Adrian stared at Falworth, a man he neither liked nor trusted, and wondered what was behind the sudden gesture of confidence. In no mood to deliberate subtleties, he asked outright.
Falworth’s smile tilted and he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Why, because I am on your side, believe it not. And because, in a way, I admire the task you have set out to do and I should hate to see you or your merry band of patriots fail this close to achieving success.”
“You are speaking in riddles, Falworth. Make your point.”
“My point, sir, has to do with your little witch hunt. Your game of spy-catch-spy. It would be a shame to have it compromised this late in the play, would it not...Captain?”
Ballantine’s manner betrayed nothing, but his eyes darkened at the deliberate emphasis placed on the upgraded rank.
The snuffbox closed with a snap. Falworth’s smile broadened until the gleam was reflected in Adrian’s eyes.
“Walk with me to my cabin, Lieutenant,” Adrian said evenly. “We can talk while I change clothes.”
“Delighted.”
When they were safely in Ballantine’s cabin, away from prying eyes and ears, Ballantine rounded on the junior lieutenant.
“You may explain your remarks now, Mr. Falworth. And the explanation had better be good.”
“Shall I start with your court-martial?”
“What about it?” Adrian snapped.
Falworth strolled to the desk and fingered the ormolu facing on the humidor for a moment before he opened the lid and helped himself to a cigar. He ran it under his nose, his nostrils flaring slightly with the fragrance of Virginia-grown tobacco, and he glanced speculatively at Ballantine.
“I followed the trial with some interest. We all did, as you can well imagine. Engaging in fisticuffs with your commanding officer is decreed an act of mutiny, whether justifiable or not, and in the navy, mutiny is punishable by hanging.”
“There were innocent lives at stake, and Sutcliffe was too drunk to give a damn.”
“Testimony amply supported by half a dozen officers and crewmen present on deck at the time. Yes, I know.”
“Then I fail to understand the problem, or the connection.”
“The problem is that James Sutcliffe had never been known to take a drink on board ship before. Not even a tot of grog. On shore, yes, in spades. But then you should know that, since you were often his drinking partner during some of his more astounding bouts.”
“Once again I would ask: Is there a point to all this?”
Falworth pursed his thin lips. “Several points, actually. First, as I said: the court-martial. Regardless of how valiant or eloquent or justifiable your defence was, at the very least, naval precedent should have seen you relegated to a dusty room somewhere counting gull eggs well into senility. And frankly, it looked as though that was how the ruling would go—until Commodore Edward Preble appeared and spoke to the tribunal on your behalf. Which brings us to the second point: a long, closed-door conference later and you emerge with a slapped wrist and a year’s probation in which to ‘redeem yourself.’ Sutcliffe subsequently and conveniently retires and—" he held a candle to the end of the cigar and watched Ballantine’s face through the cloud of blue-white smoke— “our fire-breathing lieutenant is suddenly as meek and repentant as a beaten dog. A lesson learned? Possibly, but I think not. And that brings us to point three.”
Adrian waited, his fists flexing where he held them behind his back.
“Coded dispatches,” Falworth continued blithely, “secret orders, vital strategies have all been winding up in the wrong hands. The Tripolitans know where our ships will be before we do. They know our numbers, they know our plans. It is difficult to believe we harbor a traitor in our midst. I mean, one expects that sort of behavior from Arab-loving sand-hill bandits—it is inbred, after all—but from a fine, upstanding American naval officer? Hardly.”
“How did you hear about this?” Adrian asked coldly.
“Ahh, the look of the betrayed. Really, Captain, you have been in this man's navy long enough to know by now that nothing remains a secret for very long.” Falworth paused and grinned cryptically. “Especially when one’s cousin happens to be adjutant to one of Preble’s senior captains.”
Adrian made a mental note of the source. “How far has this information gone?”
“Are you asking if it has reached the Old Man’s ears? If it has, he has not said anything to me—which would be strange indeed, since he considers my assistance invaluable in gathering nails for your coffin.”
Ballantine forced himself to take a deep breath before he made any further attempts to untangle the net he could feel tightening around him. What the hell had gone wrong? How could such carefully made plans have been compromised by a starch-necked incompetent like Otis Falworth?
“From your silence, Captain, may I assume I have scored a bull’s-eye on all counts?”
Ballantine glared at him, rankling at the deliberate usage of the rank known only to a handful of people. “From your persistence, Lieutenant, may I assume you have a definite purpose in mind for all of these revelations?”
“Let us just say I am hoping we can arrive at some mutually satisfying arrangements in exchange for my continued silence.”
“Such as?
Falworth spread his hands expansively. “With Jennings out of the way who would be in line to assume command of the Eagle?”
“Jennings? What makes you think Jennings is the traitor?”
“If he is not, why the elaborate hoax? Why were you transferred to this ship? Why was Sutcliffe so agreeable to the ruse, and why, in heaven’s name, would you have permitted your reputation to be savaged, even temporarily? I can only imagine the grand Virginia Ballantines have collectively turned blue at the news.”
“Leave my family out of this,” Adrian quietly insisted.
Falworth puffed the cigar and ignored the rebuke. “But then it would take someone on equally grand footing to catch a man like Jennings. Brother-in-law to Commodore Morris; first cousin to one of Britain‘s most illustrious heroes, William Bligh. Good God, you do not send a powder monkey to investigate a man with that lineage."
“No one has said Jennings is the prime suspect,” Adrian reiterated, but he did not sound convincing, even to his own ears. Falworth merely smiled and tapped the ash from his cigar.
“Everything points to Jennings and everything points to you belonging to one of these new breed of clever, fearless men who work out of a department at the Admiralty known to a few as naval intelligence. As it happens, I am one of the few. And I could prove invaluable in your efforts to expose Jennings as a coward and a traitor.”
Adrian fought to contain his fury. Heads were going to roll in the War Department, beginning with that of the officious adjutant to one of Preble’s senior captains!
“Conversely,” Falworth added, “I could rethink my alternatives. I could impart all I know to Jennings, then simply stand back and watch him unleash the dogs on you.” He grinned faintly and his voice was little more than a murmur. “Or perhaps he will arrange another little...accident? With breaching tackle perhaps?”
Adrian’s chest constricted. “What do you know about that?”
“About your brother’s death? Nothing beyond speculation. But it did seem a little odd at the time that he could be agile enough to survive the heat of battle, yet too clumsy to avoid tripping over a length of cable. One could speculate that he overheard something. Or saw something he should not have, perhaps. I do not know, Captain. Do you?”
Adrian’s fists trembled by his sides, and his cheeks were bloodless beneath the tan. “If I ever find out you do know something, Falworth—”
Falworth held up a hand. “There is no need to go into details. I am well aware of what you can do with your hands, and your skill with both sword and pistol is legendary. As I said before, I am on your side.”
“For a price,” Adrian snarled.
“We all have one,” the lieutena
nt said. “Mine just happens to be slightly more tangible than yours. Think about it, Lieutenant Ballantine, and do let me know your decision.”
He walked past Adrian to the door. “Oh, and about the girl—?”
Ballantine braced himself for yet another shock as he turned to stare at Falworth. “What about her?”
“It goes without saying, she is included in our arrangements. We have already discussed it, and she seems quite amenable. After all, we would not want to see any harm come to her.”
“You have discussed it? When?”
Falworth grinned. "Are you annoyed that she prefers me to you?”
Ballantine shook his head with disgust. “Frankly it does not surprise me at all. The two of you deserve one another.”
“Of course, I did not fall for her little story. The poor, kidnapped daughter of a Spanish Grandee." Falworth sniffed derisively. "I knew what she was up to. I knew what she wanted from me. And I dare say, she has found out what I want from her.”
Ballantine’s head was spinning. Miranda Gold! Falworth was talking about Miranda Gold, not Courtney Farrow. Good God! He and Matt were worrying about the girl giving herself away and here he, Adrian Ballantine, agent for the American government, a man supposedly at the peak of his intelligence, cunning, and wit, had nearly handed her over to Falworth on a platter.
“What you do or do not do with each other is up to the two of you,” Adrian said tersely. “As for any help you could offer, it could take me a month, it could take me six months to get the proof I need to uncover whoever is selling information to our enemies. Until then, I would appreciate it if you just stay out of my way. And I would be damned careful around Jennings, if I were you. He is not known for his penchant for sharing."
“And the Eagle?”
“The decision is not mine.”
“But you do have influence. And I suspect there must be a paper lying around here somewhere...a document signed by the powers-that-be giving you absolute authority on board this ship in the event of an emergency?”
“Jennings is captain of the Eagle. While we are at sea, and while he continues to fly the Stars and Stripes and not the Tripolitan flag, his authority remains absolute.”
“With exceptions.”
“No exceptions.”
Falworth pursed his lips. “Perhaps you are not as clever as I assumed you to be. You have placed yourself in a rather awkward position, have you not? I mean, suppose he orders you flogged on a whim? Or has you shot for insubordination? As senior captain you do outrank him, do you not?”
“My rank on shore has nothing to do with the chain of command on board this ship. The commodore was very clear on that point, and I am afraid I have to agree with him.”
Falworth sighed and tapped more ash onto the floor. “In that case, I should think you would want all the allies you could find. My offer still stands. And my terms. Think about it, Old Boy, and let me know.”
He touched a finger to one silver streak in a mocking salute and exited the cabin without a further word.
~~
Dressed in his seediest shirt and breeches, Ballantine made a brief appearance in the infirmary. He saw Courtney toiling indolently over a pile of cotton strips, rolling them into bandages.
“This woman, Miranda Gold," he asked without preamble. "Who is she?”
“Are you asking out of personal interest, Yankee?” Courtney jerked her head up, briefly taken aback by the abruptness of the question.
“I am asking because she had the same look on her face when she figured out who 'Curt Brown' was as you did just now when I mentioned her name. I want to know why.”
A shadow flickered in the emerald eyes. “Miranda knows I am alive?”
“Is that going to be a problem? If it is, dammit, I want to know now.”
“So you can plead ignorance and offer me to the wolves first?”
“Do not tempt me. And do not avoid the question. What will she do?”
“I do not know,” she replied quietly. “If it suits her purpose to keep her mouth shut, she will. If she thinks she has more to gain by selling me out, she will.”
Ballantine’s face darkened like a thundercloud. “Is this an example of the loyalty you boasted of among your father’s people?”
“Miranda was never one of my father’s people,” said Courtney harshly. “She was my father’s whore. Her only loyalty is to herself.” She stopped and seemed to collect herself, then added in a more restrained tone, “I tried to tell you this was a bad idea from the outset. I told you to send me back to the hold. Now you do not have a choice if you want to salvage your precious Yankee hides.”
Matthew Rutger, who had been standing silently to one side, looked up at Courtney’s words and studied the lieutenant’s face. There was no hint as to what was going on behind the iron-gray eyes, no hint as to the cause of the tension lining Adrian’s face.
“You will stay where you are until I say otherwise,” Ballantine said firmly. “And your only hope of getting out of this in one piece is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open from here on out. Matt—a word with you outside for a moment.”
Courtney bunched her fists around a handful of cotton strips and glared at the two men as they stepped out into the companionway. She could not hear what was being said, but she noticed a worried frown on the doctor’s brow and a quick glance in her direction before he gave a last curt nod.
Ballantine did not look at her again. He departed for the brig and Courtney was left to fume ineffectually at Dr. Rutger while he busied himself over his table of surgical instruments.
“The last of our men have been tended,” he said after a lengthy, glowering silence. “If you would care to stop scowling long enough, you can accompany me down to the hold, and I will see what I can do to help patch up your friends.”
“Seagram?” Court cried softly and dropped the roll of bandages. It unravelled, like a slithering white snake, but neither of them paid heed. “Oh please. Please, let me see him. Let me help him. I promise not to get in the way, or...or do anything to cause any trouble.”
Matt was startled to feel his cheeks growing warm. Courtney Farrow was the most unfeminine creature he had met in a long time, and yet there she stood, appealing to him in a way that was both soft and sensual, and completely without guile.
“Doctor?”
“Of course,” he stammered. “Of course you can help. I just need to gather up a few tools here.”
Courtney nearly overturned the bench in her haste to assist the doctor and follow him out the door. She needed no warning glance to tell her to lower her head when they passed crewmen in the companionway, or to stay close in the doctor’s shadow as they approached the armed marines posted outside the storeroom that served as a holding cell for Seagram and Nilsson. The sail locker was small and airless, barely large enough to allow for both men to sit amongst the thick rolls of spare canvas.
“All right, step aside,” Matt ordered, trying to sound impatient to complete an unwanted task. “I have been given orders by Lieutenant Ballantine to see that these men are fit to stand their punishment tomorrow. Curt—bring the lantern. Hold it high so I can see, dammit.”
The wall of guards shifted grudgingly as Courtney followed the doctor’s command. At first she did not see Seagram, only Nilsson, and the sudden rush of panic caused the air to back up in her throat. But the giant corsair was there, huddled in the corner, his massive arms weighted down beneath three heavy coils of chain. His ankles were manacled together, similarly weighted with chains, and the iron links were fed through a ring embedded in the wall. His face was shiny with sweat and blood. His shirt was in tatters; his flesh showed the scores of fresh bruises bestowed by his guards.
“Seagram,” she whispered and started toward the corner. Matt’s warning hand on her arm stopped her.
“We will treat this one first, Curt. He seems to be the worse off.”
Courtney looked down. Nilsson was lying motionless on a heap of folded canvas.
His eyes were wide and fixed on the ceiling beams. His chest labored up and down to suck in badly needed air; each breath produced a rattle of bubbles from the crush of flesh and bone showing through his shirt. His hands were shaped into claws, the knuckles white and trembling through the waves of incredible agony.
“I will need water,” Matt said crisply. “And plenty of cloths.”
Courtney’s hands were shaking badly as she ladled water from a huge barrel in the corridor into a tin pan. Some of the contents splashed onto the boots and trouser legs of the guards as she dashed back into the storage locker, earning a few muttered curses in her wake. She ignored them in her concern for Nilsson and Seagram—especially Nilsson. His wound, similar to the one that had taken her uncle's life, made it seem to her that she was reliving those last few horrible hours on the beach when she could do nothing to help Verart Farrow.
She could see the memories glazing Seagram’s eyes also as he watched the doctor’s futile attempts to staunch the flow of blood and somehow repair the gaping hole between Nilsson’s ribs. All of them knew the task was a hopeless one and the best that could be gained would be an easing of his physical pain.
Leaving Matthew with the pan of water, the cloths, the needle and thread, Courtney inched toward Seagram as unobtrusively as possible. She knelt beside him and, conscious of the eyes boring into her back, reached trembling fingers forward to probe the bloodied shreds of his shirt sleeve. Raw, bright pink flesh lay exposed in a strip from shoulder to elbow. The edges of his shirt were charred and stiff with congealed blood; his left hand was a sickly gray and was cradled limply in his right.
“Why did you do it, Seagram?” Courtney’s lips barely moved, her voice audible only to Seagram. “Why?”
“I had to try, lass. If I am to die, I would rather die fighting.”
“Then why did you back down? You had the Yankees exactly where you wanted them.”
The giant smiled briefly, even as he winced under Courtney’s ministration. “For you, lass. Duncan and Verart would both curse me from hell and beyond if I’d spent yer life so freely.”
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