Free Airborne - The Hanover Restoration by Blair Bancroft Page B

lad.”
    “And give them exactly what they want?”
    “A stubborn ox ye are! The risk is too high.”
    “It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.”
    “Aye, I’ll drink to that. A spy one day, an assassin the next.”
    Voices roused me from the void, but like a wounded animal gone to ground, I lay frozen, eyes closed, knowing only that something was very wrong. I had to assess my surroundings before returning to the world.
    Head. Must clear my head. But pain pounded through it with the inexorable rhythm of one of Pa pa’s locomotives at full speed.
    No. Rochefort, not Papa. His was one of the voices. The Scottish steward, the other. Good. The spinning sensation was slowing, a bit of sense popping out of the red haze of pain.
    “Take heed, lad. That bullet was meant for you.”
    “But why? ”
    “Take your choice,” said the steward—Drummond, that was his name. “Destroy the competition. Or put a stop to our plans at the source.”
    “I know the competition. In Germany and the south of France. Neither is that venal. Spy on me, yes. Kill me, no.”
    “So it’s the other business.”
    “They could not possibly know—”
    “Don’t be daft! Your family’s sentiments have never been a secret. And your staff is far too large for rumors of what you’re doing not to drift into the village.”
    “But how could anyone connect my airship with—”
    “Treason?” Drummond pronounced.
    “Not a word I care to have said out loud,” Rochefort muttered.
    “Face up to it, lad. Most geniuses are odd little men shut up in their workshops, nose to their inventions or their art every moment of the day. You, however, are a wealthy baron from a known monarchist family. Your inventions are in scientific journals, even the chaunting sheets. You’ve become too well known, Rochefort, too powerful. That shot could have been ordered by Wellington, Cumberland, Cambridge. Aye,” he added after a slight pause, “I’d be particularly leery of Cumberland.”
    The Stonegraves were monarchists?
    Like Papa.
    Then why would George IV’s younger brothers be enemies? That made no sense at all.
    “Cumberland is already King of Hanover, with a son to follow him.”
    “Hanover?” Drummond scoffed. “A mite of land on the continent when he could have Britain and her colonies?”
    A long sigh. “I suppose it’s possible.”
    Curiosity overcame my inertia. I eased my eyes open to find my vision hazy, but not so severe I couldn’t make out Rochefort and Drummond ensconced in the upholstered chairs that sat before the fireplace. They had turned them round to face my bed, evidently so they could keep watch over me.
    Which was almost as shocking as whatever had put me in this bed.
    Or perhaps not, as the alternative was likely Mrs. E.
    Pain shot through my head as I squinted, attempting to see more clearly. One of Rochefort’s arms was supported by a black sling. Had he too been hurt? But how? They talked of assassins, but I remembered nothing.
    With his good arm, Rochefort reached for a brandy decanter, sitting on a small table in front of him. “I repeat,” he said, “they cannot possibly know of our plans.”
    “Secrets of this magnitude have wings, lad. Impossible to keep them caged.”
    After refilling both glasses, Rochefort started to put the stopper back into the decanter. His eyes met mine.
    “Minta!” He projected himself across the room as if he really cared. If my head hadn’t hurt so badly, I’d have been gratified. But only a little. I’d just discovered our marriage was providing him with more than a convenient hostess and protection from matchmaking mamas. Whatever treasonous plot my husband had devised, a wife was part of his plans.
    Treason! As I allowed him to fuss over me, my heart grew cold.
    Papa, papa, what have you done?

 
    Chapter 7
     
    My aching head woke me long minutes before Tillie brought me coffee, toast, and jam. Time enough for my skeptical inner voice and my pragmatic common sense to