Conspiring with a Rogue (38 page)

The cool night air blew around Whitney. She shivered and drew her overcoat tighter, glad she was dressed in men’s practical clothes. Something scampered in the darkness by her feet. She peered at the pebbled street, but with the moon mostly covered tonight she could not make out a thing.

There it was again—the scratch of a creature or, please, God, perhaps garbage being blown by the wind, rustled all around her. Her heart thumped fast and heavy. Of course, based on the stench coming from the water and the dockyards to her right, she suspected mice or rats were crawling all around her.

She wiggled her toes in her big leather boots, extremely grateful she had dressed as Mr. Wentworth. A rat could have nibbled through a woman’s delicate slippers by now. Even so, she was not above running. She took off in a jog, her breath making puffs of white into the air as she went.

As she passed the Tabernacle Inn and the roar of drunken sailors filled the silent night, she pushed herself harder and faster. No sense letting someone get a good glimpse of her. She may be dressed like a man, but she doubted the ability of a sailor with too much whiskey in his belly to comprehend in this darkness that she was indeed a man. And once grimy hands had her in their clutches, it would be too late.

A man whistled at her as she rounded the corner toward the ships docked at port. Stupid, idiotic, foolish—were there any other words to describe this choice? She counted the ships on the horizon―eight, or was that ten? She counted again. Twelve.
Merciful heavens
. She prayed the
Adelaine
would be the first ship she came to.

If she were lucky, it would be the first, no one would be on deck and Lillian would be found immediately and rescued easily. Then once they were safely back at Wentworth Investigations, Whitney would send notes to Drake, Sin and Sally letting them all know how she had rescued Lillian single-handedly without burdening any of them.

If events unfolded just as she imagined, maybe she could allow that she was not a complete burden on everyone she loved. Maybe Drake would be so astonished by her ability to take care of problems that he would ask her for her help with his company. The idea made her laugh aloud, but hope—no matter how ridiculous her head knew it to be—flared.

Whitney’s jaw dropped as she came to the first ship.
Adelaine
was painted in white lettering on the dark wood. She glanced around to see if she was alone. Her heart sank at the sight of a watchman in the tall tower behind her. Suddenly a bell rang through the silence, and two torches waved against the black sky from the tower. With the watchman occupied, she hurried toward the ship, certain luck would not just hand her a ladder to climb up.

She stared at the ship morosely. This was one of those moments she absolutely hated being right. There was no convenient ladder. The only thing hanging from the ship, as far as she could see, was an enormous chain, which had to be the anchor. She eyed the dark water distastefully. There was no time to second guess herself. Bending down, she unlaced her boots and set them to the side. Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself as silently as possible toward the water. When her toes touched the icy coldness, an involuntary shudder tore through her.

Her heart thundered, but she forced herself to let go of the edge of the dock. She fell swiftly into the glacial water and came up sputtering and shivering. The stinking, murky water immersed her and left her skin crawling as fear wrapped around her. Her teeth chattered as she shoved away from the side of the dock and swam silently toward the chain. The coldness made her movements sluggish and her fingers numb, but as something slimy brushed her leg, she clenched down on a scream and gripped the cold metal of the chain while wrapping her legs around it and heaving herself upward.

The iron bit into the sensitive flesh of her hands, but letting go and falling back into the water was unthinkable. Progress was slow, and by the time she reached the top of the chain, she huffed with exertion, and the warm stickiness of blood covered her palms. Her hands burned so fiercely she gritted her teeth against the need to whimper. She hauled herself over the ledge of the boat as quietly as she could, but her trembling legs did not hold her up. She fell to the deck with a thump.

“
Hola?” came a call.

Whitney glanced around her, spotted a barrel and rushed over to it.

Footsteps pounded against the deck toward her. “Marv, that you?” a scratchy voice demanded.

Whitney stuck her hand inside the barrel. Empty. Without a second thought, she threw one leg over the barrel and climbed in.
Heaven help me. It reeks
. She covered her mouth and nose, but the need to gag nearly overwhelmed her. Raising her arm, she breathed deeply into the material of her coat. Footsteps grew louder, until she was sure someone stood in front of her hiding place. Sweat dripped down her back. This was it. She’d no longer be a burden to anyone because she’d likely be dead.

“
Marv?” the man called again as his footsteps padded away. Whitney crouched lower, trying to become a small ball.

“
Shut yer trap,” came an irritated reply.

“
Where’s Marv?”

“
On the quarter deck with the rest of the crew, where yer supposed to be.”

“
Shows what you know, Smitty. Captain told me to guard the gel. He promised some hoity-toity lord no one would touch her until after he had seen her.”

Whitney squeezed her eyes shut and released a slow pent-up breath. Lillian was here and so far unharmed by this ruffian lot.

“
Then why you down here?” came Smitty’s voice, so near to Whitney that she could hear the hiss of the man’s breath as he awaited the answer.

“
Because a man’s got to piss when a man’s got to piss, and I need my privacy to do so.”

“
Then piss and get yourself back to the captain’s quarters. That woman probably broke out the door by now. Fiery wench.”

The deep voice chuckled. “Na. Captain forced near half a bottle of whiskey down her throat to stop her yellin’.”

As the voices grew distant, Whitney took a deep breath and poked her head out. The men were up ahead. If she followed, maybe she would be led to Lillian. But who to follow? Which man was Smitty and which man was the one guarding Lillian? Muttering to herself, Whitney slipped out of the cask and moved toward the darkest shadows. The shortest man disappeared up a ladder while the taller of the two sailors reached into the darkness and came up with a bundle hoisted on his shoulders. His whistle pierced the silence as he strolled away from her.

Once he was out of sight, she rushed toward the ladder the other sailor had climbed. The short man had to be guarding Lillian. Whitney crept up the stairs slowly, careful to be quiet. Above her, the tap of shoes ascended the steps. A door creaked and the noise disappeared. She doubled her pace, her side pinching. When she reached the short, narrow hatch, she paused. She couldn’t very well barrel through and risk running smack into Lillian’s captor, but she couldn’t afford to wait either.

She eased the hatch open, cursing as it creaked. Poking her head out, she gazed into an empty, dimly lit hall.
Damnation
! God alone knew where she was or where Lillian was, for that matter. She stepped into the corridor on trembling legs. Doubt and fear seized her. What was she going to do when she found Lillian? Wrestle the sailor to the ground with her bare hands?
Bloody unlikely
.

She needed a weapon. Lillian was somewhere near, and she wasn’t going anywhere. Set on her path, Whitney turned to retrace her steps and find something to defend herself with.

But a woman’s scream wrenched the silence and froze her progress.

Something banged open just ahead, and the heavy pounding of footsteps barreled toward Whitney.

Before she could react, a slender body slammed into hers, and she careened backward, falling to the hard floor in a tangle of arms, legs and long fiery hair. Lillian swung at Whitney with her fist, hitting her squarely in the eye. Pain exploded and tears came to Whitney’s eyes. She grabbed Lillian by the arms and pressed her sobbing friend to her. “Lil,” she whispered fiercely, “it’s Whitney.”

Lillian went still, her face appearing inches from Whitney’s, stark white and streaked with tears. “Holy God,” she whispered right before she was jerked away.

Whitney scrambled backward, intent on reaching her feet before the sailor captured her. Her hands touched something soft, and her heart fell, as rough hands gripped her under her arms and dragged her to her feet. Yanked around, she stood face-to-face with a black-eyed, busted-lipped Lord Cadogan. Fear tingled through her as he eyed her for one long, silent moment.

His gaze lingered on her head, a frown furrowing his brows. Her breath caught in her throat. Quickly, she moved to set her soaking wig to rights. Cadogan’s hand reached her head first. “Allow me, Wentworth,” he drawled as he removed her wig and yanked on the coil of hair twisted on top of her head.

She winced in pain at the sting to her scalp, her wet hair falling around her shoulders. Lord Cadogan’s eyes widened, a twisted smile curving his busted lips. “And who are you, my dear?”

Whitney pressed her lips together.

Lord Cadogan jerked viciously on her hair, a yelp of pain escaping her as her head jerked backward. “I’ve ways to make you talk,” he sneered.

“
No!” Lillian cried behind Whitney.

Whitney twisted in an effort to catch Lillian’s gaze and entreat her to silence, but it was useless. Lillian stumbled into view, swaying. “Don’t touch her,” she gasped. “If you do, I swear by all that’s holy, Mr. Sutherland will kill you.”

“
Ah.” Lord Cadogan grinned maliciously at Whitney. “The missing Lady Whitney, I presume.”

Drake hurried into Madam Brouchard’s noisy establishment, impatient to conduct his interview with the woman so he could return to Whitney’s. His tolerance for this wild-goose-chase was just about used up, but he needed to ask Madam Brouchard if she had any news of Lillian before he called it a night.

He was sure, by this late hour, Whitney had to be home under the watchful eye of the Duchess of Primwitty. He rubbed at his tired eyes as he weaved through the milling crowd toward the Madam’s office.

Reaching the door, he knocked.

“
Enter.” Madam Brouchard’s tone was husky.

So far, tonight had been a colossal waste of time. He shook his head and pushed the door open.

“
Madam Brouchard.” He inclined his head toward the woman while reaching into his pocket for the heavy bag of blunt. He walked toward her and dropped it on her desk, the coins clinking as they landed.

“
This is an unexpected surprise.” She picked up the bag.

“
Yes, I apologize for the late hour.” He lowered himself into the deep chair opposite her desk. “I know you were to send me word, but I’m rather impatient for any news. No one seems to know anything, and I hoped…” His words trailed off at the madam’s furrowed brow and openmouthed stare. “What is it?” Dread dropped in his gut like a lead bullet.

She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but since your friend was already here, your visit baffles me.”

“
My
friend
was here?”

Madam Brouchard nodded. “Near six hours ago.” She bit her lip. “I would’ve sent you a note with what I found out, but I assumed Mr. Wentworth would inform you himself.”

Drake gripped the ledge of the desk. “Can you tell me what Mr. Wentworth looked like?”

“
You don’t know?” Madam Brouchard asked, incredulity ringing in her question.

He slid four heavy gold coins toward the madam. “Indulge me, if you please.”

Her long white fingers snaked out, pressed over the coins and drew them toward her, the silver scraping against the dark oak as it moved. “Between the two of you, I’ve made a fortune tonight.” She grinned, but her grin faded when her gaze met his.

He struggled to control the fear welling in his chest, but he could do nothing about all the blood rushing to his face. His cheeks burned. “Please,” he commanded. “The description.”

“
An unusually beautiful man with superb manners and honey eyes shot through with sparks of green.”

“
Damn it to hell.” Drake slapped his palm against the desk.

Madam Brouchard flinched, the bag of coins jangling in her hands. “Is Mr. Wentworth not your friend?”