by Georgie Lee
He passed a group of men whispering on a corner, eyeing them as warily as they eyed him. He reached into his pocket and clutched the smooth butt of the duelling pistol, ready to use it if he must. It hadn’t been out of his possession since Cas’s ship had disappeared over the horizon, leaving nothing but empty, rolling sea between them, and the tortuous imprint of her supple body against his.
Curse fate, he muttered under his breath. Curse it for bringing them together and distracting him when his plans were on the verge of crashing down around him because Walter was gone. He needed a clear head, especially in the midst of all these thieves and cutthroats.
He turned down a narrow side street and followed the familiar route to the tavern at the end. The rank stench of stale beer and sweat greeted him when he stepped inside. He twisted his way through the tables of barely clad whores and drinking men, ducking a low beam and the rusty lantern hanging from it. He searched the rough and creased faces, most of whom avoided his direct stare, searching for the man he needed before spying him at a table near the back.
‘’Ello, Rose,’ the slender man drawled, taking a puff of his long, clay pipe. The smoke swirled around his head and added to the hazy fog filling the room. The tart smell of tobacco was preferable to the tavern’s less savoury odours.
Richard slid into the chair next to the man, keeping his back to the wall so no one could sneak up on him. ‘What news, Martin?’
The man smiled, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. ‘In no mood for pleasantries?’
Richard tossed two coins on the table. ‘How’s this for pleasantries?’
The man’s greasy fingers slid out from beneath his stained coat and covered the coins.
‘I enjoy your banter.’ Martin let out a craggy laugh, the sound of it lost in the noise of the tavern. ‘It seems your friend is trading with pirates again and bolder about it than before.’
‘I knew Vincent wouldn’t stay away for too long,’ he said. Especially with Richard interrupting his legitimate business. ‘Who’s he working with this time?’
‘Captain Dehesa of the Casa de Oro.’
‘Vincent must be desperate. Captain Dehesa won’t be easily controlled by a gentleman.’ Richard sneered at the word gentleman. He’d long ago stopped thinking of Vincent in such civilised terms. ‘At least Captain Stowe could be manipulated.’
‘Probably why he got caught.’
‘And murdered before he could appear before a judge and risk revealing his pact with Vincent.’
‘That was Mr Adams’s doing. Pirates know it. Made them leery of yer Mr Fitzwilliam.’
‘Then why is Captain Dehesa trading with him?’
Martin sucked on the pipe, exhaling smoke when he answered, ‘Maybe he likes a challenge.’
From what little Richard knew of the Spaniard, even this scant explanation seemed plausible. He was a pirate renowned for taking risks, for his cunning and his lethalness. ‘When’s the trade?’
‘Next Wednesday night at Hog Island.’
Richard turned a large coin over in his hand and danced it along the tops of his knuckles. If Richard could reach Captain Dehesa and convince him to turn against Vincent for a handsome price, he might finally gain the evidence he needed to ruin his former friend.
‘Thank you, Martin. Always a pleasure doing business with you.’ Richard flipped the coin across the table, and Martin snatched it from the air.
‘Which is why I’ll tell you one more bit o’ news for free—you being me best customer, I’d ’ate to lose you.’
Richard leaned across the table. ‘Yes?’
‘Captain Dehesa won’t be alone. Two men was in here a while back, hired by the schooner your Mr Fitzwilliam paid to trade with Captain Dehesa. They was bragging a right great deal about how this would be the end of the Spaniard.’
‘It’s a trap.’ Richard thumped the table. ‘Vincent gets his silver in the trade with Captain Dehesa. The schooner accompanies the Casa de Oro out to sea, turns on Captain Dehesa and gets a ship full of cargo to trade with another unsuspecting pirate. I thought Captain Dehesa too shrewd to fall for such a trick.’
‘He’s overconfident.’ He pointed the stem of his pipe at Richard. ‘They’re always the first to topple.’
Richard straightened, eager to get back aboard his ship. ‘Thanks for the warning. Send word if you hear anything else.’
Martin saluted him with the pipe. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
Richard slid out the door and wound his way through the maze of crumbling buildings leading down to the wharf, the almost full moon illuminating the island and the wide expanse of ocean beyond. The silvery light glinted off the slick palm fronds fluttering in the tropical breeze. The rustling sound reminded him of the tranquillity of Sutherland Place, his family’s plantation on the James River. For a moment, he could almost forget the ugliness around him and how much he missed the peace of the Virginia countryside. During his last year at home, he hadn’t realised how fragile such peace could be. Not even after his mother’s death when he was fourteen had he suspected how much a man could really lose. While Richard had courted Cas, revelling in her caresses and his plans for his life as a privateer, his father had hidden the weakness invading his lungs, as well as his debts.
Richard drew the collar of his coat tighter around him to ward off the unusual evening chill and the old memories scratching at him. He could see again the letter from Walter explaining how Sutherland Place had been sold because Richard’s father had secretly mortgaged it to purchase the Maiden’s Veil, hoping the prize money would pay the mounting bills. Richard had sent his father money, hoping to save the plantation from the auction block, but it had been too late.
It was the letter that had followed soon after that made Richard stop in the street, barely able to hear the drunk pirate propped up against a wall begging for money. If Walter hadn’t told Richard’s father the truth at the end, his father would’ve died still cursing his only son.
Richard brought his foot down hard on an empty bottle of rum, shattering the glass beneath his boot. What the hell have I done?
If he hadn’t insisted on going to sea, they all could have been happy at Sutherland Place or Belle View and he ignorant of Nassau and what it was like to kill a sailor in a fight. He would have had the care of the planting seasons, a wife and a family to rule his days instead of the icy demands of revenge.
He met the beggar’s watery eyes set in a gaunt, unshaven face. This wretch, racked by the thirst for rum, was better off than Richard and his consuming desire for vengeance. Richard reached into his coat and pulled out a coin and dropped it in the man’s cup.
‘Bless you, sir,’ the drunk offered in a raspy voice.
Richard said nothing, but continued down the hill towards the docks. He was beyond blessings, and, with nothing left but his need to ruin Vincent, beyond redemption.
‘Leave this life. Take the money you’ve made from it and go to the islands and establish yourself as a planter. Many have done it before...’ Cas’s voice whispered in the distant crash of the surf against the shore.
He slid his hand into his pocket and traced the fine engraving on the pistol with his fingertips. In the weight of it, he could almost feel Cas’s back against his palm, her eyes heavy with passion, her red lips parted in wanting. Seeing her again had brought back too many things he’d willed himself to forget and sometimes, in the middle of the night, with nothing but the rolling ship for company, thoughts of her drove him mad with a longing he could not satisfy. Many of her words to him had been harsh, but her kiss had revealed her continued desire for him, one Vincent and all Richard’s mistakes hadn’t killed. Instead of revelling in it, he’d taken advantage of her weakness to chain her to him with his nasty bargain, exposing her to scandal and danger and proving himself no better than the pirate she believed him to be.
I am nothing more than a pirate. He bro
ught his foot down hard in a puddle as he stormed on. Cas was right, the Richard she’d loved wouldn’t have wanted any part of this filthy existence while this Richard all but wallowed in it. It doesn’t always have to be this way.
He slowed his steps as the ground levelled out near the wharf, the raucous laughter and off-key music of the town fading in the breeze behind him. Cas had believed in him when others hadn’t and not given up on him until she’d thought he’d never return. He couldn’t reward her loyalty by inflicting more fear or pain on her. She’d been selfless in her desire to protect her child and others on the Winter Gale. It was his turn to protect her, to let her go as he’d intended to do before his determination to hunt down Vincent had overrun him. He’d find a way to return the weapon and release her from the deal. Peace of mind would be his last gift to her. As for the papers, she could do with them what she wanted. If Walter had never been able to use them then they could be of little use to Richard.
He approached the wharf and the spider web of masts and rigging clogging the horizon above the docks. Across the sheltered bay, the rotting hulls of captured ships blighted the wide sand beach. He strode down the creaking and lopsided dock towards where the Devil’s Rose groaned against its mooring. It was quiet around him with only the distant surf and the thump of his boots over the wooden planks to welcome him. Then, from out of the shadows ahead, a man raced at him. Richard jerked the pistol from his pocket.
‘Who’s there?’ He aimed at the fast-moving figure, ready to fire.
‘It’s Mr Rush.’ The first mate hurried out of the shadows of a brigantine and into the moonlight before Richard.
Richard breathed a sigh of relief and pocketed the pistol.
Mr Rush stopped in front of him, panting from his run. ‘Mr Barlow went off with some doubloons and a blunderbuss while you were gone. Should I send men after him?’
‘No. We’re better off without him.’ He didn’t have time to deal with a deserter, especially one of Mr Barlow’s ilk.
‘Still ain’t a good idea to leave a loose end lyin’ about.’
Richard strode up the Devil’s Rose˚∆ gangplank, Mr Rush at his side, his warning rubbing at Richard. The crew lounged about the deck, laughing and playing dice together. They jumped to their feet and stood at attention when Richard passed. He raised his hand in absentminded acknowledgement, and their laughter and the clink of the dice resumed when he and Mr Rush had passed.
They stopped before the helm, and Richard slipped a pouch from his other pocket, the coins heavy against his palm and his conscience. He’d almost put a bullet through his friend because he’d thought him a threat. Now he was about to all but order another man’s death for the same reason, but it had to be done. He couldn’t allow a conniving cooper to place his crew in more jeopardy. He handed Mr Rush the bag. ‘Send Mr Tibbs into town to purchase supplies and have him put it about that Mr Barlow is in possession of a great deal of prize money. Some opportunistic scum will take care of him for us. Tell Mr Tibbs to be back before the morning tide. We sail with it for Hog Island.’
Richard explained to Mr Rush everything Martin had told him.
The first mate massaged the coins through the leather. ‘How do you know it ain’t us and not the Casa de Oro Fitzwilliam’s ship is waiting for? Maybe your lass told him who ya really are. Women yap as much as drunk pirates.’
Mr Rush was right. A woman scorned the way Cas had been might seek revenge. He almost expected it given how all his other old acquaintances had already betrayed him, but he couldn’t imagine Cas being so devious. She might hate him, yet the passion in her kiss had told him she wouldn’t ruin him, but these weren’t things to discuss with Mr Rush. ‘After all our years of attacking his ships, Vincent has probably already guessed it’s me.’ And he prayed it tortured him every time word of another lost cargo reached him. ‘Now see to Mr Tibbs and preparing the ship.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Mr Rush called out the orders to the men, and the crew sprang to life.
Richard flipped through the maps until he reached the one with the North Carolina coast. Excitement gripped him the way it did whenever the lookout spied a Virginia Trading Company ship on the horizon. Almost everyone in Virginia had turned their backs on him when the lies about his activities had reached them. Their lack of faith in him hadn’t burned as much as Vincent being the cause of it. The man who’d shared his tutor, spent days sailing with him on the James River in his shallop and grieved with him when Richard’s mother had died of the fever—that man had sacrificed Richard to save his own hide. At Hog Island, Richard would get what he needed to finally bring Vincent down. Richard would make sure Vincent paid for stealing from him everything he’d ever loved, including a life with Cas.
Chapter Four
The cream of Williamsburg society mingled beneath the oak trees and over the wide lawn sweeping down from the back of Butler Plantation, Vincent Fitzwilliam’s stately home perched on the James River. Indentured servants in crisp white aprons and smart lace caps carried trays of mint water and rum punch among the sweating guests. Even in the heat, no one in Williamsburg was willing to break with fashion and change their style of dress to something better suited to the weather, not even Cassandra who stubbornly stuck to her silk mantua. Even if it meant perspiring through five chemises before nuncheon, she would dress like everyone else and play the part of a respectable Williamsburg widow for their benefit and hers.
At the bottom of the rise, the low sun sparkled off the quick-flowing surface of the James River, silhouetting the large wharf jutting out into the water. On the dock, men worked to load the two ships moored there with hogsheads of tobacco, barrels of spirits and other goods brought downriver to send to England.
Occasionally, the voices of the dock men calling to each other, or a ship’s bell, carried up the lawn to mix with the plucking strings of the violin and harp played by two of Mr Fitzwilliam’s slaves. The musicians sat in the shade of the two-storey Georgian-style brick house and off to one side of the massive porch dominating the back, delighting guests with light music reminiscent of the finest English country manor.
Cassandra frowned at their presence. The growing practice of Virginia planters purchasing slaves instead of taking on indentured servants or hiring men in need of work disgusted her. Neither her parents nor Uncle Walter had bought slaves for Belle View and neither would Cassandra. Free men would do the work and share in the profits, assuming there ever were any. Cassandra tried not to sigh. Rebuilding her life in Virginia already felt like an ominous task, especially since there always seemed to be someone or something waiting to knock her down a peg or two. Sometimes it was a stranger, but more often than not it was people she knew and had once loved. She wondered who it would be this time.
Her spirits sagged like the roses in the heat until the sound of laughter drew her attention back to the lawn. Dinah ran past with the young sons and daughters of other prominent landowners, all of them oblivious to the heat and the sweating nursemaids begging the children to come sit in the shade. Cassandra smiled to herself, remembering the many garden parties she’d attended and how she and the children of the other planters had played the same way until they’d grown too old to run around the lawn. The invitations had stopped coming after her parents’ death had ruined her.
They’ll cease all together if Richard sends the pistol and the authorities discover me helping him. Cassandra opened her fan and waved it in quick flicks over her chest, trying to cool the heat increased by worry. She cursed Richard and all the anxiety he was creating for her when she already had enough because of Belle View and society. Not that she should worry. After all, Richard said he wouldn’t call on her unless absolutely necessary, or he could be killed long before he ever got the chance. A chill came over her, despite the heat.
‘Did you hear the amount Lady Spotswood will spend to decorate the Governor’s Palace for her masked ball?’ Mrs Baker, the esteemed wife
of a well-known burgess, remarked to Mrs Chilton, drawing Cassandra back to the conversation. Mrs Chilton and her family had been one of the first to shun poor orphaned Cassandra Lewis and one of the first to rush to accept the Dowager Lady Shepherd.
They all stood together under the fragrant magnolia tree in the centre of the lawn. The spreading branches offered shade, but not much relief from the oppressive heat. The ladies gathered off to one side discussing the new styles of dress, especially with Cassandra wearing her full-hipped gown enhanced by panniers. The fashion had yet to reach these shores, making her attire the subject of great interest among the younger ladies. A short distance away, Mr Baker, Mr Fitzwilliam and Mr Chilton engaged Lord Spotswood in a debate on politics.
‘A woman of her rank and position is allowed to be a little extravagant, especially with the premiere residence of Virginia and the event of the season,’ Mrs Chilton replied, more in awe of Lady Spotswood’s title and place as the Governor of Virginia’s wife than she was disapproving of the lady’s preference for fine things. Mr and Mrs Chilton were prominent members of Virginia society, with Mr Chilton serving on the Governor’s Council and Mrs Chilton the grand dame of Williamsburg society. She’d been more neglectful than disdainful of Cassandra after her parents’ death, offering condolences before quietly fading out of Cassandra’s life. Even now, standing in her black robe à l’Anglaise with its riot of brown and gold embroidery, she seemed indifferent to Cassandra being among them, as if Cassandra had never been gone.
