“I recognized you,” Grayson went on calmly. “When I finally saw you at close range at Alexandra’s soiree, I realized who you were. I was so amazed that I let you get past me. What has it been, fifteen years?”
Burchard’s eyes narrowed to hard black agates. “Fifteen years and I still hate you, Grayson Finley. And Ardmore.”
Grayson was not certain if he should feel revulsion or pity. “It should be Ardmore and I with a grudge against you. We’ve never lived it down. O’Malley makes certain he tells the story to every sailor who joins us.”
“Aye,” Ian chuckled.
Grayson gave the Irishman a nod. Smoothly, Ian came forward and seized Burchard by the arms. Burchard struggled, twisting his slim body, but Ian was wiry and fast. He pinned Burchard’s arms behind him, dragging the fluttering hands out of reach of weapons.
Grayson approached. He kept a wary eye on Burchard’s feet, in case the pirate employed a dirty trick like a knife blade in the toe of his boot. But Burchard did not kick, and Ian held him well off balance.
Grayson stopped in front of Burchard and looked into the smaller man’s enraged face. Giving him a faint smile, he reached down and ripped open Burchard’s trousers.
The man screamed. Grayson thrust his hand inside. He came out with a roll of soft linen clutched in his hand.
He held it up before Burchard’s desperate and enraged eyes. “You seem to be missing something, Mr. Burchard.”
Burchard snarled and spat.
“Recognize her, O’Malley?” Grayson said. He tossed the linen roll to the carpet.
“Aye, that I do. Laughed meself sick, I did.”
“You ruined me,” the woman who was Burchard hissed. “I swear I will kill you.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Grim satisfaction touched Grayson. He had not been completely certain until he’d held the proof in his hands. Here was the answer to how Burchard could simply vanish and reappear months later without anyone seeing him in between. Simple if all he had to do was transform himself back into a woman and walk away. Few people noticed a washerwoman or a maid or a servant girl getting about her master’s business.
“Wasn’t it enough that you made utter fools of us?” Grayson asked calmly. A humorless smile tugged his lips. “The arrogant team of Ardmore and Finley—trussed up, stripped naked, and robbed blind by a slip of a girl. Helpful that we were dead drunk at the time.”
They’d found it amusing to discover that the young “man” teasing the barmaid in a Jamaican tavern had in fact been a woman. Burchard, or whatever her name had truly been, had accompanied them to the inn readily enough. Small wonder she had, when she’d known she would have no trouble stealing everything from the two cocksure fools. They’d been forced to send the landlord for O’Malley and Oliver because, of course, they’d had no coin to pay for the room, nor any clothes in which to leave it.
“Waking up stark naked and tied to James Ardmore is not a memory I treasure.” Grayson pursed his lips. “No wonder it was always so difficult to capture Zechariah Burchard.”
Ian chimed in. “So who was it Ardmore killed in that ship battle? Some poor hapless decoy dressed in your clothes?”
Her face pinched. “He was well rewarded.”
“Pity he never lived to collect it,” Grayson said dryly. He looked her up and down. She kept her hair close-cropped, and she was flat-chested, narrow-hipped, and plain-faced. She needed very little to disguise herself, just a well-tailored suit of man’s clothes and a bit of rolled-up cloth to keep her breeches from being too suspiciously flat.
The fact that she was female did not keep her from being dangerous. This woman had caused the murder of countless seamen and other innocents who got in her way. Once, Burchard had come upon a slaver, taken what she wanted, then burned the slaves alive. The act had driven Ardmore to pursue her and to attempt the same fate on her. Except that Burchard had thwarted them all. Until now.
“I came here for a reason,” Grayson said. “You want Ardmore dead. I am tired of him myself. I believe we have something to offer each other.”
He tamped down his misgivings as he said the words. He was taking a grave risk making this move, but he wanted Burchard out of London. He saw his chance to seal Burchard’s fate, finish the Admiralty business, and resolve his bargain with Ardmore all in one blow.
If he did not destroy his own life in the process.
He took a deep breath, said a heartfelt prayer, and began to talk.
Mr. Henderson glowered in the corner of the hired carriage, arms folded, brow furrowed. The duke, sitting next to him, pretended to peer out the window at the darkness beyond.
It had taken all of Alexandra’s powers of persuasion to obtain Mr. Henderson’s consent to take them to the Argonaut. He had arrived at Alexandra’s house with the sole purpose of carrying her off to Kent to marry him. He was no longer willing to be party to Ardmore’s schemes, he said.
When he’d understood that Alexandra wanted him not only to take her to the Argonaut, but to betray his captain’s whereabouts to a duke highly involved with the Admiralty, he had raged. The black fury in his usually apologetic eyes reminded her once more that Mr. Henderson was a dangerous man, able to turn from affable dandy to ruthless pirate hunter in a moment.
The compromise they finally reached was that they would hire a carriage, and the duke would accompany them alone, without his servants, coachmen, or any other entourage. He would allow them to fetch the French king—about whose fate Henderson cared nothing—but he would not lead the duke to arrest Ardmore.
The duke expressed dislike for the proposal and threatened to arrest Henderson on the spot. Henderson turned upon him a look of mild scorn and told him the duke would have to lend his coat because Henderson’s coat was new that morning and he did not want to ruin it in Newgate.
Alexandra had to step rapidly between them, but she managed to persuade the duke that his only chance of reaching the French king was to follow Mr. Henderson’s plan. Mr. Henderson had arranged for the carriage and so forth with his usual cool aloofness, but when he’d handed Alexandra into the carriage, he’d turned a look of naked anger upon her. She was using him, and he knew it. He would not forgive her for it.
But she had to. The duke desperately wished the return of the French king. And once the duke knew the location of the Argonaut, James Ardmore would have to flee. Grayson would be safe, and Grayson would earn the Admiralty’s gratitude. The duke had thoroughly swallowed the story that Grayson had told her where the French king was hidden and that she should lead the duke to him. What young Mayfair woman would act on her own?
Mr. Henderson, by his expression, had guessed the truth. Why he had at last agreed to help her, she did not understand, but she felt no compunction to demand an explanation.
They rolled through the night. The sky was lightening when they reached Gravesend, and the silent land was chill. Cold wind blew from the east, from the mouth of the river and the sea beyond. They rolled into Gravesend and mingled with the foot traffic of fishermen putting out for the day, servants shuffling past with heads down into the wind, dogs barking wildly at the carriage, wagons passing with loads from whatever ships were in the docks.
Alexandra scanned the wide river, but it was a confusion of masts standing black against the early sky like winter tree trunks. She was not certain she would recognize Ardmore’s ship in any case—she had been half insensible when she’d boarded the Argonaut the last time.
Mr. Henderson directed the carriage to stop at the end of a dock, one empty and forlorn and in disrepair. Farther down the shore, mighty ships—merchantmen and East Indiamen—unloaded, but this dock was relatively deserted. A dinghy floated at the end, its one mast small and bare.
Mr. Henderson paid the carriage driver and told him to wait. In clipped tones, he ordered the duke and Alexandra to follow him, and he led them to the little boat. The duke helped Alexandra in, while Henderson raised the sail and cast them off from the dock.
T
he sun rose as they sailed east. Light touched the ships, burnishing them golden. Billowing sails on an outbound Indiaman haloed white and gold against the faint blue of the sky.
Tucked behind a cluster of smaller merchantmen was a narrow, sleek ship with two square masts and a triangular jib. It rode high in the water, but it was slightly smaller than the merchants, nearer the size of the naval frigates that sailed past in escort of the Indiaman. Seen alone, the ship might earn a second glance—it was obviously neither merchant nor warship, but Captain Ardmore had chosen to moor it among sloops and other smaller craft so that the ship’s size blended with the others.
As they drew near, Alexandra saw that the vessel was called the Carolina. The duke frowned at it.
The smaller boat bumped the larger. Mr. Henderson lowered the sail. A face appeared at the rail above them, one of a sailor Alexandra had not seen before. He peered down at them, took in the three of them, then disappeared.
Alexandra held her breath. Here was the test. Captain Ardmore had said he would not let her aboard if she arrived with anyone but Henderson. As soon as he knew the duke had accompanied them, he would know that Henderson—and Alexandra-had betrayed him.
After a long moment, a pair of brawny hands rested on the rail, and Ardmore himself looked down at them. Mr. Henderson flushed under his scrutiny, but he stood straight and said nothing.
Captain Ardmore’s gaze burned Alexandra through the distance that separated them. He studied her for a long time, then turned to the sailor, gave a nod, and walked away.
Alexandra was hoisted aboard by a harness similar to the one that had lifted her onto Grayson’s ship. Mr. Henderson and the duke climbed a rope ladder that the sailor unrolled to them. Henderson marched to the stern cabin, but the duke waited to escort Alexandra aft in the wake of the sailor.
Ardmore waited for them. He leaned against his desk, arms folded. He wore a midnight blue coat buttoned over his bare torso and faded black breeches and boots. The darkness of his dress made his light green eyes stand out like pieces of jade on a jeweler’s cloth.
The cabin was as barren as she remembered it. The long bench curved beneath the windows, polished and gleaming. A few pillows would soften it, she thought critically. The stern wall was too big for drapes to affect it much, but a nice valence, perhaps.
The duke murmured to Alexandra, “Stay near me, Mrs. Alastair.”
Ardmore ignored him. His gaze pinned her. “Alexandra. Why did you bring me a member of the Admiralty?”
The duke bristled. “How dare you, sir? Address her with respect.”
Ardmore shot the duke an ironic glance, then raked his gaze over Alexandra’s ragged hair and crumpled gown. “Mrs. Alastair.” He drew out the name with an exaggerated drawl. “This afternoon Mr. Henderson told me and my schemes to go to hell. Now he stands before me again—leading you and a peer of the realm.” His lips lifted in the faintest of smiles. “You are the damnedest woman.”
The duke reddened. “Sir, you are a brigand and an outlaw. You will not speak to a lady in this manner.”
“You may call me out at anytime,” Ardmore answered without heat. “My seconds are Ian O’Malley and Henderson, when he’s speaking to me.”
The duke opened his mouth, but Alexandra threw etiquette to the wind and stepped quickly in front of him. “None of this matters. We came here, Captain Ardmore, to fetch the French king.”
He looked at her, unsurprised. “I see.”
The duke spoke shrilly, “Then you do not deny that you kidnapped him?”
“I did not kidnap him,” Ardmore said mildly. “He may leave at anytime.”
“So you say. Where is he?”
Alexandra made an impatient noise. “Madame d’Lorenz tricked the king into coming aboard. Am I correct?”
Ardmore nodded once. He looked, if anything, very uninterested in the entire discussion.
Alexandra tapped her lips in thought for a moment. She looked at the two doors that led off the main cabin, one on each side. During her brief stay several nights previously, Madame d’Lorenz had emerged from the right-hand cabin, and the sailor had brought her a dipper of water from the same.
She gave a decisive nod, turned to the left-hand door, and pulled it open.
A long-legged, obese man with close-cropped gray hair was folded into a sitting position on the narrow bunk. He lifted his head and blinked large eyes over the folded page of a newspaper. Across the narrow cabin, Madame d’Lorenz sat on a sea chest, chewing her nails. The duke peered over Alexandra’s shoulder. “Your majesty!” he exclaimed.
The king rose. He was tall and rotund, and his bulk filled most of the tiny cabin. He gave the merest nod. “Your grace.”
“Good lord.” The duke switched to French. “You have been here all this time?”
The king answered in the same language. “Three weeks, your grace. Not long from now, I will return to France.”
Alexandra blessed Mrs. Fairchild’s French lessons, and formed phrases in her head. “I am afraid Madame d’Lorenz has tricked you, monsieur.”
He shook his head. “No. All is ready. I will return to France, and the emperor will be ousted. I am assured.”
Ardmore said nothing, though his expression left no doubt that he’d understood every word. The king tossed down his newspaper and emerged from the cabin, looking neither fearful nor uncomfortable. He motioned to Madame d’Lorenz, who followed him out, her black brows pinched together. Thoughts warred behind her eyes, and she shot Alexandra a venomous look.
“Madame has been a great comfort to me,” he said.
Ardmore made a neutral gesture in her direction. “She is a French agent.”
The king stared at him. “No indeed, monsieur. She is the emperor’s enemy, as surely as I am.”
“She was once his lover.”
The king gave Madame d’Lorenz a swift look. His face changed as he began to believe. “God help me.”
Alexandra reached to him. “It is all right, monsieur. His grace will see you are returned safely home.”
He opened and closed his mouth. “But France. They are waiting. They will return me to the throne. I have been assured.”
“She’s always been an excellent liar,” Ardmore said.
Madame d’Lorenz screamed. She lunged at the king, a knife in her hand. “Vive le France!” she shouted. “Vive le Republic!”
The king stared in horror, transfixed. Ardmore did not move. The duke pushed Alexandra aside, trying to throw himself in front of the king. Mr. Henderson, at last stirring from the black quietness he’d subsided into since they’d entered the cabin, grabbed Madame d’Lorenz and jerked her backward. One competent squeeze to her wrist and the dagger dropped to the floor. She raged and swore, but Henderson’s grip was unbreakable.
Ardmore motioned to the duke. “Take her and the king and go.”
“Yes.” The duke brushed off his coat. “I am afraid I will have to place you under arrest, madame.”
“You bastard!” Madame d’Lorenz spat at Ardmore. She reverted to French. “You traitorous, evil bastard. You told me Finley would not have him.”
“And he does not.” Ardmore slanted a glance at Alexandra. “The Duke of St. Clair has that honor. Henderson, take her out. Please.”
Henderson, grim-faced, dragged her from the cabin. She still shrieked and swore, vowing vengeance and other gruesome fates for Mr. Ardmore.
The duke blew out his breath. “Your majesty.” He made a little bow. “A boat is waiting below, and I have a hired carriage that will take us back to London.”
The king, looking shaken, nodded.
“As for you, Captain.” The duke gave him a stern look. “I will also place you under arrest—for pirating and other crimes against the crown.”
Again, Ardmore smiled that thin, faint smile. “I remember Finley telling me that you would grant him amnesty if he helped you locate your French king. I have delivered him to you. Should not that amnesty extend to me?”
The duke
spluttered. “You abducted him yourself!”
“This was Madame d’Lorenz’s plot, her actions. I merely provided a comfortable place where he could hide. If I had let her take him to one of her French patriots, they would have torn him apart before you even noticed he was missing. Here, he was safe.”
The duke stared. “You have great audacity to ask me that, sir. You have boarded countless English ships, sunk frigates, had the captains flogged, for God’s sake.”
Ardmore’s voice turned hard. “English ships that have dragged away Americans and other innocents to feed their war.”
“They were English deserters!” the duke said heatedly.
“Even the ones who had never set foot in England? Even the lads from Pennsylvania and the Carolinas? Who barely know where England is?”
“Even so.” The duke sounded less certain. “You sank our ships. You are an outlaw.”
“So I’ve been told.” Ardmore folded his arms again. “Take your king and get off my ship.”
The duke’s fists clenched. Alexandra cleared her throat. “I believe, your grace, that we should go. Before he changes his mind.”
The duke blinked, then looked hastily about the cabin, as if just remembering that he’d come there alone, with no soldiers or even a strong footman to help him. He closed his mouth and made a nod. “We will go then. Come along, Mrs. Alastair.”
“Mrs. Alastair stays.”
The duke stopped. He swung around. “What?” Alexandra’s heart began to pound. She had known when she came here what she would have to do. But it frightened her all the same.
“I will give you the king,” Ardmore said clearly. “But Mrs. Alastair remains with me.”
“What the devil do you mean?” The duke started forward, fists clenched. Ardmore straightened up. He pulled his arms apart to reveal a pistol in one hand.
“Make your choice, your grace. The king, or Mrs. Alastair.”
The duke eyed the pistol warily. Anger glittered beneath his lashes. He looked slowly at Alexandra, then back at Ardmore. Finally, he let out his breath and turned an anguished gaze on Alexandra. “I am sorry,” he said in a near whisper.