My Lord and Spymaster

by Joanna Bourne

  “Don’t come any closer.” He pulled the pistol out and backed to the railing. He’d have to run for it. A great man knows when to cut his losses. He’d leave it all behind. He still had the bank account in France and the guineas in his money belt. They’d welcome him in France. He’d be a hero there.

  Sebastian said, “Where’s Jess?”

  “Somewhere safe. Get out of my way, Sebastian. I don’t mind shooting you.” I’ll enjoy it. He’d reloaded, after disposing of Pitney. The gun filled his hand. Heavy. Solid. A Bourdiec pistol, the best gun ever made. Accurate to a hair. He’d force Sebastian with him, past the other men, to the gangway, and kill him there, and escape in the confusion. “Nobody’s going to get hurt if you let me pass.”

  “What have you done with Jess?”

  Jess was Sebastian’s weakness. And the man with the gun was always in control. “Nothing’s happened to her. Yet. I’ll tell you where she is when you let me go.” Wait. Wait for it. You only have the one shot.

  Sailors were being herded into a ragged, terrified line at the stern, surrendering. But he’d escape. He’d use Sebastian to get him off the ship. He was in command. “When I’m on the dock, I’ll tell you—”

  One of Sebastian’s mongrel friends ran up. Hawkhurst. “She’s below.”

  They were gone, running across the deck. They acted as if he wasn’t there. “Stop. I’ll shoot—” There are two of them. If I kill one . . . They ducked down the ladder to the hold before he could do anything. He had a pistol, damn it. He had his finger on the trigger. They couldn’t ignore him.

  On both sides of him, sailors were leaping from the ship, swimming in the toxic waters of the Thames, trying to climb the pilings to the dock. He backed to the rail and threw one leg over. He’d get the guinea belt off and abandon it. All that gold. It’d weigh him down. He pulled his shirt out to get to the tie. Was there some way to take the money with him—

  A long, gray streak of rage ran right at him. That ferret. He pointed his pistol. He had only one bullet. If he shot the animal, then he couldn’t—

  Claws raked his eyes. He screamed and felt himself falling. The water closed over him.

  Thirty-three

  The Northern Lark

  WHEN HE OPENED THE DOOR, JESS CAME OUT kicking and clawing. She knocked them sprawling on the deck, with her on top.

  His Jess. He fended her off, getting clawed up. His wonderful Jess.

  She lifted her head. “Sebastian?”

  Her hair straggled over her face. Somebody had given her a bloody nose at some point. She was filthy. She was infinitely beautiful. He said, “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  She let her breath out, miles and miles of it, slowly deflating till she was limp on top of him. She lay her head down on his chest and began to cry.

  “It’s all right.” He held her. He could have held her for a hundred years. “Shhh. It’s over. It’s all right now.”

  “I knew you’d come for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “I knew you’d come. I left because I had to get Pitney away. Pitney is . . .” She shuddered and held on to him harder.

  “I saw.” Had she watched Pitney die? She had blood all down her front, so probably she’d been there. He would have given a lot to change the world and spare her that.

  He lay on the dirty planking and closed his arms around Jess and pulled her in and let her cry. She was safe. She was alive. Everything else he could fix. He’d get her off this filthy scumbelly of a ship and into the sun. He’d take her to bed and kiss every sweet inch of her. But first he’d let her cry.

  Something small and sneaky brushed his arm. Kedger, smelling to high Hades and soaking wet, nosed in between them.

  “Kedger?” She pushed herself up. “You brought Kedger here?”

  Ten thousand words would not be enough to explain. “Yes.”

  “He coulda been hurt. He coulda got ’imself lost. Are you out of your sodding mind?”

  Kedger—he’d swear this—made himself look hangdog and orphaned and pitiful. Jess fell for it at once. She got to her knees and swept the vermin in and cuddled the smug bugger of a weasel. If the ferret thought he was sleeping with them after they got married, he could forget it. Maybe they’d find a lady ferret for him.

  “Let’s get out of here.” She scrambled ahead of him along the black corridor, heading topside. “All this dark, I’m going to break my fool neck.”

  Adrian had drafted Lazarus’s men to cart away trunks and boxes of Quentin’s ill-gotten gains. Agents from the British Service were guarding prisoners and checking the dead. Somebody—Adrian—had put a coat over Pitney’s dead face. Trevor was helping move the bodies, pale but not getting sick.

  Quentin, and his gun, were gone.

  “Overboard.” Adrian tossed the news as he walked by. “I’ve sent my men searching the wharf. I told them to find him dead.”

  Nothing could save Quentin from the gallows. If he died in the Thames today, Claudia wouldn’t see her brother stand trial. “Good.”

  “I’ll go home and kick Josiah out of Meeks Street. What we save in hemp alone on this operation . . .” Adrian wandered off.

  He followed Jess and found her near the wheelhouse, sitting on the railing, her feet tucked in to keep her balance. She was at home on a ship. She’d look good on the Flighty Dancer.

  “There’s blood on you.” She jumped down and let the ferret plop to the decking and walked toward him. Always the same simplicity about her. The same directness. “I didn’t notice before. They told me Quentin’s gone. Oh, Sebastian— the Reverend.” Her face was suddenly stricken. “He was with me at the warehouse—”

  “Eunice has him. He was awake and talking when I left him.”

  She sighed, and the clutch on his arm loosened. “I’m filthy. You would not believe how dirty that locker was. All this water around, you’d think they’d wash the place.” She tapped the rail. “I’m going to scuttle this pig. I’m going to haul it out into mid-Channel and set it on fire and burn it down to the waterline. It’s an evil ship.” She gazed soberly across the deck, across the dead men, to Pitney’s body. “And it’s full of ghosts. Sebastian, I have to tell you something. I don’t think it’ll make any difference, but I have to tell you.”

  Somebody had hurt her. Maybe raped her. If he’s alive, I’m going to kill him slowly. “Whatever happened—”

  “My father probably won’t like you much,” she said soberly.

  The sun brightened up again. He didn’t laugh. She was being serious. “I don’t suppose he will, much. Jess, you’re going to be my wife. I don’t give a damn what your father thinks. You better not either.”

  “I don’t. Anyway, he’ll be so glad to have grandchildren he’d put up with you if you were a Bactrian snake charmer. What I’m saying is, I’m going to deed everything I have of Whitby’s back to him before I get married. If I don’t, I’ll get ground to pieces between the two of you. So if you want me, you’re going to have to take me without a farthing piece, because that’s how I’m coming.”

  A woman of magnificent gestures. He and Whitby were going to have some grand battles over her before they got the two companies consolidated. Afterward, too, probably. He’d take Jess out to sea when he and Whitby were disagreeing, so she wouldn’t be bothered. He foresaw lots of time at sea for Jess. “I’ll give you Kennett Shipping to run. You can reorganize my bookkeeping in your spare time . . . when we’re not in bed.”

  Jess grinned up at him. “You would not believe how much I’m looking forward to that.”

  It felt like it was about time to kiss her, so he started doing that some. “Which one, Jess?”

  “Both.”

  About the Author

  Joanna Bourne has lived in seven countries, including England and France, the settings of The Spymaster’s Lady and My Lord and Spymaster. She lives with her family, cat, dog, and goldfish in the foothills of the Appalachians.

  Joanna Bourne, My Lord and Spymaster