By Way Of A Wager (15 page)
Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon
FOURTEEN
The dawn was cold and damp, mist curling and unfurling around the masts like lone sprites unsure of their way. On deck, Frances was battling to keep his wits about him, halfway between swoon and slumber. His wrists were etched in blood, for the gutting was tight and cut into him with every move. The captain had long since given up plans of escape. For one he was too weak, for another the situation was simply impossible.
The sloop was dipping and swaying, bobbing like a cork on unchartered seas. Sickness had passed then passed again. There was no energy left, hardly even the last vestiges of a will to survive. Given the choice, Frances might well have chosen death than the perpetual motion of the rocking boat. There'd been no sign of his tormentor throughout the long and icy night.
From time to time a gull called then subsided, its voice an eerie echo of freedom and loneliness. The gag tasted foul. Frances opened an eye, willing himself awake. This was worse than the battlefield, where dying had a meaning, some small glory, and a purpose that was forever England. This experience held no consolation whatsoever.
The quiet was shattered all of a sudden by the thud of boots and the piercing whistle of a man well satisfied by the night's events. Frances was too sick by far to make out the shabby breeches and slightly soiled buckram that he'd come to recognize as uniquely Jake's. The man towered over him, his overhearty voice exquisite pain to one as deprived of company as Frances had been.
“Morning, me hearty! Sleep well?”
Jake removed the gag, a trifle roughly but with all the manner of a man bestowing great largesse.
“Good! You do not scream. I like to see a man what is sensible!”
Frances tried to murmur some reply, but his throat was so parched that response was hardly possible.
“I have business today, my man. No need to tell you that silence be what I'm after.” Jake looked Frances over critically.
“You will hold out, won't yer now? Can't be having yer drop down plumb dead in front of me mates, now can I? Fact is, I'd rather yer be snuffing it later when the sloop's outa dock. Think yer'll make it till then?”
Frances remained silent. Following the gist of the lingo, there was not much he couldâor would want toâcontribute to the particular conversation at hand. It was a pity for him that Jake was in an expansive mood as he checked the rigging and rinsed the deck.
His former malignancy seemed to have vanished, leaving in its place an equally unappetizing quasi-comradeship that left the earl quite sick with disgust. The way the blackguard referred to his impending death as a fait accompliâjust part of the day's choresâwas enough to make even the strongest man balk. Frances, in the best of times weak, was utterly sickened.
Disgust turned to horror when the assassin unbound his wrists and placed a dank, dark length of burlap sacking over his head and trussed him up like a chicken. Almost apologetic, the cutthroat explained that the sacking was best for “when his mates came round.” He seemed to have an inordinate fear that on seeing Frances they would want a cut in the blackmail bounty. Jake was too sharp a man to run that risk.
The sloop was moored gently at dock, awaiting its ill-gotten treasures. The pennant of the Surrey dynasty, the brave raven and peacock, fluttered helplessly in the breeze, itself a prisoner to the fluctuations of wind and fate. When all seemed lostâwhen it appeared that the last surviving earl of Surrey be doomed to listen to the cant, highly volatile words of his captor for the rest of his remaining lifeâJake jumped off the boat.
The peace was miraculous, but not for long. Beggars from around the small peninsula had trickled to the yacht at first in twos, then in droves. They were hopeful in their quest for sustenance, chattering and calling as if with one voice. Enraged, Jake had taken a broom and jumped onto the shore, scattering the vagrants as he did so.
One poor unfortunate who did not quite make it to safety had been thrashed in such a resounding fashion that the thuds echoed across the bay. At last, Jake was done. Casting the beggar from his clutches, he'd stood up, waving the broomstick menacingly before him. “The next one of you lot 'oo 'as a fancy for a trouncing, come mess with me and my boat. If yer don't want me to dust the jackets of the lot of yer, ye'd better scarper now.”
The boys looked at him in awed wonder. Beatings came upon them as often as a rainy day and some of them none too pleasant, but this man certainly knew how to administer a rare trouncing. The luckless youth had stood aside, still rubbing his rear from the smart. His grubby little hands were struggling to wipe back the tears each fresh blow had caused.
“Scat. I mean it!” Jake stepped toward them meaningfully. They did not wait to be told twice. Before the seaman could blink, they'd vanished into thin air, their squeals the only tangible reminder that they'd ever had the temerity to approach a regular dab like Jake.
The loading of the boat commenced at noon, when most of the afternoon watch were away at tea. The sounds of the brigand were muffled to Frances, who lay meshed in the burlap, bound head to foot. Jake kept to the fore and it seemed his men had orders to do the same. From time to time the odd keg was rolled to the aft, but in the main the booty was strapped to the front decks and covered in ground sheeting and cod. The smell was paralyzing. Fine for a regular sailor like Jake. Impossible for Frances, who categorically loathed the stench of rotting fish. In the main, a good ploy. It kept the overeager watch and customs officials well at bay.
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On shore, Viscount Lyndale and his confederate were at something of a loss. They had crossed the channel without incident, taking advantage of the strong tides to make record progress. Now, however, they could only groan as they surveyed the busy port. Somewhere, they were convinced, birthed the Surrey sloop. Quite where this would happen to be was beyond their somewhat limited powers of imagination.
They were tired and sticky. The travel had scarcely been one of luxurious comfort, despite the well-sprung carriage and the swiftness of the crossing. They had been fortunate, indeed, that the winds had turned in their favor and that the vessel just putting to had been convinced to wait.
Rupert had to admire his conspirator's pluck. She was a game one, that was sure. No hint of complaint, despite looking a trifle peaky and sporting suspiciously bright eyes. He would book her a room and set off to catch his uncle.
No doubt Miles would know what to do. The fellow was bound to be putting up at the best establishment in town. No good dragging Miss Beaumaris along, though. For one, the duke had an uncomfortable omniscience that would in all likelihood penetrate her disguise. For two, he might well have taken himself a bird of paradise to while the time away.
He half expected Miles to have the young earl safely tucked away. Privately, Rupert doubted Cassandra's reasoning. He could never quite believe in danger that lurked in every corner. He would, however, humor her. After all, it was her adventure. Time enough, if he failed to catch up with the duke, to do some investigating of his own.
It did not help that he'd quite forgotten the direction of the hospital Miles had mentioned. Rather a bother, but with the optimism that sat so easily upon his nature, he made light of the problem and very wisely chose not to voice it to the lad in bottle green breeches sitting so impatiently at his side.
“Where are you going, Rupert?” Cassandra's voice was filled with dismay as they rounded the corner on the harbor and kept on walking, away from the sea and out toward the bustling town. If she felt conspicuous, she need not have worried. No one was paying the smallest heed to a young gentleman clad in wrinkled attire and breeches that bore all the marks of a darn above the right knee.
The other gentleman that had arrived that morning, well now, that was another thing! A regular out and outer he was and that was for sure. Arrived in fine style, he did, complete to a shade in black velvet and ruffled lace, a gold fob dangling idly from out the side of one of his fine-fitting pockets.
Not green about the gills, either. Young Ned, the baker's son, had tried to prig him for the watch but to no avail. His fingers had been caught in a vice, and the eyes that met his were as stern as stern could be. He reckoned as how he'd escaped lightly from that one, but he was as sure as anything he'd not try it again. A couple of his friends had nodded in gloomy agreement. The lord was a prime one for the plucking but too gamey by far! They all solemnly averred he must be a “dook” or even a king.
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The gentleman in question was seated in the first parlor of the Duc du Barry, delicately wiping his lips after a light luncheon of quail's egg, Chardonnay truffles, and cream of peach suzette. The fire was gently ebbing at the fender and his glass was closer to empty than full, the light catching at the crystal as he idly scrutinized the stem.
His day had been arduous but on reflection, not ill spent. It was fortunate for him that the weather was in his favor, reducing altogether his need for haste. He was perfectly certain that for a good few hours at least, no ship would be game enough to leave the safety of the bay. At all events, if one particular vessel made that mistake, it would probably find itself regretting it.
The harbormaster had proved most helpful on this point. If truth be told, the man had succumbed to His Grace's authoritative air with as much alacrity as the young pickpockets had done a little earlier in the day. It was a blow that Beaumaris had been discharged from St. Christopher of Albans. The nurses had been shocked to learn that their patient had been discharged into dubious care. Finding a sympathetic ear in the duke, they made bold to voice the doubts that had assailed them all morning. Piece by piece, His Grace was able to formulate a pretty accurate idea of the extent of Harrington's machinations. The presence of the Surrey sloop in port confirmed his convictions, and from there it was but a short step to the magistrate and port officials.
Waiting for a warrant was a wearying business, but the duke was a meticulous sort of fellow. Not one to do things by halves and that was the truth! He would stake his life Frances was on board and unharmed. It would hardly make sense to do away with a body on shore when one could have the expanse of the ocean to commit the deed.
How much greater the chances of detection in port than out of it. If, as the duke hoped, Harrington was aboard the vessel, he would wager his fortune that the man would not have the pluck to commit the deed in cold blood. If he left it to professionals, they would undoubtedly await the most auspicious moment. Criminals took very good care to cover their tracks. They would not recklessly put themselves in jeopardy for want of thorough planning.
The duke closed his eyes and instantly the vision of Cassandra flashed through his mind as it had done a thousand times before. He knew every tremor of her lips, every downy wisp that escaped her tight coils of shining hair. He had noticed that her nose tilted ever so slightly when she was amused. Her eyes sparkled her moods. Lavender for peace, violet for passion. Miles cupped his hands in his face and leaned forward over the table, elbows hard on the cream damask tablecloth.
He loved her. The words echoed in his head like spirals of dizzying light. He, who had at two and thirty scorned to find a woman who matched his moods and dreams in every way. A woman who was maddeningly adorable, confusingly honest, muddleheaded but witty, considerate, innocent, seductive, funny, and solemn. A woman who was hasty and zestful, yet who had known suffering and patience. A fine, healthy, charming lady who burst with impetuosity and exuded pride. What a plethora of contradictions, but how delightfully they all mingled in such a unique concoction of pure delight. Cassandra was that special something. That treasure that can take a man a lifetime of searching to find. Were it not for the Harringtons, he may not have noticed her at all.
The very thought afforded him pain. Perhaps he owed them something after all. The thought was amusing. Opening his eyes with a slight chuckle, he was startled to find a pale, wide-eyed face staring at him from behind the mottled green window of the Duc du Barry.
He raised his glass in salute at the woolen-capped urchin. He, the duke noticed, was being jerked firmly away by a young man in a navy hooded cape. Intriguing. The duke directed his eyeglass to the window. Strange what boredom could do. Ordinarily he would not have had the slightest interest in the pair's affairs. This particular moment, however, he had nothing whatsoever with which to occupy himself.
As far as he could discern, the private parlor that he'd bespoken held no items of amusement or entertainment. If he stirred himself the landlord would no doubt procure for him a newspaper of some sort, but he was in no mood to put his flawless French to the test. He was biding his time, and if that included witnessing a slight altercation between two young and obviously English gentlemen, who was to say otherwise?
The lad who'd first attracted his attention appeared to be tugging urgently at the taller youth's sleeve. Rain was just beginning to spatter from the sky, and the duke could have sworn he heard an oath muttered from the latter's mouth. The younger, clad simply in waistcoat and breeches, was gesticulating wildly and earnestly pointing in the direction of the window.
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