“Don’t look hard,” Will said.

Rupert paused to genuflect and cross himself at the altar. The gesture reassured him. One of their jobs had gone sour, although it wasn’t his fault. Who could have predicted the queen’s entourage would be diverted just two miles before the trap he’d laid on the road north of London? He’d expected the Lieutenant would give them another chance, and he had. Their next two jobs had been spectacular successes.

He was going to have to ask for more money soon; their living expenses had nearly run out. This wasn’t like the army, where you got fed and paid regular. But it made sense for the Fenians to see to their troops’ needs. If he and Will had to fend for themselves, get jobs or steal to feed and shelter themselves, they would become too visible—and that wasn’t good for the cause.

“Be right back,” Rupert said, spotting the dark wood confessionals the note had described, along the right side wall of the chapel. As he walked away he heard Will struggling with the kneeler. It clunked down on the marble floor with a dull echo. He should have shown him how it worked so he wouldn’t be so clumsy with it. But there was only the one old woman in the chapel, so it probably didn’t matter if the boy seemed a little nervous. Didn’t lots of people get nervy before making their confessions? Facing your sins—your mortality.

He stepped into the penitents’ side of the booth and closed the door behind him. It smelled musty inside—a good kind of odor, comforting. He imagined this was how tradition smelled. On the other side of the screen he saw a shadow move. For a moment, his heart leaped into his throat, and he worried there might be a real priest waiting to hear his confession.

Just to be sure he knelt down, folded his hands, and murmured the words he hadn’t said in a very long time, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He continued the familiar litany. The time that had passed since his last confession—more than six years, he guessed. And he was about to start listing his sins, but not all of them of course, when he remembered the agreed upon password. “Oh, and also, Father, I come from Appomattox.”

A soft sound came to him, as if whoever was on the other side of the grille was also relieved. “Any trouble coming here unobserved?” a voice said.

“None, sir.”

The invisible man said something in a low whisper Rupert didn’t at first understand. “Sorry?”

“On your seat, the envelope.”

“Oh.” He shifted his hips and only then saw the small rectangular shape. When he picked it up it felt thick between his fingers.

“Open it.”

He slid his thumb under the flap and tore upward, making a ragged paper mouth. Although he couldn’t see in the darkness he could feel the leaves of banknotes inside.

“That should keep you comfortably for a while longer,” the man said. His accent told Rupert he was definitely a Brit, and educated.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Now we get down to business,” the man whispered, “before the priests return to wash away the weighty sins of old women and small boys.”

Rupert smiled. Was the man making a joke? He decided it was safer not to laugh. “Yes, sir, to our task.”

“I have a very important mission for you and your partner. We fear that our membership has been compromised by a spy in our midst. There is a job that must be done immediately. We cannot take the chance that those involved will be spotted and identified. You and your partner are new to the country, it’s unlikely the queen’s protectors know you.”

“Yes, sir.” Rupert could sense his value had just increased tenfold. He felt gratified.

“In that same envelope you’ve just received, you will find a photograph. Tonight when the opera lets out, the man in that picture will leave and, as is his habit, walk across the park to his club. If he is alone, you will kill him quickly and quietly before he has a chance to leave the park. If he is accompanied, you must kill whoever is with him as well.”

“What if he has several companions?”

“That might be a problem. Perhaps you can isolate him. The important thing is that you cannot be caught, and if you are— nothing of our organization can be revealed.”

“Understood.”

“We count on your silence.”

Did the man think he was inexperienced in warfare? Rupert shook off the sting of resentment. He was, after all, a soldier and knew what was expected of a soldier.

“Who is the target?”

“You will recognize him from the picture when you see it. The man’s death will be a powerful and personal blow to the queen, as he is a favorite of hers. This will be the first part of a double strike against her. After you have carried out the mission, we will claim responsibility.”

“How do I—”

“The method is up to you, but circumstances dictate stealth and speed. I would suggest a knife.”

Rupert nodded. Hand-to-hand combat wasn’t his specialty, bombs being a far less intimate weapon than a blade. But he’d been trained for such operations in the army. He made no objection.

“Tonight you said,” Rupert murmured. “So soon?”

“It must be tonight. There will be no better chance.”

“Then it will be done. Is that all?” He waited for a response or some signal that the meeting was over, but none came. “Sir?” he whispered.

After another few seconds he sensed that the priest’s box was empty. He hadn’t heard so much as the creak of a door.

Rupert walked out of the confessional, head bowed, fingers clasped, and knelt beside Will. “Did you see him?” Rupert asked.

“Who?”

Rupert sighed. “Never mind.” He drew the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and peered inside. Will bent over to see what he was doing.

Rupert silently counted the banknotes. Many more than he’d expected. At least a month’s worth of generous wages for the two of them. He smiled then felt the stiffer backing paper of a photograph. When he pulled it out, he saw that it wasn’t a simple daguerreotype. It was an elaborate calling card with the gentleman’s full standing image in an elegant pose on the front, his signature superimposed over the picture, his address on the reverse.

“Who’s that?” Will whispered.

“Our target.”

His partner scowled. “Dapper fellow. Can’t read the signature though.”

Rupert smiled at the importance of their job. “This is Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.”

Twenty-six

Louise stood in the front room of her little consignment shop and looked around at the nearly empty shelves. Nothing could have made her happier.

She had proposed a Saturday Fire Sale. Amanda wrote the announcements, posted the broadsides, and ran an advertisement in the Times. The publicity brought in new customers and resulted in twice as many sales as on any previous day of business. Starting early in the morning, customers crowded into the little shop looking for bargains. They’d bought nearly everything she’d put out.

Now that she and her staff had scrubbed down the walls of the display room, the stench of charred wood was tolerable. After a good bleaching, most of the doilies, antimacassars, linens, and delicate handwork had been restored nearly to their original color. Well, close enough anyway. Pristine whites became cream, butter creams became ecru, ecru became chocolate brown. No one the wiser. Nevertheless some articles were more obviously smoke damaged and could only be sold at much reduced prices.

Now that the shop was closed for the night—Amanda having left to make dinner for her husband and little boy, her shopgirls exhausted and dismissed—Louise stayed on after dark to finish her inventory.

It seemed a miracle that the fire brigade had been able to save the building. But they had, with the help of the rain. And the day after the fire her merchant neighbors gathered round to lend a hand in making repairs. They brought with them a carpenter and crew who replaced weakened or fallen timbers to make certain the building was safe. A glazier replaced the front window for the cost of the precious glass. Others volunteered to help clean and put out at the curb anything Louise deemed too damaged to sell in the shop. No sooner was an item set out than it disappeared. Londoners were great re-users. Even the humblest of items would bring a small profit to someone on the street.

Now it was dark outside, the gaslights dimly glowing, passersby dwindling. Louise set the CLOSED sign in her new window, framed by lovely gingham curtains donated by Belle & Co, down the street, then she finished moving a half dozen large wooden picture frames to the street. Even damaged, she’d thought they might sell. Now she decided that was unlikely. If nothing else, they’d make firewood to warm someone.

When Louise returned to the shop for her reticule and shawl, she heard footsteps approach close to the front of the shop then hesitate before moving on. She turned just in time to see a shadow pass in front of the display window then stop again. A face, features obscured in the dark, peered in through the glass. She held her breath, trying to remember if she’d locked the door after stepping back inside.

A terrible thought struck her: Darvey had not yet been caught. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t return.

Before she could dive for the latch, the door swung open and a figure stepped through.

She fell back with a gasp, hand to her throat.

Stephen Byrne took off his hat and moved into the light of the only lamp still burning.

“Dear Lord, you terrified me!”

He gave her an unconcerned look then took in the rest of the room. “I saw the light on and assumed, at this late hour, someone had broken in.”