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  “A momentary aberration. You are attractive wearing breeches, you know. But it’s true, what I said. You’re too young.” His smile changed, became a leer. “Perhaps in a few years, my dear, after you’re married, we’ll meet again.”

  Cecily recoiled again. “You’re insulting, sir,” she snapped, and wheeled away. This time she intended to leave, but she couldn’t. This wasn’t the Alex she knew. Something was very wrong.

  She turned Dancer. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, Alex, but I do know I don’t believe a word of it. And I warn you now, I intend to find out why you’re acting this way.”

  There was an odd look on Alex’s face. “Do that, my dear. And do come to see me when you’re grown up.”

  “Ooh!” This time Cecily did ride away. The man was insufferable! But she meant what she had said. She had every intention of learning what was going on.

  She was gone. Alex sat very still on Azrael, watching her go. Even in a habit, riding sidesaddle, she could manage a horse, he noticed, concentrating on that to block out the other feelings: the pain of knowing that she was not what he had thought her; the loneliness and panic brought about by thinking of life without her, without someone he could trust; the aching emptiness, at being alone. Worst of all was knowing that he could have her back if he said the right word; worst was the temptation to do so, no matter who she was, no matter what she’d done. If he did that, however, it would make everything else he had done in his life a mockery.

  Alex turned Azrael away. It might be just as well to leave England, once everything was over. It held nothing for him, though once he had yearned for it. There was always India, or America, or even the Antipodes, places where perhaps he could start afresh, where he could reclaim his life. After tonight, he thought, spurring Azrael forward. Tonight it would all be over, and he could put it behind him. And he would never have to see Cecily again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carlton House was en fête this evening, warm and balmy, in contrast to the wet weather that had marked this spring. Each window glowed brilliantly with the light of thousands of candles, and the people gathered to attend tonight’s rout were no less brilliant. The cream of the aristocracy was present, of course, though most professed to disdain the Prince Regent and his policies; few had the courage to refuse one of his invitations. Many memorable evenings had been held here in the past, and tonight would likely be no exception.

  Outside, on the other side of the iron railings, the crowds had gathered early, common people waiting to see the nobs and the swells, especially Princess Charlotte, who was popular with the crowd. As each carriage in the long line of vehicles crowding Pall Mall drew up, its passengers would alight, and tread the crimson carpet to the stairs, to the loud comments of the mob. Dandies they greeted with derision; ladies, especially well set-up ones, with shouts and whistles of approval, which were largely ignored. It was grand entertainment, and most of the people were enjoying it hugely.

  By dint of much pushing and prodding, Alex had managed to secure a place at the front of the crowd. Few would have recognized him; his clothing was old and rough, his lank hair was covered by a dirty cloth cap, his face obscured by day-old stubble and a false mustache, expertly applied by Parsons. No one remarked him, but his eyes were everywhere, scanning the crowd, rather than the guests of this evening’s rout. Somewhere in the crowd was an assassin. If he could be spotted before the crucial moment, a great deal of trouble would be averted. They’d have Edgewater, then. The assassin would lead them back to him.

  And, perhaps, to Cecily. No, don’t think about her, he told himself. Forget her, forget the feelings she had awakened in him, forget that once he had thought he could trust her. Forget, if possible, the pain, though he doubted he ever would. Cecily had brought him back to life. Now any reason he could think of for living, save to finish this job, was gone.

  The roar of the crowd increased as another carriage drew up, and he looked up, chagrined that he had allowed his attention to stray. To his relief, it was only an elderly couple, walking past to the accompaniment of jeers and catcalls. Nor was he alone in his vigilance. Foot Guards, also in disguise, were scattered through the crowd, keeping watch, and the Household Guards, resplendent in their crimson and gold, were on the stairs. They’d get the assassin. Alex had nearly botched things, but he had the chance to redeem himself. England would not be plunged into revolution, not if he could help it.

  Another carriage drew up, this one bearing the Liverpool crest. A footman opened the door of the carriage, and the mutterings of the crowd increased to a roaring crescendo, mostly unfavorable. Silhouetted in the doorway of the carriage were the unmistakable features of the Prime Minister, the hair receding from his forehead, the long nose, the proud bearing. Alex drew his pistols. The time was now.

  Lord Liverpool stepped down onto the carpet, and a shot rang out. Instantly, there was chaos. The Prime Minister dropped to the ground, women began to scream, men to shout, and the crowd surged, some to see what was happening, some to escape. Another shot, and another, and a man Alex had glanced at only briefly before toppled over, a dark stain overspreading his chest. He fell to the ground, and a pistol dropped from his hand, to skitter across the ground. Hell! The assassin! Alex thought, turning, and saw, some feet away, a man dressed as roughly as he, lowering a pistol. A man he knew. Edgewater.

  For what seemed like eternity they stared at each other. All awareness of the chaos fell away from Alex, to be replaced by red fury and grim purpose. There was the true culprit. Worse than that, overriding all other considerations, was that he had made Cecily part of the plot. For that, he would pay.

  Edgewater, an odd little smile on his face, turned, pushing his way through the mob. The sheer gall of it, that he thought he could just walk away, made Alex even angrier. If he accomplished nothing else, he would capture Edgewater. Thus he wasn’t thinking quite straight as he turned, struggling for space in the mob of people that surged and pressed forward, eager to see what was happening. It was a solid wall of people, and Alex used elbows and feet to push his way through, all the time trying to keep Edgewater in sight. He didn’t care who he pushed, whose toes he trod upon, and he ignored the occasional protest or threat that followed him. Until, inadvertently, his elbow struck someone squarely in the midsection.

  “‘Ey!” The man, large and beefy, who until this moment had been using his superior height to see what was happening and report on it to his fellows, reared back. “Where you think you’re going, mate?”

  “Get out of the way,” Alex said tersely, and pushed against what felt like a solid mountain of flesh.

  “‘Ere, wot do you think you’re doin’?” the man said. The look Alex gave him would have been enough to make him quail in normal times, so cold and deadly was it, but this was hardly a usual situation. On top of the excitement generated by the shots, his opponent was imbued with a fighting spirit inspired by gin. “I’ll show you, you bastid!” And a dirt-encrusted fist, huge and meaty as a ham, swung straight for Alex’s jaw.

  Several feet away, Edgewater pushed free of the remnants of the mob and walked on, ignoring both the people who were running to see what was happening, and the melee that had broken out behind him. A close-run thing, but, all in all, everything had gone as planned. Liverpool was dead, and his assassin had been eliminated. A good night’s work. Now there was nothing to connect him to the plot, except for St. Clair.

  Another glance back confirmed that St. Clair was too busy defending himself to care about anything else. Edgewater smiled as he walked casually along, attracting little attention. He’d had a bad moment there when he’d looked up and recognized St. Clair, but, other than the fact of his presence there, what did St. Clair have for evidence against him? Nothing. Oh, he’d been very careful, very clever, and he’d soon be rewarded for it. Soon the entire country would know just how clever he’d been, and they’d pay, all those who had mocked him or tried to obstruct his plans. Cecily first, he thought, turning onto
Brook Street, and then St. Clair—

  He never knew what had alerted him. Perhaps it was a sound, or a shadow against his town house. Whatever it was, he suddenly pulled back, pressing against a tree. When there was no immediate sound of pursuit he cautiously moved forward to look. Tendrils of fog were beginning to creep through the streets, turning an eerie yellow in the gas lit street lamps, and in the uncertain light he stared hard towards his house. The shadow was still there. A trick of the light? Perhaps. There was no harm, however, in being careful, and watching for just a few moments more.

  He had just decided that nothing untoward was about, and was about to come out of hiding, when the shadow moved. Quickly he stepped into hiding again. The fog had grown thicker, but his eyes were good; through the haze he saw the shadow assume the shape of a man standing, and then crouching again. Damn! His house was being watched.

  His first, panicky impulse was to flee, but he checked it, standing very still instead, thinking. It could be a burglar, but he didn’t think so; on this night of all nights, that would be stretching coincidence. No. There was only one conclusion to be reached. Somehow, he had been found out.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he stepped away from the tree, glad now of the fog that muffled his footsteps on the slate sidewalk and hid him from view. Of all the things he had planned for, this was one contingency he hadn’t really expected, and it left him stunned. How had he been found out? He had been careful, clever, more clever than anyone he knew. But, found out, he had been, as St. Clair’s presence at Carlton House proved. There was no choice for it but to flee.

  At Piccadilly he hailed a hackney and climbed in, giving the driver an address in Chelsea. There he had taken rooms some weeks ago, under the uninspired name of Mr. Smythe-Allen, telling no one, not even Simpkins, about it. It was a drab place, certainly not suited to a man who had nearly brought off the triumph of the century. Damn, where had he gone wrong? No one knew who he really was, except for Worley; he’d been careful of that. And Simpkins, of course. Interesting thought, that. Simpkins had been with him for years, but Edgewater trusted him no more than he would trust a flea. No matter, now. In spite of his situation, he was not without resources. He would wait, biding his time, and he would learn who had betrayed him. And then he would get his revenge.

  His confidence rebounding, Edgewater jumped from the hackney as it pulled up in front of the narrow, nondescript boarding house. “‘Ere, mate, where you think you’re goin’?” the driver demanded, and Edgewater whirled on his heel. In the dim light from the streetlamps his eyes glittered eerily, and the driver pulled back in surprise.

  “Of course,” Edgewater said at last, sounding quite normal. “Pardon me. I forgot.”

  The driver shifted uneasily in his seat. “That’s all right, mate. Happens every day.” Surreptitiously he made the sign against the evil eye as Edgewater strolled away. For a moment there, he’d not been sure what was going to happen. Not quite sane, that one, by the look in his eyes. Glad to see the last of him, he was, the driver thought, and drove off.

  “Of all things,” Alex said, carefully fingering the swelling on his jaw, “I end up in gaol, remanded for brawling.”

  The Duke of Bainbridge crossed his study, a glass of brandy held out to Alex. “I must say, the last thing I expected from this night’s work was to be called down to the Old Bailey to go bail for you. But all went well, though you look a little worse for wear.” He sat at ease in one of the green leather armchairs, stretching out his legs. “We’ve the London conspirators in custody, and I imagine the magistrates in the provinces had equal success with the others. I doubt any of them were expecting it.”

  “No. But, hell.” Alex touched his jaw again and then took a careful sip of the brandy. Not only his jaw looked battered; a slight discoloration presaged the makings of a fine black eye, and he was none too certain that one of his teeth hadn’t come loose. In the melee that had followed that first punch, he had lost both cap and jacket, and his remaining clothes were soiled and torn. He counted himself lucky to have escaped with his life. “To have seen Edgewater there and not to have got him. That’s what galls me.”

  “He’s got the wind up, I fear. It doesn’t look as if he’ll be returning home tonight.”

  “So that means he probably has another bolt-hole. Hell. He’s damnably clever.”

  “We’ll get him.” Bainbridge sipped from his glass. “The important thing is, the Prime Minister is safe.”

  “True. A good plan, to have someone impersonate him, and the resemblance was uncanny. When he stepped out of the coach, I thought for a moment there’d been a mistake and he was Liverpool. A brave man. Thank God he wasn’t badly hurt.”

  “No, he took the ball in his arm. He was lucky. Had the assassin’s aim been more accurate—” Bainbridge downed his drink. “Well. We needn’t worry about that. The plot is over, thank God, and the assassin is dead.”

  “Edgewater shot him,” Alex said, setting his empty glass down on the mahogany table that stood between the chairs.

  Bainbridge raised an eyebrow. “I would think he’s too smart for something like that.”

  Alex shook his head, an action he immediately regretted. “Smart enough to know that the assassin could lead right back to him. Who else could he trust with such a job? No, he had to do it himself. It must have seemed worth the risk.”

  “You may well be right,” Bainbridge said, after a moment. “In any event, we’ll soon catch him.”

  “Don’t be too sure. He’s a dangerous man, and a determined one.”

  “You think he’ll try again?”

  “I know I won’t feel this is finished until he’s been arrested. Don’t underestimate him, Bainbridge. He’s damned clever, and he has all the confidence in the world.”

  Bainbridge shook his head. “He knows he’s a wanted man, and he doesn’t dare show his face in public. Even if he does decide to try again, it won’t be easy for him.”

  “Mm.” Alex stared morosely ahead, the thought he had been trying to avoid all evening intruding unpleasantly. “What of Lady Cecily?”

  Bainbridge shook his head. “Nothing so far. There’s a man watching her house and he’s reported only that she went out with her mother and sister. Whatever her involvement is in this, it’s not direct.”

  “But she is involved. Barnes was right, all along.”

  “Perhaps.” Bainbridge leaned back in his chair. “This is a tricky matter, St. Clair. Edgewater was one thing, but Lady Cecily is the daughter of a duke. We’d want to be very certain of our proof before making any move against her, and what, so far, do we have? Nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

  “Hell, man, she was seen meeting with one of the conspirators—God’s teeth,” Alex said, softly. “The fight must have addled my wits more than I realized.”

  Bainbridge looked at him. “Why?”

  “Because there is one person who can tell us what Lady Cecily’s rôle was.”

  The gate clanged shut behind Alex with such finality that for a moment he feared he might never be allowed to leave. Newgate Prison always had that effect on him, though he’d been here only a few times; its grim stone walls and dank stone floors reminded him inevitably of dungeons, or of Dante’s inferno. “‘Abandon hope,’” he murmured, and the turnkey, a few paces ahead, turned and looked at him.

  “My lord?”

  “Nothing.” Alex gestured for the man to lead on, down the corridor lit fitfully by torches, his lantern bobbing along.

  “In here, my lord.” The turnkey opened a heavy door set in the wall and showed Alex into a small, square room, furnished only with a table and some straight chairs. Set high in the far wall was a tiny window, barred against any chance of escape. No daylight was allowed to penetrate into this place of endless night.

  “You’ll bring the prisoner here?”

  “Yes, my lord. If you’ll just wait.”

  “Of course.” Alex prowled the room as the turnkey left, wondering what it would be like
to be imprisoned here, wondering if this was where Cecily would be incarcerated. The thought hurt so much that he made a motion with his hands, as if pushing it away. No matter what Cecily had done, surely she didn’t deserve this. Yet here he was, seeking the proof that would either convict her, or set her free. He knew he was foolish to hope for the latter, but he couldn’t help it. Everything inside him rose up in revulsion at the thought of Cecily being guilty of treason.

  The door opened and the turnkey came in, holding tightly to the arm of a stout, middle-aged man, his hands held before him in manacles. “The prisoner, my lord.”

  “Thank you. You may leave us.”

  “No, my lord. My orders are to stay with the prisoner.”

  “And mine are to question him alone.” From an inner pocket Alex brandished a piece of paper, and though the turnkey could not read well, he could recognize the name of his Prime Minister. Bowing, he left, closing the door behind him.

  Alex turned to the prisoner. “Sit down, Mr. Worley. You are Josiah Worley, are you not?”

  “And what if I am?” Worley said truculently, but fear gleamed in his eyes. Josiah Worley was, in fact, a very frightened man. When he had been recruited by Edgewater into the conspiracy, he had known things might go wrong. He had not expected, however, that they would go wrong so spectacularly, with him, who had until now been a law-abiding man, gaoled in Newgate, and the marquess still free. Sometimes there just weren’t no justice in the world.

  “You intend to cooperate, Mr. Worley?” Alex said, his tone light, but his face grim.

  “I will if it’ll catch that damned marquess,” Worley growled. “It true he still hasn’t been caught?”

  Neither Alex’s face nor voice betrayed his surprise. “We think to catch him soon.”

  “Meaning you haven’t. Me dad always told me to stay away from the nobs. Said they’d only cause honest blokes trouble.”