Lord Strathairn’s accomplice whistled. “I’ll be damned!”
“I appreciate your concern, Your Grace.” Lord Strathairn spoke through clenched teeth. “But you’ll make matters worse for the baron if you remain here. Please go home.”
“I demand you tell us what this is about,” Genevieve said, having regained her poise. Her voice rang with imperiousness, and the other man hesitated then made an awkward bow.
“It’s secret government business that does not concern you, Your Grace,” Lord Strathairn said in a cool tone. “Have no fear. We shall keep your brother safe. Please leave now or you’ll both spend the night in a Bow Street cell.”
“Guy’s on secret government business?” Hetty gasped. That would certainly account for his odd behavior. “If you’re sure…”
“We’ll guard him like a baby.” The Runner–if indeed he was one–gave a guffaw which was cut short by Genevieve’s icy glare.
“I do hope so,monsieur,” the duchess said. “There will be trouble should you fail.”
Once back in the hackney, Hetty instructed the jarvie where to take them. He moved the horse on without further comment, apparently struck dumb by what he’d witnessed.
“What on earth is Guy involved in?” Hetty asked. She’d experienced cold fear before but was now chilled to the bone.
The hackney turned the corner into Grafton Street and passed a lane behind the hotel. Hetty caught sight of two men exiting from the rear of the building.
“Look, there’s Guy!” Hetty clutched Genevieve’s sleeve. She hung out the window. “Stop the carriage!”
The jarvie cursed as he pulled the horse up.
Genevieve craned her neck. “They are entering a carriage.”
“I can’t run in these shoes! You go! Tell Lord Strathairn,” Hetty said. “I’ll keep their carriage in sight.”
“Oui.” Genevieve climbed down onto the pavement. She paused. “But what if we lose you?”
“Hurry! Tell Lord Strathairn. He will follow us.”
As the duchess ran back to Albemarle Street, Guy’s carriage passed Hetty’s. She watched it go and shouted to the jarvie. “Don’t lose sight of that carriage!”
“You meet all kinds in this ’ere job,” the jarvie said with a crack of his whip.
The hackney moved at a clip to the next corner in time for Hetty to see the carriage that bore Guy trundle down Dover Street toward Piccadilly.
Hetty looked back. Lord Strathairn was half a block behind driving a curricle, the other man beside him. Had they forced Genevieve to go home? Hetty bit her lip. Genevieve would be furious.
At Piccadilly, the hackney was slowed by a stream of evening traffic. Ahead, a slow wagon loaded with wares rattled along at a snail’s pace. With mounting horror, Hetty watched Guy’s carriage disappear into the gloom. “Have we lost them?” she yelled, trying to make herself heard above the noise of clattering wheels and pedestrian chatter.
“Not bloody likely,” the jarvie yelled back. “When Pete sets his mind to it, he doesn’t fail.”
“There they are,” Hetty called. “They’re heading toward the Strand.” She had no idea if Lord Strathairn still followed or was held up in the traffic.
They traveled under the stone gateway of Temple Bar and the nearby Inns of Court where judges, barristers, and silks wandered the courts and chambers in their robes. Then the printing shops, churches, inns, and coffee houses in Fleet Street. Ahead, Guy’s carriage turned into Bridge Street, where a motley crowd overflowed the pavements. “Could they be heading for the river?” she yelled.
“Looks like it,” Pete yelled back.
A group of sailors gathered in a pool of lamplight to eye a pair of well-dressed gentlemen intent on some evening’s entertainment.
As Guy’s carriage turned into Earl Street toward Puddle Dock, they barely avoided a cat streaking across the road. They stopped outside a warehouse, only feet from the moss-covered steps leading down to where a sea of masts swayed on the Thames. Boatmen rowed passengers over the river during the day, but it was now deserted but for one lantern lit wherry winking out on the river.
“Smokey business,” Pete muttered. “Best we stop ’ere.” He pulled up the horse at the top of the lane, beside a pen filled with ducks and fowl settling for the night.
Hetty covered her nose at the stench of manure mingling with sea-coal smoke. Fingers of mist rose from the water and curled around them while clouds shrouded the moon in a ghostly haze. Muffled by the mist, it was deathly quiet but for the creak of boats rocking on the swell.
In the poor light, Hetty jumped down onto the sandy gravel in time to see two vague shapes enter the building. She whirled around with the hope of finding Lord Strathairn coming behind them, but the lane was empty.
