“Really.”

“Yes.” She was amused by the irritated look Lorne cast across the concert hall toward Disraeli’s balcony. Apparently masculine pride leaped barriers of sexual preference. “I’ll let you know how much he contributed to our cause, dear.” She patted his cheek with her white-gloved hand. “Perhaps you’d like to match his donation?” She grinned up at him.

He looked startled but recovered quickly, straightened his lapels, and dipped his head at the idea. “Why not? Maybe I’ll even double it.”

This might turn into a better night than she’d expected. She celebrated the moment, mentally prioritizing the additional improvements she’d now be able to afford.

Twenty-nine

The pupils of his partner’s eyes had dilated, giving him a wild, frenzied look in the gaslight outside the Royal Opera House.

Rupert Clark laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, Will? Not like you to get nervy.”

“Don’t like knives,” Will grumbled. “You only gets one chance. Takes nothin’ for a man to turn the tables on you.”

“It’ll be fine. Two of us to the one of him.”

“I s’pose. Still wish we could do him with a pinch of black beauty.”

“And how’s that gonna work in a crowd like this?” Already the opera house doors were opening, a bejeweled audience spilling out into Bow Street. “Lieutentant wants ’em to know it’s Disraeli who’s the target. We lob a bomb in the middle of that crowd, newspapers’ll get it all wrong.”

“How do we know he won’t take one of them carriages lined up yonder?” A sea of top hats and plumed heads, even now, flowed toward the long line of waiting curricles, phaetons, and cabriolets.

“Connections. In the palace. Told you afore. Now,” Rupert warned, “pay attention. We don’t want to miss him.” He found it hard to track individual faces in the crowd beneath the vaporous gaslights. The flames turned everything a sickly yellow-green in the night. The ladies’ features were further obscured by veils and dipping hat brims, the men’s eyes shadowed by top hats, their expressions masked by beards. But Disraeli, in the photograph, was clean-shaven, lean, and tall. He’d stand above most of the crowd.

“There,” came a hoarse bark from Will after they’d watched for a few minutes.

“Where?” Rupert squinted into the haze. The boy’s eyes were sharper than his.

“See those two? One on the right has no beard.”

“You get a look at his face?”

Will grinned. “He’s a dead ringer for the swell in that picture.”

Rupert hesitated, needing to make sure. He watched the pair cross the street into the park then take the same path the Lieutenant had described in his note. They’d walked it earlier in the day, checked out every one of the surrounding horse trails and wooded lanes. He’d picked out three spots, any one of which would be good for waylaying and dispatching their man.

Rupert looked back toward the opera house. The crowd was thinning. Only a few couples heading into the park by different paths, cuddling, clutching each other amorously. None of the other men resembled Disraeli. The remaining operagoers were splitting up into the last of the remaining carriages. If he and Will didn’t follow the two men soon, they’d lose them entirely.

Rupert wiped the sweat from his brow and concentrated on the two frock coats already disappearing into the darkness. “Let’s go.”

He and Will split up as planned. Rupert’s route wound to the north and came out on a rise thirty feet above Disraeli. Through the trees Rupert could hear the two men below him, talking about the opera and a woman one of them was interested in.

As soon as the pair below turned the next bend, Rupert silently slipped down through the trees behind them. Will would come at them from the other direction.

Up ahead, Rupert caught a sudden blur of motion in the dark, and his heart nearly stopped. Will had lunged at his victim without waiting for his signal. Now there was nothing he could do but make his move.

One of the men shouted, “Watch out!”

Rupert ran up behind Disraeli, who seemed so stunned by the attack on his companion he was unable to move. Rupert whipped his arm up and around the taller man’s throat, knife in his other hand. He slashed once. The diplomat sagged to the ground, gurgling blood.

“Help. Murderers! Assassins!” Screams echoed in the dark from a ways off. Will’s man was escaping.

“Fuck!” Rupert swore and took off at a run to silence the man before his cries brought the coppers down on them. How had Will let him get away?

Just over the next rise, Rupert spotted his partner. Down on top of a figure. Stabbing repeatedly into the waistcoat with his knife. Make it look vicious, the Lieutenant had said—the better to horrify the queen and her subjects. Will was doing his job with enthusiasm. No doubt the man was already done for—he wasn’t moving at all. And as for Disraeli, he’d have bled out by now.

“Enough.” Rupert grasped Will by the back of his collar and pulled him off the body.

Thirty

On the arm of her handsome blue-eyed husband, Louise stepped into the splendor of the grand ballroom of Stafford House. Near St. James’s Palace, this was the exquisite home of the Duchess of Sutherland during the Season. Even after the duke’s death, his widow entertained on a lavish scale. A patron of the opera, she had opened her home to the elite of London after that night’s performance.

Victoria declined to attend, instead sending Louise and Lorne to represent her. She’d claimed fatigue and the need to conserve her energy for her Accession Day celebrations in just two weeks.

Bertie had convinced the queen that she must make a public appearance for that occasion, if for none other during the year. The queen’s subjects were growing impatient with her self-imposed isolation and obsession with mourning. And so there would be a formal procession by carriage, accompanied by the horse guard from Buckingham to Westminster Abbey, where the service would be held celebrating Victoria’s taking up the crown worn by her uncle, King William IV.

Once she began planning the day, though, the queen grew more enthusiastic. Louise felt greatly relieved that her mother had agreed to follow her ministers’ and Bertie’s advice. Louise, far more than anyone else in her family, understood the common people and their need to believe their country still had strong leadership.

As soon as Louise and Lorne were announced, the orchestra launched into Strauss’s “Artist’s Life” waltz, in honor of the princess and her love of art. Dancers whirled across the floor, ball gowns shimmering, medals glinting from lapels. Smiles were the expression of the evening. Fear of Fenians, wars in Europe, or uprisings on the Dark Continent—all that was serious seemed distant and inconsequential. But Louise could not cast off a premonition that something evil lurked close by, ready to steal away what little happiness she might grasp for herself.

After the Viennese, she danced a cotillion with Lorne then a polka with the new Duke of Wellington who had so recently lost his beloved father, the hero of Waterloo. The duke was gracious even in his mourning, and a fine dancer. She looked around for Stephen Byrne, but he was nowhere to be seen. Either he wasn’t here or he was making himself invisible, as he so irritatingly managed to do whenever he chose. She had counted on him being here tonight, with good news about Darvey.

Another waltz began. Lorne reappeared at her side, his blond curls and flashing sapphire eyes the focus of every female in the immense room. And not a little admired—she noticed—by several of the men. “Shall we?” Lorne said, holding out his hand to her. “The orchestra seems particularly fine tonight.”

She managed a smile for him, or rather for the hundreds of watching eyes. Lorne escorted her onto the dance floor. She rested her fingertips lightly on his sleeve, lifted the hem of her gown with her free hand, and off they flew. Louise caught an approving gaze from her brother Leo as they swept past him and his little clutch of friends.

“You ought to have been an actress,” Lorne murmured in her ear. “Everyone is commenting on our love match.”

“Oh, please,” she said.

“But I must admit to a small amount of distress on one count.”

They negotiated the end of the room with a graceful heel turn and floated on down the length of polished parquet floor.

“About what?” she asked.

“I have heard that you are making inquiries of a . . . sensitive nature. Is that true?”

Louise tensed even as the music swelled to a glorious crescendo. Had Byrne told her husband about her interest in finding Donovan? “I am, although it is nothing to concern you.”

His voice sounded less casual now. “It is most definitely my concern if those investigations put at risk my credibility as your husband.”

Did she hear threat in his tone? “We have a bargain. I will keep it.”

“All I ask is that you keep me out of Newgate, my dear. Your freedom for mine. Oui?”

“Yes.” She had to admit he was keeping up his end of the deal. He hadn’t once questioned her right to travel alone, to run the Women’s shop, to spend hours with her painting or in Amanda’s company. “I keep my promises.”

His gaze softened. “There are discreet ways in which you might satisfy your needs.”

She looked up into his dazzling eyes, now piqued with sensual intrigue. “It is more complicated for me,” she said.

“Is it? I might easily find you a willing lover.”

She should have been shocked. It was a scandalous suggestion. But all she could do was laugh at the absurdity of her situation.