Wicked at Heart (3 page)

Commodore Julian
Lord.  Loved by everyone, respected, admired, revered, and adored.  Damon had
never been loved.  He had never been respected, admired, revered or adored.

And he, standing
there on the pavement and clenching his fists with the force of his envy, knew
there was nothing in this world that he desired more.

If Julian Lord
could be a hero, then so could he.  If Julian Lord could glean the love of an
entire nation just by sinking a few French ships, then so could he.  He would
run away, then, and join the navy.  He too would become a great naval hero.  He
too would beat the Frogs and win the undying admiration of his countrymen.  Then
everyone would love him, just as they loved Julian Lord.

So be it.

Lifting his
chin, Lord Morninghall kicked his way through the litter blowing mournfully
around his feet and headed south.

Toward the sea.

"Men
sensual and hardened by pleasures!  You who in full Parliament outrage your
victims and declare that the prisoners are happy!  Would you know the full
horror of their condition, come without giving notice beforehand; dare to
descend before daylight into the tombs in which you bury living creatures who
are human beings like yourselves; try to breathe for one minute the sepulchral
vapour which these unfortunates breathe for many years, and which sometimes
suffocates them; see them tossing in their hammocks, assailed by thousands of
insects, and wooing in vain the sleep which could soften for one moment their
sufferings!"

 
French
prisoner-of-war Colonel Lebertre

Chapter
1

A decade had
passed since that fateful day Lord Morninghall had been sent down from Oxford,
and during that time, Britain had managed to plunge herself into yet another
war, this one with her former colonies across the Atlantic.

Again.

The war of 1812
was mainly a result of British arrogance, for His Majesty's vessels were wont
to stop neutral-trading American ships for "inspection" and steal the
very seamen from them, claiming that they were — rightly or wrongly — British
deserters.  Naturally the fledgling United States took offense, because not all
of the men taken from their vessels were, in fact, deserters.  Nor, for that
matter, British.

The ongoing war
with France, and now the one with the United States, made Britain's ports a
beehive of activity.  Battered warships limped into their drydocks for repair
and were quickly sent back out; new vessels were constantly taking shape on the
slips, craft of every size and description hustled supplies about the busy
harbors, and seaside taverns were filled with smart officers clad in blue and
white, the elite of the finest navy in the world.  But it was easy, while
reading about yet another British victory in some distant place, or watching a
great man-of-war getting underway and feeling the swell of pride that was
inevitable in even the least romantic of hearts at such a glorious sight, to
forget about the more squalid, shameful side of war.  The side about which no
one wanted to think.  Tough seamen now blind, missing limbs, or insane, reduced
to crying piteously for coins in the streets and along the beach.  Widows left
alone, helpless and destitute.  Orphaned children.

And, the navy's
prison hulks.

Nasty, horrible
things they were, floating gaols with conditions fit only for rats.  Shorn of
their masts, rigging, and sails, deformed by ugly superstructures and painted
in the dingy smoke of their own galley chimneys, the once-proud men-of-war were
now home — and hell — to thousands of French, American, and other prisoners of
war, who spent their miserable existences hoping for either escape or death. 
Anchored in every major British port, prison hulks were the most ignoble
command glory-seeking officers in His Majesty's Royal Navy could glean.

And in Portsmouth,
on a spring day of 1813, just such a command was that of the sixth Marquess of
Morninghall.

It was not a
happy situation.

"My lord?  About
this visitor?"

So absorbed was
he in his reading that Damon hadn't even heard Midshipman Danny Foyle slip into
his cabin.  "Visitor?" he asked absently, not bothering to look up as
he slowly ran his forefinger down a paragraph of text.

"Er, the
uh, woman, sir . . ."

"Ah, yes,
the indefatigable, abominable, venerable Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms."  Damon
shut the book and turned his unsettling gaze on the midshipman, nailing him to
the bulkhead with a stare that could penetrate steel.  "As if a visit from
Admiral Bolton, the stabbing of the purser, and now, the escape of three more
prisoners isn't enough for one bloody week —"

"Surely,
sir, last night's escape wasn't
our
fault," Foyle whined. 
"Everyone's saying it's the work of the Black Wolf —"

"Black
Wolf, my arse.  This
Black Wolf
character is naught but that
insufferable American captain who escaped from our ship
last
week — what
was his name? — Matson?  Morgan?  Yes, Morgan something-or-other —"

"Merrick,
sir.  Connor Merrick, that is —"

"Morgan,
Merrick, it matters not.  Why everyone thinks this Black Wolf fellow is the
ghost of some dead prisoner, come back to get his revenge, is beyond me.  It
doesn't take a genius to figure out that this mythical moron — who,
incidentally
,
started vexing us directly following Merrick's escape — is the American
himself.  And now he's targeting
my
ship just to get his revenge on me. 
'Tis enough to plague a man right into the grave, the whole bloody lot of
it."  With a curse, he shoved the book aside and stalked to the stern
windows, his commanding height making the deckhead seem to drop several feet.

"Christ, I need
air
," he swore, flinging a window open.

Foyle gripped
his hands behind his back, hard, to still their trembling.  He was afraid of
Lord Morninghall. 
All
of them were, right down to John Radley, the
heavy-handed lieutenant who commanded
Surrey
's compliment of Royal
Marines.  And now his Lordship was in one of his black tempers, though Foyle
figured he certainly could not be blamed for it.  It was damned humiliating
that the American prisoners had escaped, and even more humiliating that the
whole of Portsmouth — thanks to the newspapers, which picked up on everything
in this busy naval port — knew about it.  Foyle bit his lip and risked a glance
at the big book His Lordship had been reading.  It was a copy of
Peterson's
Index of Illnesses, Complaints, and Physicks
.

"Are you
ill, my lord?"

The marquess
shot him a threatening glare.  "Do I
look
ill, Foyle?"

"You look .
. . uh, fatigued, sir!"

"Fatigued. 
Well, yes, of course."  The captain turned toward the open window, his
head bent as he absently inspected his thumbnail.  He was a picture of calm,
but Foyle was not fooled; Morninghall was adept at hiding his emotions beneath
an unimpassioned cloak of ice.  "So, what does the old harridan want,
anyhow?"

"Old
harridan?"

"This
infernal Welshwoman, damn you."

 "Oh. 
Yes.  Well, as you know, sir, the, er,
old harridan
has decided to take
up the plight of prison ships as her latest cause and crusade, and wishes to
start with ours."

"I
see."

Still toying
with his thumbnail, the marquess stared hard across the glittering waters of
the harbor.  Sunlight reflected off the waves below and radiated over his
diabolical countenance.  Foyle thought the flames of hell must look like that,
reflected in the face of the devil who surveyed them, and the very thought made
his throat go dry.

"One must
wonder why she doesn't attack the civilian convict hulks, instead . . ."
the marquess mused, his low, silky voice doing little to banish Foyle's
uneasiness.

"I don't
know, sir.  Her husband, the late Lord Simms, had a passion for naval affairs;
perhaps that has something to do with it?"

"Doubtless."

Foyle's
nervousness ran away with him, and he began to babble.  "Still, my lord,
one must wonder why the Transport Board has granted Lady Simms permission to
come aboard.  You know how they usually are, unwilling to let anyone visit the
hulks because they're so afraid someone will think that conditions are much
worse than they really are.  It would be easy to draw the wrong conclusions,
and declare that the prisoners are being abused, maltreated, neglected, when
we
know, of course, that such is not the case.  Surely she must have got
permission from her brother-in-law, the new Lord Simms — I mean, he
is
highly placed in the Transport Office —"

"Mr. Foyle
. . ."

"Well, it's
true, sir, how else would she be able —"

"Mr.
Foyle
."

The midshipman's
jaw snapped shut and paling, he took a wary step backward.

Morninghall
glared at him, then turned to lean against the bulkhead, his hand absently
splaying over his chest, his thick lashes drifting shut over intense, coldly
dispassionate eyes.  His dark hair was swept elegantly off his forehead, and
Foyle noted that, against it, his face looked suddenly pale and drawn.  He also
noted the tightened lips, the fingers curled around the back of one chair, the light
film of perspiration that gleamed on that noble, aristocratic brow.

"My lord,
are you well?"

"Of course
I'm well," the marquess snapped, firing another glare at his hapless
insubordinate.  He closed his eyes once more.  "Just . . . never
mind."

"I could
fetch the ship's doctor, if you wish —"

"I believe
the chaplain might serve me better, as I am beyond the help of that butcher who
calls himself a surgeon.  But don't bother, Foyle."  He pulled out a
handkerchief and dabbed at his brow, then regarded the midshipman with angry
impatience.  "Just . . . leave me alone.  I don't wish for company at the
moment."

"And the,
er, visitor, sir?"

"Ah, yes.  She
who seeks to make my life hell.  Champion of orphan and pensioner alike, widow
of the most nauseatingly eloquent bastard ever to sit in the House of Lords,
defender of the oppressed, and now training her guns on
my
command as
her goddamned Cause of the Month."  The marquess straightened up and again
turned to look out the window.  "Tell the old bat she may come aboard at
eight bells."

"Er . . .
she's waiting on the pier now, sir, and requests permission to come aboard
immediately."

"She will
come aboard when I say so, and not a moment before."

"But —"

"I
said
,
Foyle,
make her wait
." Damon said coldly, leveling his hard stare
on the youth.  "Do I make myself clear?"

Foyle nodded.  "Yes,
sir.  I . . . shall make her do just that."

"Good.  And
mind that you close the door after you this time.  I'm in no mood to suffer the
stench coming up from below."

~~~~

Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms sat primly in the boat, trying in vain to keep her skirts free of
the puddle that sloshed at her feet and wrinkling her nose at the horrendous
smells drifting toward them from the prison ship.  HMS
Surrey
had once
been a fierce warrior of the sea, but looking at her now, it was hard to
believe she had once ruled the waves under a great cloud of sail, hard to
believe she had ever been anything but the disgraceful atrocity she had
become.  Shed-like structures enclosed what had been her forecastle and waist,
and clotheslines, their garments billowing in the wind, were strung between
masts that were now nothing but mere stubs.  The hulk lay atop the harbor like
a black, cancerous sore, and Gwyneth had no trouble envisioning the living hell
she must be for the hapless prisoners of war contained within her.  Eyes
watering, she pulled out a handkerchief scented with rosewater and pressed it
to her nose, her violet eyes dark and angry above the fragile white square of
linen.

She was thankful
for her anger.  People told her she had a sweet face, and sweet faces were a
liability when one was trying to command respect, attention, and results.  But
today there was no need to force her heart-shaped countenance into one of
sharpness and severity, for Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms had every reason to not
only be angry, but downright furious.

It was bad
enough that this Lord Morninghall character thought to keep her waiting, but
anticipating the insufferable, intolerable conditions in which he kept fellow
living beings was enough to stir the warrior in Gwyneth.  Well, she had a thing
or two to say to the loathsome beast when she came face to face with him!

Her gaze snapped
from the prison hulk to the tar who rowed the little boat steadily toward it. 
He was staring at the swell of Gwyneth's breasts, a dreamy little smile turning
up one corner of his mouth, a faint smear of perspiration glistening on his
brow.  Well accustomed to lecherous gaping and bawdy comments, Gwyneth fixed
him with a bullet-eyed stare and said icily, "Do you find something to
interest you, sailor?"

Surprised by
such rancor in one so lovely and fair, the tar colored and grinned. 
"Beggin' yer pardon, ma'm —"

"That's
Lady Simms, if you please."

"Aye,
beggin' yer pardon, but I was just thinkin' ye look a sight different than we
was all expectin' ye to look.  His Lordship's gonna be none too pleased when we
brings ye aboard."

"And does
that worry you?  I cannot help but notice that you are not rowing with equal
stroke or vigor.  Keep in mind, sailor, that I am not a person who likes to be
kept waiting."

"Yes,
m'lady."

Grinning, the
seaman put his back into the task.  The oars dipped into the sparkling waters
of the harbor, rising, dripping, plunging back down again.  The little boat
sliced through the waves, carrying Gwyneth ever closer to the prison ship.