James looked up, the shock of the revelation ringing in his mind. He swallowed a stiff measure of the drink, using its impact to waken himself and sharpen his thinking on the matter just revealed to him.
Earl Canalissy might be his father.
“Randall has an heir, so why pay attention to me?” James asked, the question somewhat rhetorical.
One of the other men, the one dressed as Friar Tuck, offered a response. “He could be planning to acknowledge you in Geoffrey’s place as his true first born. It's no secret that Randall has been increasingly disdainful of his son. There’s an elegant logic about it, you have to admit.”
James nodded. It was logical indeed. And memories from his childhood came flooding back and made more sense through the prism of this revelation.
Ah Selina, James thought to himself, he had warned her there were secrets about him, but he had no idea there were secrets being kept from as well!
He thought about his grandmother and wondered if she knew of her daughter’s secret. Was that her reason for the animosity to his mother? He groaned inwardly as he realised Abigail might be aware of this too.
It was hardly fashionable to wed a bastard son, but if he was rich and in line for an Earldom…
James drained the rest of the whiskey. One thing at a time, he decided.
“Let’s put my questionable lineage to one side for now,” he said, “and concentrate instead on another questionable character. His name caught my eye on the list of suspects you gave me, Prime Minister.
“I had only heard of him by chance a little earlier and I don't believe in coincidence.
“He was Francis Armsden, captain of the Pandora.”
Pitt looked grave as James revealed the outcome of William’s investigation and his and Jackson's own enquiries.
It appeared that Captain Armsden had, some weeks before his death, made enquiries about purchasing a holding in Virginia. According to his widow, that fateful trip was to have been Armsden’s last before an early retirement. She had expressed regret not only at that coincidence but also that her husband had spoken of a bequest of a thousand pounds which was to support their migration and transformation to the landed class of the New World, but of which there was now no record.
It was generally agreed unlikely that as experienced a captain as Armsden had allowed his ship to get so far off course by accident. So too was the idea that the crew struggling to shore had fallen foul of opportunistic killers and thieves who had simply observed a foundering vessel. It was nearly certain they had created the craven opportunity themselves and lured the Pandora off-course and onto the rocks.
Yet deliberate wrecking was not a simple affair. It involved many participants. Nor was it to be entered into lightly, since involvement might easily lead to a short affair with the gibbet. So ships that were lured to their doom were only infrequently selected at random. Rather they would be targeted for the best pickings from the risky business.
“The Pandora’s manifest was nothing special, just pots and pans, fabric and the like. Not worth twenty men risking their necks for,” said James. “It suggested someone was aware of an illicit cargo that was compact enough to bring aboard without arousing suspicion, perhaps among Armsden’s personal effects. Could it have been the mysterious bequest?”
“Armsden was in London the week before he sailed. He collected a small trunk from a dealer in Bond Street,” said Will Scarlett, providing a scale of the trunk with his hands— about twelve inches wide and twenty-four inches long.
“We’ve had that business under watch for several weeks. We think it’s a Foxite drop off point, but we’ve not be able to prove it. But a trunk that size would hold a thousand pounds worth of gold very handily.”
“So, Armsden was in the Foxites’ pay and in possession of a thousand pounds worth of gold as some sort of final payoff. Is that what you’re saying?” asked Pitt, his brow now even more deeply furrowed.
James and Scarlett looked at each other for mutual assent.
“It appears so,” said James.
Pitt sighed. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but is this connected to anything or is it simply cut-throats stealing from traitors? And would such booty have been enough to tempt a group of men to embark on such an elaborate and vicious undertaking?”
“I’ve pondered the same questions,” said James. “It does seem a lot of danger for little gain. If it wasn’t the gold, what other motive might there have been?”
“How about seeing off Armsden?” offered Scarlett. “If he was getting out of the game, maybe they thought it safer if he was silenced. And they could take back their gold at the same time.”
“By wrecking the Pandora and killing his entire crew along with him? Simpler to slip a knife between his ribs dockside and make off with the chest,” said Sir Percy. “We’re missing something.”
For a moment, the room of costumed men looked blankly at each other, then James spoke.
“What if seeing off Armsden and recovering the gold were part of it, a convenience so to speak, but there was something more?”
“Three birds with one stone? A pretty shot,” said Pitt. “Do you have anything in mind?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing solid. But ever since I saw Armsden’s name on that list, I’ve been convinced there was more to the destruction of his ship than met the eye.”
“And?”
“Something like this doesn’t come together by chance,” James began.
Garnering their full attention, he understood momentarily why Percy enjoyed playing to an audience.
“You get closer to the bullseye the more arrows you shoot. Now how do you get better at wrecking ships while make it look like an accident?”
“Gad...” muttered Percy. All eyes turned to him as revelation dawned on his face.
You’re saying the wreck of the Pandora was a practice run?”
Percy warmed to the thought. “Of course! A practice run.
“The Zeus is to set sail from Bristol with a shipment of gold for Louis from His Majesty on the fifth of the new month. It’s an amount that will be, shall we say, somewhat more substantial than would fit in a small trunk from Bond Street.
“It’s not inconceivable that the perpetrators who preyed upon the Pandora would use the methodology that proved so successful for them on the Zeus.”
Pitt straightened. “Then it’s settled, we’ll need men from Tintagel to St Ives.”
“That’s a coastline of almost sixty miles!” Friar Tuck exclaimed.
“We will be stretched,” Pitt admitted, reaching across the desk for a map. “But there are barracks at St Ives and Newquay with men we can call on.”
* * *
Selina cursed herself for her foolishness with every step she took. The stable loomed before her. Distant sounds of merrymaking and music told of how far she was away from the party.
In his dark costume, Geoffrey had all but disappeared into the inky blackness.
Yellow light from smoky lamps dotted the entrance of the stable. Selina entered and paused, allowing time to get accustomed to the gloom. The whicker of a horse in one of the dozen stalls drew her attention, but otherwise the stable remained quiet except for the occasional sound of hooves shuffling in the hay.
To her left, both halves of a split door were open. She sensed a slight movement within the stall and moved towards it. It appeared to be empty.
She stepped inside and took several paces until she could perceive the back wall.
Geoffrey’s voice emerged soft and low from the semidarkness behind her.
“I knew you would join me.”
Selina jumped and spun on her heel. Her leg bumped into a large open sack filled with grain.
Geoffrey remained hidden in the shadows.
“You see, I know you better than you know yourself.”
“You promised to show me evidence.”
“I have lots of things to show you. What would you like to see first?”
His tone o
f voice, rich with double meaning, put Selina on guard. If she knew where he was, she could plan her next move to get out of the mess she had created for herself.
“Show yourself instead of hiding in the shadows like a mouse,” she said with more bravery than she felt.
Geoffrey obliged, stepping forward from the shadow of a brick pier. He blocked her direct path out of the stall and took another step forward. Even behind his mask she could detect his malevolent intent.
“A roll in the hay is an appropriate enough initiation for someone of your standing. You might learn to enjoy a little rough and tumble.”
Selina scanned about for a weapon to defend herself. She found none. Then the roughness of the hessian sack at her leg provided a reminder, and she scooped a handful of corn, oats, and barley.
As Geoffrey lunged, Selina threw the grain, momentarily blinding him. She ducked beneath his sweeping arms and darted past, feeling the glancing touch of his fingertips as he wheeled and reached to grab her, but she was a fraction too quick.
As she ran past the threshold of the stall, Selina grabbed and swung back the top half of the split door. An instant later, she heard a thud and howl of pain as the heavy wood connected with Geoffrey’s nose.
Selina heard him scramble to his feet. He would be on her in seconds.
She ran.
Chapter Twenty-One
James took a deep breath of night air as he walked away from the house, down the sloping lawn to the masquerade marquee. On the one hand he was thankful that a significant weight was off his shoulders. On the other he was considering the burden of a new load.
No wonder his father became such a disillusioned and bitter man.
He undoubtedly knew. He must have, or suspected at least, when year after year no further children were added to the Mitchell name.
He wondered about Edward Mitchell’s family; were there any still alive? If so, they could rightly challenge on the basis that he was not his father’s son and rightful heir to Penventen, and although he was successful in his own right, James also relied on the funds and connections his family name gave him.
And what of Selina? He couldn’t offer her a title or even the security of his name. He would need to talk to her before the evening was out. If she wished to break off their engagement he would not dissuade her.
He lit a cigar on one of the torches and looked up at the night sky.
Dear merciful God in Heaven, he pleaded silently, help me.
The voice that spoke beside him was not that of God.
“It’s a lovely night to announce an engagement.”
James turned sharply to find Abigail standing next to him.
She was dressed as Cleopatra and astonishingly beautiful. Her curly white blonde hair was hidden under a straight black wig that fell to her shoulders. Her full length gown was in white, decorated at the bust, hem, and sleeve by broad ribbons embroidered in gold, turquoise, black, and green Egyptian motifs.
Noting James’ observation of her, she turned slowly for his perusal.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
James recalled Selina asking him the same thing about her costume. Astonishingly beautiful or not, he realised that, to his mind, a comparison between the two women would leave Abigail wanting.
In answer to her question, he shrugged and looked back to the marquee, hoping that from a distance he could see Selina.
The sharp dig of fingernails at his chin forced James’ attention back to Abigail who was furious at the snub. James found he could care less.
“We have a bargain,” she hissed.
James nodded. “An engagement, announced tonight,” he answered absently, taking a step away from her.
“There’s something you ought to know,” he intoned hollowly. “I’m already engaged.”
Abigail’s temper exploded. “You dog!”
“Don’t you mean ‘you bastard dog’?” he asked mildly with another step's distance between them.
He watched as the meaning of his words came home to her.
“You weren’t supposed to know. Not until…”
“Not interested.”
“What do you mean, ‘not interested’? The chance to one day be an Earl means nothing to you?”
James gave a regretful shake of his head.
“I no longer have my own name, Abigail. What good does a title do me?”
Abigail's expression was utter bewilderment. James allowed himself a half smile. Of course she wouldn’t understand.
“Oh, and don’t think about spreading rumours about William Rosewall or myself,” he added, thinking of the diplomatic commissions in his coat pocket. “You’re not likely to get a sympathetic hearing—that is, unless you fancy transportation to New South Wales for blackmail.”
James glanced up the hill past Abigail. Friar Tuck and Will Scarlett had emerged from the house and were walking down the lawn in their direction.
With a nod, he drew Abigail's attention to the men. She looked back at James with wide eyes.
“James?”
“I think these gentlemen want to have a word with you,” he suggested.
“But...”
He regarded her with a sudden compassion.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Abigail.”
* * *
Selina ran towards the light of the marquees, not knowing if Viscount Canalissy was in pursuit.
Her light flat shoes provided no protection from the stones in the gravel, so moving across to the grass, while kinder to her feet, made every step a half-slip due to the late evening dew.
Becoming breathless, she turned the corner of a small outbuilding, running behind it and trying stealthily to double back, hoping that if Geoffrey was in pursuit he would head in the direction of the pavilions.
Sure enough, long booted steps crunched along the path, but then slowed to a stop not far from where Selina had turned behind the building. At the far back corner, she forced her breathing to steady and concentrated on identifying the location of her pursuer.
“Selina?” Geoffrey sounded deceptively calm but somewhat nasal. “Why are you running away from me?”
He took a few steps on the gravel and paused again. Selina, now all the way around the building, peered around the corner. As Geoffrey was dressed all in black, it took her a moment to find his silhouette in the darkness. He stood on the grass off the gravel with his back to her.
Selina looked across the drive to a tall spreading oak whose wide trunk would provide cover in the shadows, and had the added advantage of placing her just a few dozen yards from the door of what appeared to be a cookhouse off the side of the main building. Inside, she might find assistance. Indeed, as she watched, she saw a staff member inside move past the window.
She determined to risk a careful crossing of the gravel then over to the door, and she looked back along the path to gauge Geoffrey’s distance.
He had disappeared!
Selina cursed beneath her breath. She hadn’t seen or heard him move off.
“You've bloodied my nose, darling! I had no idea that you liked to play rough...”
Selina jumped and covered her mouth to stop an involuntary scream. Geoffrey was behind the outbuilding, having circled around after her. Now he was only a few feet away from turning the back corner and seeing her.
“You know, you really shouldn't run on wet grass.”
Closer...
“It leaves tracks.”
Closer...
“But I think you really want me to find you, don't you, my pet?”
Selina turned and ran across the drive as fast as she could, four or five paces crunching in the gravel, and threw herself in the shelter of the oak in the second before Geoffrey appeared as an absence of light around the back corner of the outbuilding.
From the shadows, Selina saw him run to the edge of the path. He looked left and right along its length, then across at the oak.
Selina took off again, this time running for
the door while trying to keep the bulk of the tree between her and Geoffrey in the hope it would provide cover and valuable seconds before he spotted her. And it did render the protection she coveted, but the door was locked.
“Selina!”
She heard Geoffrey call her name, heard his rapid footsteps on the path, and she ran again, along the side of the main house towards the front of the building.
The sounds of the party grew as Selina cleared the eastern corner of the building at full tilt, turning, almost falling. She pitched again momentarily along the front of Boconnoc House, then pulled up so quickly she almost overbalanced.
A dark-haired woman dressed majestically in white stood motionless at the front door, looking down the lawn to where the masquerade continued in full swing. She turned and regarded Selina with surprise.
“Miss Rosewall,” she offered, “you seem to be in somewhat of a hurry.”
Selina, breathless and confused, stared at the woman, trying to place her.
“Is aught amiss?” the woman asked with a small degree of concern.
Selina was suddenly aware that Geoffrey had burst around the corner also and likewise had skidded to a halt just behind her.
The woman looked past Selina to her pursuer. “Cuz?”
“My lady,” panted the breathless Geoffrey.
Selina suddenly realised the woman now walking toward her was Abigail, costumed as Cleopatra in a dark wig. She was trapped between her enemies.
But when Abigail frowned, it was at Geoffrey.
“Your nose. It's bleeding.”
“Um... yes.”
Abigail scowled at him.
“Perhaps you should go and address your wounds, my lord.”
Geoffrey drew breath to reply, then thought better. He turned and walked away in the direction he'd come.
Selina looked at Abigail; Abigail fixed Selina with a weary grimace.
“You’ll find James somewhere down there,” she said, nodding in the direction of the marquees, then turned and walked back towards the portico door.
She tossed her words acerbically over her shoulder, not looking back.
“Tell him to take better care of you in future.”
Moonstone Obsession Page 19
