The Least Likely Bride (14 page)

Godfrey pushed himself away from the counter, took up his tankard, and approached his would-be customer.

“Can I buy you another?” he offered.

The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and he grinned, revealing foully blackened teeth. “Lord bless ye, sir. That’s kind o’ you. I’ll ’ave a drop o’ brandy. Jest tell George to make sure it’s from the special cask. None of that thin piss he passes off to those what don’t know any better. You an’ me does, o’ course.” He leered and offered a conspiratorial wink.

Godfrey shuddered but held his tongue. He could only guess what George would charge him for a drop of the best. However, with every appearance of good cheer, he called over to the counter, “Two cognacs, George. The best.”

“Well, sit ye down, sir.” The man gestured to a stool. “Can’t do business on yer feet.”

Godfrey hooked the stool over with his foot and sat down. The sawdust on the floor at his feet was clotted with spilled ale and other things that Godfrey didn’t want to consider. A mangy hound chewed a marrow bone and growled at him, hackles raised, when he inched his stool away from something particularly noxious-looking and came a little too close to the bone for the beast’s liking.

The landlord gave the animal a kick as he put the two pewter cups of cognac on the table between the two men. The hound sloped off, the bone gripped in his jaws.

“That’ll be a shillin’ apiece, sir.”

“That’s daylight robbery!” Godfrey couldn’t contain himself.

“ ’Tis in short supply, sir.” The landlord sung his tune again.

“Here, George.” Godfrey’s companion dug in his pocket and tossed a pair of silver coins on the table. “But we’ll ’ave a free fill-up fer that.”

The landlord scooped up the coins and grinned. It was a genial grin, not an expression Godfrey had ever seen on his face.

“Right y’are, my friend.”

The other man nodded and tasted the cognac. It met with his approval and he gave another nod. The landlord returned to his counter.

“Now, young sir, to business. What d’ye ’ave?”

Godfrey took a gulp of cognac, trying to think what it was about this unsavory character that was so unsettling. There was the most unlikely air of authority about him, and even though he sat slumped in his torn and grimy jerkin, he gave the impression of being completely in charge of the proceedings.

“Silks … some of them painted,” he said, tapping a finger on the stained table. “Velvets and lace from the Low Countries.”

“Silk and salt water don’t mix. As I understand it, they came from a wreck.” Something flickered in the deep-set gray eyes. Something cold and unpleasant.

“They were in chests,” Godfrey said, despising the defensive note and yet unable to prevent it. “Protected.”

The other man nodded. “An’ pulled out in double quick time, I daresay.” Again there was that flicker in his eye and a note in his voice that sounded almost sardonic.

Once again Godfrey controlled his rage. For the moment, he was powerless, obliged to take what insults this
disgusting, low-bred creature tossed at him. But that
would
change. “It’s the business,” he said coldly. “One you know yourself, I imagine.”

His companion made no reply. He drank again from his cognac and glanced towards the bar counter, raising a hand at George, who nodded and came over with the brandy bottle to refill the cups.

When he’d departed, Godfrey’s companion asked coolly, “So, what else beside stuff? D’ye have tea? Silver? Glassware? China? She was a merchantman, wasn’t she?”

“Aye.” Godfrey’s eyes sharpened. “Very rich. We had great good fortune.”

“That ye did,” the other man murmured. “Pity ’tis that what’s good fortune for some should be the devil’s own luck fer others.”

It was almost too much. Godfrey half rose from his stool at this taunt. Then he sat back and shrugged. “I’m willing to share my good fortune, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“True enough, true enough, young sir,” the man said, his tone suddenly placatory, almost wheedling, so that Godfrey began to feel confused and as if he stood on shifting sands.

“So, I’d best take a look at the spoils,” the man continued. “I don’t buy sight unseen.”

“How much are you interested in buying?” Godfrey forgot confusion. His heart beat faster as he saw salvation.

The other man shrugged. “Depends what I see. I buys what I likes. If ye’ve goods that please me, then I might take the lot. As I say, it depends.”

“The full consignment …” Godfrey fought to conceal his jubilation. He said decisively, “For the full consignment I’ll be asking a thousand.”

The other man merely raised an eyebrow. “If ’tis worth it, then I’ll pay it.”

Godfrey considered. Now he was unsure. How could this miserable-looking man have the means? Fear prickled his spine. Was it a trap?

“Don’t worry, my young lordling, ye’ll not be betrayed by me.” The voice was soft, indolent, and the eyes were suddenly clear and to Godfrey’s astonishment youthful.

And once again came the sense that all was not as it seemed. “When do you wish to look at the consignment?” he asked, forcing himself to speak firmly and steadily.

“Tomorrow, at midnight. Meet me in Puckaster Cove.” The man stood up, pushing aside his stool. He stood for a minute, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his patched britches, looking down on Godfrey. “I’ll wait no more than a quarter hour. Come alone. Ye’ll find me alone.”

“How can I trust you?” Godfrey demanded.

The man shrugged. “Same way as I can trust you, I reckon.” Then he turned and strode from the inn.

Godfrey watched him go. He seemed to stoop but it did little to disguise his height and nothing to conceal the lithe, supple strength in his slender frame.
Who was he? What was he?
Not what he seemed, that was for sure.

Godfrey’s expression darkened. He hated mysteries and this one was a dangerous puzzle. If he didn’t know with whom he was dealing, if he underestimated him, it could bring utter ruin. He must control his impatience and tread carefully. He looked up and caught the landlord’s eye. Mine host was regarding Godfrey with an unholy gleam, as if he was reading his thoughts.

Deliberately Godfrey spat his indifference to the landlord’s challenge into the hearth before stalking from the inn. His horse was stabled at the rear. He retrieved it and rode back to Carisbrooke Castle, his mind in a ferment. That little glimpse at the man behind the unpromising exterior had convinced him that whoever his unpleasant and
insolent customer was, he would be able to come up with the required funds. That was really all that mattered.

The guards at the gatehouse challenged him as he rode up the ramp to the arched entrance to the castle. They opened the gates and let him in and he went straight to his quarters in the governor’s mansion. His room lay beyond the guarded chamber in the north curtain wall that now housed the king.

The king’s three escape attempts had exhausted the patience of both the governor, Colonel Hammond, and Parliament. His Majesty had been moved from his commodious quarters in the Constable’s Lodgings to a more secure and easily guarded location. He continued, however, to conduct daily audiences in the great hall adjoining his previous bedchamber.

Godfrey, Lord Channing, was one of the governor’s equerries. A post that, while it brought little in the way of financial recompense, was prestigious, provided comfortable room and board for himself, and maintenance for his horses—a great drain on any nobleman’s purse.

Such considerations for the impoverished scion of a proud, ancient, but penniless family were not to be derided. They were not, however, sufficient for a young man of Godfrey’s personal ambitions. He was heavily in debt. The lifestyle he believed was due his family name and position was a hugely expensive one. Clothes alone cost him a small fortune, and while smuggling and wrecking offered some remedy for his financial ills, the trade and his own desperation put him at the mercy of men like the landlord of the Anchor and potential customers like the villain he’d had to placate this evening.

When he entered his chamber, he was still seething over the insolence he’d had to endure.

“You look as if you lost a sixpence and found a groat,” Brian Morse observed. He was sitting at the table in front
of the fireplace, a sheet of parchment in front of him. He moved the candle so that it illuminated Godfrey’s face. “Did your business not prosper?”

Godfrey shrugged and filled a pewter goblet with wine from the leather flagon on the table. He noticed sourly that in his absence the flagon had become very light. Brian Morse had obviously had a thirst on him. “The man’s a villain,” he observed.

Brian chuckled softly. “Aren’t we all, my friend? Aren’t we all?” He drank from his own goblet. “I’ve been composing a letter for your potential father-in-law.” He indicated the parchment on the table. “You need the right words to get his attention. And when you meet my little sister, you’ll need to have something to offer her. A knowledge of the Greek poets might help … a talent for chess … a delight in Pythagorus’s theorems.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Godfrey sat down on a stool beside the fire, stretching his booted feet to the fender. “I’m a man of action,” he stated with a touch of complacency. “I have no scholarship … no time for it.”

“Well, you’d best cultivate some,” Brian said harshly. “Because I assure you, this particular little prize won’t fall to a man who rejoices in a lack of learning.”

Godfrey frowned. “If there’s one thing I detest, it’s a prating woman scholar.”

“This one is very rich, and quite tasty too, as I recall.” Brian’s thin lips flickered in a reminiscent smile. “Her nose is somewhat long—the Granville nose always is—and she has the devil’s own stammer. But a man can get used to anything with the right incentives.”

Godfrey regarded him sardonically in the candlelight. “And of course, once I’m wed to the heiress, I’ll be keeping you too in high style.”

“Well, you wouldn’t expect me to offer my help for
nothing,” Brian said, clicking his tongue reprovingly. “This will suit me very well. I’m in need of a modest income, and in addition I have a private score to settle. Seeing Cato’s daughter married to a man of your … your unformed morality, shall we call it, will do just that.”

Brian got to his feet, pushing himself up against the edge of the table. He reached for his cane. “Read the letter, make changes if you wish, but keep to my gist. Believe me, I know the Granvilles very well. Write it in your hand and have it delivered.”

Godfrey said sharply, “My family, my lineage, are all worthy of a Granville.”

“Oh, yes, dear boy, no doubt about it. But you, my friend, are not.” Brian laughed and limped to the door. “I’ll see myself out. I’ll not show my face in the castle again. I’d hate to run into my adopted father. He thinks me dead and buried in Rotterdam. You’ll find me in Vent-nor, putting up at the Gull. I’ll plot your campaign from there.”

Godfrey was too angry to bid his guest farewell. For two pins he would have told Brian Morse to go to the devil. But the man had offered a seductive pact, and one couldn’t always choose one’s partners.

A
DAM TOOK ONE LOOK
at Anthony’s face as the master climbed from the dinghy onto the deck of
Wind Dancer
and decided to hold his tongue. Anthony was in a foul mood. It was not his habit to take his moods out on his men, but they all recognized the wisdom of steering clear of the master when his eyes were as cold and distant as they were this evening.

“Brandy, Adam,” he said shortly as he brushed past him on his way to the companionway.

“You want food?”

“No.”

Adam shrugged and went to find the bottle.

Anthony entered his cabin and stood for a minute in the pale wash of moonlight from the open window. He drew in a breath and thought he could scent Olivia.

Stupid! Sentimental nonsense!
He snatched off the knit cap and threw it onto the window seat.

He went to the mirror and with a grimace peeled off the mustache. The pain made his eyes water but banished sentimentality. He dipped a cloth in water and then in the saucer of salt Adam had laid ready and cleaned the black off his teeth. He was starting to look like himself again. Soap and water took off the rouge.

He was throwing off his unsavory garments when Adam came in with a flask of brandy. “Sam says ye’ve a meetin’ fixed fer tomorrow, then?”

“Aye. I’ll be taking Sam and one other to watch my back. Although I don’t think the bastard will try anything tomorrow; he needs me too much. He’s desperate as a starving rat, for all he tried to hide it.” He poured cognac into a glass and drained it, then refilled the glass.

“Left a bad taste in yer mouth, did ’e?”

“Foul as a cesspit. I need to know who he is.”

“Reckon George at the Anchor’ll know?”

“I doubt it. The man’s desperate and a villain but not, I think, stupid.” Anthony paused, his eyes narrowing. “Dangerous yes, stupid no,” he mused. “He’d not broadcast his identity across the island. I’d lay odds he’s something to do with the castle. There was something of the courtier about him.” Anthony’s lip curled.

“Then ye’ll run into him,” Adam said matter-of-factly, picking up the discarded clothing, “when you go off to play courtier yerself.”

“Even more inducement to show myself in the king’s
presence chamber at tomorrow’s little soiree,” Anthony declared. “Leave me now, Adam. I’m in a vile humor.”

Adam made no reply, but left immediately.

Anthony sat on the window seat and looked out at the sliver of moon on the narrow black water of the chine.
Damn the woman!

“I
T’S SO NEAT,
” Phoebe said with undisguised admiration, looking up from her minute inspection of Anthony’s handiwork. “Just three stitches and the wound’s closed to the thinnest line. You’ll have a scar, but only a faint one. I wonder what thread he used. Did he say?” Her herbalist’s curiosity was aroused.

“No, and I didn’t ask either.” Olivia rolled away from Phoebe, turning onto her back. She lay with her arm over her eyes, struggling to control the surge of emotion as memory, rich, lushly sensual, flooded every pore and cell of her body.