An Irresistible Alliance Read online

  Sebastian halted on the porch and rang the bell. At the sound of Michael’s boots on the stone, he and Antonia turned; when they saw who it was, both smiled.

  Michael grinned. Ignoring his brother, he grasped Antonia’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I understand congratulations are in order, although you really would have done better with me.”

  Antonia laughed. Her fingers briefly gripped his. “I seriously doubt that would have worked.” Using her hold on his hand, she drew him closer and stretched up to place a sisterly kiss on his cheek and received a similarly chaste buss in return. Sinking back to her heels, she studied his face. “But now you’re my almost-brother-in-law, I can legitimately ask: What are you doing here?”

  Michael glanced at Sebastian. “I was about to ask you two the same question.” He grinned anew and thumped Sebastian on the shoulder. “What-ho, brother mine. I believe I should thank you for relieving me of the necessity of getting leg-shackled myself.”

  Sebastian met Antonia’s gaze. “Don’t mention it.”

  To Michael’s eyes, his brother’s expression appeared one step away from besotted.

  Already?

  The glossy black door of Wolverstone House swung open to reveal Hamilton, the Varisey family’s London butler. When he saw Sebastian and Antonia, Hamilton’s normally expressionless eyes twinkled, and his lips curved in a definite smile. “My lord, my lady.” He bowed them in.

  Michael trailed the pair into the front hall.

  After closing the door, Hamilton relieved Antonia of her mantle, then accepted Sebastian’s greatcoat, and finally, Michael’s greatcoat and cane. After passing the garments to an underling summoned with just a look, Hamilton turned to Sebastian and Antonia and bowed. “We understand congratulations are in order. I speak for all the staff at Wolverstone House in saying we wish you both well.”

  “Thank you, Hamilton,” Sebastian said.

  “And our thanks to all the staff as well,” Antonia added with one of her lovely smiles.

  Sebastian’s next words, “Is the marquess receiving?”, answered Michael’s principal question. He’d worked with Drake on covert missions before and had wondered if that was why—indeed, he had hoped that was why—Sebastian had come there. Antonia’s presence, however, was a surprise. Even more than Sebastian, Michael, and the rest of their peers, Drake was rigidly opposed to the involvement of ladies in schemes such as his—in missions that had the potential to turn deadly at any time.

  Hamilton informed Sebastian that the marquess was awaiting their arrival in the library. As Hamilton led the way, Sebastian caught Michael’s eye and faintly raised one black brow.

  With a nod, Michael accepted the unvoiced invitation and fell in behind Sebastian as he followed Antonia down the corridor and through the door Hamilton held open.

  The library at Wolverstone House was a cozy, comfortable room that was predominantly the domain of the males of the family—the current duke, his heir, Drake, and Drake’s three brothers. Glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls, the panes reflecting the flames leaping in the large fireplace directly opposite the door. The walls were covered in cream silk, and the areas between the bookcases played host to numerous paintings depicting hunting scenes and Northumberland landscapes. A large desk dominated one end of the room, but the primary focus was a setting of four well-stuffed, brown-leather armchairs and a long sofa arranged before the hearth.

  As Hamilton shut the door, Drake rose from one of the armchairs. His gaze briefly scanned Antonia’s face, then shifted to Sebastian’s. Drake smiled. “Good afternoon. I take it the deed is done?”

  Antonia swept forward. “If you mean are we officially engaged”—she glanced back at Sebastian—“then the answer is yes, as officially as we can be given Sebastian has yet to inform his parents.”

  Sebastian met her gaze. “I’ll send a rider this afternoon—once we’ve finished here. It’s not as if there’s any doubt as to my parents giving us their blessing.” He looked at Drake. “However, for reasons that ought to be obvious, I don’t dare drag my heels over sending the news, which means that my mother, with my father in tow, will almost certainly arrive late tomorrow, and after that—”

  “After that,” Antonia cut in, “while Mama didn’t mention an engagement ball, I’m sure she only refrained in deference to your mother, who is sure to have opinions on the subject.”

  Sebastian fleetingly closed his eyes and groaned. “I hoped we’d escaped that.”

  Antonia pityingly shook her head at him. “No chance. None whatsoever.”

  Drake humphed. “For such as us, my friend, there’s no avoiding such things.”

  Sebastian sighed. “As I feared, once the news spreads, our ability to assist with the mission will almost certainly be severely curtailed.”

  Drake grimaced. “Indeed.”

  “But”—Sebastian turned to include Michael—“we have someone here who, courtesy of Antonia’s and my engagement, is now free. Or at least, freer.”

  Michael met Drake’s gaze and smiled winningly. “You might even say I’m at loose ends, so…” He looked from Drake to Sebastian, and finally at Antonia, and arched his brows. “What’s going on?”

  “That, in fact, is precisely our question.” Drake waved them to the armchairs. Once they’d settled, Sebastian and Antonia on the sofa, Drake in a chair to their right, and Michael in an armchair facing Drake, he continued, “This is what we’ve uncovered so far.

  “Foot soldiers of the Young Irelander movement—young hotheads in the lowest rank of the organization—believing they were acting at the behest of the Young Irelander hierarchy as a part of an officially sanctioned plot, obtained ten barrels of gunpowder. Exactly where from, we don’t know, but that’s largely irrelevant now. Connell Boyne, who was the manager for his brother, Lord Ennis’s principal estate northwest of Limerick, organized for the barrels to be taken by ship from Limerick to the east coast of Kent, where they were delivered to a cave on his brother’s English holding.”

  Michael glanced at Sebastian. “You and Antonia went to Kent.”

  Sebastian nodded. “We attended a house party at Ennis’s estate, Pressingstoke Hall.”

  Michael blinked. “That must have been interesting.”

  “It was,” Antonia dryly replied.

  Imperturbably, Drake continued, “Ennis had sent me a letter saying he had word of some plot I needed to know about, but he would only tell me of it face-to-face. However, I’d had word of Young Irelander actions from my contacts in Dublin, and to follow that up, I had to go myself, so Sebastian stood in for me with Ennis. At that point, we didn’t know the two matters were definitely connected—that we were investigating two stages of the same plot. Unfortunately, his lordship was fatally stabbed minutes before Sebastian was to meet with him. Ennis managed to utter the words ‘gunpowder’ and ‘here’ before he died. Subsequently, Sebastian and Antonia discovered the cave and evidence that the ten barrels had been stored there, but by then, Boyne had moved the barrels on, presumably to London.” Drake paused, then, voice hardening, affirmed, “Almost certainly to London.”

  Michael frowned. “If London was the destination all along, why not just ship the barrels directly here?”

  “Because,” Drake said, “the movement of gunpowder within the capital is tightly controlled, but that control focuses on gunpowder produced by the local registered mills, both government and private, and any gunpowder brought in through the Port of London. By secretly landing the gunpowder in Kent and carting it in, Boyne—or rather, whoever was pulling his strings—avoided the net.”

  Michael looked at Sebastian. “Where’s Boyne now?”

  “Dead. He was killed by whoever he was reporting to.”

  “Presumably,” Drake said, “to ensure he told no one who that person—the one he took his orders from—is.” His tone grew grim. “After my trip to Ireland, the one thing I can state with absolute confidence is that whoever is behind this plot, it isn’t anyone connected with th
e Young Irelander movement. They’ve been very cleverly used.”

  Silence fell while they contemplated that, then Drake continued, “So now we have ten barrels of gunpowder somewhere in London. Ten hundredweight—that’s more than a thousand pounds, enough to blow up a very large building or several smaller ones—and we have no idea where it is, who is behind the plot, or what their target is.” He paused, then went on, “One factor that might work in our favor is that whoever is behind this, they’re being extraordinarily secretive. Extrapolating from that, it seems likely they’re running this plot in stages and closing off each stage as it’s completed—meaning killing off those involved to that point. As with Boyne, that effectively conceals not just the details of their past actions but also protects the identity of those giving the orders and their proposed next steps. If our plotters continue to adhere to such ruthless cautiousness, then while they may have meticulously planned each and every move all the way to lighting the fuse, they won’t have yet activated—meaning organized and set in train—the people and the processes for the next stage.”

  He met the others’ eyes. “What I’m saying is that we may have a small window of opportunity in which to find the gunpowder. Several days—possibly as long as a week. In my educated opinion, it’s highly unlikely that the barrels were taken directly to the target. I think—I believe—that their true target is one fact those driving this plot will strive to keep secret from everyone, including all those they’ve used or think to use to achieve their purpose.”

  “So,” Michael said, “the only people who know the true target are the instigators of the plot, and in fact, no one else will know until the very end?”

  Drake nodded. “When even if those involved in that final stage wish to protest, it’ll be too late.”

  Beside Sebastian, Antonia stirred. “That suggests the target is something…quite dreadful.” She met Drake’s golden eyes. “Something the Young Irelanders, or whatever disaffected ruffians the villains hire next, might object to—might balk at destroying.”

  “Indeed.” Drake’s tone was clipped and hard.

  After a moment of silence, Michael asked, “Is there any way we can identify the target?”

  Grimly, Drake shook his head. “Not without finding the gunpowder in place and set to explode or learning the identities of the villains.” He grimaced. “And even knowing who they are, the specific target might not be instantly apparent. For example, if it had been a Young Irelander plot, their target or targets might have been any number of government buildings or places like the army barracks. But as this is not a Young Irelander plot”—he shrugged—“I don’t think we can even hazard a guess.”

  Michael exchanged a glance with Sebastian, then they both looked at Drake, who appeared to have sunk into his thoughts—thoughts his expression stated were not pleasant.

  “So that’s where we are as of today.” Sebastian caught Drake’s eye. “What’s next?”

  Drake held Sebastian’s gaze for a moment, then looked at Michael. “We need to do our damnedest to find the gunpowder. Only by locating it can we be certain of stopping this plot.”

  Michael nodded. “So where do we start?”

  “That,” Drake said, “will be up to you, at least over the next few days.” He looked at Sebastian and grimaced. “I can barely believe it—and I’m starting to wonder if distracting me and getting me out of London is a part of this plot—but this morning, I received intelligence from two entirely separate sources that there’s some sort of Chartist plot under way somewhere in London.”

  “The Chartists?” Sebastian looked incredulous. “When have they ever resorted to the sort of violence ten barrels of gunpowder implies?”

  “Precisely. It was a stretch even for the Young Irelanders, although there have been smaller incidents of violence in their case. As for the Chartists, however, while they may protest and march en masse on Parliament, they’re devoted to achieving voting reform through peaceful, legal means. They want—have always wanted—reform via an act of Parliament. Blowing up the place isn’t in any way in keeping with their goals.”

  “So who has suggested they’re involved?” Michael asked.

  “No one—not in the sense of them being involved specifically with our ten barrels of gunpowder. But a contact I have in the London Working Men’s Association sent word he’d heard whispers among the local leaders—not Lovett or Hetherington but the leaders of the local militia, as they style themselves—of some action about to start, some messenger expected from their headquarters in the north with news of something designed to make Parliament sit up and take notice again. Normally, I’d rely on Lovett and Hetherington to ensure the organization wasn’t drawn into anything untoward, but—so my contact wrote—neither man is in London at this time. I’m not sure who is in charge, but it’s not anyone I know—I can’t just turn up and ask to be told what it’s all about. But there was worse to come. An hour ago, I received a communiqué from Whitehall—it seems there’ve been whispers in the corridors about some renewed Chartist unrest.” His expression one of disgust, Drake looked at Sebastian. “You know what they’re like in Whitehall. Mention unrest, and they imagine the worst. More, I know that if I try to hunt down who started the rumors, I’ll end chasing my tail.”

  Drake sighed. He leant back in his chair and looked at Michael. “As matters stand, the fastest way to resolve the question of Chartist involvement is for me to go north and speak with Feargus O’Connor.”

  O’Connor, Michael knew, was the de facto supreme leader of the Chartist movement and owner of the Leeds-based Northern Star newspaper.

  “If anyone knows what those at the head of the Chartist movement have planned, it’s O’Connor—and he’ll tell me.” Drake’s smile was cold. “Once I explain the situation to him—how I believe someone is plotting to drag the Chartist cause into the mud, ultimately to see it outlawed—I’m sure he’ll tell me all I need to know about anything they have planned. And—as I doubt that they actually have anything planned—who to contact in London to set those in the London Working Men’s Association right about what their leadership truly wants.”

  “How long do you think that will take?” Sebastian asked.

  “Almost certainly longer than I would like.” Drake calculated then offered, “Three days minimum, but more likely four. In this season, I’ll be lucky to find O’Connor at his desk—I’ll have to chase him into the country and hunt him down.”

  “Well,” Michael said, “while you’re hunting in the north, I’ll hunt down here.” He glanced at Sebastian, sitting on the sofa with one hand closed about one of Antonia’s—Michael wasn’t even sure his brother was aware of the contact; touching Antonia seemed to have already become an unconscious act—then met Drake’s eyes. “As our two lovebirds here are going to be busy, I’ll take on the search for the gunpowder.”

  Drake inclined his head. “Good. Where are you going to start?”

  Michael had already thought about that. “You said there was ten hundredweight of gunpowder. They couldn’t have moved that on one cart—not in one trip—so let’s assume two carts were involved, and those carts wouldn’t have been just any old farm cart with a rundown nag between the shafts. They would have had to be…well, carters’ carts. The sort of carts that could manage the journey along the highway to London, loaded with heavy barrels, and no one would look twice. Right?”

  Drake nodded. “So where did the carts come from?”

  “Exactly.” Michael glanced at Sebastian. “Might such carts have been hired locally from somewhere around Pressingstoke Hall?”

  Sebastian pulled a face. “Dover’s to the south, but I doubt carters from there would want to take a load to London, knowing they would be empty on the way back—unless they had organized a load for the return journey, but that would mean they’d have to have known of the trip far in advance…”

  “No.” Drake shook his head. “You’re right about having to use professional carters with proper carts, but our
plotters—whoever they are—wouldn’t have risked using locals. Whoever drove those carts had to be prepared to move gunpowder illegally. There’s no way the carters wouldn’t have known what they were transporting, and they picked up the barrels from a cave off the beach—no chance of them not realizing no excise had been paid. So…” Drake tapped his steepled fingertips before his face.

  Michael had seen Drake’s father—the current Duke of Wolverstone—do the same thing when thinking some point through.

  Eventually, Drake said, “If I was the villain behind this, I would have taken the time to find and recruit carters—or drivers with access to suitable carts—who were Young Irelander sympathizers.” Drake looked at Sebastian. “Boyne had to be on the beach to lead them to the cave and the barrels—he would have got suspicious too early if the carters hadn’t been a part of the movement. Or at least Irish.” Drake tipped his head consideringly, then glanced at Michael. “Just being Irish would probably have been enough. They wouldn’t have been discussing politics while moving the barrels.”

  His eyes on Drake’s, Michael slowly nodded. “So I’m looking for two men, at least one of whom is Irish, if not both, with access to the right sort of carts to transport ten barrels of gunpowder into London.” He paused, then added, “I seriously doubt I could fill that bill in any small town, and probably not even in Dover.”

  “London.” Drake grimaced resignedly and sat up. “That fits with the care our villains are taking. You’re looking for two drivers, most likely carters, most likely Irish and very possibly Young Irelander sympathizers, working out of London.”

  “As matters stand,” Sebastian said, “other than the villains pulling the strings, the men who transported the barrels to London are our only route to the gunpowder.”

  “True.” Michael surveyed the others, finally resting his gaze on Antonia. “So who do we know who would know about carters?”

  Antonia opened her eyes wide. “I would have suggested asking Hamilton or Crewe, but I think you’ll find that we—our households—use our own carts or carriages. We wouldn’t hire carters, not on a routine basis—not enough to know the ins and outs of the trade.”