Dauntless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

Charles lived in luxury. Although Dru occupied the ducal apartments, these rooms rivaled hers in sumptuousness. Perhaps more so. The room was ablaze with light, every double sconce occupied, each candelabrum filled and in use. The bed hangings had rich crimson braid on the edge of their cream purity. She recognized Chinese lacquer screens and a pietra dura cabinet with images of birds and flowers depicted in semiprecious stones. The room smelled of roses and smoke, the thin spiral from a Meissen figure on the mantelpiece showing her where the heady scent originated. A new Aubusson carpet cushioned her slippered feet as she crossed to where Charles was smiling at her. He did not wear his customary wig but a heavily embroidered silk cap, which matched the moss-green robe fastened around his body.

  He appeared surprisingly strong. The formal clothes he habitually wore had their own padding and stiffening. Dru had assumed he got much of his shape from that and admired the tailoring, but he filled out the soft robe well. True, he didn’t have Oliver’s bulk and sheer power, but his limber athleticism surprised her. He must practice some kind of exercise. His father’s walking stick leaned against the nightstand. Burnett had to move it to put a chair in place for Drusilla.

  “Do I find you well?” Her anxiety was all for him.

  “Indeed, as much as ever.” His soft but firm voice came as a relief. She detected no trace of weakness there. “But I have received news this last hour. Good news, Dru. I have discovered where they are holding the copies of your book.”

  “You have?” Elation filled her. “Can we have them destroyed?”

  Charles spread his hands. “We can apply to the courts, but today is Friday and they do not sit on Saturday or, of course, Sunday. Your book comes out on Monday. But the bookseller has yet to distribute them. This is the last night they will be in one place. Tomorrow the carters will arrive, and they will be all over the country.”

  Dru swallowed her bile. Her stomach churned. This time the response would be worse. How could she face people ever again?

  She should start packing now. If she could rely on Oliver’s support, they could perhaps fight through it, but he showed no sign of that. She clenched her fist, the cool silk of her robe crumpling in her hand.

  Charles leaned forward, a gleam in his bright eyes. “I have thought of another way. If we act now, we can prevail.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Charles tapped the side of his nose. “I have agencies of my own. Ably assisted by Burnett here.”

  She had almost forgotten the presence of the manservant. But she had to listen. Charles was doing his best to help her. “So where are they?”

  “In a warehouse at the docks. Presumably Wilkins did not want to keep them close to his shop and offices. People would be watching him there. But at the docks, vehicles are unloading, loading, moving, all day. Another load would not be unusual.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Charles nodded. “Positive. We must move quickly, Dru, and quietly. We cannot afford to let these books into the public arena. Are you brave? Ready to act decisively?”

  Dru nodded. “Anything.” She did not exaggerate. She would do anything to regain Oliver’s regard. Anything at all.

  * * * *

  An hour later, as dusk fell over the city, Dru and Burnett slipped out of the back gate of the house. Horses snorted and harrumphed in their mews, but the alley between the blocks was thankfully deserted. Dru had changed into the clothes Burnett had acquired for her from one of the many pawn shops dotted around the city. The coarse rust-colored petticoat and faded bottle-green caraco jacket transformed Dru into the kind of shabby but respectable woman nobody looked at twice. She’d bound her head in a plain linen cap, only a strip of her hair showing at the front. She topped it with a faded straw hat with a floppy brim. All the better to hide behind. Burnett was similarly plainly attired. Burnett went first and cleared his throat if anyone lurked in any of the rooms. Dru slid past a housemaid busy cleaning out the grate in a downstairs room, feeling like a thief. In a way, she was. Or worse. But she could see no other course. Charles had provided the wherewithal and the information.

  They walked to the end of the square and caught a hackney. The leather upholstery was rotting, and it stank of mold, humanity, and piss. The boarded floor had holes in it, and there was, of course, no glass in the windows. Fortunately, the night was clement, with no rain.

  The hackney dropped them at Charing Cross, and then they caught another. They didn’t want anyone—Oliver—tracking them.

  When they told the driver where they wanted to go, he gave them a good, hard stare. “You her pimp?” he demanded.

  Burnett answered while Dru was still gaping. “No. We’re going to meet her husband, if you must know.”

  “Humph. It’ll cost you.”

  Dru gave the man sixpence on account and let him see the purse Charles had prepared. It held one gold coin, a little silver, and more coppers. She was a woman of substance, but not wealth. He’d thought of everything.

  Inside, the hackney was a little better than the previous one in appearance. But it smelled of piss and fish. Dru had good reason to be glad of the unglazed windows. Night was falling now, and by the time they reached their destination, had fallen completely.

  Dru stepped out of the carriage and drew a deep breath of air. She couldn’t call it fresh, tainted as it was with fish, tar, and damp, but at least she could breathe more freely again. If she could have held her breath in that carriage, she would have kept it held all the way there.

  A forest of masts bristled before them, their swaying uneven wobble adding a nightmare-like quality to the sky. She stood and stared. She’d never come this far along the river before, not even in the family pleasure barge. They generally used that on fete days and holidays or took ferries across the river. Here, where the Thames widened into the Pool of London, before sweeping into the sea, the tang of salt tinged the air and struck cold on her cheeks.

  Someone bumped into her and swore, the language so inventive she didn’t understand most of it.

  Burnett pulled her aside. “We’re going over here.”

  Strange not to hear her title, but they had agreed on that. If he spoke to her, Burnett would call her “Mrs. Smith” or “Jane.” She was to call him “John.”

  Men and horses trundled carts, rolled barrels, carried impossible weights on their shoulders. Some had large hooks suspended from their belts to haul the cargo off the ships. Nobody paid them any notice. Dodging all the obstacles, including the large capstans that were set along the water’s edge, Burnett took her to a row of warehouses. They appeared rickety, the wood partially rotten, but the owners had patched them with fresh wood and tarred it. More substantial warehouses stood farther off, brick built to reduce the risk of fire. Ever since the Great Fire, buildings in London could not be of wood, but where there was a law, there was a way of getting around it. A man walked by with a flaming torch. Lights glimmered from the ships, where watchmen passed the night, guarding the vessels. Other watchmen sat huddled in huts or waiting inside the warehouses. Dru and Burnett were headed for one of these.

  Before they’d left, Dru made Burnett swear he would not cause permanent hurt to anyone. He agreed, but Charles had scowled. “You need the courage to face this,” he warned her. “If you cannot, Burnett will go alone.”

  “No.” She wanted to see the conclusion of this nightmare for herself, ensure the book would go no further. Her creation, the story she’d labored on for years, would be no more after tonight, and she could not be anything but glad. She wouldn’t deny that fear clutched her stomach—the thought of being caught, hurt, failing in her mission terrified her—but she went forward.

  At the edge of a pier, Burnett touched her. “Here,” he said softly, and turned her to face him. His craggy features appeared even more weathered in the dim light. “Are you sure you want to do this? Do you truly wish to take this risk?”

>   She bit her lip. “I have to.” She had thought and thought, and there was no other way. “You don’t know what’s in that book. It could finish me, and my husband, and…Charles. We can’t allow it. Time is too short to do anything else. Nobody but us knows where the…things are stored.”

  The seemingly rickety warehouse was set back from others nearby. She was glad of that.

  Burnett skillfully boxed the watch. Dru had heard of the practice, usually done as a joke by reckless young men with more hair than wit, but she had never seen it happen. A tiny light glimmered from the tall sentry box, where a watchman sat, guarding the property. Burnett came up from one side, and before the person inside could respond, had the box turned and rammed against the wall behind him. The man inside yelled and banged at the sides, but it held. Spotting a barrel nearby, she tipped it on to its side and rolled it over to where Burnett held the box secure and the man trapped. In the second when he moved aside, she pushed it into place, and with Burnett’s help, tipped it on to its base. Something sloshed inside.

  “He’ll be fine there,” Burnett assured her.

  “He’s too close to the warehouse. When we go, we’ll push the barrel aside. He should be able to get out.”

  With a resigned sigh, the manservant nodded. “Very well. Let’s get this job done.”

  Slipping a hand into her pocket, Dru gripped the handle of her pistol. She had two, one in each pocket. They were loaded, and yes, she’d assured Charles, she knew how to use them. Not that she was planning to do much more than shoot over the head of anyone trying to stop her, to give her the time she’d need to get away.

  “Stay here. I’ll make sure there’s nobody to stop us.”

  Dru nodded. While Burnett was gone, she took a few deep breaths and tried to concentrate on the task ahead.

  But she was glad they were there. These were ordinary weapons, not fancy dueling pistols, but they would do the job just as well, given the opportunity.

  Burnett took ten minutes getting them inside. He returned from where he’d left her twiddling her thumbs, growing increasingly afraid and nervous. “This way.”

  “Did you find anyone?”

  Burnett shook his head.

  Inside, the smell of paper mingled with the acrid aroma of ink. That alone would have told Dru she was in the presence of books, usually her favorite items in the world, but not tonight. Forcing herself into the present, she gazed around the cramped space.

  Crate after crate piled up, leaving only a small area to walk between. So many, Dru didn’t know where to start counting them. And this was only the first edition. More printings could happen, but Charles had explained that once they got rid of the immediate threat, they would take legal action to prevent any more printings. But they had to get rid of these before they were distributed in the morning.

  Crowbars leaned against the wall. Dru hefted one and dragged it to the nearest crate. Glancing at Burnett, she shoved the toothed end under the rim of the nearest wooden box, and with the man’s help, levered off the top.

  She stood back, as Burnett pulled out the first book. She opened it, finding the title page and the author, “A Lady,” printed beneath. She touched it, ran her fingers over the words, mentally saying goodbye to this part of her life. Now the point had arrived, she felt sorry that her work should end this way. Foolish nonsense. But still, she turned the pages, skimmed the dedication, and found chapter one.

  When she saw her own words in print, they looked different, as if somebody else had written them. She’d started this book right after the carriage accident, when the prince was tussling with his injured brother. The characters belonged to her, even if she’d obtained the inspiration elsewhere.

  “Jane?”

  At first Dru didn’t respond, but then shook her head and closed the book. She would keep that one. Charles had made her promise to retain one copy, so he could discover what happened next. She could do no other, after all he had done for her. She slipped the volume into her pocket, beside the pistol.

  “Yes?”

  “You get the materials ready. I will keep watch.” He put a small cloth parcel before her. She knew what it contained. Dry, frayed linen and the most important item—a tinder box. She had one too, but she wouldn’t use it unless she had to.

  Dru went about her task methodically, ensuring plenty of tinder was set by the crates. They should catch fire on their own after the conflagration had taken hold. Those books not destroyed by fire would suffer from smoke damage or water when the fire company finally arrived. Did the docks have its own insurance company stationed nearby? That would make sense, although not everything that made sense actually happened in this world.

  At the end of the warehouse farthest from the door, she struck the flint against the iron, letting the spark fall on to the crumpled scrap of linen.

  A door opened, voices sounded, and the rough ground beneath her shook with the impact of heavy feet. Terror rose to her throat.

  Shouts came from the far end of the warehouse. Her tinder had taken, but if she hid here, she’d be trapped in fire. What to do?

  Dru had no choice. She stepped forward, praying she could escape from this predicament.

  The first voice she could distinguish was Burnett’s. “There she is! I told you I saw somebody! Take her quick. Fire! Fire!”

  Rough hands seized her, dragging her forward, and a lit torch was pushed perilously close to her face.

  “Arson, is it?” someone growled at her. A sickening gob of spittle landed on her cheek, but she was pinned tight. “You know what we do to arsonists ’ere in the docks? We ’ang ’em.”

  Chapter 16

  Oliver arrived home in the early hours of the morning, weary but satisfied with his efforts. By tomorrow, he would have the situation well in hand, and then he could turn his mind to saving his marriage and his wife. After sharing his suspicions with her father and brother, his mind had eased considerably. He could think clearly again, the fog of anger and confusion that had obfuscated his mind clearing fast. But he had spent time contacting and on occasion rousing from sleep the people he needed to set his plans in action.

  He was too late to wake her now. She’d probably been asleep for hours. His brother would be in bed, too.

  Although he was buzzing with triumph, he forced himself to get ready and go to bed. Tomorrow would probably prove tiring as well as exhilarating. Perhaps, he thought before he fell asleep, he’d talk to Dru about her moving back up here. She must be lonely in that big bed downstairs. He was certainly lonely here.

  Something stirring in his room woke him from what had turned out a deep slumber. He rolled over, blearily opening his eyes. Dawn filtered in through a crack in the curtains. Was it his valet, making preparations for the day ahead? Robinson knew better than that. The servants were under strict instructions not to enter Oliver’s room until he woke.

  Irritably, he reached for the watch on his nightstand. “Who’s there?”

  “Me.”

  Oliver stilled. The last person he expected. “Charles? How did you get in here?”

  With a rattle, his brother dragged the curtain back from one half of the window. Light flooded into the room, cold and gray. Charles leaning heavily on their father’s cane, the sentimental memento he liked to keep by his side. Now Oliver knew why.

  Confusion filled him, and then cautious delight. “Charles? You can walk?” Jerked into full wakefulness, Oliver pushed himself up. He stared at Charles. He hadn’t realized how tall his brother had grown. The last time he’d seen him upright was before the accident, when he’d been sixteen.

  “This is marvelous!” Questions bubbled up in his delighted mind. “Are you tired? Do you need to sit?”

  “No.” Charles gazed at Oliver, his gaze cold.

  “How long have you been walking?”

  “For a while.” Charles watched him closely, emo
tionlessly. He looked as if he had shed a skin and left it behind. His smiles, his affability, his constant patience were nowhere in evidence. “Only Burnett knows. I told him I wanted to make sure I could do it properly before I revealed myself.” Then he did smile, and Oliver wished he had not, because he’d never seen a chillier expression. “So consider this the time.”

  “Good God, man, this is wonderful! You’ve been practicing?”

  “Of course, but I wanted to be able to walk without this thing.” He wobbled the cane. “Unfortunately, I have had to bring my plans forward. Why did you marry that woman, Oliver?”

  “Drusilla?” Oliver frowned. “I need to make an heir. You can’t take on the burden of the dukedom.”

  Charles gave a crack of laughter. The small sound broke the air, but the atmosphere immediately closed around them again, like a blanket hiding secrets. “Can’t I? You’ve made a tedious, plodding job of it. Now it’s my turn to take over.”

  “What?” Thoroughly confused, Oliver flung back the covers, preparing to stand and find his robe. The day was chillier than he’d expected. Charles wore only a thin nightshirt, similar to his own. Had the exercise made him hot?

  A sickening click stilled his movements. Charles lifted his hand, a pistol gleaming dully in the growing light. His movement betrayed another weapon tucked into the waistband of his breeches. “Don’t move. You loved Drusilla, didn’t you? And such problems she gave you, too. I had to stop you sharing her bed. When I discovered the existence of the book, she provided me with the perfect excuse.” He stifled a yawn, his jaw tensing with the effort.

  He was mad. He had to be. The long years of solitude had disturbed his mind. Oliver had to be very careful. He needed to secure that weapon, one of the dueling pistols that customarily sat in his dressing room. Those pistols had hair triggers.

  Wait— Oliver never left them loaded. Could he risk crossing the room? If he was wrong, he would die. Charles couldn’t possibly miss at this range.

  “You know what I wanted?” Charles said, as if engaging in everyday conversation. His voice remained smooth and melodic. Sunlight illuminated the left side of his body, as if he were an angel. Charles still appeared perfect, at least from the front. From the side, as Oliver knew only too well, his skull was misshapen, flat and pitted. That was the reason Charles always wore a wig or an elaborate cap. Except for today.