Chapter 29 #2
Perry set his hand on the man’s arm. “We have to warn Ravenscroft or one of the servants. Get his attention so he will come over here.”
Lord Ravenscroft stood near the wall, feigning indifference to the scene before him. Another day, another royal banquet, or so he would have everyone think. In truth, his hooded gaze missed not a single movement within spitting distance of the Tsar.
The only thing remarkable about the Tsar’s behaviour was that he was staying put, for once, though that was taking a toll. His fingers drummed against the tablecloth, then stilled when he caught himself.
Ravenscroft did not envy the man playing bait for Marian Fitzroy’s scheme. He dragged his gaze away and returned to watching those in motion. He straightened when Thorne stepped out of the shadows, two alcoves down, blue eyes meeting his inquiring gaze.
Trouble, the magpie thought. Already?
Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Ravenscroft took the long way around, circling the entire dining area before approaching Galahad. Thorne led behind a curtain into one of the alcoves, where Fitzroy awaited them.
“We have news,” the canary stated grimly. “Both good and bad. Which would you prefer first?”
Ravenscroft jerked around, his eyes searching out the Tsar, then Prinny. Both men were still in good form. “I’ve been standing watch for the last hour without even a drop of wine to dull my wits. Please start with the good.”
“Moxley has been captured.”
That was excellent news indeed, worthy of a toast if a passing footman would hand him a glass. “And the bad?”
“We were wrong about his objective. He was not there for him.” Fitzroy tilted his head at the Tsar. Then he shifted his gaze to the balcony where the Grand Duchess sat in the front row of the Russian delegation. “Moxley was sent for Catherine.”
Ravenscroft chewed his lip. “But—the Tsar? The ring?”
“That’s the worse news,” Thorne rumbled.
Fitzroy let out a strangled laugh. “Look at the high table, Maggie. What do you see?”
Ravenscroft resisted the urge to throttle Fitzroy, for he was in no mood for games.
“I see all of Marian Fitzroy’s enemies and obstacles. Seated at one table,” Perry murmured.
Ravenscroft reeled, understanding his meaning. “How?”
“Napoleon almost met his end in 1800, when his carriage drove past a wagon on a narrow street,” Thorne said shortly. “It was loaded with a barrel full of gunpowder, stone, and musket balls. The only reason he lived was because the weapon missed its mark.”
“And you think such a thing is here?” The dandy clutched his chest dramatically.
“Perhaps,” Perry told him. “Beneath the table, well positioned to strike the most. You must go look.”
“And how, precisely, am I meant to do that without arousing suspicion?” the man’s voice rose an octave.
“Drop a handkerchief. Stumble. Think quickly; we have no time to waste.”
Ravenscroft gave Fitzroy a baleful look before turning his back and crossing the room.
He went straight to the long table where the allied sovereigns wined and dined.
In a performance worthy of a West End stage, Ravenscroft waited until he stood behind The Propagandist’s chair before stumbling over his own two feet.
The Baron twisted around and glanced down at him, a raised eyebrow posing a world of questions.
“Dear me, I must have had too much to drink!” he muttered the words sarcastically, lifting the tablecloth to peer underneath with a flail of his arm.
A line of booted heels stretched before him, divided only by wooden table legs. No boxes or bags anywhere in sight. He dropped the cloth and got to his feet, ignoring that The Propagandist’s brows had settled into a heavy furrow.
“Do you suppose there are fireworks planned for this evening?” he asked Gentz genially. And when Thorne glanced his way, he gave a brief shake of his head.
The Baron affected nonchalance, leaning hard on the arm of his chair. “I do not know, Lord Ravenscroft. But are not such things best viewed from outdoors? Perhaps we should excuse ourselves for some air?”
“Tsk. And risk being held responsible for ruining the show?” Ravenscroft put a hand on the Baron’s chair to stop him from sliding it back. “Someone here knows the starting hour. If we are to find the location of the supplies, we need extra eyes watching to see who is checking the time.”
Sweat beaded on Gentz’s brow. “I will give this to the English—you certainly know how to keep an evening lively.” And with that, Baron von Gentz raised his glass and drank it dry.
Thorne had watched Ravenscroft peer beneath the table with no subtlety whatsoever. Hopefully, it had not set Marian’s back up.
Beside him, Fitzroy stared up at the ceiling, but there was no chandelier directly above the table, or anything heavy that might fall upon their heads. Not short of the entire end of the Guildhall collapsing.
“This drapery goes all the way around,” he finally remarked. “It seems unlikely, but perhaps there is something hidden behind it.”
“I’ll ask one of the guards to help me check the length of it,” Thorne assured him. “If you can catch her eye, perhaps warn Charity that something’s wrong.”
Perry nodded, and Thorne quickly found one of Rowland Hill’s hand-picked men. Before he could specify which direction the man should go, the soldier slipped behind the curtain and started moving in the direction of the head table.
Well, Thorne supposed it didn’t matter; the man could find trouble that way as well as Thorne could. Thorne set off in the opposite direction, walking the narrow corridor towards the distant end of the Guildhall.
Working his way around the periphery, Thorne came out from the edge of the curtain, passing the door that the procession had entered through.
He turned his head briefly to glance over the full Guildhall and then continued on behind the curtain on the other side.
He came across a second door hidden entirely behind the curtain.
Thorne almost passed it by. He would come back after he finished this circuit, along with the Hall Keeper so he could inquire about what was behind the door. But something made him hesitate, and as he looked down at the stone floor, a faint black mark on the floor gave him pause.
Crouching down, Thorne pulled off his glove, licked his fingertip and ran it through the mark to lift some from the stone. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled of dust and minerals of the earth, with just the faintest hint of sulphur.
“Black powder,” he breathed, getting to his feet again. Thorne let his hand settle on the latch. Locked.
Seized with a sense of foreboding, Thorne exited the curtains, looking around desperately for one of the Guildhall’s true servants.
“You,” he said when he finally found a serving-man approaching one of the back tables. “Where does the door over there lead?” he asked, waving his hand at the curtained area that hid it.
Puzzled, the serving-man looked over his shoulder. “The crypts, sir.”
When Thorne turned in Fitzroy’s direction, he found the man’s sharp, hawk-like regard suggesting he already understood. There was trouble beneath their feet.
Thorne lifted his finger, the black spot on the tip plainly visible, and Fitzroy’s eyes widened before narrowing in anger.
Shakily, Thorne turned back to the serving-man. “I need to find the Hall Keeper, or anyone else with a key to that door. Now.”
Charity sank lower in her seat, taking care to stay in the shadows.
With any luck, no one would notice her sitting there in the middle of the balcony area.
Not that anyone was looking her way. Between the carousing of the titled men at the dinner and the women whispering gossip in one another’s ears, there was plenty to entertain.
Charity, however, had eyes for one woman only. Marian Fitzroy sat on the balcony across the room with an anticipatory gleam in her eyes.
You could stand up now and denounce her before all, her mother whispered. A mad suggestion. She had not heard her mother’s voice in ages, but seeing Lady Cresswell sitting in the back row of the balcony had caused it to flare back to life.
Hush, Mama. Charity banished the spectre.
Her mother was blithely unaware of her proximity to her daughter, too busy glaring daggers at Marian Fitzroy. Far too focused to notice the child she hadn’t spoken with in days nearby.
Charity leaned sideways to get a clearer view of Perry’s mother. Marian was not paying any attention to Lady Cresswell. Instead, she was checking something in her hand.
Then Marian leaned forward, scanning the scene below. A hint of a smile crossed her face when Lord Ravenscroft stumbled, and she turned to comment something to Countess Orlova. Charity grew concerned when the magpie was slow to rise, but then she realised he was speaking with Baron von Gentz.
Charity shifted her gaze, searching the alcoves for any hint of Perry’s pale blond head. As if sensing her looking for him, he stepped forward, his face tilted upward. He raised a fist to his mouth and then unfurled his fingers in a wave.
Almost like an explosion, Charity thought, her stomach dropping.