A Spy's Honor (39 page)

John uttered a succinct curse.

Kensworth stared at his brother, who would not look him in the eye.

“You said ‘carriages.’ More than one.” John advanced on David again. “How many?”

David focused on the roots at the base of the tree. “Two. Sidmouth’s as well.”

John 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.

Claire felt sick. Everyone was hurting inside.

John cleared his throat. “Claire, will you remain with Kensworth?”

Leave it to John to be mindful of Stephen’s need for a friend right now.

“Certainly.”

John 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? Claire swallowed thickly. John 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 John’s apology. Stephen’s hardened, malignant gaze didn’t waver. He said nothing.

John stalked off leading the stallion carrying David, and Claire 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 John, 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.

John 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. And 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, John 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.

John 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. He could focus on how uncomfortable he was rather than on the situation with Claire. 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. John 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. John 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 Claire Talbot.

A steady stream of carriages began arriving in front of the theatre, disgorging the cream of Society, and John 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 John’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.

John 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 John’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 John from stopping Bates and Stickney. The prime minister and Sidmouth were safe inside the theatre. If John 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. John 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 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, John 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 John 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 John. “Mr. Donner, good evenin’. Did Cahill send you to help us?”

Bates was shaking his head violently, but Stickney took no notice until John, with a slight movement, showed him the gun.

“No, 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,” John 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.

John 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, John let Bates slip out of his grasp. The corporal hit the ground like a sack of flour.

John 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, and Stickney grabbed his chest, crumpling to the ground beside the limp Bates.

Chaos reigned, with men shouting, ducking and scattering, but John held still and scrutinized the area, looking for the shooter.

There
.

Harry Watson stood across the way, calmly raising a second pistol.

John 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…

John 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 John 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 John grabbed Liverpool by the arm and pulled. “This way, sir!”

Sidmouth ran as another box burst. A stingingly sharp projectile stung John’s temple. He pushed Liverpool ahead of him, and they both ran.

Around the corner, protected by a building, John asked, “Are you all right, sir?”

“Y-yes. I—”

John 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.

John 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. John 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, John 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 John scooped him up and ran out of the lane, handing him off to a constable 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. John 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.

Chapter Thirty-Four

As Claire embroidered one last stitch onto the handkerchief, completing the letter J, she glanced over at the sofa for the hundredth time that hour. This time she was rewarded.

The counterpane-covered figure propped up by pillows shifted and groaned, and John’s eyelids fluttered open.

She looked to the corner of the room and nodded once at the maid sitting there. She and Mary had already agreed on their course of action for when their patient returned to consciousness, so the maid slipped out the door and Claire rushed to the end of the sofa.

“How do you feel?”

John grimaced. “As if Marden is playing his drum inside my head.”

Claire hummed sympathetically, her eyes devouring him. He was awake and alive and talking. She’d feared the worst, feared she might have lost him as she’d lost her father—before she could tell him how she felt. Not that John was anything like her father; that much she trusted now. “I imagine so. You have a large gash on your temple and a good-sized knot behind your ear.”

He reached up and fingered the white bandage wrapped around his head. His gaze slid back to her. “Why am I in your sitting room?”

“When you first arrived last night they wished to install you in your bedchamber. However, when I informed the family I would be keeping watch over you, they decided to bring you to a more public room.” She smiled, finally feeling alive again herself. “Apparently I have a reputation as a ravisher of unconscious men.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t fully smile.

Just then Mary returned with a tea tray. She set it on the table in front of the sofa, dropped a curtsy and left again. John watched her depart, seemingly uneasy.

Claire knew she had only a limited amount of time before their tête-à-tête was interrupted. “Would you like a cup? There is toast as well.”

“Please.” He sat up gingerly, tossing off the counterpane. Swinging his stockinged feet to the floor, he rested his unshaven face in his hands. His filthy breeches had numerous rips in them but his linen shirt was pristine; Allerton’s valet had changed it while cleaning his wounds.

Claire prepared the tea and sat next to him, holding out his cup. She couldn’t help staring at the scratches on his hands and chafing on his wrists as he accepted it. He always seemed to be injured, but he never let those injuries hinder him.

“You’re a hero,” she said, despite knowing how much he would hate the appellation. He was the hero of her heart, too, but that declaration would have to wait a few minutes longer.