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He drew rein outside the gates of the warehouse midway down the lane. A swift glance around confirmed the lane was deserted; all was still and as silent as the area ever was. Even better, fog was drifting up from the river; with any luck, it would soon blanket the area, providing an additional screen.
Reassured—indeed, heartened—he dismounted before the gates. The key slid into the hole in the padlock and turned smoothly; he was careful to catch both padlock and chain before they fell. After draping them on his saddle, he returned to the gates and pushed them wide, then he grabbed his horse’s reins and led the beast into the yard. The drays followed.
After tying his horse to a ring near the office door, he returned to the gates and glanced—again—up and down the street, but there was no one in sight.
The man smiled, tugged his hat more firmly over his brow, then turned and walked quietly to the locked warehouse doors.
The second key slid home. He turned it, and the padlock disengaged. The two drivers were already beside him. At his nod, they opened the doors, and he led them down the central aisle.
And there the barrels were, exactly as the guardsman had described.
All was progressing smoothly—perfectly. While he oversaw the barrels’ removal, he could, he felt, start composing his report to the old man.
* * *
Michael stared across the lane at the activity in the warehouse yard. His premonition had proved correct; he gave mental thanks he’d paid it due attention.
He’d now seen enough of registered carters’ carts, especially those of the gunpowder carters, to know that the two carts presently being loaded with the barrels of gunpowder weren’t of that type. The men who had driven the carts weren’t any of the carters they’d met, either. Who the drivers were was a mystery.
As for the man who had led the pair into the yard and into the warehouse, Michael was certain he wasn’t the missing foreman.
Aside from all else, he rode too well and walked with an arrogant assurance Michael recognized as inherent to the aristocracy. More, the man’s horse was of a quality impossible to imagine as coming from any jobbing stable, and even in the poor light, his boots marked their wearer as a gentleman of the upper echelons. A foreman’s annual wages wouldn’t be enough to buy those boots.
Michael hadn’t missed the implication of the man opening the gates and the warehouse with keys—presumably the missing foreman’s keys—either; that he was watching one of the principal villains seemed certain.
That realization made it harder to resist the impulse to take advantage of those moments when all three men were in the warehouse to slip through the shadows and get closer—close enough to get at least a glimpse of the leader’s face.
With every barrel brought out and loaded onto the carts, that impulse grew more insistent. More urgent.
From across the lane, the man’s face was too shadowed by the low brim of his hat for Michael to have any hope of recognizing him.
Among his peers, both family and friends, Michael’s nickname was “the huntsman,” a moniker earned not just because of his almost uncanny ability to stalk game over hills and moors but also because of his exploits in the ton with a different sort of quarry. The impulse to hunt the villain he could see before him was well-nigh overwhelming, but…Drake’s directive rang in his mind.
If the villain or his men caught the slightest glimpse of Michael, he—his type—would be as instantly recognizable to them as the social status of the leader was to him. They wouldn’t allow him to slip back into the shadows, and in the resulting melee, if Michael failed to hold the leader—perfectly possible given it would be three to one for too long—the entire plot might go to ground. Drake and the rest of them would lose the trail and never know when or where it might surface again—and there was no saying that the ten barrels being loaded into the carts were the only explosives the villains had at their disposal.
The perpetrators, all of them, had to be caught—now, in the next days, before the plot came to fruition.
No one would thank him for any overeager misstep now—not when they’d finally sighted the bastards.
Holding his position and contenting himself with what little he could see from across the street required the exercise of significant will, but Michael grimly clung to the concealing shadows and watched.
And waited.
* * *
On hearing the muted thuds of horses’ hooves approaching, Cleo had taken advantage of a swirl of fog to slip across the lane, trusting the wafting cloud to hide her from Tom’s sharp eyes, and had squeezed into a tiny space between two buildings. Her hidey hole—it was no more than that—was on the same side of the lane as Shepherd’s warehouse and closer to Tooley Street, out of Michael’s view; he would have to step out of the recessed doorway to look in her direction.
She’d left her carriage, along with her coachman and groom, in a street off Tooley Street; they’d approached the area from the south, outside the cordon of Michael’s watchers. She’d walked onto Tooley Street almost opposite the mouth of Morgan’s Lane and had spotted Tom tucked beneath an overhang. She’d turned and walked the other way. Pulling her cloak tight about her, she’d walked purposefully across Tooley Street and then along it, crossing the mouth of Morgan’s Lane to turn down the next lane to the west. Grateful for the rising fog and the lateness of the hour, she’d picked her way through the shadows and had eventually reached the open area by the river at the end of Morgan’s Lane.
From there, ignoring Michael’s men who she assumed would be watching, she’d more overtly assumed her guise of a lady of the night and had sauntered up Morgan’s Lane. She’d wanted to confirm that Michael was, once again, watching from the recessed doorway; just the barest glance into the shadows there and she’d seen his darker figure in the gloom. She’d walked on without pause; when he hadn’t stormed out and seized her, she’d breathed easier, had smiled a small smile, and more confident in her disguise, had loitered in the mouth of the narrow alley beside the first warehouse they’d visited, until she’d heard the approaching hoofbeats, and the fog had given her the opportunity to slip across the lane.
Surreptitiously, she’d watched a rider, followed by two drays, clop past. She’d cautiously peeked along the lane and watched as, with his hat pulled low, shielding his face, the rider had opened the gates of Shepherd’s warehouse with keys. He’d gone into the yard, and the drays had rumbled in after him.
She’d waited, then had held her breath when the rider returned to the gates and looked up and down the lane, but he hadn’t spotted her.
After he’d retreated, she’d waited a full minute before stepping out of her refuge. With her eyes trained on the open gates, she’d hugged the front of the buildings, edged as near as she’d dared, then paused to review the situation.
She could hear soft grunts and the clink of shifting harness as, presumably, the men heaved the barrels onto the drays. From where she stood, courtesy of the paling fence, she couldn’t see into the yard; she would have to walk right up to the gates to get a clear view. Michael, on the other hand, would be able to see what was going on before the warehouse doors, but from across the lane, with the rider wearing his hat pulled so low, Michael would have no chance of getting a decent look at the villain’s face.
She, on the other hand, might.
She hadn’t joined Michael in the shadowed alcove for precisely this reason; he would never have allowed her to get closer to the men—close enough to the rider to see his face.
And Michael couldn’t risk being seen himself; no matter how he was dressed, one look at him and all three men would know they were in trouble, and there was no saying what might happen then.
It was the rider they needed to know more about; he wasn’t a local, nor was he a carter or anyone like that. She felt sure he was a gentleman, and given he’d had the keys, which she assumed he must have taken from the presumably dead foreman, then for her money, the rider was likely to be one of the principal villai
ns. One of the killers behind the plot.
She wasn’t reckless; she’d taken precautions. Yet now the moment for action had come, she was conscious of the hollowness of fear, a cold, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. But she’d wanted adventure and now wanted even more to help bring the villains down; this was her chance.
She stepped away from the wall, rearranged the fall of her cloak so the front of her was exposed, then she squared her shoulders and started walking toward the open gates.
Her office was in the City; while traveling there and back from Mayfair, she saw ladies of the streets promenading on a daily basis. She mimicked their way of moving, the insolent sway of their hips and their almost languid saunter; she’d always been excellent at charades.
By the time she reached the open gates, she was deeply immersed in her role.
She paused in the opening, to one side, and waited.
The two drivers were carefully settling a barrel on the back of one dray; they glanced at her, but thereafter ignored her. Three of the barrels on the dray had their brands turned her way; she recognized the shape of the Irish mill’s stamp. The men were, indeed, taking the barrels brought up from Kent.
As the pair turned back to the open warehouse doors, the rider emerged from the dimness. “Make sure every barrel is secure—we don’t want any unnecessary accidents.”
Swiftly, Cleo scanned the man’s face—what she could see of it below the shadow cast by his hat’s brim; his accents confirmed that he was well born.
“Don’t worry,” one of the drivers replied. “We’ve roped them in, and they’re heavy. They ain’t going to shift about.”
The rider nodded, then he saw Cleo—or rather, her alter ego.
She immediately tipped up her chin and shifted her shoulders back and forth, then she raised one hand to her hip and tilted her head in invitation, as she’d seen the ladies of the streets do, posing their age-old question.
The rider’s gaze raked her. For an instant, he seemed to actually consider…then, curtly, he shook his head.
Cleo’s lungs had seized; she tentatively eased in a breath, then shrugged lightly. Resuming her hippy saunter, she walked on down the lane.
* * *
The rider watched the woman walk off. He hadn’t noticed any whores plying their trade nearby, but then, he hadn’t been looking.
That said, the woman had seemed unusually appealing, with a glow still in her cheeks. Perhaps she was a high-class ladybird making her way home.
He humphed and turned to the drays. If his current job hadn’t been so important, he might have been tempted.
Perhaps later…if not her, then some other appealing wanton. He knew of a few who would be happy to accommodate him, and he wouldn’t even have to pay.
The first dray was fully loaded with its five barrels. He tested the lashings, found them secure, then returned to the warehouse to supervise the removal of the rest of the load.
* * *
Cleo kept to her lazy, lady-of-the-night stroll. Her heart was thudding—pounding—and her nerves were taut as bowstrings as she waited to see if the rider came after her.
But no sound of footsteps trailed her.
She drew in a deeper, still-shaky breath.
She hadn’t seen all of the rider’s face, but the moonlight had illuminated his chin—and the fine scar that ran from one corner of his lips, angling back to the point of his jaw.
She would know him when she saw him again.
Albeit muted by the prevailing danger, triumph welled; she’d achieved that much.
Distinctly pleased with herself, she glanced toward where she knew Michael would be watching and smiled.
Then she drew level with the tiny ginnel she’d spotted earlier and marked as a possible place to hide. She glanced back at the still-open gates, but no one had yet emerged.
Swiftly, she pulled close her skirts and cloak and stepped into the ginnel. She had to wriggle to fit, then she reached back and tugged the cloak’s hood further forward, so if she ducked her head, her face would be hidden.
Then she settled to wait. The rider and the drays would come out into the lane and trundle up it—away from her position—to Tooley Street, where Michael’s men were waiting to follow them. Once the rider and drays turned into Tooley Street, Michael would emerge, intent on following them as well, and she would go out and join him.
All perfectly safe. She—and he—just had to wait.
* * *
Michael gawped; he couldn’t seem to get his mouth to shut as he stared across the lane.
He’d half expected Cleo to turn up—dressed as a lad.
It had never occurred to him—never would have—that she might saunter into the heart of the action in the guise of a whore.
A whore! Good Lord! Even his mental voice was weak with shock.
He could barely believe that she’d walked right past him—within arm’s reach—and he hadn’t known it was her. Until she’d looked his way—looked directly across the lane to where he stood hidden—and smiled, he hadn’t recognized her.
Some small part of his brain pointed out admiringly just what a feat that was—what a testimony to her histrionic skills. She’d fooled him, his senses, at every level; at no point—not until that swift smile—had she dropped the mask she’d chosen for the night.
Sadly, that small center of appreciative calm was submerged beneath a raging tide of clamoring emotions, powerful and roiling and battering his mind to the point he could no longer think.
He could barely breathe.
Finally, he snapped his mouth shut; his lips settling into a grim line, he forced air into his lungs and exhaled—then did it again.
He had to regain control of his wits; this was too important to cock up, and with Cleo’s arrival, the importance quotient had escalated to infinity.
Yet his protective instincts were on a rampage; did she have any idea what might have befallen her in this area, dressed like that? If he could have reached her, he would have shaken her. What if that damned villain had fancied her and tried…? He—Michael—would have stormed across the lane and blown their surveillance to kingdom come.
His fists clenching, he dragged in another breath and fought to steady his whirling head, to cool his overheated emotions.
He had to refocus. Now. Before anything further occurred.
By angling his head, he could see Cleo’s position, although he couldn’t any longer see her. But from the way she’d backed into the tight spot, he assumed she was still there, facing the lane and waiting for the rider and carts to move out.
She was safe enough for the moment. And from that smile she’d sent winging his way, he assumed she’d seen something potentially useful about the rider or the carts.
His overwhelming fear for her receded somewhat, and his mind calmed.
He shifted his gaze to the warehouse. The doors were still open. The drivers were busy lashing barrels on the second cart. Michael swiftly counted; all ten barrels were now loaded, five on each cart with their weight distributed as evenly as possible. Although the two carts were sturdy, they didn’t have the extra supports built into the gunpowder carters’ carts.
Then the rider emerged from the warehouse. He glanced at the carts, then turned and closed and locked the doors.
Rapidly, Michael reviewed his options. Seizing the barrels wouldn’t be good enough; they had to learn who was behind this before more people wound up dead and the plotters succeeded in advancing their plans all the way to attacking their target.
He understood the reason for Drake’s directive, but with his protective instincts in full flight, offended to their core, it was damned hard to rein them in enough to clear his mind and assess where they—he, Cleo, and the mission—now stood.
This, a small voice whispered in his mind, was what his father had meant. “…on some occasions, in some circumstances, our role becomes a matter of simply doing the best you can, coping in whatever way you can, protecting her however you
can—meeting the challenge as well as you can…”
And then the part that had truly hit home. “You have to allow her the freedom to choose and act on her choice, because ultimately, you want her to choose you and to act on that choice.”
He had to make the right decision—for the mission, for her, for himself.
According to his father’s wisdom, he needed to follow his preordained plan, hold his position, and allow Cleo to contribute as she would.
He could protect her. He couldn’t block her.
Across the lane, the rider had fetched his horse, and the drivers had scrambled up to their benches.
The rider said something, and as the drivers picked up their reins, the rider waved them to precede him out of the warehouse gates.
Michael set his jaw, watched, and waited.
And told his still-pacing protective self that the carts would soon rattle away up the lane, and the rider would follow, and Cleo would remain safe in concealment until rider and carts had vanished.
On that score at least, the worst was over. Once the rider had gone, she would be safe.
* * *
The drays lumbered out of the warehouse gates and turned north, toward the river.
The drivers held their horses to a slow plod, no doubt hyperaware of the weight of the barrels at their backs.
The man watched the drays set off, then drew the gates closed and locked them. Through the fog, he heard the city’s bells toll midnight—plenty of time in hand for his four helpers to accomplish the rest of the night’s work. He tucked the keys into his breeches pocket, then mounted and nudged his horse in the drays’ wake.
Within a few paces, he had to rein in to a plodding amble at the rear of the second dray. Then he and the second dray came to a halt as they waited for the first dray to carefully negotiate the tight turn to the right, into the even narrower lane that led to the northern end of Black Lion Court.