Too Dangerous For a Lady (22 page)

He remembered the story of Nell Gwyn's carriage being attacked by a London mob angry at many things, including Charles II's French mistress. She'd let down the window and called out that she was the English whore, and the mob had cheered her. The ever-unpredictable London mob.

He returned to the West End to visit a coffeehouse in Brook Street, which he'd set up to receive correspondence. There were some letters there—sent on, he saw, by his London solicitor, whom he'd neglected to visit because old Dellarfield would lecture him on his duties to the estate.

He shoved the letters in his pocket and went on to the glove maker who had Braydon's patronage, where his first pair of new gloves might be ready. He'd thought such fine details ridiculous, but he'd seen how those who cared about such matters had noticed the quality of his ready-made pair, and a man couldn't wear York tan for every occasion.

Then, as he walked down Bond Street, he saw Hermione across the road.

He turned away in case she recognized his face, but his heart was pounding and not from alarm. The need to turn, to cross, to speak to her, was almost too much for his willpower. He won the battle, but he did eventually turn to look to be sure it was her. No doubt about it, for she was in the same brown spencer she'd worn in Warrington, though the bonnet was different. Of course, the straw one had been ruined.

He turned away again, relieved to see with his own eyes that she was alive and safe and lodged in an excellent part of Town. It was highly unlikely that she'd stumble across Solange or Seth Boothroyd in the West End.

He chanced another look and found that she was walking away, which meant he could indulge in watching her.
She was light on her feet but straight-backed and held her head high. She might be the victim of pity as the daughter of the Moneyless Marquess, but there was nothing meek about her. She and her maid paused at a milliner's shop, but didn't go in, then again at a perfumer's. Wistful? With his newfound prosperity in mind, he longed to dash over there and purchase whatever she desired.

One day he might have the right.

Then he saw black, red, and green stripes on the neckerchief of a messenger of some sort, whistling as he wove through the beau monde, doubtless anticipating gory deaths for all the “swells” around him. The man might not think of plainly dressed Hermione that way, but if revolution exploded, her title alone would condemn her.

*   *   *

Nolly said, “A fine gentleman gave you the eye, milady.”

“What? Who?” Hermione looked around. Not someone she knew, she hoped.

“Walking away over there, in the green coat. Handsome young fellow.”

“Such an odd shade for a coat, and the cut! I very much doubt such a frippery dandy was interested in me dressed so dully.”

Hermione turned forward again and almost bumped into a man. He stepped back and apologized, but his neckerchief startled her. Black, red, and green stripes.

The man in the inn had been attempting to stir revolution, no doubt about that. However, the woman in Ardwick wearing the gaudy knot of ribbons had been fleeing a riot, not inciting one, and Thayne would have nothing to do with revolutionaries. Not with his mother's sad story. All the same, she'd seen no sign of a new fashion for black, red, and green stripes. None of the tonnish shoppers wore them.

She went back to the beginning. Thayne had stolen papers from someone in Ardwick, and that someone had tried to kill both him and her to get them back. A woman, he'd
told her. A Frenchwoman called Mrs. Solange Waite who dressed soberly. Had she been the woman wearing the gaudy ribbons?

Pieces wriggled into some sort of pattern, but still made no sense.

Thayne would never be a revolutionary, but he'd worn the colors.

Colors.

“Milady?”

Nolly's query made Hermione realize she'd stopped dead. She quickly walked on, but her head was buzzing with a tangle of ideas. Roger had been so excited when Grandfather Havers had purchased a pair of colors for him—a commission in the army. Could Thayne still be in the army, but working secretly?

There'd been stories in the papers of government agents pretending to be revolutionaries in order to discover the villains' plans and bring them to trial. One who'd given evidence against Arthur Thistlewood last year had seemed an unpleasant character simply out for gain, but there had to be more noble examples.

But, Lord, that would mean that Thayne had fallen into danger by stealing from people who plotted riot and revolt, and Sir George Hawkinville fit better into that picture. The air seemed a little thin. This was danger of a whole new dimension, especially when she saw how important it would be to him, and how he'd take any risks to bring revolutionaries to justice.

Peel Street must be nearby. She could go there and demand answers. Find out whether he was safe.

No. She knew nothing for sure and must do nothing that might put Thayne in greater danger, but it was hardly bearable when his danger might be so much more acute.

M
ark returned to Braydon's and found Hawkinville there.

“Glad to see you're still safe, Faringay.”

“I wish someone would recognize me and shoot me. Chances are they'd miss anything vital, and if he was caught, he might have something useful to say.”

“Unlikely, and even a minor wound can kill if it festers. Keep a level head, man.”

A just rebuke. Mark knew the mere glimpse of Hermione had rattled him.

“Look. If I became Ned Granger again, I might learn more. Waite will have spread the word by now that I'm true to the cause.”

“How would you explain your hair?” Braydon asked.

“I'll shave it and talk of having been confined by a fever.”

Hawkinville said, “You're becoming unbalanced, Faringay.”

“Where's the balance in any of this? Parts of London could blow up at any moment. The mob could ignite.”

Mark expected to again be told to calm, but Hawkinville said, “As it happens, there is new urgency. Four days from now the Regent plans to attend a special performance of
The Surrender of Calais
,
which is expected to be particularly splendid now Drury Lane theater is entirely lit by gas.”

Gas.
“Dear God.”

“The theater has been thoroughly inspected—normal concern about any gas installation, you see—and we've placed people among the workforce there. The chemists don't see how it could be done. All the same, I would prefer to have the woman and her chemist secured before the event.”

“The Criminal Transportation Department?”

“Is being mined as desperately as you could want.”

“Nothing from the posters about Nathan's death?”

“Not a nibble. Extend your mind to other leads.”

Mark only just stopped himself from saluting. He now outranked Hawkinville by a considerable margin, but it never felt that way.

“Gas in Drury Lane,” he said to Braydon when Hawkinville had left. “What the devil can Isaac do with that? Gas flames could cause a fire, but fire's been a danger in theaters forever.”

“If confined, gas becomes explosive,” Braydon said, “but how could it be confined in the vastness of a theater without poisoning the audience first? No point in mangling your neckcloth over it.”

Mark had been trying to free himself of his. “Damn all neckcloths and those who tie them,” he said, wrenching it off and opening his collar. It crunched slightly as he rolled his head against it.

Braydon chuckled.

“And men who laugh in dire times.”

“It's the only way. Sit and we'll drink claret and seek wisdom from it.” He poured some, but Mark paced the elegant study. “Poison the Regent with accumulated gas?”

“Can't see it. Audiences are already complaining of the smell and how it stings the eyes. If the density increased, no one would linger.”

Mark took the wine and sipped. “But blowing up the
Regent would be exactly the sort of drama Solange would love.”

*   *   *

“Where's Nathan?” Seth Boothroyd asked, as he did with increasing frequency. “I should go north to find him. He could be in trouble.”

He's dead, you numskull.
Solange couldn't say that. Thick-skulled though he was, she needed the remaining Boothroyd close. She did regret Nathan's death, for he'd been the sharper of the two. She'd never expected Granger to be the one to survive a confrontation. She had to say something to Seth. “I'll send someone to make enquiries.”

“Who?” he persisted. “When?”

It could be useful to know exactly what had happened and she could afford to send Sarah north. “I'll send Miss Lawrey. She can be searching for her missing brother.”

“I'll go with her.”

She very much wanted to shoot him in his pea-sized brain. “A dangerous man like you would ruin her story. I promise you, if anything has happened to Nathan, the villains will suffer for it.”

He nodded, but his spatulate fingers were working. “I'll scrag 'em slowly,” he said. “Very slowly.”

A torture chamber! Why hadn't she thought of it before? “As is your right, Seth. As is your right.”

*   *   *

“Seth Boothroyd,” Mark said as he and Braydon sat for dinner. They'd spent the past few hours at a meeting convened to discuss the Drury Lane situation, but he couldn't feel any progress had been made.

“The best lead,” Braydon agreed. “If he's like his brother, his appearance is distinctive.”

“A bit heftier, a bit lower in the brow, and significantly more stupid, but close enough and I can't imagine him
staying indoors or assuming a disguise. This soup is excellent. You have the art of living well.”

“Why not when I can afford it? You can, too.”

“I'm wriggling slowly into my new skin.”

“It's not new. It's reality.”

Braydon kept making that point. He couldn't seem to understand how ill-fitting Viscount Faringay was to Mark.

“Someone should have seen a resemblance to the description,” he said.

“Perhaps it isn't as clear as we think. Or he's not in London. None of them are here.”

“In that case we're looking for a needle in a haystack, but I doubt it. If Solange is planning to blow up Drury Lane, she has to be nearby.”

“If. There's no real evidence, but I see it can't be ignored.”

“And the royal family can't be locked up, more's the pity.”

Braydon gave him a look. “Now you're sounding like a revolting specimen.”

“I don't have to admire the Regent to work for stability. I'm aware of the many flaws in society and may work to amend them in time, but not by blood and fire.”

Braydon raised his hand in a
pax
gesture and they settled to finishing their soup.

As Braydon put down his spoon, he said, “We could take a leaf from the Crimson Band's book and produce a likeness.”

Mark smiled. “A brilliant idea! You could draw it?”

“I'm afraid not. My talents are limited to memory and description.”

“And excellent ideas. How do we get a recognizable likeness?”

“And where do we post the picture for greatest effect?” Braydon rang for the next course. “The description's been
nailed up in post offices, inns, and such. Where else might Seth Boothroyd visit? Taverns? Shooting galleries?”

“Think lower. Cockpits, dogfights, and cheap brothels. I wonder if we could recruit Tregoven. I've always suspected he'd sell his mother for money.”

“True or not, he's gone.”

“Gone?”

“Hawkinville mentioned it before you arrived. He's slipped away, perhaps sensing a sinking ship.”

“A rat to the end.”

The footman came in with beefsteaks and roast potatoes. When the man had left, Braydon poured claret. “Who else has had a good look at a Boothroyd and has artistic ability?”

“No one I know of.”

“Someone in Waite's household?”

“Whom we could trust? If Solange learns of the picture, she'll get rid of Seth one way or another.”

“Charming lady.”

They both settled to eating, but delicious food didn't bring inspiration.

Until Braydon put down his knife and fork. “Most young ladies learn to draw, don't they?”

“Do they?”

“They generally seem to have a small collection of sketches and watercolors for gentlemen to admire.”

It seemed a diversion, until Mark saw where Braydon was going. “No,” he said.

Braydon sipped. “It wouldn't endanger Lady Hermione and it could be the key to victory.”

“Any contact with me could endanger her.”

“Then I'll approach her. Is she in London yet?”

Mark thought of lying, but if a drawing by Hermione could avert the death of hundreds or more, he couldn't. “I saw her today. In Bond Street.”

“Did you speak?”

“That would endanger her.”

“So you don't know where she's lodged.”

“No.”

“What part of Bond Street?”

“Near Oxford Street.”

“You feel qualms,” Braydon said, “but you have no choice.”

“You had a good look at Boothroyd and he must be imprinted in your magical memory. Can't you at least attempt the drawing?”

“I would if I could, I assure you. There was an officer who'd do rapid sketches of the men and catch their essence. Vandeimen, that was the name. He made it look so easy that I tried it myself. The best that could be said was that the eyes, nose, and mouth were in approximately the right places for a human being. No one would recognize one from the other.”

“The same could be true of Hermione.”

“But we must try. She shouldn't be hard to find if she's using her own name.”

Braydon was right. Mark wanted to shield Hermione in every way, but he could think of no one else who'd seen one of the Boothroyds and might be able to draw a likeness.

“She'll be in the party of Mr. Edgar Peake,” he said.

“Excellent. Hawkinville can alert the magistrates, and even recruit the military to locate her.”

“Dammit, no! We don't know where members of the Brotherhood lurk. It could sign her death warrant.”

He saw Braydon fight the urge to argue. He was probably right, but Mark couldn't permit such dangerous drama. “Then we'll check the inns and hotels around Bond Street ourselves,” Braydon said. “I'm willing to trust Baker and Johns to help if you are.”

“Of course; it's Hawkinville and those he'd recruit that I don't trust. They're all fine fellows, but any or all of them might decide a sacrifice is necessary for the greater good.”

Braydon didn't protest that. They both had long experience of war, where no general could succeed if he worried about individuals. He rose. “If it's just the four of us, we should start immediately.”