The Suspect's Daughter (36 page)

He had to warn them. The sharpshooters positioned on the rooftops would be safe, but the Runners and Secret Service agents, not to mention the government leaders inside the building, were in danger.

In the alleys, Grant dodged children, carts, dogs and piles of refuse as he raced to the ground floor of the house where the dinner party was about to commence. He burst in through the kitchen door. A surprised cook and a familiar-looking, grim-faced agent stood in the kitchen.

Grant shouted. “Get everyone out of the building! They have explosives. Where is the prime minister?”

“They’re still inside.” The agent rushed out of the room with Grant on his heels. “Explosives!” the agent yelled. “Evacuate now!”

They raced to the east side of the house where agents were escorting the government officials out a door they’d cut into the wall which led to the house next door, a plan that might have worked if the Freedom Fighters were simply going to storm the house during dinner or even set fire. But now, there was no way to know when they planned to set up the black powder explosive.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grant caught the figure of a slender young man wearing the livery of a footman. His arm blurred in swift motion. A flash of light blinded Grant. All the world dissolved into a deafening blast. He floated, weightless, into darkness.

The butler approached Jocelyn where she sat staring at a letter she’d begun to write to her youngest brother, Jesse, who was attending school at Eaton. Her letter to Jonathan lay completed, awaiting sealing. The butler cleared his throat, and the page came into focus.

Dear Jesse,

Her thoughts whirled around so quickly that she hadn’t gotten past the salutation. She lifted her head and acknowledged the butler.

“Yes, Owens?”

“Miss Fairley, the parlor maid who got arrested last night is here begging to speak with you.”

Jocelyn set down her pen and capped the ink. “I’ll see her.”

The butler hesitated for a split second before bowing, “As you wish, miss.”

Katie slipped in with a feather duster in hand but halted when she saw Jocelyn. “Sorry, miss. I’ll come back later.”

“Katie, how is your sister?”

Katie smiled. “She and the little ones are right happy, miss, thanks to you.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Katie turned to exit but stopped. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but is anything wrong? You look worried, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I am worried. But I’m sure all will be well, soon enough.”

Katie nodded and slipped out.

Moments later, Emma came in wearing the same clothing she’d worn last night. She spoke in controlled tones and accent. “Miss Fairley, before you throw me out, please let me apologize. Your father seems a good man, and it would have been terrible if he had been blamed for…what they were planning.” She bowed her head.

Gone was the angry, defiant girl who hated her employers. In her place stood a broken young lady.

Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Jocelyn stood. “Yes, he would have. And I’m hurt that you were willing to plant evidence against him. But you did it for love, and probably because you sympathized with their cause.”

“Yes, miss,” Emma whispered. Something indescribably sad passed over her features.

“Thank you for coming to me, Emma. I accept your apology.”

Emma’s mouth quirked in a sad smile. “I also came to get my things. I don’t deserve to work here, not after what I did. But I have a friend who can help me find a new position.”

“Before you go, please tell me; were any other members of the staff helping you? Were any others in our employ involved in this Freedom Fighters group?”

“No, miss. I were the only one. Why, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I overheard someone talking about the prime minister and wanting to destroy innocent men. This was at the house party.”

Emma shook her head. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know anyone in either this house or your country house who were involved.” She paused. “Do you want me to find out anything more?”

“No, you’d better not. I don’t want you to do anything to arouse their suspicions. These are dangerous men and might hurt you if they think you’re no longer an ally.”

“What do you care if they hurt me?”

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Emma turned that over. “Katie told me what you did for her sister and the little ones.”

“Katie is a fine girl.”

“You are, too, miss.” She turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “Are you in love with that Amesbury fellow?”

Taken aback at the personal question by a former maid, Jocelyn stared. But last night, they’d discussed Emma’s personal life, so perhaps it was only fitting. Besides, some inner instinct whispered that her answer would matter a great deal to Emma, and possibly to the outcome of the conspiracy.

“Yes,” Jocelyn said is a soft voice. “Yes, I love him very much.”

“Is he the fellow you were talking about last night?”

Jocelyn nodded. “I think he does love me, deep in his heart, but he’s been hurt and he’s very slow to trust anyone. But I won’t give up on him. He’s worth waiting for.”

“What if he don’t love you? What if he’s only using you?”

“He isn’t. He’s not that kind of man. I’ve seen what a brave and good man he is.”

Emma leaned against the door jam, her mouth pulled to one side. “There is something more going to happen tonight. I heard talk of some kind of weapon, a big one. I don’t know what it is, but if your man and the other constables go there expecting only men with guns…”

Alarm blasted through Jocelyn’s veins. “We have to warn them.”

“I’ve told them already.”

“What precautions are they taking?”

“I have no idea.”

Moments later, she slipped away, leaving Jocelyn frantic with worry. A dozen times she made up her mind to go to Bow Street and beg Grant to leave the peacekeeping to the Runners, but he would resent her interference. He was an able man, he didn’t need a worried female getting in his way. Besides, twilight had already enshrouded the city which meant the dinner party would probably begin soon. Grant may already be there, getting into position to apprehend the conspirators and protecting the prime minister. If only she knew something that would help them!

Jocelyn changed for dinner but her anxiety had smothered her appetite. She paced in the dining room awaiting her father, hardly noting the smells of food.

When Papa arrived for dinner, he took a single glance at Jocelyn’s face and immediately went to her. “What is it, princess? Are you concerned about the events occurring this evening?”

“I’m so worried about Grant. If he should be hurt…” her throat closed off her words with a squeak.

Her father took her into an embrace. “I know. But he’s a capable young man. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

She clung to her father, praying that Grant would be safe. If only she could help in some way. Remaining safe at home while Grant put himself in harm’s way seemed a poor way to show her affection. Her love.

“I’m having dinner with Lady Everett before we go to the opera. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Have a lovely evening.”

He hesitated. “Do you want to come with us? There is space in the box.”

“No. Go on. I look forward to a quiet evening.”

He kissed her and left. Jocelyn ate dinner alone and wandered into the library in search of something to take her mind off the danger Grant faced. But the smell of books only reminded her of that moment in the country library when he’d trapped her with his arms on the ladder and that undeniable attraction sizzled between them.

A sudden blast shook the house. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “Was that thunder?” She parted the curtains and peered out, but the sky remained clear. Long fingers of sunset spread outward from the west and cast buildings into silhouette.

Like an approaching ocean wave, screams and cries of alarm grew louder and closer. Over the rooftops, a black cloud boiled. Not a cloud. Smoke.

All at once she knew: the weapon.

Grant.

Jocelyn raced outside, winding through streets and alleys until she reached the area producing smoke. Smoke hung over the neighborhood, stinging eyes and throats. As Jocelyn raced nearer, the collapsed wreckage of a house came into view. She knew that house. One of the members of the cabinet, Lord Tierney, lived there. Jocelyn attended a balls there every Season. This must have been the house where the cabinet was scheduled to dine and where the conspirators planned to strike.

Had the prime minister gotten out safely? The cabinet?

Grant?

She ran toward the ruined structure. “Grant!” she screamed.

A man blocked her path. “Stay back. It’s still collapsing.”

“Is Grant Amesbury out? Is he safe?”

The man shook his head. “Don’t know ’im.”

Another form reached her. “Miss Fairley?” Jackson, his face grimy with dirt and sweat, stood in front of her. “Stay on the other side of the street.” Jackson joined a loose ring forming on the perimeter, watching as if awaiting their moment to act.

The odor of black powder stung her nose and watered her eyes. Cries and screams echoed in a confusing raucous. From next door, a large group of armed men stepped out, forming a protective barrier around a several men huddled together. The familiar faces of Lord Liverpool, Lord Tierney, and several cabinet members made up the center of the cluster. Armed guards hustled the government officials into waiting coaches.

But what of the brave Runners and agents who’d saved them? What of Grant? He was not among the guards.

She wanted to scream at the men standing outside the crumbled building to do something, to stop waiting around and to find Grant, but smoke lingered like a caustic blanket. Two men ventured toward the collapsed building, but the thick smoke drove them off.

Unable to watch any longer without doing something to help, Jocelyn pushed through the rapidly forming crowd toward Jackson. He stood, tense and expectant, his eyes so trained on the scene of the disaster that he didn’t seem to notice her presence. Her nerves bunched, anxious to leap forward. She wiped her burning watering eyes and nose, and coughed. She searched for Grant’s familiar form. Where was he? So many people stood nearby that he could be anywhere.

As the last of the smoke cleared, members forming the ring around the building broke and climbed cautiously among the rubble. As sunlight faded, the concerned, or possibly merely the curious, brought torches and lanterns, holding them aloft so others could see their way.

Grant was not among the helpers. Rescuers lifted shattered timbers and collapsed stone fireplaces as they searched for those still trapped inside.

Someone called, “Amesbury? I’m coming for you. You hang on, understood? That’s an order!”

Jocelyn glanced at the man but in the dim light could barely make out his form. Whoever he was, he believed Grant was in the rubble which meant he was caught in the explosion. Underneath the wreckage. Trapped.

He was not dead. He lived. He had to. He’d survived war, capture, dozens of fights. Surely he’d survive a bomb. He’d know how to protect himself.

Of course, if he’d used his body to shield another, the way he’d used his body to shield her when she’d fallen….

No. He was alive.

Every nerve screamed to search for him. She leaped forward and ran to the nearest heap of broken brick. “Grant?”

Black powder burned her nose. Using all her strength, she picked up pieces of brick and plaster, digging her way through. She rolled back something the size of a stone. Someone moaned.

“Grant?” Encouraged, she began digging, clawing.

She found a warm hand that clutched at her. A hoarse cry came from underneath the pile of bricks. Frantic now, she continued removing the broken remnants of the house.

“Help me!” she shouted. “I’ve found someone!”

Someone brought light, and others helped. Volunteers unburied a living man, with blood seeping from his face and his arm crushed. A stranger.

Disappointment burned in her tears, but she blinked them back. If one man had been buried and survived, others would, too. Within moments, the highborn worked alongside jarveys and pickpockets as dozens worked to rescue the fallen. Three more men were carried from the heap, two alive but one dead.

Not Grant. He was alive. He was alive. She sang that mantra over and over in her head. Only vaguely registering pain in her arms and hands, she continued removing anything within her strength to lift or roll out of the way. Her heart jumping at irregular intervals, she worked at clearing away the wreckage.

A carriage and galloping horses’ hooves clattered to the scene. “How many are still missing?” someone shouted breathlessly as if he’d just arrived.

“Nine that we know of.” It sounded like Jackson’s voice.

“Grant Amesbury?”

No reply. The man must have shaken his head.

The other man swore. “Find him!”

She kept up the work, praying Grant was alive and unharmed. He might not be hurt, only trapped. It was possible. Anything was possible.

As she focused on clearing the area, she fell into a state of calm where her fear faded. Her back ached and her fingers were fiery, but on she searched. She would not give up, could not give up, until he was found. Others arrived, calling names of loved ones, but she tuned them out.

Someone frantically yelled, “Let me through! My brother’s in there!”

Jocelyn stayed focused on digging, lifting, dragging. Her fingers left darkened smears on everything, but she kept at it. He was alive. He had to be. She had only to find him and then everything would be all right. He’d be safe. And she’d have another chance to prove to him that she loved him truly. Somehow she’d convince him to trust her.

As she pulled away yet another broken pipe, she found something. A boot? She tugged gently, but it stuck fast. She felt along the boot, finding a leg.

She called, “I found someone!”

Others rushed to assist her and soon uncovered the lower half of a man lying on his stomach. The rescuers lifted a broken table from on top of him. Someone brought more light. Dark clothing, including a wool coat littered with dust and debris, covered his broad-shouldered back. A large piece of plaster lay over his upper shoulders and head.