Your Grace,
If you would deign to answer any of my letters, or to return to London where I await you, you would do me the utmost kindness. Your silence is as disheartening as your abandonment.
I do so fervently hope you won’t mind the soirees I’ve been hosting, which are sometimes quite dear in cost. I confess that I was startled to realize I’d spent nearly a hundred pounds on ice sculptures over the course of the month. To be fair, however, the sculptures were exquisite.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
April bled into May.
By day, Sebastian and Griffin oversaw the chemist’s shop, keeping their wits about them and their eyes and ears open. Their clientele was steady and predictable. No large-scale purchases of acids or glycerin. Nothing that would be cause for suspicion or alarm.
By night, they scoured the streets of Liverpool. Their intelligence from the Pinkertons in America was concise and clear. There would be an attack. The devil of it was that beyond knowing a bomb planting was imminent, they were helpless to stop the destruction from unfolding without evidence leading them to the origin of the conspiracy.
“All roads lead to Vanreid,” Griffin pointed out needlessly as they stood alone in their empty storefront one evening.
Sebastian stilled in the act of tallying their ledger from the day. Though he’d never been interested in trade, here was a part of his duty that he enjoyed. Numbers were so precise. There was no confusion when it came to arithmetic. One was either correct or incorrect, and there was not a bloody subjective thing about it. So unlike every other part of his life that he almost found peace in working over the leather-bound book with his pen. It was a diversion, at any rate, from missing Daisy and wondering what the hell she must think of his sudden disappearance.
Duty was a hell of a thing.
“Of course all roads lead to Vanreid,” he said at last, measuring his words with care as he finished a sum. “He is the primary source of funds. He owns the arms factory, the boats. He hides his every evil action beneath the pretext of innocent business. And yet, for all that, he remains the wily fox who has outsmarted us, gotten into the henhouse, and eaten every last fowl, for we cannot buy evidence against him.”
“Do you not think it odd, Bast, the way he can seemingly predict our moves?” Griffin asked from across the room.
He stiffened. Acting on information from American operatives, they had raided Vanreid’s ships on four occasions, only to be met with legitimate goods each time. Not a hint of dynamite or dynamite-making ingredients to be found.
“Do you mean to suggest I shared sensitive information with Daisy?” he calmly asked, his pen still scratching away on the ledger. It was better to involve himself in such tasks than to dwell on the growing doubt his best friend levied his way each passing day. As their mission had proved increasingly fruitless, the strain between them had only gotten worse.
“I would never question your loyalty, Bast.” Griffin’s tone was quiet, contemplative. “That, I think, is rather the point. Is your loyalty to her as strong as your loyalty to the League?”
He didn’t know the answer to the goddamn question, nor did he wish to consider it.Ten carboys of nitric acid, he read, and then he froze. “Did you arrange for a large sale of nitric acid today?”
“No,” Griffin snapped. “Don’t seek to distract me, Bast. It’s high time we had this out between the two of us. You haven’t spoken a word about her since the night I arrived.”
No, he had not. Daisy was a private matter, and to his mind, she had nothing to do with his obligations in Liverpool. She was, simply, his. And he would not discuss her as if she were an enemy or a suspect when she was the woman who owned his heart. But that was neither here nor there at the moment, for he was staring at a blank line where the scrawl of their assistant shop boy, James, indicated an inordinately large purchase of nitric acid, along with fourteen carboys of sulfuric acid.
They were to be delivered the following day to an address not far off. The lure had finally worked, damn it.
He jerked his head up to find Griffin pacing the shop floor, a scowl hardening his features. “I believe we need to pay a visit to one Reginald White.”
“What are you on about?” Griffin stalked over to him.
Sebastian pushed the ledger toward his friend, pointing to the entry in question. “Have a look for yourself. It seems to me that Reginald White purchased far too great a quantity for a mere painter. Indeed, it rather seems to me that the bastard bought enough to make dynamite.”
Griffin scanned the ledger, his jaw clenching. “Bloody hell. What do you know? It looks like we may have found our canary after all.”
Sebastian raised a brow. “Let’s go.”
The sun had long since set, all storefronts closed. Liverpool’s night denizens had come out to play in full, raucous effect. It was nigh onto midnight, which meant they hadn’t a moment to waste. Working with haste, they closed down the shop for the night, locked everything away, doused the lights, and moved on foot to their destination.
Number three Castle Street was a fairly nondescript building. No lights burned within. By the streetlight, Sebastian read the sign hanging over the small storefront. Reginald White, Painter & Decorator. They had reached their quarry, and he knew a moment of pure, unadulterated thrill. Here was the part of his work in the League that called to him, that felt like home. Danger excited him.
And yet, for some reason, tonight the excitement felt, after its initial rush… hollow. Perhaps it was because he knew that back in London, the most exquisite woman he’d ever known was organizing his library and wondering where in the hell he’d gone. Jesus, she was probably cursing him, hating him. When he finally did return, there was no telling if he would be able to win her back.
But this wasn’t the time or the place for that thought. For now, he was a pledged member of the League, and he had a mission to see through. For Daisy, and for every other innocent who would be an unwitting victim, he needed to cast Vanreid into gaol forever.
That’s it, old chap. Wits about you. Time to move.
