“She does not know Pemberton.” Frustrated, Devlin walked down to the shoreline. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the sound of the wind and sea. But Blackjack was right. The longer he put off telling Christiana the truth, the worse it would be.
“I need a bit more time.” He turned to face Blackjack. “There are things I must do first. Then, I will tell her.”
“So, ye want me to keep silent ‘bout it.” Blackjack scratched then fluffed his full beard. “And since I need silence from ye as well, seems we must come to terms.”
“Very well.” Devlin folded his arms across his chest. “The information I have regarding you and the Ravens will never be revealed, provided Christiana is released from the gang forthwith and you do not reveal my identity to her.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Make no mistake, Blackjack, I am a very powerful man. I suggest you not tempt fate.”
Pursing his lips together thoughtfully, the leader of the Ravens begrudgingly nodded. “Just remember, if ye dare hurt the treasure I am puttin’ into yer keepin’, I will see ye dead, Yer Grace.”
The moment they re-entered the cottage, Christiana came to her feet, circling them like an eager puppy. “Well?”
“Not an easy man to bargain with,” Blackjack grumbled. “But ‘tis settled.”
Christiana rushed into Devlin’s arms, hugging him tightly. “Oh, Devlin, I cannot believe ‘tis truly over.”
“Not quite,”—Blackjack poured himself another drink—“how ye leave is at my biddin’.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Devlin glared at the giant. “I never agreed to that.”
Holding his glass up, Blackjack calmly studied the brandy’s clarity against the firelight. “It means, steward, there is but one way she can leave the Ravens with no questions asked.” Looking at Devlin, he added, “Christian must die.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Devlin bit out.
“Unless Christian dies, the Ravens will suspect he turned traitor, and hunt him down.” Turning to Christiana, he added, “It must be believable, Christi—without question and witnessed by others.”
“On a run perhaps?” Christiana faced her friend with an excited eagerness that made Devlin’s blood run cold.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Devlin bellowed.
“Rein in your temper, steward. I am not ‘bout to let Christi get hurt now. We can stage the death in such a way I will be the first to reach her body. The others will be told by me what happened then ordered to abandon the run.”
“And they will simply flee and leave you alone with the dead body?”
“Aye,” Blackjack said. “The men suspect Christian is my son. My anger and grief will be such nary a one will question the boy’s death. And they will not want to get caught either.”
Devlin paced the small confines of the cottage. “I dislike the sound of this plan. But, just for curiosity’s sake, how do you propose Christian die?”
“I could fall from the cliff again,” Christiana suggested cheerfully.
Devlin stopped short and bestowed his most disapproving scowl at her.
She averted her eyes. “ ‘Twas just a thought.”
“It should be a hero’s death,” Blackjack mused aloud, a devilish glint in his eyes. “Christian should die protectin’ the Ravens from capture.”
“Oh, yes, I would so like Christian to die a hero.” Her hands clasped together under her chin, Christiana had spoken with quiet awe.
Devlin rubbed his brow, his head feeling as if it might explode. “This is madness—absolute madness.”
“But, Blackjack is right.” Christiana said. “If I am to truly walk away from this life forever, it must be this way.”
“No, it sounds far too risky,” Devlin argued.
“Bah. Not with both of us to protect her,” Blackjack chuckled. “And it’ll not be a real smugglin’ run.”
“Not a real smuggling run?” Devlin eyed the giant with no small amount of misgiving.
“ ‘Course not, but just us three will know that,” Blackjack replied.
Devlin studied both Blackjack and Christiana, and realized one sobering truth. They were both determined upon this course of action, enough so they might proceed without his presence. And it did seem a logical solution to the problem—especially with him involved every step of the way to protect Christiana.
“Very well,”—he sighed heavily—“but I want it done quickly.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Whom men fear they hate,
And whom they hate,
they wish dead.”
~ Quintus Ennius
(230-169 BC)
Thyestes
“Do not ask me to do this, Devlin.”
Despite her plea, Devlin continued to smile, sinfully handsome in a superfine bottle green jacket, ivory and gold embroidered waistcoat and buff-colored pantaloons. Boots polished to a glossy patina. Cravat fashioned into an impeccable knot. He looked every bit the part of a respectable gentleman, but they were supposed to be marketing for the abbey, not visiting expensive dress shops.
“I am not going in there with you,” Christiana added.
“No?” He made a negligent shrug. “Very well, if you will not accompany me, I shall be forced to guess your preferences. Either way, I am of a mind to purchase a gown or two for you.”
“Shops like this require appointments.”
He narrowed his eyes and peered into the shop’s window. “I see no customers about. Ladies rarely venture out so early in the morning. They are home having a cup of chocolate and penning letters.”
“How would you know?”
“I have two sisters and a mother. Believe me, I know.”
Hearing muffled laughter, Christiana looked to her right. Nash leaned against the Duke of Pemberton’s fine coach, clearly enjoying their performance. Beneath her curious stare, the new stable master sobered and directed his attention to the horses.
Stepping closer to Devlin, she spoke in a half whisper. “You are being ridiculous. A gown from this shop would cost a small fortune. And ‘tis most improper.”
A smile curved his lips. “Since I shall be your husband in the not too distant future, you best become accustomed to the fact I intend to spoil you excessively.”
A twinge of excitement rippled through her belly at his words and the seductive promise in his eyes. At the same time, the thought seemed too clouded in mist, like a dream she feared to believe or embrace.
Self-conscious, she looked down at the black cloak she’d worn to ward off Folkestone’s early morning chill then lifted her gaze once more to the dressmaker’s shop. Judging from the two gowns on display in the window, the shop catered to a privileged clientele. For heaven’s sake, even the sign looked like an expensive painting. Against a beautiful pastoral background, Mrs. Harris, the name of the modiste, had been written with an impressive, sweeping elegance.
“Can we not look for another shop? I very much doubt Mrs. Harris would welcome me as a client.”
“Come now, sweetheart,” he coaxed in that sensuous, velvet voice, making it impossible for her to think clearly. “We agreed to enjoy Folkestone and see the sights. Consider this one of the sights. I might add, when I told Blackjack we were coming to market today, he felt it a grand idea to keep you from fretting about when Christian would meet his supposed doom. In truth, he told me about this modiste. Said she arrives early to begin the day and greet new customers without appointments.”
“How would he know about this modiste?”
Devlin laughed. “Granted I know not the intricacies of smuggling, but I suspect the lace, silks, and velvets Mrs. Harris uses in great abundance might explain the man’s familiarity with her shop.”
Unable to quell her amusement with his wit and insight, Christiana smiled.
Devlin extended his hand. “Come, take your first step with me into the future.”
They entered the shop amidst a tinkling of bells. She stood amazed in the most beaut
iful shop she’d ever seen. A crystal chandelier and Chinese silk wall coverings made her feel as if she’d stepped into a palace. She smiled at the polished tables of inlaid, exotic woods, tall vases of fresh flowers, and a matching pair of peach-colored striped silk sofas. Even the thick, lush carpet beneath her feet made it seem as if she stood upon a cloud. If proper ladies were accustomed to this type dress shop, what must their homes look like?
She felt a moment’s panic. The modiste would look down at any woman in such worn garments just walking in off the street, especially so early in the day. And yet, Mrs. Harris—an attractive woman of a comparable age to Devlin—could not have been more cordial or accommodating. However, it soon became apparent why.
Mrs. Harris sought Devlin’s favor. And watching the woman flirt with him progressed from awkward to exceedingly uncomfortable.
At least her knight took evasive action. Devlin spoke like some lovesick poet about the colors and fabrics he wanted used for his future bride—“the beautiful, beloved daughter of the late Count Alexander Petrovsky.”
Christiana wanted to laugh out loud when Mrs. Harris deigned to then study her, making particular note of her new client’s faded pink muslin frock and tasteful, but nonetheless well-worn, black cloak.
From that point on, the conversation between Devlin and Mrs. Harris sounded like a scene from a poorly written farce. And the longer the players remained on stage, the more embarrassed she felt for them.
Unable to observe the bizarre tableau a moment longer, Christiana drifted over to the shop’s large window. There she watched the comings and goings of people on the fashionable street. Although early, fine carriages with liveried servants traversed the lane. Yet among those that rolled to a stop, only courtly older gentlemen and dashing young rogues emerged.
Perhaps ladies really do drink chocolate and pen letters in the morning.
Glancing to her right, she noticed a magazine called La Belle Assemblee. Three ladies pictured on the cover engravings were arrayed from head to foot in what had to be the most expensive and exclusive degree of fashion. Elegant plumes accentuated magnificent bonnets—fastened with jewels no less. The gowns were breathtaking, exquisite in design and composition, and each one complimented by fur-trimmed mantles. Even their velvet slippers had beautiful but impractical silk embroidery.
Balancing a Wedgwood saucer in her hand, Christiana sipped a cup of hot tea then turned sideways so she could glance out the window yet still observe the conversation between Devlin and Mrs. Harris.
“I prefer this design,” Devlin said.
“It is stunning,” Mrs. Harris remarked. “But I fear not suitable for Miss Petrovsky. One must possess a certain understanding of the world to wear this particular gown. The lady must have confidence in not only her breeding, but her bearing. A woman wears the gown—the gown does not wear the woman.”
“Indeed”, Devlin murmured.
“I am never wrong about fashion.” Mrs. Harris raised her nose with an undeniable air of superiority. “This design is intended for a woman more experienced about life. And, I daresay, one who has a greater appreciation as to what such an alluring fashion might provoke in a man.”
“I see. In other words, you believe this gown might prove too tempting for men should they see Miss Petrovsky wearing it.”
“You misunderstood my meaning, sir.” Mrs. Harris softly cleared her throat and lowered her voice to a tone almost dripping with seduction. “I do not wish to insult the young lady, but your little Miss Petrovsky, however sweet and rustic her charms might be, is no doubt uninformed about desire, temptation, and its often unavoidable consequences.”
“You are mistaken, madam,” Devlin replied. “Miss Petrovksy is neither sweet nor rustic, and I consider her sufficiently equipped and well informed about both temptation and its consequences.”
“Miss Petrovksy?” the modiste gasped with obvious disbelief.
“The Russians are quite a passionate people, you know. As such, I am determined Miss Petrovsky acquire this gown as soon as possible. Have it done up in silk, a tasteful shade of gold, I think.”
“As you wish,” Mrs. Harris sighed. “I must say, you are a generous gentleman and one quite passionate about what he wants. To that end, I look forward to servicing those wants—whatever they might be.”
With a pained expression, Devlin nodded. “Your dedication is noted, Mrs. Harris. Now then, what have you in the shop that Miss Petrovsky might take with her today?”
Christiana struggled against giggling. In truth, she might have been insecure and jealous had it not been for Devlin’s scandalous and rather amusing retorts. As for Mrs. Harris, she could hardly have been more obvious about her desire to have Devlin in her bed. Despite the woman’s refined surroundings, she behaved no better than Millie Piehler whenever a handsome man entered The Mermaid Inn and caught her eye.
Returning her attention to the activity outside the shop, Christiana saw someone new had appeared across the street. He must have arrived on foot. She would have heard and noticed another carriage stopping. His manner of dress seemed odd. If anything, he looked more a poor fisherman than a servant—or anyone who had coin to spend in any of these shops. Perhaps he waited for someone. That might explain why the man paced in front of the Jas. A. Pearce, Purveyor of Fine Tobacco shop.
The longer she watched the man’s quick, agitated movements, the more familiar he seemed. When a swiftly moving carriage passed, the man raised his head and looked her way.
Good heavens. What is Snake Watkins doing here?
A moment later, she knew. Two uniformed officers of the Royal Navy emerged from the tobacco shop and spoke with Snake in a familiar manner. A sick feeling lodged in the pit of her belly. Although she wouldn’t join the Ravens on any more actual runs, an important one had been scheduled tonight. If Snake had turned traitor, everyone in the gang—including Blackjack—could be captured or killed before sunrise.
Looking back at Devlin, she saw him arching his temperamental eyebrow at Mrs. Harris in a reproving manner. Undeterred, the woman edged herself closer to his side, twisting her body at an absurd angle to better display her plump bosom.
“For God’s sake,” Christiana said under her breath.
Perhaps hearing her, Devlin glanced across the room with a questioning look. Their gazes held a moment. “Come, join us, dearest. Mrs. Harris has some gowns we might acquire today, provided they meet your approval.”
Christiana looked out the window again. One of the soldiers gestured for Snake to lead the way somewhere. A terrible, deadly betrayal had been instigated by Snake. She couldn’t very well remain here picking out gowns, listening to the ridiculous next act between the man she loved and Mrs. Harris. Devlin could fight his own battle with the amorous dressmaker.
I cannot delay a moment longer.
Even now, if not for the unmistakable naval uniforms of Snake’s companions, she might have difficulty following. Christiana placed her cup and saucer on the table with a slight upset. She then gathered her hooded cloak about her shoulders and ran out of the shop, the tinkling of bells sounding in her wake.
However unladylike it appeared, she dashed across the street and followed after the three men, ever mindful to keep a safe distance. They walked quickly, heading in a direction away from the resplendent, respectable shops.
The marketplace.
Close to the harbor, the open market would be bustling with activity, a vast gathering of vendors and people, noise and distraction. And a perfect place to plot treachery. She quickened her pace, desperate to not lose sight of the traitor in the crowd. When she turned the corner, she sucked in a gulping breath. Vendors, one after another, loudly hawked their wares, everything from baskets of fish to freshly baked meat pies. Sounds and smells filled the air, making it difficult to concentrate.
She strained to see her quarry. Then, a flash of color caught her eye. The two officers turned toward a bookseller’s stall, followed closely by Snake.
Slipping i
n between rows of makeshift shelves, she offered a grateful prayer the bookseller had such a large selection. The height of his shelves afforded her necessary shelter from being seen by Snake and his party.
A quick glance found the bookseller trying to convince a distinguished older gentleman to purchase several leather-bound volumes. Mindful to not draw attention to her presence, Christiana removed the first book she saw on a shelf. Unable to quell a sardonic smirk at its title, she feigned interest and thumbed through the pages of The Housekeepers Receipt Book; Repository of Domestic Knowledge; Containing A Complete System of Housekeeping.
Walking deeper into her row, she nibbled on her bottom lip. Hearing the uncultured tones of Snake on the other side of the aisle, she stopped to listen.
“I tell ye ‘tis t’night,” Snake said. “Ye’ll catch the lot of ‘em, if’n ye do as I say.”
“The whole lot of them, eh,” one of the officers replied in a mocking tone.
“Aye, come ‘tween midnight and two. Ye’ll catch the Ravens and Blackjack in the act.”
“Indeed,” the second officer said. “What assurance do we have this is not a trap set for our men?”
“I have a notion,” the first officer suggested. “Why not have Snake here come along with us?”
“Not bloody likely,” Snake barked. “Supposin’ ye fail. They’ll have my innards strung out on the beach for the gulls to feast upon.”
“Why are you so intent on betraying the Ravens tonight?” asked the first officer.
“I’ve me own reasons. And ye promised a reward for each one captured.”
“So we did,” the first officer agreed. “Still, if you want your reward as badly as it seems, you must lead us to the landing site tonight.”
“It ain’t right,” Snake whined. “I’ll be spotted. I ain’t goin’ there t’night.”
“Listen to the cur,” the second officer scoffed. “He betrays his friends then when we want him to accompany us in their capture, he says it ain’t right.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 27
