by Lisa Chaplin
“The man my father taught you to be.” Soft, bitter words.
“He protested against this mission, Lizzy,” he said, hoping to soften the pain.
“But he never came for me. He never wrote to tell me Mama was ill—and don’t tell me he didn’t know my location. You told him, didn’t you? He’s known for months where I’ve been, and I’ve heard nothing from him.”
He sighed. Eddie was a King’s Man to the end. In his devotion to king, country, and, yes, his own glory he’d betrayed them all, none more than Caroline and Lisbeth. In refusing to influence the mission, Eddie had abandoned Lisbeth and left his only grandchild with Delacorte despite knowing what kind of man he was.
And he’d left Duncan to judge whether he could risk an entire nation on an untrained girl’s brilliance.
The more Duncan had come to care for Lisbeth, the more he’d despised the choices he’d made. But with a government in denial and a bare dozen ships patrolling the entire Channel, even since her illness, Lisbeth was still their only hope of stopping the invasion. He couldn’t send her to her mother in case she refused to return to France. Even if Caroline was dying, he couldn’t risk it. There was no time to train anyone else.
“I came for you.” Floundering words of reassurance, inadequate because he hadn’t rehearsed any others.
“You did. You always have.” Her lopsided smile, so damned trusting, almost hurt him. “I’ll teach you to be the kind of husband and father I want.”
Thank you, God. “You saw the special license. It means we don’t have to post banns for three weeks, and the double agent need not know anything. We’ll marry here in Jersey, tomorrow if possible, with Alec and West as witnesses, and keep it discreet. We can fill in Edmond’s birth details at both our parish churches when we return to England, naming me as the father. All anyone need know is we toured the Continent on our honeymoon, and Edmond was born abroad.”
When she lifted her head, her eyes glowed. “You’re saving my reputation, and making Edmond legitimate. I can go home. Duncan, you don’t know what that means . . .”
When he moved to kiss her, she pulled her hands from his, with an apologetic smile. “Not until I’ve spoken to R—Mr. Fulton. It’s only right.”
A painful kind of wonder filled him. How a woman like her, a lady to the fingertips, wanted a man like him he’d never understand. “You make me a better man.” He meant every word. Her promise was made, and she’d keep it. He released her hands, tucked her arm through his, and escorted her to the ladder.
The Smithy, St. Aubin’s Township, Jersey
A half hour was all the mole had needed for months, but he’d had no chance. Now, his fear at desperation point, he’d take any time he could get to get a message to a ship.
Miss Sunderland’s belligerent demand to see the commander had made Stewart careless enough to hand him that time. Why so many men rushed to do the woman’s bidding he’d never know. Right now the commander was probably hearing she was leaving the mission to wed the American.
He had to move fast. The message must be received.
Standing outside one of the two Martello towers near St. Aubin’s township, he flicked his knife. A swift gurgling sound, and poor old ship’s master Jones was on the ground, the sharp point at the base of his throat leaving the blood pumping from his neck. “I’m sorry, Jonesy,” he whispered, taking the knife back. He hated that he was forced to betray people he liked and respected. When Jones was dead, he slipped past the body, inside and up to the parapet. He killed the Jerseyman on the watch before fixing the semaphore paddles to the poles, winding the torches around and fixing them well before lighting them. Dozens of French ships patrolled this area from sunset. One was bound to intercept his message and pass it on.
He moved the semaphore’s arms with practiced ease, careful to be exact. Using the torches was a big risk, especially with the township on the alert and Flynn or the commander able to see everything he signed, but he had no choice.
English spy in Boulogne. Jersey militarized. Compromised here. Do not approach.
Two minutes later, a winking light in the distance told him Message received.
The mole looked across the land. Someone had arrived, was watching; he could feel it. People were moving from the west. They’d seen the message.
He slipped down the stairs and out. Back to the whore he’d paid to keep making noises until he returned.
CHAPTER 46
St. Aubin’s Bay, Jersey (English Channel)
February 10, 1803
I PERFORMED MY PART. I made your drills and the modified brace,” Fulton said stiffly. “I want the promised passage with all my things to Amsterdam.”
Standing in the commander’s cabin, Fulton looked only at the windows behind, his color high but eyes flat. Duncan didn’t need an explanation.
“My ship cannot be spared right now. I’ll arrange passage for you on a smaller ship passing by Jersey as soon as Papillon is complete. If you prefer, I’ll hire a room at a different inn for you until that time, and hire another smith to help you repair Nautilus. But first I need you to strengthen the pump and lengthen the air hose.”
“I’d appreciate somewhere new to stay.” Spoken like a substandard actor reading unfamiliar lines. Duncan would have done the same if he’d known Fulton was to spend this night in Lisbeth’s bed. “Order the pump and hose to be brought here. I’ll do it at the forge here aboard ship with nobody watching me. It should take no more than a week.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” Duncan said, low. “Please remember, none of this discussion can be spoken outside this ship.”
If anything, Fulton became more somber. “I have no wish to die, Commander. Nor do I wish anyone else to die. Now may I leave?”
Duncan nodded. “I’ll organize a ship—and your payment—as soon as may be.”
All he got in reply was a bitter look from over Fulton’s shoulder as he left the cabin.
Duncan had won—won it all, at the expense of a good man’s innocence.
The long-familiar price of saving Britain. Under his tutelage Lisbeth had spied on Fulton, captivated him, taken his boat and his skills, allowed him to nurse her to health, let him believe she’d accept his hand, only to reject him in favor of the man he hated. All that was left was the bitter aftertaste of betrayal in the name of duty and loyalty.
Rule Britannia, the life of a King’s Man . . . or woman. No wonder Lisbeth wanted no more of it. Watching Fulton go on this, his wedding day, Duncan wasn’t certain he did either.
St. Brelade’s Church, St. Aubin’s Bay, Jersey
February 10, 1803 (Afternoon)
The plump, middle-aged rector, brought in haste from St. Helier, looked resentful as he pronounced them man and wife. Without time to heat with the day, the church was half frozen; its high stone walls and ceiling seemed to bounce the cold from outside onto them. The minister kept his cloak on over his vestments, and his traveling hat, but still he shivered. Torches in their sconces lit the ancient walls, but they gave no warmth. On a heavily clouded day, the saints in the stained-glass window behind stared down at them in sorrow.
The wedding party shivered along with the minister. West and Alec were their witnesses, while Flynn manned the semaphore on ship, and two midshipmen cleared of suspicion followed the suspects. Three months, and still no results. Whoever the mole was, he was damned good.
As weddings went, it was a quick, joyless affair. Lisbeth wore a dark winter dress, pelisse, cloak, and bonnet, her hair in a chignon. She felt positively plain beside Duncan, who wore his best commander’s uniform. There was none of her family or friends, no party planned for later. Lisbeth saw in this day the warped mirror of her first wedding, and infidelity to all her younger self’s dreams. Somehow, after all her defiance, she’d married the baron’s heir.
She stifled a giggle.
“What?” he murmured so only she could hear.
Her eyes twinkling, she whispered, “If Papa could see us now, h
ow he’d crow over me.”
Duncan chuckled and squeezed her hands. “He’ll have his opportunity, soon enough.” Then they turned to accept the hurried congratulations of the rector, and the heartier handshakes of Alec and West. Hardly had they spoken when the rector guided them to the register, rushing them through the necessities before pushing them out the church door and climbing onto his pony and trap, disappearing into the cold misery of the day.
It amazed her still that they could wed so soon. That Duncan had never burned the special license, that it was still in force and he’d had the proof of it with him—he was saving her, saving Edmond, and giving her a life in England. It hardly mattered that they had to return to work, and her only wedding trip would be inside the cramped confines of Papillon. No hidden kisses, no pretty ball gowns, no flicked looks across a room—no family apart from an almost unknown half brother and a bluff old Welsh sailor; even squashing inside the carriage with West and Alec as they rode back to the task at hand didn’t disturb her tranquility.
“I am a strange woman,” she whispered aloud, shaking her head.
“If you were not, you wouldn’t be my wife,” Duncan murmured into her ear.
She smiled at him.
Catching her whisper across the carriage, Alec grinned. “You’re a Stewart woman, Lisbeth, a strong woman of the clan. You may not fit in with the English simpering misses, but in Scotland you’ll meet many such women as yourself.”
She felt Duncan’s reserve, saw it in his frown, but Alec seemed unmoved. It seemed Alec also knew Duncan needed time to adjust to new relationships.
Before the horses had even stopped at the inn, the door was yanked open. “Commander, Commander, sir, ship’s master and the Jersey guard at the Martello tower are missing. There’s blood at the door, and on the parapet. The semaphore paddles are gone.”
Alec and West left the carriage and ran, taking the young midshipman with them. Left alone, Duncan took her hands in his. “It’s a rotten wedding day for you. I’m sorry, my dear.”
“Go,” she urged him when he hesitated. “You must.”
“Thank you, my dear.” He handed her from the carriage. “Tell no one about the marriage until we know Edmond’s safe.”
She didn’t know whether she felt disturbed or reassured by that.
He saw her inside the inn, bowed, and ran out. And Lisbeth broke the first promise she’d ever made herself, to never be her mother’s daughter, for she was watching through the window as her husband left her.
CHAPTER 47
St. Aubin’s Township, Jersey
February 10, 1803 (Late Afternoon)
UNABLE TO SEND OR receive messages for weeks on end the ship’s mole had had no choice but to follow his training. Now, with everyone shocked by Jonesy’s disappearance, they’d left Carlsberg alone at the forge, working. Fulton had stormed out last night and hadn’t returned.
He liked Carlsberg, and he truly regretted Jonesy’s death. Perhaps that was why he tied a scraggly kitten to the handle of the smithy’s front door to distract him, or maybe because a death here would draw attention to the smithy. It didn’t matter. Carlsberg was always sneaking tidbits to the ship’s cat, even if it meant she wouldn’t be chasing rats that night.
Soon the kitten’s mewing got the big man’s attention. He untied the kitten, cradling it to his chest, petting it and speaking nonsense. The kitten’s crying grew more urgent. “Oh, ho, laddie, what do you do here?” The kitten meowed again. “I think someone’s hungry.” After a glance around the smithy, he took the kitten to the inn’s kitchen for food scraps.
It took no more than a minute and a half for the mole to do what he had to. He slipped out the back way and down to the small, rough bay that was difficult to reach, where he’d set up camp the day Stewart left him to run after the Sunderland whore.
Mission accomplished.
English Channel, Near Jersey
February 10, 1803 (Evening)
The night was thick with mist and drizzling rain. They used the two-legged canvas bosun swing to lower in. She shuddered during her turn, the ropes tossing with the tide, banging her legs, hips, and shoulders against the brass coopering around the observation dome. The moment she was in, she felt squashed beside Duncan.
“Good God, but it’s awkward,” he muttered as he pulled the ropes to help her out of the canvas confines. When she was finally free of it, Duncan yelled up for the men to lift the device. “No wonder you prefer breeches for this. I can only imagine the difficulty if you wore skirts.”
With a droll expression, she looked down at herself. “Perhaps these were breeches once. They can’t be called such now.”
“That’s base ingratitude on your part. I’m sure wherever he is now, my cabin boy Mark misses them, not to mention the all-weather coat you wear is mine.” In the murky light of a half-lit lantern, she saw the anxiety behind the smile. The doctor had come this afternoon at Duncan’s insistence, dosing her with vile concoctions until she complained she’d turn as green as his herbs.
“I doubt your cabin boy misses anything about this outfit.” She pointed at the crisscross of sewing and patches. “His mother probably blesses me for not having to sew them up again.”
“At least they’ve been washed.” He called up, “Lower the rowboat, and anchor it.”
The sound of the hatch thudding closed made the jokes wither on her tongue. No air, no air, her mind whispered though there was enough to breathe for an hour. When Duncan twisted the wheel to lock it down tight, she longed for that rocking cold wind only inches away.
“Don’t think about it.” He touched her hand. “It’s only an hour or two this time. We need to test the drills before we undertake the voyage.” He grinned. “I have a range of new medicines to pour down your throat for the next few days before you can be deemed well enough to go.”
She laughed and pulled a face. “Submerge as soon as we’re free of the ropes.”
The submersible heaved as the divers released Papillon from its ropes. In the bosun now, Flynn thudded on the side wall: their sign that the launch above them was anchored in place.
Lisbeth worked the pump, feeling them submerge. “Don’t use the top propeller. We could damage it against the wood of the boat.”
The next half hour was taken up with maneuvering Papillon into place. “Damn it,” he growled. “If we have to do this every time, we won’t get more than a few ships done.”
Guiding him via the observation dome, she said, “We’ll be in the river, which is far easier to manage than the open sea. Ease up; yes, that’s it.” She turned to the new contraption above her head and turned the handle, watching all three drills turn at once, lifting upward.
“Remember the noise factor. We can’t afford to attract attention when we’re there.”
She nodded and slowed, keeping it steady. What an oddly appropriate wedding night for us.
Five minutes later she beamed. “It worked!” With the removal of the drills, she could see little bubbles of water spiraling up into the launch.
Duncan smiled back, but said, “Let’s practice changing the drill, and try again.”
She shrugged and nodded. “Do you know why Alec insisted on this test tonight?”
“No, but Alec never asks me to do anything without a reason.” He added, “If you start to cough, we’ll stop.”
An hour and five drills later, a drill broke off at its base within a few minutes, blocking the hole they’d made.
They had Alec’s reason.
“I HAD TWO MAIN suspects after you were shot in that rowboat. From what you told me, the boat moved so you were in Delacorte’s line of sight,” Alec said quietly. “Then Cal sent a note. Delacorte was on the trail within a day of your sailing out of Valery. It made it certain: it had to be either Burton or Hazeltine. I had my friends Prigent and St. Hilaire—the former highwaymen I told you about—following Burton. Hazeltine’s clumsiness was suspect, so O’Keefe and I stayed with him. When we couldn’t be there, th
e boot boy was well paid to follow Hazeltine wherever he went.”
Sitting at his desk in the commander’s quarters, Duncan heard the doubt and pain in his voice. “Hazeltine’s clumsiness has seemed suspect to me, too. Are you sure . . . ?”
Alec shook his head. “So certain I sent O’Keefe to London himself with the message rather than trusting a semaphore. We both saw him, Duncan.”
Duncan felt his shoulders slump.
“Prigent was with Hazeltine for weeks. He played cards and dice and got drunk with him, but Hazeltine never did anything else. Burton seemed innocent too, apart from a proclivity for whores. But the attack on the Martello tower couldn’t possibly have been Hazeltine; he was drunk and snoring at a card-table. I'd also put the inn’s boot boy onto Burton two days ago, when I brought Lisbeth to you. The boy’s only thirteen. He was terrified at seeing Jones’s death and ran to his grandmother’s for the night. When he came back early this morning, he told Hill everything about the Martello tower attack. Hill came to us. I put one of my highwayman friends on Burton, who followed him all day. The proof is positive.”
Duncan felt his shoulders drop even more. “Well then.”
A scratch at the door, and Hazeltine and Flynn frog-marched a trussed Burton between them. His second lieutenant was pale, dark hair mussed, but his eyes flashed with defiance.
“He entered the smithy today while we were investigating Jones’s disappearance. St. Hilaire saw him enter and leave and followed him to a bay to the west of town,” Alec said grimly. “I checked everything when he reported to me. Papillon seemed sound. That’s why I asked you to check the drills. Swapping the drills for some of inferior make seemed the easiest type of sabotage. St. Hilaire sent his men to every smith on the island. Burton had them made by the smith at St. Clement’s Bay, to the east. The smith identified Burton beyond doubt.”
