They were just finishing breakfast when the door creaked open. Rafe expected that it would be a servant to remove the tray, but Varenne himself entered, the usual shotgun-carrying guards behind him.
Not bothering with amenities, he said tersely to Anderson, "I suppose Candover has explained what I am about?"
Anderson drained his coffee mug before answering. "He did. I was curious where I went wrong."
"Good." Reaching under his black coat, Varenne drew out a pistol. Aiming it at the precise center of Anderson's forehead, he said, "I would be reluctant to kill a man who doesn't know why he is dying. Though I regret the necessity of this, I have been unable to imagine any circumstances where you might be useful to me, and as long as you are alive you are a danger. A pity you could not be brought over to my side, but even if you pretended to do so now, I would not trust your promises."
As Rafe watched with frozen horror, Varenne added, "Do you have any last prayers or messages, Anderson? If so, be quick about it. This will be a busy day for me."
His face pale, Anderson glanced at Rafe. "Please… give Maggie my love."
In the silence that followed his words, the sound of the hammer being cocked rang like the anvil of doom.
Though the hour was very early, the British embassy buzzed with activity and Oliver Northwood was greeted with relief by several of his colleagues who had worked all night. Even bedridden, Lord Castlereagh generated enough letters, proposals, memos, and draft treaties to keep a dozen men fully occupied, and being short-handed was taking its toll on the staff.
He heard several men express concern about Robert Anderson, who had been missing for several days. No surprises there; Northwood had a very good idea what had happened to him. Served the supercilious puppy right.
Shortly before eight o'clock, Northwood excused himself and made his way to the passage that ran beneath Castlereagh's bedroom. After nervously checking that the corridor was deserted, he unlocked the closet door and entered, closing it behind him. He hadn't considered how he would feel carrying a candle into an enclosure filled with gunpowder, and his hands were sweaty as he made the necessary preparations.
First he used his regular candle to create a pool of melted wax on the floor. Then he set the special candle of dense beeswax firmly into the puddle. When the wax had cooled and the candle was secure, he used his penknife to gouge a hole in the corner of a box of gunpowder. Finally he took a small bag of gunpowder from his pocket and laid a careful trail from the box to the candle, ending with a mound of powder around the base.
With exquisite care, he lit the beeswax candle. Then he cautiously let himself out of the closet, making sure that no draft would bring flame and gunpowder together prematurely.
Le Serpent had said it would take about eight hours for the candle to burn down. Except for the remote chance that someone would notice the scent of a burning candle in this seldom-used part of the embassy, the explosion would go off about four in the afternoon. By then, Northwood would be long gone.
When he was safely upstairs, he dug out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He deserved every bloody franc he had been paid, and then some. In the last couple of days security had gotten very tight at the embassy, with British soldiers at every entrance checking the credentials of strangers. As a regular employee Northwood had gotten in easily; Le Serpent could never have done this without him. Maybe he should ask for more money.
After returning to the clerks' copying room, Northwood settled down to make a fair copy of one of the interminable letters. The only other person present was a senior aide called Morier, who looked up with a tired smile. "Glad to see you, Northwood. Are you sure you're well enough to work? You look a little gray."
He couldn't look half as bad as Morier would after the explosion. The other man would attend the meeting this afternoon and he would be blown up, a minnow dying with the big fish. Northwood suppressed the thought uneasily; Morier had always been pleasant to him, and it was too bad that he would be caught in the conflagration. Well, it couldn't be helped. Smiling bravely, he said, "I still feel pretty beastly, but I thought I could manage a couple of hours. I know how overworked the rest of you are. A rotten time to be ill."
Morier murmured, "Good show," and returned to his document.
Northwood worked for two hours, the back of his neck prickling with knowledge of the candle burning toward that lethal trail of gunpowder. He excused himself when he could bear no more, and had no trouble looking sick. Morier and the other clerks who had come in commiserated about his illness and thanked him for making the effort.
As he left, Oliver reflected that it was enough to make even a man without a conscience squeamish, but he repressed his disquiet. In spite of casual friendliness, he knew the other members of the delegation looked down on him, thought they were more intelligent than he was. Well, they were wrong; he would have more power and wealth than any of them.
He hailed a cab in the Rue de Faubourg St. Honore and returned to his house, then changed into riding dress. The time had come to call on the Count de Varenne and let him see what a knowing one Oliver Northwood was
With luck Le Serpent would also have the promised bonus waiting: the gorgeous, unobtainable Margot Ashton would finally be in Oliver Northwood's power.
As early as was decent, Helene Sorel sent a messenger to Candover's lodgings to see if he had learned anything. Less than three-quarters of an hour later her footman returned with the unwelcome news that the duke had not been seen since the previous afternoon.
Though the day was pleasantly warm, the implications of the news chilled Helene to the bone. Perhaps the duke's absence was not significant, but given the disappearances of Maggie and Robert Anderson, she must assume the worse.
If the unknown Le Serpent had seized the other three, was Helene also on his list?
Briefly she was tempted to flee back to the country, to her two daughters and safety. With the conspiracy so close to culmination, Le Serpent would never bother to follow her there. What could she do alone, without help?
Her hands curled into fists and she rejected that solution. If worse came to worse, and she, too, disappeared, Helene's own mother would take care of her granddaughters faithfully and well. But if there was any action Helene could take, she would do it rather than live a craven.
But was there anything she could do? Helene was too unimportant to convince any government officials that danger was imminent even if she knew what form the plot would take, which she didn't.
Her hands unclenched and she got determinedly to her feet There was something she should have thought of sooner, and she would see to it right now.
The sound of the hammer being cocked freed Rafe from his momentary paralysis. The stark resignation on Anderson's face had caused an elusive memory to click into place, and Rafe was reasonably sure he knew who the blond man was.
His voice crackling with authority, Rafe said, "Varenne, shooting Anderson would be a serious mistake. Remember that you said you were never profligate?"
The finger that had been tightening on the trigger paused, but the count was annoyed as he glanced over. "Don't interfere, Candover. You are worth keeping for your potential value, but a spy is not the same category."
"If he were only a spy, that might be true," Rafe agreed, his gaze steady on the count. "But the man you are so wastefully about to kill is Lord Robert Andreville, brother of the Marquess of Wolverton, one of the richest men in Britain."