Lord John and the Hand of Devils

“I daresay it would,” Grey said dryly. “That would not, however, be Hubert Bowles. Or you. Were you following me, or the gentleman who has just left us?”

“If I’d been following him, I’d know who he was, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite possibly you doknow, Mr. Stapleton, and only wish to know whether I do.”

Stapleton made a sound, almost a laugh, and edged closer, so that his leg touched Grey’s. Not for the first time, Grey was startled at the heat of Stapleton’s body; even through the layers of cloth between them, he glowed with a warmth that made the red and yellow feathers of his mask seem about to burst into flames.

“Charming ensemble,” Neil drawled, eyes burning through his mask with a boldness far past flirtation. “You have always such exquisite tastein your dress.” He reached out to finger the lawn ruffle of Grey’s shirt, long fingers sliding slowly—very slowly—down the length of it, slipping between the buttons, his warm touch just perceptible on the bare, cool skin of Grey’s breast.

Grey’s heart gave a sudden bump, pain stabbed him, and he stiffened. He felt as though his chest were transfixed by an iron rod, holding him immobile. Tried to breathe, but was stopped by the pain. Christ, was he going to die in public, in a pleasure garden, in the company of a sodomite spy dressed like a rooster? He could only hope that Tom was nearby, and would remove his body before anybody noticed.

“What’s that?” Stapleton sounded startled, drawing back his fingers as though burned.

Grey was afraid to move, but managed to bend his neck enough to look down. A spot of blood the size of a sixpence bloomed on his shirt.

He had to breathe; he would suffocate. He drew a breath and winced at the resultant sensation—but didn’t die immediately. His hands and feet felt cold.

“Leave me,” he gasped. “I’m unwell.”

Stapleton’s eyes darted to and fro, doubtful. His mouth compressed in the shadow of the rooster’s open beak, but after a long moment’s hesitation, he rose abruptly and disappeared.

Grey essayed another breath, and found that his heart continued to beat, though each thump sent a jarring pain through his breast. He gritted his teeth and reached gingerly inside his shirt.

A tiny nub of metal, like the end of a needle, protruded half an inch from the skin of his chest. Breathing as shallowly as he dared, he pinched it tight between finger and thumb, and pulled.

Pulled harder, air hissing between his teeth, and it came, in a sudden, easing glide.

“Jesus,” he whispered, and took a long, deep, unhindered breath. “Thank you.” His chest burned a little where it had come out, but his heart beat without pain. He sat for some time, fist folded about the metal splinter, his other hand pressing the fabric of his shirt against the tiny wound to stanch the bleeding.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, simply feeling happy. Revelers went by in groups, in couples, here and there a solitary man on the prowl. Some of them glanced at him, but he gave no sign of acknowledgment or welcome, and they passed on.

Then another solitary man came round the corner of the path, his shadow cast before him. Very tall, crowned with a mitre. Grey looked up.

Not a bishop. A grenadier in a high peaked cap, with his bomb sack slung over one shoulder, the brass tube at his belt glowing, eerie with the light of a burning slow match. At least it wasn’t another frigging bird, Grey thought, but a feeling of cold moved down his spine.

The grenadier was moving slowly, plainly looking for someone; his head turned from side to side, his features completely hidden by a full-length black-silk mask.

“Captain Fanshawe.” Grey spoke quietly, but the blank face turned at once in his direction. The grenadier looked over his shoulder, but the path was vacant for the moment. He settled his sack more firmly on his shoulder and came toward Grey, who rose to meet him.

“I had your note.” The voice was the same, colorless, precise.

“And you came. I thank you, sir.” Grey pushed the splinter into his pocket, his heart beating fast and freely now. “You will tell me, then?” He must; he would not have come, only to refuse. “Where is A

The grenadier unslung his sack, lowered it to the ground, and leaned back against a tree, arms folded.

“Do you come here often, Major?” he asked. “I do.”

“No, not often.” Grey looked round and saw a low brick wall, the river’s darkened gleam beyond it. He sat down, prepared to listen.

“But you knew I would find the surroundings…comfortable. That was thoughtful of you, Major.”

Grey made no answer, but inclined his head.

The grenadier sighed deeply, and let his hands fall to his sides.

“She is dead,” he said quietly.

Grey had thought this likely, but felt still a pang of startled grief at the death of hope, thinking of Barbara Thackeray and Simon Coles.

“How?” he asked, just as quietly. “In childbirth?”

“No.” The man laughed, a harsh, unsettling sound. “Last week.”

“How?”

“By my hand—or as near as makes no never-mind, as the country people say.”

“Indeed.” He let the silence grow around them. Music still played, but the nearest orchestra was at a distance.

Fanshawe stood abruptly upright.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and for the first time, his voice was alive, full of anger and self-contempt. “What am I playing at? If I’ve come to tell you, I shall tell you. No reason why not, now.”

He turned his blank, black face on Grey, who saw that there was a single eyehole pierced in it, but the eye within so dark that the effect was like talking to a wall.

“I meant to kill Philip Lister,” Fanshawe said. “You’ve guessed that, I suppose.”

Grey made a small motion of the head—though in fact he had not.

“The powder?” he said, one small further puzzle piece falling into place. “You made the unstable bomb cartridges. How did you mean to use them—and how in hell did they get to the battlefields?”

Fanshawe made a small snorting sound.

“Accident. Two of them, in fact. I meant to ask Philip to come with me, to have a look at something in the mill. It would have been a simple thing, to leave him to wait by one of the sheds, go inside and set a match, then leave and go away quietly, wait for the bang. That would have been simple. But, no, I had to be clever about it.”

Marcus Fanshawe was an expert, raised in the shadow of a gunpowder mill, fearless in the making and handling of the dangerous energy.

“What is it the Good Book says— The guilty flee when no man pursueth?I thought that if he died that way, people would wonder, ask questions. A

And so he had begun the manufacture of high-grade powder, even finer than that required for rifle cartridges. An experimental batch; everyone knew about it, knew the potential risks of dealing with it. If thatpowder were to suddenly explode, no one would be surprised.

“I thought, you see, I knew what I was doing. I’d handled black powder since I was a lad; knew it all. And, in fact, I did. We’d made the powder, corned it with great care, got a number of the special cartridges made up, the rest mostly kegged. Not the slightest difficulty. And then a workman dropped a scraper.”

Not a wooden scraper, which would have done no harm; one of the heavy stone scrapers, whose weight was needed for the fine grinding. It should have made no difference; the granite used was inert. But some small inclusion in the stone was flint; it struck an iron fitment of a horse’s harness, and made a spark.

“There was that one deadly instant when I saw it, saw the air filled with powder dust, and knew we were all dead,” Fanshawe said. “And then the shed went up.”

“I see,” Grey said, dry-mouthed. He worked his tongue and swallowed. “And the second accident?”