Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Michael hadn’t known about the men watching the house until late in the afternoon. He happened to pass a window that was cracked open, and he smelled the Root.
He had been too intent upon speaking with his mother, or perhaps he had simply been too exhausted to remember to be aware of the area around the house.
The past several days had been taxing—first the rescue at the Ramparts, then only two hours of sleep before he raced to his mother’s house.
He had returned to the tannery in defeat and to request help in watching over his mother, but after the late night vigil, he changed clothes and returned to the house, where he had been all day.
When Isabella arrived at midday, he had thought his worries were over, but his mother had become alarmed to find both her children urging her to leave town.
Rather than preparing to depart, she had spent hours arguing with them and demanding to know the reason why she must abandon the rest of the Season.
And while Michael and Isabella had some of the finest skills in deception within the Home Office, the one person able to see through all of their lies was their mother.
But his fatigue and inattention were no excuse. He had been taught to be closely aware of his surroundings, and yet the men on the Root had managed to silently surround the house.
If he hadn’t happened to be near an open window, he might not have noticed them until it was too late. But his sense of smell was unusually sharp at the moment because he’d taken a dose of Goldensuit pollen only a few days ago.
It had been pollen from the original Goldensuit plant that Miss Sauber had collected just before they moved the pots. The plants were lost to them, since Mr. Norton had been the one to help her, but she still held the jars of pollen she had collected.
He had taken the dose himself, in secret, just before they went to the Ramparts to rescue Miss Gardinier and Mr. Verling. The headaches had come upon him suddenly, and so he had taken a small amount, approximating the amount of Jack’s hybrid pollen that Miss Gardinier had given to him previously.
He had not noticed a difference in his strength or senses during the attack on the Ramparts, but during the long night watching the outside of his mother’s house, he had begun to realize that his skin was more sensitive to the cutting chill of the wind, while his ears picked up even the scratching of rats scuttling along the street.
And now, in front of a window on the second floor that was barely cracked open, he found he was able to smell the Root, whereas before, he might not have noticed it.
He went downstairs to the dining room, whose windows faced the front of the house, and listened intently. His hearing extended farther than it had before, picking up the faint heartbeats of five men crouched behind bushes in the park in the center of the square.
He moved to the private parlor on the first floor, facing the small ornamental garden at the back of the house.
He could hear at least five more men standing in the road beyond the mews, although he was not certain as to their number.
Neither could he smell the Root, so they may not be Jack’s men, but the likelihood was high.
The Citadel was outside the house, and within were only Michael, Thorne, and Isabella to protect his mother. They were trapped, and he could not escape to the tannery to bring help.
Michael thought of sending a message through one of the servants, but with so many men outside, one could be sent to trail after the footman, who would lead the man directly to where the rest of the team was in hiding. Michael could not risk exposing their location in that way.
He searched for Isabella and found her in the kitchen in the half-basement, about to take up a tray of tea to her mother. He pulled her aside into the short hallway that led to the stairs up to the entrance hall.
“There are men watching the front and back of the house,” he said in a low voice.
She reacted as she had been trained, her face remaining calm. But Michael saw the tension in her neck and shoulders, which she couldn’t hide from him. “Do you have a plan?”
Michael struggled to unclench his jaw. He needed to protect his family, not be frozen with anger and uncertainty. “Should we kidnap her?”
Isabella gave him an admonishing look and didn’t deign to respond to his suggestion. “I left Thorne with Mother. I shall send him down to you.” She returned to the kitchen to fetch the tea tray.
Thorne met him as he was pacing in the entrance hall. “There are five men in front, five or perhaps more near the mews,” Michael said quietly, without preamble.
His sister had warned Thorne, for he did not appear surprised. He held himself tensely, anticipating potential danger. “What do you wish for me to do?”
“It is easiest for you to watch the front through the dining room windows.”
“They may attack from the back.”
“I would hear the servants shouting if they entered through the scullery.”
Thorne nodded and headed wordlessly to the darkened dining room, which had a clear view of the park.
Michael returned to the lion’s den his mother’s room. Isabella surprised him by turning to him and giving him a signal with her raised eyebrows as she said, “Michael, we have no choice. We must tell Mother.”
He hesitated, frowning and pretending as if he were in great thought as he wondered, Tell her what, precisely?
“Are you certain?” he asked while waggling his eyebrows at his sister to ask for some clue as to what she was referring.
“You must confess to Mother the reason it is of utmost necessity that she leave town forthwith.”
He knew he was in trouble when his sister used the word, “forthwith.”
“The entire truth?” He couldn’t believe Isabella was encouraging him to reveal the secret about the Citadel and their bargain with Napoleon, so what was she hoping Michael would “confess”?
“Yes, the entire truth about that man,” Isabella said.
One man. So not about the Citadel. She likely wanted him to tell a half-truth since any fabrication would be instantly noticed by their sharp-eyed mother, who was glaring at the two siblings in impatience.
“Must we argue for so many hours?” Mrs. Coulton-Jones lamented. “I demand to learn what has occurred.”
Michael pictured Maxham’s face, the pale eyes and cold stare.
The man had no regard for others, no cares at all except perhaps his work among the criminals of London.
But Michael had sensed even that was simply a bridge for him to achieve his true objective, whatever that may be.
He focused on Maxham’s face so that he could tell the half-truth as convincingly as he could.
He had no need to fake the seriousness of his concern as he said, “Mother, I have run afoul of a rather dangerous man.”
“Dangerous?” His mother laid a hand upon her chest, her eyes wide.
Michael admitted he also felt the stirrings of guilt in the disappointment in her gaze, even though he knew that he had been working with Mr. Drydale and the team in order to safeguard England.
But it had not always been so. In a spirit of vengeance, he had sought out Apothecary Jack, believing that his brother’s murderer had bought the poison from him, unaware that Jack himself or Maxham, his compatriot in the Citadel, had killed Richard.
Perhaps Michael was simply reaping what he had sown. “I have been among low company for the past year.” He remembered the various gambling hells and brothels where he had gone in search of information.
“Oh, Michael.” Rather than haranguing him about his poor choices in friends, his mother’s face dissolved into anxiety, and solicitude, and also tenderness.
“I realize that our lives have been difficult now that Richard is no longer with us. I have not been as attentive as I ought, for his death surprised me so. Yet I failed you at the very moment when you had the greatest claim upon my care.”
There was a tightness in Michael’s chest at her words, and his face crumpled. “No, Mother, you have no responsibility in any of this. These are the choices that I made.”
Isabella had also knelt next to her mother. “Smelly is to blame for everything he has done.”
Her mother’s compassionate face quickly shifted to exasperation. “How many times must I tell you not to use those horrid nicknames?”
Isabella sniffed and cast a judgmental glare at her brother. “I shall stop using such nicknames when my brother ceases to behave like a rogue.”
Which might be when he was too old to be able to walk with his own two feet.
Michael stifled a sigh. “I deeply apologize for my behavior, but unfortunately I have brought myself to the attention of this man. He is quite ruthless and threatened to harm my family, so Isabella and I felt his threats could not be ignored. Not here, in London.”
“How could such a man harm me?” Mrs. Coulton-Jones asked. “I shall have you and Isabella nearby, as well as Thorne. And there are dozens of servants in this house.”
“I do not wish for you to be in even the slightest bit of danger,” Michael said. “I would like to escort you from London to a refreshing estate in the country.” He hoped he was not overstating the prospect of Mr. Drydale’s cottage.
Mrs. Coulton-Jones sighed. “I am quite angry with you, Michael.” However, her voice was more weary than upset. “If you had told me this earlier, I would have been much more understanding about your trifle of a request.”
Michael’s gaze found his sister’s, and the two of them struggled not to roll their eyes in disbelief. They both wisely remained silent.
“I now understand why you were so insistent—why you both were so insistent,” Mrs. Coulton-Jones said. “You have quite worn me down. Very well.”
Michael froze, then he glanced at Isabella, who similarly had stiffened where she knelt next to her mother’s chair.
“You will leave London?” Michael asked, hardly daring to hope.
“Yes, yes.” Perhaps she was merely fatigued from arguing with the two of them. “I shall leave London as you suggest.”