The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 14
They congregated on the narrow pavement outside Number 16, Adam Street. Gray hung back with Izzy, Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby as Baines, supported by Littlejohn, knocked on the door.
A middle-aged woman, gray-haired and neatly dressed in a rather severe gown, opened the door.
“Police, ma’am.” Baines held up his badge. “We’re looking for a Mr. Henry Duvall.”
The woman looked surprised, but readily replied, “He’s not here, Officer. He works at the Board of Trade, you know. He would have left this morning. I don’t keep tabs on when my gentlemen come and go, but he often works on Saturday.”
“Not today, ma’am. We’ve just come from his office.”
“Oh. I see. Well, no doubt he’s out and about with his friends, as you might expect of a man his age.” She’d noticed the rest of their company lined up by the curb and was growing increasingly curious.
Baines’s shoulders lowered, and he touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Gray and Izzy exchanged startled looks, then Gray stepped forward. “Inspector, as we are here and Duvall is not, it might be wise to search his rooms.”
Baines’s face cleared. He shook his head at himself. “Not used to chasing this sort of villain,” he muttered, then turned to the landlady. “If we might trouble you to show us his room, ma’am, we’ll just take a quick look.”
The landlady hesitated, but now-rampant curiosity triumphed. “Yes, of course.” She swung around. “Follow me.”
Baines glanced at Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby. “You lot better stay there.”
Gray was a trifle surprised when all three readily agreed. He trailed Izzy as she followed Baines and Littlejohn up a narrow stair to the first floor. One of four small apartments, Duvall’s domain filled the front right corner.
The landlady unlocked the door and stood back. “You don’t need me, do you?”
Baines assured her they could manage without her, and once the four of them had filed into the room, she quickly went back down the stairs.
They spread through the two rooms—a small sitting room with an even smaller bedroom off it, with a bathing alcove in one curtained-off corner. Littlejohn followed Izzy into the bedroom, while Baines went straight to the desk against the front wall.
Gray spotted the notices and invitations on the mantelpiece above the small grate. He quickly looked through them, but found nothing of interest.
He looked around, but the sparse furniture held little prospect of any useful, hidden information. He glanced out of the window and saw Hennessy, below, notebook in hand, chatting avidly to the landlady. Donaldson and Digby were across the street, setting up to take the woman’s photograph before the door of her house.
Gray couldn’t help but smile. Clearly, Hennessy wasn’t one to miss an opportunity to collect background color for his story.
Izzy and Littlejohn reappeared. “Nothing noteworthy in the bedroom,” Littlejohn reported.
“Except,” Izzy said, “for the quality of his clothes, which is rather remarkable for a lowly undersecretary.”
Bending over the desk drawer, Baines huffed. “That fits with what’s here—nothing but tailor’s bills. Startling amounts, too.”
Gray frowned. “Let me see.”
Baines held out a stack of rumpled papers.
Gray took them and quickly scanned them.
Izzy came to stand by his shoulder.
He handed the stack to her. “If these are any indication, he was definitely living well beyond his means, especially for one who, according to Hennessy, is deep in debt.”
Baines sniffed. “If he’s being paid by foreigners, we’re unlikely to be able to trace it.”
Izzy handed the bills back, and Gray crossed to the desk and dropped them back in the drawer, which Baines had left open.
Looking down, Gray shut the drawer and froze.
Izzy noticed. “What is it?”
He stooped, reached into the wastepaper basket beneath the desk, and drew out five pieces of torn paper. He straightened and turned them over in his hands, aligning the pieces, which were from two separate wrappers. Face hardening, he looked at Baines and handed him the pieces. “One is a wrapper from a largish packet of black powder. The other is from a packet of blasting fuse.”
Baines and Littlejohn confirmed that.
Littlejohn raised his head. “So he has his explosives?”
Grimly, Gray nodded. “Ready to go.” He started for the door, and Izzy followed. “I think,” he said, “we should assume that Duvall has seen The Crier and taken himself to Dover to complete his mission before anyone—like Winchelsea—can stop him.”
Baines and Littlejohn clattered down the stairs behind them. “The landlady said Duvall left this morning. He might already be there.”
“Or,” Izzy said as she followed Gray out of the front door, “he might have gone somewhere else first and still be in town. We just don’t know.”
With the Strand so close, they hadn’t kept the hackneys. Gray nodded to the landlady and, with Izzy, walked a little way along the street, then they stopped and waited for the others to catch up.
Baines and Littlejohn joined them, then Hennessy, Donaldson and Digby, having taken their leave of the landlady, came hurrying up.
“Anything?” Hennessy asked.
Gray explained what they’d found. “We need to decide what we should do next—what would be best for us to do next.”
“Drake—Winchelsea—will already have warned the Dover telegraph station,” Izzy pointed out, “so they’ll be on their guard, which, at this point, is the best we can do at that end.”
Gray nodded and met Baines’s eyes. “It’s Duvall we need to catch—now more than ever. Given he’s carrying around the wherewithal to demolish a small building, if there’s any hope of catching him before he lights the fuse, we have to seize it.”
Baines and Littlejohn agreed.
“At this moment,” Baines said, “we don’t know if he’s already left for Dover.” He looked at Gray and Izzy. “He wouldn’t have taken the coach, would he?”
“I can’t imagine why he would,” Gray said, “given the train is so much more convenient. And he isn’t wealthy enough to keep horses in town and is unlikely to hire a carriage and drive down, either.”
“Right, then.” Baines nodded with decision. “The first thing we need to learn is whether he’s already gone down on the train or if, for some reason, he’s still lurking in town.”
“The terminus for the Dover train is London Bridge,” Littlejohn supplied.
“Let’s go there and ask.” Gray grasped Izzy’s hand and turned toward the Strand. “Once we know where he is—down there or up here—we can decide what our next move should be.”
Their hackneys drew up outside the front door of the South Eastern Railway terminus, on the south bank of the Thames just east of London Bridge.
During the short ride, the members of their party had, apparently, become infected with a sense of urgency; they all but fell out of the carriages in their haste to learn whether Duvall had left London.
Her hand in Gray’s, Izzy remained beside him as they pushed through the front doors.
He looked around, then pointed to their left. “Over there.”
A sign identified the booking office, and their company descended on one of the two manned windows.
Izzy dove into her reticule, pulled out the photograph showing Duvall, and thrust it at Baines. “Here—ask if they’ve seen him.”
Baines seized the photograph, fronted the counter, and after identifying himself and Littlejohn, stated, “We’re hot on the track of a felon.”
His rank and that opening had the men in the ticket office gathering on the other side of the window.
Baines held up the photograph and pointed out Duvall. “This gentleman here.” He handed over the photograph. “Have any of you seen him over the past hours—say from ten o’clock onward? He would have been wanting to take the train to Dover.”
Hennessy, who’d hung back, scanning the overhead sign listing the trains, called, “There was a train at nine-thirty, another at eleven-thirty, and one about to leave at one-thirty.”
The five men in the booking office passed the photograph around, and the youngest said, “Oh aye. I remember him.”
“What train did he leave on?” Baines reached beneath the grille and beckoned to have the photograph returned.
The clerk came to the window and handed the photograph over. “Well, he hasn’t left yet. He bought a ticket for the one-thirty to Dover about half an hour ago.” The clerk squinted up at the sign, with its large clock on one end. “Daresay he’ll be on board by now—that train’s due to pull out in another three minutes.”
Baines’s expression cleared. “You have to stop that train.”
The clerks looked shocked.
“Stop it?” the youngest parroted.
“We can’t do that, mate,” the eldest said. “Worth our jobs, it’d be, messing with the schedule.”
“But it’s vital we capture him!” Baines insisted. “You have to at least hold the train and let us nab him.”
“Don’t know about that, sir—Inspector,” the eldest said, with the other four nodding seriously. “Not something we can do, is it?”
Fixated on stopping the train, Baines, joined by Littlejohn, continued to plead their case.
Izzy cast a startled glance at Gray, caught his eyes, and looked at the clock.
Gray nodded and moved with her to the other window.
He attracted the attention of one of the clerks and promptly asked for seven tickets for the Dover train about to depart.
The clerk reeled them off, took Gray’s money, and handed over the tickets.
With Gray, Izzy turned.
Baines was red-faced and close to shouting.
Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby had seen what Gray and Izzy were about and had collected themselves and their equipment and started for the platform.
Gray tore off four tickets and thrust them at Izzy. “Go with the others. We’ll catch up.”
She took the tickets and went. In her skirts, she couldn’t run as fast as the men could.
Following the others, before she rounded the corner, she glanced back and saw Gray grab Baines’s shoulder and haul him away from the window, waving the tickets in his face. “Leave it—we’ll have to catch the train and pick him up in Dover.”
Izzy heard the first warning toot and, picking up her skirts, ran flat out after the other three.
From behind, she heard one of the clerks helpfully sing out, “It’s Platform C you want.”
Izzy was close behind Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby when the three ran onto the platform.
“All aboard for Dover!” came the stentorian bellow from the guard at the very rear of the train.
Digby, in the lead, leapt up, caught the lever handle of the door at the end of the last carriage, dragged it down, and swung the door wide.
Puffing, Hennessy nodded at Digby and staggered up the iron ladder, then turned to take the heavy camera Donaldson held up. Hands freed, Donaldson turned to help Izzy up the steps, then grabbed the tripod Digby had been carting and leapt up after her.
The train whistle sounded—one long piercing blast.
“Come on, Digby,” Donaldson urged.
“The others are coming—I can see them,” Digby reported. Then he looked up and explained, “The conductors can’t let a train start if there’s a door open.”
“Clever boy,” Izzy remarked and made her way into the carriage.
Seconds later, Gray arrived, followed by Baines, huffing and puffing and all but pushed up the steps by Littlejohn. Digby nimbly hopped on board and slammed the door after him, just as an irate conductor came running up.
Scowling, the conductor checked the door was shut, then turned toward the front of the train and bellowed, “Stand clear!” With that, he put a whistle to his lips and blew a long, shrill note, then waved a green flag out to his side.
The train gave one last long whistle, then jerked into motion.
Those still standing caught themselves, then as the carriage settled to a steady rattling roll, made their way to where Izzy had slid onto one of the bench seats facing forward. It was a second-class carriage, so had no compartments, but the other passengers in that carriage were seated closer to the other end, sufficiently far away to allow their party to converse in reasonable privacy.
Gray sat beside Izzy, and Baines and Littlejohn slid onto the bench seat opposite. Hennessy had claimed the seat on the other side of the aisle to Gray, while Donaldson and Digby piled their bag and equipment on the seat beside Hennessy, then sat on the bench seat opposite.
For several minutes, they all simply sat and caught their breaths.
Baines eventually looked around their group. “Anyone know the stops?”
Donaldson replied, “Mertsham first, then the track veers to the east and it’s Tonbridge, Ashford, and Folkestone, before we get to Dover.”
Izzy smiled at her new photographer. “Having you hail from Dover is going to be useful when we get to the other end.”
Donaldson smiled back.
They sat in silence for some time, each, no doubt, busy with their thoughts.
After a while, Izzy’s mind caught up with events enough for her to raise her head and peer down the carriage, checking who was there. No gentleman of Duvall’s height or coloring was among the dozen or so people sharing the carriage.
Then Baines cleared his throat. “Seeing our man is supposedly on this train, should we search the carriages? Use each stop to search through a few, moving forward toward the front of the train?”
From his expression, it was clear he wasn’t enamored of the idea but had felt he had to air it.
Izzy shook her head. “I’m not at all sure that would be a good idea.”
“We know he’s carrying explosives,” Gray pointed out. “We know he’s had the black powder and fuse with him for several hours before he got on the train. We have to assume he’s set up powder and fuse in such a way that igniting the fuse and detonating his bomb will be easy.” Gray caught Baines’s gaze. “If we corner him, or even if he sees us coming, who can tell what he might do?”
Everyone remained silent as the possibilities sank in.
“He’ll most likely be in a first-class carriage,” Izzy observed. “There’ll be others there as well—ladies, gentlemen, even children, and all of the sort the authorities would especially not wish to see harmed.”
Littlejohn nodded. “I agree. Sounds like our best bet will be to follow him once he leaves the train in Dover. At least we know he’s on the train and not already down there, blowing the telegraph station sky-high.”
That was met by nods all around, including from Baines.
“We can follow him and choose our moment,” Gray said. “Preferably once he’s away from the center of the town.” He glanced at Donaldson. “You said the telegraph station was in the shadow of the castle’s guns. I’m assuming that means on the edge of the town.”
Donaldson nodded. “That’s the last house, really, before Castle Hill Road turns up the hill toward the castle gates.”
Hennessy looked at Gray. “Do you have any idea how much damage the stuff Duvall is carrying might cause?”
Gray appeared to mentally calculate, then said, “I can’t, of course, be sure, but depending on the size of the house, it’ll almost certainly cause extensive damage. Possibly not enough to bring down the walls or roof, but enough to destroy most of the interior.”
Hennessy grunted. “So enough for Duvall’s—and Roccard’s and his masters’—purposes.”
Gray leaned back against the seat. “If Roccard and his masters’ aim is to cause chaos and sow public panic and distrust of the telegraph…” Grimly, Gray nodded. “More than enough.”
Izzy faced forward and pondered that as their company settled, and the train rattled and rocked toward Dover.
When the train pulled into Dover Town Station, by general agreement, Gray descended first, handed Izzy down, and arm in arm, they started walking briskly along the platform as if they were a couple returning from a quick visit to London and had somewhere else to be. As Duvall hadn’t seen either of them before, they’d been delegated to follow him most closely.
Izzy scanned the passengers ahead of them. “At least we know he didn’t get off the train earlier.”
At every stop, Donaldson, his face another Duvall hadn’t previously seen, had hung out of the open doorway of their carriage and watched the travelers who’d left the train, confirming that Duvall hadn’t done so.
Gray searched the hordes streaming toward the gates. “I wish we knew in which carriage he was traveling.”
“There he is.” Izzy slowed. “Climbing down from that first-class carriage ahead, behind the lady in the pink bonnet.”
The pink bonnet was easy to spot, and sure enough, Duvall stepped down to the platform just behind it. “And,” Gray observed, “he’s carrying a decent-sized briefcase. I think we can be sure what’s in it.”
They slowed, tacked, and settled to follow Duvall at a distance of ten or so yards, with several other people between them. Due to his height and his hat, he was easy to track.
Walking confidently, he headed directly up the platform to the exit to the town. Not once did he glance even briefly around; apparently, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might be followed.
Gray glanced back and confirmed that the others were coming along, but keeping their distance. Duvall would definitely recognize Hennessy, possibly Digby, and might even identify Baines and Littlejohn as policemen. There was something about their profession that marked them; most Londoners would know them on sight.
Facing forward, Gray steered Izzy into the thickening throng as the disembarking passengers funneled through the open gates onto the station concourse. Once past the constriction, they followed Duvall in turning away from the row of waiting hackneys and joining the stream of passengers walking up Clarence Place, toward the intersection with Snargate and the road to the town center.
By then, Gray and Izzy were more than ten yards behind Duvall with quite a crowd in between. As the line stretched out, Gray spotted Martin Cynster ahead, also behind Duvall. Walking beside Martin was another tall gentleman who, by his features, was also a Cynster.
The Cynster pair were striding along, chatting easily, apparently unaware Duvall was only a few yards ahead of them.
Did they know? Gray thought not.
He lengthened his pace; instinctively, Izzy matched his stride.
He felt her glance at him. Briefly, he met her gaze. “Those two gentlemen a few yards behind Duvall—can you see them?”
She had to weave slightly to see past others, then said, “One is Toby Cynster, and the other looks like another Cynster, but strangely, not one I know.”
“He’s Martin Cynster—the man whose fortune you were intending to expose.”
“Ah.” She studied the pair, now drawing nearer as Gray tacked around the intervening people. “He looks younger than I expected.”
“He’s twenty-four, and if his companion is Toby Cynster—who I understand is one of Drake’s occasional helpers—I think we can assume they’ve been sent by Drake to keep watch for Duvall.”
Izzy considered the duo, now four yards ahead. “I don’t think they know Duvall is just ahead of them.”
“No. Drake didn’t take a photograph, so he could have given them only a verbal description, and Duvall is wearing a hat.” He considered, then said, “Play along.”
He raised his voice and called, “Martin!” When, surprised, Martin glanced around, Gray smiled affably, but caught Martin’s gaze and held it. “Fancy running into you down here.”
Drake would have told Martin and Toby about those pursuing Duvall. Gray angled Izzy to the side of the path, out of the stream of people heading for the town.
Martin’s face cleared, and he smiled. “Lord Child!” He tugged Toby’s sleeve, and the pair stepped to the side, halted, and waited for Gray and Izzy to join them.
As they neared, Martin gestured to Toby. “Allow me to present my cousin, Toby Cynster.”
Halting before the pair, Izzy nodded to Toby and extended her hand to Martin. “Lady Isadora Descartes.”
While Martin bowed over her hand, Gray held out his to Toby. “Grayson Child.”
His easy expression belied by the active intelligence in his hazel eyes, Toby shook hands. “A pleasure, my lord. I’ve heard you’ve been sighted around town recently.” He inclined his head to Izzy. “Both of you.”
That seemed to confirm that Drake had filled the pair in. “Indeed.” Gray kept his expression mild and engaging. Lowering his voice, he said, “We weren’t sure if you were aware that the man ahead of you, the one with the black hat, was the gentleman you’ve been sent here to hunt.”
“He is?” Toby tensed, but stopped himself from glancing around. “He’s down here already?”
Martin glanced sidelong. “The man with the case?”
“Indeed.” Izzy smiled as if they were exchanging pleasantries. “That’s him, and we believe we can guess what’s inside the case.”
“Namely, explosives,” Gray said.
“Ah.” Toby’s expression blanked, and Martin suddenly looked grave.
Gray had continued to track Duvall, who was walking steadily on in a manner guaranteed to attract no attention.
To the Cynster pair, Izzy brightly said, “Come, walk with us. We can go into the town together.” She retook Gray’s arm and waved ahead.
Martin and Toby turned to flank Gray and Izzy, and as a foursome, they strolled on in apparently relaxed fashion.
Duvall was now farther ahead, yet with the intervening pedestrians thinning as many hurried on or turned aside to their homes, there was no risk of losing sight of him and, therefore, no reason to close the distance. Not yet.
Gray glanced back and confirmed the others were trailing some yards behind. Unless Duvall had a sudden attack of suspicion and stopped and scanned carefully behind him, he wasn’t likely to spot them.
Duvall continued striding along, his pace confident and sure.
Gray said, “There’s a group trailing us, about six yards back. Two policemen and three staff from The Crier.”
Toby and Martin glanced idly back, then faced forward again. “Good-oh,” Toby said. “That means we won’t have any trouble arresting the blighter and putting him in cuffs.”
Izzy smiled. “Just so.”
They were well along Snargate and could see the buildings of the town’s center ahead.
“So when and how are we going to nab him?” Martin asked.
“Given he’s got that case with him,” Toby mused, “we’re going to have to pick our time.”
“It can’t be while he’s close to other people,” Izzy pointed out.
Martin asked, “Do you think he’s got the powder rigged to ignite?”
“We have to assume he has,” Gray replied. “He had more than enough time to do that before he left his lodgings.”
Toby nodded. “I agree. We can’t take the chance he’ll do something stupid and end up harming a lot of others.”
Gray had been studying Duvall. “He really is utterly oblivious. Let’s take the chance and get the others to join us. We need Baines and Littlejohn’s input for whatever plan we devise.”
Martin, Toby, and Izzy agreed, and Gray turned and beckoned the others forward.
The five rapidly closed the distance.
While they continued strolling in an expanded group, after the briefest of introductions, Gray explained the limitations they faced in capturing Duvall.
“How long do you think that fuse he has might last for?” Littlejohn asked. “A minute? Two? Or less than half a minute?”
“That depends on what type of fuse he’s used…” Gray turned to Baines. “You have the wrapper, I think.”
Baines dug in his pockets and produced the torn pieces of the packet that had contained the fuse. Gray pieced the scraps together, read the information, calculated, then said, “Assuming he has four inches of fuse leading into the briefcase, then the time from ignition to detonation should be in the order of two to three minutes. Definitely not more.”
“So,” Toby said, still walking at an easy pace, “just enough time to light the fuse and scarper.”
Gray nodded. “That’s likely his plan.” After a moment, he glanced at Donaldson. “Donaldson, you know the town best. Assuming he’s making his way directly to the telegraph station, where en route is he going to be farthest from any crowds?”
Donaldson grimaced. “That depends on which route he takes. Once he reaches the end of Snargate, there are several ways he might go, but if he sticks with the general flow of people, he’ll most likely go up to Castle Street and follow it east. That will lead him directly to the bottom of Castle Hill Road. Once he starts up that—as he must given the telegraph station is about halfway up, around the first bend—that’s where there’s unlikely to be many others about.”
Gray glanced at the others. “It sounds as if the best moment to pounce will be once he’s on Castle Hill Road.”
Agreement showed on most faces. No one argued.
“Right, then.” Baines nodded at Duvall, striding on ahead of them. “Let’s keep trailing him and see how the land lies farther on.”
They broke into smaller groups again, strung out along the pavement. Martin and Toby went ahead, two young gentlemen out to enjoy the day. Gray and Izzy followed a few yards behind, arm in arm, a couple making their way somewhere. Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby chatted about photography as they followed, while Baines and Littlejohn brought up the rear.
Duvall reached the end of Snargate and strode ahead into Townwall Street, but then stopped and paused as if weighing his options. After a second’s dithering, he turned left, along with most of the other pedestrians.
Their company followed. Izzy and Gray remained on the same side of the street as Duvall, with Baines and Littlejohn trailing them. Toby and Martin crossed to the other side of the street, with Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby keeping farther back on that side.
The street curved to the right, then straightened and opened into a central marketplace. Instead of continuing into the square, Duvall veered right, into a street lined with shops—the Castle Street that Donaldson had mentioned.
It was midafternoon, and there were plenty of shoppers about, providing cover enough to allow their company to congregate again.
Sauntering along ten yards behind Duvall, Toby said, “We need to work out how, exactly, to capture him, and it’s occurred to me that it’s not illegal to walk around with a case full of gunpowder, even one with a fuse attached.” He glanced at Baines. “Is it?”
Baines’s sour expression was answer enough. “Much as we might wish it, no, it’s not.”
“But,” Littlejohn said, “surely we can take him up on suspicion and stop him from blowing up the telegraph station—or anything else.”
Baines snorted. “Simply pounce on him and haul him off? Once we get him to the station and he insists on hearing the charge, we won’t have anything, and he’ll just leave. And then he’ll catch the first boat to Calais, and we won’t be able to stop him doing that, either.”
“True,” Toby said. “And none of that will satisfy Winchelsea or his masters. If you try to take him up, Duvall is clever enough to keep his mouth shut, and then you’ll have to release him, and nothing will have been gained other than a delay. Roccard will keep trying, if not via Duvall, then with someone else—someone else whom we might not learn about in time.”
Hennessy looked at Baines. “Can’t you arrest Duvall for Quimby’s murder?”
Littlejohn nodded and appealed to Baines. “Surely we can do that?”
Baines met Toby’s eyes and grimaced. “The evidence is circumstantial. Digby saw Duvall in the lane, and he was in one of Quimby’s photographs. So what? Others heard him speaking with Roccard, who I’m guessing parades around as a wealthy foreign businessman.” He glanced at Hennessy. “Am I right?”
It was Hennessy’s turn to grimace. “From what I’ve gathered.”
“So all Duvall has to do is say they were just making up a story or talking about some place in Belgium.” Baines shook his head. “It won’t stick.”
A glum silence fell, then Gray said, “Regardless of how we feel about Quimby’s murder or anything else, we have to focus on the critical element here, and that’s exposing the plot against the telegraph.”
Izzy saw the light. “Of course. Exposing the plot to blow up the telegraph will alert the public that any such attempt to make the telegraph seem dangerous or to blow up stations is the work of foreign criminals trying to hoodwink the British public into believing the telegraph is dangerous.” She looked at Gray, Toby, and Martin. “That’s it, isn’t it? What’s really at stake here?”
All three nodded.
Baines grunted and looked at Duvall, who was still confidently striding on ahead of them. “So we have to make this stick. We have to not only seize him but also make sure we have irrefutable evidence of what he’s planning to do.”
“That’s our challenge,” Toby confirmed.
“So,” Martin asked, “how are we going to meet it?”
They walked on for several paces, still close enough to talk, then Baines reluctantly said, “As far as I can see, our only option is to allow the blighter to walk into the telegraph station with that bomb and try to light the fuse.”
Toby slowly nodded. “I can’t say you’re wrong. And the telegraph stationmaster was warned by Winchelsea, so they should be on the lookout.”
Grim-faced, Martin muttered what they were all thinking. “There has to be a better way.”
They wracked their brains as they walked along, trailing Duvall.
When they saw the end of Castle Street ahead and, beyond the next intersection, the rising grade of Castle Hill Road leading up and away to the right, Toby said, “He’s heading straight to the telegraph station.” He glanced at the group. “Time’s up. We need a plan, and we need to agree to it now.”
“There’s no help for it,” Baines glumly said. “We’re going to have to allow the devil to go in with his bomb. But we’ll need to be right on his heels and grab him before he can actually light the fuse.”
Reluctantly, everyone agreed, and in short order, they devised their plan.
Gray and Izzy stepped ahead. They would shadow Duvall most closely and narrow the distance even further as he neared the telegraph station.
Baines and Littlejohn followed Gray and Izzy. Once Duvall rounded the bend in Castle Hill Road and could no longer see the policemen, they would hurry to catch up. From memory, Donaldson estimated the distance from the point of the bend to the telegraph station to be twenty-five to thirty yards. The instant Duvall went through the station’s door, Gray would return to the corner and signal the policemen to start running.
Meanwhile, Martin and Toby would approach the telegraph station from the other end of Victoria Park Terrace. Toby had picked up a map of Dover at London Bridge Station, and during the train journey, he and Martin had memorized the various ways to reach the telegraph station. Their aim was to be approaching the house from the other direction or idling outside it as Duvall neared. Donaldson confirmed their idea was sound.
Gray and Izzy crossed the intersection and started up Castle Hill Road in Duvall’s wake. Toby and Martin were close behind, but a few yards along, peeled left and started up Laureston Place, which would lead them to the lower end of Victoria Park Terrace. Their way would be more than twice as long; as with Izzy on his arm, Gray paced the narrow pavement bordering Castle Hill Road, distantly, he heard the younger men running.
Duvall toiled steadily up the sharply rising street. While his obliviousness seemed remarkable, in actual fact, behaving as he was and not looking around was exactly the right way to avoid notice. He appeared to be a man who knew where he was going and nothing more—entirely unsuspicious.
As they gained altitude, Gray looked out over Dover harbor, extending his survey to glance behind. In an undertone, he reported to Izzy, “Baines and Littlejohn are three yards behind us, and the others are close behind them.”
She smiled up at him as if he’d made some witty comment. “Let’s close the distance. That hairpin bend ahead looks steep. We don’t want him getting too far ahead.”
He nodded. She was right. Duvall was managing the steepness with ease; the same couldn’t be said of Baines.
They’d agreed that Toby, Martin, Baines, and Littlejohn, in whatever order, would rush into the station as soon as possible after Duvall, hopefully catching him in the act of lighting a match with his bomb at his feet and preventing him from setting it off. Presumably, the telegraph staff, having been alerted by Drake, would assist in that endeavor. Gray, Izzy, Donaldson, Hennessy, and Digby would remain outside, out of the way.
The timing would be tight, but given how long it took to withdraw a box of lucifers from a pocket, open the box, take one out, strike it, then urge a fuse to catch alight, they should have enough time to stop Duvall from actually igniting the fuse.
Even if the fuse was lit, it could be pulled out as long as they were quick.
Leaning on Gray’s arm, Izzy hurried a few steps to keep up with Gray’s longer strides.
Duvall was just rounding the sharply rising curve to the left and, for that moment, was able to look down on them, and the action caught his eye.
Izzy laughed and, on Gray’s arm, leaned close. “I’m so excited about visiting Felix at the castle. It’s been such an age since I saw him.”
Gray closed his hand over hers on his sleeve and smiled benignly at her. “I’m sure your brother will be equally happy to see you.”
The pavement looped almost back on itself, just significantly higher; on it, above them, Duvall was close enough to hear. He promptly lost interest and continued steadily onward.
Thanking the heavens Duvall hadn’t noticed Baines and Littlejohn, who had fallen back as they toiled upward in her and Gray’s wake, Izzy forged on even more quickly.
She and Gray rounded the sharp curve, and the telegraph station came into sight, about thirty yards away. The building faced Victoria Park Terrace, and due to the upward angle of Castle Hill Road and the downward curve of the terrace, they couldn’t see the building’s front door.
They hurried on, and the front of the station came into full view.
Abruptly, they halted, faced with a complication they hadn’t foreseen.
With his back to them, Duvall stood holding the telegraph station door for a well-dressed lady clasping the hand of a little girl in pigtails, who was clutching a doll.
His briefcase in his other hand, Duvall inclined his head genially as the lady thanked him and ushered her daughter inside.
“Oh no!” Izzy whispered. “He wouldn’t, would he?”
Gray softly swore. “He would—nothing could be better for their scheme.”
She was the owner of The Crier; she could see the front pages.
Duvall started to follow the woman and girl inside.
Gray whirled and raced back to urge Baines and Littlejohn to run.
Still frozen, staring, Izzy glimpsed a flicker of orange-red near Duvall’s chin as he stepped inside and finally recognized what scent had been teasing her senses over the last seconds. “A cheroot.”
Duvall had a lighted cheroot clamped between his lips; he must have lit it during the short time he’d been out of their sight as they rounded the curve.
Izzy jettisoned the plan and ran for the telegraph station’s door.
She glimpsed Toby and Martin racing up the steeply sloping street; they were too far away to help.
Duvall wouldn’t need any time to pull out a box of lucifers and strike one; he was going to hold the lighted cheroot directly to the end of the fuse.
Izzy opened the door, rushed along a narrow vestibule, and pulled up just inside the telegraph chamber.
Time suspended.
Wide-eyed, she took in the counter that ran across the room. Standing before it, to the right, the lady was chatting with one of the telegraph staff. The little girl was leaning against her mother’s legs, clutching her doll to her chest.
The girl’s eyes were fixed on Duvall, who had apparently sent the other telegraph assistant to fetch something while he bent down and held the burning tip of his cheroot to the end of a short piece of fuse dangling from the top of the briefcase.
The fuse fizzed to life.
Duvall straightened and walked toward the exit, which lay beyond Izzy.
He neared, but she’d lost all interest in him. With a whispered “No,” she dashed around him.
Behind her, Gray called her name, then said, “Oh no, you don’t.”
She swooped on the case, hefted it in her arms, and whirled to see Gray grappling with Duvall.
The woman seized the little girl and, horrified, backed away along the counter.
The assistants were yelling, but Izzy barely heard them.
Outside, outside! Get it outside!
The case in her arms, she raced for the door.
Before she reached the vestibule, the door burst open. She skidded to a halt against the wall beside the vestibule’s archway as Baines and Littlejohn thundered past.
The instant her way was clear, she bolted for the open door, through the doorway, and onto the short path before the station’s door.
Directly before her stood Hennessy, alongside Donaldson, who was already under his camera’s hood with Digby beside him.
She spun away, saw the path leading around the side of the station, and took it.
She rounded the corner of the building, ran down its side, and found herself facing steep stone steps leading to the street—the open and deserted street—which lay higher than head height above.
Ignoring her burning lungs, she hauled in a breath, tucked the case awkwardly beneath one arm, seized her skirts with her free hand, and toiled up the steps as fast as she could.
Gray raced out of the station. “Izzy!”
He’d seen her rush out with the case, mere inches of furiously fizzing fuse dangling beside the handle. Desperate, he looked wildly around, saw Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby gaping at a point to the side of the station, and raced in that direction.
Rounding the corner of the building, he glimpsed Izzy’s dark skirts ahead and redoubled his efforts.
He raced into the rear courtyard, saw the steep steps, and flung himself up them.
Glancing up, he saw Izzy standing by the side of the street, the case clutched against her as she tried—vainly—to pinch out the fuse with her gloved fingers.
He leapt up the last steps, seized the case, hefted it like a discus, and flung it high—over the road toward the treed bank on the other side.
“Get down!” He flung himself at her. She dropped to her knees and hunched over, and he draped his body over hers.
The briefcase exploded.
High above the road.
The detonation was as percussive as any bomb, but the force of the blast went upward and outward, and only a rush of displaced air washed over them, raking at his hair and tugging at her skirts.
Smothered by Gray’s solid bulk, Izzy could barely breathe. Her ears rang, but regardless, she wouldn’t have heard anything over the still-frantic pounding of her heart.
In the split second during which she’d realized the fuse had burned too far into the case for her to snuff it out, she’d stared death in the face.
And understood how much—how very much—she wanted to live.
And why.
Then the reason had arrived and saved her.
Saved them.
She could barely believe she was still alive, and that he was, too.
Slowly, he uncoiled from his protective shell, ending on his knees, and she followed suit.
Whump!
They both jumped as the remnants of the briefcase landed in the middle of the street.
Then several branches and twigs from the overhanging trees rained down.
Her hearing must have been affected; their immediate surrounds seemed preternaturally quiet. There was a commotion somewhere, but it was distant and muted.
After looking around, Gray grasped her hand, got slowly to his feet, and helped her up.
She dragged in a breath and turned to him. “You saved me.”
Gray had been staring dazedly around, but her comment jolted his wits into place. He turned an incredulous look on the love of his life, the holder of his heart; that she was that and more was indisputable. “You ran off carrying a live bomb.”
He heard the words, even understood them, but a large part of his brain refused to believe them.
He stared at her, then glanced upward and flung out his arms. “I don’t know what to say.”
His instincts knew what to do.
He seized her, hauled her to him, and kissed her—voraciously, desperately.
Needfully.
She clutched and kissed him back with equal fervor. With an equally urgent desperate determination to cling to the other and never let go.
Relief, hunger, and an immensely powerful joy snared them. They’d nearly died, but they’d survived, and each knew, incontrovertibly, that for them, above all, the source of that joy would forever be their touchstone.
The only thing that truly mattered.
They could face near-insurmountable challenges—and both had—but this, being together, living together, was the essential necessity they would fight to keep, to defend.
A clattering of boots forced them to end the kiss.
Their gazes met and held for an instant, then they turned to Martin and Toby as the pair came up the steps two at a time.
Seeing them standing, patently unhurt, the duo deflated in relief and bent to catch their breaths.
Toby gasped, “Thank God you’re all right.”
Straightening, Martin looked at Izzy and Gray and shook his head in amazement. “That was the most heroic action I’ve ever witnessed.”
Izzy glanced sidelong at Gray. “I could hardly leave the bomb there, not with a little girl and her mother standing beside it.”
Gray shook his head in defeat rather than censure. “I understand why you did it, but I still can’t…”
He shook his head again. He couldn’t even explain what he meant.
What he felt.
Instead, he looked at Martin and Toby. “Duvall?”
“Caught,” Toby reported. “Eventually.”
Martin grimaced. “We’d misjudged and were too far back when the action started, but as it turned out, that was just as well. Believe it or not, Duvall wrestled free of Baines and Littlejohn and the two assistants who tried to help and raced out of the station, dodged Hennessy and Digby, and ran down the street—”
“Straight into our arms.” Toby grinned. “Trust me, it was worth every second to see his face in the instant before Martin slugged him.”
Also grinning at the memory, Martin tipped his head toward the front of the station. “Baines came huffing up and slapped handcuffs on him, and Littlejohn has him in hand. As you might imagine, neither are in the mood to be gentle.”
“Ho! You there! Stand where you are and put up your hands!”
“What the devil?” Gray turned and, with the others, watched as a company of soldiers, led by their captain and with bayonets at the ready, came rushing down from the side street that led up to one of the castle’s gates.
A barked “Hold hard!” came from the opposite end of the street, and they swiveled to see another company, likewise armed, coming up at the run from below the point of the hairpin bend, presumably from the nearby battery.
Gray heard Izzy sigh, then she stepped into the street, clear of him, Martin, and Toby, planted her hands on her hips, and directed a quelling look at first one captain, then the other, then in the refined tones of an earl’s daughter, announced, “We four are here at the behest of the Marquess of Winchelsea. Who the devil are you?”
She’d said the magic name. Both captains abruptly halted, and their companies did the same.
Commandingly, Izzy looked from one captain to the other. “Well?”
Very few gentlemen were immune to that tone. The captain from the castle cleared his throat and volunteered, “Captain Sinclair, ma’am.”
She glanced the other way, and the captain from the battery came to attention and saluted. “Captain Herries, ma’am.”
Sinclair glanced toward the telegraph station. “We—ah—received orders from the marquess to secure the telegraph station, ma’am. We were just on our way to do so when the explosion occurred.”
“I see.” Izzy swung to face the hapless Sinclair. She folded her arms; Gray couldn’t see it beneath her hems, but he thought it very likely she was tapping her toe. “And when, exactly, did you receive those orders, Captain?”
Sinclair colored like a schoolboy, then suddenly paled. He swallowed and replied, “A few hours ago, ma’am.”
Izzy extended one arm and pointed imperiously at the remnants of Duvall’s bomb. “That, Captain, was what you and your men were supposed to guard against. The next time you receive an order from Winchelsea, I would advise you to jump to it!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it isn’t ‘ma’am,’ it’s ‘my lady.’”
“Yes, my lady.”
She looked at Herries. “As you can see, Captain, all is in hand. You may withdraw.”
“Very good, my lady.” With patent relief, Herries turned to his men, and they retreated in good order.
Izzy refocused—censoriously—on Sinclair. “As you’re too late to do anything else, Captain, you and your men can tidy up this mess.” She flicked her fingers at the debris from the briefcase and the trees.
With that, she rejoined Gray, Toby, and Martin, who had remained silent observers throughout.
Trying valiantly to smother a grin, Gray arched his brows at her. “Feeling better?”
She nodded. “Much.” She looked down at the telegraph station. “I suppose we’d better go and see what’s happening down there.”
Gray took her hand and assisted her down the steep steps, for which she was grateful. Delayed shock was setting in, and she wasn’t, in truth, all that steady on her feet.
They walked around to the front of the station to find Baines and Littlejohn standing over their prisoner, who was sitting on the curb in shackles. The stationmaster and his two assistants had come out and were talking excitedly with the lady, who was holding her little girl tight against her legs.
Izzy barely gave the tableau a glance before looking for her staff.
Hennessy was on the pavement opposite, head down, scribbling furiously in his notebook. Of Donaldson and Digby, there was no sign. She crossed to Hennessy and halted beside him.
He paused in his scribbling and glanced at her. “Best story I’ll ever write.”
“I’m sure you say that of every new story.”
He grinned. “This time, however, it’s true.”
“Did you happen to notice what photographs Donaldson took?”
Hennessy glanced sidelong at her. “None with you in it, if that’s what you want to know. We were all too surprised to do anything when you burst out of the station with the bomb in your arms. Donaldson wasn’t ready, but he managed to get a shot of Duvall racing out, looking desperate, and he thinks he might even have one of the explosion.” Hennessy nodded toward the station. “We saw the case sail above the roof, and Donaldson pointed his camera up that way, and he thinks, what with his newfangled processes, that there’s a decent chance he caught the moment. It’ll be amazing if he did.”
She arched her brows. “That would, indeed, be a coup. Did he manage to get photographs of the police capturing Duvall?”
“He got one of the other two bringing Duvall down, and once they’d stepped away, he got two shots of Baines and Littlejohn hauling their prisoner along. Should work well with what I’m writing.”
She glanced around. “Where are they? Donaldson and Digby.”
Hennessy tipped his head toward the road above the station. “They hurried up there to photograph what’s left of the bomb and the soldiers. Always goes down a treat, showing men in uniform in action.”
She nodded, knowing that was true. Hennessy looked down at his notebook. She followed his gaze. “Incidentally, I’ll need to vet whatever you write.”
Without looking at her, he murmured, “So no hint of who Mrs. I. Molyneaux actually is slips out?”
She stared at his profile for several seconds, then drew in a breath, let it out, and inclined her head. “Just so.”
To her relief, Hennessy nodded. “Whatever it is, your secret’s safe with me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the owner of The London Crier, and that’s all anyone needs to know.”
Another portion of the tension that had gripped her eased and fell away.
“One thing, though—just to put it in your diary, so to speak—this exercise and all I’ve already seen of your operation has firmed up an idea I’ve had for a while. It’s something I’d like to discuss with you once we’re back in town and this mayhem is over. I’d like to put a proposition to you”—Hennessy looked across the street at Gray—“and I fancy it might come at an opportune time to be of definite interest to you.” He tapped his pencil on his notebook and flashed her a grin. “Especially if this story turns out to be half as good as I think it will.”
She laughed. “You don’t lack for confidence, do you, Hennessy?”
“No, I don’t.” He met her eyes and dipped his head. “And you don’t lack for courage, ma’am.” He glanced up, over the roof of the station. “That was really something.”
Standing with Martin and Toby on the other side of the street, Gray saw Izzy head toward him, but as soon as she stepped onto the pavement, the lady and her daughter and the stationmaster and his assistants surrounded her. All had seen her snatch the bomb and rush it outside; although they hadn’t seen what had occurred subsequently, they were gushing in their praise.
“My dear, I don’t know how to thank you.” The lady promptly did her best to do so, extolling Izzy’s selflessness and making her squirm. Luckily, the lady was a local and clearly did not recognize to whom she spoke.
The instant the lady wound down, the stationmaster and his assistants took up the baton, raining thanks on Izzy’s head, but their curiosity was showing.
Gray tensed to intervene, but Hennessy strolled up to the group, identified himself as writing for The London Crier, and asked the station staff what they’d seen of the action.
The three men admitted they hadn’t noticed Duvall’s case until Izzy had grabbed it, and although they’d all seen Duvall’s cheroot, they’d thought nothing of it. He’d asked for a form to send a telegraph message to Calais, then he’d bent and been doing something below the level of the counter while the assistant had gone to fetch the form.
In a soft voice, the little girl piped, “I saw him use the burning part of his smelly stick to make the end of the piece of rope start fizzing.” When everyone looked at her, she stared back with wide eyes. “I’ve never seen rope spark and hiss like that. I thought he was doing a trick.”
Izzy smiled at the child, and Hennessy nodded. “You’re a smart girl and a good observer.”
“I gather”—the stationmaster looked inquiringly at Izzy, then at Hennessy before glancing at the rest of their crew—“that you’ve been assisting in tracking our villain here to prevent him attacking the telegraph station.”
That was the bare-bones story Toby had relayed.
Still smiling, Izzy smoothly said, “Unfortunately, we didn’t realize he intended to carry out the attack in quite the way he did, not until he’d lit the fuse. Luckily, however, we were all here, on the spot, and everything turned out well.”
On that note, she excused herself and walked on to where Gray, Martin, and Toby were standing to one side, trying to be inconspicuous.
Hennessy promptly distracted the lady, the girl, and the telegraph staff by requesting names and asking for their reactions.
Donaldson and Digby returned from the street above, and in short order, Donaldson persuaded the lady, her daughter, and the three station staff to pose in front of the telegraph station, which they proudly did.
Gray grasped Izzy’s hand and tipped his head toward the town. She nodded, and with Toby and Martin, they slipped around Donaldson and started down Castle Hill Road.
Hustling Duvall between them, Baines and Littlejohn followed.
In the lead, Gray and Izzy strolled slowly, and soon, Donaldson, Digby, and Hennessy caught up. Thereafter, they stepped out more briskly, although Donaldson assured them they had an abundance of time to reach the station for the next train, which departed at six-fifteen.
He directed them along a different route, one he said was more direct and which led them along Townwall Street, from where, in the deepening dusk, they could look across the harbor toward the Channel. Gradually, Izzy and Gray slowed, allowing the others to pass, until they were the last of the straggling company.
Gray knew he was gripping her hand too firmly—too possessively—but he couldn’t seem to ease his hold.
He’d nearly lost her.
After all the years apart, when they’d just found each other again, come to appreciate—to love—each other again, to lose her…would have been devastating.
It would have been the end of the future that shaped his dreams.
That hadn’t happened.
A brisk sea breeze, chilly and bracing, reminded him they were alive, yet…
Perhaps by the time they reached London, he’d be able to release her hand.
Speaking to the wind, he said, “I’ve taken my share of risks in this life.”
“I’m sure you have,” she murmured. “But risks are a fundamental part of life. I suspect we—you and I—will be taking risks until the day we die.”
He glanced at her, saw the love in her eyes, and squeezed her hand. “I can’t lose you, not now.”
“I don’t plan on being lost.” She squeezed his hand back. “So we’ll go on together and face the world as one. And that, my darling Gray, will, I warn you, be a big enough challenge for us both.”
He read the truth of that in her expression, softly humphed, and faced forward.
After a moment, gazing out over the harbor, she said, “I look about, and it’s as if all our risks, our endeavors, excitements, and thrills, haven’t left any mark. Everything seems so normal.”
“That was rather the point, wasn’t it? The preservation of normality is our ultimate success. And truth to tell, after my years of wandering and risk-taking”—his tone grew definite—“I’ve become rather fond of normal.”