The hour had been called, on that chill, cheerless night, by the square’s Charlie, Thomas Smart, as he hobbled by with his lantern and his staff – ‘seven o’clock and all’s well.’ All was well – for now. Arthur Thistlewood recognized the Londonderry arms painted on the carriage door and he knew the occupant, too, his boots grating on the pavement as the footman held the steps steady. He was over six feet tall, strikingly handsome, even in the eerie half-light of the new gas-lamps. There was a rumour that the Marquess of Londonderry, Lord Castlereagh, went armed these days; that despite the sang-froid he always showed in public, he went in fear of his life. There were two pistols concealed in the lining of his frock coat. The carriage jerked away at the crack of the driver’s whip, dark lackeys atop the coach, swathed in layers, their breath snaking out on the night air. Castlereagh was silhouetted for a moment in the lighted doorway, a perfect target for Thistlewood’s gun.
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