“It had an enormous effect. I’m sure Vanderville lost money hand over fist, but the men couldn’t afford to stay strong. They had to go back to work before they saw the true impact of their collective actions. Honestly, it was difficult to play the role of observer. I found myself siding with the men, wanting them to succeed in their cause.”
“And you call yourself a nobleman.”
He gave her a sardonic smile. “Yes, well, I’m sure I would have come to my senses. In any case, I began to hear about a plot to murder the child of the prime minister. I didn’t know where it originated, though I have my suspicions, but it was all anyone spoke of between shifts.”
“And this plot was to avenge the death of the child killed in the factory.”
“That was how it seemed. I even wrote to Baron and told him the rumblings I’d heard. And then a week ago, everything changed.”
“How so?”
Ambrose met Maggie’s gaze and held it. He watched her swallow and look away. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she pretended. “I finally traced the rumor to its source.”
“And?” She glanced back at him, her gaze dropping to his chest, and then away again. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. Was it possible she still felt something for him? Even if it was only desire, he could work with that.
“The source was Vanderville.”
***
MARGARET STRAIGHTENED. “What do you mean, Vanderville? The owner?”
Holyoake nodded, his beautiful gaze still fastened on her. The way he looked at her made her feel too warm. She had the urge to extinguish the fire she’d built in the hearth. It was summer and the weather was warm—warm for England, at any rate—outside. Perhaps they hadn’t needed the fire. “You mean, he had spies in the factory and had discovered the plan?” She lifted her pencil to jot this down.
“No. I mean, he invented the rumor himself.” He went on to explain the complicated fashion in which he’d traced the rumor back to Vanderville. Her head was spinning as he took her along the twisting tunnels and winding warrens of his exhaustive investigation. But she knew he was an expert agent. She didn’t doubt his methods.
After all, he’d taught her everything she knew.
Well, most of it, anyway.
“Did you report any of this to Baron?” she asked.
“No time,” he said. “I was following Vanderville by then and didn’t have a moment to send a report, especially after Vanderville realized he was being tracked and sent his assassin after me.”
“Did he find you?”
Holyoake gestured to his wound. “As you see.”
She did see. Holyoake had been badly injured. She had more questions now than before. Was the assassin still at large? Where was Vanderville? What should she tell Baron? Did Holyoake still love her? Had he ever loved her?
No, those last questions were irrelevant.
“What motive could Vanderville have for starting such a rumor? Why would he want the prime minister to think Vanderville’s factory workers intended to murder the minister’s son?”
“To encourage the prime minister to retaliate, I suppose. Vanderville lost thousands in the strike. He didn’t want to risk another.”
Margaret scribbled furiously on the pad. “I should code this and send it immediately. Baron needs to know. There are agents in the field.”
“Go ahead.” Holyoake closed his eyes. “I’ll just close my eyes for a moment.”
She watched his jaw go slack and sighed. He might have died if she hadn’t found him when she had. He was putting on a brave face, but the fact that he hadn’t written to Baron of his discovery told her his injury was serious. He would never have neglected his duty otherwise.
“You might as well have a lie down,” she said, trying to make it sound casual. He was still a man and would not want his pride injured by feeling as though he needed to be taken care of or managed. “It will take me some time to code the letter and then I’ll have to find one of our couriers and send it.”
The Royal Saboteurs had trusted couriers to deliver missives to and from the various agents back to Baron at the Farm. They were stationed all around London and Britain. Margaret would have to check her mental list of courier stations, but she didn’t have to think hard to know none were in Seven Dials.
Margaret removed one of Holyoake’s pillows and helped him lie back. His eyes were closed, but he smiled at her attention and then his jaw went slack. She’d never seen him with more than two days’ growth of beard. This beard had been grown for several weeks, if not more. She supposed it made for a good disguise among the other factory workers. She touched the beard, which was the same chestnut color as the hair on his head. The bristles were soft and rather luxurious. But then Holyoake had always had lovely hair, not like the red corkscrew confection on her own head.
She smoothed the hair back from his forehead then went to the washbasin, dipped a cloth in the cool water, and pressed it over his brow. She wasn’t usually so maternal, but she was unreasonably glad to find him alive. There had been moments these past few days when she doubted.
