With an effort that agonized her, Lucy kept her voice chilly with rebuke. “So you duped an innocent man?”
Smythe opened his eyes. For the first time, they seemed to focus on something beyond his own pain. “A good man. Young. Gifted. Eager to serve his country. His whole life before him.”
“Is that why you didn’t expose him when he came to Ionia?”
Smythe nodded. He moistened his parched lips, his speech flowing easier with each halting word. “Always believed in second chances. My hands were tied, but I thought he’d be clever enough to rout the Admiral. Never dreamed he was the sort of man to take you … hurt you …”
Lucy gave his hands a fierce squeeze. “He didn’t hurt me. He couldn’t hurt me if he tried.” Only too aware that her face was drawn with strain, her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, she added, “Not intentionally anyway. Your instincts were sound. He’s a good man. An honorable man. But the Admiral plans to testify against him. To see him convicted not only for his current crimes, but for acts of piracy committed six years ago. Without that letter of marque, he’ll hang for sure.”
Smythe’s head fell back. “S’gone,” he mumbled. “Destroyed it.”
Lucy’s heart plummeted. She sank back on her heels, her gaze going as bleak and unfocused as Smythe’s had been only moments before.
A wracking cough shook Smythe’s spare frame. Lucy’s concern turned to shock when that cough turned into a feeble chuckle. “He thought I was fool enough to destroy it. Arrogant bastard always underestimated me. It was my only leverage if he threatened to cast you out again.”
Smythe crooked a finger to beckon her nearer. She moved her ear next to his mouth, listening intently to what he had to say, then nodded her understanding with dawning joy.
She straightened, longing to give him a gift of equal value in return, but knowing that was impossible. She reached into her cloak, drew out a ledger, and laid it in his lap. His hands shook as they enveloped the dogeared diary of Annemarie Snow.
Lucy peered into his face, gathering her courage to ask the most difficult question of all. “Are you my father, Smythe?”
The regret on his face was so keen that she knew the answer even before he spoke. “Would to God that I were. I was your mother’s friend, her only confidant, but never her lover.”
Lucy’s disappointment burned her throat like acid. “Then it’s true. She didn’t even know who my father was.”
“Nor did she care.” At the bitter cast of Lucy’s features, Smythe swallowed, gathering all the eloquence he could summon in his muddled state. “All she cared for was you. The Admiral quit her bed shortly after they were married, yet she was determined to have a child. She knew Lucien would never divorce her. That he would always provide for her and the child for fear of scandal. I thought it a mad scheme from the start, but I could deny her nothing.”
Perhaps she needed something to nurture. Gerard’s words, so perceptive, so compassionate, so like him, echoed through Lucy’s mind. God, how she missed him!
Smythe reached out to stroke her cheek, his tender gaze riveted on her face. “Don’t judge her too harshly, my dear. She loved you. She risked everything to have you, even her life. I’ll never forget the joy in her eyes when I placed you in her arms.”
Lucy bowed her head, humbled by his generosity. He had given her a gift more incomparable than any he had bestowed upon her before—her mother’s love, an emotion so sweet and fierce that it transcended even the barriers of time and death.
She threw her arms around his neck. He returned her embrace, the strength in his hands increasing with each whispered word. “You don’t know how many times I longed to gather you into my arms. But I was afraid the Admiral would send me away. So I was forced to stand idly by while he browbeat your sweet spirit into submission.”
At the harsh reminder of the Admiral’s cruelty, Lucy was beset by a fresh sense of urgency. She drew back to gaze into Smythe’s eyes, finding in their depths a ghost of a familiar spark. “Pretend to take your medicine, but don’t swallow it. It’s best we let the staff of the hospital believe your condition unchanged for now. I’ll be back for you. I swear it.”
He seized her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Take care, my love. He’s not one to concede defeat gracefully.”
Lucy’s face hardened. “Then perhaps I’m more like him than either of us would care to admit.”
On the day Gerard Claremont, alias Captain Doom, was to be tried for multiple acts of piracy spanning six years, the abduction of one Miss Lucinda Snow, and high treason against His Majesty the King, Lucien Snow awoke in a frightful snit.
His temper worsened when breakfast was served late, his kippers were cold, and the medals he had chosen to display on his favorite uniform when he made his testimony that afternoon had yet to be polished.
Damn Smythe anyway! he thought, slamming the lid back on the serving tray. The blasted traitor had done the work of ten servants. The man’s defection had carved an enormous hole in his beloved routine.
Perhaps after Claremont was dead, he mused, he would invite his butler back into the household. By then, the man should be docile enough. Not only would he have the questionable fate of his insipid Lucy to fret about, but the Admiral could parcel out just enough laudanum to ensure his loyalty. Perhaps he would even look into procuring some opium.
Cheered by the image of a bright and orderly future, the Admiral dressed himself, not wanting that ridiculous fop he’d hired as a valet hovering about on such a momentous occasion. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he went to the wardrobe and removed his dress pistol. The weight of the weapon fit comfortably into his hand.
Today justice would be served, if not by the court, than by him. He’d already offered a substantial bribe to two of Newgate’s guards. If the jury showed signs of delivering a less than satisfactory verdict, a dramatic escape attempt would ensue.
Slipping the pistol into his sash, he admired his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling pier glass.
When Claremont broke free of his chains and raced for freedom, he would have no choice but to gun him down cold. After all, what else was a hero to do?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
KEVIN CLAREMONT HAD PROVED HIMSELF an excellent judge of human nature.
On the afternoon of his brother’s trial, the benches and galleries of the Old Bailey were filled to overflowing with a seething mass of supporters, a surprising number of them women. There wasn’t a newspaper in London or any of its outlying counties that hadn’t published a dramatic account of Gerard Claremont’s daring rescue of the crew of the Courageous and his noble sacrifice of freedom for country and king. It was the stuff of irresistible romance and Captain Doom was being hailed as a hero from Surrey to Suffolk.
“There he is!”
“Gawd, ’e’s a ’andsome fellow, ain’t ’e?”
One woman waved a sketch of his profile she had purchased for a hard-earned ha’penny. “Ye can carry me off, Cap’n Doom. Won’t have to worry ’bout me defendin’ my virtue, ’cause I ain’t got any!”
The crowd roared with bawdy laughter as Gerard was led through the ranks of his admirers by two armed guards. His own grasp of human nature was even keener than his brother’s. He knew that by noon tomorrow, these same zealous souls would be thronging the courtyard at Newgate with baskets of food and bottles of gin to watch him hang.
He acknowledged their raucous cheers with a gracious nod, playing his role of doomed hero to the hilt. Someone might as well get some enjoyment out of this farce, he thought, and it damned sure wasn’t going to be him.
A roar of approval from an upper gallery brought a genuine smile to his lips. His crew had chosen their seats as the ideal spot from which to heckle the proceedings.
“Give ’em hell, Cap’n,” Tarn shouted.
“Likewise, sir.” Pudge waved his kerchief in a jaunty salute.
Their familiar faces gave Gerard a pang of bittersweet satisfaction. This time he would go to his fate wit
hout dragging his crew along with him. As he’d requested, the King had granted them an unconditional pardon due to their valiant actions in the Courageous incident, provided they vowed to never again turn their talents to piracy. His Majesty was obviously hoping such benevolence would appease a populace already resigned to Gerard’s impending martyrdom.
Only Apollo was absent. Gerard’s request that the imposing African be allowed to represent him had been met with pitying contempt. The magistrates didn’t believe the dark-skinned “savage” capable of speech, much less eloquence. He’d been banned from the courtroom for fear his startling appearance and unpredictable temperament might cause a riot. They’d proceeded to assign Gerard a mousy servant whose wig had faded to yellow and whose breath reeked of gin.
Gerard doubted it would make much difference, for neither he nor his lawyer would be allowed to question or cross-examine any of the witnesses. His trial was to be little more than a formality. A diverting prelude to his execution.
At his brief pause, one of the guards gave the shackles at his wrists a sharp jerk. Gerard didn’t even flinch. They had no way of knowing their chains couldn’t hurt him; he’d been toughened to their bite long ago.
As he sank onto the bench, he discovered his brother had wrangled a seat behind his, all the better to offer irrelevant commentary, a particular talent of Kevin’s. “I never dreamed being a condemned felon was such an enticement to the ladies,” he whispered. “Why, they’re all but tossing their drawers at you.”
“Don’t rush it. I’m not condemned yet.”
But as the doors at the back of the court flew open and Admiral Sir Lucien Snow swept in, medals gleaming and the fringe of his epaulettes starched to crisp perfection, Gerard knew it was only a matter of time. The Admiral’s passage to his seat was greeted by a gratifying chorus of boos and hisses from the gallery. The crowd stamped their feet, eager for any excuse to cause a commotion.
The judge pounded his gavel on the bench. “Silence now! I won’t stand for chaos in the King’s court!”
It wasn’t the tiny man’s querulous demands for order that silenced the boisterous mob, but the unexpected arrival of a second figure. With a collective gasp of excitement, the crowd craned their necks for a look at the most elusive object of their curiosity. Even the jurors could not resist a shy peek.
Lucinda Snow stood framed in the doorway, garbed in magnificent white from the soles of her dainty kid slippers to the ribbon of ivory satin crowning her elegant chignon. A woolen pelisse was draped over her slender shoulders and a matching reticule dangled from her gloved hands. At the sight of her, Gerard’s mouth went dry with yearning.
To his acute relief, no rude catcalls, whistles, or ribald jibes accompanied her graceful promenade to the seat next to the Admiral. The Admiral did not look pleased to see her, but when had he ever?
“The press?” Gerard murmured to his brother, unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Have they treated her unkindly?”
Ignoring the warning glares of the guards, Kevin leaned over Gerard’s shoulder so his words would not be overheard. “At first they were eager to paint her as a ruined woman, but her carefully calculated public appearances at soirées, the theater, and the like has convinced them otherwise. As you can see for yourself, she’s behaving like a lady with nothing to hide and they’re damned impressed.” He couldn’t resist a mocking leer. “They’re speculating that she spurned your wicked advances, even at risk to her own life. She’s being hailed as an inspiration to maidens everywhere, a veritable bastion of chastity, a guardian of—”
“Oh, shut up,” Gerard growled. “I get the point.”
Its irony failed to amuse him. While Lucy had been promoting her moral purity in salons all over London, he’d been surviving the darkness of confinement only by dreaming of her luscious body sugared with sand on the beach at Tenerife. The echo of her voice, hoarse with passion and love, had been the only thing powerful enough to drown out the inescapable clink of his chains.
There was no trace of that passionate creature in the courtroom today. Lucy looked cool and beautiful and eager to see him hang.
He scowled. Perhaps the reality of having her own swanlike neck stretched on the gallows had finally penetrated. He ought to be delighted. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted—Lucy safe from harm and protected from scandal, free to build a future with some decent, law-abiding man who had a life expectancy over twelve hours. So why did he want to wring her fickle little neck?
“If you don’t stop glowering at her like that,” Kevin whispered, “you’re going to damage her reputation beyond repair.”
Gerard jerked his gaze away from her, rubbing a tense hand over his beard. He suppressed a groan as the Admiral was called to testify. He wasn’t sure he could endure the man’s bombastic tirade without even a drop of Smythe’s coffee to keep him awake.
It was worse than he feared. Two hours later, he was still fighting to keep his face impassive as the man discredited him, painting him as an avaricious monster who thought his scheme to defraud an Admiral of the Fleet a fine joke upon Navy and Crown. The mood of the crowd was beginning to waver. The jurors started casting him covert, but condemning, glances.
“Easily swayed, aren’t they?” Kevin muttered. For the first time, Gerard heard the frustrated fear in his voice. It was one of the things he hated most about this nightmare. That Kevin would have to learn in such a harsh way that his big brother wasn’t immortal after all.
He kept his own tone deliberately playful. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. By the time he’s through, they’ll probably want to lynch me themselves.”
Lucy sat silently through her father’s damning testimony, never once glancing his way. Kevin poked him. He was glowering again.
Gerard breathed a sigh of relief when the Admiral finished his diatribe with a rousing call for justice, then limped back to his seat, leaning heavily on his cane for dramatic effect. Gerard was tempted to applaud the performance. As Lucy bestowed a tender smile upon the wretch, he stirred restlessly, rattling his chains.
The prosecuting attorney made a great show of examining a sheaf of papers through his quizzing glass. His nasal voice rang out. “I should like to call as an informer to the prosecution”—he paused to clear his scrawny throat—“Miss Lucinda Snow.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
GERARD SANK BACK ON THE BENCH AS IF he’d been struck a mortal blow. Christ, he thought, even hanging would be preferable to this. Not even his brother’s bracing hand on his shoulder could ease his anguish.
“My compliments,” Kevin offered as way of condolence. “When you set out to make a woman hate you, you do a capital job.”
The crowd’s initial furor subsided into rapt silence as Lucy took the stand. She perched on the edge of the crude wooden chair as if it were a throne and she a princess determined to see a common knave punished for daring to touch the hem of her gown. Her gloved hands were folded demurely over her reticule. Gerard shot a furious glance at the Admiral, expecting to find him purple with triumph. The man looked as shocked as he felt.
Of course he would, Gerard realized. The Admiral would never approve of his daughter making a public spectacle of herself this way. Lucy must have concocted this petty little revenge all by herself. He shook his head ruefully, amazed that even as she was squeezing the last drop of blood from his heart, it could still surge with admiration for her.
“Miss Snow,” the prosecutor began, “could you please identify the man who applied for employment as your bodyguard”—the word drew a few ugly snickers from the crowd—“this past October?”
“Certainly.” She pointed a gloved finger straight at Gerard, her composed face betraying not so much as a flicker of emotion. He met her gaze squarely, lounging back on the bench with deliberate arrogance.
“You are respected as a woman of superior intellect,” the prosecutor continued. “I must deduce that this blackguard gave you cause to be suspicious of his sinister motives from the very beginn
ing.”
“No, sir, he did not.” Lucy’s voice was so soft that the crowd had to strain to hear her. Strain they did. Not so much as an indrawn breath or rustle of movement profaned the tense silence. “Mr. Claremont was quite chivalrous. He vowed to hold my life as dear as his own.”
Gerard’s bewilderment grew, but he knew he couldn’t have looked half as dumbfounded as the prosecutor. These were obviously not the answers they’d rehearsed in his chambers.
The hall was drafty and chill, yet a trickle of sweat eased from beneath the man’s wig. “Well, ahem … I hesitate to offend you, miss, but the court can only assume the rogue was making sport of you.”
Lucy’s doe-eyed gaze reproached him. “Oh, no, sir. Mr. Claremont showed nothing but the most tender regard for my feelings, protecting me from attack on at least two separate occasions.”
Gerard realized then that something was terribly amiss. The Admiral was unnaturally still, his waxen features frozen in a sneer he should never have allowed the public to witness.
The flustered prosecutor drew a handkerchief from his robes and mopped his brow. He scowled at Lucy as if she were a dull-witted child, a tactic that elicited a rumble of disapproval from the crowd. “Perhaps he was only trying to gain your trust, Miss Snow. To make it easier to carry you off.”
Lucy looked directly at Gerard then, her big, gray eyes softened with such tenderness that Gerard thought he would die right there and save the Crown the expense of hanging him. Was she truly so vindictive? he wondered wildly. What sort of diabolical punishment was this?
Then with a flash of horror, he realized what she was going to do. He leaped to his feet, straining against his fetters. His guards gave them a vicious tug, binding him in place. “Don’t do it, Lucy! Dammit, I’m not worth it!”
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