by Lisa Chaplin
Duncan looked at the man whom, apart from Flynn, he’d thought of as his right hand for five years. He’d entrusted Lisbeth to his care when he went to England, had trusted the man with his own life more than once. He turned to Alec, eyes pleading. Gentle with regret, Alec nodded.
“That’s why Miss Sunderland wasn’t attacked when in your care, only mine,” he said, just now realizing a truth he ought to have seen months ago. “Delacorte wanted no attention drawn to you. You were too important.”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir, but the man following me saw nothing, sir,” John Burton said. “I was merely curious and looked at the drills—”
“It wasn’t St. Hilaire who followed you to Petit Port in St. Owen’s Bay, but O’Keefe, a highly placed King’s Man. You replaced three dozen of the drills with some made from poor-quality steel. You got to damage a dozen of them until the alarm sounded from the ship, recalling the crew. O’Keefe saw you toss the rest in the harbor late this afternoon. I found the semaphore paddles there as well. Ingenious, adding the torches for night use. Unfortunately for you, both O’Keefe and another King’s Man, Le Brigand, saw and reported you there. From then, we knew where we were. Hazeltine was deep in a card game with half the crew.” With a contemptuous half smile, Alec held open an oilskin packet filled with steel drills. “Unfortunately for you, I was a navy diver.”
Seeing Burton’s shoulders drop a fraction, Duncan grieved anew. “Why didn’t you expose him this afternoon? Why put us through all this rigmarole?”
Alec’s face was neutral. “Would you have believed me if you hadn’t seen the inferior drills breaking off in the hull? Would you have accepted my word over Burton’s?”
Duncan surprised even himself by saying, “Yes, I would. You’re my brother.”
Alec smiled in a way he hadn’t seen before. “If you ask me, we’ll get nothing from him.”
Two hours later, Duncan had to agree. “This is useless. Burton’s father bought him the commission as midshipman when he was fourteen. He’s been on my ship five years. This will break the Burtons’ hearts. They lost him once before—he disappeared at five years old and was returned to them when he was nine.”
Watching Burton, Alec said, “Perhaps he’s one of those stories I’ve heard about—a street urchin trained in the game from childhood, a French child replacing a missing English child. They have a blind devotion to France, being taken off the streets and given everything.”
Burton remained silent, but the air fairly crackled with hate.
“Where’s Jonesy’s body?” Duncan asked, his voice cold. “At least give us his body to bury. He loved you like a son. You owe him that much.”
Burton didn’t even turn. “I demand to be returned to the Admiralty for trial.”
Why that convinced Duncan he didn’t know, but looking at Burton, he saw a true French loyalist. He’d give nothing away. “String him up,” he ordered Hazeltine and Flynn.
Hazeltine gasped. “Sir, he asked to be handed over to the Admiralty—”
“Extraordinary circumstances, Hazeltine. He claims to be a British national, so he’s guilty of treason on the evidence of two high-ranking King’s Men,” Duncan snapped. “I’ll take the responsibility. String him up.”
Flynn said quietly, “I ask to be recused, sir. Burton and I joined your crew together.”
“Permission denied,” he snapped, thinking of Burton carrying him to the midwife’s, or when he covered Duncan with his body during a sea battle. He wondered at the duality of the man he’d have trusted with his life. Had it all been a lie?
Faces ravaged, his first and third lieutenants marched Burton out, their friend, drinking mate, and confidant until this hour.
Swinging from the yardarm, Burton said only three words before his neck snapped. Vive la France.
Duncan turned away from the jerking body with the tongue sticking out, the bluish-purple face and staring eyes. “Take him down, and throw him over,” he said to his sailors.
“He was my best signaler,” he muttered to Alec. “At least we know how so many secrets found their way to Paris.”
Alec put a hand on his shoulder. “Delacorte’s probably got ships waiting to hear where to drop anchor to stop Papillon. Burton must have truly felt desperate to kill Jones. The man was like a father to him.”
Duncan glanced at Flynn, who watched the sailors taking down Burton’s body, his face expressionless. Duncan knew Burton’s last words would ring in Flynn’s ears, too, until Gabriel blew his trumpet. “What type of signal did he use?”
“Only Nelson’s style of messaging in my sight,” Flynn replied, voice guttural.
“Did he ever send a message you didn’t understand?”
With a frown, Flynn shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think to look until we all came under suspicion, and he hasn’t been on the semaphore since then.”
“Ask every man if they saw anything, no matter how ridiculous it seems to them. Go,” he snapped when Flynn kept staring at the corpse of his friend.
Flynn saluted and strode away.
Alec said when Flynn was gone, “Sometimes these spies work in pairs. We don’t know if Burton was the senior or junior partner made a scapegoat.”
Duncan gave him a helpless look and swore. “It’s February as it is. The winter storms will end soon. Boney is pushing hard for the sale of Louisiana. It won’t take long now. Even if the Americans are finding it hard to raise the money, the slave rebellions in Louisiana are growing in violence, and the government needs the right to end the unrest the Spanish are fomenting through Florida. We can’t go until we know which drills work and which don’t, and finding another mole could take months we don’t have. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Alec put an arm around his shoulder. “Give me two weeks. I’ll sleep on the forecastle—I did it as a midshipman—and watch for messages from Boulogne. I’ll send all messages myself. Flynn can work with Carlsberg in the smithy, since Fulton’s done a runner. Since West has been absolutely proven innocent by being with Lisbeth throughout her sickness, he can do semaphore with me. Hazeltine and the midshipmen can take the night watches from below. We’ll flush this mole out if he exists, never fear.”
Duncan nodded. “It’s a good idea. I can take shifts with you on the semaphore—”
“You have a wife now,” Alec said gently, smiling. “It’s after two in the morning. She must think you’ve forgotten her. Go, lad, and trust me. I’ll captain the ship in your absence.”
Duncan stared at this brother he’d tried so hard to push away from the day they’d met, Cal too—but they were still here. Now, during the final hours of this imperative mission, he thanked God he had a wife and family he could trust to the death. He, who’d always been alone, now had a family—and he hadn’t done a damn thing to earn their loyalty.
Feeling strange and awkward, he held out his hand. “I’ll inform the crew.”
Alec grinned and pushed him. “Go to your lass. She’s waiting for you. If there’s another mole, he has to come on board with us. Half a dozen Jerseymen guard every Martello tower. If a second mole exists, he can’t get a message to Delacorte about your marriage, or where you sleep at night. So go. Maybe you think you don’t deserve a honeymoon, but Lisbeth does. A week or two of recovery time, and a bit of happiness, will only improve her outlook for the mission.”
Duncan grinned, feeling foolish and uncertain. “Strip all suspects of weapons or anything that can make fire and keep them out of the galley.” He wished to God the rest of this day hadn’t happened. Wishing he could still count on Burton’s loyalty, or that any part of his relationship with Lisbeth could have followed a normal course.
“Go. She’ll forgive you.” Alec clasped his hand and held out the other crossed over the first. Duncan took the double clasp and, grinning, gripped in return: a cementing of brotherhood.
Acceptance.
CHAPTER 48
The Ship Inn, St. Aubin’s Township, Jersey
> LISBETH WOKE WITH A start and shiver. The room was cool; she didn’t remember going to bed, but she lay on top of the blankets. The candles burned low, but the fire was bright. Turning, she saw a figure crouched in front of the hearth, stoking the fire.
It took a moment to understand why he was here. “Duncan?”
He turned and smiled at her, as uncertain as her tone. The winter in his eyes made her shiver again; the memory of the evening returned. He’d sent her back to the inn with West and Carlsberg after the testing of the drills was done. “Who was it?” she asked softly.
He faced the fire again. After almost a minute, he said, “Burton.”
She pressed her lips together. Only the name of Flynn could have hurt Duncan more. Slipping off the bed, she came up behind him, forgetting all the embarrassment she’d expected to feel tonight. She knelt and put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”
The stiffness in his body slowly gave way, and he leaned back against her. “He’s dead.”
The warmth of the fire seeped into them. There was nothing to say. Her legs had begun to grow numb by the time he turned and put his forehead to hers.
The log he’d put on the fire crackled, sending a tiny shower of sparks up. His eyes opened. “Lizzy,” he said hoarsely.
Her fears seemed petty in the light of his grief. She kissed him, but he drowned the tenderness in his desperate need to forget. “Come to bed, Duncan.” She stood, took his hand, and led him across the room.
Whitehall, London
February 20, 1803
Windham slapped his desk with an open hand. “Hawkesbury, this is a farce! You’ve seen the confirmation we needed that Boney’s been breaking the Treaty of Amiens from day one! Addington’s seen this. How can he possibly deny—”
Seated opposite Windham, Foreign Secretary Lord Hawkesbury merely lifted a tired shoulder. “Do you think me privy to the workings of Addington’s mind? The Treasury’s in a mess; the bulk of the trained army’s in Egypt, and recalling the troops from Ireland would invite insurrection there. Though we can recall half-pay officers and sailors in a day, there aren’t ships enough for them all, and no time to build. We’ve recalled two dozen ships from the Caribbean, but they won’t arrive for six to eight weeks, depending on the weather. The king’s, ah, indisposed again”—ah, the delicate political term for another bout of madness—“and the Prince of Wales doesn’t want to send his dear friends to fight the French. Take your choice, Windham. Addington won’t declare war or even push back at Boney unless he’s forced into it. But since he isn’t in Paris . . .”
There was a slight emphasis on the final words. Windham searched the other’s face, but saw no expression. “Whitworth’s new to the embassy. He appears to be doing well.”
The slightly hawkish nose twitched. Windham caught the trace of pleasure in Hawkesbury’s eyes in an otherwise morose face. He must be picking up the right crumbs. “He’s the essence of a gentleman, Windham. Tact personified.”
“I’ve heard he has quite the temper when pushed,” Windham pressed, delicately for him since Hawkesbury tended to ride his high horse if he became offended. “Wasn’t he, ah”—he scrambled to think of a subtle enough word—“provoked by the Irish once or twice?”
Hawkesbury merely lifted his brows. Windham sensed he was waiting, but Windham had no idea for what, so waited in turn. Eventually Hawkesbury spoke. “Certainly he can, as can all gentlemen when pressed. And his lady wife can be quite haughty.”
Windham held in the grin. Yes, Lady Whitworth could be unpleasant, but much was forgiven in the former Duchess of Dorset, who had a stipend of thirteen thousand pounds a year.
“It’s true,” Hawkesbury murmured. “However, Addington says that in post-Terror France, it’s easy to see war where there is only violence and savagery. However, a push in the right direction to an easily agitated leader, by a man he is known to fear . . . ?” Again, that little, tired shrug; but Hawkesbury’s fine, dark eyes seemed to be conveying a hint.
Windham hadn’t gained office by connections alone. “I’ve heard Captain Wright has a yearning to visit Paris again. If he were to ask you for a recommendation . . . ?”
The gentle set to the peer’s shoulders relaxed. Boney had hated Wright since his escape from the infamous Temple prison with Sir Sidney Smith in ’98. “I’d be delighted, dear fellow.”
Eaucourt, France
February 22, 1803
“Did you hear? Alain Delacorte is dead!”
In the tavern on the Eaucourt road leading to Abbeville, one of the men assigned to watch Delacorte’s home and family looked around sharply, slopping his ale on his jacket. With a low curse, he shook it off. Asking for a towel meant losing precious seconds of the news.
From a shadowed corner, hat shading his face, Cal Stewart listened as the drama he’d created unfolded.
“No!” one of the wenches gasped, and then she pouted. “He was one of my best customers.”
“Oui, he always paid for his whores on time, if nothing else,” the tavern keep muttered with a sour look.
“You wouldn’t have customers without us,” the wench retorted with a sneer. “It’s not like your ragout or goulash is world famous, and you water the ale and wine.”
General sniffs and sniggers followed.
“Well, he’s dead—killed in the attack on Fort Vauban in Ambleteuse back in October—the same night someone tried to kill the first consul,” the carter yelled over the laughter. “I heard the tale when I was picking up my load in Abbeville this afternoon. The Jacobins were celebrating good and loud, after what he did to them.”
Everyone stopped and turned to him again. “What was he doing at Fort Vauban? He’s no soldier!”
“I heard tell he was chasing that wife of his who disappeared. I heard she was playing house with some American or Briton, and when Delacorte tried to take her, her lover killed him.”
“Well, which is it? Did he die in Fort Vauban or did his wife’s lover kill him?” one man asked in exasperation.
“I don’t know, but look here. I got the list on the reward notice for any trace of the killer. The Jacobins were handing them around. Delacorte’s on the list of the dead.”
News like this was bound to cause a sensation in a small place like Eaucourt. Everyone crowded around the carter, looking for the name, seeing how much was being offered.
The faces on the reward sheet were nothing like those of the Stewart brothers, naturally. Cal had paid the pamphleteer well.
After seeing Delacorte’s name on the list of mostly military victims, Delacorte’s man left the tavern. “So much for being paid double when he returns,” he muttered. They’d run out of money weeks ago. “Delacorte can go straight to hell! I’m for work that has payment up front!”
Cal watched Delacorte’s man run to his friends. Within a week of receiving Duncan’s letter, the mission was almost complete, and all for the price of two carts of logs, three hundred pamphlets, and the promise of public revenge on Delacorte. The conspiracy with the Jacobins had a lovely irony he was sure Delacorte wouldn’t appreciate.
Cal drained the last of his watered ale. Now he’d take Lisbeth’s baby and the child’s grandmother, get the midwife, and leave France. No more perfect revenge could he have on the bastard.
Late that night, the carriage was heading north, Madame Delacorte holding the sleeping child and weeping for the choice of love she’d been forced to make. Cal had left a note on Delacorte’s dresser. It had but two words:
For Clare.
St. Helier, Jersey
March 6, 1803
Called to the nearest Martello tower to receive an urgent message from Alec, Duncan returned to the inn to find Lisbeth. In the near month since their marriage, she always understood when he had to go, but he refused to break his word.
He found her at the forge, where Carlsberg and Flynn had taken over Fulton’s task. Flynn was twisting the metal in the superheated fire. Once each drill piece was cooled and in its place in
side Fulton’s clever drill bar, Carlsberg soldered them in. The bar had a cunning device to make the drills move together. If one drill broke, the entire bar would need replacing. They’d have to take Papillon to a safe place above the waterline to do it, but there was no other way.
“All’s going to plan, Commander. We’ll be done with this lot in a few more days,” Carlsberg pronounced cheerfully. “You’ll have five dozen triple drills, as planned. I’m just sorry I’m doing the job so much slower than Fulton.”
Duncan clapped Carlsberg on the shoulder. “Thank you for taking over the job.”
The older man winked at Lisbeth. “I’m happy to oblige, so long as you promise me this little girl will get a real wedding trip when the mission’s done.”
Duncan grinned. “Now there’s a promise I’m delighted to give.”
Flicking a glance at his wife, he finally understood the term blushing bride. She slipped out of the forge with murmured excuses.
Duncan smiled. As soon as Flynn and Carlsberg discovered their commander had wed, they conspired to ensure she and Duncan had time alone—and both men gave wedding gifts. Carlsberg had given them a bottle of his old mother’s homemade mead to ensure fruitfulness—and Flynn had given Duncan a wedding ring for his bride. “I’m sorry it’s only silver,” he’d said gruffly, the tips of his ears red, “but I noticed Mrs. Aylsham has no ring. My grandfather was a silversmith. I know it’s not fancy. I crafted it in haste . . .”
Duncan slipped the simple ring on Lisbeth's wedding finger with quiet thanks.
Tears in her eyes, Lisbeth had shaken hands with his men. “I’ll treasure this ring, Lieutenant Flynn. I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for Commander Aylsham and me.”
They’d used the mead that night for a toast, wishing the couple health and happiness together.
A few minutes after Lisbeth left the forge, Duncan found her in the cobblestone lane behind the smithy. It climbed up to the hill above in a world of soft-falling morning rain and lush gardens. They’d taken the spot as their own for the past week. Lisbeth loved the budding flowers and early spring rains, so soft after the hard winter. Spring usually came early to Jersey.
