Too Dangerous For a Lady (33 page)

Her drawing had been for nothing.

She'd killed their means of finding Solange Waite.

A
s soon as Thayne returned, she told him that.

“I'd realized. I'll send a note to Hawkinville. He might have become philosophical about it by tomorrow. There are other ramifications, however. Seth being here and attacking must mean that Solange knows I'm Ned Granger. When this event gets back to her, she'll know you're involved again.”

“I could be any woman.”

“In the Duke of Belcraven's town carriage? She'll easily find out more and if she digs deep enough, she'll learn that you're the woman in Warrington, the one she sent Nathan after. My hope is that she's too busy with her grand design to try to harm you, especially now she has no Boothroyd to employ, but we'll have to take special steps to guard you.”

“And you.”

“I'll be careful. But you could have been killed, and again it would have been my fault.”

Hermione still wasn't feeling very strong, but he needed her to be, so she sat up and then stood, and put herself in order. “Not entirely this time. I came here.”

“And saved my life.”

“Thank heavens for the kris.”

“Is that what's it's called? A devilish weapon. I tucked it behind the umbrella stand because I couldn't conceal it anywhere without slashing my clothes to ribbons.”

“Edgar gave it to me and insisted I carry it. Here.” She tore the sheath free of her stitches. “Use this.”

He took it. “You don't want it back?”

She couldn't prevent a shudder. “No. I hope to never be in such a situation again, but I don't think I could use it. The feel of it. The sound he made . . .”

He took her into his arms. “I'll take you back to Belcraven House.”

They went downstairs, where he did retrieve the kris and slid it safely into its sheath. When they went outside, she looked away from Seth Boothroyd's sprawled body, which was being attended to. She was pleased to see the footman on his feet, though leaning against the carriage. He couldn't be asked to travel on the perch at the back, so she told him to travel inside and he didn't make much protest.

When they arrived at Belcraven House and told the tale, Arden said, “That's the last time I give in to love's idiotic whims.”

Hermione didn't argue and when Beth suggested a quiet supper in her room, she happily agreed. She wanted to spend more time with Thayne, but she was still badly shaken. She'd killed a man. No matter how vile he'd been, it would take time for her to put it out of mind.

*   *   *

Thank heavens, her practical nature won out and the next morning, when she was told Thayne wished to speak to her, she could be calm and sensible. Until, that was, she entered the drawing room and saw him, and had to take his hands, smiling.

“I'm just come from Hawkinville,” he said. “We're forgiven.”

“Without so much as a scold?”

“Perhaps a frown, but he's soothed by having found the trail of Isaac Inkman. It contains some indelicate aspects.”

“If you don't tell me for that reason, I'll become extremely indelicate!”

“Very well. Isaac enjoys a whore now and then.”

She was annoyed to blush, but said, “And . . . ?”

“He doesn't visit brothels, but when the mood takes him, Solange gets a woman in for him. Hawkinville had Isaac's description sent to such places with the offer of a reward. He's a very distinctive type. It seems he was in the mood yesterday.”

“You have the address?” Hermione said. “Mrs. Waite's address?”

She didn't know whether she was thrilled or terrified. It could soon be over, but please without putting Thayne in danger.

“Number 10, Great Peter Street, in Westminster. It's being acted on now, mostly by the military.”

Without him. Thank heavens.

But then she saw his expression. He wanted to be in at the end.

She wanted desperately to keep him here, but he'd dedicated years of his life to this fight and it wasn't as if he'd be on the front line. She managed a smile. “You must want to be there.” She had to add, “Without throwing yourself carelessly into danger?”

He kissed her hand. “I never have, love. My word on it.”

Even so, her courage failed her a little. “I always knew I could never be a soldier's wife.”

“I'm done with army life.”

“You're going into battle now.”

“Not really. The plan is to surround her, at which point she'll have to surrender.”

“Truly?”

He grimaced. “I see you have a sense of Solange. That's why I should be there. I might be able to guess what she'll do and advise.”

“And if she decides to set off whatever explosion she has planned?”

“Then I hope we'll have moved the nearby residents.”

I hope you'll have moved.
But how could he skulk at a distance and do the job? He'd do his best to keep his promise to her, but he'd also do what was necessary to protect others.

“You'd better be on your way,” she said, “before it's all over. But after it's over, remember the marriage license. All the plans are made.”

That got her the smiling kiss she wanted and she maintained her own smile until he had left. She wept then, but only a little. Tears were for grief, and he would return to her. He wasn't fighting alone anymore.

Beth came in. “Are you all right?”

“After a fashion,” Hermione said, rather helplessly. “He's going off into danger again.”

“I share all your feelings,” Beth said grimly. “When Faringay arrived, he told Arden what was happening. Of course Arden couldn't resist, especially as he considers the attack on you and Faringay a personal insult, you being under his protection.” At Hermione's expression, she said, “Truly. But it was also an excuse. He sent a message to Nicholas, which means that probably all the Rogues in Town are now dashing to help bring down the mad Frenchwoman. I could murder them all!”

Hermione shivered. “We can only hope Solange Waite doesn't do it for us.”

*   *   *

Mark left the house thinking he was probably safer on the streets than he had been since returning to London. Seth Boothroyd was dead and Solange was encircled. He found a hackney and instructed the driver to go close to Great Peter Street, Westminster.

“Close to, sir?”

“Precisely.”

“Not very precise, if you ask me,” the old man grumbled, “but you're the one as is paying the fare.”

Mark didn't know where Great Peter Street was, but the hackney went down Whitehall, past the military headquarters and other government offices, and then between the Abbey and the Palace of Westminster. He hoped they still had a long way to go, but the carriage soon drew up. It was a residential street of the simpler sort, but very close to the seat of power. What exactly was Solange planning to do from here?

When Mark got down, the driver said, “This is Smith Street, sir. Great Peter Street's just ahead. You can see the gasometer over the rooftops.”

Mark turned to look down the street to the one ahead. There indeed was the brick-clad cylindrical tower that was filled with gas by whatever chemical process the gas company used. From there it could be pumped through miles of pipe to light up Westminster, the heart of the British government.

Oh, Solange, you do have a warped kind of brilliance.

He'd read the notes he'd stolen in Ardwick, but they'd not made much sense to him. There'd been details of how gas was produced and delivered, including many technical terms. Chemists had gone over those notes and had been unable to work out what plan was involved. He thought they'd dismissed fire, but perhaps they'd not considered such a grandiose design. Could she set off a fire here that would race along the pipes into the Palace of Westminster?

He paid the driver and walked forward, looking for Hawkinville or anyone he knew. Hawkinville's people wouldn't be conspicuous. He came upon a group of people arguing with two soldiers.

“No one's to go through just now,” one was saying. “Orders.”

“Whose orders?” a woman asked, shopping basket on hip. “Bet it's that gas tower. We never asked for it to be put
here. Dratted thing blew up four years ago. I suppose it's going to do the same again.”

There was a general muttering, but no one tried to get by the soldiers. Mark looked at the tower again. Was Solange going to blow the whole thing up? He assumed the previous explosion had been an accident and clearly it hadn't flattened the area, but it might have given her the idea.

How big an explosion was possible? Could debris reach as far as Westminster, killing hundreds and perhaps more? The death and destruction would be blamed on the gas company and the government. Could that ignite the mob and start an uprising when the government and all its offices were in disarray? If so, Solange would want to survive to take advantage of it.

He walked forward and one of the soldiers said, “No further, sir, if you please.”

“I'm with Hawkinville,” Mark said.

“Name, sir?”

“Faringay.”

Hawkinville must have prepared the way, for the soldier said, “Very good, sir. Go straight ahead and turn to the right. There's a passage through to Laundry Yard.”

How mundane it all sounded. This would have been a quiet area before the gas station had been built and there must have been a large laundry to need a drying yard.

He turned into the gloomy passage and emerged into an area of rough green dotted with soldiers patiently waiting for orders and a few clusters of men in urgent debate. Hawkinville was conferring with three military officers.

He spotted Arden and Delaney and went over. “How did you get in?”

Delaney smiled. “Ever try to keep Arden out of anything? Hal Beaumont's around, too.”

Mark remembered Delaney saying Beaumont was one of the Company of Rogues.

“Maggots?” he said drily.

“Maggots are very useful creatures,” Delaney said.

Mark also remembered that Hawkinville was a Rogue-by-marriage. Another man was standing by. Lord Darien, whom he'd known somewhat in the army before he'd had the title and met a few days ago at a club.

“You a Rogue, too?” Mark asked him.

“I damned well am not,” Darien said, but with a touch of humor. “Hawk pulled in a number of military people a while ago. Quite a few of them are Rogues, but there are some normal humans.”

“Not favorites of yours?”

“We've made our peace. I married the sister of one. I have to admit they can be damnably effective, especially in matters where the normal processes are best avoided.”

“As now? There are soldiers everywhere.”

“For contingencies. The military are keeping people out of the area and have cleared people out of some of the houses, but they haven't evacuated the closest ones yet to avoid alarming Mrs. Waite.”

“She's in her house?”

“That's the general opinion, but it's stitch it as we go.”

Mark smiled at the common complaint of army officers—that the plans weren't thorough enough. Mark went to Hawkinville, who nodded a greeting. “Know what's going on?”

“Only to an extent. You have to admire her imagination.”

“I don't have to admire anything about her. We assume she plans a massive explosion from her property, hoping to explode the gasometer.”

“Is that possible?”

Hawkinville nodded to the huddled group. “The chemical men are debating it, along with some of the army engineers. Those notes you stole were all about creating havoc by using the pipelines.”

“They seemed to be, but gas production was mentioned. What do the experts say?”

“Nothing but questions. How big an explosion might she begin with? Exactly what explosives? From what level of the house? How the devil are we supposed to know? One suggested she might fire a projectile of some sort, which set them off about penetration and ingress of air. Apparently air must mix with the gas for it to explode. Otherwise it would merely go up in flames.”

“Merely,” Mark said drily.

“A mighty fire would be unfortunate, but an explosion could hurl projectiles for a considerable distance. My question for you is, when threatened, will she set off the explosion?”

“She won't want to blow herself up.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes. Her aim is living triumph, not martyrdom. However, I suspect she'd rather die than live to go on trial and be executed.”

“In extremis she'd choose death. You should have killed her when you had the chance.”

“I know that now.”

“We have men positioned to shoot her if she appears at a window.”

“They should have orders to shoot Isaac Inkman if they can. He's the one who'll set it off.”

“Even if it kills him?”

“He'd enjoy the bang. Truly. He's half-mad. Damnation—”

A woman shrieked. For a moment Mark hoped it was Solange, but he knew it was too shrill. He ran with Hawkinville and others out into Great Peter Street.

A young woman had broken through the cordon of soldiers. She was running toward the row of houses shrieking,
“We're betrayed, Solange. Betrayed!”

A shot rang out, shattering a window in a house. Solange
must have shown herself, but there was no shout or scream to indicate she'd been hit.

Soldiers recaptured the young woman and dragged her away. One had his hand over her mouth, but she kicked and writhed like one demented. Why did people fight so hard to destroy?

Mark moved forward cautiously to get a view of the front of the house with the shattered window. That window was on the ground floor, but Isaac appeared at an unbroken one on the upper floor, his owlish face staring. No one fired. Mark cursed himself for not having a pistol, though it'd be a devil of a shot at this distance.

Isaac was dragged away and Mark moved back again to Hawkinville's side. “The cordon's secure?”