“What do you call telling me that you’d protect me? That we’d always be together? All you did was lie.” She flung each accusation at him with the same accuracy she shot her gun, knowing what weaknesses would hurt him most.
She hated every damn thing about him because he made her believe things that weren’t true. There was no haven in loving him. Devil take it, when laws defined women as property, there was no safe man.
She stepped back. On the edge of Upper Shadwell, a carriage clopped by, for at this late hour London didn’t sleep. Prostitutes lingered at the street corners, powder and rogue over skin stretched tight.
Daniel followed her out onto the street. He lingered too close. She wondered vaguely if he’d smell like bergamot and cloves, the scent that haunted her dreams. He’d obliterate the odor of rotting refuse of the rookeries, and make her believe she could go back into the past.
That woman didn’t exist any longer.
Kate retreated quickly, so fast that she didn’t notice the drunken sailor leaning against the doorway until she’d already backed into him. A hand brushed against her bottom, thankfully protected by her thick skirts. She tore away and turned to face the offender. His eyes were red-rimmed and a knife hung limply between his fingers, forgotten over the pursuit of her rump.
“’Ello, Merry bird, ye got somethin’ for me? Look at ’er, Jay, ’ave ye ever seen a better dimber mort?” The sailor gestured to a man hidden in the shadows of the doorway, his face clouded and barely visible in the darkness. “I tell ye, Jay, when we get ’em Things down by the Fortune―” The sailor’s knife twitched between his fingers.
Kate took another step back. The Fortune of War public house was a known haunt for grave robbers. Her fingers clenched around the handle of her fully cocked pistol. She could defend herself if it came to that.
The man in the shadows snapped something under his breath, and the sailor’s expression changed. Paleness swept over his yellow skin, his lower lip quivering. She felt the tension rise between them, thick and choking. A fight brewed.
She wanted to leave, but she wouldn’t turn her back on Daniel. Before she could form a plan of attack, Daniel grabbed hold of her arm and tugged. He kept moving until they had rounded one corner and then another, reluctantly releasing her when they entered a more populated area. In the distance, a low-pitched scream echoed from where they had been. It died off in the distance.
Another one killed, and no one to mourn him.
She doubted the sailor’s death would make the papers. He’d slip through the cracks like so many others. The warehouse laborer Tommy Dalton had only warranted a few broadsheets because of the gruesomeness of his murder and the connection to her father’s old company, Emporia Shipping.
Daniel had pulled her onto another part of Upper Shadwell. The road buzzed with activity, from the influx of patrons who wandered in and out of the dram houses to the dockworkers on the prowl for a cheap whore. Their noise filled her ears, snippets of various conversations clouding her thoughts.
“It kills me to see you here,” Daniel murmured.
A lover’s tone, softer and warmer than she wanted. “If it hurts you so bad, leave again. This is where I live now.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I couldn’t have known Emporia would go bankrupt. I thought your father’s company was insoluble, as did the rest of the shipping industry. You’ve got to believe me, Katiebelle.”
“Don’t call me that. You’ve got no right to call me that.” Her throat clenched at her father’s nickname for her, a sting of grief that had lessened but not dissipated in two and a half years.
“Once you liked it when I did.”
“Once I liked a lot of things you did.” She stepped out into the street, under the beam of the street lamp.
But now I don’t. If she told herself that enough times, she might start to believe it.
Daniel remained in the shadows, unwilling to risk the exposure offered by the lamp. He would always be in the dark: an accused murderer too scared to atone for past mistakes. He’d drag her down with him. She couldn’t risk tying herself to him, and the Peelers investigating her criminal activities.
She took one last look at him. He smiled at her, accepting her perusal as a sign of good will and not the goodbye it truly was.
When patrons came out of the nearby Three Boars public house, Kate took advantage of their exit, slipping in unnoticed by Daniel. From her vantage point at the door, she saw him turn slowly, first to the left and then the right. Eventually, he might follow her, but by the time he did she would be tucked away at a table far in the back.
This was her world. The rookeries were her life.
He could not change that with a simple reappearance.
* * *
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Also by Erica Monroe
Gothic Brides
Regency Gothic
The Mad Countess
The Determined Duchess
The Scandalous Widow
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COVERT HEIRESSES
Regency Spies
I Spy a Duke
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The Rookery Rogues
Gritty Working-Class Romance
A Dangerous Invitation
Secrets in Scarlet
Beauty and the Rake
Stealing the Rogue’s Heart
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ANTHOLOGIES
Mystified
Charmed at Christmas
Suspenseful Starts
The Rookery Rogues: Volume 1
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About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Erica Monroe writes dark, gritty historical romantic suspense. Her current series include Gothic Brides (Regency Gothic romances), The Rookery Rogues (pre-Victorian working-class romance), and Covert Heiresses (Regency spies who are the children of a duke). She was a finalist in the published historical category for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic Suspense, and her books have been recommended reads at Fresh Fiction, Smexy Books, SBTB, and All About Romance. When not writing, she is a chronic TV watcher, sci-fi junkie, and comic book fanatic. She lives in the suburbs of North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and a cat.
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The Pirate’s Debt
Bestselling Author Katherine Bone
License and Copyright Notes
The Pirate’s Debt
Copyright © 2016 by Katherine Bone
Cover Design by Romance Cover Creations
Editing by Double Vision Editorial
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ISBN: 9781539498735
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
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The Pirate's Duty, Book #3
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My Lord Rogue, Novella #1
Duke by Day, Rogue by Night, Book #1
The Rogue’s Prize, Book #2
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To my husband, Johnnie, who stepped out of a romance novel and became the hero of my dreams.
Chapter 1
The UNION of Lord M and Her Grace ended in quite the SPECTACLE, resulting in the SCANDALOUS conclusion of said ENGAGEMENT. A DUEL at the DOWNS climaxed with shameful MURDEROUS designs on His Grace, D of B. Lady O informs Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post that CREDITABLE onlookers witnessed Lord U’s DIABOLICAL crime and subsequent ARREST. No information has SURFACED on Lord M’s whereabouts.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 22 April 1809
Smuggler’s End Cove, Devon
20 July 1809
Basil Halford, Earl of Markwick, tented his fingers below his nose and stared at the Fury’s log, a book chronicling the past three months of his life as the Black Regent, a pirate hailed throughout Cornwall and Devon as the pauper’s avenging angel. He grimaced. Vengeful, yes. But angelic? Far from it.
The Regent’s role offered hope where none was to be had, but unlike those who benefited from contraband, piracy forever put him at odds with excisemen, particularly his good friend, Captain Pierce Walsingham. Yet, what hope was to be had for him from such torn allegiances?
Markwick was beholden to Tobias Denzell, Duke of Blackmoor—the original Black Regent—a man who’d agreed to help Markwick fulfill his vow to aid the people whom his own father, the Marquess of Underwood, had destroyed. To do that, he’d had to distance himself from the few friends he had left—Lords Algernon Barrett, Thaddeus Standeford, and Frederick Landon, men who had no idea to where Basil had disappeared after his duel with Blackmoor at the Downs.
He continually had to remind himself that a man was nothing, soulless, without purpose. His days philandering without a care were gone and gladly so. His eyes were open now. He saw the world as it truly was: filled with evil men who’d stop at nothing to fill their own coffers. Such a realization came at great cost, however. He’d traded an earldom—and his role as the son of a murderer—to deal on account and become a smuggler. Neither way of life offered an angelic end, but if caught, he’d inevitably see a hangman’s noose. Blackmoor had spent two years perfecting the piratical tactics he’d used aboard the Fury, a lifetime compared to Markwick’s paltry three months. What were the odds that he’d survive long enough to help the people his father had destroyed?
Aye, Markwick had always prided himself on being an uncompromising man of upstanding purpose, but scandal had brought him lower than he could ever have imagined possible. His father’s treachery forced him to do the one thing no one in the nobility and gentry had ever expected: join forces with pirates. Blackmoor, in particular, had been one of his father’s victims. He had risen from the grave to reclaim his wife, Prudence, and stop Underwood from murdering her. Upon his soul, Markwick was all for rectifying his father’s mistakes. Even if that meant Blackmoor chose the particular moment to return to save his wife minutes before Markwick and Prudence were just about to say, I do.
The best laid plans . . .
Markwick had loved the duchess, though he’d been motivated more by honoring Blackmoor’s friendship than anything else. His primary purpose had been to protect Prudence after Blackmoor’s supposed death. Few opportunities were available to women in this world, and he’d hoped to one day earn half the love she’d given her first husband. Aye, he’d set out to shield her from the pain this wretched world could inflict while knowing, fearing, he could never take Blackmoor’s place.
The irony was that he’d done just that. He was now captain of the Fury, commander of over thirty men and Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post’s heralded savior of the downtrodden.
Markwick sat back in his chair and propped his feet on the intricately carved mahogany desk. He rubbed his eyes and swiped his fingers through his unkempt hair as if such an action had the power to revitalize him or purge his mind of the memories that lanced his heart. It was no use. Nothing, not even plying his new trade along the coast, searching for enemy ships, discovering new ways to make amends to the less fortunate, could turn back the hands of time.
He might not be the best at it, but he was determined to make his mark, come what may. Blackmoor’s faith in him had returned some semblance of dignity to Markwick.
Yet the salty truth stung mightier than a lead ball fired at close range. Nothing he did could undo what his father had done. No amount of repentance lessened the weight on his shoulders. As much as he had hoped his stint as the Black Regent would prove otherwise, the harder he bled himself dry in an effort to succeed, the more of a disservice he’d ultimately do the Fury’s crew.
The Earl of Markwick wasn’t a pirate. His heart wasn’t in the sea. He was bookish, and he excelled at numbers.
Do something meaningful with your life, he told himself. Achieve something worthy of your namesake, the Black Regent. It is in your hands to make a difference.
It was up to him to finish what Blackmoor had started, seeking justice and reestablishing their friends’ incomes and reputations, as well as ensuring the destruction of the Marquess of Underwood. The latter was a larger conundrum than ever because his father was already dead. As Underwood’s heir, everything associated with the marquess’s estate belonged to him. Rightly, he was now the Marquess of Underwood, though he’d vowed never to bear the title.
How could I have been so wrong about you, Father?
Was he expected to pay for his father’s sins for the rest of his life? Everywhere he went, the name Underwood elicited malcontent. How does a man negate a lifetime of lies?
He lowered his feet to the deck beneath him and got out of his chair to pace to the wide stern windows. The orange glow in the iron-latticed lanterns swaying above him glinted off the misty panes as he raised one of the heavy damask panels, draping them closed.
While it was true that the Fury was getting resupplied in a hidden cove situated within the white chalk cliffs of Exmouth, the darkness flooded his soul, providing his former carefree life with a far-reaching contrast. As the Black Regent, he’d grown accustomed to the Fury’s swaying dance, her noisy decks, the activity of her thirty-plus crew, and the solitary confinement the captain’s cabin provided him when melancholy saturated his soul. Sired by a lunatic, he’d chanced death more than once in the Fury’s service to prove he wasn’t his father, who had shamefully bartered for morsels of food in Bodmin Gaol, dying mere weeks after being incarcerated there.
A fitting end to the Marquess of Underwood’s life after the misery he had caused.
Frustration washed over Markwick. After everything his father had done—destroying his friends, trying to kill Blackmoor, then Prudence—Markwick felt little remorse for his sire’s death, only the bitter sting of what could have been. His emotions were swallowed by the wails of the people reliant on Underwood’s estate. Their need was the primary reason he didn’t demolish the large manse in the first place. With his loyalties divided, how could he avenge the ones his father had wronged—including servants loyal to the family—while striving to strengthen the bonds among friends whose fathers his father had destroyed, bilking their combined mineral corporation of £300,000? And after all was said and done, Markwick would have to return to the estate that was now synonymous with evil in many minds, including his own.
Markwick swiped his hands over his face once more before threading his fingers rou
ghly through his hair.
He was—in terms of savage sarcasm—carrying more of an impediment than his first mate Angus Pye’s peg leg. Though no one could see Markwick’s deformity, it would follow him all his days, which made the Black Regent’s mask all the more necessary.
Markwick moved back to the desk and sat before his logbook, flipping through one page after another.
The numbers didn’t lie. He wasn’t a good pirate.
Though he’d found extraordinary pleasure in bookkeeping, attacking other ships, and strategically plotting his next target, the events had become mundane, taxing affairs since he’d begun his captaincy. One smuggler taken to task was like any other. The bitter brew of balancing such responsibility on his shoulders didn’t appeal to him. And yet, he owed Blackmoor. He owed the duke more than his life, in fact, not only for the continuation of their friendship but for the confidence Blackmoor had placed in Markwick when Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post made every effort to learn of his whereabouts. If it weren’t for Blackmoor’s warnings—or his frequent visits to the ship—the Fury and her crew might not have escaped excisemen.
“Courage and command of this ship will save many a life. All you have to do is trust your instincts and your men,” Blackmoor had told him when tasking him with the challenge.
When a Rogue Falls Page 28
