The Suspect's Daughter (33 page)

Grant said, “We can find out where easily enough now that we know it will be at a dinner party tomorrow night. The Secret Service will know the prime minister’s schedule. Or we can wring it out of Peter, which would be more fun.” His dark glee mirrored Jackson’s a moment ago. Surely he was bluffing, just as he’d been bluffing when he grabbed her in her father’s study.

Jackson seized Emma by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “It’s irons for you.”

Emma’s eyes opened wide. “If you take me away, Peter’ll know some’in’s wrong. I’m s’posed to meet ’im tomorrow. If I don’t, ’e’ll suspect their plan’s revealed.”

“That’s all right. You can stay in gaol tonight. I’ll come for you in time to take you to meet him.”

She lunged out of the chair and almost made it to the door when Grant caught her. From behind her, he pinned her arms with his. She struggled against him and finally gave up with a cry of fury. Grant, to his credit, held her firmly but never roughed her up unnecessarily.

Jackson fished a small pair of shackles out of his pocket and fastened her hands behind her back. While Grant held onto one of Emma’s elbows, Jackson turned to Papa.

“Mr. Fairley, I regret any difficulty all of this may have caused you.”

Papa regarded him steadily. “Give my regards to Richard Barnes.” His mouth curved in a faint smile. “We were old friends once but…” He shrugged. “I’m sure he had no difficulty believing the worst of me.”

Grant’s expression turned pensive.

Jackson spoke, “Sir, it wasn’t Barnes’s idea. A criminal I arrested named you as the head of the conspiracy. He said you planned it as a way to ensure you became the new prime minister.”

Papa thought that over and ran a hand over his hair. “That softens the blow. But if he didn’t hold a grudge, well, he might have been less likely to believe the word of a criminal.” He shook his head. “I don’t want the position that badly, I assure you.”

“We know, sir,” Grant said.

Jackson glanced at Grant. “Meet me at the Brown Bear?”

Grant nodded.

While Jackson took Emma away, silence descended upon the room, as stifling as a dense fog. Jocelyn collapsed in a nearby armchair. Aunt Ruby, no doubt, would call for some chocolate. But all Jocelyn wanted was to throw her arms around Grant and burrow against him, buoy herself with his strength.

Standing in the middle of the room, Grant drew himself up and faced her father. “Sir, I—”

Papa waved him off. “It’s all right, son. I know you were following orders, or something of the like.” But his expression remained troubled.

“That’s exactly what I was doing.” Grant paused. “Sir, Barnes had good reason to suspect you. Not only did an informant named you as the leader of the conspiracy, but when I searched your study, I found a partially burned piece of paper with the words rifles and prime minister and meeting written on it—probably another clue Emma placed. And then, when I approached you outside the Palace of Westminster, I saw someone put a note in your pocket, so I picked your pocket and found mention of a meeting.”

Jocelyn almost asked about that. But maybe she didn’t want to know where Grant learned to pick pockets.

Papa frowned. “I remember that day. Someone nearly ran me over. Then you appeared, and that night, I found a strange note in my coat pocket. I had no idea how it got there or what it meant.”

Grant nodded. “He must have known I was watching you and placed it for me to find. Brilliant, actually, the way he made it look so discreet.”

“Upon my word.” Papa looked thunderstruck. “They’ve been planning this for weeks.” He ran a hand over his face.

Sitting next to her father, Jocelyn said, “In spite of the clues Emma and others placed, Grant investigated diligently and became convinced you were innocent. It is to his credit that he was so thorough. He cleared you even when Bow Street believed you guilty.”

“I know.” Papa glanced at Jocelyn. “I know.” He stood and offered his hand to Grant. “England is in good hands with people like you watching over her.”

“Sir, for what it’s worth to you, I think you’d make an excellent prime minister.” Grant shook his hand. He cast a quick glance at Jocelyn and headed toward the door.

She leaped to her feet. “I’ll see you out.” She all but raced after Grant.

Grant walked with long, swift strides toward the door. Jocelyn had to trot to keep up with him. Stiffly, he said, “You don’t have to see me out.”

“I want to.”

At the front door, he turned. His grim expression softened. “You did well tonight. Admirably so.”

She smiled hesitantly. Now that her father was truly safe, and the authorities knew how to protect the government leaders, her heart lightened so much that she just had to tease him a little. “I’m glad I was on hand. You wouldn’t really have hurt Emma even if I hadn’t been there, would you?”

He reared back, scowling. “Of course not. She was unarmed and half my size. And I’ve never harmed a woman, even those who deserve it.” His scowl faded. “Except when I attacked you. Threatened you. I…” His usual scowl faded and true remorse took its place.

Softly she said, “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I manhandled you and threatened you. I felt so guilty about that—I’ve never done that before.” The confession seemed to take him by surprise.

Smiling, she stepped closer. “I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. And I only brought up Emma because I like ruffling you a little. You’re so tough, and you pretend you despise everyone. But you have a true code of honor, a defender of the weak and innocent, and even women.”

A half smile toyed about his lips. “I’m beginning to think you are neither weak nor innocent.”

She look him straight in the eye. “I’m innocent of having designs on you.”

“None?”

“Only if you would call wanting to show you that I have grown…” she moistened her lips. Did she dare confess her love to him? She recalled her battle cry; bold and determined. “Only if you believe that I have grown to care for you, and hoping you have grown to care for me, is a design.” She leveled a steady gaze at him. “You can trust me. I wish I could prove that to you.”

An expression she could only describe as shattered overcame him. He swallowed. A long moment passed between them. Alternating vulnerability and helpless anger shadowed his silver-gray eyes. He touched her cheek with more gentleness than she thought he possessed, yet another layer to his complexity.

His fingers traced a little path down the side of her face. Warm tingles trailed after his touch.

His hand fell away. “I have nothing to offer you.” He left.

With head bowed, she stood hugging herself. Her heart shriveled like a plant long denied water. The only moisture she craved was an outpouring of Grant’s love. Even a trickle of acceptance and affection would suffice.

But his heart was a sealed well.

Grant caught up to Jackson at the Brown Bear, the pub across the street from the Bow Street office where they held criminals arrested after-hours to await their hearing with the magistrate in the morning.

Jackson chained Emma Smith with the others and left her under the watchful eyes of the guards. Her bravado drained out of her and she slumped against the wall like limp cabbage.

“You ready to go get this Peter?” Grant said.

“No!” Emma wailed.

Jackson grinned darkly. “Let’s go.”

They headed through the streets on foot, reveling in the thrill of the hunt. Grant’s senses sharpened, magnifying the scuttling of rodents, clanging of bells, horses’ hooves, voices, laughter, dogs barking, cats hunting, and other sounds and sights of London at night. A member of the Night Watch followed their progress until they passed out of sight.

At a ramshackle row of dwellings, Jackson confidently led the way to a door. They crouched, guns at the ready, listening. All remained still. Voices murmured next door, but no sound or light emanated from the place they watched.

Jackson moved in a blur, smashing through the door. Grant darted in behind him. A cry of alarm sounded from the corner of the room. In a broken down bedframe, a figure struggled against entangling bedcovers. Grant and Jackson stood over him.

Grant cocked his gun. “Peter, I presume?”

The occupant let out an expletive. “Emma squealed, did she?”

“Only after considerable pressure. How did you know?”

Peter’s cockney was so strong that Grant had to translate in his head. “I told her my name was Peter.”

“Would you rather we call you by a different name?”

A pause. “No, Peter’ll do.”

Jackson took up the conversation. “Well, Peter. Would you like to get dressed first or shall we haul you down to Bow Street in your skin?”

Another pause. “I’ll get dressed.”

They waited, guns still ready while “Peter” drew on clothing.

Jackson’s voice broke the silence. “We know about the conspiracy to assassinate the prime minister and his cabinet, and we know it’s tomorrow night when they meet for dinner.”

“I don’t know nothin’,” came Peter’s reply.

“Who else is involved?”

A soft laugh. “I’m not so weak.”

He made a lunge. Grant leaped, knocking him to the floor and landing on the man’s back. They grappled for a moment, but Grant twisted Peter’s hands behind his back and fastened them with handcuffs.

Jackson leveled his gun at their prisoner. “Try that again and I’ll blow off your head.” An empty threat, really, since they needed information.

Peter made a final twisting struggle but with his hands pinned, and Grant sitting on his back, he was powerless.

Grant got off Peter. “Sit up. We’re going to have a little chat.”

Glaring the whole time, Peter twisted around until he sat upright. Grant searched through the room until he found a flint box and lit the lone candle. The flickering candlelight cast distorted shadows throughout the room, illuminating a surprisingly young man with wild hair.

“Your Emma is in our custody,” Grant said. “What happens to her is entirely up to you. She doesn’t seem to know much. You can set her free by confirming that her involvement never went beyond placing a few scraps of paper for me to find. And if you provide us with the names of your co-conspirators, you might only face deportation rather than execution.” Not that Grant had the power to carry out such promises, but this Peter might not know that.

“And if I don’t?”

“She will hang along with the rest of you.”

Peter laughed mockingly. “I don’t know nothing. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell the likes of you.”

“Even at the peril of your life? And hers?”

“She’s nothing to me.”

“Liar.” But Grant wasn’t so sure. The man showed no concern for his lover. Still, he might be bluffing.

Again came the mocking laugh. An idea came to Grant. He grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. “Maybe a day or two in gaol will loosen your tongue.”

With Grant manhandling the prisoner, and Jackson keeping his gun ready, they took the prisoner to the upper floor of the Brown Bear pub.

“Peter!” Emma cried. “I was so worried ’bout ye.”

“You stupid wench,” Peter snarled. “You told them.”

“No, I …” she trailed off, clearly hurt by the verbal attack. “I told them nuthin’.”

Grant decided to play them against each other. “She told us it was tomorrow night,” he said helpfully. “When the cabinet has dinner together.”

Fury twisted Peter’s face until he resembled a gargoyle. “You witch! Shut your trap!”

Her eyes filled with tears. “But they said they’d ’urt ye. I was only tryin’ t’ protect you. I didn’t tell ’em what time or ’ow the Freedom Fighters was gonna to do it—”

“Stop talking!” He lunged for Emma and kicked her where she sat, chained and defenseless.

She screamed. Grant leaped onto him and dragged the twisting, kicking beast off the helpless girl.

As Jackson and one of the guards dragged him off and chained him to the wall, Grant checked the girl. She sobbed openly and her face was already starting to swell.

Grant stared at her in mingled disgust and pity. “Why would you protect a scoundrel like him?”

“I…I love ’im. ’e loves me.” But it came out sounding like a question.

Peter strained against his shackles. “I never loved ye, ye stupid twit.”

Shock and disbelief crumpled Emma’s face. Pity overcame Grant for the girl who’d been duped. How well he understood that kind of pain. A new fury for this Peter boiled in Grant’s gut.

“But, you…” She let out a sob. “Peter?”

He rolled his eyes and sat shaking his head.

Her chest heaved as she gasped and tears formed in her eyes. “Ye…ye lied to me? I gave ye ever’thin’…”

“Should’ve killed you to keep you quiet.”

She recoiled. Agony crumpled her face. Everyone in the room fell silent.

Bitter rage took over her features. Through quickly-swelling eyes, she looked at Grant and said in slow, deliberate, perfect Queen’s English, “I want to make a deal.”

Grant exchanged glances with Jackson. Though technically only a magistrate could make those kinds of deals, Barnes would likely go along with Grant’s recommendation. He crouched next to her. “What do you propose?”

“I go free. Completely. The rest of them hang.”

“Only if what you know is valuable enough.”

“The main conspirators’ names are George Smith—”

Peter’s expression of disbelief turned to terror. “Emma, shut yer trap!”

She sat calm and still, un-intimidated by the screams of rage from her former lover. “John Hamilton. Frances Martin. And Peter’s real name is Joseph Carter.”

“Emma!”

Still speaking clearly, her accent genteel, Emma said, “Joe Carter is not just the person who learned where the cabinet would be having dinner, he’s one of the main leaders of the Freedom Fighters.” She shot Peter—Joseph Carter—a sneer of triumph. “I’m not as foolish as you think,
Peter
. I keep my ears open.”

Grant almost quoted the famous line by Congreve,
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

Carter raged, “I’ll kill you, you—”

“Silence!” Jackson roared.