| |
Kensworth led them on a zigzag path through what once had been the front of the building. Amelia clung to James’s neck, her face nestled against his shoulder. He smelled like a chimney, and soot and dirt covered the upper half of his face, but she didn’t care. She’d never felt safer in her life.
He set her down near the edge of the clearing. David looked as if he were hugging a tree, only his hands were tied.
James knelt beside her, replacing his spectacles as he asked, “Are you certain you are well?”
“Amelia, I’m sorry!” David’s voice quavered as he called to her. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Shut your mouth!” Kensworth spat in disgust. Amelia had never seen him so angry. “Not only did you destroy my property, you didn’t check to make certain it was clear—and you could have set this whole forest ablaze.”
“You were going to tear it down anyway,” David mumbled.
James kept his eyes on Amelia, obviously waiting for an answer.
She stared at her torn velvet skirt before saying, “I’m all right. When I saw David toss the tinder down, I ran toward that back staircase. I managed to get the door shut, but I tripped going up the stairs.” Finally, she looked up at him, confused. “How did you come to be here? I overheard David and I sent the groom off with a note for you—in London.”
“I’ve been in Hertfordshire since this morning. I followed David.”
“Of course,” she said with a tiny smile. Of course he’d be where he needed to be.
Kensworth crouched down beside her, too, his green eyes searching her face. “Are you certain you aren’t hurt?”
“Just a few bruises. Don’t worry.” She patted his hand.
“What did you overhear?” he asked, his voice more serious than solicitous now. “What did David say?”
“Oh, Stephen...” Her eyes watered. How could she tell him what his brother planned?
James spared her the task, which shouldn’t have surprised her, but his consideration made her skin tingle nonetheless. “As I told you,” he said to Kensworth, “David and his friends intended to assassinate the prime minister tonight at Covent Garden.” Then he looked askance at David. “Gunpowder? Were you truly going to blow up the entire theatre? All those innocent people?”
“Of course not!” David scoffed, twisting his wrists against the rope.
“Then, what?” Kensworth demanded, rising and striding menacingly toward his brother. “What did you plan to do?”
David lifted his chin and settled his lips into a firm line.
“Bates!” Amelia popped up onto her knees. “James, he and some Stickney fellow already left for London. With a wagonload of wooden boxes.”
“Filled with gunpowder, no doubt,” James surmised. “What bloody fools.”
Despite his brother’s arms being secured around a tree trunk, Kensworth grasped David by the shirt, forcing his torso to twist at an odd angle. “What did you mean to do?”
David stared defiantly back. “We are working for reform, like you. We mean to snare the government’s attention. We mean to destroy the Tory oppressors and replace them with reform-minded Whigs.”
Kensworth loosened his grip and stepped back, his jaw slack and his eyes wide. David was young and foolish, but Amelia too was astonished at how horribly misplaced his passion was.
“Yes, I’m working for reform,” Kensworth said, his jaw tight with anger. “But I haven’t plotted to kill anyone.”
“We are doing what needs to be done. Your way of reform will take years.” David’s eyes slid to James. “He’s the one you should be angry with. A spy lurking in your own home. He’s probably already reported your activities to the Home Office.”
Amelia moved to stand up, to make an objection, but James put a restraining hand on her arm. Before she could protest, Kensworth distracted them all by driving his fist into David’s jaw. The force of the blow bounced the younger Caldwell’s head off the tree.
“However dishonest he’s been, at least he hasn’t committed treason and plotted to kill someone!” Kensworth made as if to go after David again, but James leapt up and stepped in front of him, pushing against Kensworth’s chest.
Amelia stifled a noble urge to defend James’s actions of the last few weeks, knowing that in David’s case her defense would fall on deaf ears, and in Kensworth’s case, other matters were more important at the moment. There would be time to mend the rift between James and Stephen later.
James herded Kensworth back a few feet. “I know he’s a fool and his actions are deplorable, but he’s still your brother.”
Kensworth shook off James’s hands and kicked the dirt. “He’s ruined our family.”
That was the heart of the matter. Kensworth had done all he could to lift the family up from its reduced and demeaning circumstances, and David had thrown it all away. Amelia ached for him.
“I would be a hero if he hadn’t been such a traitorous friend,” David exclaimed, though his voice had lost much bravado.
James turned, stalking over until he stood mere inches from David’s bleeding face. “Do you even understand what you were about to do? Assassinating a government official is not an abstract idea. You planned to take the life of Lord Liverpool.”
Amelia couldn’t keep silent; they were all ignoring one vital fact. “Bates and Stickney are still on their way to London.”
James swiped a hand across his forehead, smearing the soot. “The prime minister is safe. When I realized what David was up to, I sent my liaison to Sidmouth with a message. The Home Secretary will not allow Liverpool to go anywhere near Covent Garden this evening.” He stepped back and glanced around. “However, I do not like the idea of Bates and Stickney in London with a wagon full of gunpowder. They won’t be able to travel quickly for safety reasons. After I turn David over to the magistrate, I’ll head for Town.”
Kensworth nodded. Turning to David, he said, “But before you do, you will tell us what the plan was. What are Bates and Stickney supposed to do?”
All the fire and passion leeched out of David’s face. He looked young and completely unprepared for the consequences of his actions. “Load the boxes onto the carriages while the play is in progress. Light a fuse when the time is right.”
James uttered a succinct curse.
Kensworth stared at his brother, who would not look him in the eye.
“You said ‘carriages.’ More than one.” James advanced on David again. “How many?”
David focused on the roots at the base of the tree. “Two. Sidmouth’s as well.”
James stared at him until he looked up and then asked in a low voice, “What of their families?”
Kensworth cursed. David let his forehead fall against the bark.
Amelia felt sick.
James cleared his throat. “Amelia, will you remain with Kensworth?”
Leave it to James to be mindful of Stephen’s need for a friend right now.
“Certainly.”
James untied David from the tree, let the younger, subdued man mount his stallion and then retied his hands. Finally, he fastened a lead from another length of rope and led the beast over to Kensworth. “I apologize for deceiving you. I will be called to testify to the facts of David’s plot, but I will be certain to say what I can as to his character as well.”
Had she really walked away from this man? Amelia swallowed thickly. James thought Kensworth would blame him for this debacle, thought he’d lost a friend, but at least he had the integrity to do what small measure he could for Kensworth’s sake.
She looked to see if Kensworth would accept James’s apology. Stephen’s hardened, malignant gaze didn’t waver. He said nothing.
James stalked off, leading the stallion carrying David, and Amelia watched him go, so handsome even covered in dirt and blood, so...upright in an unconventional way. It took a strong force of will not to follow him. For now, he must complete his mission. But should she try to talk sense into her ex-fiancé?
“Stephen...”
He turned and surveyed the smoldering ruins behind them. “I need to get some men out here to extinguish the fire and...”
Now was not the time to talk. She squeezed his arm and said, “Do what you need to do, and know I will always be your friend. So will James, if you can ever forgive him.”
Stephen nodded, as if she were speaking a foreign language and he only understood part of what she had said. Then he clasped her hand decorously. She, however, wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. After a short hesitation, he returned the gesture.
As she walked to her mare, she spared a glance after David and felt her heartstrings tug slightly. His perfidious folly had cost him so much: his family, his country, possibly even his life. By comparison, her foolishness was minor...and yet it had almost cost her, too. Her chance at love.
James had been right. She was always asking him to be something he wasn’t because it fit her ideal view of love and romance when, all along, he was an honorable, steadfast man who needed no improving. He loved her. That was something to be treasured, not to be tossed aside, though God knew she’d tried.
***
AFTER A DETOUR TO LEAVE David with the local magistrate, James raced toward London, tormented by regret and guilt. He hoped David felt the same; remorse was his best chance for a commuted sentence. How he wished he could expunge David’s activities of the last three weeks, wished he could go back to the beginning and talk David out of this rash plan. If he’d only uncovered it sooner.
James rode the bay as hard as he dared as daylight waned, not intending to change mounts. The sun sank lower and lower, and a frosty bite crept into the air. He was glad for it. The colder air soothed the ached in his head that wouldn’t go away. He could focus on how uncomfortable he was rather than on the situation with Amelia. Once or twice, he thought he’d seen a look in her eyes, a softness, when she’d glanced his way. However, she’d said nothing to indicate her feelings had changed, hadn’t spoken up in his defense as he’d imagined she might.
At last, he arrived in London. The sun still hovered above the buildings. He found a stable to take charge of the bay and walked toward the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden.
A sizable crowd milled around. The orchestra was probably already playing, entertaining those who arrived early. James positioned himself on the corner of Bow and Hart Streets, near Broad Court where many coachmen chose to wait with their carriages, where he’d seen David the other night. From this vantage point he could also see the entrance to the theatre.
Usually, he loved this part of a mission. Waiting, cataloguing the diverse natures of people, anticipating the action to come. But the end of this mission was anticlimactic. All he had to do was head off Bates and Stickney and hand them over to the Bow Street magistrate.
Sidmouth, at least, would be pleased with the outcome of this mission. He’d have another inciting incident to use as kindling for his political fire. James couldn’t wait to leave the intelligence service and take up the cause on the other side.
If he could get elected, he would work for reform. He would drown himself in speeches, bills, and debates. There would be no time to think about one Lady Amelia Colvin.
A steady stream of carriages began arriving in front of the theatre, disgorging the cream of Society, and James straightened as two rolled to a stop in front of the theatre’s white portico. It couldn’t be. He adjusted his spectacles, but the image didn’t change. Liverpool stepped out of his crested vehicle and extended a hand to his wife. Sidmouth did the same, only the lady on his arm was his daughter, and the foursome walked into the theatre together.
Watson.
The man hadn’t delivered James’s message. That had to be the case. It was possible Sidmouth had decided to ignore the message, but doubtful; he feared any violent act would lead the country into full chaos. Why would he take the chance? No, Watson must not have told Sidmouth of the conspirators’ plan to attack tonight.
James prowled up and down the street, thinking back over the last few days. The raid on the Hampden Club had been another inexplicable incident. What if Watson hadn’t reported James’s attendance at that meeting? That might explain why Sidmouth had ordered the raid.
Damn Harry Watson. What was he up to? However, the man’s perfidy shouldn’t prevent James from stopping Bates and Stickney. The prime minister and Sidmouth were safe inside the theatre. If James attempted to get them to leave, he might miss Bates and Stickney, and God knew what kind of havoc those two might cause. So, he followed the carriages into Broad Court, where they pulled up along the south side near a young lad selling chestnuts.
David’s cronies should arrive at any time. James roved the length of the mews, looking for any sign of them. Unlike on the main street, there were no gaslights here. Darkness shadowed everything—the quietly nickering horses, the creaking carriages, the groups of coachmen huddled together chattering. The only sources of light were the chestnut-seller’s small fire and the lamps hung on the outside of the coaches.
He didn’t catch sight of his quarry until he returned to the other end of the lane. Their wagon, loaded down with its perilous cargo, came to a halt behind Liverpool’s carriage.
After the two men jumped down, James slipped up beside Bates, grabbed his arm and shoved a pistol into his ribs. “Move quietly and tell Stickney to follow us.”
The two of them stepped away from the wagon and the carriages. Bates began to shake, but James gripped his arm more tightly. Finally, the corporal found the courage to say, “Stickney, here!”
Stickney loped over. He broke into an easy smile when he saw James. “Mr. Donner, good evenin’. Did Caldwell send you to help us?”
Bates was shaking his head violently, but Stickney took no notice until James, with a slight movement, showed him the gun.
“I’m here to stop you from implementing David’s deadly plot.”
Stickney’s easygoing manner disappeared, replaced in an instant by one of burgeoning dread. “We aren’t... We haven’t...”
“David has already been arrested,” James said, knowing those words would sap what courage remained in the criminal pair’s veins.
“Oh, gawd.” Bates’s legs went out from under him.
James tried to hoist him up, but a pair of distinguished men striding urgently into Broad Court caught his eye. Liverpool and Sidmouth. What in creation?
Momentarily surprised, James let Bates slip out of his grasp. The corporal hit the ground like a sack of flour.
James aimed the pistol at Stickney and growled, “Don’t move.”
Sidmouth and Liverpool neared their carriages. Everything would be fine if they simply left. The gunpowder was still stashed in the wagon.
A shot rang out. Stickney grabbed his chest, crumpling to the ground beside the limp Bates.
Chaos reigned, with men shouting, ducking and scattering, but James held still and scrutinized the area, looking for the shooter.
There.
Harry Watson stood across the way, calmly raising a second pistol.
James dipped behind Liverpool’s carriage before the second shot exploded from the pistol. The ball shattered the carriage lamp, sending shards of glass hurtling through the air.
The horses hitched to Bates’s wagon bucked violently and tried to dash away, but there was nowhere to go. The front wheel caught on the rear wheel of Liverpool’s coach. The wagon tipped, hung in the balance...
James lunged forward instinctively, as if he could right it, but the wagon crashed to the ground. The horses flailed. Gunpowder cascaded out of some of the wooden boxes. Straight into the chestnut-seller’s fire.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The frightened whinnies of the horses pulled at his conscience, but James knew what he must do. As the fire spread, the boxes on the wagon would blow up one after the other in deadlier succession.
He scrambled around the front of Liverpool’s carriage and caught Sidmouth trying to climb up into it. “No!” He yanked the older man back. “Run! Back toward Bow Street.”
Sidmouth hesitated, his gaze narrowed. The prime minister, already in the carriage, stared out at them, his eyes glazed with shock.
Then one of the boxes exploded. Pieces of wood rained across the carriage like arrows from a troop of archers, and James grabbed Liverpool by the arm and pulled. “This way, sir!”
Sidmouth ran as another box burst. A stingingly sharp projectile stung James’s temple. He pushed Liverpool ahead of him, and they both ran.
Around the corner, protected by a building, James asked, “Are you all right, sir?”
“Y-yes. I—”
James whirled and took off, leaving the prime minister and a stunned Sidmouth together.
The fire blasted the gunpowder-laced boxes about every thirty seconds. Bates had been alive; Stickney probably not. But there might be others.
James turned back down Broad Court. Many of the coachmen had fled on foot; others were desperately trying to unhitch their horses and escape toward the far end of the lane. Flames turned the smoke-filled air orange. James covered his head with his arms as another box went off. The deafening explosions muted the sounds of screaming men and shrieking horses.
Plunging into the madness, James darted toward the spot where he’d left Bates and stumbled upon the lad who’d been selling chestnuts. The boy was bloody and burned but alive, so James scooped him up and ran out of the lane, handing him off to a watchman who’d approached the scene.
Then he went back once again. He shrank away from another blast, ignoring the fragments of wood that assaulted him, and after a moment he looked up again and saw Bates still lying on the pavement. James reached for his arm, intent on dragging him out, when a series of detonations sent him flying off the ground.
He crashed back to earth and plummeted into darkness.