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  “Time-wise, when would she go inside the Jewel House?”

  “I would say she normally goes through the door at about ten minutes before the hour.”

  Drake hauled out his watch. “It’s twenty minutes past two.” He glanced out of the window. They were now in the Strand. “I’ll place my faith in Henry. And the royal coach never goes quickly, not with the traffic and the guards hemming it in.”

  After a moment, he frowned at her. “You were saying that Nagle had Hunstable’s men killed before…ah.” His expression blanked. “I see.”

  “Indeed—you said all along that the best way to move the gunpowder to the target site was to disguise it as something that would normally be found there—in this case, ale—and to have it moved into position by people completely innocent of what they were doing. I doubt you could find more complete innocents than the lads Hunstable was forced to hire to replace his missing drivers.”

  Drake softly swore. “He really did think of damned near everything.”

  “I suspect he’s been planning this for years. He had to force Hunstable to hire lads on the spot. That way, even if they noticed the difference in weight and lack of movement within the ale barrels, having just got the job, they would be unlikely to start asking questions or making any fuss, at least not right away.”

  They heard Henry call that he had the royal carriage in sight.

  Drake shifted focus. “Correct me if I’m wrong. The Jewel House stands against the inner face of Martin Tower. The side wall of Waterloo Block faces the Jewel House door.” He looked at Louisa. “I’ve never been inside. Tell me everything you can remember about it.”

  “Facing the door from outside, there are five steps to a small porch. There’s a cellar door at ground level to the left, but no window to the cellar.”

  “All right. If I go through the front door, what will I see?”

  “There’s a rectangular hall, and the stairs to the upper floor where the jewels are kept lie directly in front of the door, starting about two thirds of the way down the hall. There’s a passage to the left, which leads into the rooms the Keeper and his family use.”

  “Family—any children?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen any. If there are, they must be away at school.”

  “We can hope. So the stairs go up, and the jewels are on the first floor. Are there any guards there?”

  “Usually there are four—at least there are whenever the Queen visits.”

  “How many on the lower level—the level of the Keeper’s rooms?”

  “None—I’ve never seen a guard on the lower level. All four are always on the upper level.”

  “All right. Where’s the cellar door?”

  She glanced at him. “I’ve never had to go to the cellar.”

  “Guess.”

  She thought, then said, “It must be somewhere on the Keeper’s level, but at the same time, must be readily accessible to the workers in the officers’ mess to take barrels out of and so on. So I would guess that it’s along the corridor to the left of the stairs—the one that leads to the Keeper’s rooms.”

  He nodded. “That makes sense.”

  Drake’s footman called down, “The royal carriage is some way ahead on Fleet Street, my lord.”

  On the words, the carriage jerked sharply to the right, then back the other way.

  Drake swore and pushed to his feet. Clinging to the upper frame of the door, he pushed up the trap in the ceiling and called, “Henry, do whatever you have to and close the distance as fast as you can.”

  “Aye, m’lord!”

  Immediately, the carriage jerked to the side. Drake all but fell back onto the seat. He caught Louisa as she was flung against him.

  Louisa clung to Drake as Henry displayed a degree of ruthless force that fully matched that of his master.

  Five minutes and several sharp tacking moves later, the groom called down, “The royals are three carriages ahead, my lord, and the guardsmen have noticed.” A second later, the groom reported, “Two are riding back.”

  Drake pulled himself up and called to Henry, “Slow, but don’t pull to the curb.”

  Even before the carriage slowed, Drake opened the door and stepped out onto the step.

  Louisa watched him look ahead, then he yelled, “Winchelsea!”

  Two seconds later, a puzzled “My lord?” floated back.

  Drake responded, “I have urgent business with Her Majesty. On the authority of the Prime Minister, stop her coach.”

  Louisa scooted to the other window, hung out, and peered ahead. She saw one of the guards who had ridden their way wheel his horse and spur back to the royal carriage.

  Still half out of the door, Drake ordered, “Push forward as far as you can, then stop.”

  To Louisa’s amazement, Henry managed to squeeze them one place closer, then he hauled his horses to an abrupt halt.

  “Come on.” Louisa turned to see Drake beckoning. He’d already dropped to the road. She wasted no time in grabbing his offered hand and joining him, then together, they raced around the carriage and horses now wedged between the royal carriage, which had halted in the middle of the road, and Drake’s now-stationary carriage.

  Given the milling guardsmen, not one driver or passenger was complaining.

  Drake reached the royal carriage, glanced at Louisa and fleetingly met her eyes, then he faced the carriage, opened the door, and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty. Your Highness.”

  Beside him, Louisa sank into a full court curtsy.

  “My lord Winchelsea.” The Queen’s tones were those of the matron she was and also somewhat peevish. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Drake raised Louisa, then faced the Queen. “With our deepest respects, Your Majesty, this matter is urgent. You must turn back and return to the palace.” The prince had leant forward to look past the Queen; Drake met his eyes briefly before saying to the Queen, “Lady Louisa will explain. I must hurry to the Tower, where an ambush has been laid, unbeknown to any of the guards.”

  The Queen’s expression was tightening. She could, on occasion, be exceedingly stubborn. “But I need—”

  “Liebchen.” Albert placed his hand on her arm and spoke quietly. “I believe we should do as your faithful Lord Winchelsea suggests.” Albert knew Drake and could be counted on to react as necessary whenever any threat to the Queen surfaced. “We should take no risks—none whatsoever. We can decide and send a courier to retrieve the pieces you wish to wear tonight. If something is afoot at the Tower, we should not drive needlessly into it.”

  The Queen uttered a sound that in a lesser mortal would have been called a grunt. After a second, she fixed her protuberant eyes on Louisa, waiting beside Drake for permission to enter the carriage. “Very well.” The Queen waved Louisa up and huffily said, “Lady Louisa may come up and explain everything to us as we travel back to the palace.”

  As Albert gave orders to the guards’ officer who’d drawn up by the carriage on Albert’s side to turn their small cavalcade around and return to the palace, Louisa gripped Drake’s hand, and he helped her up into the carriage.

  Then he stepped back and bowed low. “With your permission, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, yes.” Lips thin, Victoria waved him away.

  Drake shut the door and raced back to his carriage. Louisa felt a tug in her chest as his dark head vanished from her sight, hidden behind the jostling bodies of the guardsmen’s horses.

  Still standing, she waited as Lady Anthea Gorton, Victoria’s lady-in-waiting for this trip and an acquaintance of Louisa’s, lifted Victoria’s heavy, ermine-trimmed cloak and shuffled along the rear-facing seat to make room, then Louisa sat and faced the Queen and Prince.

  “Your Majesty. Your Highness.” She drew breath and plunged in. “It appears that an old gentleman has plotted to blow you—both of you—up.”

  The heavy black carriage rocked into motion, then turned left up a street to come around; through the window, from the c
orner of her eye, Louisa glimpsed Drake’s carriage dash past and on toward the Tower.

  To the cellar of the Jewel House where, if their deductions were correct, Bevis Griswade had assembled ten hundredweight of gunpowder that he intended to detonate at close to three o’clock, a time when, had Victoria followed her customary routine, the Queen and Prince Albert would be in the upstairs chamber of the Jewel House, making her selections for the state banquet that evening.

  Louisa knew the Queen well enough to know better than to attempt to gloss over the bald facts. Her Majesty had survived at least two attempts on her life and was definitely no longer the sort of woman to fall into hysterics, if she ever had been. As quickly and as concisely as she could, restricting herself to the essential elements of the plot, she related the gist of what they had uncovered, what they now understood, and what they now believed.

  Prince Albert was a godsend. While Victoria wanted to know this or that, and was inclined to demand answers to a host of minor questions, the prince grasped the critical nature of the situation with admirable swiftness. “I take it,” he said, “that Lord Winchelsea has gone on to the Tower to attempt to halt the explosion.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Louisa seized her chance and went on, “With Your Majesty’s permission, I would like to follow and lend what assistance I can.” The farther the carriage traveled and the distance from the Tower increased, the more the compulsion to leap out and race after Drake grew. “Lord Winchelsea will focus on what needs to be done, and he will not have sufficient time to explain to the guards and others there what I’ve just told you—he will use his authority to clear his path. But there are many officers, guards, and other workers in the Tower who will not know what’s going on—I can assist in minimizing the inevitable confusion, and that might be vital in securing the outcome we would prefer.”

  Albert met her gaze directly, and before Victoria could huff and puff—she did not like her ladies-in-waiting to go gallivanting about, as she termed it—the prince stated, “You and Lord Winchelsea have rendered us a great service this day, Lady Louisa.” Albert patted Victoria’s hand and continued, “I believe we must accede to your request.”

  It wasn’t quite a question, but the Queen understood the message. She fixed Louisa with a searching look, then nodded. “Very well. By all means go, but at the first opportunity, we will expect you both at the palace to report on the outcome.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Gracefully, Louisa bowed low—the best she could manage while seated in the carriage.

  Albert called for the carriage to halt. Louisa edged along the seat and gripped the door handle.

  “If there is anything we can do, Lady Louisa—any assistance we may offer—you have only to ask.”

  The Queen’s unexpectedly supportive words, uttered, Louisa knew, in all sincerity, gave her pause. Then she glanced at Lady Anthea before looking at Victoria. “Actually, Your Majesty…”

  Three minutes later, she was being helped to the saddle of one of the guardsmen’s horses. Having to ride astride meant her skirts were rucked, but Victoria’s heavy velvet cloak fell past the shortened stirrups and concealed the scandalous sight.

  Not that Louisa cared about being scandalous at such a time; she’d requested the cloak for another reason entirely.

  “Are you sure you can hold him?” The worried guardsman she’d unhorsed reluctantly handed her the reins. “You could ride pillion.”

  The smile Louisa bent on him would have cut glass. “I’ve been riding since infancy, John Marlowe, including in Scotland, where most ladies ride astride. I can handle any beast you can—now get out of my way.”

  She barely waited for him to comply before she set her heels to the horse’s flanks and sent him flying, tacking through traffic at breakneck speed.

  Behind her, she heard the thunder of hooves as the three guardsmen the prince had ordered to go with her attempted to keep up.

  They couldn’t. She was much lighter. She was also more driven. Gradually, the guardsmen fell behind.

  By then as one with the horse, Louisa all but flew toward the Tower.

  Almost certainly, Griswade would be in the cellar of the Jewel House when Drake reached it.

  The Queen and Prince Albert might now be safe, but that wasn’t the end of the threat. There was no question in her mind that Drake would do whatever was needed to prevent the explosion.

  But he might need help to come out of the encounter alive.

  That was the possibility that thudded inside her with every beat of her heart.

  Instinct, primitive and powerful, insisted she fly to his side, whispered that he might well need help, that he might need a distraction.

  And no one delivered distraction more effectively than Lady Wild.

  CHAPTER 56

  A s he had that morning, ex-Captain Bevis Griswade walked confidently through the arched entrance of Middle Tower and into the Outer Ward. The guards stationed in the archway tipped their heads; he acknowledged them with the customary abbreviated nod.

  In the excitement to come, they wouldn’t remember him, one among so many officers passing them that day.

  Griswade strode on around the Outer Ward and turned under the arched passageway of the Bloody Tower. The guards there—different guards from those on the morning roster—also acknowledged him. They were on their best behavior, knowing their queen would arrive shortly.

  Griswade noted the thin, prim-faced, black-coated man waiting with a species of anxious expectation at the inner entrance to the Bloody Tower. Mr. Proudfoot, Keeper of the Crown Jewels. An extra guard stood beside him, and they were passing the time in idle chatter while they waited for their sovereign to appear.

  Good. Griswade allowed himself a small smile at the confirmation of the old man’s omniscience. As always, his intelligence had been accurate down to the smallest detail, and his suggested timing was nothing less than perfect. The Queen and her entourage would be arriving at the entrance to the Inner Ward in about ten minutes. Five minutes or so after that, she and her German prince would be in the upper chamber of the Jewel House.

  Everything was proceeding according to plan.

  Once again, as soon as the White Tower concealed him from those gathered at the Bloody Tower, Griswade smoothly altered course and walked steadily, unhurriedly, toward the Jewel House.

  From the inside pocket of his coat, he drew out an official-looking checklist printed with the names of the various breweries and merchants who supplied the Waterloo Block officers’ mess. Naturally, the list included the Phoenix Brewery. Griswade also drew out a pencil.

  With no pause in his stride, he walked directly to the Jewel House and mounted the five steps to the narrow porch shading the front door. He rapped peremptorily, yet lightly, on the wooden frame—he didn’t want to alert the four guards who, according the old man’s information, would be on the upper floor.

  He waited, praying that his knock would have been loud enough to be heard by Mrs. Proudfoot, who should have been somewhere on the ground floor, in the Keeper’s rooms.

  Eventually, he heard the sound of light footsteps approaching, then the door opened, and Mrs. Proudfoot, a tallish, thin, and rather gawky woman in her mid-thirties with pale-brown hair and pale-brown eyes, looked at him inquiringly, a tinge of surprise in her face.

  Griswade brandished his list and kept his voice low. “I’ve been sent by Captain Conroy to take an inventory of the barrels in the cellar.” Captain Conroy was the officer in charge of the officers’ mess.

  Mrs. Proudfoot made a disapproving sound. “Her Majesty is due at any moment. Can’t it wait?”

  Griswade summoned a genial smile. “I won’t trip up Her Majesty—I won’t even be seen. I’ll be in the cellar.”

  Mrs. Proudfoot stared, but Griswade kept his smile in place and didn’t give an inch.

  Eventually, Mrs. Proudfoot heaved a put-upon sigh. She peered past Griswade at the White Tower—in the direction of the Bloody Tower—but as yet, there was neither
sight nor sound of any arrival. “Oh, very well.” Mrs. Proudfoot stood back and waved Griswade inside. “Come in, but you’d best get down there straightaway.”

  His next move was one on which the old man’s intelligence had offered no insight; he knew of the Jewel House but had never been inside it. Griswade walked into the hall—all wooden walls, floor, and ceiling—and waited until Mrs. Proudfoot shut the door and turned his way before, with an apologetic look, he all but whispered, “I haven’t been sent to do this before. Where’s the door?”

  Mrs. Proudfoot humphed. “I’ll show you.” She moved past him and led the way down a corridor to the left of the stairs. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a lantern as well?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  She humphed again and halted, then she released a catch concealed in the paneling of the wall beneath the stairs, and a door swung open. “This way.”

  Griswade followed her into what appeared to be a storeroom under the stairs. Mrs. Proudfoot went to a narrow shelf that jutted from the underside of the stairs. Two lanterns stood waiting; she fumbled with a match and lit one. After adjusting the wick, she picked up the lantern, turned, and played the light over a heavy wooden door set into the opposite wall.

  She crossed to the door, opened it, and pulled it wide. “There you are.” She moved into the doorway, held up the lantern, and waved, encompassing the cellar’s contents. “That’s what you’re after.”

  Silently, Griswade shifted closer and looked over her head. A small landing lay beyond the door, and from that, a set of stone steps led down into the flagstone-paved cellar. There was a stone wall to the right, supporting the landing and the steps and restricting his view of the space, but the area he could see was filled with low stacks of crates, and beyond, lining the walls, stood barrels of every description.