Ramsey backed up and his hand went instantly to the pistol he wore strapped around his waist. It was drawn and cocked before anyone had a chance to react.
“No,” he said. “No, sir. I will not be set up as the scapegoat, not for this.”
“You have been clearly obsessed with Althorpe’s capture these past few weeks,” Barrimore remarked. “I would suggest that makes you look like the one who was desperate to find a scapegoat.”
“Of course I wanted to capture the whoreson bastard,” Ramsey hissed. “He is a traitor and a cold-blooded murderer!”
Emory frowned. “That is the second time you have accused me of murder, sir. I grant you I may guilty of some of the crimes which have been attributed to me, but I have never murdered anyone. Killed, yes, in honest battle when my own life or the lives of my men were at risk, but never for the sheer pleasure of it.”
“Never?”
“No.” Emory glanced briefly at Annaleah. “Never, dammit.”
“Then we may add liar to your charges, for there were witnesses to your crime. All three identified you as the man who coldly and deliberately choked an unarmed man to death in the streets of Portsmouth. They subsequently followed you back to your ship, whereupon the authorities were later met with a hail of gunfire. You cast off and sailed away without so much as a by your leave.” He gripped the butt of the pistol tighter and curled his finger close around the trigger. “That man, the one you left broken and bleeding in a filthy laneway, was my brother, sir, and the day I shoveled the earth over his grave, I took a solemn vow to do the same to you.”
Emory’s complexion darkened and watching him, Annaleah felt her stomach give another wrenching twist. She recalled the incident he had told her about Seamus Turnbull coming upon a young, drunken lord who had kicked a small dog to death for sport. It was Seamus who had throttled Ramsey’s brother, not Emory though the blame had clearly been transferred to his shoulders.
“Put the gun down, Colonel,” Wessex advised. “You do nothing to help your cause and if Althorpe is guilty of murdering your brother, I promise you he will be held to account.”
“There is nothing to be held accountable for,” Annaleah cried, stepping forward. “He did not do it!”
“And who the devil are you to bear witness to his character!” Ramsey demanded, a small dribble of saliva forming at the side of his mouth. “A woman who bases her judgement on the strength of what he puts between her thighs!”
Anthony was only a split second slower than the others to react, but he was closest and thus the first to plow his weight into Ramsey’s shoulder, lifting him half off his feet before driving him furiously back into the wall. The gun went off with a puff of smoke, the bullet smashing through the gallery windows, chipping the frame and shattering the glass in two panes. A second shot was fired almost instantaneously, the bullet catching Ramsey squarely in the center of the forehead, leaving a remarkably neat, round red hole in its wake. Colonel Ramsey’s startled eyes focussed on the smoking pistol held in Barrimore’s outstretched hand a moment, then drifted half closed as his body slid into a dead heap on the floor.
“Good God!” Maitland looked from the marquis to the slumping corpse, back to the marquis. “Good God, sir, you have killed him!”
“Would you have preferred me to wait to see if he had another weapon concealed on his person?” Barrimore lowered the gun. It was the one Anthony had taken from Annaleah and he waited for the smoke to funnel out of the barrel before he set it carefully back on the table. “I expect he knew his story of woe and revenge would not hold up against the greater charge of treason.”
“You are all mad,” declared Bonaparte from behind the shield formed by his marshalls, Bertrand and Montholon. “I insist on being allowed to return to my quarters at once!”
“Not until we have the truth from you,” Emory said, producing the small pocket pistol and pressing it against the Corsican’s cheek. “And believe me, general, I am in a fit mood to use this if you do not admit here and now the rightful name given you at birth.”
The familial gray eyes met his over the barrel of the gun and his lips drew back in a snarl. He looked for a moment as if he would still deny the charge, but then his face cracked into a smile and he gave a short bark of laughter.
“For all the good it will do you, m’sieur, my name is Joseph Louis Bonaparte, and I have indeed played my part well. By now my brother is halfway to America, where he will be welcomed like royalty, and once again take his place at the head of an army--an army he will lead to ultimate victory over his English enemies!”
Maitland stared, then walked slowly over to where they stood at the door. His own eyes were formidable weapons, glowering as they were from beneath the weathered brow. While Joseph Bonaparte displayed the good sense to shrink back against his two officers, Emory was only slightly reluctant to allow the captain to take the gun out of his hand.
Though his eyes never left the impostor’s face, Maitland carefully uncocked the hammer and addressed Witherspoon. “Get them out of here. Get them out before I forget my duty and shoot them myself. Take them below and lock them in their quarters. Put guards on the doors twenty-four hours a day and let no one in or out without my express permission. And Mr. Witherspoon... send a man over the side to seal the ports. I want no more bits of paper tossed out in the night. We cannot allow a whisper of this to escape the ship until it has been decided what course to take. Clap all the Frenchmen in irons and throw them in the bilges if you have to.”
“Yes sir. My pleasure, sir.”
Bonaparte tossed final blazing look of triumph over his shoulder before Witherspoon ushered them out the door. When they were gone, Maitland turned equally blazing eyes to Emory and held up the gun. “Have you or Miss Fairchilde any more little surprises to share with us Mr. Althorpe?”
Emory glanced at Annaleah and arched his eyebrows. “No. No, I think that about uses up our quota for the day.”
Maitland made a growling sound in his throat and walked back to the table, barely acknowledging Rupert Ramsey’s body where it sprawled on the floor. He set the gun down, careful to keep it squarely in front of him, then leaned his hands on the table and bowed his head.
“What in the name of all the holy saints am I to do now? The world believes we have Napoleon Bonaparte imprisoned on board this ship. When it comes to light he has escaped again...that we never had him...that he was able to dupe us with such a childish ruse....”
He turned his head toward the window, staring at nothing, undoubtedly seeing his entire career go up in flames before his eyes. The battles he had fought would count for nothing, the honors he won would be forgotten. He would go down in history as the fool who had accepted the surrender of Joseph Bonaparte and let his brother sail away to build another empire across the ocean.
Wessex joined him in short order, taking a seat at the table, his forehead cupped in his hands, the heels pressing against his eyes as if to contain the pressure in his skull before it exploded. Anthony helped himself to a full glass of brandy, draining it in several loud gulps before he set the glass down with a bang and went to stand at the windows.
Annaleah tried to catch his eye, but his face remained turned away and his hands stayed laced together behind his back. Emory, on the other hand, was only too willing to meet her gaze, though the message he conveyed was distinctly mixed. The ruse had been uncovered, but she had disobeyed him again by bringing the gun on board and a man was dead because of it. To make matters worse, if Rupert Ramsey was the fox, they might never know it for sure now.
“You are more familiar with the Corsican’s habits than anyone else in this room, Althorpe,” Wessex said, working his hands around to his temples. “Where would he go? Where would he feel safe? Is it possible he has slipped through our hands and is on his way to America?”
“His younger brother Lucien spent four years there. He has undoubtedly established a loyal base.”
Wessex sighed. “And the bastard was right. The Ameri
cans would welcome a soldier of his caliber with open arms. They would press north into Canada and join forces with the French in Quebec. He would have a vast, rich empire to rule again.”
Emory moved away from the door. His lip had stopped bleeding and he dampened a linen napkin in water he found on a side table, using it to swab away the stains on his chin and throat.
“Empires,” he said thoughtfully, “ need heirs.”
“What?”
“His son is still in Paris. He would not leave France without his little eagle.”
“It has been more than six weeks since his ‘surrender’. He would be a fool to have remained in France this long.”
“How long did Bonnie Prince Charles remain in the highlands of Scotland after the rout of ‘45?” Emory asked.
Maitland straightened and turned his head, even Anthony looked back over his shoulder.
“At the time, he had a reward of thirty thousand pounds on his head but not one of his loyal Highlanders betrayed his whereabouts. They kept him hidden for three months until it was safe for a ship to transport him back across the Channel. In this instance, there is no bounty, no one is even looking for Napoleon because they believe him to be here, on board the Bellerophon. For that matter, the masquerade has worked in the one direction, it could easily work in the other. A wig, a sprout of whiskers and he could conceivably assume the guise of Joseph. And do not forget he would be confident of receiving ample warning from our elusive friend, Le Renard, should anyone’s suspicions be roused.”
“Yes, well,” Anthony said looking down at Ramsey, “that appears to be one problem we have resolved anyway.”
Emory shook his head. “No. I am not so sure we have.”
“Whyever not?” Anthony demanded. “You heard yourself he was in London, in Whitehall during the time your so-called forged orders were dispatched. He moved about as freely as Wessex or Barrimore or...or me, for that matter. My French is nearly as excellent as Barrimore’s and I was called upon more than once to help in translations when there were so many dispatches pouring in daily.”
“Did you know the codes?” Emory asked.
“Would I confess to it in this roomful of excitable individuals if I did?” the viscount snorted.
It was a fair point Anthony had made and Annaleah glanced at Barrimore to see how he was reacting to being called excitable. His face was granite, his body rigid. Only the thumb of his left hand moved, rubbing the empty place on his middle finger where his ring should be.
She looked down at his hand again and felt a small shiver run across the back of her neck.
How many times had she stared at that ring, watching it wink in the sunlight or gleam by candlelight as he turned it round and round his finger? It had been an inheritance from his maternal grandfather along with minor estates and titles belonging to the Ashworth heir-- something she was certain only a handful of people would be able to include in the recitation of his lineage. But Anna's mother, a scavenger for the smallest piece of information that might be of benefit to a prospective marriage, had gone through an endless litany of insignificant details a hundred times.
The shiver turned into a slow, cold flush that began at the nape of her neck and spread downward, leaving everything frozen in its wake.
Annaleah had commented on the ring once--most likely out of annoyance--and had been corrected in her misinterpretation of what she thought was a wolf sejant in the crest. It had been a fox sitting back on its haunchs. A rarely used element in family arms, but it was in the Ashworth crest and Barrimore had not lost the ring at all. He had deliberately removed it on the offchance someone might notice it again.
On board the Intrepid, he had claimed his French was strictly formal, yet Anthony had just said it was excellent--as it would have to be, logically, if he worked with coded dispatches going to and from enemy territory. Earlier, on the coach to Gravesend, she had been suspicious of all his questions, but he had managed to neatly defuse them. Only minutes ago, he tried to focus attention on Wessex, and then he had simply, coldly shot Ramsey...hoping what? That the dead colonel would indeed be made the scapegoat?
She looked up and found his eyes waiting for her. He knew what she was thinking and so did she. It was him. He was the fox. He was Le Renard.
CHAPTER 27
Anna glanced over at Emory, but he was talking to Wessex. Anthony was bent over the table pouring another glass of brandy, blocking her view of the captain and consequently impeding his view as Barrimore swiftly closed the gap between them. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around her arm and something painfully sharp gouged into the small of her back, piercing through her pea coat as if it was butter.
“Say one word,” he murmured, “and I will sever your spine. You will spend the rest of your days in a chair with wheels on it.”
She closed her mouth and swallowed her cry. His face was only inches from hers, his eyes like two shards of green ice.
“W-why?” she gasped. “Why?”
Instead of answering, he dug the point of the blade deeper into her skin causing a distinct wetness to trickle down beneath her shirt. “Ask if you might excuse yourself. Claim faintness, anything, so long as it gets us out of this cabin. And if you try anything, anything at all, I will kill you, and then I will kill your lover. From this moment on, I have absolutely nothing to lose, Miss Fairchilde, so you had best believe me.”
She did. She had no reason not to. His eyes, his voice were dead calm, his fingers were like iron pincers around her arm.
“Now, if you please,” he said calmly. “Do it.”
She shifted her gaze back to the four men huddled at the end of the table. Why did they suddenly seem so far away? Why were none of them aware of the little drama taking place less than a dozen paces away?
“E-excuse me,” she whispered.
No one turned. No one looked in her direction.
She felt the blade dig deeper and realized her throat was so dry, no one had heard her.
“Excuse me,” she managed with more force. “I hate to trouble you, Captain, but would it be possible for me to go out on deck for some fresh air? It...it is suddenly so close in here, I...I find myself feeling unwell.”
Maitland scraped to his feet at once with an apology. “Forgive my lack of sensitivity, Miss Fairchilde. I will have someone escort you immediately.”
“I confess to feeling a little warm myself,” Barrimore said from behind her. “I would gladly volunteer my company... if no one has an objection, that is.”
Annaleah imagined this last bit was added with a concessionary smile in Emory’s direction, for he looked over and the quick flash of concern that had wrinkled his brow gave way to a crooked grin.
“If Anna has no objections, I can think of none.”
“It is hardly your place to object or not, young man,” Maitland reminded him dryly. “Since I have not yet decided what is to be done with you.”
Emory acknowledged the captain’s dilemma by offering a faintly mocking bow, then moved toward the door to open it as Anna and Barrimore came around the end of the table.
Annaleah’s legs felt like two stumps of wood and her heart was beating so loudly in her breast she felt sure he had to hear it when they drew near. His attention was not entirely focussed on her, of course, for he was still trying to hear what Wessex and Maitland were saying as they resumed their conversation.
She stepped out into the bright burst of sunlight and, at the urging of the hand Barrimore kept gripped tightly around her upper arm, headed across the quarterdeck to the narrow flight of stairs that led down to the main gun deck. More of a ladder than steps, she knew Barrimore would have difficulty keeping close to her, and he could hardly show the knife in plain view of the sailors and soldiers working all around them. There were members of the crew standing by the cannon, more balancing up in the rigging, flashes of red and white in the uniformed infantrymen on all decks. If she stumbled, pretended to lose her balance, screamed...
“Don’t
even think about it,” he warned. “You will only cost another innocent man his life.”
“You are quite despicable, sir,” she said.
“Whereas you are every bit the whore Ramsey accused you of being. And a surprisingly enthusiastic one too, I might add. You succeeded in shocking me rather profoundly the other night when I went back to the cabin and saw you spread out on his desk, clawing at him, bleating his name each time he rutted into you.”
She stopped and turned her head. “You saw us?”
“Briefly. I had expected your lover would be occupied on deck steering his ship out of the fog and you would be standing alongside him.”
“You went back to steal the papers.”
“He does not take to following orders very well. He was supposed to destroy all communications between himself and Wessex’s office.”
They had nearly reached the ladder. The sun was in the westerly sky shining through the shrouds, making a checkerboard pattern on the deck. The air smelled of salt and fish and the heat radiating off the oak planking. Her foot truly did stumble on the way down the narrow rungs, but Barrimore had hold of her jacket and kept her upright. At the bottom, he forced her to turn toward the open gangway in the rail.
There were twenty feet of deck between him and freedom, and while Annaleah had never really pondered a situation where she might be called upon to make a noble sacrifice for king and country, she knew she could not let him reach that opening. Good men--fathers, sons, brothers, lovers--had died in the hundred days of renewed fighting that followed Napoleon’s escape from Elba and Barrimore had been instrumental in making that escape possible. He had used Emory Althorpe then thrown him callously to the wolves, and if not for the sheer luck of her taking a walk on a hazy morning in her aunt’s cove, the true magnitude of this most recent deception might not have been discovered until it was too late.
Swept Away Page 36
