“Oh, Dragon, it was so very odd.” Pandora described the situation rapidly, some of her words tumbling over each other, but he seemed to follow without difficulty. “I shouldn’t have gone out to the warehouse,” she finished contritely. “But I—”

“No, you shouldn’t.” It wasn’t a reprimand, only a quiet confirmation.

“I think it was bad that I saw that man. Perhaps there’s a romantic involvement between him and Mrs. O’Cairre, and they don’t want to be found out. But it didn’t look that way.”

“Did you see anything else? Anything in the warehouse that didn’t seem to belong?”

Pandora shook her head as they reached the carriage. “I can’t think of anything.”

Dragon opened the door and pulled the step down for her. “I want you and the driver to wait here for five minutes. I have to do something.”

“What is it?” Pandora asked, climbing into the carriage. She sat and took the valise from him.

“Call of nature.”

“Footmen don’t really have calls of nature. Or at least they’re not supposed to mention it.”

“Keep the shades down,” he told her. “Lock the door, and don’t open it for anyone.”

“What if it’s you?”

“Don’t open it for anyone,” Dragon repeated patiently.

“We should come up with a secret signal. A special knock—”

He closed the door firmly before she could finish.

Disgruntled, Pandora settled back into the seat. If there was anything worse than feeling bored or anxious, it was feeling both things at the same time. She cupped her hand over her ear and tapped the back of her skull, trying to settle an annoying high-pitched tone. It took a few minutes of dedicated tapping. Finally she heard Dragon’s voice outside the carriage, and felt the faint jostle of the vehicle as he climbed up beside the driver. The carriage pulled away and proceeded along Farringdon, heading out of Clerkenwell.

By the time they returned to the Queen’s Gate terrace, Pandora was nearly beside herself with impatient curiosity. It took all her self-restraint to keep from exploding out of the carriage when Dragon opened the door and pulled down the step.

“Did you go back into the printer’s shop?” she demanded, remaining seated. It would be improper to stand outside and talk with him on the street, but there would be no privacy once they entered the house. “Did you talk to Mrs. O’Cairre? Did you see the man I told you about?”

“I pushed my way in to have a look around,” Dragon admitted. “She was none too pleased, but no one there could stop me. I didn’t see the man.”

He stood back, waiting for Pandora to leave the carriage, but she didn’t move. She was certain there was something he hadn’t told her. If so, he would talk to Gabriel about it, and then she would have to find out about it secondhand.

When he moved back into the doorway and gave her a questioning glance, Pandora said earnestly, “If I’m to trust you, Dragon, you can’t hide things from me, or I’ll never be sure of you. Besides, withholding important information isn’t protecting me. Just the opposite. The more I know, the less likely I am to do something foolish.”

Dragon considered that and relented. “I walked through the office rooms, and went out to the warehouse. I saw . . . things, here and there. Glass and rubber tubes, metal cylinders, traces of powdered chemical compounds.”

“But those things are common at a printer’s works, aren’t they?”

A notch appeared between his black brows, and he nodded.

“Then why are you concerned?” she asked.

“They’re also used for making bombs.”

Chapter 18

As soon as Gabriel arrived home after a long day of meetings, he was greeted by the sight of Drago awaiting him in the entrance hall.

“Milord.” Drago moved forward to assist him, but was pointedly shouldered aside by the first footman, who collected Gabriel’s hat and gloves. Gabriel sternly suppressed a smile, knowing that Drago hadn’t yet learned the order of precedence concerning the small rituals of the household. Certain tasks defined a servant’s status and would not be relinquished easily.

After shooting a quick, scathing glance at the first footman’s back, Drago returned his attention to Gabriel. “A word with you, milord?”

“Of course.” Gabriel led the way to the nearby morning room, where they both went to stand at one of the front bay windows.

As Drago gave him a succinct account of the visit to the Clerkenwell printer’s shop, including their abrupt exit, and the suspicious items in the offices and warehouse, Gabriel listened with a growing frown. “What was the chemical compound? Could you hazard a guess?”

For answer, Drago pulled a small, cork-stoppered glass tube from his coat pocket and handed it to him. Gabriel held it up and rotated it slowly, watching a few salt-like grains roll inside.

“Chloride of potash,” Drago said.

It was a common and easily recognizable chemical, used in soap, detergents, friction matches, fireworks, and ink. Gabriel handed the tube back to him. “Most people wouldn’t see cause for concern upon finding this at a printer’s works.”

“No, milord.”

“But something about it seemed dodgy to you.”

“It was the look of things. The way Mrs. O’Cairre behaved. The man Lady St. Vincent saw. Something’s not right about the place.”

Bracing one hand on the niche framing of the bay window, Gabriel regarded the quiet street outside, and drummed his fingers on the wood paneling. “I trust your instincts,” he finally said. “You’ve seen enough trouble to know when it’s brewing. But the police will dismiss this out of hand for lack of compelling evidence. And I don’t know of a detective in the entire department who isn’t corrupt or an idiot.”