Too Dangerous For a Lady (34 page)

“As secure as can be in this warren of streets with hoi polloi desperate for a glimpse of the excitement. So she's there.”

“And knows all's lost.”

“Will she fire out at anyone who approaches?”

“Unlikely. My guess is she's trying to escape. Can you have your men at the back show themselves? Deter her from trying to slip out that way.”

“If she slips out, we'll have her,” Hawkinville objected.

“But not Isaac. She'll leave him behind to set off the explosion. If she can't get out, she won't order him to.”

“Right.” Hawkinville nodded and left. Mark questioned what he'd just said. Might Solange decide that martyrdom was worth it?

Then he wondered about Isaac. Would he truly blow himself up? He was fervent about explosions, but was he willing to die for it? Did he believe there was chemistry in heaven?

“You have a plan?” Delaney asked.

He'd come up from behind, quiet as a cat. Mark saw Arden, Beaumont, and Darien on hand. “You men are mad,”
he said. “This isn't your war. You've never even been in the army, Delaney. Nor you, Arden.”

“All the more reason to act now,” Arden said, as if discussing a game of cards.

“We'll only act if there's anything useful to do,” Delaney said, sounding like a reasonable man. “I have strong objections to wasted lives.”

“No wonder you didn't join the army, then. Yes, I have a plan, but it's one only I can carry out. I need to discuss it with Hawkinville.”

He went over and indicated he needed to speak to Hawkinville alone.

“Yes?”

“I'm willing to gamble that Isaac Inkman can be persuaded out of the house.”

“Gamble how?”

“By going in there to persuade him.”

It was typical that Hawkinville only said, “What are the chances?”

“I truly don't know, but I wouldn't attempt it if I didn't think it could work. You allowed Delaney and his people into this?”

“They've been in it all along to one extent or another. Arden less so. But they're all useful fellows and not encumbered by official protocol.”

“I see.”

“If you're going to do something, sooner will be better than later, for a range of reasons. But one is that I'm expecting someone from the Home Office to turn up soon to take charge.”

Mark gave a humorous grimace. “With all possible speed,” he said, and returned to the willing Rogues. “The plan is approved. I'm going in to talk out a deranged chemist.”

None of them showed alarm.

“What can we do in support?” Beaumont asked.

His empty sleeve made it impossible to be scathing, and in fact, some possibilities came to mind. “It would help if Solange can be kept busy with distractions from the front. Any and all.”

“Right.”

“And I need a pistol.” Beaumont supplied one. Mark checked the loading and priming. No one would object to that when the shot could be life-or-death.

“Right, then,” he said.

Delaney put a hand on his arm. “Hermione's suffered your death once already.”

“For her sake I'd let someone else do this if I could, but I'm the only one who might get Isaac's trust, and that could be key to all.”

Delaney nodded and no one else made an objection. “We're under your orders, then.”

M
ark said, “I need the soldiers to shoot occasionally at the front of the house, but without killing people. Any other distraction that comes to mind.”

Arden nodded and went off.

“Hal and Darien,” Delaney said. “Any good at arson? Could you manage a lot of smoke from a house across the street?”

The two men hurried away.

Delaney turned to Mark. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“I'll be your backup.” Before Mark could voice his protest, he said, “Only that, I promise. You know what you're doing.”

Mark hoped to God that was true, trying not to think of Hermione and promises made. He remembered the scrap of silk in his pocket and fingered it, then ran down the street close to the wall where Solange couldn't see him if she looked out. He'd seen a narrow passageway between two houses and he slipped into it. As he'd hoped, it brought him to the space behind her house and the backs of another row.

It wasn't divided into individual yards, but instead was a shared open area with a well and a few small gardens. It was crossed by washing lines. Mark hoped the houses on the far side had been evacuated.

“Good that there aren't individual walls to climb,” he
said to Delaney, “but if she's looking out, nowhere to hide. Even the washing lines are empty.”

Movement drew his eye to the opposite row of houses. A soldier was showing himself at the window of one, with a bright flash of scarlet. Another opened a back door to look out, rifle at the ready. That part of the plan was working. Solange would be mad to try to run out this way.

Despite thrumming urgency, Mark waited for the other distractions.

A rattle of shots from the street. A small explosion somewhere to the right. That should have her peering out at Peter Street, trying to understand. Trying to find a way to escape. Or had she given up? Was she preparing to depart in glory and take as many with her as she could?

He ran for the back of the house, counting doors to find the right one, hearing Delaney behind him. This one. He listened, but beyond that, there was no precaution to take. He opened the door and went in.

He found himself in a kitchen. Deserted, but with kettle steaming away on the hob. He heard footsteps above. Brisk. Solange's? Where was Isaac? Would a bomb do most damage from the ground floor or the upper one?

The house was small. He moved forward into a dingy parlor that had a door that opened directly onto the street. Solange wouldn't have enjoyed living in such poor surroundings. The ground floor was deserted and he saw nothing that might be a bomb.

He glanced back at Delaney, who shook his head in agreement.

Narrow stairs rose up from one side of the room. Mark took off his boots, cursing silently at having to struggle with Braydon's Hessians. Delaney helped. His own came off easily.

Mark went silently upstairs, listening all the time for clues. He wanted Isaac, not Solange. He'd shoot Solange if he saw her—he was resolved on that—but then Isaac might
set off the explosion in panic. Once he had Isaac under control, the main danger was over. He came to the top and saw two closed doors, one to his right, one to his left. Two rooms, one back and one front. The back one would look out on the gasometer, so if that was the target, the bomb should be in there. He hoped Isaac was with it and Solange in the front room, distracted by the mayhem.

He stepped toward the back room and opened the door.

Isaac was there, looking out of the window, his hand resting on a long, fat cylinder that was held at the back in a sort of sling. At first Mark could make nothing of it, but then he realized what it was. A beam ran across the room beneath the window. The sling—in fact some kind of woven rope—stretched back from it at great tension. When released, the cylinder would hurtle toward the gasometer like the bolt from a crossbow.

Dear Lord in heaven. And Isaac could release the mechanism at any moment.

“Very clever, Isaac,” Mark said as calmly as he could, closing the door behind him to lessen the chance of Solange hearing voices. Delaney would have to fend for himself.

Isaac turned sharply, but then grinned. “Told you it was a good plan, didn't I? But what are you doing here? I thought you were a traitor.”

Typical of Isaac to be so absorbed in his explosive toy that he wasn't aware of the drama all around, but that didn't make him less dangerous.

“Not at all,” Mark said. “I've come to help. We just release the cord, and bang?”

“Bit of a delay, but that's about right.”

“Are you sure it'll work?” Mark asked, going closer. A pistol shot might possibly set off the explosive. If he couldn't persuade Isaac to leave with him, it would have to be hand-to-hand. “Could be dangerous from here,” he pointed out.

“But glorious.”

Isaac had looked away as he spoke, however, and his tone had flattened. Was he lying? About what?

“Better not to die,” Mark said. “Come with me. I'll get you out of here and you can try again another day.”

Isaac looked at him in that blank way that could make him seem simple. “You're on Solange's side?”

Now, there was a double-edged sword. Mark went with instinct. “No. She's too cruel.”

Isaac sat down on a nearby stool and blinked at him. “That's what I think. She talks me into doing terrible things.”

“Like this?”

“The exploding letters.”

“You seemed happy about those,” Mark said, his hearing alert for warnings. He could hear the occasional shot and some shouting, but nothing from within the house. How long would Solange leave Isaac unattended? What would Delaney do if she emerged, armed?

He forced his mind back to the main purpose. He'd thought Isaac better dead, but now he wasn't sure. What was more, he doubted that Isaac was needed to deploy the weapon. If it was, in effect, a crossbow, Solange could release it alone.

“I was happy about the
idea
,” Isaac said. “It was a new one. Fun to try out an exploding letter and see that it worked. But she said it should have done more damage. She made me make a bigger one. When she heard it hadn't hurt anyone, she got that look in her eye. You know the one?”

“I do.”

“It wasn't
my
fault someone put it in a box. I didn't let her know I was glad.”

It was hard to see Isaac as a victim, especially when he was sitting by the weapon he'd designed and made, but his story made some sort of sense. Solange had persuaded and intimidated far stronger men than he. When it came to it,
until the first exploding letter, Isaac's actions had all been experiments.

“What about this?” Mark asked, nodding at the long tube. “I assume if I cut the sling, it'll fire at the gasometer?”

Isaac nodded, wearing a particularly idiotic grin.

Mark managed to speak calmly. “That will do a lot of damage. Can it be made harmless? We don't want to leave it for Mrs. Waite to set off, do we?”

“I don't mind,” Isaac said. “Could be fun.”

Idiot. Perhaps he was better dead.

Mark heard movement outside the house. He stepped closer to the window and saw some soldiers dodging around. They were distracting as ordered, but wasting their time. There was only this one window at the back. He could only pray no one tried a random shot at it and exploded the device.

“This isn't my idea of fun, Isaac. How do we disarm it?”

“Don't need to. Won't do much good.”

“Disarming?”

“Firing.” Isaac patted the tube again. “I suppose I should have said it won't do much harm. Disarm. Dis-harm. Interesting, that.” He suddenly scowled. “You've got that look.”

“What look?” Mark asked, trying to adjust his face to patient friendliness.

“As if I'm annoying. But perhaps I am. I'm only really interested in chemistry. And aspects of engineering. Most people aren't.”

“Which is why they can't understand you. Try to explain this to me, Isaac. Why won't the exploding projectile do much damage?”

“It won't explode. It'll just smash into the gas tower. According to my calculations, it'll break some bricks, but not even dent the gasometer inside.” He turned wistful. “It would have been interesting to see what would happen if an
explosive missile broke into fourteen thousand cubic feet of gas, but I don't think there'd be enough air.”

Mark managed not to roll his eyes, but what should be done with this man-child genius?

“Are you sure, Isaac? About little damage?”

“Oh, yes. But she won't like it.”

“No. But I'll deal with her for you.”

The door opened and Mark turned, pistol at the ready. It was Delaney. “It's getting quiet in the street.”

“Who's this?” Isaac had stood, his eyes wide. What had Solange told him might happen if he was arrested?

“He's a friend,” Mark said. “He'll help me get you to safety.”

Mark would like to have Delaney take Isaac away and stay to arrest Solange, but he remembered his promise to Hermione. He'd broken it, but with reason. He had no excuse to do more. Others could take care of her.

Delaney's brows were raised and he nodded toward the device.

“It won't do much damage. That's right, isn't it, Isaac?”

“I told you so! Do you think me a dunce?” A bang from the front of the house made him jump. “She's coming. You said I'd be safe!”

Instinct. Mark grabbed Isaac's arm and pulled him out of the room. Isaac broke free and ran downstairs, Mark and Delaney following. Then in the kitchen Isaac paused to take the steaming kettle off the hob.

“Outside,” Mark said, steering him toward the back door, but at sight of the soldiers, Isaac shrank back. “Come on. It's safe.”

Delaney gave Mark the boots he'd picked up and took Isaac's hand. “Come along. We'll take care of you.”

Isaac looked at him and then let Delaney lead him out. Mark couldn't help thinking,
Like a lamb to the slaughter.
Delaney couldn't keep that promise. Isaac had been hand in
glove with violent revolutionaries and responsible for two acts of violence.

They paused to one side of the door to put on their boots, taking turns to watch the door, pistol ready. The bangs and explosions had ceased at the front and the house might as well be uninhabited. What was Solange doing?

It didn't matter as long as she didn't escape. Delaney shepherded Isaac to safety. Mark followed as rear guard.

When they arrived in Laundry Lane, Hawkinville said, “You got him, then. Good work.” He gestured to some soldiers to arrest Isaac.

“I promised him safety,” Mark said.

“That promise wasn't in your power to give.”

“He's a pawn. He's only been responsible for one thing that could have done serious damage—the second exploding letter. He says Solange forced him into that and I believe him.”

“What of all this? There is no bomb?”

“He says it's a dud.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes. You don't have any wish to hurt people, do you, Isaac?”

Isaac's eyes were shifting around the angry faces and armed soldiers and he had a death grip on Delaney's hand. It was to him he spoke. “None. Truly. I particularly didn't want to damage the gasometer. I've been reading all about gas.” In a moment he transformed, glowing with excitement. “We can light up the world with gas. No more night. Heat it, too. No more cold. Gas engines. Like steam engines, but better. Gas fireworks. Gas ships. Big, big balloons powered by gas.”

Hawkinville looked as if he wanted to shoot Isaac on the spot, and Mark had qualms about setting the man loose in the world, but Delaney was smiling. “You have some very interesting ideas, Isaac. They should certainly be explored.”
To Hawkinville, he said, “If we can sweep aside the one unfortunate letter, there's really nothing to hold against him. May I pledge the Rogues to take charge of him?”

“How? If he takes it into his head to burn up the world with his precious gas, he will.”

“I won't!” Isaac protested. “I don't like hurting people.”

“We can say he assisted us here today,” Mark said. “It's true.”

Hawkinville shook his head. “We'll review this later, but he's in your charge now, Nicholas. Our priority is to seize Solange Waite before she proves to the world that your idiot lied.”

Nicholas winked at Mark and steered Isaac away. They were already talking about heating a house with gas-powered pipes.

“What will the woman do when she realizes that Isaac has escaped?” Hawkinville asked.

“Fire the projectile. Let's go and watch.”

“Watch?”

“I trust Isaac on this. It seems he truly doesn't want to harm the gasometer.”

Hawkinville muttered about lunatics and madmen, but he went with Mark to one of the houses opposite Solange's row. They took a position by an open window.

Mark said, “Have a soldier fire a shot toward that window there. One who can be trusted not to hit it.”

The musket ball smashed into brickwork beside the window and some of the soldiers gave a muted cheer.

Mark heard Solange call, “Isaac?” Did he hear the string of French curses, or only imagine them? He saw movement in that back room but had no clear sight of her. “Any moment now,” he murmured, praying he'd been right.

There was a great
twang!
He instinctively ducked, but the metal cylinder hurtled over the rooftops. Then they heard an appalling crunch, followed by a cacophony of falling bricks.

“Not damage the gasometer, you said!” Hawkinville ran for a front room to see what had happened, but Solange was in the window opposite now, her expression telling Mark all he needed to know. She screamed her frustration, the red-faced personification of fury.

Mark pulled out Beaumont's pistol, praying it shot true. He steadied himself against the window frame, calming his breath. Then he aimed and fired. He'd aimed for her heart, but the gun fired high. The ball went into her screaming mouth.