Jacqueline grinned. “You realize you sound like my father?”
“Bite your tongue, Jack.”
Chapter Four
“Have 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
The 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 guard
s.”
“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.”