The Lady By His Side(121)

The old man grunted again. “At least the man was thorough.”

“He was, as you rightly guessed, panicked. But in the end, he played his part well enough—he did what we needed him to do.”

A moment elapsed, then the old man asked, “Are you sure no one knows of the barrels?”

“Quite sure. As per your plan, we only left the barrels on the estate for a few days. We moved them out on the second night after they’d arrived, and no one was any the wiser. Boyne and I saw the barrels on the road to London, and I instructed him to ensure there was no evidence of any sort remaining of the barrels’ existence.” The ex-guardsman crossed his arms over his chest and settled, his feet apart, his legs braced. “When I met with Boyne yesterday afternoon, he confirmed he’d been to the cave, and that there were no traces there or elsewhere to alert anyone even to the existence of the barrels, much less of any plot.”

“Excellent.” Rich approval colored the old man’s voice.

The ex-guardsman wasn’t immune to the effect, even though he understood that that tone—and its effect—was one reason the old man had once been such an influential manipulator in the more rarefied circles of government.

The old man continued, “I take it you’ve eliminated Boyne.”

“Yes.” Again, the ex-guardsman hesitated, yet it wouldn’t pay to step out of his role of subordinate, not at this point. “But he’d already been winged by someone and was desperate to drive off with me. I asked, and he said he was being chased over his brother’s murder.”

“By whom?”

“An inspector from Scotland Yard and the local magistrate.”

The old man snorted derisively. “So no real threat to us, not now Boyne has been silenced.” After a moment, he went on, “Given the circumstances, I assume you left his body where it would be found.”

“Yes. If they were pursuing him, his trail would have led them to it.”

“Good. The inspector and the magistrate will, in all likelihood, be grateful to be able to close the file on Lord Ennis’s murder.” The old man gave a dry chuckle. “It might even be said that you performed a civic service in killing Boyne and sparing the courts the trouble and expense of a trial.”

The ex-guardsman allowed himself a thin smile.

“So the barrels are safely stored in London?”

“Yes.” Unfolding his arms, the ex-guardsman turned away from the bleak view. He hunted in his coat pocket and drew out a piece of paper and a ring with two keys. He glanced at them, then crossed the room and offered them to the old man, who raised a partially palsied hand and took them. “That’s the address of the warehouse and the foreman’s keys. The barrels are sitting there, sweet as you please, and no one knows they’re there.”

His head bent, the old man studied the address, then he fumbled and folded the paper and slipped it along with the keys into the capacious pocket of his brown velvet smoking jacket. From beneath his shaggy white eyebrows, he shot a sharp look at the younger man’s face. “What of the Young Irelander hotheads who transported the barrels and arranged their storage?”

The ex-guardsman’s smile was cold. “They’re in no condition to boast to anyone of their acts of defiance.”

A smile split the old man’s lined face, then he cackled. “This is proving to be far more entertaining than I’d expected. Not just using these idiotic fanatics to my own ends, but then simply removing them from this world… After all my years of having to deal with them politely, I’m sure you can comprehend that I find a certain satisfaction in that.”

The ex-guardsman inclined his head.

The old man studied him.

The younger man remained as he was and showed no sign of being unnerved by the close scrutiny.

Then, slowly, the old man nodded his great head, which seemed almost too heavy to be supported by his emaciated neck. His expression eased into one of benevolent approval. “You’ve performed well. You can leave the matter with me for now. The next stage is not yours to run. I’ll send word when next I need you.”

The ex-guardsman half bowed. “I’ll wait to hear from you.” He stepped back, snapped off a deferential salute, then turned and strode for the door.

The old man sat, patient and still, and waited until he heard his visitor’s horse’s hoofbeats fade into the distance.

Then he reached out to the table beside his chair, picked up the brass bell that sat there, and rang it.

As the resounding clang died away, the old man smiled. He hadn’t lost his touch. Everything was proceeding smoothly.

Inexorably.