“I will need your assistance.” Barrington consumed another swig of liquid courage. “And I did not murder that maid.”
“Know that you have it.” Lance nodded. “And I never believed otherwise, as it is not in your nature.”
“Thank you, for your support.” As Barry mulled the particulars of his quandary, he remained certain of his course. “Can you arrange a meeting with Sir Ross Logan?”
“I can.” Lance inclined his head. “What do you intend to do, if I may ask?”
“What I should have done four years ago.” And Barrington had cursed himself a coward, ever since. “But, at one and twenty, I was young, stupid, and afraid, thus I ran.”
“I enjoy an acquaintance with a chief prosecutor—he is a good and reasonable man that served my family during a difficult time.” Lance followed as Barry returned to the mainsail hull and crossed the plank. “I will summon him, as well.”
“Excellent. Then I shall fix in your wake.” Back aboard the Audacious, Barrington moved with renewed purpose. “Weigh anchor, and prepare to make sail. We are going home.”
~
Desperation proved a powerful motivator, as Lady Florence Beatrice Wilfred reclined abed amid a mountain of pillows. Rolling her head from side to side, she kicked her feet, mumbled incoherently, flinched, and then shrieked, when the physician pressed his palm to her forehead.
“I am so sorry, Lord Braithwaite.” Shaking his head, Dr. Engelbrecht rubbed his eyes. “But there is nothing more I can do, and you must prepare yourself for the worst. Such a pity for one so young, but given her tragic history, this could be a blessing.”
“You could be right, and I cannot thank you enough for your efforts.” Father frowned. “Apparently, my daughter inherited her mother’s weak constitution.”
“And Lady Florence seemed destined to take her place among the social elite.” The doctor sighed, and she almost retched. Given his excess use of bloodletting, it was surprising she retained any strength to maintain her scheme. “I see she has not touched her evening meal.”
“No. She has not eaten in days.” Father scrutinized the bowl of thin consommé and frowned at her lady’s maid. “Mead, remove the tray.”
“Of course, my lord.” The servant bent and collected the dishes. “Perhaps I should leave the tea, as I might persuade Lady Florence to take some, later.”
“Very well.” Father waved a dismissal. “Shall we adjourn to the study, as I would settle our account and dispatch a letter to Derbyshire, at once.”
“Is Lord Ravenwood still determined to wed her?” The physician collected his familiar black bag. “Despite her infirmity?”
“He is not Lord Ravenwood, as His Majesty refuses to yield to common sense.” Just as her father and the doctor strolled into the sitting room, her stomach growled in protest, and she moaned to cover the thunderous roar, and they exited her quarters. “But I shall not cease the fight, as I will make my daughter a marchioness, one way or another, that she will be protected and cared for, when I am gone, as she has no one else.”
When a quick peek revealed Florence again outwitted the medical professional and her nosy but well-meaning sire, she flung back the covers, leaped from the bed, and ran to the armoire. From a hatbox, she collected a half loaf of bread. From a pocket, she retrieved piece of cheese wrapped in a napkin. From a pitcher near her washstand, she poured wine into her water glass.
At her vanity, she sat, took a bite of cheese, shoved a chunk of bread into her mouth, and hummed her appreciation. Again, her belly decried its empty state, and she chased the bit of food with a healthy gulp of wine.
“My lady, I brought a few slices of ham.” Bearing a small bundle, Mead tiptoed into the chamber. “And here is the tea, which is still warm.”
“I could not wait, and I was afraid my stomach might betray me, because I am famished.” With her teeth, Florence tore a piece of ham. “What happened this morning?”
“That interloper you call a butler scuttled my chances to bring you some eggs and kippers.” The grey-haired, irascible but fiercely loyal lady’s maid humphed and stowed the hatbox. “We should store more provisions, else you may starve, my lady.”
“At least that might end my torment, as Dr. Engelbrecht asserts.” After all but inhaling the ham, she nibbled on another hunk of cheese and sipped the tepid brew. “Because I know not what to do, next.”
“How long do you intend to maintain this farce, my lady?” Mead tidied the bedclothes and fluffed the pillows. “Not that it is your fault, given your father forced you to act in such a desperate fashion, but do you plan to wait for the true Lord Ravenwood, forever?”
“If must needs, I shall go to my grave as Barrington’s fiancée.” In a cruel twist of fate, the love of her life fled unsubstantiated accusations and suspicions, after a maid in his household was found murdered in his four-poster, and Florence vowed to clear his name or die trying. Yet she knew not how to continue the investigation, had little success with her own exploration, and surrendered the fruitless inquiry when her father announced he renegotiated her betrothal agreement. “While I consider his brother Ernest a friend, and I shall do my duty if my ruse is uncovered, I will never give up on my only love.”
“Forgive my forthrightness, my lady.” Mead wrung her fingers. “But how can you be so sure Lord Ravenwood is innocent?”
“Mead, I cannot elaborate, but inasmuch as I know my own name, I assure you he did not commit that crime.” In fact, Florence would forever regret her silence in the days following the discovery of the body. She wanted to speak—tried to spare her fiancé, but her father forbade it, and she might never forgive him, much less herself, for their silence. “If only I knew how to reach Barrington, but I have heard naught since he departed my home, four years ago.”
“And what of the real villain?” The lady’s maid picked up a silver-backed brush and worked to free the knots from Florence’s dark brown locks. “If Lord Ravenwood is unjustly charged, then he has an, as yet, unknown enemy, and you may be in danger, my lady. Who had the most to gain by Lord Ravenwood’s imprisonment?”
“That is simple.” And it was a question Florence had considered during numerous sleepless nights. “His brother, Ernest, stands to inherit the marquessate, but I cannot fathom the younger sibling engaging in such nefarious deeds, as he is kindness personified.”
“Money has a way of changing people, my lady.” The maid opened the drapes, and sunshine filtered through the glass. “Did he not petition the courts to have Lord Ravenwood declared dead?”
“Ernest did, and he failed, much to my father’s disappointment.” With care, lest she be discovered, Florence approached the window and peered at the sidewalk, filled with well-dressed Londoners, as they rushed along Park Lane. With a sigh, she crossed her arms and uttered a silent prayer. “Somehow, I must find Barrington, if only I knew where to look.”
THE IRON CORSAIR
CHAPTER TWO
In an elegant yet comfortable suite at Mivart’s, in Mayfair, Barrington ran his fingers through his sandy blonde hair, which he left a tad on the long side, after a trip to a barber, in preparation for an all-important meeting. From the foot of the large four-poster bed, he retrieved his green coat, which he shrugged into and buttoned. In the long mirror, he adjusted his cravat, which he tied in a perfect mathematical, and assessed his buckskin breeches and Hessians.
How strange it seemed to be garbed as a gentleman, after four years in exile, as a pirate. Yet, bathed and fresh shaven, and despite a few wrinkles and sun-kissed skin, he looked like his old self.
A knock at the door had him reaching for his flintlock pistol, which he pocketed, as was his way. Pressing his ear to the oak panel, he asked, “Who goes there?”
“It is Raynesford.”
Without hesitation, Barrington unbolted the lock, turned the knob, and granted entry to his expected guests. “Lance, it is good to see you.”
“And you.” The marquess smiled. “You clean up, well, Ravenwood.
” He peered over his shoulder. “And I believe you are already acquainted with Sir Ross Logan, of the Counterintelligence Corps.”
“Sir Ross, thank you for coming.” Barrington extended a hand in friendship. “Did Lance explain my reasons for contacting you?”
“He did.” The legendary spy nodded. “And I am intrigued by your situation.” Sir Ross carried a thick file, which he spread upon a table. “The details of the crime are very simple. At approximately seven-forty-five, on the morning of October eleventh, in the year eighteen twelve, your valet, a Duncan Doolittle, found one of your maids, a Miss Ellen Turnbridge, deceased of a knife wound, in your bedchamber, at your residence on Green Street, and you were not at the scene. In fact, you never came home.”
“My valet met me in the mews, upon my return, and gave me the news.” In the blink of an eye, Barrington found himself in his private apartment, after the investigators departed. He recalled how he tiptoed up the back stairs, gathered a few belongings, tried to ignore the bloody scene, and fled to Deptford. After dispatching a letter to Florence, he departed England. “In my defense, I was young, and I panicked, when I discovered I was the lone suspect, and the Runners intended to arrest me.”
“Where were you, on the night in question?” Sir Ross flipped through the various notes. “If I am to help you, I must know the truth.”
“I beg your pardon, and I mean no offense, but I am not liberty to divulge that information.” Barrington had made so many mistakes, and he refused to drag another innocent into the fray. “However, I assure you, I was not alone, and there is another who can vouch for me, if necessary. But I would not disclose the identity of my witness, as there are others who could be hurt by the revelation. Owing to my impulsiveness, I did not always think things through or consider the consequences of my actions, which could devastate someone for whom I harbor deep feelings.”
“So you were with a woman.” It was a statement, and Lance folded his arms and frowned. “And I gather you do not want Lady Florence to know that, for obvious reasons.”
“There are a number of miscalculations I wish I could revisit.” Indeed, had Barrington been at his home, in his bed, where he belonged, he might have prevented the crime, and he lived to regret it. “One misstep resulted in so many additional errors, which I did not foresee and exacted a high price for which I may never atone, and no one knows that better than I, so you may spare me the stare of disapproval. But I bet you would do the same to protect the woman you love.”
“It is because I love my wife that I never would have put myself in that predicament, in the first place. And I thought you genuinely cared for Lady Florence.” Lance smacked a fist to a palm. “God, man. What were you thinking?”
“All right, gentlemen, let calm heads prevail.” Sir Ross splayed his hands and perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair. “We are working toward the same goal, and a villain remains at large, thus we have no time to waste at odds with each other.”
“What of the prosecutor?” Checking his temper, and changing the subject before they came to blows, Barrington ignored Raynesford’s uninformed assumptions, because he was in no position to dispute them, and sat at one end of the sofa, while Lance occupied the opposite side. “I thought I was to plead my case.”
“I think it best to examine the evidence and plot a course of action, because once society learns of your presence, we will enjoy little privacy.” Sir Ross scribbled a series of dates. “When do you intend to announce your return?”
“Not until I speak with Lady Florence, because I will not have her learn of my homecoming from a stranger.” And he still was not sure how he would manage that, but he had an idea. “Did you locate her?”
“I did.” The veteran spy hesitated and glanced at Lance. “Lady Florence is here, in London, at her father’s townhome on Hill Street. My wife, Lady Elaine, paid a social call but was refused an audience, owing to Lady Florence’s grave condition.”
“I need to see her.” The prospect of losing his woman settled as a lead ball in his belly, and Barrington stood and paced. “Before we do anything, I must talk to Lady Florence. If she is as you say, then there is no reason to do anything. I will confess to a crime I did not commit, accept the requisite punishment, and join her in the hereafter.”
“Must you be so dramatic, as it was always your downfall, even when we were at Eton?” Lance huffed a breath. “You have no idea how Lady Florence will react when she meets with you, and you could be her saving grace. Instead of singing a tune of doom and gloom, why not fight for her and your good name?”
“Why do you suppose I am here?” Barrington gritted his teeth. “And that is not fair, as you were completing your studies when I was beginning mine.”
“But you always lacked focus.” Lance leaned forward and rested his elbows to his knees. “After your father died, you left supervision of the marquessate to your solicitors, while you patronized the gaming rooms and White’s.”
“I would argue the opposite is true, now, given I survived these four years on the run.” And Barrington intended to assume full control of his holdings, because he had a future to plan. “While I would like nothing more than to prove you wrong, as of this moment, that is not the primary issue, because nothing matters without Lady Florence.”
“So we must delay until such time as you can enact a reunion.” Sir Ross rubbed his chin. “When might that happen?”
Barrington came to a halt. “This evening.”
~
At the dining table, Florence slumped forward, adopted a lethargic posture, and gave vent to something between a sigh and a sob. However, the mouth-watering aroma of chateaubriand, her favorite, roasted potatoes, and blanched asparagus threatened to undermine her performance of woe.
“My dear, will you not eat even the tiniest morsel?” Father scooted her plate ever closer, and she almost faltered, because she was famished. “I had thought a change in scenery and a meal taken outside your bedchamber, which you have not left in a sennight, might improve your spirits, if not your appetite.”
“I am sorry, Papa.” How she hated being at odds with her sire, but he forced her to act in desperation, after aligning with Ernest. If her father delivered her to the altar, she would do her duty and wed Barrington’s brother, as an obedient daughter, but her heart would remain the property of another. “How did your visit with Ernest go?”
“Very well, given the subject. I had thought to inform you, in the morning, of the news, but now seems as good a time as any.” To her surprise, he covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers. “Ernest and I believe it best to sever the betrothal agreement between our two families, given your infirmity. Please, do not take that as a reflection on you. Rather, we hope to spare you additional distress, in deference to your condition.”
“Oh, Papa—” Swallowing her sudden and potent euphoria, she inhaled a calming breath. “That is a wonderful idea, as I would not saddle poor Ernest with another burden, and I fear he would come to resent me.”
“That would never happen, because he is the best of men, unlike his worthless wretch of a brother.” Bristling at Papa’s characterization, she bit her tongue. “Indeed, the more time passes, the more I am convinced you are better off without Lord Ravenwood, as he does not deserve you, despite your devotion to him.”
“May I be excused, Papa?” Before Florence launched a defense of her love, which she bloody well choked on, in that moment, she thought it best to quit the field. “While the food looks savory, I am not hungry, and I am growing rather tired.”
“What of dessert?” Father snapped his fingers, and the footman approached the table. “Cook made bread and butter pudding with currants, just for you.”
“On normal occasions, that would tempt me.” In a show of distress, she pressed her palm to her gut. “But in this instance, it only further upsets my already unsettled belly.”
“All right.” Papa frowned. “You may retire, my dear. Sleep well.”
Without a wor
d, she draped her napkin over her untouched plate, pushed from the table, and stood. For extra measure, she tripped as she stepped about the chair, and the servant offered assistance.
“Thank you.” Stretching upright, she wiped her brow to complete the charade.
“Shall I help you to your room, Florence?” Father rose from his seat. “Do you feel faint? Should I summon Dr. Engelbrecht?”
“No, Papa.” With a pathetic flick of her wrist, she dismissed him and hobbled into the hall. Resisting the urge to run, she walked along the wall, lest some nosy but well-intended maid spot her. In the foyer, she turned left, used the bannister for support, and ascended the grand staircase.
After navigating the gallery, and disregarding the stoic images of her ancestors who, no doubt, disapproved of her tactics, she slipped into the corridor that led to her private apartment. Once ensconced in her sitting room, she hiked the skirt of her pale blue gown, which she selected to emphasize her ailing countenance, and ran into her bedchamber.
At the washstand, she poured water into the basin and scrubbed her face clean of the thick coating of Pear’s white imperial powder, which she paired with some soot beneath her eyes, to emphasize her sickly visage.
“My lady, I brought you a piece of steak, with healthy portions of potatoes and asparagus.” Mead slinked into the room and set a plate, a napkin, and silverware on the vanity, just as Florence poured a glass of wine from the second pitcher in her bathing area. “Also, I hid a serving of bread pudding in the hall, behind that large vase His Lordship brought from Egypt, and I will deliver the dessert with your tea, when I come to undress you.”
“You are a lifesaver, my dear friend.” Florence sat and picked up the knife and fork. “Did you hear the news? Papa ended the marriage contract with the marquessate of Ravenwood, thus I remain Barrington’s lady.”
The Iron Corsair Page 2
