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The crowd had grown quieter and smaller. When she peeped out again, it seemed only half as many people were clustered about their carriage. The woman with the basket was gone. Papa paused in his speech to stoop inside and ask if she was well. She nodded, grateful for his concern and presence; if this had happened when she was out with Mama, it would have been much more frightening.

The coach swayed to one side. Papa nearly lost his balance. Mariah gave a little shriek, reaching for him, but he recovered, waved to the crowd, then swung back into his seat as the carriage started forward again at last, but very slowly. “Papa, what’s wrong? What do they want?”

He glanced at her. She could see the worry in his eyes, but his tone was unruffled. “There are too many men out of work. Wheat and corn are dear, and they have drunk too much of the Spenceans’ rot.”

“Why did they turn on us? We did nothing to them.”

He covered her hand with his. The crowd was moving along with them, it seemed. “They resent the wealthy, my dear. Do you see now what I meant by the people’s goodwill?” He shook his head, looking out the window. “The King was once well-liked. If he can regain that regard, things will improve immensely.”

Mariah nodded, but wasn’t sure. Papa must know, she thought, but to her eyes, the unrest in the crowd was more than envy, or disgust for the King’s divorce. It was desperation. And suddenly she was less certain that her father’s visit would make a great difference in those people’s opinion of the King.

* * *

Harry plowed around the wide corner into the crush of Piccadilly and finally caught sight of the Doncaster carriage. The street was busy, and traffic moved slowly. He stopped, flooded with relief that all seemed well, and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Thank God he hadn’t been wearing Wroth’s shoes. He raised his head and tracked the carriage as it rolled toward Carlton House. With a spy’s eye, he scanned the crowd and picked out potential troublemakers at once, men who wore the clothing of various tradesmen but were oddly out just walking in the street instead of making candles or butchering. But still, everything seemed normal.

When the carriage stopped, he tensed and began moving more purposefully through the crowd. Hands reached out to shove at the carriage, and the driver flicked his whip at them, sparking more hands to push. On the back of the carriage, a footman—Brandon?—was waving people away, trying to clear a space around the vehicle. Harry broke into a trot, shouldering aside everyone in his way. A coal wagon had drawn up next to the carriage and was also stopped, seemingly blocked by the crowd. Harry dodged a dray going in the other direction and waited for two horses to pass. The men in the coal wagon were standing, yelling at the crowd.

Except one. One slim fellow slid off the back of the wagon and disappeared between the wagon and the Doncaster carriage. Harry couldn’t quite see him, but then the footmen leaped from their positions and he realized Mariah and her father were alighting. He craned his neck and caught sight of her, as beautiful as spring in a pale green dress and straw bonnet. Doncaster was speaking to the people, hands raised in placation, while Mariah stood close behind him. Carlton House stood only a little way down the street. Some of the King’s Life Guard were already approaching, in fact, hustling down the street and barking at the crowd to stand aside. Doncaster was clearly expected.

His muscles were burning. Harry paused to let another wagon go by as he sucked in a deep breath. He was beginning to think he had worried over nothing, that everything was fine, when the wagon drove by and the crowd parted, just for a moment, affording him a clear view of the short man from the coal cart. He was crouching almost under the Doncaster carriage, setting light to what looked like a small powder keg between the rear wheels.

Harry bolted. This street was full of people, innocently going about their business. “Fire,” he shouted as he ran, waving one arm. “Fire!”

People cried out and jumped out of his path. He hoped they would flee the street entirely. The earl was still standing beside the coach with his daughter, the royal guard too far away. And above the carriage, drifting on the lazy breeze, a thin, faint puff of smoke.

“Brandon!” he roared. “The carriage! Under the carriage! It’s a bomb!”

One of the footmen whipped around in his direction. For a moment Brandon seemed frozen, then he sprang into action, disappearing around the side of the carriage.

His lungs burning, Harry ran harder, sprinting along the street, in front of horsemen and pedestrians without regard for the curses called after him. The men in the coal wagon had seen him, and most of them ran, scattering in all directions. The little fellow who had placed the powder key remained, grimly guarding his deadly work and standing between Harry and his target. A thin knife shone in one hand, the barrel of a pistol in the other.

Harry charged right at him, ducking the swipe of the knife. He grabbed the man’s wrist in one hand, forcing it high as the pistol discharged, and kicked hard at his knee at the same time, bashing him across the face with the hilt of the dagger he didn’t even remember drawing. And then he ran on, leaving the man to crumple in a bloody, screaming mess on the street.

At the sound of the gunshot, pandemonium broke out, everyone suddenly running and screaming, some toward safety, some unwittingly toward danger. The thin trail of smoke was still visible beneath the rear wheel. Harry knew it could explode at any moment—there was no time to move the keg, and no safe place to move it to. Mariah was glancing around in alarm, unaware of what was really happening, turning instinctively toward the supposed safety of the coach. He refused to look toward the bomb as he rushed forward—just ten feet more—the muscles in his legs aching and about to give out as he shoved people aside and down⁠—

The blast was deafening. Harry felt his ears go numb just as he slammed into Mariah, bowling her flat to the ground and throwing himself on top of her. Debris rained down on his back, and he closed his arms around her, tucking his own head down. Something heavy hit him in the shoulder, but then rolled away. A mangled coach door landed with a thud mere inches away from his head. Grit and splinters and dust showered down on them for what seemed an eternity, then finally stopped. All was eerily quiet.

As his hearing started to return, he heard dim screams and shouts, felt the pounding of running feet. Nothing else struck them. Cautiously, he lifted his head a few inches.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, giving Mariah a gentle shake. She hadn’t moved since they hit the ground. Her eyes were wide and unfocused with shock, her lips parted. He must have knocked the breath out of her. Blood oozed from a small cut on her forehead, but otherwise he could see no injury. At his anxious question, she slowly turned to look at him.

“What... ? Oh, my dress,” she muttered, struggling to raise her head. He cupped her cheek and restrained her.

“There, love. You may be hurt. Lie still a moment.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, then abruptly her gaze fixed on him, sharpening and clearing. “Harry?” she whispered incredulously.

He grinned, incapable of doing anything else. His heart seemed to have just resumed beating. “Yes. Are you hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so. But what... ?”

People were tugging at his arms, trying to pull him off her. “I’m glad,” was all he managed to say before servants in royal livery yanked him to his feet and swarmed to Mariah’s side. One asked if he was hurt, in a cursory sort of way. Harry shook his head even as he was pushed farther back by the swelling crowd and the Life Guards attempting to control them.

He lost sight of her, then caught another glimpse; she was sitting up, one hand on her head, and scanning the crowd. Their eyes met, and he smiled, then took a step back as the earl shoved his way through all the people around her, calling his daughter’s name in a panic-stricken voice.

Harry allowed himself to be pushed back. Now that it was over, he felt weak, his knees shaking, his back aching, and his lungs straining painfully inside his chest. But she was safe, Doncaster was safe, everyone⁠—

Abruptly he jerked around. There was a smaller cluster of people a few feet away, bent over another figure. A pair of legs extended from their midst, clad in footman’s stockings and shoes, and utterly still. Harry felt his blood turn cold. He edged closer, trying to see.