Petals on the River

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Sly chuckled good-naturedly as he joined them. “Aye, I was wonderin’ meself if I should extend him the use o’ me britches ta cover his backside. Every time he bends over now, he exposes more’n I can bear.”

  Gage broke out into hearty laughter as Ramsey turned a wickedly baleful glare upon his fellow cabinetmaker. Already his heart was feeling lighter.

  About that time, Gillian came charging through the door, looking for Gage. At sight of the three coffins he halted abruptly with one foot still dangling in the air.

  “Holy Mother o’—” he breathed as he slowly lowered his foot to the floor. The young Irishman stared agog at the pine boxes and, after a moment, faced Gage with a noticeable gulp. “Who did ye put in ’em, Cap’n?”

  “Roxanne, Cain, and Potts,” his employer answered simply.

  The three men gaped at him in shocked surprise, and Sly shook his head sorrowfully. “I was hopin’ they were empty.”

  The two apprentices hurried in from the back, curious to hear the story firsthand. All of them congregated around Gage.

  “I gather they vexed ye a mite,” Ramsey voiced the conjecture, eager to know more. “Ye shoot all three?”

  “Nary a one,” Gage responded with a lame smile. “My wife shot Potts, who was trying to kill me. Cain killed himself and Roxanne by leaping off the prow of the ship.”

  “Ye ever think that there ship is jinxed?” Ramsey prodded.

  Gillian would not allow time for that thought to take firm root in anyone’s mind. “Why did Cain kill Roxanne, Cap’n?”

  “She was one of those trying to kill Shemaine, and he didn’t like that idea. ‘Tis all rather complicated, so while you’re helping me load the coffins in the wagon, I’ll tell you as much as I know.” He peered questioningly at Gillian, who had apparently forgotten why he had come to the shop. “Were you looking for me?”

  “Aye.” Gillian suddenly recalled his mission. “His lordship’s wonderin’ where ye might be, Cap’n.”

  “My father, you mean.”

  “Nay, the other one, the younger, black-haired one.”

  Gage might have known the Marquess would hold to his word. “You may tell him where I’m to be found.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Maurice du Mercer entered the cabinet shop a few moments later, and his reaction upon espying the coffins almost paralleled Gillian’s. His foot came down a little sooner and his oath was different, but the look of surprise that registered on his face was quite similar.

  “Good heavens! What has happened here? Who are those coffins for? Is Shemaine all right?”

  Gage smiled ruefully at the man’s rush of questions. “You needn’t fear, your lordship. None of these boxes are for my wife. She’s in the cabin. She’s not feeling too sprightly after killing a man last night.”

  “Shemaine? My Shemaine?”

  Gage felt his hackles rise, and he made a point of correcting the man. “No, your lordship, my Shemaine . . . as if there were another.”

  “What happened?” Maurice asked. “Who was the man, and why did she kill him?”

  “To save my life. Someone paid Potts to come out here and kill Shemaine, but the sailor decided to put me in the grave before proceeding to her. Shemaine has become quite handy with a flintlock. A few more lessons and she might even rival your abilities.”

  Maurice gestured lamely toward the wooden boxes. “Then who else . . .”

  “You wouldn’t know them,” Gage assured him. “A hunchback from town who killed my first wife by accident, and the woman who deceived him and led him into doing it. Someone offered to pay her for killing Shemaine, too.”

  “Killed your first wife, you say,” Maurice repeated that portion dubiously. “Convenient for you, isn’t it?”

  Gage returned a level stare to the Marquess. “More convenient for me than for you, I would think. Now you won’t have any excuse for challenging me to a duel and killing me in the guise of saving my wife from my murderous bent just so you can have her. If you doubt my word about any of this, I give you leave to question Shemaine. ‘Twas what she was told by Roxanne and Cain, as much as that poor man was able to explain.”

  Maurice fished into the pocket of his rich, taupe frock coat and produced the smooth leather pouch that Potts had tauntingly waggled before Gage. “May I ask where you came by this? I found it on the deck of your ship when I went up to ask the Morgans where you were to be found.”

  Gage examined the bag of coins briefly and then handed it back. “Potts showed it to me when he was boasting about being hired to kill Shemaine. The purse may have belonged to Potts, but it seems too fancy for the likes of the tar. Perhaps it belonged to the person who hired him on as an assassin.” Gage tilted his head thoughtfully as he considered the nobleman. Maurice’s face had definitely taken on a chalky white pallor. “If it doesn’t belong to Potts, would you happen to know whose it is?”

  “I may,” the Marquess answered in a muted tone. He turned abruptly and strode back to the door. Jerking it open, he paused and looked back at Gage with a wretched smile twisting his handsome lips. “If what you say is true, Mr. Thornton, then you have indeed won my betrothed for yourself. I wish you well, both of you.”

  “Are you leaving for good?” Gage asked in surprise. He couldn’t imagine that the Marquess would give up so easily.

  “Aye, I won’t be back unless Shemaine is widowed by some other means than what I had intended.”

  “You will have a long wait ahead of you before you can claim her,” Gage informed him. “I plan to live to a ripe old age.”

  “So be it.”

  “Shemaine and the O’Hearns will wonder where you’ve gone,” Gage insisted. “What shall I tell them?”

  Maurice grew thoughtful as he contemplated the question, then he smiled rather sadly. “Tell them I’ve gone to catch a mother rat.”

  With that, Maurice stepped beyond the door and closed it gently behind him.

  “Mother rat?” Ramsey was plainly perplexed. “What did his lordship mean by that?”

  Gage watched through the window as his rival hurried toward the river. “I think his lordship means to have a talk with the one who paid Potts to kill Shemaine.”

  “How would he be knowin’ who that is?” his friend queried.

  “The purse,” Gage answered distractedly. “I believe he recognized it . . . or at least the type of purse used by someone he’s kin to.”

  “I didn’t think he had any kinfolk here.”

  “ ‘Twould seem that circumstance may have recently changed. At least since the Marquess’s coming, I would imagine.”

  CHAPTER 25

  No sooner had Maurice du Mercer strode through the doors of the tavern than a definite hush fell over the place. Every harlot who had managed to rouse herself out of bed by that early morning hour paused to gawk at him with jaw hanging a-slack. In comparison to the clientele they had been servicing in the local area, the Marquess looked as luscious and tempting as a plump worm in a chicken coop. Like a brood of cackling hens, they rushed toward him, shoving and yanking at each other in their eagerness to seize this enticing tidbit for their own. True to form, Morrisa managed to force her way to the fore of her companions.

  “Can I be o’ service ta ye, yer lordship?” she crooned and, as was her habit, moving her shoulder in a rounded motion to send her sleeve tumbling down her arm. Another shrug bared a goodly portion of her ample bosom as well.

  “You may,” Maurice answered with marked disinterest. “I understand from the innkeeper that my grandmother is staying here. Can you direct me to her room?”

  “Well, I don’t know, m’lord.” Morrisa sidled back several steps, recognizing her blunder. This was the grandson Lady du Mercer had said was in love with Shemaine, and since neither Potts nor Roxanne had returned from the Thorntons’ to collect their reward, there was no way of knowing what had happened out there or what this man was after. Whatever his mission, it seemed dire, for his black eyes were like steel sabers sli
cing through her. Still, her ladyship hadn’t wanted it noised about that she was there and certainly not to her grandson.

  “If you don’t tell me, I can find her myself,” Maurice informed her bluntly. “I may startle a few of your companions in the process of opening doors, but I doubt that I’ll be unduly embarrassed by the sights I may find behind them. However, their customers might be a bit upset by the intrusion.”

  Morrisa promptly relented, imagining the dander that Freida would fly into if any of her customers began to complain about being disturbed. She didn’t know how her ladyship would react to her grandson’s visit, but she had confidence the lady could handle it with far more grace than any of them could abide Freida’s raging or vengeful tactics. “The last room on the right upstairs. I just took her liedyship up some tea a li’l while ago, so she’s awake an’ havin’ her vittles.”

  Maurice leapt up the steps three at a time, leaving several of the strumpets gaping after him. His pace along the balustrade was just as swift, just as sure, and with no more than a quick rap of lean knuckles on the planks of the door, he swung open the portal and stalked into the room, startling his grandmother, who had been sitting at a small table partaking of her morning meal. She half rose from her chair at this unforewarned entrance, fully expecting to see some dirty brigand with a pistol in his hand who would demand her money. When she recognized the familiar face, she slowly sank back into her seat and clasped a bony hand over her fluttering heart.

  “Why, Maurice, you startled me,” she chided.

  “I meant to,” he stated crisply.

  A brief, nervous twitch at the corner of her lips was the best smile she could manage. She didn’t need to be told that something was amiss. “Have you taken to playing pranks on your elders of late?”

  “If I have, ‘tis a far less disastrous trick than you have played on me.”

  The delicate fingers trembled slightly as Edith picked up a lace handkerchief and daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Maurice.”

  The Marquess was not fooled by her innocent masquerade. “You should know far better than I, Grandmother, what you’ve done. I was in love with Shemaine, and now I’ve lost her—”

  “Is she dead?” Edith had been waiting in anticipation for such an announcement, but she had never dreamt it would be delivered by her grandson, of all people.

  Maurice’s dark eyes glittered with ill-suppressed rage. “Shemaine is alive, married to a colonial, and carries his child . . . and I would give my whole wealth to be where that man is in her heart today.”

  Edith’s own heart sank at the news of Shemaine’s continued existence, but she was as accomplished an actress as Morrisa. “Your whole wealth?” She forced herself to laugh at her grandson’s exaggerated assertion and waved an elegant hand to banish his claims. “Really, Maurice, no man in his right mind would give up the like of your fortune for a little twit of a girl. . . .”

  “Her name is Shemaine, Grandmother,” he stated with sharp clarity. “Shemaine Thornton now. It should have been Lady Shemaine du Mercer. If not for you, it would have been.”

  “Come now, Maurice, you’re overwrought and don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying.” Maurice slipped his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the silky-smooth leather pouch. With a flip of his wrist, he tossed it onto the table near her hand. It landed with a clink of coins. “Recognize it, Grandmother?” he questioned caustically. “You’ve always been rather proud of your simple but elegant tastes. I need not look inside to see your initials to know that it’s yours. I wonder just how many of those fine leather pouches you’ve had made for yourself over the years? I’ve seen them all my life. You gave me several while I was growing up. You were trying to teach me the value of a coin, remember?”

  Edith’s face remained a stiff, careful mask that effectively hid the inner turmoil that was raging inside of her. Her grandson’s tone revealed far more than his words had yet disclosed. She knew down deep inside that she had lost this murderous game she had set herself to because of some silly mistake of her own making. She had instructed Morrisa to give Potts a few coins and to promise him more to hasten his return. How could she have known that a tiny little pouch would be her undoing?

  “How did you come by this purse?” Edith questioned carefully. “I thought I had lost it.”

  Maurice curtly denied the possibility. “You didn’t lose it. You gave it to Potts when you sent him on a mission to kill Shemaine. But he failed you, Grandmother, and paid for it with his life. That little twit of a girl you can’t abide shot him when he tried to kill her husband. You probably promised a sizeable reward to Roxanne Corbin, too, but she won’t be back . . . except in the coffin Gage Thornton made for her. What I would like to know, Grandmother, is how you could have been so cruel to me . . . and my betrothed.”

  Edith du Mercer sat in dignified silence, refusing to answer as she stared unseeing across the room. Her bony hand clasped the silver handle of her walking stick, which she had braced upon the wood floor.

  “Answer me!” Maurice barked, slamming his palm down upon the top of the table and startling a gasp from his grandmother. “Damn you for your cold bitch’s heart!” he snarled. “I know now that you must have connived with sticky-fingered magistrates and ambitiously arranged for Shemaine’s arrest in London and her banishment from England, probably all the while thinking you were doing me a good service . . . for my fame and future as a marquess. It grieves me to think of what Shemaine suffered because of you. After the O’Hearns discovered what had happened to her, I refused to allow myself to believe that you had any part of it. But her disappearance was too convenient, hardly a month after our engagement. You were so calm in your assurances to me that Shemaine would be found. I saw more distress in your eyes when I announced my intention to marry her.” He sneered at his only kin, feeling nothing but contempt for her. “You were probably hoping that news of Shemaine’s death would reach you so you could skillfully arrange for the information to come to my attention.”

  A bitter smile curved his handsome lips. “I’m sure you could buy your way out of any English prison I tried to send you to, so I’ve chosen a more fitting punishment for you, Grandmother. From this day forward, you shall never see me again. If I go back to England at all, it will be to collect my possessions. But I shall be returning here posthaste to live out the rest of my life as an ordinary colonial gentleman, and you will never, ever be welcomed in the house that I will build for myself and my family, should I be fortunate enough to marry. Whatever offspring I produce, Grandmother, you will never see them, never hear them, and never be able to take pride in my children or their children . . . if you should live so long. And you will never be able to arrange their lives as you tried to do mine. This is good-bye forever, Grandmother. May you have a long and miserable life.”

  Turning crisply on a heel, Maurice crossed to the door and left, causing Edith to flinch with the loud, resounding closing of the portal.

  In the aftermath of his passage, Edith du Mercer sat in silence, staring across the room yet seeing nothing. She felt numb inside. Perhaps she was already dead. Everything she had striven for, yearned for, grappled for, had fled from her life with the slamming of that door. She could not even feel a spark of hope or interest when a few moments later a rather frantic rapping came again upon the plank. It was only Morrisa, wondering what had happened.

  “Potts and Roxanne are dead,” Edith informed her dully. “You’d better leave as soon as you can. There’s a pouch of coins in my satchel near the bed. Take that. There should be enough to get you to New York . . . or someplace far off.”

  “But what about Freida?” Morrisa asked fearfully. “If’n I leave without buyin’ back me papers, she’ll send someone after me . . . may e’en have me killed.”

  Edith picked up the pouch that Maurice had just delivered back to her and handed it over. “Perhaps there’s
enough in this to buy your papers. In any case, you should leave. I would expect Mr. Thornton will be arriving some time this morning, perhaps to bring in the dead bodies or to search for you. I shall be taking the next coach north myself and then a ship back to England.”

  Thoughtfully Morrisa tossed the small pouch in her hand, knowing full well what it contained. There was more than enough in it to buy back her papers, but as far as the other purse, she had no idea what it held. She could only hope that it would last her for a time, but once the money was gone, what would she do? Ply her trade again? It was a terrible gamble to leave Freida without paying her back, but there seemed no other choice if she wanted a few coins to spend on herself after she got to wherever she was going. Gage Thornton would be arriving soon and he’d no doubt be looking for her. She couldn’t wait around. She had to leave now!

  Hugh Corbin limped out onto the front porch shortly after he saw Gage halting the wagon in the lane in front of his house. He was aware that Roxanne hadn’t come home the previous night, and even before he caught sight of the boxes in the wagon bed, he had already begun to fret that something dreadful had happened to her.

  Gage swept his hat off his head as he approached the older man. Hugh squinted up at him, as if wondering at his mission, and Gage halted in front of him. It was the first time in ages that Hugh met him without an insult. “Mr. Corbin, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid Roxanne is dead.” Turning slightly, he gestured with his hat toward the coffins loaded in the conveyance. “Her body is in one of those pine boxes there. I carved her name in it so we’d know—”

  “Ye bastard, why did ye have ta kill her?” Hugh snarled in agony. “Wasn’t it enough that she chased after ye an’ made a fool of herself ever since ye come here! But that weren’t enough for ye, was it? Ye couldn’t rest ‘til ye took her last breath from her just like ye did Victoria.”

  “I didn’t kill her, Mr. Corbin,” Gage assured him quietly. “Cain did.”