cautioned, wryly, “Tonight is Lady Henrietta’s night, Lady Eleanora. You’ll get your turn.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Nora said, as though this were all perfectly ordinary.
It wasn’t at all ordinary. But had anything been so since she’d met Whit? Since she’d found her way into Covent Garden and this wide world had been unlocked for her? Hattie would not deny the thrill of it. The woman was right—it didn’t matter how she knew Hattie. What mattered was that she was willing to help. “You know where he is?”
An incline of the head.
“And you’ll take us there?”
“No,” she said, sending disappointment through Hattie like a shock. “But I’ll tell you where to go.”
Relief flooded. “Please.”
Red lips smirked. “So polite. He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”
Hattie matched the dry tone. “I assure you, madam, he deserves precisely what I intend to deliver.”
The woman’s laugh was full and honest, and Hattie imagined that she was the kind of person who might make a wonderful friend if she weren’t so mysterious. “Fair enough. You’ll find Beast at the granary. Follow the roar of the crowd. He’ll be the one winning.”
Hattie nodded, a sizzle of excitement flaring as she looked to Nora.
Her friend nodded. “We’ll find it.”
Hattie climbed up onto the box and looked back to the woman. “Shall I give him your regards?”
“They’ll be delivered along with you, my lady,” came the reply from the shadows, the women already out of sight, as the gig set in motion.
It took them less than a quarter of an hour to reach the granary, with its half-dozen silos dark and ominous in the riverfront cold. The October wind whipped up the Thames, honing its blade as it wove through the uninhabited buildings. On another such night—the lack of moon making it impossible to see—there would have been no entering the space, but a half-dozen yards from the road, tucked against the corner of a building, a lit torch flickered.
“There,” Hattie said, climbing down from the curricle and pulling her coat around her to block the sting of the wind. “That way.”
“Now, Hattie, you know I’m always game for an adventure,” Nora said, on a loud whisper, “but are you quite sure about this?”
“Not quite sure,” Hattie allowed.
“Well. I suppose you get points for honesty.”
“Fury lends itself to fearlessness,” Hattie said, turning the corner by the torch, noting another one at the edge of the first silo. She headed for it.
Nora followed. “You mispronounced stupidity. I think we should turn back. There’s no one here. We might as well summon the murderers to us.”
Hattie cut her friend a look. “I thought you were the brave one.”
“Nonsense. I’m the reckless one. That’s a different thing entirely.”
Hattie laughed—what else was there to do? “What does that make me?” The question was punctuated by a roar in the distance. Follow the roar of the crowd. Hattie looked to Nora.
“The brave one.” There was no humor in it. Only truth. Truth and the kind of love that comes from one’s dearest friend. “The one who knows what she wants and will do whatever it takes to get it.” Nora squared her shoulders. “Well then, lay on.”
Heading past a second silo, Hattie saw an orange glow around the edge of a third. Without thinking—there was no place for thought in this particular exercise—she pressed on. “You know Macduff kills Macbeth after that bit, don’t you?”
“Now is not the time for literary truths, Hattie,” Nora replied. “And besides, you are not the murderer I am worried about this evening.” Hattie pulled up short, and Nora nearly collided with her. “Good God.”
It was a fair assessment of the view ahead.
Beneath the largest of the silos, forty-odd feet in diameter and raised off the ground on massive iron legs, a huge crowd stood in an enormous circle, hands in pockets and collars turned up against the wind that searched for passage between them.
Another wild roar sounded, and a collection of arms went high in the air in celebration. Hattie moved more quickly, her breath coming faster. She knew, without question, for whom they cheered, as though the Lord himself had come to fight.
As they watched, the circle spit out a man—a loser, nose bleeding and one eye already swelling shut. No one made to follow him as he headed for the street, passing Nora and Hattie, who tried not to look too closely as he brushed past, thinking them nothing more than two men, come for the spectacle.
Hattie recognized him, nonetheless. Michael Doolan.