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George Edwards, also recruited as a spy to infiltrate the Spenceans, was responsible for planting an item in the paper that reported the dinner meeting of several members of the British government. The dinner was to be held at Lord Harrowby’s house at 39 Grosvenor Square tomorrow night, the twenty-third—a trap for Thistlewood and his gang.
Tyler eyed him briefly, a grin hovering on his mouth. “You look like a fenman.”
Garbed in a blue wool jersey, baggy trousers and coat with the collar up to his ears, Colter blended in with the others in this public house near the riverfront. It was a rough clientele that frequented this part of London. The weight of a pistol in his waistband was a stark reminder of the risk.
He’d let his beard grow out some, and gloved fingers rasped over the stubble as he scrat
ched idly.
“Was the map right?”
Nodding, Tyler gulped a draught of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched. “Every place marked held a cache of weapons, right enough. We’re watching.”
Colter downed the last of his ale and rose. “You know where to meet me.”
The air was cooler and fresher outside the pub, though still smelling of the riverfront and bilge. He walked along the narrow street, then through an even more narrow alley; buildings leaned precariously over the avenue with no apparent reason for remaining upright.
Hard-eyed men prowled these byways, ready to slit a throat for less than a shilling, inured to the suffering of others by their own. Urchins clad in little more than rags stared at him with empty eyes, shivering in the icy cold, watching for a chance to steal a coin, just as dangerous as their older counterparts. Nothing had changed for these, and nothing would as long as radicals like Thistlewood plotted murder and anarchy.
Mowry waited for him in the back room of a pub on the corner of Friday Street, brow lifting when Colter joined him.
“You look as dangerous as any footpad, Northington. I trust you have good news.”
“Thistlewood intends to move on the bait tomorrow. He obviously thinks he can raise an army that quickly. Are you ready?”
Nodding, Mowry’s thin face creased with satisfaction. “More than ready. All is in place. My other informant tells me that John Harrison has inquired about renting a small building—a stable with a hayloft—in Cato Street. It needs to be investigated, as it’s only a short distance from Grosvenor Square and will likely be used as a command post. George Edwards will give us more information as soon as he knows something of value. Meanwhile, I trust you will be setting up your own plans.”
“I know the stable. I’ll wait at the Horse and Groom, as it overlooks the stable on Cato Street. I’ll take Tyler with me, and two others.”
Mowry nodded, thin fingers drumming an incessant beat on the surface of the table. A flagon of wine and an empty cup rested near his hand. After a moment, he poured himself a drink.
“We cannot fail,” he said tersely, wine gleaming on his lips as his eyes narrowed, “for the consequences would reach much farther than just this rebellion. It will show us to be vulnerable, despite how quickly we are able to quell any violence. They plan,” he said softly, “to parade the heads of Lords Castlereagh and Sidmouth on poles around the slums of London as an example.”
“And they no doubt assume this will entice eager citizens to join their new government. Christ. An armed uprising may provoke a revolution like that in France. You do recall that, I presume, and the slaughter of innocents? A government cannot oppress its people forever, for one of these days, there will indeed be an uprising that we cannot prevent if we’re not willing to alleviate and mollify their grievances. Honest grievances, Mowry, and you know that.”
Hooded eyes regarded him coolly. “Perhaps. But the collapse of the monarchy is not the way to effect change.”
“I never said it was.” Colter rose to his feet. “But I will make my arguments in the House of Lords when the time comes.”
“Yes, do that, and perhaps one day Liberals will run the country, but I wouldn’t make wagers on it.” A half-mocking smile tilted Mowry’s mouth, and he held up his wineglass in a derisive salute. “I drink to your zeal, my lord Northington, and to the idealistic ardor of all your Liberal sympathizers.”
“One day,” he said softly, “you’ll do so in earnest.”
It was a bad business, but he had no regrets about his part in stopping Thistlewood. The man was a danger, a zealot who had to be stopped at any cost.
“By the way,” Mowry said as Colter reached the door to the back alley, “I trust your Miss St. Clair is doing well.”
Colter turned, and his voice was hard enough to wipe the smile from Mowry’s face.
“If you ever endanger Celia again as you did at the opera, it may be your head that goes round London on a pole. Keep that in mind the next time you interfere.”
“I do not tolerate threats,” Mowry said, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes that he had gone too far this time.
“I do not make threats. I state facts.”
As he closed the door behind him, he heard Mowry’s soft curse. Now he knew for a certainty it had been Mowry who was behind the assault at the opera, a desperate attempt to gain the directory. James Carlisle had no reason to risk an assault when he must have been fairly certain she’d send it to him as promised. Tyler had been near enough to eavesdrop, near enough to hear the conversation and Celia’s assurance that she would send the map. If nothing else, he would have ransacked the house for it rather than risk attracting attention by abducting her.
But Mowry hadn’t known that then, and his network of spies and thugs was vast and volatile enough to take any risks—including the risk to Celia St. Clair.
