It was a daring plot, and Rupert knew they’d lose brave comrades. But taking Victoria herself would, sure as the sun rises in the east, bring worldwide attention to the Irish cause. It was a grand and glorious statement of the will of a small nation. David victorious over Goliath.
Rupert felt a surge of exhilaration unlike any he’d felt since his last mission for the proud South. “We’ll do our part, sir.”
He’d spent the last eighteen hours designing the most effective blast. He and Will would hand-light the fuses, rather than trust a flint and timer. Neither could they rely on charges planted directly on the bridge with a pressure trigger for a carriage wheel to strike. He’d tried to think what he’d do, if he were in charge of the queen’s safety. First, order all roadways and bridges along the parade route searched. And he’d send a hundred men to crawl through every inch of Westminster Abbey, where the ceremony was to be held, then secure it until half an hour before the ceremony. He’d send an outrider or wagon ahead of the first carriage to make sure there were no trigger plates or trip wires.
That left only one way to blow this damn bridge—from the water.
“You’ll of course move far enough away,” the Lieutenant was saying, “to protect yourself from the blast. But then I want you to hold up as close as possible for five minutes or so after the explosion and keep an eye on the water.”
Rupert understood. For survivors. “For our fellas?”
The Lieutenant shook his head. “If all goes well, our boys won’t be the ones in the water.” He turned to observe the bridge. “You’ll be our insurance. In case one of the royal family takes a plunge.”
Rupert nodded his agreement. But he figured the chances of them hauling a live body out of the water were pretty damn slim. If the blast or the fall didn’t kill ’em, a dunk in this poisonous old river likely would.
Thirty-six
A noxious fog, thick as his mother’s New England fish chowder, obscured Byrne’s view of the street. He didn’t see the boy coming until the lad thrust a scabby head through the open window of the moving carriage in which Byrne and Princess Beatrice rode, on their way to her favorite bookshop.
Byrne had set half a dozen young crossing sweepers to watch for Darvey and report to him when the pimp turned up. Now the lad, hanging on like a monkey to the outside of the jouncing carriage, whispered into Byrne’s ear.
“Hey, you boy, get off from there!” the footman shouted down from his perch at the back of the carriage.
Byrne slipped a coin into the boy’s hand before the urchin dropped down from the side of the vehicle and darted away between rumbling omnibuses, costermongers’ barrows, and pedestrians.
“What a filthy little boy,” Beatrice said, wrinkling her nose. “What did he want?”
Byrne scowled at his hands. “Nothing important, Your Highness.” Before she could ask another question he said, “Will you be long in the shop?”
“No more than two hours,” she said. “I shall read for a while, before deciding if I will buy anything. Will you hate having to wait for me?” Her smile had just a hint of girlish infatuation in it.
“Not at all. In fact, I have some business to attend to. I’ll leave you in the care of your coachman and guard. If I’m not back by the time you’re ready to leave, they’ll take you home.” He’d replaced the usual footman with one of the queen’s guards. The man was armed and trained to protect the family. Beatrice would be in good hands.
“You needn’t hurry,” Beatrice said. “I can spend hours and hours in a bookshop. Mrs. Shrewsberry doesn’t mind, and she always has jam cakes for me when I come.”
“Good,” said Byrne, thinking what a relief it must be for the youngest princess to be free of her mother for even a few hours. Victoria treated Beatrice more like a personal maid than her child. As a result, he’d noticed, the girl had little time to herself and no friends at all her own age. Byrne’s heart went out to her.
After securing the bookshop, which closed its doors to other customers while the princess visited, Byrne waved down a hansom cab and directed it to Henry Locock’s home and dispensary. His crossing sweeper had spotted someone who looked like Darvey in the Lococks’ neighborhood.
Byrne ordered the driver to leave him a block away, paid him, and strode off down the alley behind the physician’s house. He’d arrived almost too late.
Darvey stood on a crate, at eye level to a rear window of the Locock home. He was shoving a crowbar beneath the lip of a windowpane. From his end of the alley, Byrne heard the creak as the wooden frame weakened. It gave way with a dull crack.
Byrne broke into a run, loping toward the pimp.
Darvey turned to observe him with a welcoming expression that struck Byrne as inappropriate to being caught in the act. “Took you long enough, boy-o,” Darvey called out. “Another two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I’d a been on me girl, helpin’ her remember her trade.” He chuckled.
Byrne stopped just feet away from him. “You’re coming with me.”
“Is I? Where to?” Darvey looked more amused than worried.
“I’m taking you to Scotland Yard to be held for arson and attempted murder.”
Still looking pleased with himself, Darvey shifted the crowbar from right to left hand, and pulled a knife from inside the cuff of his pant leg. “So come ahead, Yank.”
Byrne brought out the Colt. He could shoot the man dead on the spot, or take him wounded to prison. It didn’t much matter to him which.
Darvey tilted his head to one side and eyed the weapon with the air of a connoisseur. “Nice piece. So, you’re in this for queen and another man’s country? Don’t seem reason enough for a fella to die.”
“I ain’t the one dying today, Darvey,” Byrne said.
“Oh no?” The voice came from behind Byrne at the precise moment something that felt like a lamppost came down on his head.
He felt the gun leave his hand, heard it skitter across the gravely ground. The sound of metal ringing against metal came to him from the far side of the alley. He staggered to find his balance.
When his eyes focused a second later, he turned and saw two men blocking the alley’s mouth. The Colt was nowhere in sight, but Byrne suspected the iron-barred sewage grate had swallowed it up.
“Come on, Yank,” Darvey taunted. “Let’s you and me have a bit of fun before my mates join the party.”
Byrne cursed himself for assuming the man fool enough not to have brought backup. Darvey had expected this confrontation. Was it possible this entire scene had been staged for his benefit? The casing of the house from the street observed by the crossing sweeper? The daylight break-in? All of this to ambush him.
But if he hadn’t responded to the challenge, what would have happened to the Lococks? He didn’t like to think of it.
The fight started out badly.
Byrne figured that taking out one of the thugs would at least even up the odds a little. With two against one, he had a chance. He spun and rushed the bigger of the two men, a head taller and thirty pounds heavier than him. His sudden aggressive attack surprised his opponent and landed him on his back with Byrne’s head buried in his gut. The man’s skull banged back against the rock-hard ground of the alley; he went out like a snuffed candle. But the second thug was on him the second Byrne scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Byrne from behind.
Darvey had waited his chance. Now he swung the crowbar at Byrne’s kneecap and connected with a sickening crunch. Byrne managed to stay on his feet just long enough for Darvey to drive a fist into the side of his face. He went down, the pain in his knee agonizing but only a shade less than the ringing in his head.