Thief of Hearts

by Teresa Medeiros

  Shortly before noon, the ship was finally spotted by a small boy who had honed his vision with expectation. A pall of speechless wonder fell over the crowd. Even the reporters paused in making their notes, their imaginations captured by the forbidden majesty of the outlaw schooner, her grim beauty unscathed by the winter sunshine. An approving roar went up from the crowd, infusing the scribes with purpose. Their pencils flew over their pads in a desperate attempt to describe a legend with only the fickle vagaries of the written word.

  The crowd’s excitement surged as the schooner was brought to heel and a ramp laid in place. Both sailors and rogues spilled out with utmost haste, as if eager to escape the vessel’s cramped confines and the displeasure of each other’s company. Even the most casual of observers would have wagered that the short journey had not been an uneventful one.

  A freckled lad in civilian garb sported two black eyes, presumably earned by defending his captain’s honor. His plump companion, wearing a pair of cracked spectacles and a scarlet kerchief, leered at a bouquet of well-dressed ladies huddled beneath pastel parasols, eliciting a trill of delighted giggles and at least one convincing swoon. The woman was revived by the fluttering attentions of her companions only to faint dead away as a towering behemoth, his skin the rich hue of ebony, strode past in stoic silence.

  Anticipation mounted as the ramp cleared. The throng craned their necks for a glimpse of a breed of rebel whose era had come and gone, leaving their mundane world safer, but duller, for its passing. They barely noticed a diminutive figure hovering on deck, her hair smoothed into a neat chignon beneath the hood of a navy cloak.

  Their patience was rewarded by the emergence of a man, flanked by four armed guards, at the top of the ramp. His disheveled appearance did nothing to detract from his striking good looks or his air of authority. Even shackled, his step was laced with the fleet grace of a man born to reign on the high seas.

  Gerard blinked, blinded by the pale sunshine, deafened by the unexpected roar of adulation. Fearing his presence might incite mutiny, Lord Howell had kept him chained belowdeck for the brief duration of the voyage. The seething mass of humanity on the docks jolted his drowsy senses to life.

  Prodded by the muzzle of a musket against the small of his back, he started down the ramp. One of the guards muttered a curt warning as his brother elbowed his way to his side.

  Kevin’s voice carried beneath the roar of the crowd. “Would you listen to that? And they haven’t even heard of your daring rescue of the crew of the Courageous yet! Why, I’ll wager you’re destined to become a popular hero.”

  “Sort of a seafaring Robin Hood, eh?” Gerard snorted in bleak bemusement. “They’re a fickle lot. They’ll cheer just as loudly when I’m convicted.”

  “As should I after that nasty poke you gave me.” Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose, reducing his rich baritone to a nasal tenor. “I think you broke it.”

  “It’ll do you good, brother. Now maybe you’ll be able to find a wench prettier than you are.”

  “I wasn’t lying, you know. I was Captain Doom. For two brief, glorious months.”

  Gerard didn’t care to remember how he’d spent those brief, glorious months. For a man with no future, dwelling on the past was an exercise in futility. But as they reached the bottom of the ramp, he could not stop himself from murmuring, “How is she?”

  The determined thread of cheer in Kevin’s voice unraveled. “Holding up. Bravely struggling to maintain this charade you’ve forced upon her. But I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before she cracks—”

  “Father!”

  The joyous ripple of sound jerked both their heads around. Lucy flew past them in a rush of fresh, lemon-scented air, her arms thrown wide as if to embrace all of London. Fascinated by this new drama, the crowd parted to let her through. Her hood fell back as she flung herself into the arms of a regal figure garbed in the blue and gold braid of an Admiral of the Fleet. Only the most astute observer would have noted the infinitesimal heartbeat of hesitation before he welcomed her into his arms.

  “—beneath the strain,” Kevin finished lamely.

  Gerard sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, stunned by the force of his unjust anger. “Quite convincing, isn’t she?”

  Crippled with irrational jealousy, he watched the Admiral bend his snowy head to his daughter’s sunny one, earning the crooning approval of the charmed crowd. The Admiral could not resist angling a glance of gloating triumph in Gerard’s direction.

  A musket prodded him between the shoulder blades. “March, Doom. You’ve a rendezvous with the hangman.”

  Gerard wheeled around with such ferocity that the man recoiled as if the chains binding him were nothing more than silk ribbons. He curled his lip in an icy sneer. “Don’t fret. The bastard won’t start without me.”

  Gerard’s last sight as they ushered him into the cart that would bear him to his dark, cramped cell at Newgate was Lucy’s coolly averted profile framed by the gilded window of her father’s carriage.

  Lucy sat stiffly in the carriage seat opposite her father, her hands folded in her lap. She wished for a muff to hide their betraying tremor and tried not to think of the many times she had shared this vehicle with her bodyguard.

  She stole a glance at the Admiral from beneath her lashes, reminding herself that he was no longer her father. His formidable presence made that reality more difficult to remember. She studied him with a newly critical eye, wondering how she could have been so blind to the debauched corpulence weighting his features, the spidery webs of dissipation around his eyes.

  It seemed she had never stopped seeing him through the adoring eyes of an affection-starved child. She didn’t know whether to feel pity or contempt for that poor deluded creature.

  The Admiral gazed out the window, watching the scenery unfold with blunt indifference. He was biding his time, she knew, like a hawk waiting to swoop down on a helpless mouse. She only prayed that by the time he realized she’d sharpened her teeth on a predator far more worthy of her efforts, it would be too late to spit her out.

  He turned his penetrating gaze on her. “Are you well, daughter?”

  So that was how it was to be, eh? They were to fall right back into their roles of overbearing father and dutiful daughter. What did he expect of her? That she rush home and resume work on his memoirs as if he hadn’t tried to murder her in cold blood? The scope of the man’s vanity was astounding. All she had to do was twist it to her advantage.

  She forced a smile, hoping to inject just the right note of wry bitterness into her voice. “Quite well, Father. Our devoted Mr. Claremont was nothing if not shrewd when it came to his own profits. He knew he’d get little reward for returning damaged goods. I rather think he enjoyed playing the gallant with me. For those not born to it, it must be a challenging diversion.”

  “Harrumph.”

  Lucy had almost forgotten how infuriating his snorts of disapproval could be. Perhaps he wasn’t a hawk after all, but a bellicose moose, pawing at the ground, preparing to charge. She smothered an ill-timed giggle behind a delicate cough.

  His cold gaze raked her, chilling her everywhere it lingered. “It might still be wise to have my physician examine you. You may have suffered an injury you’re not aware of.”

  Lucy suppressed a shudder at the memory of the doctor’s icy, invading hands. This time, she might not pass his impersonal examination. She wondered how the Admiral would react if he inadvertently discovered she was carrying Gerard’s child. Not even her dread of the consequences could entirely squelch a primitive thrill at the possibility.

  She met his heavy-lidded stare coolly. “Whatever you think best, Father.”

  Ego soothed, he settled back in his seat. The squabs groaned beneath his weight. “I suppose the rogue kept you entertained with tales of your depraved father’s villainy.”

  Whatever reaction the Admiral might have expected, it was not Lucy’s chiming laughter. “I had never heard such fantastic fables.
Royal commissions that vanished into thin air. Buried treasure. Noble men imprisoned unjustly. Why, I thought I’d stumbled into one of those absurd fiction novels you’d always warned me against! I half expected to return and find you’d taken to the high seas with a patch over your eye and a jug of rum in your hand.” She swiped at her streaming eyes. “Can you believe he thought me harebrained enough to accept such ridiculous accusations without even a shred of proof? The man is clearly unbalanced, driven by his own delusions to these desperate acts.”

  The Admiral favored her with an indulgent smile she would have gladly given her life to receive only a few short weeks ago. “The man obviously forgot whose daughter he was trying to dupe.”

  And just whose daughter would that be?

  His ruddy face clouded and, for an instant, Lucy feared her expression had revealed too much. “I must confess that I’ve been deeply troubled by a certain unresolved matter between us.”

  “What is it, Father? It aggrieves me to see you so distressed.”

  “Men who are given great authority are often required to make great sacrifices. Such was the grave position I found myself in at Tenerife.” His sigh was so heavy, it ruffled her hair. “I could not afford to concede to the miscreant’s demands, nor could I allow him to slip from my grasp to continue his reign of tyranny over the seas. I had no choice but to fire upon his vessel despite your presence. I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Had playing cards with Kevin not taught her the strategic value of a bland countenance, Lucy would surely have betrayed herself with a skeptical snort to rival any moose’s. “There’s nothing to forgive. If anyone understands what you’ve sacrificed in the pursuit of your duty, it would be me. No harm was done, Papa, so let us speak of it no more.”

  For a moment, Lucy thought she’d overplayed her hand. She’d never called him Papa in her life.

  But to her surprise, he reached over and patted her folded hands. “You’re a good girl, Lucy. A fine daughter.”

  His praise, delivered too late and for all the wrong reasons, nearly choked her with rancor.

  As they descended from the carriage to the paved cobbles of Ionia’s drive, Lucy’s step was lightened by a nervous expectancy so acute she was afraid she was going to float away if it wasn’t soon relieved. She took the Admiral’s proffered arm purely to anchor herself. It might have been her overwrought imagination, but he seemed to be leaning on her more than his cane.

  Guided by Fenster’s gnarled but capable hands, the carriage rolled on to the stables as they marched up the walk to the front stairs, their identical postures so rigid they might have been leading a formal processional.

  The front door creaked open. Lucy’s heart danced in her chest to the seductive song of hope.

  The music came to a discordant halt as a cadaverous figure in satin livery and powdered tie wig appeared in the doorway. “Good afternoon, sir,” he intoned, his ponderous voice lacking the crisp snap of Smythe’s. “And this must be your lovely daughter.”

  Lucy’s step faltered. “I don’t understand. Where …?” For the first time, her courage deserted her, scattered by the unthinkable nature of the question.

  The Admiral shook his head sadly. “I didn’t want to mar your homecoming, my dear, but I’m afraid there’s something you should know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  LUCY WAS RELIEVED TO FIND THE WARDS of the Greenwich Hospital for Seamen spacious and sunny. In the two weeks it had taken her to escape the Admiral’s watchful eye, she had envisioned a wealth of horrors, most of them inspired by once listening to Sylvie give a colorful, if exaggerated, lecture on the monstrosities committed against the helpless inmates at the Bethlem Hospital for Lunatics in Moorfields.

  “Aye, we takes pride in our lads, we do,” Mrs. Bedelia Teasley proclaimed as she bustled ahead of Lucy down the broad corridor lined with drowsing old men. “We give ’em mutton on weekdays and beef on Sundays with a pint o’ porter to wash it all down. It’s the porter they love best. Ain’t it, Willie?”

  The blind seaman she chucked under the chin gave her a toothless grin, his face wizened beneath an old-fashioned tricorne hat.

  She stopped in front of a heavy door to fish a key from her voluminous apron. “Of course, there ain’t no charity provided for your Mr. Smith. He’s to have only the best of everything. The finest linens. The freshest rations. The best grade o’ laudanum.” She inserted the key in the lock and gave it an expert twist. “ ‘Spare no expense to make him comfortable,’ the Admiral says. He’s a fine chap, your father, lookin’ after his own that way.”

  “Yes, he is,” Lucy murmured absently, swallowing her dread as the door swung open.

  The cell was spacious and clean, its walls whitewashed, its wooden floor freshly swept. Sunlight filtered through the iron bars at the window, casting a hazy glow around the shrunken figure huddled in a wheelchair below its sill. A white bandage circled his brow.

  Lucy took an involuntary step toward him, besieged by a wave of helpless love.

  Mrs. Teasley’s voice dropped to a doleful whisper. “He may not know you, dear. He just sits like that, hour after hour, starin’ at nothin’. He don’t sleep much neither. I hear him thrashin’ about at all hours, callin’ out a woman’s name. Sometimes it’s Anne. Sometimes Marie.” She shook her head sadly. “We get a lot like him here. They usually don’t last through the winter.”

  “May I have a few moments alone with him?”

  The woman threw a guilty glance into the corridor. “It’s against the Admiral’s orders. He don’t want him fatigued.” Her broad face crinkled in a conspiratory wink. “But I don’t see how a few minutes alone with a pretty girl could do him harm.”

  Mrs. Teasley departed, but Lucy stood rooted to the floor. The kindhearted woman had no way of knowing how much harm she’d already done him. After all, her hands might have passed the cannonball that had put him in this place.

  Drawing in a shaky breath, she crept toward the wheelchair. Smythe’s hair, grayer than she remembered, was slightly tousled by the bandage. He wouldn’t like that, she thought, reaching to correct an errant strand with her fingertips. He wore a silk dressing gown she recognized as a faded castoff of the Admiral’s. A blanket had been tucked around his legs to protect him from the chill. His hands lay limp in his lap. It was only after noting all of those irrelevant details that Lucy allowed herself to look at his face.

  His expression was bland, the twinkling intelligence in his eyes replaced by a vacant stare.

  “Oh, Smythe.” Overwhelmed by a sense of loss, not only for this man she loved so dearly, but for all of her hopes and dreams, she sank to her knees in the folds of her cloak. She gathered his cool, dry hands in her own, warming them against her cheeks, bathing them in her tears.

  Lucy.

  The croaked whisper was so faint she might have imagined it.

  She slowly lifted her head. Smythe’s unfocused gaze had drifted downward. Sadness weighted the corners of his mouth. “So sorry, Lucy. So many mistakes.”

  He sighed, threatening to slip back into that netherworld of consciousness, dismissing her as a dream or a ghost. Yet instead of closing his eyes, he gazed directly into the brilliant sunshine, his tiny pupils almost swallowed in murky pools of brown.

  He’s to have only the best of everything … the finest linens … the best grade of laudanum … he’s a fine chap, your father, lookin’ after his own that way.

  Lucy flew to her feet. She snatched at the cotton bandage wrapped around Smythe’s brow, unwinding it with careless haste. She pushed back the lank hair falling over his temple to discover a gash that had probably been nasty at its inception, but was now scabbed over and healing well. His skull bore no indentation. She pressed the back of her hand to his brow. It was cool and dry with no sign of the dreaded brain fever the Admiral had admitted him for.

  She caught his shoulders, giving him a fierce shake. “Smythe! Look at me! It’s Lucy! I’m here, Smythe. I’m rea
lly here. Look at me!”

  At first she thought her pleas had been in vain. Then his gaze shifted, almost imperceptibly, to her face. She rewarded him with a tender smile. He lifted his trembling hand. It drifted over her hair, its touch as intangible as a breath of hope.

  “Thought you were dead,” he mumbled. “Thought I’d killed you.”

  “No, Smythe. I’ve alive and well. Listen to me. The Admiral is keeping you drugged. He wants you out of the way until after they execute Gerard. Do you understand me?” She curled her fingers in the lapels of his dressing gown, desperate to communicate her urgency. “They’ve locked him up, Smythe. In chains. In the dark. They’re going to hang him if we can’t provide proof of his innocence. You have to help me!”

  Smythe’s eyes fluttered shut. That was when Lucy realized his withdrawal ran deeper than battle fatigue or even a forced addiction to the laudanum. He was suffering from a sickness of the soul, giving in to the temptation to retreat to some safe, becalmed waters where his regrets could not follow. Lucy was frantic, the prospect of coming so far only to fail utterly unbearable.

  If her entreaty couldn’t shake him out of his complacency, perhaps her wrath could. Ruthlessly tamping down her compassion, she sharpened her tone until it could have flayed his fragile, papery skin from his slack bones.

  “Stop being such a coward! I know it was you. You were the one who betrayed him. You acted as my father’s agent and robbed him of everything he was, everything he could have been. You owe him, dammit!”

  Smythe turned his head from side to side in a vain attempt to escape the searing light of truth. Lucy had to strain to hear his broken words. “Had no choice. Admiral threatened to tell you he wasn’t your father … to cast you out in the streets. You were only a child … couldn’t bear it.”