by Clare Sager
Knigh swallowed, throat dry.
“George,” Is called again, “through here! You’re never going to believe –”
“Knigh,” George said as he appeared in the doorway, clothes as bright as those he’d worn at the ball all those months ago. His tone was cool, face smooth as though he’d learned from Knigh. “I wasn’t expecting you home, or else I’d have brought you a gift, too.”
And where would the money for that gift have come from? There was only one place his brother could have got the sums he’d been sending their family …
Knigh bit his tongue and smiled stiffly. “I hadn’t planned to come, but I was awarded some additional leave.”
George nodded slowly, still hovering near the door.
“Well,” Aunt Tilda said, patting her knees and rising, “we’d best beautify ourselves for dinner and leave the men to catch up, hadn’t we?” As she passed Knigh, she paused and placed her hand on his arm, raising her eyebrows.
He told her as little as he told anyone else in his family, but she saw far more. She must have picked up on their chilly greeting and, being Aunt Tilda, she understood they needed to be left alone. All without him having to say.
Thank the gods for her.
Squeezing her fingers, he nodded, gratitude a brief, warm flare in his chest.
When they were alone, he met George’s eye. “Where did you get –”
“Where do you think?” George’s eyebrow rose in a challenge. One hand on his hip, head cocked, hip dropped: he was the picture of Mercia at his most off-hand.
That was where he’d got the money.
Knigh bit the inside of his cheek, counting three long breaths. “Is that why you joined his little entourage? Money? Because I can get us –”
“No, Knigh.” He huffed and rolled his eyes. “It isn’t about money. Wild Hunt bloody take you if you think that’s all anyone else cares about. Just because you’re obsessed with the stuff.” His nostrils flared, and lips pursed.
Blinking, Knigh took half a step back. Was this how George really saw him?
“And,” George went on, “you might only spend time with people because you’re paid to, but the rest of us are capable of actually forming emotional attachments with other human beings.”
Knigh flinched, crossing his arms to disguise the movement. But the words hit, unblocked by his defensive stance. He clenched his jaw. “This is what you think of me?”
“Since Father died, yes.” George’s mid-brown hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun as he tossed his head. “That’s why I was surprised to see you with that pirate woman. She seemed –”
“Don’t – not her.” His voice wavered. “Please.”
Eyebrows knotting, George regarded him a long while. Eventually, he took a deep breath.
Oh Lords, he was going to ask about her, about …
“Look,” Knigh said before he could, “I’m glad you’ve come home and left Mercia. He isn’t –”
“Left him?” George scoffed. “I haven’t left him. He’s in Lunden for the coronation, and I’ve just taken the opportunity to visit our family. You know, like you never bother to do because you think money will do the job of a brother and son.”
Bloody hells, George. He didn’t want to make it easy to have a conversation, did he? Knigh gritted his teeth and forced a faint smile in place. “Never? I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Because that woman’s – oh no, wait!” George’s eyes went wide, and he covered his mouth, an incredulous smile on his face. “Oh dear. You’ve… Knigh …” He shook his head. “She was Lady Vice, wasn’t she? And I hear she’s just been captured by the Navy.” He laughed, a high sound of disbelief. “And you did it, didn’t you?”
Every inch of Knigh froze, solid and cold as ice. George was putting the pieces together far too well, just like Aunt Tilda. He’d seen something between him and Vice before they’d even acted upon it and now …
“You’re sending your own lover to the gallows.” That incredulous laugh again as he shook his head. “And you say Mercy is so awful? He’d never treat me like that. You’re the monster, Knigh.”
Heart battering against his ribs, Knigh stared at his brother. Did that mean … “You and Mercia?”
George lifted his chin. “Mercia and I, yes.”
No wonder he’d been so generous with George’s allowance. The Duke had particular favourites in his entourage. Some lasted years, others a few months. But, always, he lavished them with gifts, including land and titles.
In exchange, they provided adoration and loyalty, unending, unwavering, unquestioning.
“You can’t – he’s –”
“Knighton. You have just told me you’ve arrested your lover and handed her over to the authorities.” George sighed, the affectation dropping from his stance as his arms fell to his sides. “I know you seem to think Mercy is a beast, but until and unless you’re prepared to tell me something he’s done that’s worse, then you can kindly keep your nose out of my affairs. Green is such an ugly colour on you. Mercy told me how you had a soft spot for him and I’m sorry your feelings weren’t –”
“What?” The word burst from Knigh with a laugh. “I had a – what?” Scoffing, he shook his head. Oh, Mercia would lie about that, wouldn’t he?
“Obviously, envy is where your hostility towards him comes from, and it’s perfectly understandable. And” – he approached, an apologetic smile in place – “I also understand the strain you’ve been under since Papa’s death. You’ve taken it all on your shoulders – every penny, every responsibility, every decision for the family. Well, I can help now.” He cocked his head as he placed a hand on Knigh’s arm, the touch only dimly registering. “You can relax – no need to throw yourself into danger hunting pirates. Mercy will provide for us all.”
A deeper, darker cold prickled from Knigh’s scalp, down his neck, creeping all the way to his feet.
His stomach turned. Mercia was a monster, far worse than Vice. He’d happily oversee the murder of men who’d surrendered, laughing all the while.
But there was no way he could make George understand. Not without revealing his own dark secret.
George patted his shoulder and gave a smile that should have been comforting. “You’ll see.” He nodded and walked out, calling over his shoulder, “Time for dinner.”
Knigh was rooted to the spot. George was in Mercia’s power, just like that beast the Duke kept bound with his gift. His fae charm had done its work.
And with his endless supply of money, the whole family had been dragged in.
Isabel would debut in Lunden thanks to that townhouse they could now afford to rent. With her warmth and bright eyes and the decent dowry he’d topped up with Vice’s bounty, she couldn’t fail to marry well. Mother would be less reliant upon Aunt Tilda’s kindness. Plus, she loved the opera and the theatre – a season in Lunden would agree with her. Perhaps she’d finally return to wearing colour. Maybe he’d even hear her sing again.
There was no way out of this. Mercia had a hold on them all.
The Song of the Pirate Queen
When they trundled through the streets with Vice on full display in a cart, her wrists tied, the people sang The Song of the Pirate Queen. Vice grinned and let the song – her song wash over her.
From the glowers darkening their faces, the guards hadn’t expected it to go like this. People usually threw rotten vegetables and hurled abuse at the criminals paraded by. Hells, after the arrest, she hadn’t expected this either.
Oh, Lords, they’d finished the song, and now they were cheering.
Cheering.
Laughing, she waved, and they smiled and waved back. Children trotted along with the cart, little legs pumping until they managed to touch the wheel or timber sides, then they dropped back and held out their hands to show their friends.
The poor Navy – this had backfired, hadn’t it?
Displaying her like this was probably meant to show the people that the foul scourge of
Lady Vice was going to face the Queen’s justice. Well, from their smiles and well-wishes, it seemed they preferred her free and tweaking the noses of authority and the Hesperians.
In fact, it looked like the whole situation wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d thought when they’d arrested her on The Morrigan. The rest of the crew had already had their hearings. The authorities had decided she needed a separate trial, maybe because of her odd status, being a woman and, according to FitzRoy’s insane accusations, the ringleader. She’d heard through prisoners in adjoining cells that the judge had only sentenced the others to a day in the stocks.
That was nothing.
So it seemed the whole matter of the arrest was just the Navy’s way of making an example of them. Poor Blackwood, did he know that or was he sitting smugly at home somewhere imagining that she was soon to hang?
Still, there was the puzzle of just what on earth FitzRoy had done that day. What was that mad business with pretending he’d been captured and held by her?
She shook her head. Unfathomable, that was what it was. And it didn’t change what she now had to do.
In the week since her arrest, she’d attempted to get an audience with the Queen. She’d shown her drake and crown pin, but the bastards had taken it away, believing she’d stolen it.
So, of course, she’d tested every inch of her cell, but the damn thing was solid. With no tools, the iron bars were impossible for her to break. Although she used her coat cuffs as barriers between her hands and the metal, her fingers had slipped onto it. They’d burned in white-hot pain, leaving blisters.
Even her fae charm hadn’t helped – she’d pretended to be ill, thinking to trick the guards into rushing into her cell, where she’d overpower them and run. They looked at her writhing on the floor, their brows creased. Wringing their hands, they told her they’d been instructed by the Captain to, under no circumstances, open her cell door.
That had to be Blackwood. The prick.
Which left only this course. She was going to have to get out of this the old-fashioned way and prove her innocence.
Maybe easier said than done when she wasn’t actually innocent. But ever since Blackwood had offered that letter of marque, she’d acted in good faith. With her fae charm, the judge would see that and worst-case scenario, she’d end up with a spell in the stocks before being released and allowed to go on her way. Then she could get back to the ship and give Barnacle a good squeeze. At least with the rest of the crew being released after the stocks, someone would be looking after her.
Cat aside, Vice still owed Blackwood for his betrayal. He might have tricked her this time, but that wasn’t the end of the story.
When the cart rolled to a stop outside the courts, Vice stood before the guards could grab her. Smiling, she turned and bowed deeply to the crowd. They’d gone to the trouble of coming here, best to give them a show.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Albion,” she said in the carrying voice she used to give orders on deck. “Your Pirate Queen thanks you for your loyalty.” She nodded solemnly, then winked and blew a kiss just as the guards closed their hands on her shoulders and bundled her from the cart.
Laughing at their frowns and mutters, she let them direct her through the corridors until at last she was shoved onto a bench in a courtroom.
So small? She scowled, looking around at the empty galleries. Disappointing. They’d shut the public – her adoring fans – out. Must have realised their error in the parade.
There was only her, a handful of stuffy-looking men in white legal wigs, the judge in his oversized chair, a blond man in naval uniform, and half a dozen guards stationed behind her with another two at the doors.
Oh well, it would have been nice to have more witnesses to her latest victory, but no doubt the story of her talking her way out of court would get around anyway.
With a rap of his gavel, the judge called the court to silence – not that there was much chatter with so few people here.
“In the matter of the Realm versus – ahem – Lady Vice.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “What is your real name, girl?”
“Lady Vice, Your Honour.” She smiled her most winning smile.
His gaze stayed on her, level, no warmth lighting his eyes despite her fae charm. The flesh around his eyes tensed for a second, then his lips parted in a slow, cool smile, revealing pointed canines.
Vice’s blood ran even colder than his smile. Oddly pointed canines. Far too sharp, far too long, overlapping his bottom teeth like a cat’s did. A fae mark.
Bollocks.
He was fae-touched, possibly blooded, and either way, immune to her unnatural charm.
Double bollocks.
With a dismissive blink, he turned his gaze to one of the wigged men, pale-skinned and decidedly average, and invited him to put forward the case against her. One of the other wigged men readied his pen, he had to be a clerk of some sort, and the blond naval officer stationed himself just behind his chair.
… Piracy … Theft and murder upon the high seas … Capture of several vessels, including Albionic ones … Trickery of good men, seducing them to do her bidding … A monstrous threat to civilisation itself … blah, blah, blah.
The story was predictable. She could have laughed at the seduction part – when had she forced anyone to do her bidding?
Smile fixed in place, she narrowed her eyes at the pale man. She could do her own bidding well enough, thank you.
Still, she would remain silent until asked. If she couldn’t fall back on her fae charm, she’d play by their rules and beat them at their own game with the truth. That’d teach them.
When the pale man had finished, the judge asked whether she had anything to say in her defence.
“I do, in fact, thank you, Your Honour.” She rose and bowed to him, the picture of lady-like elegance. Let that confuse them, show how terrible a threat to civilisation she was with her perfect etiquette.
She cleared her throat and began her side of the story.
They’d been offered pardons and a letter of marque by Captain Knighton Blackwood, formerly Villiers. It was an offer she’d gladly accepted as they were good and loyal subjects of Her late Majesty. The Naval officer kept ducking and whispering into the clerk’s ear as she spoke, making her burn with irritation and frustrated curiosity. Still, she did her best to ignore him.
“We’ve been working for the Crown for three, nearly four months as privateers. Why else would we sail a Hesperian treasure ship and half its silver into Plymouth? Why would we, ourselves, put in at Portsmouth and its world-famous Royal Dockyard, with the other half of the silver? If we were still pirates, that would be suicide.”
The judge stared back at her, and his eyebrows lifted in such a subtle expression Knigh would have been proud.
“But,” she went on, “if we were privateers, as I’ve said we are, doesn’t that explain our actions? As privateers, it was merely part of our work taking and delivering prizes for Her Majesty.”
“Your Honour,” the pale attorney said, rising with a sheaf of papers in his hand, “I’d humbly ask you to consider –”
“I know.” The judge raised his fingers to silence the attorney. “I’ve seen the testimony.” He pointed at Vice. “Show her.”
Vice frowned, as the attorney approached and placed the papers before her. Hands still bound, she grabbed them and scanned the pages.
… acting as privateers …
… forced to accept her leadership …
… threatened the –
“You might be aware that the other members of The Morrigan’s crew have already been tried,” he said, returning to his desk. “However, what you won’t be aware of is the contents of those proceedings as they occurred in a closed court like this one.” He gave a frigid smile. “I’m sure madam can read quite capably, but as a courtesy allow me to save you the time sifting through all those pages with your hands tied.”
Vice’s throat closed, but she kept reading as he spoke.
; “They are not here today because they fear the notorious Lady Vice and her fae-touched magic and what she, a sea witch, might do to them should she become aware that they have spoken against her.”
Against her. Wild Hunt take the bastards.
“They predicted your story exactly as you’ve told it today because it was the lie you told them.”
“The lie, I –” She scoffed, hands shaking and crumpling the paper.
“Just close enough to the truth to make it all the more compelling, isn’t that right?” The pale attorney raised his eyebrows at her. “You forced them to accept your leadership and piracy by claiming they were acting as privateers for Her Majesty. When they dared to speak against you, you threatened the life of their beloved Captain FitzRoy, held captive in your cabin.”
Her throat had closed so much, it was all she could do to push out a strangled laugh. Her fingertips tingled as she scanned the pages.
… Through means of a letter of marque forged by a Mr Waters of Nassau …
Heart battering against her ribcage, as hard as a boot against a locked door, she shook her head. They meant to go after Waters, too. At least Nassau was beyond the Navy’s reach … wasn’t it?
“No, it didn’t – that wasn’t –”
The papers fell from her tied hands, leaving just the last page stuck to her sweaty fingers.
We the undersigned attest to the truth of this document … William North … Frederick Longe … Robert Bricus …
The names went on and on, not a friend among them.
No. Because her friends had all been sent with Perry. They were miles away. Maybe they’d been arrested, too. Even if they hadn’t, they’d have no idea what was happening here.
Her heart plummeted. FitzRoy had set her up. All these men – they were the ones who’d never really warmed to her or who’d stayed neutral, except for Bricus, he …
What do I know? I’m not bloody Captain.
No, you’re not.
And he’d worn that odd mirthless look when he’d said it, hadn’t he?
All this time, had his cheerful smiles hidden hatred? But what reason could he –
