Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(101)

“I feel itchy.”

“Dragon, I’m not unsympathetic, but footmen really shouldn’t mention their personal—”

“Not that kind of itch. And I’m a bodyguard tonight, not a footman.”

“You’re right,” Pandora said. “As a matter of fact, you look the perfect gentleman.” She noticed another couple having difficulty on the same area of the floor. This time it was the gentleman who stumbled, as if his shoe had caught on the edge of a plank. “Perhaps some lovely woman will see you from across the room,” Pandora continued, “and say to herself, ‘who is that stranger with the dashing beard? I wish he would ask me to dance.’”

“I don’t dance.”

“Neither do I.” More couples waltzed past them, Pandora frowned as she saw yet another woman trip. “Dragon, how difficult would it be to lift up one of these floor planks?”

“Not difficult. It’s a temporary floor. But they won’t like it if I rip it up during a dance.”

“Perhaps when there’s a lull in the dancing, you might help me look at something. I’ve seen three couples trip in the exact same place on the floor. Right over there. I’m sure it’s only a badly laid plank. But now I understand what you mean about feeling itchy.”

The strains of the waltz dwindled, and the orchestra struck up “God Save The Queen” to announce the Prince of Wales’ arrival on the Guildhall grounds. As etiquette demanded, everyone stood in the room, arms at their sides, and sang along with the anthem.

Dragon, however, wasn’t at all concerned about etiquette. He walked around and between the earnestly singing couples, staring down at the planks. Pandora went to join him. With her thin-soled slippers, she could feel a slight looseness in some of the boards . . . and a definite edge where one hadn’t been installed properly.

“It’s this one,” she whispered, testing it with her foot. A few people shot affronted glances at her—it was very bad form not to sing the anthem.

Reaching into his formal evening coat, Dragon withdrew a slender, well-worn leather roll, shook out a sturdy metal pick, and knelt on the floor.

Four trumpeters entered the room, followed by a quartet of stewards with silver wands. The orchestra played as the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress proceeded to the dais, followed by city officers, aldermen, and members of the Common Council.

As Dragon pried at the edges of the plank, people around them began to protest.

“May I ask what you’re doing?” one man demanded in outrage. “You’re interfering with the Lord Mayor’s speech, and furthermore—” He stopped as Dragon pulled up the board and set it aside.

Pandora looked down at the row of neat brass cylinders fitted into the space between the temporary floor and the original stone floor beneath. “What are those?” she asked Dragon, although she was afraid she already knew the answer. “I hope they’re some kind of ventilation device.”

“They are,” Dragon muttered, pulling up another floor plank to reveal another row of gleaming cylinders. “They’ll ventilate the roof right off the building.”

“Bomb!” a man near them screamed. “The floor is lined with bombs!”

The music stopped, and chaos erupted inside the great hall. Earsplitting shrieks rent the air, while the crowd stampeded and surged toward the entrance and exit doors. As Pandora stood there, stunned, Dragon leapt up and pulled her into the lee of his body, shielding her from being trampled.

“Where is Lord St. Vincent?” she asked. “Can you see him?”

It was impossible to hear Dragon’s reply above the roar.

As the fear-maddened crowd pushed, jostled, and elbowed its way toward the doors, Pandora huddled against him. In a minute she felt Gabriel’s arms close around her, and she turned toward him blindly. Without a word, he picked her up and carried her to the side of the room, while Dragon blocked the people who pushed against them.

The three of them reached the shelter of an inset arch, and Gabriel lowered Pandora’s feet to the ground. She clutched the lapels of his coat and looked up at him desperately.

“Gabriel, we have to leave here now.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right,” she insisted. “There are bombs beneath the floor, lined up like sardines in a tin. A tin that’s going to explode into a million pieces.”

Reaching into his pocket, Gabriel pulled out a peculiar object . . . some kind of clockwork movement affixed to a small metal cartridge. “I found this beneath a loose plank behind the dais.”

“What is that?”

“An alarm mechanism with a strike bar attached to a detonator cap. It was set to explode the charge.”

“But it won’t now?” Pandora asked worriedly.

“Not since I tore it off a row of cylinder bombs, by God.” Gabriel glanced at Dragon. “The crowd is thinning near the north wall exit. Let’s go. Make certain no one slams against her.”

“I’m more worried about the bombs than being jostled,” Pandora said, tugging at him impatiently. He kept an arm around her. With Dragon on her other side, they went through a doorway to a yard at the back of the hall that opened to Basinghall Street. Pandora felt weak with relief when they finally reached the cool open air. They stopped in the partial shelter of a bankruptcy court building.