The Iron Corsair

by Barbara Devlin

  “Did you see anyone or anything unusual in the mews, of late?” Sir Ross picked up one end and examined the break. “Lord Ravenwood, I would like to collect this as evidence.”

  “Of course.” Barrington tried not to think of what could have happened had the unknown bastard succeeded in his nefarious aim. “Anything I have is at your disposal.”

  “To answer your question, Sir Ross.” The stablemaster scratched his chin. “Other than my stable hands, the only recent visitor to the mews was Lord Ernest, yesterday.”

  “My brother?” Barrington’s blood ran cold. “What was he doing there?”

  “He came with his manservant to retrieve a saddle.” The stablemaster shrugged. “Said he wanted to remove his property to the mews near his new residence on Mount Street, and I thought nothing of it.”

  In that instant, Barrington met Sir Ross’s stare.

  “I know what you are thinking, but let us not get sidetracked until we know the extent of the efforts and the number of those involved.” The agent of the Crown compressed his lips. “If we are to catch the villain, we must stay the course.”

  “Then let us find a way to force his hand, because I am growing ever impatient, the attempts on Florence’s life continue, and I fear her luck is running out.” Barrington raked his fingers through his hair and glanced at the stablemaster. “Post guards at the mews. I do not want anyone near the horses or the rigs, and you are to inspect everything before Her Ladyship travels. That will be all, Wilkins.”

  “Aye, sir.” The stablemaster made his obedience and exited the study.

  “You know what must needs, Ravenwood.” Leaning forward, Lance rested his elbows to his knees and frowned. “Your associates are in place, the trap is set, and we need only lure the scoundrel to take the bait. It is your moment to act, and you must not delay.”

  “Would you do the same, were Cara in peril?” As Barrington reflected on the plan, everything inside him rebelled. If they triumphed, they would seize the murdered. If they failed, well, he could not even ponder that outcome. “Would you risk losing her?”

  “Were my wife’s life hanging in the balance, I would not hesitate.” The marquess arched a brow. “But I submit you risk nothing, because Florence loves you. When she discovers yours was part of a greater scheme, she will understand and forgive you.”

  Just then, the lady in question strolled into the man’s domain. Beautifully coiffed and gowned in one of his favorite frocks, the burgundy silk with the low neckline, which declared she had ideas of her own, she walked straight to Barrington.

  “I am so sorry I am late for our meeting.” As was her way, she slipped an arm about his waist and kissed his cheek, and he prayed it was not the last he enjoyed. “Did I miss anything of significance?”

  “Actually, perhaps you can help us.” Ross smacked a fist to a palm, and so it began. “Lord Raynesford and I are trying to convince Lord Ravenwood to stay in London. We must not surrender in the wake of near-catastrophe, else the evildoer wins.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her subtle flinch cut Barrington to the core, as he knew well what would happen next. She met his stare. “To what does Sir Ross refer?”

  “Your husband wishes to cut and run, like a coward.” Even in pretense, Raynesford’s insult stung. “You must talk to him, Lady Florence. Make him see the flaw in his logic.”

  “Barrington, please, explain the situation, as I am thoroughly befuddled.” Tears welled in her blue eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her. To reassure her that he would defend her to his last breath. “What do they mean?”

  It was time to play his role, as an actor on a stage.

  “Darling, what say you to a trip to Port Royal?” Somehow, he mustered a smile, even as his heart fractured. “Or what of Nassau? Indeed, I put the world at your feet. Name your destination, and we can cast off at sunrise.”

  “What are you saying?” She blinked, but he would wager his fortune she apprehended his proposition. “You wish to leave London? Again?”

  “Why not?” Summoning an air of reckless abandon, he rested his hands on her hips. “What about Italy? We could sail the Mediterranean. Have you ever wanted to visit the Greek islands?”

  “Is this a joke?” Her serene countenance faltered, and her shoulders slumped. “You wish to run away from our troubles?”

  “Why not?” The young Barrington would have had no difficulty in fleeing his responsibilities, but the elder more mature man could barely utter the words. “There is nothing to keep us here, and what does it matter where we reside, as long as we are together?”

  “Is that always your answer?” With an open palm, she slapped his cheek. “Life gets hard, and you take to your heels?” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, how can this be happening?” Emitting a strangled sob, she jerked upright and pinned him with an angry glare. “When things go wrong, you take flight. Have you no care for me? After you departed England the first time, I deceived my father, feigned illness, and held my ground, because I love you. Alone, I fought for us, even when Ernest petitioned to have you declared dead, so he could assume the marquessate and marry me, and I refused to yield, because you own my heart, and this is how you thank me?”

  “Florence, please, listen to reason.” For her own good, he had to torment her, and it bloody well killed him. “Sir Ross is unable to identify the murderer, yet there have been two attempts on your life. Why should we stay here, when we have the means and the opportunity to live anywhere?”

  “Because this is our home, we cannot run forever, and I am going nowhere.” Framing his jaw, she forced him to look at her. “I love you. I have always loved you. But if you abandon me and England, again, do not bother coming back, as there will be nothing left for you here.”

  With that, Florence stormed to the door.

  “Perhaps you should visit your father, for a couple of days, and reflect on my proposal.” Given his suggestion, she drew up short, peered over her shoulder, and the hurt in her expression manifested the final nail in his coffin. “Indeed, you should discuss the matter with him, as he may talk some sense into you.”

  “I will visit Papa, if that is your wish, but even he cannot sway me.” Her voice shook as she responded, betraying her internal torment, and he ached to comfort her. “Because I will not cower as a rabbit before the wolf, thus I am not likely to change my mind.”

  And then she was gone.

  “Gentlemen, I have faced death countless times.” Collapsing, Barrington leaned on his desk for support, as his reason for living departed, and his world came crashing down about him. “But that was the most difficult thing I have ever done.”

  “Have a few belongings packed, and send her to Lord Braithwaite’s as soon as possible, as he is waiting for her.” Sir Ross assessed his notepad and checked off an item. “Tomorrow, we launch our scheme, with you as the proverbial carrot before the horse.”

  ~

  Riding a crest of anger mixed with hurt, Florence paused in the foyer, sat on the bottom stair, bent her legs, drew her skirts about her, rested her forehead to her knees, and wept. Given all she endured for Barrington, she could not simply run away now. Somehow, she had to appeal to his sense of honor and make him understand her position, because their only viable course of action was to confront the villain, and fleeing London was not the answer.

  Had he learned nothing from his first exile?

  “Florence?” With a friendly countenance, Aunt Esther descended from the second floor. “What are you doing here, and why do you cry?”

  “Oh, it is nothing.” Drying her tears on her sleeve, and stifling the scream of frustration she desperately ached to let fly, Florence stood and grasped the newel post, for balance. “I seem to be rather emotional, of late, though I know not why.”

  “Come into the back parlor and take your ease, my dear child.” Always supportive and kind, Aunt Esther draped an arm about Florence’s shoulders and ushered her down the hall. “Shall I ring for tea?”

&nbs
p; “No, thank you.” Given her unstable belly, Florence swallowed hard. “Barrington tells me you found a house, in Mayfair.”

  “Indeed, Percy and I plan to move in a fortnight, as we are having some renovations made.” Aunt Esther led Florence to the sofa, and they sat. “Perhaps you will accompany me on a shopping trip, as I must purchase new furniture, draperies, and artwork. It will give us a chance to improve our acquaintance, and I value your opinion, as we are the only women in this lot.”

  “I would love that.” Still, despite the distraction, Florence’s thoughts returned to Barrington, and she could not contain her misery. “I am sorry, Aunt Esther, but I am tired.”

  “I heard about the incident with my nephew’s phaeton, so you are more than justified in your unrest.” Aunt Esther tsked. “In fact, I told him he should summon his solicitor, and sue the carriagemaker.”

  Of course, to the innocent mind, a broken axle would appear grounds for legal recourse. To the suspicious sort hunted by a ruthless killer, the incident offered grounds for naught more than the exercise of judicious caution.

  In that moment, Ashby entered the room and bowed. “My lady, I am tasked with overseeing the preparation of your belongings for your visit with Lord Braithwaite, by His Lordship’s command. How many days do you anticipate being gone?”

  “I beg your pardon?” So her husband was that anxious to be rid of her? The world spun out of control, and Florence slumped forward. “Forgive me, but I think I may faint.”

  “Great heavens, Ashby, fetch some tea, a soft cloth, and a bowl of cool water.” Aunt Esther drew Florence into a supportive embrace. “There, there. It is all right, dear girl.”

  “Again, I apologize, as I know not what is wrong with me.” Bone weary, Florence reclined and rubbed the back of her neck. “But I am exhausted, even though I have done naught but take a ride to Hampstead Heath with my husband.”

  “Perhaps I should have Ashby fetch a doctor, as you could be gravely ill.” Aunt Esther pressed her palm to Florence’s forehead. “Well, you are cool to the touch, so I do not believe you have a fever. What are your symptoms, and when did they start?”

  “To be honest, I am not sure when it began.” Florence searched her mind and catalogued her maladies, which she had attributed to the added stress of the ongoing investigation. “But I cannot seem to rest enough. Even when I get a good night’s sleep, I often wake tired. It seems I am forever wanted to cry, and my stomach has been downright temperamental, even when I consume nothing more than tea and dry toast, which I revisited almost as quick as I ate it, this morning.”

  “Upon my word.” Clutching her throat, Aunt Esther gasped. “Florence, it sounds as though you are with child.”

  “What?” With a flick of her wrist, Florence dismissed the suggestion. “Oh, no. You make something of nothing. I am just not feeling myself, and I am sure a physician can prescribe a tonic to set me to rights.”

  Even as she voiced the statement, she counted the months, in silence. Then it hit her—Aunt Esther, God bless her, was right.

  “Florence, you are awfully pale.” As Ashby carried a tray to the small table near the sofa, Aunt Esther snapped her fingers. “Take this back to the kitchen and bring Her Ladyship some chamomile tea and dry toast, at once.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.” Ashby bowed.

  After dipping a cloth in the water and squeezing out the excess, Aunt Esther pressed the cool compress to Florence’s cheeks and forehead.

  Humming her appreciation, Florence closed her eyes. “Oh, that feels delightful.”

  “So when do you suspect you are due?” Aunt Esther inquired, in a low voice.

  “If I did the math correctly, September.” Without thought, Florence hugged her flat belly, but there was no time to celebrate, given her row with Barrington and the remaining threat of the elusive murderer. “But I would have your promise to say nothing to no one, as I have not told Barrington, and I would wait to organize a suitable ceremony.”

  “I shall be as silent as the grave.” Aunt Esther bounced with unmasked excitement, which Florence wished she could share. “If it is not too much to ask, may I help you arrange the celebration?”

  “Would you?” They clasped hands, and Florence coveted a measure of hope amid so much sadness. “I would love that above all else.”

  “It would be my honor.” Now Aunt Esther appeared misty-eyed. “As my Percy is not married, I have no idea when or if I shall ever be a grandmother.”

  “But you will be a great aunt, and that is something.” In the quiet of her mind, Florence mapped out a plan of her own. She would stay with her father, gather her arguments, compose a pretty speech, and then she would make her stand for her husband and their babe. Given she had already lost so much, she refused to cede the fight.

  After all, they had already sacrificed one child.

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  One night without Florence in his bed well nigh brought Barrington to his knees, but he vowed to persevere for his lady. As he stood before the long mirror, he adjusted his cravat and buttoned his coat, to conceal the flintlock pistol tucked in his waistband, and then he paused to look himself in the eye. Uttering a silent prayer that he opted for the right path, when he had made so many mistakes in the past, he rolled his shoulders. After dismissing his valet, he headed downstairs, to await the arrival of his primary guest.

  As he strolled into the foyer, Ernest walked into the house and halted when he spied Barrington.

  “Brother.” Bristling with unspoken ire, Ernest frowned. “To what do I owe the invitation?”

  “Why so suspicious?” As they shook hands, Barrington searched for a clue, some sign that his sibling participated in a heinous scheme to steal the marquessate. “This is not the first time we have dined, in residence.”

  “Yet we have scarcely met, since your return to London, and I should like to know what I have done to deserve such derision.” Ernest appeared genuinely hurt, but Barrington knew not whom he could trust. “I will have an explanation.”

  “Good evening, Ernest.” Just in time to provide a fortuitous distraction, Aunt Esther, with Percy at her side, exited the drawing room. “What a lovely idea, to host a private dinner, when we are about to vacate your home, and such opportunities will be few and far between.”

  “Hello, cousins.” Percy sniffed. “We are having very fine weather, are we not?”

  “Indeed, we are, Percy.” To Ernest, Barrington said, “In all honesty, my goal is simple, given my lengthy absence, and I ask you to indulge me.” In that moment, Barrington glanced at the footman, who was, in truth, one of Sir Ross’s agents, stationed outside the drawing room. “I hope to unite our family and put the past behind us.”

  “How wonderful, as we should not remain forever at odds, when life is precious.” Aunt Esther inclined her head. “Will Florence be joining us?”

  “Uh—no.” With arms splayed, Barrington ushered his relations into the side passage. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

  “Wait.” Ernest rested hands on hips. “Where is Florence, and why is she not here?”

  “She visits Lord Braithwaite.” Aunt Esther, bless her, unwittingly came to the rescue. “And I am positively famished. What is for dinner?”

  “A delicious selection, including roasted chicken, salamongundy, mashed turnips, and blanched asparagus.” Of course, Barrington suspected Ernest would regard the fact that the cook served the younger Howe’s favorite dishes. “And for dessert, we have baked apples.”

  “A curious menu.” Ernest assumed his usual place at the table. “One might think we celebrated the day of my birth, given you serve my fare of choice. To what do I owe your benevolence?”

  “Ernest, stop arguing with your brother.” Aunt Esther draped a napkin in her lap and signaled Ashby, who poured the wine. “Barrington is doing his best to mend fences, and yet you antagonize him. Can we try to get along, if only to pass the meal in amiable company?”

&nbs
p; “You speak of amiable company.” Ernest scowled. “How amiable is it to take me off the estate accounts, before I can recover the funds I invested to save Garring Manor?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Seated at the head of the gathering, Barrington marked Percy’s relative silence. Then again, the quirky relation never had much to contribute to the conversation. “While I admit I instructed my solicitor to review the holdings and make improvements where necessary, I never intentionally prohibited your access, brother. After we dine, I shall make a note to contact Bailey and correct the innocent oversight, on my part.”

  “Was it innocent?” Ernest leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, as the footmen commenced the service. “Because I am owed four thousand pounds, and I expect to be repaid, else I may have to involve my solicitor to protect my position.”

  “I shall see to it you are adequately compensated, in full, along with generous interest on the sum.” As Barrington studied the food on his plate, he had no appetite, because he ached for Florence.

  In the day since her departure, he realized just how much he had come to rely on her. On her quiet strength. On her unshakeable support. On her love. With no effort on her part, she sustained him, and he bore her absence as a mortal wound.

  “Barrington, are you all right?” Aunt Esther smiled. “You have scarcely touched your food.”

  “I am fine, Aunt Esther.” In a show of calm, he picked up his fork, speared a leafy green in his salad, and took a bite.

  “What news of the murder investigation,” Ernest inquired, and Barrington choked, as he wondered who would broach the topic. “Is there any recent development?”

  “I would not know.” Mustering an air of ennui, he shrugged. “The authorities do not confide in me.”

  “But Sir Ross was just here.” Ernest toyed with the stem of his crystal wine glass. “Has he told you nothing? Are they no closer to apprehending the true criminal?”

  “How did you know Sir Ross was here?” It was too late when Barrington checked his tone, and he cleared his throat, so as not to rouse suspicion. “That is to say, I was surprised by his visit, which was unplanned.” In that, he told the truth, because he had not anticipated the sabotage of his phaeton. “Have you heard from him?”