by Holt, Cheryl
“Swear to me that you’ll let her go,”Mr. Sinclair said to the captain. “Give me your word as a gentleman.”
“I give you my word—both as a gentleman and as an officer in the king’s army.”
Mr. Sinclair straightened and dropped his saber, and the captain lowered his pistol and shoved Sarah behind him. A soldier restrained her so she couldn’t race over to Mr. Sinclair. Several others wrapped Sinclair with numerous ropes so he was fully secured and couldn’t lash out again.
Sarah had once claimed that Mr. Sinclair was Florence’s son, that he was Mildred’s nephew. What if he was and Mildred had orchestrated this end for him? If Florence was staring down from Heaven, what would she think of Mildred and how she’d treated Florence’s beloved boy?
Even though he’d been thoroughly pummeled, he looked magnificent and imperious. He was bleeding from many wounds, his cheekbones, nose, and chin. His knuckles were bruised, his skin scraped raw from throwing fierce punches.
It appeared as if he’d been run through with a sword, too. Blood gushed from a wound at his side. Set against the white of his shirt, the stain was very dark, very severe, yet he stood like a statue, as if he didn’t feel any of his injuries.
His gaze was locked on Sarah and filled with such yearning and regret that Mildred had to glance away. Sarah had a hand over her mouth, as if she was choking down more screams or as if she might be ill.
“John,”she moaned, “you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine, chérie,”he said. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Where are you taking him?”Sarah demanded of the captain.
“To London. For trial.”
“Goodbye, chérie,” Mr. Sinclair murmured to her. “Adieu, mi amour. I will always be yours. Forever.”
The captain stepped in so he and Sinclair were toe to toe. He was an older, hardened veteran who’d most likely participated in many battles, but when news went out of who he’d caught, he’d have no more brilliant episode in his career.
“Jean Pierre,”the captain announced, “Le Terreur Français, I accuse you of piracy on the high seas, murder, robbery, and mayhem. You are a menace to the entire world, and we all rejoice in your capture. Your punishment shall fit your many crimes: death by hanging.”
Mr. Sinclair didn’t reply, but merely dipped his head, neither admitting nor denying anything. Sarah’s knees gave out, and the soldier next to her grabbed her so she didn’t collapse in a stunned heap.
“You have the wrong man,”she declared. “You’ve arrested the wrong person.”
“We haven’t, Miss Teasdale.” The captain motioned to one of his men. “Bring the witness to identify him.”
The man hurried past Mildred and returned with Miss Dubois. She sauntered into the hall and glared toward the foyer. If she had any opinion on seeing Mr. Sinclair beaten and maimed and bound, it was carefully concealed.
“Mademoiselle Dubois,”the captain asked, “is this the pirate known to you as Jean Pierre, Le Terreur Français?”
“Yes, that’s him,”she blandly answered, seeming bored by the whole affair.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
The captain nodded to his men. “Take him away.”
But Miss Dubois was eager to speak, to be the center of attention. “You shouldn’t have betrayed me, Jean Pierre.”
“I did nothing to you, Annalise.”
“You shouldn’t have set me aside. And for a pale, trembling Englishwoman.” She spat on the rug like a common fishwife. “I warned Raven that I would have my revenge, and now I have.”
“Raven will kill you when he finds you,”Mr. Sinclair said.
Everyone gasped.
“Be quiet, you!”the captain sternly commanded.
Mr. Sinclair ignored him, his eyes lethal, his tone deadly. “Beware, Annalise. We’ll see who is avenged in the end.”
“I told you to be quiet!”the captain fumed, and he hit Mr. Sinclair, delivering a violent blow that rendered Sinclair unconscious. He crumpled to the floor, and the captain kicked him several times, then his men lifted Sinclair and carried him out. Others helped the soldier that Sinclair had shot at the beginning of the fight.
Within seconds, they had all marched out, and a poisonous silence descended. Sheldon came over to Mildred and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Mildred wasn’t eased by the gesture.
Miss Dubois and Sarah faced each other, and Dubois was smirking, preening. The old Sarah—the one Mildred had known for over two decades—wouldn’t have bothered with Dubois, would never have raised a fuss.
But this was a new Sarah, a changed Sarah, who was ferocious and loyal and more resolved than Dubois could ever have hoped to be. Dubois had acted out of jealousy and spite, but Sarah was acting out of love and devotion. Although Dubois hadn’t realized it yet, Sarah would win any battles between them.
Sarah stormed down the hall, approaching Dubois.
“Harlot!”Sarah seethed.
“I won’t be insulted by you,”Miss Dubois huffed.
“Witch! Harlot!”Sarah said again, and she slapped Dubois as hard as she could.
Mildred thought Dubois might strike Sarah in retaliation, but she was caught off guard by Sarah’s fury. Sarah looked like an ancient warrior goddess, capable of destroying worlds, and her visible wrath was alarming to witness.
“How dare you!”Miss Dubois raged.
“Who let you into my home so you could mingle with decent people?”
“Spoken from one whore to another,”Dubois simpered. “At least I was well paid for my efforts. What did you receive for yours?”
“There is a musket in my father’s library,”was Sarah’s response, “and I know how to use it. I’m going to fetch it. When I return, Miss Dubois, if you are still here, I will shoot you right through the middle of your cold, black heart.”
“You don’t have the nerve to shoot me.”
“You don’t think so? Keep standing here until I get back. Keep standing here so you can learn for yourself what I am willing to do.”
Sarah spun away and raced to the library.
Sheldon—always the peacemaker—said to Miss Dubois, “Ah…perhaps you should leave?”
Miss Dubois tossed her mane of hair. “I’ll only depart if Hedley says I must.”
“You should probably go,”Sheldon insisted. “We don’t want any more trouble.” He glanced at Mildred. “Do we, Mildred?”
“No, we definitely don’t want more trouble.”
“Start walking down the lane,”Sheldon told Dubois. “I’ll hitch my carriage and pick you up. There’s a boarding house in the village. We’ll take you to it, and while you settle in, I’ll come back for your belongings.”
Miss Dubois was ready to refuse, and she glowered toward the dining room, where Hedley had finally slithered out.
“They’re demanding I leave,”she complained to him. “Must I?”
“She can’t stay,”Mildred fumed.
“Mother! Of course she can.”
Mildred stood up to him for the first time ever. “No, Hedley, she can’t.”
He hemmed and hawed, then ultimately agreed. “Just for tonight. Just until Sarah has calmed.”
Mildred had seen how Mr. Sinclair and Sarah gazed into each other’s eyes. She didn’t think Sarah would ever calm, but she didn’t say so aloud.
Sheldon led Miss Dubois to the door. She bitterly protested, but he was very determined. He pushed her out bodily, slammed the door behind her, and turned the key in the lock.
For a shameful interval, she dawdled on the stoop, banging and screeching to be readmitted. The three of them were frozen in place, pretending she wasn’t creating a disturbance, Mildred feeling incredibly distressed by the horrid scene.
Angry footsteps pounded, and Sarah marched up. She was holding Bernard’s weapon, and she appeared very lethal.
“Is she gone?”Sarah asked.
“Yes,”Sheldon answered, “so let’s put the gun
away.” He tried for a smile. “I wouldn’t want it to go off by accident. I wouldn’t want you to hurt anyone.”
“If it goes off,”Sarah caustically snarled, “it won’t be by accident.”
“Now, now,”Sheldon soothed, “let’s not be that way. Your father, rest his soul, would hate to have you so upset.”
“Who in this house betrayed Mr. Sinclair?”she hissed. “Who betrayed my great friend and love?” She spun on Hedley. “Was it you?”
Sarah seemed so frighteningly dangerous that Mildred was terrified she’d shoot Hedley without pausing to consider.
“Sarah!”she sharply barked.
Sarah whirled to Mildred and bellowed, “Or was it you?”
“Not I,”Mildred claimed, but her avowal sounded shifty and untrue.
“He is your nephew!”Sarah shouted. “He is Florence’s son! He was coming to make amends, to give us back the estate, to reconcile with you. And you had him arrested on the word of a whore. He’ll probably be hanged on the word of a whore!”
Suddenly, she began to weep, her shoulders drooping, and Sheldon grabbed the musket. He attempted to maneuver her into the parlor, but she shook him away.
“Do me a favor, Sheldon,”she beseeched.
“I’ll assist you however I can.”
“If you ever possessed any genuine affection for my father, take Mildred and Hedley away with you. Go home and take them, too.”
“Well…all right. I suppose I can.”
“For if they remain in my sight another second, I can’t predict how I will behave.”
She was staring at Sheldon, being too irate to look at Mildred or Hedley.
Sheldon scowled at Mildred and gestured to the door. She didn’t move, and he said, “Mildred, please! Let’s humor her for a bit.”
She sighed with exasperation. “If you insist. Come, Hedley.”
At first, he refused, but Mildred clasped his arm and guided him out.
Behind her, Sheldon told Sarah, “I’ll stop by later to check on you.”
“Where are the servants?”she asked.
“In the village, but they should be back very soon.”
“And Mr. Hook?”
“I believe he’s in London. I’m not clear on the reason, but I guess he assumed Miss Dubois had gone to the city, and he’s searching for her there.”
“All the while, she was here, destroying his best friend. He will kill her when he finds out.”
“Sarah, Sarah,”Sheldon clucked, “let’s not talk like that.”
“Go, Sheldon. Go away and leave me be.”
Mildred started down the stairs, dragging a recalcitrant Hedley with her. Miss Dubois was in the drive, appearing vastly amused, as if what they’d done to Mr. Sinclair was a big joke. If Mildred had been a violent sort of person, she’d have whipped Dubois bloody.
When Dubois had initially mentioned John Sinclair’s identity to Mildred, when Hedley had gushed that they’d summoned soldiers to catch him, that they intended to collect the reward, it had sounded so easy, so thrilling.
Mildred hadn’t considered how awful the event would actually be. Oh, if only she could travel back in time and arrange a different ending!
Sheldon rushed up, and they headed for the stables to fetch his carriage.
“Where are we going?”Miss Dubois demanded.
“We are going to Mr. Fishburn’s,”Mildred said.
“Am I coming with you?”
Sheldon flashed Mildred a telling frown, and Mildred said, “I’m sorry, Miss Dubois, but you’re not welcome to join us.”
“But…but…”Dubois stammered, “where am I to go?”
“I don’t know,”Mildred advised, “but I wouldn’t loiter in the driveway. Sarah retrieved my husband’s gun—as she threatened she would. I’m quite sure if she sees you, she’ll shoot you with it.”
“She wouldn’t!”
“She would.” Mildred turned to Sheldon. “Let’s hurry. I’m feeling ill.”
“As am I.” Sheldon looked as miserable as she felt.
“I want to stay with Miss Dubois,”Hedley whined.
“Absolutely not,”Mildred snapped.
“I’m a grown man, Mother. You can’t force me to leave with you.”
Mildred was so weary, so aggravated, both by them and the ghastly debacle they’d engineered. They were a pair of fools who’d painted a pretty picture about how simple the arrest would be, but Mildred was certain that nothing they’d hoped to attain would ever be achieved by it.
The entire sordid affair was merely another disaster Hedley had stirred, the ramifications of which would all fall on Mildred.
Sheldon escorted her away, and as they hurried off, Hedley asked Dubois, “Will we get the reward? They have to give it to us, don’t they?”
Mildred covered her ears so she couldn’t hear Dubois’s response.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“There’s a visitor for you, Jean Pierre.”
“I told you: no visitors except my attorney, Mr. Thompson.”
John glared at the guard standing outside his cell. John wished Raven could come, but it was too dangerous. They weren’t certain if Annalise had implicated Raven, so Raven couldn’t show his face at the prison lest he be seized, too.
If John could do one valiant deed before he was hanged, he would save Raven from suffering the same fate.
Reggie Thompson—John’s criminal accountant—was a good alternative to Raven. He was a bland, unobtrusive man who could easily pass as a lawyer. He slipped in and out without generating much notice.
A prisoner of John’s wealth and status wasn’t expected to rub elbows with the general rabble. He could purchase all the lavish incarceration money could buy, so he was housed in a wing with other affluent citizens, and his fat purse had paid for many bribes to ensure he was suitably cosseted.
Reggie had arranged delivery of every comfort, from Persian rugs to Venetian glassware. A French chef had been hired to prepare his meals.
When John met his Maker, he would be happy to report that he’d spent his last few weeks, surrounded by the opulence and splendor he relished.
“It’s not another woman, is it?”John asked.
“No.”
The prison had been besieged by females trying to sneak in, and of course, Sarah had stopped by several times, but they’d all been turned away. John wouldn’t see anyone except Reggie, and he most especially wouldn’t see Sarah. She needed to head home to Bramble Bay and forget about him.
“Who is it then?”he inquired.
“I don’t know,”the guard responded, “but the warden says you can’t refuse this one. He’s a rich nob who can go wherever he wants. We have no authority to keep him out.”
John rolled his eyes with exasperation. It was probably some aristocrat’s son who’d bet at his club that he could bluster his way in to see the notorious French Terror.
It might be amusing to speak with the foolish dandy. It would remind John of how much he loathed the British aristocracy, how glad he was that he’d wreaked so much havoc on them.
A gate clanged, and the guard murmured, “Here he is now.”
“Lucky me,”John muttered.
The guard bowed deferentially to the visitor, then gestured to John’s open door and walked away. John stood in the middle of the cell, oozing boredom, anxious for the horrid moment to be over as quickly as possible.
But when the man stepped over the threshold, John blanched with shock. He’d meant to show no emotion. Otherwise, his reaction would be bandied in the newspapers later on, but gad! What was he to think?
“John Sinclair, I presume?”the man asked.
“Yes.”
“And obviously, you know who I am. May I sit?”
John was too astonished to reply and had to shake himself out of his stupor. He pointed to a chair by the stove where a toasty fire crackled in the grate.
Charles Sinclair—his nemesis, his enemy, his father—sauntered in as if he owned the bloody place
and settled in the chair John had indicated.
“I have to admit,”Charles said, “that I’m a bit undone. May I have a brandy?”
“Certainly.”
“I hope you pour French.”
“I do.”
“They’re so much better at everything.”
John whipped away, struggling to control his racing pulse, his visceral dislike. But there were other sentiments roaring through him, too: amazement, confusion, distress. His curiosity was flaring, roiling him so thoroughly that, as he reached for the decanter, his hands were trembling.
He poured Charles a glass, but poured his own, too. Desperate to calm himself, he inhaled a deep breath, and another, then spun and delivered the man’s brandy. He plopped into the chair opposite.
He was a few inches taller than his father, broader across the shoulders and arms, but other than those slight differences, they looked exactly alike. Charles’s blond hair had silvered with age, and John felt as if he’d somehow been transported twenty years into the future, as if he was staring at a vision of himself and how he’d appear when he was older. Not that he would live to be older.
His days were numbered.
John viewed himself as being very intimidating, able to awe and daunt with a glare, but apparently, it was an inherited trait. He glowered at Charles, determined to rattle him, but Charles placidly gazed back, not disturbed in the least.
John took his father’s measure, greatly bothered to find that Charles was gracious, handsome, and charming. Over the decades, John had burned with notions of Charles being a wretched lout, the images so virulent that John often described him as an ogre, the type of grotesque monster that lurked under bridges and gobbled up unsuspecting travelers.
Yet his mother had claimed that Charles was wonderful, and her friends in Paris had agreed. John hadn’t believed them. He’d pictured Charles as ugly and twisted and horrid. But he wasn’t.
There was an aura about him—of composure and assurance—that made you want to wallow in his presence, that made you want to get closer and become a confidante. John could see why a foolish girl like his mother would be smitten by Charles Sinclair, why she’d ruined her life for no good reason.
John was conflicted and perplexed. He’d always told himself that if he ever met Charles, he’d feel nothing, but to his disgust, he was churning with agitation.
