Stormy Persuasion (3 page)

Chapter Four

“H
ave you thought of something yet? We’re down to two days before we sail, and now neither
Jack nor George intends to join us thanks to your wife’s intransigence,” James said
as he landed a hard jab to Anthony’s chin that moved his brother back a step.

Word had spread fast in the neighborhood when the Malory brothers were seen going
into Knighton’s Hall together. The seats around the ring were already filled as if
this fight had been scheduled. A crowd was at the door fighting to get in. Knighton
had thrown up his hands and stopped trying to prevent access. Anthony, the youngest
Malory brother, had been coming to Knighton’s for most of his life for exercise in
the ring, but his fights weren’t very exciting since he never lost—unless his brother
James stepped into the ring with him. No one ever knew which brother would win, and
thus bets were flying about the hall today.

Anthony’s black brows narrowed on his brother. “No, and you can stop taking your frustration
out on me.”

“But who better?” James said drily, and another hard right landed. “What about now?”

“Blister it, James, it ain’t my bloody fault.”

“Of course it is, dear boy. You are the only one capable of talking your wife around.
Lost your touch? Good God, you have, haven’t you?”

Anthony got in a solid punch to James’s midsection for that slur, followed by an uppercut.
Neither one moved James Malory, who had been likened to a brick wall more’n once by
men who had tried to defeat him, his brothers included. But Anthony was knocked off
his feet with James’s next blow, deciding the matter of his giving up this round.
Bloody hell. James won too easily when
he
was annoyed. But Anthony was saved from having to concede when his driver climbed
up on the side of the ring and waved for his attention. Seeing the man as well, James
stepped back.

Anthony got up to fetch the note his man was waving at him, reading it as he returned
to James in the middle of the ring. He snorted before he told James, “Judy suggests
I save my face a bruising today and come home to pack. Apparently, Ros has given in.”

James started to laugh at the good news, which was how Anthony caught him off guard
with a punch that landed his older brother on his arse. But James’s own annoyance
was completely gone now with the unexpected news, so he merely raised a golden brow
from his position on the floor to inquire, “Then what was that for?”

“Because now I’m no doubt in the doghouse,” Anthony grumbled, though he offered James
a hand up. “I don’t know who changed her mind or how they did it, but I know I’ll
end up catching her anger for it.”

“Then it’s just as well you’ll be sailing with us and your wife will be staying home.
She will have more’n enough time to calm down before we return.”

Both men knew that Roslynn wouldn’t sail with them because of her seasickness. She
and Anthony’s younger daughter, Jaime, suffered from the same malady, so even if Roslynn
was willing to endure the discomfort for Judy’s sake, she wouldn’t subject Jaime to
it again. Nor would she leave Jaime at home alone for the two months they expected
to be gone.

But James noted that his remark didn’t seem to ease his brother’s concern. “Come on,
old man, don’t tell me London’s most notorious rake can’t redirect a lady’s anger
into passion of another sort,” James said as he leaned forward to take his brother’s
proffered hand.

Anthony abruptly withdrew it. “It’s against my code of honor to hit a man when he’s
down, but I
could
make an exception just for you.”

James chuckled as he rose to his feet. “I’ll pass on that favor. Don’t want Judy to
think her message didn’t get to you in good time.”

•     •     •

In the middle of the Atlantic,
The Nereus
was making good headway toward Bridgeport, Connecticut. While the Andersons’ family
business, Skylark Shipping, had many ships in its fleet, each sibling also had one
of his or her own, and
The Nereus
was owned and captained by Warren, the second-oldest Anderson brother and Amy Malory’s
adoring husband. The couple spent half of the year at sea, along with their children,
Eric, and the twins, Glorianna and Stuart, and of course the children’s tutors. The
other half of the year they spent in their house in London so their children could
get to know their large family.

Amy was basking in the spring sun on deck, despite the wind’s being nippy. As the
only woman in the Anderson family who had experienced a successful social Season in
London, she’d been asked by the Anderson brothers to plan the social events for Jacqueline’s
two-week visit to Bridgeport. Of course, Drew Anderson’s wife, Gabby, had had a London
social debut, but it had been cut short and turned into a scandalous disaster by Drew,
so she couldn’t offer much advice about come-out parties. Amy wasn’t simply relying
on her own experience. She had conferred with her cousin Regina, the Malory family’s
expert in social events.

Amy had to get the Anderson family home ready for these events. She had to plan the
menus and send out the invitations. Warren would help her with the invitations since
he knew whom to include. Although Amy had been to Bridgeport with him dozens of times
over the years and had met many of the Andersons’ friends and acquaintances, she couldn’t
be expected to remember them all. Yet everything had to be perfect before Jacqueline
and her parents arrived.

Her own children were more excited about this trip than she was, since they were going
to get to attend each event. In England they’d have to wait until they were eighteen
to be included among the adults, but in America rules like that didn’t apply. Amy
was too frazzled to be excited. So many things to do, so many lists to make.

With so much on her mind, she almost didn’t notice the feeling that started to intrude,
and then she did, doubling over from it, as if she’d received a blow to her stomach.
Warren, approaching her from behind, noticed and was instantly alarmed.

He put his hands gently on her back. “What sort of pain is it, sweetheart?”

“No pain.”

“Then . . . ?”

“Something—bad—is going to happen.”

Warren immediately looked up at the sky for an approaching storm that might cripple
them, but not a dark cloud was in sight. “When?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know!”

He sighed. “If you’re going to have these feelings, I really wish you could interpret
them more specifically.”

“You always say that. And it never helps because I can’t. We have to go back, Warren.”

He tsked, helped her straighten, and turned her around so he could hold her in his
arms. “You’re not thinking clearly. We’d miss half the family that are already heading
this way. Even James and Georgie will have departed with Jack long before we could
get back.”

“I wish there was a faster way to travel,” she growled in frustration against his
wide chest.

He chuckled. “That’s never going to happen, but we don’t sail with cannons anymore—”

“You still acquired a full cargo that’s weighing us down.”

“Of course I did, that’s my job. And despite the cargo, we’re making damn good time.
Another week, give or take a day or so, and we’ll be in Bridgeport.”

“If the wind holds,” she mumbled.

“Naturally. But you know, no matter what your feeling portends, you can lessen the
blow and make sure it isn’t devastating. Do it now. Say something to relieve your
mind, sweetheart. Make a bet. You know you always win.”

She glanced up at him and gave him a loving smile for the reminder. “I bet nothing
is going to happen that my family can’t handle.”

“Are you sure you want to be that vague?”

“I wasn’t vague. That covers everyone in my family, everyone in your family, all wives,
husbands, and children.”

Chapter Five

T
he holding cell, one of many, was the only one currently in use. The cell wasn’t in
a jail or a prison, although it certainly felt as if it were to the men detained there.
Underground, no windows, the prisoners would have no light at all if a single lantern
weren’t kept burning day and night. That light was for the guard, not the prisoners.

The revenue base had been built toward the end of the last century when the Crown
got more aggressive in patrolling her southern waters, mainly along the Cornish coast.
The base had started out as no more than a dock and a barracks halfway between Dorset
and Devon. As it had expanded over the years, a community had grown up around it.
Shops, a stable, taverns, but the main business was still the apprehension of smugglers,
and they were dealt with severely. Sent to the colonies in Australia or hanged. One
or the other with trials that were a mockery.

Nathan Tremayne had wished more than once that he’d been born in the last century,
before the revenue men got organized. Then, smuggled cargoes could be unloaded right
on the docks of a village with everyone helping. Even the local nabobs would turn
a blind eye on the illegal activities as long as they got their case of brandy or
tea. It had been a simple way to get around exorbitant taxes, and the long expanse
of rocky Cornish coastline made that section of England ideal for bringing in rum,
brandy, tea, and even tobacco to otherwise law-abiding citizens at reasonable prices.
With so few revenue men patrolling back then, the smugglers faced little risk. Not
so anymore.

These days the few smugglers still operating were running out of places to hide their
cargoes. Even the tunnels built into the cliffs were slowly being discovered and watched
by the revenuers. Smugglers had resorted to storing their cargoes farther inland,
away from the revenuers, before their cargoes could be distributed. But the goods
still had to be unloaded onto shore for transport—or loaded back onto a ship if a
smuggler suspected his hiding place had been discovered by a meddlesome wench who
would likely inform the authorities. That’s how Nathan had been caught last week.
His crew had gotten away, scattering like rats in a sewer. He and his ship hadn’t.

It had been a setup. The revenuers had been lying in wait. He just couldn’t prove
it unless he could escape. But that wasn’t happening from a cellblock such as this.
Chained hand and foot with the chains spiked to the wall behind him, he could barely
stand or reach the man chained next to him. Four in the cell were in a similar position.
He didn’t know them, didn’t bother to talk to them. An old man had been left unbound.
His task was to pass out the tin bowls of gruel to the rest of them. If he was awake.
If waking him didn’t get him angry. Nathan had already missed a few meals because
of that old man’s temper.

Nathan was asleep when they came for him, unchaining him from the wall, dragging him
out of there. The last man to be removed from the cell had gone out screaming about
his innocence and hadn’t returned. Nathan didn’t say a word, but a slow-burning anger
was inside him. He’d had other choices, other kinds of work, other goals, too. He
might have stuck to that path if his father, Jory, hadn’t died. But one thing had
led to another, a long chain of events, and now here he was about to be hung or sent
off to prison for life.

The two guards dragging him didn’t even give him an opportunity to walk. That would
have been too slow for them, with the chains still on his ankles, and they weren’t
removing those. He couldn’t even shield his eyes from the daylight that blinded him
when they got aboveground.

He was taken into a large office and shoved directly into a hardback chair in front
of a desk. The fancy room had more the look of a parlor with expensive furnishings,
indicating that the man behind the desk was important. The man who, Nathan guessed,
was maybe five years older than he was, which would put him around thirty, wore a
spotless uniform with gleaming buttons, and had curious blue eyes. He had the look
of an aristocrat. A common practice was for second sons to work for the government
in some capacity.

The guards were dismissed before the man said, “I’m Arnold Burdis, Commander Burdis
to be exact.”

Nathan was surprised he’d been left completely alone with the officer. Did they think
a week of nothing but gruel in a bricked and barred hole had made him weak? The office
might be in the middle of a base crawling with revenuers, but still, it wouldn’t take
too much effort for Nathan to overpower this man.

He’d immediately spotted the old dueling pistol on the desk, which was there for obvious
reasons. Nathan eyed it for a few moments, debating his chances of getting to it before
the commander did. The likelihood that it had only one bullet in it decided the matter
because he would need at least two, one for the commander and one for the chain between
his feet in order to escape. Unless he wanted to take the commander hostage . . .

“Would you like a brandy?”

The man was pouring one for himself, and two glasses were actually on the desk in
front of him. “One of my own bottles?” Nathan asked.

Burdis’s mouth quirked up slightly. “A sense of humor despite your dire straits, how
novel.”

The commander poured the brandy for him anyway and slid the glass across the desk.
The rattle of his chains as he raised it to his lips screamed of those dire straits,
but sarcasm wasn’t humor. And he only took a sip to wet his dry mouth. If the man
intended to get him drunk to loosen his tongue, he would be disappointed.

“You are quite the catch, Tremayne. But it was just a matter of time. You were getting
sloppy, or was it too bold for your own good?”

“Try desperate?”

“Were you really? Dare I take credit?”

“For dogged persistence, if you like. I prefer to blame a wench.”

Burdis actually chuckled. “Don’t we all from time to time. But my informant wasn’t
wearing skirts.”

“Care to share his name?” Nathan tossed out the question, then held his breath.

But the man wasn’t simply conversing with him or distracted enough to reflexively
reply to a quick question. He was cordial for a reason; Nathan just couldn’t imagine
what it was. But he was beginning to think he was being toyed with. A nabob’s perverse
pleasure, for whatever reason, and he wanted no more of it.

“Do I even get a trial?” he demanded.

The commander swirled his brandy and sniffed it before he looked up curiously and
asked, “Do you have a defense?”

“I’ll think of something.”

A tsk. “You’re far too glib for your situation. Admirable, I suppose, but unnecessary.
Has it not occurred to you that I hold your life in my hands? I would think you would
want to rein in that sarcasm, at least until you find out why I’ve summoned you.”

A carrot? It almost sounded as if he wasn’t going to be hanged today. But it raised
his suspicion again. If this wasn’t his trial, the commander his judge and jury, then
what the hell was it? And he’d been caught red-handed. He had no defense and they
both knew it.

He sat back. “By all means, continue.”

“I am successful in this job because I make a point of finding out all there is to
know about my quarries, and you are something of an anomaly.”

“There’s nothing peculiar about me, Commander.”

“On the contrary. I know you’ve been involved in other lines of work. Lawful ones.
Quite a few actually, and you mastered each one, which is an amazing feat for someone
your age. Couldn’t make up your mind what to do with your life?”

Nathan shrugged. “My father died and left me his ship and crew. That made up my mind
for me.”

Burdis smiled. “So you think smuggling is in your blood? I beg to differ. I already
know about you, Tremayne, more than I expected to learn. Privilege of rank, access
to old records.”

“Then you probably know more’n I do.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it. Moved quite far down the proverbial social ladder, haven’t
you? Did all the women in your family marry badly, or just your mother?”

Every chain rattled as Nathan stood up and leaned across the desk to snarl, “Do you
have a death wish?”

The commander immediately reached for his pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at Nathan’s
chest. “Sit down, before I call the guards.”

“Do you really think one bullet would stop me before I break your neck?”

Burdis let out a nervous chuckle. “Yes, you’re a strapping behemoth, I get the point.
But you have an earl in your bloodline, so it was a logical question.”

“But none of your bleedin’ business.”

“Quite right. And I meant no offense. I just found it a fascinating tidbit, who your
ancestors are, a bit far back in the tree, but still . . . D’you even realize that
you could be sitting in a chair like mine, instead of the one you’re in? It boggled
my mind when I realized it. Why did you never take advantage of who you are?”

“Because that isn’t who I am. And you ask too many questions of a man you’ve already
caught.”

“Curiosity is my bane, I readily admit it. Now
do
sit down, before I change my mind about you and send you back to your cell.”

There was that carrot again, alluding to a different outcome to his capture than the
obvious one. Nathan drained the brandy in front of him before he dropped back in his
chair. He could handle at least one glass without losing his wits. Bleedin’ nabob.
Nathan still suspected he was being toyed with, and now he guessed why. His lordly
ancestor probably ranked higher than the commander’s did. Why else would the man want
to sit there and gloat?

“Are you going to tell me who your informant was?” Nathan asked once more.

“He was just a lackey, but can’t you guess who he works for? I have it on good authority
that you’ve been searching for the man yourself. He must have thought you were getting
too close to finding him.”

Nathan stiffened. “Hammett Grigg?”

“Yes, I thought that might be clue enough for you. The same man suspected of killing
your father.”

“Not just suspected. There was a witness.”

“An old grudge finally settled between the two men, was the way I heard it.”

“My father was unarmed. It was murder.”

“And is that what you had in mind for Grigg?”

“I want to kill him, yes, but in a fair fight—with my bare hands.”

Burdis actually laughed. “Look at yourself, man. D’you really think that would be
a fair fight? I’ve nothing against revenge. I feel the need for it m’self occasionally.
But I’ll have Mr. Grigg caught and hung long before you can get your hands on him.
He is my next quarry, after all.”

“And I’ll be dead before you catch him.”

Burdis refilled Nathan’s glass before he replied, “You misunderstand why I’ve brought
you before me. I’m going to give you the opportunity to thank me one day.”

“For what?”

The commander opened a drawer to retrieve a clean, unfolded piece of paper that he
set in front of him. He tapped it. “This is a full pardon already signed, an opportunity
for you to start over with a clean slate. But it’s conditional, of course.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “Is this some joke?”

“Not a’tall. This document will remain with me until you fulfill the terms, but it’s
a legitimate offer.”

“You want me to catch Grigg for you without killing him? You really think I could
resist the temptation if I get my hands on him?”

“Forget about Grigg! I told you,
assure
you, I’ll see him hanged for you.”

For the first time, Arnold Burdis didn’t look or sound so cordial. Nathan was done
with second-guessing him, other than to say, “You sound angry.”

“I am. My man guarding your ship was killed, left floating in the water where your
Pearl
should have been.”

“You’ve lost my ship!?”

“I didn’t
lose
it,” Burdis growled. “It was stolen, and, no, not by Hammett Grigg. We caught one
of the thieves. Nicked as they were sailing away, he fell into the water and was recovered.
We gave chase, of course, probably would have caught them, too, if we’d known their
direction. We searched up and down the coast, while they did the unthinkable, sailing
straight out to sea and beyond.”

“Who were they?”

“They’re not Englishmen, but they’ve been stealing English ships for some ten years
now, just so sporadically, and never from the same harbors, that no one linked the
thefts. At first they were just taking the vessels offshore and sinking them, but
then they decided to have their revenge and make a profit at it.”

“Revenge?”

“It’s a couple of Americans who bear a grudge against us for the last war we had with
their country, which orphaned them. They were just children at the time, which is
why they only got around to getting some payback a decade ago.” A folded note was
tossed at Nathan. “Those are the particulars I got out of their man. My superiors
don’t give a rat’s ass about this crime ring targeting our harbors. They only want
you and your ilk. But I don’t like having my toes stepped on, and these thieves did
that when they killed one of my men and stole
my
prize right off my docks.”