Greasy smoke hovered in gauzy drifts that rose to the low, timbered ceiling of the public house. Green-tinged light filtered through leaded-glass windows, and the air was dense with the smell of wet wool, fish and the press of the Great Unwashed.
Colter recognized Tyler at the end of a long table; he lifted a pewter tankard but did not drink, the signal he was available.
“They took the bait,” Tyler said to his tankard when Colter elbowed a path through the crowd and took a place on the long bench next to him. “Edwards showed him the piece in the New Times.”
George Edwards, also recruited as a spy to infiltrate the Spenceans, was responsible for planting an item in the paper that reported the dinner meeting of several members of the British government. The dinner was to be held at Lord Harrowby’s house at 39 Grosvenor Square tomorrow night, the twenty-third—a trap for Thistlewood and his gang.
Tyler eyed him briefly, a grin hovering on his mouth. “You look like a fenman.”
Garbed in a blue wool jersey, baggy trousers and coat with the collar up to his ears, Colter blended in with the others in this public house near the riverfront. It was a rough clientele that frequented this part of London. The weight of a pistol in his waistband was a stark reminder of the risk.
He’d let his beard grow out some, and gloved fingers rasped over the stubble as he scratched idly.
“Was the map right?”
Nodding, Tyler gulped a draught of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched. “Every place marked held a cache of weapons, right enough. We’re watching.”
Colter downed the last of his ale and rose. “You know where to meet me.”
The air was cooler and fresher outside the pub, though still smelling of the riverfront and bilge. He walked along the narrow street, then through an even more narrow alley; buildings leaned precariously over the avenue with no apparent reason for remaining upright.
Hard-eyed men prowled these byways, ready to slit a throat for less than a shilling, inured to the suffering of others by their own. Urchins clad in little more than rags stared at him with empty eyes, shivering in the icy cold, watching for a chance to steal a coin, just as dangerous as their older counterparts. Nothing had changed for these, and nothing would as long as radicals like Thistlewood plotted murder and anarchy.
Mowry waited for him in the back room of a pub on the corner of Friday Street, brow lifting when Colter joined him.
“You look as dangerous as any footpad, Northington. I trust you have good news.”
“Thistlewood intends to move on the bait tomorrow. He obviously thinks he can raise an army that quickly. Are you ready?”
Nodding, Mowry’s thin face creased with satisfaction. “More than ready. All is in place. My other informant tells me that John Harrison has inquired about renting a small building—a stable with a hayloft—in Cato Street. It needs to be investigated, as it’s only a short distance from Grosvenor Square and will likely be used as a command post. George Edwards will give us more information as soon as he knows something of value. Meanwhile, I trust you will be setting up your own plans.”
“I know the stable. I’ll wait at the Horse and Groom, as it overlooks the stable on Cato Street. I’ll take Tyler with me, and two others.”
Mowry nodded, thin fingers drumming an incessant beat on the surface of the table. A flagon of wine and an empty cup rested near his hand. After a moment, he poured himself a drink.
“We cannot fail,” he said tersely, wine gleaming on his lips as his eyes narrowed, “for the consequences would reach much farther than just this rebellion. It will show us to be vulnerable, despite how quickly we are able to quell any violence. They plan,” he said softly, “to parade the heads of Lords Castlereagh and Sidmouth on poles around the slums of London as an example.”
“And they no doubt assume this will entice eager citizens to join their new government. Christ. An armed uprising may provoke a revolution like that in France. You do recall that, I presume, and the slaughter of innocents? A government cannot oppress its people forever, for one of these days, there will indeed be an uprising that we cannot prevent if we’re not willing to alleviate and mollify their grievances. Honest grievances, Mowry, and you know that.”
Hooded eyes regarded him coolly. “Perhaps. But the collapse of the monarchy is not the way to effect change.”
“I never said it was.” Colter rose to his feet. “But I will make my arguments in the House of Lords when the time comes.”
“Yes, do that, and perhaps one day Liberals will run the country, but I wouldn’t make wagers on it.” A half-mocking smile tilted Mowry’s mouth, and he held up his wineglass in a derisive salute. “I drink to your zeal, my lord Northington, and to the idealistic ardor of all your Liberal sympathizers.”
“One day,” he said softly, “you’ll do so in earnest.”
It was a bad business, but he had no regrets about his part in stopping Thistlewood. The man was a danger, a zealot who had to be stopped at any cost.
“By the way,” Mowry said as Colter reached the door to the back alley, “I trust your Miss St. Clair is doing well.”
Colter turned, and his voice was hard enough to wipe the smile from Mowry’s face.
“If you ever endanger Celia again as you did at the opera, it may be your head that goes round London on a pole. Keep that in mind the next time you interfere.”
“I do not tolerate threats,” Mowry said, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes that he had gone too far this time.
“I do not make threats. I state facts.”
As he closed the door behind him, he heard Mowry’s soft curse. Now he knew for a certainty it had been Mowry who was behind the assault at the opera, a desperate attempt to gain the directory. James Carlisle had no reason to risk an assault when he must have been fairly certain she’d send it to him as promised. Tyler had been near enough to eavesdrop, near enough to hear the conversation and Celia’s assurance that she would send the map. If nothing else, he would have ransacked the house for it rather than risk attracting attention by abducting her.
But Mowry hadn’t known that then, and his network of spies and thugs was vast and volatile enough to take any risks—including the risk to Celia St. Clair.
Celia. When this was over, as it surely would be in the next two days, he’d go back for her. There were a few more things he needed to know about her. Then there was that damned agreement with Lady Leverton that must be addressed.
A faint, cynical smile curved his mouth. How delighted Lady Moreland would be to learn that her son intended to marry at last.
Would the prospective bride be as delighted?
Colter would have been surprised to know Celia was thinking of him at that very moment, fervently wishing he would arrive. Oh God, how had she become so involved without even knowing it?
Yet this man seemed to think she was a danger, or so he informed her.
“Miss St. Clair, I’m afraid that you’ve become rather a liability,” he said apologetically. “Yet I find your plight regrettable. Perhaps we can come to a compromise of sorts.”
Anger didn’t dilute her terror, but made it sharper. “I cannot imagine any bargain with a villainous man who would be so insensible to his own nephew’s—”
“Great-nephew,” Lord Easton corrected mildly. “And I am not at all insensible to Northington’s welfare. Indeed, it is my concern for him that prompts me to this rather drastic solution.”
Quivering with a mixture of rage and fear, Celia drew a deep breath to regulate her racing heart and sharp tongue. “What compromise do you suggest, my lord?”
Philip Worth, Lord Easton, leaned back in the plain wooden chair he’d dragged from beneath the table across the room. Now he smiled at her, nodding approval. Light from a lamp on the table barely illuminated the small room.
“You’re proving to be much more intelligent than I had assumed you would be, Miss St. Clair. Let us hope you are as agreeable.”
Celia had no idea where they were. She’d been taken from the granary, blindfolded and put into a carriage to be brought to this house, but it had to be fairly close for the journey had not lasted long. Nor was Marita still with them, having returned to the camp, no doubt, with some story about how Celia had escaped her. She hoped no one believed it!
“I can be agreeable,” she said, “once I know what I’m to agree to.”
“Yes, of course.” His smile widened, and his gaze was thoughtful, that of a kindly older man, his appearance so deceiving, with his shock of white hair and impeccable air of breeding and affluence. How deceptive these English aristocrats could be! Was everyone in this family immoral and wicked?
No, no, not Colter, though she’d thought so at first, thought him just like his father. Yet now another member of that family sought her destruction.
“You are very like your mother, you know,” Easton shocked her by saying, his tone conversational. “I imagine you could even be mistaken for her. It’s amazing. Léonie St. Remy was one of the most sought-after women in London at one time, and even the lack of a dowry had little effect on many impetuous swains. Ah, I remember her so well…It was nearly a scandal when she ran off with her American.” His smile was benign, his eyes hiding his real thoughts as he regarded her as casually as if they were having tea in the parlor at Harmony Hill. “But surely you must know why I have taken such a—shall we say, personal interest in your relationship with my nephew.”
“No,” she said stiffly, “I cannot say I do. Nor do I care to know, my lord, if you will forgive my bluntness.”
His smile did not waver, and he made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “That’s to be expected, of course. It would be supposed you might feel some resentment.”
“Resentment? Resentment, my lord? That hardly describes what I’m feeling at this precise moment! Fury would be a more apt word to use, and determined, perhaps, for I have no intention of making any agreement with you at all!”
“A lamentable decision, Miss St. Clair. Do reconsider, if you will. Life can be singularly unpleasant for those who fail to bend even a little. Trust me on that advice. I’ve spent an entire lifetime perfecting the art of bending. And bending does not necessarily mean yielding, so that militant light in your eyes need not be extinguished. Indeed, I find it quite flattering to you. It becomes clear what my nephew sees in you, however unwise that may be.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that what this is about, this abduction and attempt to terrorize me? You want me to stay away from Colter?”
“Abduction is such an ugly word. I much prefer to use invitation, for that is, after all, what it is—an invitation to leave England quietly, calmly and with more money than you arrived with in your purse. No need for an unnecessary scene, now, is there?”
“He put you up to this.” Emotionless, she stared at him with sudden realization. “Northington—Moreland, the earl. He is behind this, isn’t he? He discovered who I am, and he wants me gone before I can cause him trouble.” A half laugh escaped her, anguished and bitter. “Oh, no need in denying it, for who else would want me to leave England like this?”
“Who else, indeed,” Easton murmured, the small smile a slight curve on his lips. “Who else indeed.”
“Well, it only proves that he knows why I am here, and that he’s afraid of what I’ll say, afraid of what I can prove about him!” She surged to her feet, hands knotted into fists at her side, anger and pain vibrating through her body so that she could scarcely stand still. “I won’t do it. I’ll be heard, by God, for now I know that I can’t keep quiet! I had thought—Oh, I was so stupid, for I should know I could never really forget, not even for him. But I thought I might be able to, so that no one would be hurt—not the earl, no, not him, but those I care about. I didn’t want to hurt them, you see. Really, it wouldn’t bring them back, would it, if I told? Maman and Old Peter are still dead. But now I know that I can’t forget it, can’t ignore it, that it was done and justice was thwarted.”
Easton merely watched her, an arrested expression on his fine features, his eyes unreadable and hooded. He made no attempt to soothe her, nor even to halt her when she turned to the door. Then she discovered he’d had no need to try, for a guard waited outside, turning quickly when she opened the door.
“My dear Miss St. Clair,” Easton said finally when she slammed shut the door and whirled back to face him. “You are overwrought. Perhaps in the morning you will be more aware of your plight and amenable to my suggestions. America is your home, but if you prefer, England has many colonies.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
Easton rose from the chair, intimidating without being threatening, his smile urbane. “You will find it necessary to choose which option you prefer, or it will be chosen for you, but rest assured that you will not remain in England. It is up to you how you leave here.”
“Tell Lord Moreland that removing me will not erase his guilt!”
“Really, Miss St. Clair, I’m not at all certain Moreland even remembers your existence.”
With that cryptic statement, Easton left her alone in the small room, though she heard him give instructions to the guard outside the door that she was to be closely watched at all times. Celia sat down, bewildered and more frightened than she had been before.
What did he mean by that? Of course Moreland must remember her, for was he not responsible for this? It could only be him. Unless—unless Colter had decided that he no longer needed her, no longer wanted her. But that couldn’t be true. Could it?
No, of course it isn’t. He wouldn’t do that to me, wouldn’t just leave me like this to be transported as if I was a common criminal! she thought wildly, despairingly. She put her face into her palms and shuddered.
Oh, why hadn’t he come for her?