Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(74)
“Ten of sulfuric,” Sebastian added grimly.
The evidence grew more damning as they continued. On the boiler, a vat of nitroglycerin simmered.
“Bloody hell,” Griffin rasped.
It was in that precise moment that Sebastian’s gaze found a scrap of paper bearing a nearly illegible scrawl. He snatched it up, reading it thrice, sure he was wrong. Sure that no one, especially not the sort of enemy who had been brewing dynamite beneath the nose of England’s most elite spies for the past two months, could be so foolish.
“Fuck.” He scanned the contents again for good measure. Midnight. Dale Street. “There’s to be an explosion tonight at the police station.”
“Jesus. We’ve got to get there to warn them,” Griffin said needlessly.
Taking great care to leave the premises just as they’d found it, they backtracked together, turning down all the lamps, leaving and locking the door. Dale Street wasn’t far by foot, so they took off at a run. They’d almost reached the station when the explosion struck. The earth rumbled, the sound of the detonation reverberating in otherworldly fashion, blasting through his chest. Glass shattered. A woman screamed.
And at last, the war they’d been warned of had arrived at Liverpool. But Sebastian and Griffin had been too goddamn late to stop it. They halted in their tracks, watching the smoke rise in the wake of the blast, and the resultant commotion unleash.
“Fucking hell,” Sebastian breathed, smoke and the bitter ascent of sulfur burning his lungs.
“Hell on earth,” Griffin agreed bitterly. “Damn their hides. We’ll get them, Bast. We’ll get every last one of the rotten bastards.”
Sebastian watched the glow of flame, the smoke billowing into the air. He thought of Daisy, her innocence, the way he’d last left her, and his heart ached. Then he thought of her father, the duplicitous son-of-a-bitch who financed these godforsaken plots. And a part of him resented her, for being so innocent and good and na?ve. For being the woman he loved and yet also the daughter of the enemy he needed to destroy. It wasn’t fair, damn it. Life was not fair.
Because nothing was as it seemed, and everything was about to change.
23rd May, 1881
Your Grace,
You will perhaps be happy to learn that I’ve made a great number of friends in your absence. There are ever so many gentlemen eager to make my acquaintance now that the Duchess of Leeds has taken me under her wing.
In particular, the Earl of Bolton is a noble and generous man, and not at all as you described him. It is such a pity that your “private” and “urgent” matter keeps you from London, as I think you would get on with him as well as I do.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
Daisy stared at the man who had once been her betrothed and fought back the familiar burst of nausea that had been striking her on and off for the last month. Tall and lanky, with black hair and flashing blue eyes, he was just as handsome as he’d been the day she’d first met him in New York at one of her father’s dinner parties. Padraig McGuire, with his lilting accent from Ireland’s shores, his easy smiles, and wicked charm.
She’d fallen for those charms once upon a time.
Strange where life had led them, their diverging paths bringing them to this moment. Now, when she looked upon him, she saw a stranger. What a na?ve girl she’d been to think she’d been prepared for marriage to him. She knew now that the girlish fancy she’d felt had been predicated by the burning desire to escape her father more than any other emotion.
And some two years later, here she stood, an abandoned duchess in a foreign land, no happier as the Duchess of Trent than she would’ve been as Mrs. Padraig McGuire. Two years, and she’d learned nothing about entrusting her heart to the care of men. How sobering.
“Why have you come, Mr. McGuire?” she asked into the silence that had fallen between them.
She stood by the window in the small salon where she received callers, a sliver of sun warming her face. The chamber was filled with flowers, a testament to the last month’s efforts. Her arrangement with Georgiana was proceeding with success. Together, they had managed to set the ton on its ear with all manner of gossip in the hopes that they would cause enough furor to bring their husbands home and get the answers they so badly deserved.
Hugo sat at her feet, guarding her as was his wont. The boisterous pup had proved far more devoted to her than any person had ever been.
Padraig took a step closer to her, and Hugo growled.
“Bloody hell, Daisy. Must you have that mutt present?” He cast a jaundiced eye toward her beloved companion.
Her chin rose. “Yes, I must, and you’re far too familiar, Mr. McGuire. You may address me as ‘Your Grace’ or you may leave.”
Another step brought him nearer, and for a moment she wondered if she should fear him. After all, he ran her father’s businesses. She should not have received him again today, his fourth visit in the last fortnight since his abrupt reappearance in her life. And especially not since he was using a false name for reasons he refused to divulge. Indeed, she would not have had he not dangled the one lure before her that she couldn’t resist.
Bridget.
Her sister had abruptly quit her position with Madame Villiers, and she had disappeared. Daisy had not heard from her, and she was dreadfully worried. Madame had no notion of where she’d gone or why, leaving Daisy adrift.