Arch looked up.
“If this becomes more dangerous than Colonel Renforth presently supposes, I ask that you will not spare my feelings in telling me so.”
“You have my word,” Arch said, and only then did Sir Percival release him.
By the time he reached St. James’s Square, the house was quieter than when last he had left it. He handed his hat and gloves to O’Malley and crossed at once to Renforth’s study, where he found him alone.
Renforth stood by the window with a paper in his hand, the light falling across it in such a way that the writing was nearly obscured. He did not turn immediately at Arch’s entrance, which told him more than any greeting might have done: the contents required thought.
“How did she take the news?” Renforth asked at last.
“She understands enough, although it does not please her.”
“Good.”
Arch almost smiled. “You have a peculiar definition of success.”
“I have a practical one.” Renforth folded the paper once and set it aside. “Chum writes from Devon.”
Arch glanced towards the desk. “Does he have anything requiring immediate action?”
“Not yet.” He tapped the paper lightly. “Hopefully this matter is resolved before Chum’s situation requires action.”
The remark brought Arch up short. In his mind he had, in truth, nearly set his comrade in Devon aside—an error born not of neglect, but of pressure. Too many threads now demanded his attention in London: Kendall, Francesca, and the growing certainty of a coordinated strike at the Government.
“We may need to force the issue,” Arch said.
Renforth nodded his head once. “I am inclined to agree.”
The door opened without ceremony. O’Malley must have stepped away.
Baines entered with the air of a man who had no intention of respecting hierarchy, though his eyes were keener than his manner suggested.
“Well,” he said, “we are no longer dealing in speculation.”
Renforth did not move. “Continue.”
Baines shut the door behind him. “Word has come back from the informant. The seed is planted exactly as intended. They believe the opportunity is genuine.”
Arch saw the immediate calculation behind Renforth’s expression. “Has the location been determined?” he asked.
“As you suggested, sir, Lord Harrowby’s house in Grosvenor Square.”
Dudley Ryder, 1st Earl of Harrowby, was not merely a figure of government. His house was precisely the sort of place where such a gathering might occur without remark: large enough, established enough, and sufficiently central to power that its doors opening to ministers would excite no suspicion among the respectable.
Renforth turned from the window at last. “It is plausible.”
“Stuart is there,” said Baines, “looking it over; considering entrances, exits, lines of retreat.”
Renforth nodded.
Baines went on, “They believe the entire Cabinet will attend, Liverpool included.”
At the mention of the Prime Minister, the scale of the thing settled into its proper form. This was no scattered act of violence. It was annihilation by design.
“Where will they meet?” Arch asked.
Baines pursed his lips. “Still at Cato Street, near Edgware Road,” he said. “A tavern loft, by the sound of it. They are gathering there—arming, planning, convincing themselves of their own cleverness.”
