A Reckless Encounter

“Tell Lord Moreland that removing me will not erase his guilt!”

“Really, Miss St. Clair, I’m not at all certain Moreland even remembers your existence.”

With that cryptic statement, Easton left her alone in the small room, though she heard him give instructions to the guard outside the door that she was to be closely watched at all times. Celia sat down, bewildered and more frightened than she had been before.

What did he mean by that? Of course Moreland must remember her, for was he not responsible for this? It could only be him. Unless—unless Colter had decided that he no longer needed her, no longer wanted her. But that couldn’t be true. Could it?

No, of course it isn’t. He wouldn’t do that to me, wouldn’t just leave me like this to be transported as if I was a common criminal! she thought wildly, despairingly. She put her face into her palms and shuddered.

Oh, why hadn’t he come for her?

27

George Ruthven was already at the Horse and Groom, and had been since two that afternoon. Northington, garbed still in the wool jersey and rough coat, sat with him as they waited. Tyler was posted outside to keep watch on the stable. At the stable across the dark street, lights flickered below and above in the hayloft.

“They’ve been arriving since early today,” Ruthven said calmly. “There’s about two dozen men.”

“Hardly the fifteen thousand Thistlewood predicted.” Colter balanced his chair on its two rear legs, arms crossed over his chest as he and several others took turns watching out the window for the conspirators. “We may not have to wait on the Coldstream Guards to arrive.”

Ruthven nodded and slid a glance toward Richard Birnie, who was a Bow Street magistrate in charge of the operations. They had just arrived, a dozen police officers and the magistrate, now staring into the darkness of Cato Street. The was an air of tense excitement in the room.

Tyler slid into the room a few minutes later, his face sharp with tension. He beckoned to Colter and said tautly, “You were right. John Brunt has delivered sabers, swords, pistols and rifles to the stable all day, but I was just told they have armed themselves with a hand grenade.”

“Christ,” Colter swore softly. “A hand grenade is more than we bargained for. They might as well have cannons sitting in that bloody stable.”

“What should I do? Do I tell Birnie?”

Colter glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. Tell him, but wait until I’ve gone.”

Tyler’s jaw set. “You’re not exactly unknown. If they recognize you, that would destroy any chance of surprise we have.”

“Then don’t wait long after I’m gone to tell them what you know, Tyler.”

It was a risk, but there was little choice. It was all happening too quickly now, and an argument with Birnie would take up valuable time.

It was cold, the night pressing down as he stepped outside. Chimney smoke clogged the air, layering beneath the clouds to burn eyes and nose. Across from the pub, a lamp burned over the stable door; the second floor was darker, with something over the windows. The small stable was near a corner where some five-story brick buildings ran parallel. An arch cut under one of the buildings, and he saw a casual lounger waiting beneath the fitful light of a small lamp.

There would be no second chances.

Darkness greeted him on the first floor of the stable, the smell of hay and dung strong as he slipped inside a side door and paused. Stationed at the main door, a man watched the street intently, the dull light a pale glint along the stock of his weapon.

The old reckless exhilaration was on him now as Colter moved on the balls of his feet across the straw-littered dirt of the stable floor, a knife in one hand. He’d done this kind of thing before, in France and in the steaming swamps of Louisiana, and even in the hot, arid desert of California. This kind of fighting wasn’t military precision but guerrilla style, stealthy and devastating to morale if not numerically superior. Nervous sentries never knew from where an enemy would come, rising out of black night to slit a throat or put a blade between the ribs, or hiding behind bushes or walls, lying in wait for an ambush.

It was these times he felt truly alive again. It was a paradox that a man only felt alive when he was in danger of dying, but maybe that was because he felt stifled by the atmosphere in which he found himself most of the time. He hadn’t felt this acute sense of danger, of risk, since he’d returned to England.

There were only a few minutes before Ruthven and Birnie acted, and he had to find the hand grenade before any of the conspirators had a chance to use it. Disarming the guard was no challenge, sliding up behind him and putting the tip of his knife to the spot just below his ear, his voice soft as he told him to throw down his weapon.

“Softly now. If my hand slips…”

There was no need to say more. The man nodded silently, terror making him clumsy but obedient.

“What’s your name?” The knife prodded slightly when he only stammered.

“Ings…James Ings!” was the hoarse whisper.

“Now, Mister Ings, why don’t you show me where you keep the hand grenade and other weapons. You know it’s all over now, so no sense in being stubborn. The police will be here any minute, and in any case, there are twice as many of them as there are of you, so you don’t have a chance. A trial could go either way, just as the last one. And at least you’d have a chance that way. If you warn Thistlewood, I’ll gut you right here.”

Reflected light from the lantern outside on the wall betrayed Ings’s pasty pallor, and he nodded slowly.