The Deception of the Emerald Ring (20 page)

When he should have been scanning the room, he had been staring at his wife with Vaughn; when he should have been circulating through the crowd, he had been dragging his wife across the room; and when he should have been following Emmet to his rendezvous, he had been so busy slinging insults that Emmet and his contact could have had a revolutionary sing-along in the front hall and Geoff wouldn't have noticed. If it hadn't been for that rapping noise knocking him to his senses

Over the throbbing of his thoughts, Geoff could still hear it, marking a measured rhythm against the cobblestone. Geoff stilled, willing it to be more than the pounding of his pulse or an aural illusion produced by his imagination. Holding his breath, he strained to listen. There it was again, a faint clicking in the distance. Emmet was still nearby.

Without wasting any more time, Geoff slipped off after the phantom thread of sound. It was coming not from the east, where Clanwilliam House and the Whaley mansion lorded it smugly over St. Stephen's Green, but from the west, the streets that led to the workers' districts just outside the bounds of the city proper. As he increased his pace, Geoff could just make out the dark form of Emmet ahead of him, taking the bend that led from Lower to Upper Kevin Street. Geoff didn't have high hopes that his pursuit of Emmet would lead to anything interesting—at least, anything more interesting than several new verses to "Lord Edward's Lament" and other fine examples of rebel song.

Geoff had followed Emmet along a similar route two nights before, down Thomas Street, through the White Bull Inn, and out a back door at that establishment, into a tiny yard that gave onto a nondescript house on Marshal Lane. Between dusk and dawn, Geoff had quietly searched the premises, taking note of the sacks of saltpeter in the cellar, ready to be mixed into gunpowder, the shrouded piles of muskets shoved beneath tables, the baskets of grenades hidden behind a false wall in the attic. And then there had been the pikes, thousands and thousands of pikes, stacked one on top of another in the loft, ready to be placed in the eager hands of volunteers.

There had been more pikes than guns. Geoff couldn't tell whether the profusion of pikes was a sign of lack of funds, since pikes could be manufactured easily and cheaply on the premises, with lumber provided by Miles Byrne from his brother's timber yard, or merely an indication that the more sophisticated weaponry was being hidden at another depot. Geoff knew there were others—he had searched two more the night before, one on South King Street, the other in the Double Inn on Winetavern Street, just opposite the majestic bulk of Christ Church. Both had been empty, only a trail of saltpeter and a lone grenade giving any indication of their prior purpose.

The weapons had to have gone somewhere. Into the hands of supporters? Geoff didn't think so, not without a firm date for a French landing. The United Irishmen weren't going to make the same mistake they had made back in '98, when a French force had landed a full month after the local population had already risen and been defeated. At least, they weren't going to make that same mistake without some help from him and Jane.

No, Emmet would want to make sure that his men didn't rise prematurely. If he had any sense—and he did—he would keep the armory concentrated in his own hands, to prevent an over-eager follower from sparking an abortive uprising. But where?

Moving as softly as his stiff boots would permit, Geoff slipped down Lower Kevin Street after Emmet, taking care to keep his pace slow and his stance relaxed, merely a gentleman out for an evening constitutional after a too crowded party. Someone who slunk along the sides of buildings, making a point of keeping to the shadows, was far more conspicuous than someone who blithely occupied the center of the street. Emmet either subscribed to the same theory or had no thoughts of pursuit. He moved easily and openly, his boots clicking firmly against the cobbles of the street. His half-shuttered lantern cast an uneven glow around him, swaying from side to side as he walked.

And why should he worry about being pursued? Geoff wondered bitterly. If his own performance at Mrs. Lanergan's was anything to go by, Emmet and the United Irishmen had nothing to worry about. He could only hope that Jane and Miss Gwen had been more alert and might have garnered some clue as to Emmet's mysterious contact. Even so, it galled him to have to rely upon others for a task he ought to have completed himself.

It was bloody lucky that Emmet was in the habit of tapping his cane against the ground when overtaken by thought, otherwise Geoff would probably still be standing in that thrice-damned window embrasure, pointlessly quarreling with his wife.

And losing, which only served to add insult to injury.

Geoff was almost relieved when a sharp turn from Emmet distracted his attention from an increasingly uncomfortable line of thought. One minute Emmet was in front of him, the next he had disappeared sideways, taking a sharp left down New Street. That was not the route to the Marshall Lane house. Geoff felt a familiar anticipation beginning to build. He strolled casually through the juncture of New Street and Patrick Street, straight through to Dean Street, ascertaining with a quick sideways flick of his eyes that Emmet was still there. Emmet was hurrying down New Street as though proximity to his goal gave new urgency to his steps.

The street was all the clue Geoff needed. Emmet had to be headed for a rendezvous with Miles Byrne, at Byrne's brother's timber yard. And if Emmet intended to inform Byrne of the latest word from the French A triumphant smile spread across Geoff's face. Despite Letty's interference, the evening wasn't lost yet.

Clanking down heavily on his heels to make his footsteps echo, Geoff kept on going just far enough down Dean Street to allay any potential suspicions. Switching to the balls of his feet, he doubled back to New Street, keeping to the shadows cast by the narrow houses that crowded close together in this poorer section of town.

Emmet glanced nervously behind him before slipping into the garden of the house that neighbored the timber yard, pursing his lips in a low whistle. An answering signal must have been given, because Emmet abandoned his shadowed niche in the lee of the garden gate, hurrying into the timber yard.

Geoff ducked into a small alley, not even so much a proper alley as a glorified gutter, against the side of a high-gabled house as a man hurried out to meet Emmet, bounding over piles of lumber with the enthusiasm of the very young. Geoff settled himself more firmly into his niche, trying to breathe as little as possible. His alleyway was clearly more used to housing sewage than spies.

It was too dark to be sure, but Geoff thought he could guess who the second man was. Miles Byrne, only twenty-three, and already in treason up to his neck. His curling, light brown hair was less elegantly dressed than Emmet's, and his small mustache twitched with excitement as he called out something in a low tone. A third man, an unknown, scuttled through the shadows to join the group, moving more soberly than Byrne. He was older than Byrne, his hair streaked with white in the pale light cast by Emmet's lantern, and wore the distinctive dress of a car-man.

It was a well-chosen disguise, reflected Geoff, making a mental note to assign someone to infiltrate the ranks of Dublin's hackney drivers. What better guise could there be for a revolutionary than posing as the driver of a cab? One had an excuse for being at strange places at odd hours, not to mention the chance of overhearing key tidbits from passengers who tended to treat a driver as little more than an extension of his horse. It certainly trumped standing in a pile of sewage, thought Geoff ruefully, regarding the muck clinging to the sides of his boots.

Instead of dragging his confederates inside, as Geoff had expected, Byrne gestured to a pile of timber hard by the garden gate. Emmet asked something and Byrne nodded, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. The third man shrugged, in a way that could have indicated doubt, impatience, or simply a stiff back. It was too far away, and Emmet's lantern emitted too little light to tell for sure. If only they would go into the office of the timber yard to carry on their discussion, Geoff thought wistfully. That would make his task far easier.

Going down on one knee, Emmet settled one of the large beams over his shoulder and struggled to his feet, while the other two followed suit. Emmet, unaccustomed to such work, staggered a bit under the weight, while Byrne walked with a jaunty step and the third man, the car-man, followed steadily behind. They paraded past his hiding place, long slats of wood protruding behind them like cats' tails. Geoff pulled back to avoid being whapped in the face by the bobbing end of Byrne's plank, squared off at one end, and splattered with mud.

Geoff exited his smelly hiding place and followed them back up New Street, grateful for the labored breathing and heavy footsteps that filled their ears and masked any sounds of his own quiet pursuit. Any time they paused, he froze, ducking into doorways or between buildings. When they resumed, he resumed, like a child's game of statues. They passed the turnoff to Dean Street without stopping, and Geoff's pulse quickened with anticipation. Wherever they were going with their awkward burden, it wasn't the Marshall Lane depot.

Partway down Patrick Street, the odd cavalcade came to an abrupt halt, right in front of number twenty-six. As Geoff crouched behind a bush one house down, his chest swelled with silent satisfaction, despite the mud seeping through the knees of his pantaloons and the unfortunate smell wafting from his ruined boots. He had found the missing depot.

Of course, he still wasn't any closer to discovering the identity of their French contact, or what his business had been with Emmet.

Byrne turned his head to ask Emmet something, the plank on his shoulder swinging dangerously with the movement of his body, causing the third man to duck, stumble, and curse loudly as his own burden went crashing down to the ground. It made an odd noise as it connected with the cobbles, not a solid thunk, but an ominous cracking sound, as the entire piece of timber split down the middle. Something else hit the ground with a metallic clang, rolling dangerously close to Geoff's hiding place.

It wasn't a gun, or even a pike. It was a long cylinder of iron, and before the third man snatched the object back up, cursing beneath his breath all the while, Geoff saw that it had a pointed head, like an arrow.

Geoff had never seen one himself before, but he thought he knew what it was.

Where in the devil had the rebels acquired rockets? And, more important, how were they planning to use them?

* * *

SPARKS OF RED, GOLD, AND BLUE exploded in front of Letty's eyes.

Blinking did nothing to dispel them. They were, she realized after a confused moment, not the results of the blow to her head, but the component colors of the gaudily decorated tunic that currently filled her entire line of vision.

"Dear lady," exclaimed a rich masculine voice just above Letty's head, "this is well met, indeed."

"I can't quite agree," Letty gasped, struggling for breath. The stranger was holding her very hard, and the gold buttons on his tunic were digging into her ribs. She tried to turn her face away from the overwhelming smell of his cologne, scratching her cheek on the wool of his tunic. "Do you think you could let me go, please?"

"When you are the very woman I've come all this way to find?" he murmured somewhere in the vicinity of her hair. Letty could feel his hot breath all the way down to her scalp.

Letty's irritation turned to genuine alarm. Either she was the victim of a case of mistaken identity or she was being held captive by a madman who made a practice of wandering into parties to kidnap the first unescorted female who happened to barrel into him.

"I think you must be mistaken, sir," she objected, beginning to struggle in earnest. "Now, if you'll just release me "

To her surprise, the crushing grip loosened, sending her staggering back several steps, fetching up against a small marble-topped table that tottered ominously on its spindly, gilded legs.

"My dear madam!" The madman flung himself at her feet. "Are you hurt?"

He reached for her hand. Letty scuttled sideways until the pressure of marble in her midriff arrested her progress. "No, no," she said rapidly. "I'm really quite all right. Please don't let me stand in the way of your going along into the party."

Much to her relief, the madman rocked back on his heels away from her and straightened. Maybe not so much to her relief, Letty amended, as the madman rose to his full height, the impression of size amplified by the breadth of the red and blue facings that made up his uniform. He probably wasn't any taller than her husband, but given her own lack of inches, it didn't take much to dwarf her.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to be preparing for another assault. Instead, he took his red-plumed hat from his head, revealing a thatch of carefully combed curly brown hair that tapered into long sideburns on either side of his face.

Sweeping a neat bow, he said, "Perhaps I ought to reintroduce myself. We met at your wedding, Lady—"

"Mrs.," gabbled Letty hastily, before he could utter the fateful name. Drat. She ought to have known this would happen sooner or later. What had she been thinking? She had been thinking, she realized grimly, that she would be reconciled with her husband, and there would be no further need for subterfuge. More fool her.

"Mrs.," she repeated. "Mrs. Alsdale."

Instead of arguing, the man regarded her with dawning understanding, and something underneath it that Letty didn't like at all. He looked oddly smug, although just what there might be about her marital difficulties to make anyone smug—other than Mrs. Ponsonby—she couldn't comprehend.

Before she could stop him, the officer took her hand and raised it. With his lips hovering just above her knuckles, he stared meaningfully into her eyes.

"My cousin is a fool."

Letty removed her hand with more force than was strictly necessary. "Your cousin?" she asked warily.

Fortunately, the stranger showed no further inclination to seize any part of her person. He merely tucked his plumed hat beneath his arm, and smiled carefully down at her. "I am Jasper Pinchingdale. I stood groomsman to your husband at his wedding. Perhaps you remember me?"