The Prince of Ravenscar (28 page)

Roxanne and Sophie stood side by side, Sophie rubbing her cheek, watching Leah race down the long corridor away from them.

“Did she really bring Richard Langworth into her bedchamber last night, Roxanne?”

Roxanne nodded. “I knew what would happen if I warned her, I
knew,
yet some perverse devil inside me told me it was my duty to tell her. I wish you had not been close by, Sophie.”

Sophie shrugged. “She hates both of us, what does it matter? Did she also hate my mother? What is
wrong
with her, Roxanne?”

“When we were children, Leah and I made a pact to cut each other's hair. I snipped off one of her small golden curls that was sticking out. She cut off all my hair, stood back, and laughed. She said now I wouldn't look so common. She was only nine years old. You were right, she has a mean mouth. But I don't think she hates any of us, your mother included.”

“You're wrong. I wonder if Richard Langworth will come to realize that whatever revenge he is planning is not worth the misery once he gets to know her. Once she turns her mean mouth on him. Once she's netted him. Do you really think she will marry him?”

“Maybe they deserve each other. Sophie, am I a prude?”

“You? Oh, indeed, you are so prudish I fear you will attend Methodist meetings and wear only black to your throat. I fear you will denounce all those who dance the waltz.”

Sophie laughed at Roxanne, patted her cheek, and danced away. She called out over her shoulder, still laughing, “A prude!”

L
eah slowly straightened and made her way down the wide staircase. What did those two twits know about anything? Her palm still tingled from the slap she'd given Sophie. It was about time someone disciplined the chit.

Richard was using
her
? If only they knew.

J
ulian pulled Cannon up in front of the Brazen Crow, handed the reins to Homer, an ancient stump of a man. “Prince,” Homer said, and tried a sketchy bow. “Ah, dear old Cannon. Ye come wit' me and I'll stuff yer gullet with nice big carrots, fresh picked from Mrs. Casper's garden.”

Julian pressed coins in Homer's hand and asked, “Is the earl here, Homer?”

“Yes, the lad is drinking Mr. McGurdy's cider, hard enough to make 'is liver shout and sing.”

Julian was still grinning when he saw Devlin seated in the taproom, one leg draped over a chair arm, laughing at something the barmaid, Briggie, was telling him. She was bending low as she spoke, her lovely eighteen-year-old breasts nearly spilling onto Devlin's chest. Odd, Devlin wasn't eyeing those breasts of hers, he was looking directly into her face. He would have normally, wouldn't he? He'd bedded Briggie before, Julian knew. What was different now?

Julian said, “Hello, Briggie. May I have some of Mr. McGurdy's cider?”

“Aye, Prince, I'll fetch ye an even newer batch than 'is vampireship 'ere.”

Julian watched Briggie walk out of the room, along with another half-dozen local men. He turned to Devlin, a black eyebrow arched. “His vampireship?”

Devlin took a drink of Mr. McGurdy's cider, wiped his hand over his mouth, and grinned up at Julian. “Briggie is a clever girl, don't you think? Vampireship—it has a lovely terrifying ring to it.”

“I wonder what my half-brother, your esteemed father, would think of it?”

“My father would laugh his head off,” Devlin said. “It is mother who would hiss and crab and want to skewer Briggie for her gross impertinence.”

“You scarce noticed Briggie.”

“Yes, well, now that you point it out, I suppose I must agree. It is not what I'm used to, is it?”

“Whatever that means,” Julian said, as he sat down across from Devlin at the small scarred table.

Devlin began swinging his leg. “I keep forgetting to call you Prince.”

“You'd think I'd be used to it by now, and maybe I will be after I'm home for a while. When I was a lad, I thought myself quite important—a prince, that's what I was—the most important boy in the land. But now?” Julian shuddered. “What could my father have been thinking?”

“Since he quickly bred a male child in his advanced years, I think he was so pleased with himself, so proud, he couldn't help himself. He believed himself a king, so what else could you be?”

Julian laughed, couldn't help himself. “How many glasses of Mr. McGurdy's cider have you poured down your throat?”

Devlin gave him a beatific smile. “Only two. It fair to makes my throat sing.”

“You rarely drink, Devlin. Come, what is the matter?”

Devlin brooded for a moment, swirling the incredible Cornish cider around in his glass. “I kissed Roxanne's hair in the corridor in the middle of the night. It is beautiful stuff, Julian. I wanted to wrap it around my hands and pull her closer and closer, until I felt it rippling over my face, you know?”

Julian looked up as Briggie set his own glass in front of him. “Is there aught else ye wish, Prince?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, Briggie.” He took a drink, then said to Devlin, “No, I don't know.”

“Well, there was nothing more to it than that, really. Other than the fact I wanted desperately to yank up that bedrobe of hers and take her right there, holding her against the wall.” He took a drink, then looked up at his uncle. “Do you know, what near to knocked me on my heels was that she wasn't at all averse to the wall idea.”

Julian laughed. “Well, my lad, this leaves me blank-brained. Roxanne? I trust you know what you're doing.”

“I haven't a clue,” Devlin said. “She is a virgin. She is twenty-seven years old, and she is a virgin. That would be an awesome responsibility, Julian. I heard you telling Pouffer you were off to Plymouth, that it was time you looked over the
Blue Star.
You've already had assurances from your captain that all is well, that your goods are on their way to your warehouses in London. Why, Julian, why travel there now?”

“I wish to question all my men, see if there was a new man among them on this voyage, get his name and direction. Richard Langworth tried to sabotage the ship, and I intend to find proof of it. Would you like to come with me? Mayhap all the ladies would like to come as well? We could be there in three hours. There are some fine sights in Plymouth. What do you think?”

“What will you do with Richard and Leah?”

Julian shrugged. “They can leave or remain, I really don't care.”

“Richard and Leah slept together last night. I heard them. Roxanne knows as well. Knowing her, she will try to warn her sister.”

“That will not have a good ending. Leah will blight her.”

“Very probably.” Devlin raised his glass. “She seems to have made a hobby of it all her life—especially Roxanne. Drink up, Uncle. We have an offer to make the ladies. You're going also to arrange for a final shipment, aren't you?”

How did Devlin find these things out? Well, since Sophie was now going to be part of the endeavor, why not Devlin? “Yes. I checked the cave twice. It will do nicely. Sophie followed me. She wishes to be a part of it all. An adventure, she says. I am thinking I should tie her up. Actually, I am thinking of tying you both up.”

“And Roxanne, for she knows, as well. Forget tying Sophie up, Julian; she would retaliate, probably something quite fierce. Nothing will happen, in any case. I hear there are no excisemen around these parts in the past decade. There will be no danger. For any of us.”

A
fter lunch, the three ladies were settled into the Ravenscar carriage, along with Tansy, who'd had tears in her eyes at the joyous thought of visiting Plymouth, Julian and Devlin riding beside them, leaving their respective valets to kick up their heels at Ravenscar and try to avoid Richard and Leah.

 

 

 

J
ulian stood on the deck of the
Blue Star,
a sturdy brigantine he'd purchased five years before from Thomas Malcombe, the Earl of Lancaster, a man he admired and trusted. It was indeed a small world, he thought, what with Meggie, Malcombe's countess, being a Sherbrooke, and that surely made him shake his head. He remembered well the dinner in the Malcombes' lovely pink stucco house in Genoa, Meggie telling him about racing cats. Thomas told him how his own racer, Keevil, a black tube of a cat with a chewed-up ear, was the current champion, and did that ever burn his wife to her heels. He thought of James and Corrie Sherbrooke, Meggie Malcombe's cousins. Sometimes the world really was too small, dishing up so many lives that overlapped. He wondered if Keevil was still the racing-cat champion of all Ireland.

The
Blue Star
captain, Cowan Cleaves, ruddy-faced from a lifetime spent on the sea, not a humorous bone in his big body, and steady as a rock, raced along the dock, up the gangplank, out of breath. “My lord, you are here, thank the heavens. I sent you a messenger.”

“What happened, Cowan?”

“Everything is all right, but it was close, my lord. A man I hired on at Gibraltar—his name is Orvald Manners—he set a fire in the cargo hold as we were docking. My cabin boy, Ira, managed to put out the fire before there was any damage, but Manners was gone. None have seen him. I've sent out my first mate, Abel Rowe, to try to locate him. You know Abel, if he finds him, he'll break his head.”

The first thing Julian did was to go into the cargo hold. The timbers were charred but cooling. Ira had come to smoke a pipe, Cowan told him, something he was forbidden to do, and saw Manners set the fire. Ira was a smart boy; he waited until Manners had left the hold, then put out the fire.

“Give the lad a sovereign, Cowan.”

“Perhaps, my lord, I won't tan his hide for trying to smoke, the little blighter.”

Julian had to laugh, easy now that his ship was safe and the valuable goods safe as well.

“Tell me about this Orvald Manners.”

“Abel hired him on as a new man at Gibraltar because one of our sailors simply disappeared. I think now Manners is responsible.”

“Oh, yes,” Julian said.

“Manners didn't have any friends, not really, kept to himself. According to Abel, though, he was always willing to do whatever was needed, always had a nice word for the galley cook, Old Tubbs. Still, it was as plain as a pikestaff the fellow didn't have much experience.”

Julian knew to his bones none of the sailors would know anything about Manners, particularly where he'd hared off to. He got Manners's description. His name—Orvald Manners—mayhap that was the key to tracking him down. But, of course, it was likely a fiction as surely as Manners had signed on the
Blue Star
in good faith.

Manners couldn't have conjured up the storm, and that must have frightened the man to death, Julian thought. But he'd tried to burn the
Blue Star
right here at the dock, in Plymouth. How much had Richard paid him?

He set a half-dozen sailors to the task of finding Manners, but he had little hope. The man had failed. There wasn't any way he would stay around. No, he would go report his failure to Richard.

Julian wanted to join the sailors in the search, but first he toured his ship, saw the repairs to the damage caused by the storm were nearly complete. Within a sennight, thank the good Lord, Indian tea, materials of all kinds made in Manchester mills, farm equipment, and myriad household items gathered by Harlan and warehoused over the past three months in Plymouth would be loaded aboard the
Blue Star,
and she would make her way to Boston. Without storms. Without sabotage in Boston Harbor. The return trip would bring dozens of barrels of whale oil.