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  Lawton was, after all, dead, and he was the subject of their observations.

  Louisa listened avidly. All she heard reinforced their already-formed view of Lawton Chilburn as a scapegrace who had blotted his copybook several times too often for his family’s taste. She wasn’t surprised to learn that the family and all connections had agreed to make a point of attending the service—held at the church most favored by the haut ton—and all the gentlemen were to attend the burial at St. James in Highgate in the hope that such a turnout would mute any talk of the schism between Lawton and the rest of the Chilburns, thus downplaying Lawton’s shortcomings and allowing the family to bury any lingering whispers along with him.

  While she understood their reasoning, to her mind, such overenthusiastic attendance only underscored how deeply Lawton had fallen out of favor with his family—to the extent they all, root and branch, felt a need to exert themselves to whitewash his name.

  Under cover of the minister’s drone, she looked around more carefully, noting faces and putting names to most. All the family members she had heard of had answered the call. Shifting silently to the side, she peered briefly into the pews, noting the older generations, including Lawton’s aunts and several aunts-in-law, along with his mother and her bosom-bows, the ageing Mereton spinsters; the few who saw her recognized her and stiffly inclined their heads.

  She nodded back, then looked searchingly around again. The most notable lack among the mourners was the dearth of any who might be classed as friends or acquaintances. Lawton’s cousins and the sons of several connections, all of whom Louisa could place, were the only males of that age group present.

  Drake had already moved through their ranks, exchanging nods and, occasionally, a few whispered words. He’d eventually fetched up by the side of an ancient earl, with whom he was quietly talking. No one who knew of Drake and Louisa’s involvement in breaking the news of Lawton’s death to his family would be surprised to see them at the funeral, if nothing else as representatives of their respective houses. There were several others present in that capacity—like the earl to whom Drake was chatting—their appearance purely a courtesy to Hawesley and his viscountess. In general, however, such representatives were of the older generations, lords and ladies who could easily make time to pay their and their families’ respects. Louisa nodded to several such older ladies and gentlemen, all of whom recognized her and were, patently, wondering why she was there. She acknowledged them, but steered clear.

  Returning to the groups of ladies clustered in the nave, she halted close to Lawton’s sisters and two of their cousins, all largely dry-eyed, and listened to their murmurings. All she heard merely confirmed that those ladies knew no more than they’d already shared.

  Finally, the dull and uneventful service drew to a close. After the benediction, the minister invited the ladies present to return to the Hawesleys’ Hill Street residence for the wake, while those gentlemen so inclined would follow the coffin to its final resting place in Highgate cemetery before returning to Hill Street.

  Across the nave, Louisa met Drake’s eyes. Lips thin, he shook his head. He wasn’t going to Highgate.

  Louisa hid a grimace. Presumably, he’d been as unsuccessful as she in learning anything of value. That left pursuing the barrels as their only way forward; she had no excuse to waste more time searching for those among Lawton’s family and friends who—she was still convinced—must know something about his recent activities.

  In her experience, it was well-nigh impossible to hide private schemes, especially illicit ones, from family and close friends; those who attempted it often believed they’d succeeded, but invariably—invariably—someone picked up some clue.

  However, accepting that they’d run out of time to pursue her favored angle—dejected over what she saw as her failure to discern something that would point to whoever Lawton had fallen in with or even the cousin he’d thought had sent Cleo to follow him—she joined the other ladies as they moved up the nave toward the doors and the gray day outside.

  She found herself beside one of Lawton’s more cheery cousins, a Miss Tippet, a comfortable spinster of middle years. As they waited to file through the double doors onto the church’s covered porch, purely by way of making conversation, Louisa murmured, “The family certainly answered the call and put on a good show.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Miss Tippet smiled benevolently. “We’ve all come to support Hawesley and Lavinia through this. Such a thing to happen.” She raised her head and glanced around at the crowd before and behind them. “Almost everyone made the effort, which speaks well for the family, don’t you think?”

  Louisa blinked. Almost everyone? “Indubitably.” After the barest pause, she asked, “So who isn’t here?”

  “Oh, Uncle Hubert isn’t, of course, but no one expected to see him.” Miss Tippet lowered her head and her voice to add, “He’s positively ancient and rather infirm and lives in Berkshire. I don’t believe he even leaves the house.” She raised her head and looked around again. “The only other who isn’t here is Bevis—Bevis Griswade.” Miss Tippet’s tone and expression turned disapproving. “Heaven only knows why he didn’t turn up. I know Monica, his sister, called on him on Saturday to make sure he knew about the funeral and tell him he was expected to attend.” Miss Tippet humphed. “I really don’t know what’s going on with him, but he hasn’t been attending family gatherings for a while.”

  Prodded by an impulse too powerful to resist, Louisa asked, “By any chance was Mr. Griswade—Bevis—in the army?”

  “Why, yes.” Miss Tippet looked at Louisa. “How did you know? Perhaps you’ve met him—he was in the guards. I forget which regiment.”

  “Did he serve in India?”

  “Hmm.” Miss Tippet appeared to be consulting her memory. “I don’t believe so, but the last time I saw him—and thinking back, that must be close to ten years ago. How time does fly! But that was before he sold out, and he’d become quite obsessed with Oriental ways.” She paused, frowning, then added, “Actually, he did go to India, but that was more recently, after he sold out of the guards. I believe he was with the East India Company troops.”

  “Ah.” Louisa nodded as if pleased she and Miss Tippet had solved a minor social puzzle; she even managed to keep her tone within bounds as she said, “That must be it.”

  That was it!

  Those before them shuffled forward, and Louisa and Miss Tippet emerged into the pearly light of the overcast day. They moved to join the other ladies and the gentlemen not attending the burial, who were congregating to either side of the doors to allow the coffin to be ceremonially carried past and placed in the waiting hearse.

  As soon as she and Miss Tippet had settled, Louisa quietly said, “One of my cousins is interested in joining the East India Company. I know he would appreciate speaking with someone who has served over there. Do you happen to know Mr. Griswade’s address?”

  “I don’t,” Miss Tippet said, “but Monica”—she pointed to a fashionable matron standing farther along the porch—“Mrs. Monica Trevallayan, is his sister. She knows.”

  “Thank you.” Louisa didn’t dare allow the full measure of her gratefulness to infuse her tone. She rested her hand briefly on Miss Tippet’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Tamping down her rising excitement, keeping it from her face and her eyes and out of her voice, was imperative. Quitting Miss Tippet’s side, she sidled unobtrusively step by polite step through the crowd, eventually halting beside Monica Trevallayan.

  Mrs. Trevallayan glanced at her, recognized her, and smiled and nodded politely, transparently pleased to have Lady Louisa Cynster by her side.

  Graciously, Louisa nodded back. After a quick glance to confirm that the coffin had yet to be carried out, she turned to the other woman. “Mrs. Trevallayan, I believe you might be able to assist me.”

  After being assured that Mrs. Trevallayan would, of course, do anything possible, Louisa repeated her tale of a cousin interested in
learning about the East India Company and thus wishing to speak with, for example, Mrs. Trevallayan’s brother, Mr. Griswade.

  “Well, I’m rather miffed with Bevis at the moment. After I took the trouble to go to his lodgings and tell him of this event, he claimed he had a prior engagement.” Mrs. Trevallayan sniffed. “A prior engagement—pshaw! What could be more important than a family cri—er, gathering such as this?”

  “I agree unreservedly. So lacking in feeling.” A second later, Louisa prompted, “And his lodgings…?”

  “Oh yes—in George Street, Lady Louisa, just down from the Strand.”

  “Thank you.” Louisa looked around, searching for Drake. She spotted him off to one side at the bottom of the porch steps, on the very outskirts of the crowd and transparently—at least to her—impatiently waiting for her.

  Even though he was champing at the bit, wanting to get on and search for the gunpowder, by the time she’d slid through the crowd and reached him, he’d read the building excitement in her face.

  The instant she joined him, he gripped her arm and turned her toward where Henry and the carriage were waiting around the corner in the square. “What did you learn?”

  Walking briskly by his side, she tipped her head at the carriage, only paces away. “I’ll tell you on the way home.”

  He helped her climb up, directed Henry to make for Grosvenor Square, then followed her.

  She waited only until Drake had shut the door and dropped onto the seat before declaring, “The garrotter is Mr. Bevis Griswade. He’s Lawton’s first cousin—the last child and fourth son of Alice, Lady Griswade, who is the viscountess’s sister. Bevis Griswade is the cousin Lawton thought had sent Cleo to follow him—perhaps checking on him, on how well he was managing the plot.”

  Drake’s eyes had narrowed and fixed on her face. “Of all Lawton’s many cousins, why decide it’s Griswade?” His tone stated that he didn’t disbelieve her but wanted proof.

  “You must have noticed all the family attended the funeral.”

  He nodded. “I assumed they made a point of it, intending to douse any rumors that Lawton had been shunned by the family, which, of course, he had been.”

  “Precisely. But there were two family members who didn’t attend. One, an old Uncle Hubert, who I think must be Lord Hubert Nagle—the viscountess’s much older brother. He’s a bachelor and also the Marquess of Faringdale’s uncle—and Faringdale himself did attend. However, no one expected to see Lord Hubert because he’s ancient and keeps to his house in Berkshire. But the other non-attendee was Bevis Griswade. His sister Mrs. Trevallayan took him the summons personally, but he said he had a prior engagement.”

  She held up a hand to stay any question and increasingly excitedly continued, “The most critical point, however, is that Bevis Griswade was in the guards. Then he sold out and served with the East India Company in India!”

  Drake sat back and stared across the carriage. “How the devil did we miss him?”

  “I think we just didn’t ask quite the right questions. Griswade sold out about a decade ago—it could have been more. The guards’ files—the ones they have at their fingertips in their offices—probably don’t go back that far, so Griswade simply didn’t show up. He’d be older than Chilburn by several years, and they didn’t serve concurrently. And although Griswade served in India, it wasn’t with the army. Michael checked for any connection of Chilburn’s who had served in India with the guards, so of course, Griswade’s name didn’t come up.”

  She paused, then went on, “I don’t know in which regiment Griswade served, but apparently when he sold out, he was already obsessed with all things Oriental, so he went off and joined the East India Company.”

  Slowly but definitely, Drake nodded. “He’s our man. Thank God we now have a name.” He glanced, more sharply, at her. “I saw you speak with Monica Trevallayan—did you get Griswade’s address?”

  “Yes—it’s George Street, south of the Strand. He has lodgings there.”

  Calculation flared in Drake’s eyes, and she hurriedly said, “Before you race off to hunt Griswade down—and as it’s just lodgings and he supposedly had some prior engagement at this time, he’s unlikely to be there at the moment—” She broke off and frowned. “A prior engagement—could that be something to do with the plot? Even though it’s the fourth and not the fifth…” She arched her brows and met Drake’s eyes. “Could Griswade be overseeing the gunpowder being moved to the target site?”

  Drake’s expression turned grim. “That’s entirely possible.”

  She thought for a moment, then pressed her point. “Regardless, we can’t just race willy-nilly around London hoping to stumble on the right place or on him.” She met Drake’s gaze; he was clearly unconvinced. “Do you know what Griswade looks like? Would you recognize him?”

  Drake’s lips thinned, then he admitted, “No. You?”

  “I might via a family resemblance, but in general, no—I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

  Drake glanced outside. The carriage had been rolling slowly along Brook Street; they’d nearly reached Grosvenor Square. “If Griswade is our man and he’s involved in some action very possibly to do with the gunpowder being placed at the target site, then our best bet is to do as we’d planned—leave the others to check the twelve earlier deliveries, and with all possible speed, search the three messes to which Hunstable’s men delivered this morning.”

  Something about the morning’s deliveries tugged at Louisa’s mind, but she nodded. “Yes—but I have to change, and you, meanwhile, need to send word to Sebastian, and Michael and Cleo—and Antonia, and Inspector Crawford, too—that Griswade is the garrotter.”

  “That won’t take long.”

  “Changing my gown will take only a few minutes.” She glanced at her pale-gray silk skirts; the material was far too fine to serve if they were racing about chasing killers and searching for barrels, and she wanted something sturdier on her feet—half-boots instead of her pumps.

  And there was something else niggling in her brain, like a hairpin poking insistently into her scalp. “I also want to ask Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone about Lord Nagle. It sounds as if he’s far too old for me to have met him, yet I’m sure I’ve heard his name mentioned in passing, although in relation to what I can’t recall, other than that it was some time ago. I’ve heard nothing about him recently.” She looked at Drake. “Do you know anything about him?”

  He thought, then shook his head. “I’ve never met him, but I recall much the same as you—I’ve heard his name, but it was long ago, and I know next to nothing about him.” He paused, then said, “I could ask the pater.”

  “If he’s at Wolverstone House, please do.”

  The carriage rocked to a halt outside St. Ives House. Louisa gripped Drake’s hand and climbed down to the pavement. She straightened her full skirts while Drake called up to Henry that they wouldn’t be long.

  Then Drake took her arm, and they quickly climbed the steps. Crewe was on duty; he swung open the door, and they walked into the front hall.

  When Drake released her arm, Louisa swung to face him. “I’ll change and check with Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone while you send your messages and talk to Tom”—Michael’s man was hovering toward the rear of the hall, on duty as the central command for Sebastian, Michael, Cleo, and the footmen army—“and check with your father. And then”—she held Drake’s gaze—“we’ll go after Griswade and the gunpowder.”

  Drake hesitated, then, grim-faced, nodded.

  Louisa nodded decisively back, turned, and rushed for the stairs.

  CHAPTER 55

  She didn’t waste a moment. She raced up the stairs, into the west wing, and flew into her room.

  Sukie, her maid, was already there; Louisa had warned her she would return to change her gown after the funeral.

  “Quickly!” Louisa turned and gave Sukie her back. While the maid’s fingers made quick work of the buttons running down the back of the gown, Louisa k
icked off her pumps. “If I don’t get changed and down soon, Winchelsea will go without me.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.” Sukie’s tone was entirely confident.

  Louisa stripped the long sleeves from her arms. “Unfortunately, yes, he would.” Letting the gown fall to the floor, she stepped out of it and all but jigged with impatience while Sukie picked up the walking dress in dark-blue twill that had been laid out on the bed. The maid gathered the skirts, then lifted them over Louisa’s head.

  She wriggled the skirts down and thrust her arms into the sleeves. “And I need to speak with Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone—are they up, do you know?”

  “Must be—I saw Colleen taking them a nuncheon, so I’d say they’ll be ready to talk.”

  “Good—my black kid half-boots and the matching gloves.” While Sukie raced to the armoire, Louisa checked her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. Her hair was still neat and in place, and the subdued pearl collar she’d donned for the funeral would do well enough with the dark-blue dress; she needed to appear properly turned out if she was to present herself before her grandmother and the even more eagle-eyed Lady Osbaldestone.

  Sukie returned with the boots and knelt to hold them so Louisa could slip her feet inside. While Louisa held up her wide skirts, Sukie deftly did up the lacings. “There.” Sukie sat back on her ankles and looked Louisa over with a critical eye. Then she nodded. “Yes. You’ll do.”

  “Excellent.” Louisa grabbed up the reticule she’d carried earlier and left on the dressing table stool; the list of Hunstable’s deliveries was inside. She headed for the door. “Now for Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone.”

  Those two grandest of grandes dames were seated at a round table set in the window embrasure of her grandmother’s sitting room. They’d finished their light meal and were sipping tea, and were very ready to welcome Louisa.