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Her gaze locked on his face, she paused to draw breath, the lace of her jabot rising portentously; even before she spoke, he knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
“In return for my help, I want to be included in this action, through all of it from now until the end—and as an equal partner.”
“What?” He gripped the wooden arms of the chair in an effort to remain seated and not leap to his feet.
With unshaken calm, she held up a staying hand. “Before you say anything, hear me out. My family thrives on adventure, but as the only girl, I have, thus far, been denied my…chance.”
Panic trailed icy fingertips down his spine. He knew far too many ladies like her—ladies with a liking for intrigues and adventures, murder and violence notwithstanding, but…not on his watch. Although he could empathize, she would have to find some other adventure to slake her need. He cast about for an argument—any argument. “Managing this office—this company—isn’t enough for you?” Even to his ears, his tone sounded faintly desperate.
“I thought it would be, but I was wrong.” Her greeny-gold gaze captured his eyes, and her sincerity commanded his awareness. “When you walked through my door, I was sitting here racking my brains over how to uncover some intriguing, potentially exciting adventure in which to embroil myself. You, my dear Michael, walked in with my ticket to that adventure—and I’ve decided to take it.”
He set his jaw. “No. I am not including you in this mission.” When her chin only set more definitely—more stubbornly—he continued, “Two men and one woman—two gentlemen and a lady—have already been killed, and that was just getting the gunpowder onto the carts.” He lowered his voice to a harsher register. “You cannot expect me to allow you to involve yourself in this.”
She held his gaze steadily, levelly, then said, “Who said anything about being allowed? You are not my keeper.”
Inflexible will met immovable object; he was determined to be immovable.
She seemed to read as much in his face, but to his disquiet, her confidence didn’t falter. Then her lips lightly curved. “Now I know you’re hunting these barrels, what’s to stop me going out and finding the drivers involved—which, I assure you, I can do—and pursuing those barrels myself?” She tipped her head slightly; the pencil she’d stuck in her hair slipped, but didn’t fall. “And of course, it’s easy to understand why you—and through you, Winchelsea—want to lay your hands on more than a thousand pounds of gunpowder hidden somewhere in London as soon as you possibly can.”
He wasn’t going to be so easily manipulated. “Someone else must know how to find those drivers—you can’t be the only one in London with that knowledge.”
She inclined her head, but that irritatingly knowing smile of hers didn’t wane. “That’s certainly true.” Her eyes locked with his. “But how many days are you willing to waste searching for that someone when you’ve already found me?”
He refused to give in. He held his ground.
Her expression hardened. “No, I am not going to change my mind and meekly tell you what you wish to know.” Temper laced her tone. “You’ve heard my price—I’m afraid it’s a case of take it or leave it, my lord.”
Obviously, she was a lot more accustomed to driving hard bargains than he. He needed to find those drivers and, through them, the gunpowder. No matter how much it went against his grain, he was going to have to bend on this… He caught her gaze again. “You definitely know how to locate the drivers involved?”
She nodded decisively.
When he continued to fight his inner battle, as if she could see or sense it, her eyes on his, she again tipped her head—loosening that wretched pencil further, but it still didn’t fall.
“Let me see if I can make this easier,” she said. “If I locate the drivers involved, then you will accept me as an equal partner in this endeavor—this mission—and will share all relevant information with me, both relating to the history of the mission and, going forward, as matters unfurl.”
That sounded like a contract—a binding agreement. Given her background, he probably shouldn’t be surprised. However…she hadn’t said anything about participating in any action, about being necessarily included in any action, but was only insisting on being kept informed of all developments.
If he had to agree to some degree of sharing in order to get her help, then that was an agreement he could accept.
“Done.” He sat up and, over the desk, held out his hand to seal the deal.
She smiled in triumphant delight, reached out, and placed her fingers in his.
He gripped her hand—felt the silk-softness of her skin, the fragility of her fine bones—shook, and pretended not to notice the sharp catch in her breathing, the widening of her green-gold eyes, or the sudden tinge of color that rose to her cheeks. His own reaction to such signs was entirely familiar and, given his experience, easy enough to ignore.
The instant he eased his grip, she pulled her fingers free.
“Right, then.” She looked down and bent to rummage in a drawer. Then she shut the drawer and straightened, a leather reticule and a pair of matching gloves in her hands. She plunked both items on the desk. “As time is of the essence, I suggest we go.”
He came to his feet as she pushed back her chair and rose. “Go where?”
She glanced briefly at him, then away. “You’ll see.” With brisk movements, she pulled on her gloves.
He kept his expression studiously impassive, but inside, he was smiling like the hunter he truly was. Well, well—who would have thought that the feisty Miss Hendon was every bit as aware of him as he was of her?
If, later, he had any trouble keeping her out of situations in which she had no business being…in light of that unexpected susceptibility, he, better than most, knew just how to convince her to run home.
She picked up her reticule and came around the desk, clearly intending to lead the way.
She was taller than he’d expected—a touch over medium height—making her a pocket Venus as to curves, but with longer legs. Her height also brought her topknot level with his eyes.
As she swept past him, he held up a hand. “One moment.”
She halted and regarded him through wide eyes. “What?”
The word was a touch breathless.
He smiled, strolled closer, and raised his hand. Slowly. He watched her eyes follow his fingers as he reached…for the pencil she’d anchored in her hair. He grasped it, drew it free, and presented it to her. “That seemed a rather strange ornament.”
She uttered a sound between a laugh and a snort, took the pencil, swung back, and tossed it onto her desk. “Thank you.” Briefly, she met his eyes, then she turned and swept to the door. “Come on.”
He followed her out of the office and down the corridor to the clerks’ domain just inside the reception area.
“Fitch, I’ll be out for the rest of the day.” She paused, then resumed her march toward the door. “Indeed, I may not look in for several days. If you have any questions, send a message to Clarges Street, and I’ll come in.”
“Of course, miss.” The head clerk glanced at Michael with something akin to surprise. “Er…enjoy yourself, miss.”
His office manager was already at the door.
Michael caught up with her and reached over her shoulder to hold the heavy panel open, so he heard her murmur, “As to that, Fitch, we’ll see.”
Chapter 3
On the pavement outside the office, he asked, “Do we need a hackney?”
“Yes.” As he turned away to summon one, she added, “Tell him to take us to Falcon Street, near where it runs into Aldersgate.”
He had no idea what lay in that location.
A hackney pulled up. He opened the door, but before he could help her up, she grabbed her skirts in both hands and climbed in, in the process affording him a glimpse of nicely turned ankles encased in fine white stockings. Only once she’d let her skirts fall did he manage to haul his gaze up t
o the jarvey and relay the directions. Then he joined her in the carriage, settling alongside her as the hackney rattled off.
He opened his mouth to inquire as to their actual destination, but she beat him to speech.
“If this is one of Winchelsea’s missions, and you’re chasing these barrels, what’s he doing?”
He glanced sidelong at her.
She turned her head, trapped his gaze, and arched one fine brow, pointedly if wordlessly reminding him of the agreement they’d so recently made. She hadn’t yet located the drivers, but…
He swallowed a grunt and looked ahead. “Drake had to go north. There are political ramifications…in short, he—we—believe that someone is trying to paint the Chartists as being responsible, even though they know nothing about the plot—or so we think. Drake left for Leeds this morning to speak to the Chartist high command, as it were, to get a definite answer.”
She frowned. “Why would someone want to implicate such a group? If someone, or some group, does something with gunpowder, isn’t it more normal for them—the group responsible—to want the authorities, and the public, too, to know the disaster was their doing? What’s the purpose of it, otherwise?”
“You have a point, but as Drake keeps saying, this plot isn’t following any of the customary rules.” After a moment of internal debate, he went on, “For instance, the first part of the plot—the procurement and transport of the gunpowder into London—was made to look like the actions of the Young Irelanders.”
“Good heavens!” She shifted to face him.
He met her eyes. “Those three people who were killed—the two gentlemen were Young Irelander sympathizers, and the lady was the wife of one of them. However, while Young Irelander supporters were involved in acquiring and transporting the barrels, apparently believing this to be an officially sanctioned Young Irelander plot, by all the evidence Drake’s gathered, it simply isn’t. No one at any higher level in the organization knows anything about ten barrels of gunpowder being spirited into London.”
Her frown had returned. She faced forward again. After a moment, she glanced at him. “Perhaps you’d better tell me about the earlier part of this plot—about how the ten barrels of gunpowder got to London.”
He gave her a condensed version of events as the hackney rocked and rolled through the city traffic. They passed the Bank of England, and his short tale came to an end. Silence fell between them as the carriage continued north, eventually skirting the Guildhall. At the sight of the building, he glanced at her, but the hackney rolled on several blocks farther before the driver drew his horse into the curb.
The jarvey raised the trap in the ceiling. “This where you wanted?”
Michael glanced at his companion to find her peering out of the carriage window.
She nodded. “Yes. This is the place.”
What place? he wanted to demand, but held his tongue.
Impulsively, she reached for the door handle, but he beat her to it. He swung open the door, descended first, looked around, then turned and offered her his hand.
Lips tight, she met his eyes briefly, then gave him her gloved fingers and allowed him to help her to the pavement.
He sensed her reaction, yet as he’d supposed it would be, the effect of his touch was muted by her gloves. It was still there, however, which was oddly comforting.
He released her, paid off the jarvey, then turned to find her waiting with transparent impatience before an arched doorway. He looked up at the words engraved in the stone lintel. “Plaisterers Hall?”
“Indeed. Come on.”
She led the way in, of course. He strolled at her heels as she traversed the tiled hallway. She paused briefly to glance at a board with various offices listed, then stated, “It’s on the first floor.”
He tried to determine which of the several offices listed as being on the first floor was their destination, but she was already sweeping toward the stairs, and he gave up the search in favor of keeping up with her.
At the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and smoothed them down, then she raised her head, settled her reticule on her wrist, and in a significantly more regal manner, swept down the corridor.
They passed various offices, their thick oak doors firmly closed. Halfway down the corridor lay an office with a divided door, the upper half of which stood open.
That was the office she made for. As she halted before the half door, Michael, halting behind her, read the words emblazoned in gold lettering on the wide timber sign mounted above the doorway. The Worshipful Company of Carmen.
Carmen? Were they carters? Was this the carters’ guild? He should have thought…only he’d had no idea such an organization existed.
“Yes, miss?” A wizened man with a pair of pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose came up to the counter-shelf protruding from the rear of the half door. “Can I help you?”
Stepping to the side, Michael saw his coconspirator smile rather distantly.
“I certainly hope so. I’m Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. As you might be aware, we employ a great number of your members throughout the year on a wide variety of jobs. We are currently negotiating with several carters and would like to ensure that anyone we hire is on your list as a bona fide carter. As I understand it, this office registers all the carts and carters plying for trade in London. Is that correct?”
“Indeed, miss. Been keeping the register for centuries, we have.”
“Excellent.” Cleo allowed her somewhat chilly façade to thaw and leant closer to speak over the door. “We’re particularly interested in carters who transport gunpowder. We need a reliable carter to fetch an order of several barrels once they’re ready and take them to one of our ships for transport to Jamaica. We don’t normally trade in gunpowder, you see—this is a favor for a very special client—so we don’t have a regular carter lined up for the job. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for the names of those carters known to transport gunpowder?”
“Oh, aye—that’s a very specialized few, miss.” The man turned and lumbered off to a cabinet containing numerous drawers in the far corner of the room. “As it happens, we keep copies of such a list—along with others of similar specialties—just for employers like you.”
While the man opened a drawer and searched through various files, Cleo cast an eager—and quietly triumphant—look at her companion.
He met it with a steady gaze, but after a second, gave a tiny nod of encouragement. Perhaps even of admiration.
Smiling, she turned back to the counter as the old man returned, a single page in his hand.
“Here you go. Only fourteen on the list at present.” He handed her the sheet and pointed as she turned it to peruse it. “The addresses are there, too—that’s where you’ll find them. All these men work for themselves. Most are older, it being a difficult area to move into.”
“Why is that?” Cleo raised her gaze to the old man’s face.
“Well, stands to reason, don’t it?” The old man leant against the counter, crossing his arms, making himself comfortable—clearly very ready to chat. “They might get much higher fees, what with the danger money and all, but they have to have specially reinforced carts and much stronger horses, all of which costs money. They’re not allowed to carry anything else, either, so sometimes business is slack. Other times, of course, they’re rushing from one job to another, but they’re only allowed to go so fast if they’re loaded. Lots of regulations on transporting ’powder, and woe betide any of them who gets caught breaking our rules. Drummed out, they are, right smartly. All of which means that not so many carters want to go to the expense of buying a rig—cart, horses, and trappings—that can be registered for transporting ’powder.”
Cleo nodded. After carefully folding the list of fourteen names and addresses, as she slipped it into her reticule, she asked, “Do other carters…well, moonlight, sometimes? Take gunpowder when they shouldn’t?”
“Oh no.” The old man shook his head.
“Worth their registration to do that—and possibly more than that. The fraternity is very strict, you see—you stick to what you’re registered for. We’ve nigh on a thousand members, but I guarantee only those fourteen would have any truck with moving ’powder. If anyone else tried it and was seen—and on the street, it’s not easy to hide carts from other carters, you ken—then they’d be stripped of their registration and out on their ear in two shakes of a pig’s tail.”
Michael leant against the edge of the doorframe beside Cleo and spoke to the old man. “I would have thought that with all the mills in action, and so many with orders from the army and navy, that there would be work enough to keep many more than fourteen carters in business.”
“Aye”—the old man nodded—“that there would be if the army didn’t have its own band of carters. They have their own carts and soldiers to shift the stuff from the Royal Mills at Waltham and all the others that supply them—Faversham, Oare, Chilworth, and the like. Our fourteen members transport barrels from the private mills to the munitions works, the explosives factories, or the firework manufactories—or to be more accurate, mostly they deliver from the mills to the warehouses that supply those industries, and then later get hired again to move the stuff on to the factories when they order from the warehouses.”
“I see.” Michael had to admit to being impressed with the rich vein of information his would-be partner had uncovered. He glanced at her to see if she had any more questions.
She met his eyes briefly, then, fiddling with the strings of her reticule, said, “I understand that all gunpowder is packed in specially made hundredweight barrels, and if I recall aright, each barrel must be stamped with the emblem of the mill that produced it, and every barrel must be registered with the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder, even the barrels produced by the private mills.” She fixed her gaze on the old man’s face and arched her brows. “Is that correct?”
He shrugged. “Far as I know, but I’m no expert on gunpowder.” He grinned. “Only on carting it.”