“I have stood in the way of such men before, and he has not been my friend ever, Rita. And neither, it seems, have you.”
“Well,” Aunt Margarita sucked up the word as though she were about to huff and puff and blow Lord Lindsay’s house down. “If it is rumors that we shall believe, perhaps I’ll fancy a few of the darker about you, Lindsay Morgan!” James could practically see his Aunt’s plump finger pointing into his father’s face and his ears perked up a bit. Dame Margarita had mentioned several juicy bits of gossip concerning his father’s mysterious journey – but none of them had been called dark.
“Most of the nobles believe you sailed once more for the crown, Lindsay,” Margarita continued. “As I’m sure you would have them believe. But one evening, after a bit much champagne, Lord Carlisle let slip that you resigned your commission to the king five years ago. Some say that you went in search of your old enemy, the pirate king, Dread Steele. Some say that you even became a pirate yourself! But the most wild rumor, the most vile of them all, Lindsay, was that you were hording a secret treasure, one more valuable than all your others - a treasure to rival that of the King’s entire kingdom!”
If James’s ears perked up before, they now trembled on the sides of his head for more. A treasure to rival the very crown of England? James pictured mounds and piles of gold and silver, his mouth watering at the thought. He could buy anything in the world with a treasure like that.
“But the real question, Lindsay,” Aunt Margarita raged on, “is not why you would hide such a treasure from the rest of the world, but why you would hide such a treasure from your own son? From your own flesh and blood!”
That was a good question, thought James, anger toward his father flaring up in his chest once more.
“As if you care for James at all,” said Lord Morgan. “Your real question is why I would keep such a treasure from you, you and my old friend, Count Cromier. Had you ever asked me Margarita, you could have had all the gold I own. But that was never your way, was it? Your way is to sneak and to scheme, as it has always been. And as that is the case, I will not have plotters under my roof. Take your things and leave my home immediately.”
Now James almost spat out the same cordial upon which he nearly choked a moment ago. Who did his father think he was? Lord of the manor? That was family he was tossing out like a common servant!
James heard Margarita’s ominous silence from the dark of the pantry, until she finally spoke. It wasn’t the same angry tone she’d used with the servants. It trembled and boiled, a bitter cruelty lurking beneath the words.
“You’ll regret this, Lindsay. Mark my words. You’ve been an arrogant rebel your whole life, and the time has come for your comeuppance. Count Cromier has told me many things you have tried to keep hidden - dark secrets. I’ll find out the truth of this treasure, I swear I will! And mark my words, you’ll wish you’d never crossed me!”
“I already do, Rita,” Lord Lindsay said, and if James hadn’t been so furious with his father, he would have heard the sadness in his voice.
After the two adults had left the kitchen, James snuck back up to his room to wait until the dreaded strike of eight. The conversation in the kitchen had rattled Jim’s mind to say the least. A great treasure? The Morgans were one of the richest families in England. What could this great treasure be? Where had his father hidden it? And why? And who was this Count Cromier? Aunt Margarita had never mentioned him in her gossip, though if she said he was a great man that was word enough for James. But now his father had gone and kicked Aunt Margarita out of the house. Everything in James’s world had been perfect until this day, and in merely one afternoon, his long-gone father had smashed it all beneath his foot.
Well, James though to himself, this just couldn’t stand. At eight o’clock he was going to march down to his father’s study and sort this entire mess out.
FIVE
peal of thunder rumbled in the distance as the clock on James’s wall finally chimed eight times. James burst from his room, boldly strutting through the manor’s long hallways to his father’s study, his chin and shoulders set like a fearless soldier’s. He had decided he wasn’t going to apologize for his earlier behavior. In fact, he had thought to himself during his afternoon-long imprisonment to his room (an unjust act that he meant to remind himself about which to pen a letter to the local magistrate for an investigation) it was his father, not he, who owed the apology. James was almost glad the weather outside was turning ugly. It would match the storm that was about to rage within the house.
Oh, James had practiced his proud little speech in his room until it was perfect. In his mind, he imagined delivering it so loudly that nobles from all around heard his cry for justice, arriving to the manor to applaud his good sense and impeccable logic. But the closer and closer James drew to the large oak doors at the end of the hall, those leading to where his father waited, his strut became less bold, and his set chin and sure shoulders drooped ever lower. James suddenly wondered how good his sense was, and how impeccable his logic. He could no longer see the lords and ladies clapping for him in his mind. His stomach churned and did a somersault. Now when he blinked his eyes, all James could see in his thoughts were his father’s deep and penetrating eyes, staring straight into his own.
The hardwood floor creaked beneath James’s feet. He shivered with a sudden chill. The house was so quiet tonight, and dark - darker and quieter than usual. James realized for the first time that besides the groaning of the floor as he walked and the gathering storm outside, no other sounds echoed through the manor, and besides the light peeking out from the cracks around the study door, no other light brightened the hall. This was very odd indeed. Where were all of the servants?
When James reached the door, however, all other thoughts but the image of his father’s stern eyes fled his mind.
“Just rush in and say it,” he told himself, taking a deep breath as he grasped the door handle. “You’re not sorry, you’re not. Just say it. He’s the one who should be sorry.” James was sweating now from nerves, but he could wait no longer. With gritted teeth he flung open the door and rushed inside.
“Father!” he cried, his voice warbling and squeaking out about four pitches higher than normal. But there was no stopping now, and he pushed the words out of his mouth in a falsetto mishmash that sounded not too unlike yodeling. “I’m-not-sorry-about-anything-I-said-earlier-and-I-think-you’re-dead-wrong-about-Aunt-Margarita-and-you’re-holding-me-back-from-who-I-truly-am-as-a-noble-and-in-the-end-you’re-the-one-who-will-be -”
Then James saw him. His father sat rigid as stone at his desk, gripping the side of his desk with one hand, a quill trembling in the other, a lone candle flickering its light over his sweat-glistened features. Before Lord Morgan on the desk rested a peculiar wooden box, and off to the corner sat a shining, silver goblet, still half full of blood-red wine. Every muscle in Lord Morgan’s body strained taut against some invisible agony.
“–sorry.” The final word of James’s diatribe escaped as nothing but a whisper. “Father?” James stepped within an arm’s reach of the frozen man.
Lindsay Morgan’s eyes flicked to his son. James gasped a startled breath and his heart nearly exploded at his father’s raspy, choked words.
“James.” Lord Morgan forced each painful word. “Poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” James said with a gasp. His head began to spin.
Lindsay released the desk and pointed a violently quaking finger at the goblet upon the desk.
“Poison! Oh, father, no!” Panic flooded James’s chest, and he called out for the one person to whom he always ran in times of trouble. “Aunt Margarita! Aunt Margarita, come quick!”
“No!” His father’s face twisted into a snarl of pain and rage. His pointing hand shot out and grasped James’s shoulder tightly.
“Hudson…Hudson.”
James’s stomach was no longer churning: It was frozen solid, along with his throat and heart. But he did as his father asked. �
��Hudson!” James called, running out into the hall as he shouted louder and louder. “Hudson! Hudson! Hudson! Help!”
From around the corner Hudson appeared, still dressed, his cane in one hand and a rack of burning candles in the other. “Aye young master, I’m here. What do ya’ want? And where are all the bloody servants?”
“Hudson, it’s Father…he…he…” James stammered, but he had no need to finish the sentence. Hudson’s eyes grew wide and alert with fear. He dashed past James, down the hall and into the study.
James ran as fast as he could behind Hudson, catching up just as the old valet came to stand at Lord Morgan’s side. James’s father managed to meet Hudson’s eye, sweat pouring down his face, his entire body shaking.
“Margarita–” he said. His voice was a terrible growl, scraping out in rough jerks over his clenched teeth. “Protect James, Hudson. Protect the treasure!”
“I understand, milord.” Hudson’s own voice quavered huskily. He held his master’s hand, falling to one knee at his Lord’s side. But Lindsay Morgan now shifted his eyes to James, sorrow and pain filling his face. James wanted to look away, hardly bearing the weight of his father’s stare upon him, but lacking the strength to pull his eyes from his father’s face.
“My son – be – my son,” Lord Morgan said. Then he spoke no more. The shaking ceased. He breathed but one more breath before slumping onto his desk, finally falling still forever.
“Milord?” Hudson shook him once, but not again.
“Father…” James’s lips trembled. He stared wide-eyed at his father’s unmoving form until his eyes filled with water. He and Hudson remained quiet for what seemed like hours. Only the whisper of burning candles filled the room.
Finally, Hudson stood to obey his master’s final command, removing the note, written on an old and yellowed piece of parchment, from beneath his Lord’s hand and reverently unclasping the chain with the shell on the end from around Lord Morgan’s neck. The old valet stared for a long time at the two objects in his hands. He stared at them, until he glanced at James – his eyes full of fear.
Hudson took the objects and carefully placed them in the small wooden box from the desk, his hands shaking and his eyes watering as he closed the lid with a soft tap.
“Your father knew what was happenin’ soon as he tasted the wine,” Hudson said. “There are things, young master, things he never told you. But he’s written a letter explainin’ everythin’ and stamped it with your family’s seal.” Hudson’s eyes were now red, tears wet on his wrinkled cheeks. “We should go to your father’s house in London now. I don’t think it will be safe here for long. The King was an admirer of your father and perhaps he will give us aide.”
“What’s happening, Hudson?” James asked, his own hands starting to tremble.
“I donno’ have time to explain it all, but in this box, young master, is the secret to a great treasure. Your father kep’ it safe for so long. And now, it passes to you.” Hudson held out the box with his shaking hand to James. “You are the Lord Morgan now, James.”
James shook his head, tears springing from nowhere to fall hot from his eyes onto his cheeks. He had dreamed so many times of being the lord, of having everything his father had and more, but now those dreams tasted bitter, and he felt like he was going to vomit them up. He never wanted to remember those dreams again. “No!” James cried, running to his father’s side, shaking him. “We just need a doctor! He’s going to be all right! Get up, Father, get up!”
Hudson grabbed the sobbing boy and turned him around. “A doctor canno’ help now, son. He’s gone.”
“Gone?” a deep voice asked from the study’s doorway. “Who has gone?”
James turned toward the voice and Hudson jumped to his feet. It was Aunt Margarita, still dressed in her finest dress and corset, pulled as tightly as possible about her plump frame, ringlets of a platinum blonde wig cascading about her face.
“You know good ’n well who has gone and why, witch!” Hudson seethed.
“Watch your tone, man. I am the Dame Margarita Morgan.”
“Aunt Margarita.” James’s mind whirled and without thinking he staggered toward his aunt. She was his friend, he thought. She was the one who had taught him about the world and the people in it. She had shared her chocolates with him and given him his mirror and all of his clothes. She could not have possibly done this evil deed. “It’s Father —”
“Do no’ go near her, James!” Hudson ordered, but all of James’s memories refused to let him believe that his aunt would do this to his father, to him.
“Why wouldn’t he come near me, Hudson?” Margarita said sweetly. “I’m his best friend - his only friend.”
James reached his aunt, and she welcomed him with a touch to his face, lightly pinching his cheek. “Aren’t I James? Aren’t we the best of friends? And we can be still, if you want. We don’t have to let such things as this come between us.”
A cold shiver shook James out of his stupor. “Such things as this? But how could you know unless…” James’s eyes went wide, but it was too late. Dame Margarita seized him by the wrist and held him tight.
“Unless, I killed Lord Lindsay Morgan?” All the false sweetness bled out of Margarita’s face and voice, revealing her for who she truly was.
“You’re goin’ to pay for this!” Hudson raged. “You’re goin’ to pay for wha’ you’ve done!”
“What I’ve done?” Margarita stared icily into Hudson’s face. “You mean, what we’ve done.”
The doorway to the study suddenly filled with both light and shadow as four men stepped into the room. Two were red-coated soldiers, torches in hand, the firelight glinting off the steel bayonets that tipped their muskets. The third was an old man in a black velvet coat, the long wig of a true noble atop his head, parted at the top and flowing down both sides of his head, but instead of the traditional white, his curls running deep scarlet, the long strands barely concealing a purple scar lining the curve of his face.
But James’s eyes were drawn to the fourth man. His face was a younger version of the man in the red curls, though he wore no wig for himself, his coal black hair pulled back from a face pale as a mist, eyes blue and cold set there like icy stones. The pale man wore the uniform of ship’s captain, drumming his fingers on the hilt of the captain’s sword at his side. Of the four men that now stood before him, the last was the most terrifying by far, the small smile playing on his pallid lips frightening James to his very core.
James writhed and twisted to free himself from Aunt Margarita’s grasp, but she would not release him. “You! You traitor!” James screamed at her. “I’ll — I’ll have you all arrested!”
The four men and Aunt Margarita laughed at James, his aunt squeezing his wrists even tighter as they mocked him. James struggled to turn and find Hudson for help, but the valet’s face was now drained of color, staring at the men before them as though he had seen a ghost.
“You?” Hudson said to the old man. “You did this?”
The old man smiled and stepped forward, looking around the study as though he’d been there before.
“I’m glad you still remember me, Hudson. I was afraid that after the last time we were all together you and Lindsay might have forgotten me. It was most unpleasant, wasn’t it?” The older man said, smiling a mirthlessly, tracing his scar with a gloved finger. “But it looks like neither of you could quite let go of the past.”
The red-wigged man looked to a picture hanging above the study fireplace. Four men stood proudly in the painting. One of them was James’s father. James had no idea who the other two were, but the fourth, he now knew for certain, was the old man standing in the study now, leaning in close to read the inscription on the picture’s frame.
“A man’s heart, a man’s mind, and man’s hands are the keys to every locked door in all the seas and all the lands.” The old man laughed. He shook his head and turned back to Hudson with a cruel smile. “Somewhat treacherous, don’t you think, for t
he kingdom’s most famed pirate hunter to have such pirate texts so openly displayed?”
“But you would know all about treachery, wouldn’ ya’?” Hudson seethed. “Why now? Why?”
“Well, I thought that would be obvious, Hudson. We’re here to finish what we started so long ago. We’re here for the treasure.”
“Over my dead body.”
“That’s the idea, old chum.” The old man snapped his fingers and the two guards leapt to attention. “Let’s tie up loose ends, shall we?”
“And the boy?” Aunt Margarita asked.
“I said ends, not end, didn’t I?”
James looked to Aunt Margarita. Surely, he thought, she would never allow this to happen, not to him, not to her James. But with a shake of her blonde curls, she shrugged, letting go of James’s wrist as the two guards surrounded him.
James felt suddenly cold and alone, completely lost and without hope. The guards seized him by the shoulders, forcing him to his knees.
The black-haired man sauntered forth, looking James right in the face, a calm smile still curled on his pale lips. “You know, boy,” the pale captain said in a voice as icy as his blue eyes. “I often dreamt of doing this to your father. To repay my father’s scar. Alas, I suppose I shall have to settle for you.” He drew his sword from its scabbard with one flick of his arm.
But at that moment, just as he had done for James’s father so long ago, faithful Hudson now did for James. Almost forgotten, with the guards and the black-haired captain’s attention on James, Hudson leapt into the middle of them, bowling the two soldiers holding James onto the floor. In one fluid arc Hudson pulled the top half of his cane apart from the bottom, revealing the hidden blade of a sword, swinging it toward the raven-haired captain. The young captain only just evaded the blow, forced to retreat backward. Hudson picked James up by the shirt, thrusting him toward the hallway.
Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves Page 3
