“I fear I know what element you have missed,” Pitt said at last.
“Violence?” she asked. “I cannot think of any one man, or even group of men, who would pass some of the legislation they are proposing. It would be pointless anyway. It would be sent back by the House of Lords, and then they would have to begin again. By that time the opposition would have collected its wits, and its arguments. They must know that.”
“Of course they do,” he agreed. “But if there were no House of Lords …”
The street lamps outside seemed harsh, the rattle of the carriage wheels unnaturally loud. “Another gunpowder plot?” she asked. “The country would be outraged. We hung, drew, and quartered Guy Fawkes and his conspirators. We might not be quite so barbaric this time, but I wouldn’t risk all I valued on it.” Her face was momentarily in the shadows as a higher, longer carriage passed between them and the nearest street lamps.
Nearly an hour later they arrived at the hostelry Narraway had chosen, tired, chilly, and uncomfortable. They greeted one another briefly, with intense emotion, then allowed the landlord to show them to the rooms they would occupy for the night. Then they were offered a private lounge where they might have whatever refreshments they wished, and be otherwise uninterrupted.
Pitt was filled with emotion to see Charlotte; joy just at the sight of her face, anxiety that she looked so tired. He was relieved that she was safe when she so easily might not have been; frustrated that he had no opportunity to be alone with her, even for a moment; and angry that she had been in such danger. She had acted recklessly and with no reference to his opinion or feelings. He felt painfully excluded. Narraway had been there and he had not. His reaction was childish; he was ashamed of it, but that did nothing to lessen its sharpness.
Then he looked at Narraway, and despite himself his anger melted. The man was exhausted. The lines in his face seemed more deeply cut than they had been just a week or two before; his dark eyes were bruised around the sockets, and he brushed his hair back impatiently with his thin, strong hands as if it were in his way.
They glanced at each other, no one knowing who was in command. Narraway had led Special Branch for years, but it was Pitt’s job now. And yet neither of them would preempt Vespasia’s seniority.
Vespasia smiled. “For heaven’s sake, Thomas, don’t sit there like a schoolboy waiting for permission to speak. You are the commander of Special Branch. What is your judgment of the situation? We will add to it, should we have something to offer.”
Pitt cleared his throat. He felt as if he were usurping Narraway’s place. Yet he was also aware that Narraway was weary and beaten, betrayed in ways that he had not foreseen, and accused of crimes where he could not prove his innocence. The situation was harsh; a little gentleness was needed in the few places where it was possible.
Carefully he repeated for Narraway what had happened from the time he and Gower had seen West murdered until he and Stoker had put together as many of the pieces as they could. He was aware that he was speaking of professional secrets in front of both Vespasia and Charlotte. It was something he had not done before, but the gravity of the situation allowed no luxury of exclusion. If they failed to restore justice, it would all become desperately public in a very short time anyway. How short a time he could only guess.
When he had finished he looked at Narraway.
“The House of Lords would be the obvious and most relevant target,” Narraway said slowly. “It would be the beginning of a revolution in our lives, a very dramatic one. God only knows what might follow. The French throne is already gone. The Austro-Hungarian is shaking, especially after that wretched business at Mayerling.” He glanced at Charlotte and saw the puzzlement in her face. “Six years ago, in ’89,” he explained, “Crown Prince Rudolf and his mistress shot themselves in a hunting lodge. All very messy and never really understood.” He leaned forward a little, his face resuming its gravity. “The other thrones of Europe are less secure than they used to be, and Russia is careering toward chaos if they don’t institute some sweeping reforms, very soon. Which is almost as likely as daffodils in November. They’re all hanging on with their fingers.”
“Not us,” Pitt argued. “The queen went through a shaky spell a few years ago, but her popularity’s returning.”
“Which is why if they struck here, at our hereditary privilege, the rest of Europe would have nothing with which to fight back,” Narraway responded. “Think about it, Pitt. If you were a passionate socialist and you wanted to sweep away the rights of a privileged class to rule over the rest of us, where would you strike? France has no ruling nobility. Spain isn’t going to affect the rest of us anymore. They used to be related to half Europe in Hapsburg times, but not now. Austria? They’re crumbling anyway. Germany? Bismarck is the real power. All the great royal houses of Europe are related to Victoria, one way or the other. If Victoria gets rid of her House of Lords, then it will be the beginning of the end for privilege by birth.”
“One cannot inherit honor or morality, Victor,” Vespasia said softly. “But one can learn from the cradle a sense of the past, and gratitude for its gifts. One can learn a responsibility toward the future, to guard and perhaps improve on what one has been given, and leave it whole for those who follow.”
His face pinched as he looked at her. “I am speaking their words, not my own, Lady Vespasia.” He bit his lip. “If we are to defeat them, we must know what they believe, and what they intend to do. If they can gain the power they will sweep away the good with the bad, because they don’t understand what it is to answer only to your conscience rather than to the voice of the people, which comes regardless whether or not they have the faintest idea what they are talking about.”
“I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “I think perhaps I am frightened. Hysteria appals me.”
“It should,” he assured her. “The day there is no one left to fear it we are all lost.” He turned to Pitt. “Have you any idea as to what specific plans anyone has?”
“Very little,” Pitt admitted. “But I know who the enemy is.” He relayed to Narraway what he had told Vespasia about the different violent men who loathed one another, and yet appeared to have found a common cause.
“Where is Her Majesty now?” Narraway asked.
“Osborne,” Pitt replied. He felt his heart beating faster, harder. Other notes he had seen from various people came to mind: movements of men that were small and discreet, but those men’s names should have given pause to whoever was reading the reports. Narraway would have seen it. “I believe that’s where they’ll strike. It’s the most vulnerable and most immediate place.”
Narraway paled even further. “The queen?” He gave no exclamation, no word of anger or surprise; his emotion was too consuming. The thought of attacking Victoria herself was so shocking that all words were inadequate.
Pitt’s mind raced to the army, the police on the Isle of Wight, all the men he himself could call from other duties. Then another thought came to him: Was this what they were supposed to think? What if he responded by concentrating all his resources on Osborne House, and the actual attack came somewhere else?
“Be careful,” Narraway said quietly. “If we cause public alarm it could do all the damage they need.”
“I know.” Pitt was aware of Charlotte and Vespasia watching him as well. “I know that. I also know that they have probably a large space of time in which to strike. They could wait us out, then move as soon as we have relaxed.”
“I doubt it.” Narraway shook his head. “They know I escaped and they know you are back from France. I think it’s urgent, even immediate. And the men you named here in England, together, won’t wait. You should go back to Lisson Grove and—”