Lydia was not so startled that she failed to take precautions against Mrs. Ruskin’s seeing her. She stayed well back, always keeping at least two other shoppers between herself and her quarry. Mrs. Ruskin never looked behind her. She wore an attractive bonnet of cream and scarlet stripes, matching the dark red of her redingote, and between that and her height—for Mrs. Ruskin was tall for a woman—Lydia had no difficulty keeping the woman in sight.
Mrs. Ruskin threaded her way through the crowd, which had grown in the time Lydia had been within the shops, and exited the arcade, turning right past the pillared façade. When Lydia emerged, she was several yards ahead, walking briskly if not rapidly down the street. Lydia hesitated only a moment. She ought to tell someone, Lieutenant Danniell if no one else, but if she turned back, Mrs. Ruskin would escape into the city. Following her, at a safe distance, was the only reasonable course of action.
The streets were thin of pedestrian traffic, the few passersby indifferent to anything but their own concerns, and at first Lydia’s heart raced in fear that Mrs. Ruskin would turn for some reason and see her. She reminded herself that if that happened, it was not as if Lydia was in any danger; Mrs. Ruskin would likely just flee.
The houses surrounding the Exchange gave way to taller buildings, all of them apparently businesses of some sort, though not shops. Only a few were labeled, and those bore simple brass plaques next to their doors rather than large signs enticing customers. Lydia did not pay more than the barest attention to them, as following Mrs. Ruskin without revealing herself was difficult.
It did not occur to her until they had been walking for nearly five minutes that she was now hopelessly lost. She refused to let herself fear. Again, nothing terrible would happen were she to lose sight of Mrs. Ruskin. She would retrace her steps—except she had not been paying attention to anything but Mrs. Ruskin, and did not perfectly remember the route she had taken. Very well, she would ask directions to the Exchange, or to Government House, and however disappointed she would be at letting Mrs. Ruskin elude her, at least she would be safe.
Gradually, the edifices lining the street grew larger, their façades dressed stone rather than plaster, and more people thronged the streets. Lydia ignored their mingled emotions, a striking tangle of indifference, calm, excitement or keen intent, with a few notes of brown despondence. Mrs. Ruskin still did not turn around. Plate glass windows revealed shop merchandise, all of it displayed in such fashion as to indicate the objects were quite costly. A carriage rattled past, startling Lydia with its noise. She glanced at it, then back at Mrs. Ruskin, who at that moment rounded a corner. Lydia hurried after her.
When she reached the corner, Mrs. Ruskin had disappeared.
Lydia took a few more steps along the new street and surveyed her surroundings. Ahead, two elegantly-dressed women entered a shop, their emotions excited and slightly avaricious. The plate glass window next to the door revealed that the shop sold perfumes, combs, and other items with which ladies might adorn themselves. Mrs. Ruskin was nowhere in sight.
Lydia kept walking, looking in all directions for a glimpse of the cream and scarlet bonnet. The street was wide, big enough for two carriages to pass one another with plenty of room to spare. On the far side, more shops towered over the pavements. Mrs. Ruskin had not crossed the street; she could not have done so in the moment before Lydia rounded the corner after her, not without being still visible.
Frustrated, Lydia stopped near the door of the next shop, a watchmaker’s, and consulted her own watch. With a jolt of horror, she realized it had been nearly half an hour since Lady Craythorne had left her. It would appear Lydia had disappeared completely. She would have to hurry back the way she had come, and hope Lady Craythorne stayed at the Exchange rather than setting off in search of her.
She turned—and met the implacable gaze of Mrs. Ruskin.
Shock rooted her to the ground. Mrs. Ruskin’s emotions were as calm as if they were chance-met acquaintances. Her smile was so pleasant Lydia did not at first observe the small pistol she held, nearly concealed by the folds of her redingote, pointed directly at Lydia’s chest. “Miss Wescott,” she said. “What a surprise to find you here.”
Lydia swallowed. No words came to mind that were not inane. “I did not believe you saw me,” she finally said.
Mrs. Ruskin pursed her lips. “These plate glass windows are a marvel. They work as mirrors in the right light. I have been watching you follow me for some time, waiting for my moment—then I merely stepped inside that shop and let you pass. Simple, really. I wonder that the possibility did not occur to you.”
Lydia chose not to be drawn by this. “What now?” she said, hoping she appeared as calm as Mrs. Ruskin felt. “Will you shoot me here in the street?”
“Of course not.” Mrs. Ruskin looked Lydia up and down. “But I also cannot have you run to where you might warn someone of my presence. No, I think on the whole it is best you come with me.” She took a step forward and pressed the pistol into Lydia’s side. “Go on,” she added, indicating with a nod the direction that Lydia should walk.
Lydia did not move. “I will flee. You will have to shoot me to get me to go with you.”
“I will not shoot you,” Mrs. Ruskin said. “I will shoot…one of them.” She nodded at the passersby, the ignorant, oblivious passersby who saw nothing amiss with their little tableau. “That woman in the fur-trimmed pelisse, perhaps? Or the child walking with her? Which would you like your recalcitrance to condemn to injury or death?” She smiled, still so sweetly. “More likely death. I am a fair shot.”
“No,” Lydia said, then cursed herself for sounding so afraid. Mrs. Ruskin would use her fear against her. “No, I will go, but do not—”
“That direction,” Mrs. Ruskin said, sounding so satisfied Lydia wished she dared slap her. “Walk until I tell you to stop.”
Lydia walked. Her heart raced once more, this time with fear and apprehension she suppressed. She should not let fear rule her, not when she needed to remain clearheaded.
Ahead, the buildings loomed over the street, blocking the afternoon light so only their tops caught the sunshine diffused by the lowering clouds that promised rain. One building in particular caught Lydia’s eye; it was shorter than its neighbors, which still made it a good three stories tall, and very wide, with windows taller than Lydia and a great arched entrance flanked by rows of white pillars. The flat roof was ringed with odd crenellations better suited to a medieval castle. Carriages stopped in front of the building occasionally, and men in formal dress emerged from those carriages to enter through the arch.
When Lydia was nearly opposite the arch, a woman in the dark grey of the War Office’s Extraordinary Movers plummeted from the sky to land on the flat roof, disappearing behind the crenellations, and moments later a man dressed in a similar costume Flew away from the roof. Lydia held her breath. It had to be Government House. If she could distract Mrs. Ruskin, she might make her escape—and Mrs. Ruskin would shoot an innocent. Lydia knew enough of the woman to guess she would do this regardless of whether it brought Lydia back.
“Go inside here,” Mrs. Ruskin said. Lydia stopped. “Here” was a building opposite Government House, a mansion with ornately carved pilasters giving the appearance of columns holding up the triangular frieze above the double doors. Lydia opened the door, considered shutting it in Mrs. Ruskin’s face, was again aware of the pistol thrust into her side, and proceeded to enter the mansion.
The foyer beyond was brightly lit, brighter than the shadowed street outside. Lydia’s footsteps rang out on the white and black tile, echoed shortly by Mrs. Ruskin’s. Mrs. Ruskin shut the door with a slow, deliberate motion Lydia tried not to feel had sealed her doom. To distract herself, she examined her surroundings. The walls were paneled in dark wood against which the many lamps reflected like tiny suns. Doors to left and right, elaborately carved with fanciful scenes of tilled fields and cavorting lambs, stood slightly ajar, while a hall straight ahead led deeper into the house. Stairs carpeted in plush navy blue led up to a balcony surrounding the foyer on three sides. Lydia Discerned no one else present.
“Upstairs, all the way to the second floor,” Mrs. Ruskin said. She prodded Lydia in the back with the pistol. The small muzzle pressed into her like a knife point. Fear returned, this time fear for herself. She could run nowhere. She had no choice but to do as Mrs. Ruskin said or bleed to death on the white and black tile.
As slowly as she dared, she ascended the stairs, going rapidly over possibilities. She could not run past Mrs. Ruskin to the front door. She could not take the pistol from Mrs. Ruskin, who was larger and likely stronger than she. She might run ahead, but with no idea what or who waited above, that might only make her situation worse. She made herself breathe slowly and kept walking. She would see what Mrs. Ruskin had in mind, and formulate a plan then.
She expected the stairs to terminate on the first floor, at the balcony, and for Mrs. Ruskin to direct her to a second staircase, but at the first floor landing, more stairs immediately continued up. Still carpeted in dark blue, they smelled of fresh lacquer, Lydia guessed from the handrail, which felt slightly tacky. She saw only a glimpse of the first floor hallway, extending to the left of the stairs; unlike the foyer, no lights illuminated it past the landing, and Lydia saw only vague outlines of closed doors and darker patches that might be portraits on the walls. Then the stairwell closed in around her again.
The second floor was as dimly lit as the first, and Lydia left the stairs and stopped, unwilling to walk into darkness. The presence of two other people somewhere nearby increased her reluctance. Mrs. Ruskin’s gun pressed more firmly against her back, sending another thrill of fear through her. Then her captor took her arm and guided her forward, with the gun never wavering, to a door near the stairwell. “Open it,” she said. Lydia, hating herself for her complicity in her own abduction, did so.
The room beyond was bright by comparison, though after Lydia’s eyes adjusted to the difference, she realized it was because three large windows not obscured by drapes let in a pale grey pre-storm light. Cold air gusted against her body, and a second glance showed that the center window was open, letting in the smell of oncoming rain. Out the window, she saw the crenellated flat roof of Government House, and as she watched, another Extraordinary Mover plummeted to land somewhere among the chimneys that had not been visible from the street.
Two dark shapes were silhouetted against the window, and in the next moment, Lydia recognized Mr. Ruskin as the man on the right. The man on the left, short and burly with a heavy brow and thick waist, looked vaguely familiar. Lydia’s memory of the investiture ball suggested he had been one of Abel Suggitt’s companions, but she was not certain.
Mr. Ruskin stood upright from where he had been crouching. “What are you doing with her?” he exclaimed. “Are you mad?”
“She followed me home. May I keep her?” Mrs. Ruskin laughed, a merry sound that chilled Lydia in how it perfectly matched her cheerful emotions.
“Hannah,” Mr. Ruskin said, approaching Lydia the way he might an angry dog, “we are so close to success. Why did you not dispose of her?”
“I could not exactly shoot her on the street, my dear.” Mrs. Ruskin sounded shocked. “And I could not permit her to warn anyone in Government House of our presence. Nor can I shoot her now, unless you wish the noise to draw attention to this room?” She shook her head, apparently sorrowful, though her true emotions were nothing but pleasure. “Time enough to kill her once we have achieved our goal.”
Mr. Ruskin scowled. “Which may not be today. We have seen nothing of that traitor Monroe, nor any activity that might herald his arrival.”
Lydia looked past Mr. Ruskin at the second man, who had not moved. His attention was fixed on something outside the window. Lydia noted that the window had been shattered rather than opened and saw the rifle in the stranger’s hand, held where he might aim it in seconds. “You wish to kill the Viceroy,” she said. “That man intends to shoot him.”
“And now I cannot release you, not now you know our plan,” Mrs. Ruskin said merrily. “Oh, how silly of me. I never intended to release you. I should not have given you false hope.”
“I know what you intend,” Lydia said, her mouth dry. Strangely, Mrs. Ruskin’s cruel taunts helped her control her fears. There might be nothing she could do to prevent that little pistol from ending her life, and while she did not intend to lie down and make it easy for her captors, having accepted what might be her fate strengthened her.
She made herself attend to the emotions nearest her. Mrs. Ruskin’s cheerfulness did not matter, as the woman’s emotional state did not reflect her intentions. Mr. Ruskin’s anger was the sort that indicates one’s expectations are thwarted, anger and frustration and a little fear. Tense anticipation mingled with excitement characterized the stranger’s emotions. He, at least, had no worries connected to killing a man.
“Where are my manners? Miss Wescott, you should sit.” Mrs. Ruskin removed the gun from Lydia’s back and gestured with her other hand. Lydia was not stupid enough to believe that made her safe.
The room was scantly furnished with only a sofa, a matching armchair, and a sideboard whose lower doors did not close properly. Lydia took a seat on the sofa, and Mrs. Ruskin sat beside her, the terrible little pistol still pointed at her. Lydia clasped her hands in her lap and made herself breathe calmly.
“We know of this place,” she said in a conversational tone, and was pleased her voice did not shake. “Abel Suggitt told Lord Craythorne of your New York residence. It is only a matter of time before you are apprehended.”
“As if I am fool enough not to realize my residence in this city is compromised,” Mr. Ruskin said. “This house is merely convenient for what we intend.”
“You say you are no fool, and yet your plan is foolish,” Lydia retorted. “Killing the Viceroy will not give you American independence. It will simply mean the British government will never stop chasing you.”
“You know nothing,” Mr. Ruskin said, turning back to the window and flattening himself against the wall beside it so he could not be seen from the outside.
“We have plans,” Mrs. Ruskin added. “The Viceroy’s death will spark a revolution, here and throughout the colonies.”
“Say nothing more,” Mr. Ruskin said.
“I will be dead soon—can I not know the truth?” Lydia asked. “It is not as if you will permit me to run free where I might tell someone.”
“I believe that qualifies as a dying woman’s last request,” Mrs. Ruskin said with a laugh.
Mr. Ruskin shrugged. “Do as you wish, Hannah. It will be over soon in any case.”
Mrs. Ruskin lowered the pistol, but did not shift her finger from the trigger. “Once we kill the Viceroy,” she said in a low, confiding voice, “our allies among the Six Nations will join our people in attacking key places through out the colonies. The British Army is not at full strength here thanks to so much of their effort being spent in Europe, chasing the remains of the Grande Armée. They will fall to us easily. By the time they regroup, we will control the American government. And this time, the war will not go their way.”
“But the Haudenosaunee swore they did not attack before,” Lydia said, “and I know those so-called Iroquois warriors were Libertymen disguised as a feint.”
A flash of annoyance shot through both the Ruskins. “That fool Suggitt,” Mr. Ruskin said. “He should not have taken the initiative. That ruse nearly destroyed everything.”
“It is not as if he was in our counsel to know the actual plan,” Mrs. Ruskin said. “Though it is true he is a fool. I don’t suppose your Lord Craythorne had him killed?”
Lydia shook her head. “He will be tried and sentenced to transportation.”
Mrs. Ruskin shrugged. “I suppose that satisfies me. I always prefer that my enemies live to suffer, if that is possible —after all, death is over in an instant, is it not?” She waved the gun’s muzzle in a little circle, still aimed at Lydia. “How unfortunate you will not be in a position to tell me whether or not that is true.”
Lydia noticed that the stranger’s intensity of emotion had diminished slightly, suggesting he was listening to this conversation. That might mean he was inattentive to anyone arriving at or leaving Government House. “But I do not understand,” she said, making herself sound as young and naïve as she could, “why the Iroquois leaders denied their connection to the attack if they are on your side.”
“A miscommunication,” Mrs. Ruskin said airily. “Much like the one that led to your interment in that madhouse. James Parker believed you knew more than you did, and that you were about to reveal our identities to that hound of King George’s. Speaking of fools.” She did not say whether she meant her informant, or Lord Craythorne, was the fool, but Lydia guessed she meant both.
“How did James discover my talent?” she asked.
Mrs. Ruskin smiled, a reflective, thoughtful expression, and her control of her emotions slipped for the briefest moment. It was enough that Lydia had to suppress a gasp that would have given her new knowledge away. “James was a skilled sneak. He seduced your maid to gain her trust and thus her information about you, and he eavesdropped on your conversations. I wonder that you did not notice. You must not be as skilled with your talent as we were led to believe.”
Lydia moistened dry lips. She recalled, now, the time when she had accused Lord Craythorne of murdering his wife, how in her distraction she had not given heed to other emotions. Anyone might have lurked nearby and she would not have known. “James ‘was’ a skilled sneak?” she asked.
The smile broadened, and again Mrs. Ruskin’s memories made a crack in her emotions. “I have no use for those who fail me,” she said. “James was useful for a while. And then he was not. You cannot fault me for disposing of a broken tool, can you?”
Lydia drew in a deep breath. “No,” she said. “But I can despise you for so callously ridding yourself of your lover.”
Surprise shot through Mrs. Ruskin. Mr. Ruskin straightened, his confusion evident on his face as well as in his emotions. “What was that?” he said.
“A silly ruse,” Mrs. Ruskin said, sounding bored and indifferent though her heart raced. “She wishes to confuse us. Pay her no mind.”
The stranger’s emotions were a far more complex tangle, surprise and anger and, unexpectedly, jealousy. Lydia suppressed a smile and put on her most innocent expression. “An Extraordinary Discerner cannot be lied to, Mr. Ruskin, and Mrs. Ruskin’s emotions are very clear. She was intimate with James Parker.”
Mr. Ruskin took a few steps toward the sofa. “You lie.”
“She was the one who gave him his orders,” Lydia guessed, and saw by Mr. Ruskin’s face she had landed on the truth. “They were frequently in each other’s company. Mrs. Ruskin was the one who recruited him, wasn’t she? I am certain those meetings look very different to you now, sir.”
With his brow creased in agonized indecision, Mr. Ruskin turned his attention on his wife. “Hannah?”
“She lies, Adam.” Mrs. Ruskin still sounded unconcerned. “You know me better than anyone. Do you not believe you would have noticed if I were unfaithful?”
“I don’t—I cannot say,” Mr. Ruskin said.
Lydia assessed his tumultuous emotions and decided to press harder. “Mr. Ruskin, I regret that you had to learn of your wife’s infidelity this way. And you, Mr.—I beg your pardon, we have not been introduced.”
“Babbage,” the man said. He was breathing heavily, and his hand clenched the rifle so hard the tendons on his arms stood out like taut ropes.
“Mr. Babbage, I pity you, too. I imagine Mrs. Ruskin promised that she was yours alone, did she not? And that once Mr. Ruskin was gone, you could be together openly. How unfortunate that Mrs. Ruskin was so free with her favors.”
Babbage and Mr. Ruskin stared at one another. Mrs. Ruskin laughed. “Come, now, you see that she was almost successful,” she exclaimed, and raised her pistol. “I believe I will risk this shot alerting someone.”
“Hannah, look at me,” Mr. Ruskin said in a hoarse voice. “Look at me and swear it is a lie.”
Mrs. Ruskin lowered the pistol. “Of course it’s a lie,” she said. “I have always been faithful.”
“You treacherous whore,” Babbage snarled. He dropped the rifle and lunged for Mrs. Ruskin. Mr. Ruskin shoved him aside. Lydia leaned back, pressed herself against the arm of the sofa, and brought both legs around to kick Mrs. Ruskin in the chest.
The attack shoved Mrs. Ruskin out of Babbage’s reach. Lydia was already moving, wrestling with Mrs. Ruskin for the pistol. She was terrifyingly aware that while Mrs. Ruskin’s finger no longer rested on the trigger, it was far too close to it for Lydia’s comfort. Then Mr. Ruskin was dragging her away, and Babbage had both hands on Mrs. Ruskin’s arm, pushing her into the sofa cushions.
The sound of the pistol discharging shattered the air, echoing in the sparsely furnished room like a thunderclap. Babbage jerked and stumbled back. Then he let go of Mrs. Ruskin and collapsed, clutching his stomach. Terror and pain coursed through Lydia as if she had been the one shot. She was too overwhelmed to fight Mr. Ruskin when he gripped her more firmly and shook her the way a terrier does a rat.
Mrs. Ruskin swore viciously. “Damn him for a jealous fool,” she said. “Now one of us must do the deed.”
“You killed him,” Mr. Ruskin said, somewhat breathlessly, but his grip did not slacken, and Lydia, recovering herself, did not attempt to break free. “We needed him, and—how dare you play me false? How many men have there—”
Mrs. Ruskin was looking out the window and held up a hand to silence him. “This is not the time. The Viceroy is here. We can discuss that vixen’s lies later.” She swept up the rifle and examined it, then knelt at the window and brought its barrel to rest on the casement.
Lydia did not stop to ponder her options. At the moment, there seemed to be only one.
She stomped her heel hard on the toe of Mr. Ruskin’s stout boot. Her own boot was not as sturdy, but the attack startled him into loosening his hold. Twisting free in that instant, she swung her joined fists at his nose. Mr. Ruskin cried out and stepped back, clapping a hand to his face. Lydia raced toward Mrs. Ruskin, not slowing as she neared, and slammed into her, knocking her back.
The rifle went off nearly in Lydia’s face, deafening her. Mrs. Ruskin’s lips moved in silent invective, based on the fury raging through her. Lydia dropped, bearing Mrs. Ruskin down beneath her slight weight and slamming her head into the floorboards. She swiftly rolled to one side and got to her knees. Mrs. Ruskin lay unmoving before her.
Lydia crawled to the window and hauled herself up. Below, the street looked like a pot overflowing with boiling water, dozens of men and women rushing about in apparent panic. She was too far away to Discern their emotions, for which she would have been grateful had she not been so weary, empty of anything but dull relief.
A knot of people on the steps of Government House were the only still figures in the street. Lydia saw two men she recognized from the Viceroy’s palace, and then noted the Viceroy, standing tall and apparently calling for help. Everyone else surrounded a very still figure on the ground. Lydia’s heart constricted. Mrs. Ruskin’s shot had not killed the Viceroy, but someone else had not been so lucky—
The crowd shifted, revealing the fallen man. Lydia took in the familiar frock coat and boots, the curly hair, and the blood spreading across his chest. Mrs. Ruskin had shot Lord Craythorne.