put anything in writing. If she was going to follow up on this, she would have to do so in person. It was the safest way for her friends and their husbands—and her own.

Listen to me. You are not allowed to leave here!
her better sense insisted.
Beau will
kill
you if you leave their protection. Besides, how could you possibly get past all these guards?

Ah, but Sergeant Parker had just gone to great lengths to show her exactly how to escape in case of emergency.

It had obviously never occurred to the stalwart soldier she might be daft enough to try it on her own.

You mustn’t.

Daphne would never do such a thing, she pointed out sternly to herself, her pulse pounding.

Well, Kate would,
her more stubborn side responded. And a man’s orders certainly wouldn’t have stopped Madame Angelique.

She bit her lip, agonized with indecision.

She felt damned if she did and damned if she didn’t pursue this.
What if you’re wrong?—and you probably are. You could risk everything for nothing. If you slip away from here, and he finds out you disobeyed him again, Beau will probably never forgive you.