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She clasped her hands together and avoided her cousin’s gaze. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell Joan what she had in mind, for several reasons. “Wait, and see if he answers.”

Joan was duly disappointed. Having promised to follow Mariah’s lead and trust him, her earlier enthusiasm for Mariah’s secret suitor had returned. “Wait? How long?”

Mariah lifted one hand helplessly. “As long as it takes him to answer, if he answers at all.”

“If! Of course he’ll answer—how could he not?”

Mariah laughed with her, even though inside she wasn’t so sure. When she had written the note, when she had badgered the direction out of poor Jameson, when she had rushed over to Joan’s house, she hadn’t doubted that Harry would respond at once, exactly the way she envisioned. Now that she had committed herself to a course of action, though, it suddenly seemed likely something would go wrong. He might not be there and someone else might get the note. He might be unable to come for weeks, and she would go mad in the meantime. He might not wish to come to her any longer...

She pushed the thought from her mind. She was not going to torment herself like that. She was going ahead with her plan, and would worry about those problems only if they actually occurred.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Harry lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling while Lisette changed the dressing on his arm. When he’d tackled Mariah to the ground, he had skidded along the pavement with all his weight and hers on his forearm. His coat sleeve had been shredded away, along with a good portion of his skin. The ugly burn stung, but not as badly as his pride.

For almost two months he had sat beside the man plotting to overthrow the government and never once suspected. Was it no surprise he felt like a prize idiot? Angelique told him to forget his blindness. He had seen it in time, and the result was what mattered, she told him firmly. She had done this far more than he had, but he couldn’t help thinking he should have noticed things earlier.

Stafford sent word that Brandon was injured but expected to recover. He didn’t come to Fenton Lane himself until the next day. Angelique thought he was dealing with more immediate concerns, like deciding what to do with Crane. But Stafford finally arrived as Lisette was cleaning the wound, and Harry stayed on the sofa and waited.

He and Harry eyed each other in silence as Lisette bundled up her medicinal supplies and left without a word. Then the older man turned and moved toward a chair.

“What happened?”

Stafford inspected the chair, then took out his handkerchief and dusted it off before sitting. He made no reaction to Harry’s terse query. “Congratulations are in order, Sinclair, and, I suppose, thanks.” He flashed his rare, dry smile.

Harry just glared at him. Stafford sighed.

“Much of it you must have already guessed. Lord Crane had come to sympathize with some of the radicals plaguing England. He had taken to writing to one of them, Arthur Thistlewood, before Thistlewood was hanged earlier this year for his role in the attempted assassination of the Cabinet.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Stafford repeated in disdain. “The man’s gone mad, Sinclair, quite obviously.”

“He hid it rather well. I attended some of the finest parties in the city, trailing after him.”

Stafford’s lips pinched. “Indeed.” He cast a sour glance at Harry. “He hid it even from you.”

Harry shrugged. “How was I to know? The letters to Rusk were as dull as ditch water, plant this and prune that and rake everything into oblivion. Perhaps if I’d been told sooner it was a traitor we hunted, instead of some rubbish about being a guardian shadow⁠—”

“You have made your point,” Stafford snapped, but an instant later regained control of his temper. “Yes, the horticultural instructions were the code, with the lily representing Lord Doncaster, as you suggested. Cabinet ministers were referred to as various other plants, according to what we have deduced so far. I gather Lord Crane saw England as a vast personal garden, where he might plant and uproot men as he pleased.” Stafford’s tone indicated what he thought of that presumption.

“Is anyone else in danger?”

“We are examining the letters for that very question.”

“What will happen to Lord Crane?”

Stafford’s mouth flattened. “He shall be dealt with. We do not prosecute men of Lord Crane’s stature publicly.”

Harry said nothing. There would be no trial, no public acknowledgement that an esteemed member of society, whose advice had been sought by the Lord Chancellor just last week, had turned traitor. Crane would live out his days in lonely but secure house arrest somewhere, and the men he had incited would hang. Tobias, it seemed, would not find his social standing improved.

Harry’s arm ached and he felt a headache coming on. He slumped on the sofa and let his head rest on the cushion behind him.

“You were correct, Sinclair,” Stafford said. “To act when and as you did. We managed to apprehend a pair of the men involved in the plot. They did receive Lord Crane’s letter from Jasper and were waiting near Doncaster House for Lord Doncaster to emerge. They followed his carriage into Westminster and stirred up the crowd deliberately, to mask their true purpose in setting a bomb beneath the carriage. If you had delayed, I am certain they might well have injured or killed His Lordship.”

“And his daughter,” Harry said, staring at the ceiling.

“Yes. And his daughter.”