Niall glanced at it. “I guess that comes in handy for something.”
“Actually, this thing comes in quite handy as a quarterstaff when used correctly,” Owen replied. “London does not favor men walking around with long swords strapped to their sides.”
“Good point.” Niall resumed hammering on the door. “I ken someone is in there. Open up or we’ll break down the door.”
There was another muffled sound, closer this time, and then the door opened. Kingsley held up a lantern. “Good God. Do the two of you want to have the night watchman come running?”
“I doona care if he does,” Niall answered. “Where is Annie?”
“With Haines, I imagine.”
Niall held onto his temper. Barely. “And where were they meeting?”
Kingsley frowned at him. “The Trades Hall.”
“The Trades Hall?” The hair at Niall’s nape began to prickle. “Why would she be going there?”
“The union workers are holding their monthly meeting.” Kingsley shrugged. “She said that women’s club of hers was going to speak—”
“Hellfire and damnation!” Niall didn’t wait for him to finish, but started running down the street, Owen beside him. He should have suspected something when a carriage had called for her, since they usually walked to the warehouse. The last time the women had gone to the Trades Hall, they’d been lucky nothing had happened besides being shouted at. The mood of the crowd hadn’t been good then, and with wages still not up to what they had been two years ago, those workers would not be inclined to welcome anything the Progress Club had to say.
Niall increased his pace as they turned onto Glassford Street. “I was a damn fool to let Annie talk me into letting her go alone.”
Owen didn’t break his stride. “That makes two of us.”
Niall gave him a sharp look. For once, they agreed on something, but now was not the time to discuss it. He bounded up the stairs of the Trades Hall, pushed open its double doors, and ran up the steps to the meeting room, Owen right behind him.
It took only a moment to assess the melee. An assortment of rotten food littered the floor near the speaker’s stand. Several men were approaching it while the women huddled around another form on the floor.
Annie.
He sprang toward her, cursing himself that he hadn’t chosen to wear his sword this evening. One man had almost reached Annie and Niall landed a fist on the man’s jaw, hearing a satisfying crunch and flattened the nose of another who’d picked up a cabbage to throw. And then Owen was in front of him, wielding the cane like a claymore, swinging the walking stick low to crack the knees of a third man and lifting it as he reeled around to strike the shoulder of a fourth.
“Get the lass out of here,” Owen said, crouching into a fighting stance, holding the staff ready. “I’ve got ye covered.” Then he turned back to the men who stood gaping. “Which one of ye cowards is next? ’Tis a while since I’ve had a good fight.”
Niall hardly noticed that Owen had lapsed into a Scottish burr. Instead, Niall gathered Annie in his arms—God, was she breathing? She was so still. Let her be breathing… He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt Annie stir and moan. He jerked his head toward Aileen. “Get your friends out of here. I’ll follow.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. They all scurried toward the stairs. Niall glanced back before he started down. Owen was still holding his position, but Mr. James was shouting at the men tostand down. There probably was no need to tell them, since they hadn’t moved after four of their friends were passed out cold on the floor. Niall managed a quick grin in spite of the situation.
It seemed MacLean was still a Highlander, after all.
****
Kingsley watched MacDonald and MacLean race off and then muttered a soft curse as he closed the office door. That had been a bit too close for comfort, but at least neither of them had asked what he was doing here.
He set the lantern down on the counter. Maybe he was getting soft. He couldn’t afford to be careless in the spy business, yet light from the lamp must have leaked from the one window in the warehouse, even though he’d pulled the oiled cloth over it before he began investigating. He’d had a jolt when the banging began, thinking for a moment that Haines had returned from the meeting early, but then quickly realized the man had his own key. He’d remained still when he recognized the voices, figuring they’d soon leave, but when he went to check if they had, he bumped into a damn chair. Another mistake. He had no doubt they would have broken the door if he hadn’t opened it.
The prime minister had spent too much time slowly tracking down the suspected culprits in the plan to overthrow the English government for Kingsley to botch things up. Liverpool would have little tolerance, if any, if his own scheme was discovered. As it was, Kingsley had not succeeded in identifying who the actual head of the Committee for Organizing a Provisional Government was or if it truly existed or was just rumor. All Kingsley could do at the moment was begin to ferret out the men who met at Walker’s.
The ledgers at Haines Consolidated Warehousing had been of little value. He might have saved himself the time it took to persuade the Ferguson woman to trust him enough to double-check the books. The accounts seemed to be in order, with stockentries matching the numbers in inventory, which nixed his first theory that more stock was being sent out than was reported. Yet the prime minister had documentation of investments Haines had made that required more money than his profit margin showed he was earning.
Kingsley hadn’t had a chance yet to check on whether shipments received agreed with ledger entries, since none had come in while he’d been here. A tobacco shipment was due from the States next week and he would take careful count, but Kingsley’s instincts told him he was looking down the wrong rabbit hole.
And his instincts were rarely wrong.
Which had brought him to the warehouse tonight. If the inventory numbers were accurate, than maybe something was out of order with the inventory itself. He’d examined bolts of linens and woolens stored on shelves, opened—and closed—boxes of glassware, and even inspected empty barrel drums that a cooper had brought in just that morning. He’d been about to look at the barley barrels when MacDonald and MacLean had started pounding on the door.
Kingsley picked up his lantern and headed back into the warehouse. He circled the space where the barley had been placed on wooden pallets to keep the barrels dry. It has seemed peculiar to him that Haines had insisted they occupy this space only since the other wall was equally dry. The Ferguson chit had been right that this spot would be better for kelp bales since it was also out of the wind. So why had Haines been angry and insisted the barley be moved back? And, Kingsley remembered suddenly, Haines had also said that, in the future, barrels were not to be moved. Why?
