“Good God,” Gabriel said, his eyes widening. “How do you know that?”
“Usually, telegrams sent from the Home Office are written on blanks printed with a special number that allows them to be sent free of charge. It’s called a frank number. It makes the telegram more liable to scrutiny, as the clerks in the telegraph office are instructed to make certain the privilege isn’t being abused. A clerk saw a frank number on a coded message, which is against procedure, and passed it to me. It was a careless mistake for the sender not to have used an unidentified blank.”
“Why in God’s name would someone from the Home Office conspire with Irish anarchists?” Gabriel asked.
“There are ministers in Her Majesty’s government who are fiercely opposed to the idea of Irish Home Rule. They know that if Irish conspirators commit an act of public violence, such as an assassination of the Prince, it would end any chance of Home Rule. There would be mass reprisals for Ireland, and the deportation of thousands from England, which is exactly what anti-Home Rulers want.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Pandora asked.
Ransom frowned and leaned forward, tapping the fingertips of both hands together lightly. “My lady, I think the man you saw in the warehouse is going to be at the reception. I think he’s from the Home Office. And now that Mrs. O’Cairre is dead, you’re the only person we have who can identify him.”
Gabriel replied before Pandora had a chance to react. His quiet voice contained the intensity of a shout. “Go to hell, Ransom. If you think I’ll let you put my wife in danger, you’re insane.”
“All she would have to do is attend the reception for a few minutes to see if he’s there,” Ransom said. “Once she points him out, you could whisk her away to safety.”
“It is a limited outing, if you think about it,” Pandora said to Gabriel reasonably.
Her husband gave her an incredulous glare. “Helping to foil assassination attempts against the Prince of Wales is not a bloody limited outing!”
“My lord,” Ransom said, “if the conspiracy goes as far as I fear it might, Lady St. Vincent won’t be safe until this man is identified and arrested. You’ll have to guard her every minute, and keep her confined and out of public view indefinitely.”
“I’ll have no problem with that,” Gabriel snapped.
“But I would,” Pandora said softly. She met her husband’s gaze, reading his anguished fury and gave him a faintly apologetic smile. “You know I would.”
“You’re not going to have your way on this,” Gabriel informed her in a hard voice. “No matter what you say or do, it’s not going to happen.”
“Who would have thought my first outing would be to see the Prince of Wales?” Pandora commented lightly as she descended from the carriage in front of the Guildhall.
“Who indeed?” came Gabriel’s surly reply. He helped her down carefully, while Dragon made certain the skirts of her formal gown didn’t brush the sides of the doorway. She was dressed in gleaming pink satin, the skirts embroidered lavishly with gold thread. A layer of gold-spangled gauze veiled the bodice and helped to conceal the small bandage over her wound.
She glanced at Dragon, who didn’t look any happier about the situation than her husband.
Despite Dragon’s brooding expression, he cut a fine figure in formal evening clothes, which had been purchased and altered with lightning speed at Winterborne’s. It had been agreed that he would accompany Pandora and Gabriel inside the Guildhall and attract far less notice if he were dressed like the other men present.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Pandora said with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “We’ll stroll into the Guildhall, I’ll point out the man from the warehouse if he’s here, and then we’ll go back home.”
“This is lunacy,” Gabriel muttered.
Dragon kept silent, but his expression was one of complete agreement.
“As Mr. Ransom remarked,” Pandora told Gabriel, “I’ll be much safer when this collaborator is caught. And Mr. Ransom did agree to let you have five minutes alone with him, although heaven knows why you would want to talk to such a dreadful man.”
“We won’t be talking,” Gabriel said curtly.
They crossed a paved limestone courtyard to the massive vaulted entranceway of the Guildhall, a magnificent stone civic hall built in the fifteenth century. Recent restorations had lent it the grace of Gothic spirit and detail, but it possessed a fanciful mixture of styles and ornamentation. The Guildhall was used for all manner of civic functions, including banquets and annual public meetings hosted by the Lord Mayor, and balls and receptions for royalty.
An enormous crowd had amassed in the courtyard, the glittering mass funneling into the entrance of the south porch.
Pandora regarded the gathering with amazement. “There must be two thousand guests here.”