How to Plan a Wedding for a Royal Spy (29 page)

“Don't worry. I'll take a hackney and ask the driver to wait until I'm finished. Then I'll come straight home.”

She'd almost made it to the door when her sister's voice stopped her again.

“You're angry with Will, aren't you?” Eden said, once more standing with her feet planted and her hands on her hips.

“Well, yes,” Evie had to admit. “Wouldn't you be?”

“Maybe, but I wonder if you're doing this to punish Will for trying to tell you what to do.”

Her words gave Evie a hard mental jolt, and she had to think about it for a few moments. “No,” she finally said. “That's not it. But I can't let him order me about, either, or stop me from doing what I believe is right. Bridget O'Shay needs my help, and I'm going to give it to her.”

She opened the door and slipped from the room before her sister could raise any more objections.

“I'll pay you an additional shilling to wait for me. I promise I won't be long,” Evie said, digging into her reticule.

The hackney driver weighed her offer, but his fears won out. His animal seemed to agree since he began shaking his shaggy head in an agitated fashion as if to tell his master to be off.

“Sorry, miss,” said the grizzled old man. “I'd like to earn the extra blunt, but it's not worth me risk.” He rolled a worried eye around the deserted courtyard behind St. Margaret's. “St. Giles at night ain't fit for no one, especially young ladies. You'd best be coming back with me or stay in the church till morning.”

Evie sighed as she stuffed her change purse back in her reticule. Perhaps she should have chosen a younger, burlier driver, but she'd been in a hurry and had hailed the first empty vehicle. Bridget's hastily scrawled missive had made it clear she couldn't wait long for Evie.

“Thank you for your concern, but I'll be fine,” she said.

The driver shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He muttered a comment that called Evie's sanity into question, then turned his conveyance and rattled away over the cobblestones. The noise quickly died, leaving an unusual hush over the courtyard. With nightfall rapidly approaching, the deepening dusk seemed as gloomy and threatening as a scene from Mrs. Radcliffe's novels. As she stood there debating the wisdom of her actions, Evie couldn't repress a shiver of premonition.

She impatiently shook her head—just like the driver's horse a few minutes ago, she thought—and strode across the yard to the back door. She blamed her tightly strung nerves for her superstitious response. Though understandable, it would not be helpful in dealing with her upcoming interview with Bridget. The poor girl would no doubt be in a terrible state, and Evie needed to be as calm as possible in order to elicit information that would be of use to Will.

She could only pray that Bridget would provide them with the information needed to bring this dreadful situation to a conclusion.

The door was unlocked, and Evie slipped inside. A quick glance revealed an empty parlor, so she quickly made her way to the back of the building. Bridget would likely be in the kitchen with Mrs. Rafferty and possibly Father O'Kelley. The priest had been in Lincoln for the last few weeks but was expected home at any time. His calming presence would be most welcome.

When she heard the soft murmur of a masculine voice issuing from the kitchen, she smiled. Father O'Kelley had indeed returned, thank goodness, and was already providing Bridget the spiritual support she needed.

Evie pushed open the door and stepped quietly down the short set of stairs to the kitchen, coming up short before she reached the bottom. There
was
a man present, his wide back and hulking shoulders turned to her as he spoke with Bridget, but it certainly wasn't Father O'Kelley. When he whipped around to face her, a startled look on his features, it took a few moments to place him. Then she realized he was one of the men she'd seen the other night at that odd meeting in the kitchen with Bridget and Terence. And just like the other night, neither Mrs. Rafferty nor Father O'Kelley was there.

“Miss Evie,” Bridget exclaimed. “We didn't hear you come in.”

The girl's color was high, and her eyes glittered feverishly as she rushed forward to greet her. Evie took an involuntary step back then almost lost her balance as she stumbled into the rise behind her heel.

“Watch yourself, miss,” Bridget cried as she grabbed her elbow. “You don't want to be fallin' and knockin' your head. Have a seat and I'll make you a nice cup of tea.”

Evie allowed Bridget to steady her as she stepped down onto the flagstones of the kitchen floor. But she resisted the girl's concerted effort to tow her to the table, pulling her arm away.

“I'm fine, and I don't need a cup of tea.” She glanced at the big man standing against the wall with a kind of tense alertness, as if he expected trouble. “Bridget, please introduce me to your companion. I don't believe I caught his name the other night.”

The man's lips curled back in a slow smile. “I'm thinkin' you don't need to know, miss,” he responded in a thick Irish brogue.

A chill skated down Evie's spine at the ruthless nature of that smile. The man's look was the kind a cat gave a mouse before it pounced. When she switched her gaze back to Bridget, her stomach plunged with a sickening swoop.

If anything, the ruthlessness in Bridget's gaze exceeded that of her companion's. It was beginning to dawn on Evie that the young Irishwoman was not the innocent she'd always taken her for. In fact, she now had to assume that Bridget was involved in the conspiracy too—if for no other reason than to protect her brother.

She had to swallow a few times before she could speak. “Bridget, what have you done with Mrs. Rafferty and her son?”

“Ah, are you figurin' things out now, love?” Bridget replied in a voice laden with contempt. “Took you long enough, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised given how bloody softhearted you are.”

Then her expression changed again, transforming in an instant to that of a frightened girl. Lips quivering, she dramatically clutched her hands to her breasts. “Oh, Miss Evie, please help me,” she exclaimed. “My brother, he's in trouble, and I don't know what to do!”

When she laughed, Evie thought she would choke on the bile that rose in her throat. The girl looked and sounded demented.

“It was as easy as cake foolin' you and Beaumont,” she said. “I did worry a bit about Mrs. Rafferty. She's no lightweight, but we was able to put her off, too.”

“Where are Mrs. Rafferty and her son?” Evie repeated, beginning to fear the worst.

Bridget tossed her head. “You've no need to worry about them, you silly twit. We locked them in the vestry of the church. They're Irish, so I won't be harmin' them.” She chuckled. “But they won't be gettin' out anytime soon to raise the alert, neither.”

The vestry was little more than a windowless closet that only opened onto the chancel. “Bridget, I don't know what you're planning—”

“If you sit down and shut your gob, I'll tell you.”

The girl jerked her head at her silent companion and the man slapped a massive hand on Evie's shoulder. Propelling her toward the kitchen table, he shoved her into one of the chairs. Evie didn't resist. Her legs felt shaky, and she was grateful for the opportunity to sit and regroup.

When Bridget leaned a hip against the table, smirking at her, Evie adopted as calm a manner as she could. “Please tell me what's going on. Maybe I can help you.”

The girl let out a hoot of laughter. “Who says I want your help? Although I suppose I should thank you for gettin' me that job at Milbank's house. It made everything so much easier.”

Evie gasped. “Then there
is
a plot to kill someone. Is it Sir Gerald?”

Bridget snorted. “That blockhead is hardly worth the effort, though he won't be survivin' the night. But he's not who we want.”

“Who then?” Evie forced herself to ask.

“Orange Peel and Liverpool,” Bridget answered. “And anyone else we can bring down with them.”

Evie frowned at the first reference, but then she remembered something Michael had told her some months ago. Orange Peel was the nickname some of the Irish had given Robert Peel, the much-loathed Chief Secretary of Ireland, orange being the color of those who supported the rights and interests of the British Crown. It was a bad joke made even worse by the circumstances.

“You're going to kill Peel and the prime minister?” she asked, skeptically. “How in God's name do you intend to do that?”

Bridget crossed her arms as if getting comfortable and leaned closer in a confiding manner, as if she were enjoying the discussion. “Me men and me,” she said, nodding at her compatriot, “have been plannin' it since afore we left Ireland. Didn't quite know how we'd pull it off until you got me that job at Milbank's. He lives in one of those bleedin' great mansions on the Thames, with all its cellars and even a deserted undercroft. The cellars are half-fallin' down but the undercroft was clean enough and dry. So we've been smugglin' gunpowder into it for three months now, enough to blow the whole bleedin' mess sky high.”

Evie gaped at her, dumbstruck with horror. Sir Gerald's house was one of the few remaining mansions on the Strand, an architectural holdover from Jacobean times. It was huge and sprawling, and she wasn't surprised to hear its cellars included an undercroft, a vaulted chamber primarily used for storage. Newer houses lacked the undercrofts that made Sir Gerald's mansion horribly perfect for nefarious activities.

It took several hard swallows to find her voice. “It sounds like the Gunpowder Plot,” she said, thinking of the conspiracy of the previous century to blow up the Parliament buildings.

Bridget tapped the side of her nose. “Where do you think we got the idea, especially storin' the gunpowder in the undercroft? No one ever goes down there anymore, so it was dead easy.” She laughed, as if she'd just made an uproarious joke. “Well, 'cept for me and Stanley, the junior footman. He showed me the undercroft one day, hopin' he could get me to flip up my skirts for him. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was perfect.”

Evie struggled to make sense of what she was hearing, because it sounded both unbelievable and insane. “How did you get the gunpowder and smuggle it in with nobody seeing you?”

“We stole it off the barges that come down the river with gunpowder for the London Magazine.” She grimaced. “That was tricky, but we managed to get a full barrel off one night. Then we used the old landing behind Milbank's house to bring it in.”

Evie pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could slow her pounding heart. “How . . . how many are involved in this wicked plot? Who else from St. Margaret's?”

Bridget sneered at her. Her ugly expression was entirely at odds with the sweet, pretty girl Evie thought she'd known. What a naïve fool she'd been.

“Don't worry, dearie, your precious charity is safe. There's just me and the men you saw the other night, and a few others you don't need to know about. 'Course, not that it'll make a difference once it all comes out. Just knowin' I came through here will make trouble for you, I suppose.” She shrugged. “I'm actually sorta sorry for that, but it can't be helped.”

“What is your brother's role in this?”

Bridget jerked up from the table, a spasm of pain crossing her face. Then the look in her eyes went glacial. “Terry had his chance to support the cause. To support
me.
But ever since we came to this bleedin' place he's gone soft.”

Evie blinked. She'd obviously been wrong about Terence, as she had been about so many things. “I'm sure he wanted to keep you safe,” she finally managed.

“He ain't a real man,” Bridget replied with contempt. “A real Irishman, anyway.” She glanced at the mantel clock then reached for the shawl she'd draped over one of the kitchen chairs.

Evie shook her head, sick at heart to hear Bridget's definition of a
real man.
Poor Terence had obviously tried to save his sister, yet even his love hadn't been enough to triumph over hatred. “When is this happening?”

“Tonight.” Bridget tossed the shawl over her shoulders. “Milbank's havin' a dinner party with a bunch of government nobs, including Peel and Liverpool. We're all set to blow them to hell and back.”

Evie's desperation drove her to her feet, but the thug pushed her back down.

“Now, Miss Evie,” Bridget said in a horrible parody of an affectionately scolding voice, “you just sit yourself back down. You won't be goin' nowhere for a while yet.”

Evie tried to calm the screeching in her mind. She needed to think and get as much information out of Bridget as she could. “You don't seem all that much in a hurry. Won't you be there when this happens?”

“Just waitin' for all the guests to arrive at the party, love,” she answered. “We don't want to be leavin' anyone out.”

“But . . . but I thought you said you couldn't stay long. Won't your presence be missed?”

Bridget shrugged. “And what of it? It's not like I'll be gettin' my old job back, now will I?”

Evie closed her eyes and put a hand over her mouth, feeling like her stomach was crawling into her throat. Where was Will? Were he and Gilbride still wasting time looking for Terence in the rookeries?

Her eyes popped open. It was certainly possible that Will had already run Terence to ground. If he had, the Irishman might have revealed at least some of the details of the plot, if he knew them, and that meant Will could be at Sir Gerald's house right now. He'd be in mortal danger, along with everyone else there.

She twisted around in her chair to face Bridget, who was speaking quietly with her confederate. “Bridget, please don't do this. Let me help you. I'll speak with Michael. We'll get you money, and get you and your friends out of the country. You can go to America, with Terence.”

Bridget threw her an almost disinterested glance. “Too late for that, Miss Evie.”

Evie could only stare at her with horror. “Why, Bridget?” she managed. “Why are you doing this?”

The girl's pretty blue eyes suddenly blazed with such ferocity that Evie cringed. Bridget swooped forward, grabbing the collar of her spencer and half-lifting her out of her chair.

“You really want to know, you silly bitch? It's because I hate you and your kind with every particle of my soul,” Bridget hissed. “You destroyed everything I loved. You destroyed my life, grindin' it into shite and piss and death. I was only a wee girl when your bloody bastard soldiers massacred my family during the rebellion. My parents, my little sister . . . everyone but Terry. We were the only two you didn't kill off, although God knows you tried. You drove us out of our home and left us to starve in the hedgerows like rats. Like scum under the heels of your fancy boots.”