Smoke & Lies

by Andrea Penrose

  “If you don’t mind, captain, we’ll go up to the quarterdeck,” she said, “so we may lay out the sequences.” The wind had freshened, and a quick check over the rail showed Basilisk was now clearly visible.

  Hamilton gave an impatient wave, then turned to confer with his master gunner.

  “I’ll need paper and pencil,” she added to the midshipmen.

  “Yes, ma’am!” squeaked the taller of the two. He raced off, leaving his companion to struggle with hauling the box up the ladder.

  Arianna stifled a smile, along with the urge to help.

  “Put it here,” she ordered, pointing out a spot by the stern. “And start unraveling some signal halyards, Mister . . .”

  “T-Tremaine,” stammered the boy.

  “We’ll need a lot of pennants, Mr. Tremaine. It’s going to be a rather long message.”

  Once the other midshipman returned, they set to work. Arianna sketched out the first few sequences and called the order of the colors to her assistants. They exchanged puzzled looks but were soon into the spirit of things.

  She then paused for thought. The words needed to be chosen to with great care.

  “How goes it?”

  Arianna was so engrossed in refining her message that she hadn’t heard Saybrook approach. “Here’s what I have in mind.” She read him the text.

  He pursed his lips. “What if you said . . .”

  They spent a few minutes rejiggering the words and calling out the changes to the boys.

  “That should do it,” she said, putting down her pencil. “Let’s go run it up the mast.”

  * * *

  A loud boom from one of the bow chasers signaled that their ship was now closing in on its quarry. A flash of sparks erupted as Hamilton fired off another warning shot.

  Arianna winced. The cannonball splashed well behind Basilisk’s stern, but the message was clear—surrender or be pounded into submission.

  “Any sign they're turning into the wind?” asked Saybrook.

  Hamilton shook his head.

  Too on edge to stand still, Arianna began to pace up and down in front of the ship’s wheel.

  “I don’t like firing on innocent men any more than you do,” muttered the captain.

  “Please, Hamilton—give it another few minutes.”

  He thinned his lips, but after a brief hesitation ordered a shift in sails, slowing their pursuit.

  “A few minutes. But that is all.”

  “Thank you.” Arianna hurried away before he could change his mind. Finding a spot well away from the gun carriages, she leaned up against the rail and darted a look aloft.

  The two midshipmen had rigged lanterns on the main topsail yard to illuminate the signal flags. The question was, in the heat of preparing for battle would the junior officers aboard Basilisk be too distracted to see them?

  Drawing in her breath, she sent up a silent a prayer.

  “Prepare the starboard guns to fire on the count of three,” called Hamilton to the gunnery mate. “Aim high on the first broadside. We’ll try to dismast them.”

  Arianna felt the deck lurch beneath her feet. The ship had altered course. Basilisk was looming just ahead, its cannons bristling from the open gunports.

  “One!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. The chaos of falling spars and flying splinters could still cause ghastly casualties.

  “Two!”

  Her grip tightened on the foam-flecked rail. Saybrook slipped in beside her. His hand covered hers.

  “Wait!” called Hamilton.

  Her lids flew open. A burst of red-gold sparks from Basilisk’s signal flare showed its flag was coming down. A sign of surrender.

  “Thank God,” she whispered.

  “I think the Almighty would give you the lion’s share of the credit, my dear,” said the earl dryly. “Or perhaps you’re a lucky talisman aboard a ship after all.”

  “Prepare to launch the longboat.” Hamilton’s order to his first lieutenant forestalled any reply.

  “Mr. Peabody,” he continued, “I want you and a half dozen of our marines to row over to Basilisk. Bring back Merriweather in chains.”

  Arianna pushed past a canvas awning. “I’m going as well.”

  “Damnation.” Hamilton shot Saybrook a look of mute appeal. “Have you no control over your wife?”

  “None whatsoever,” replied the earl. “Which is why I’m going, too.”

  “The officers know us, Hamilton,” she explained, “and are aware of Saybrook’s family connection to the Foreign Office. They’ll want a more detailed explanation of what’s going on and will be more inclined to trust us rather than a foreign stranger.”

  He conceded the point with a brusque nod. To Peabody, he added, “Do your best to bring them back unscathed.”

  The lieutenant paled.

  “The captain was just making a small jest,” murmured Arianna as she prepared to scramble down the rope ladder into the waiting longboat. “Pray, pay him no heed.”

  * * *

  It was a short row over to Basilisk. Peabody and the contingent of Marine sharpshooters were first to climb aboard. As Arianna followed, she felt a prickling of foreboding. It was quiet—perhaps a little too quiet—and yet the air seemed to crackle with tension.

  The muted glow of the deck lanterns showed Peabody was speaking in hushed tones with Basilisk’s junior lieutenant.

  She turned to the midshipman standing by one of the gun carriages. “Where is Mr. Jadwin?” As the highest-ranking officer after Merriweather, the second lieutenant should be in charge of the ship.

  “He’s d-dead, milady,” came the stammered reply.

  A gasp caught in her throat.

  “Mr. Merriweather shot him when he tried to take command of the helm.”

  Peabody looked around as Saybrook climbed over the rail. “A nasty turn of events,” he muttered.

  “Where’s Merriweather now?” demanded the earl.

  Basilisk’s junior lieutenant pointed to a shadowed spot by the main hatchway.

  A low-slung netting obscured her view. Arianna quickly shifted her stance just as Merriweather, his hands in manacles, spat on the deck. “Would that I could have done away with all your scurvy cowards.”

  “It’s you who are the scurvy coward!” piped up his guard. “Only a bloody lily-livered varlot shoots an unarmed man in cold blood.”

  Was it merely the taut thrum of the stays, wondered Arianna, or was the high-pitched voice . . .

  She edged forward another step. Ye God. Yes, it was Diggs, the smallest of Basilisk’s midshipmen, manfully brandishing a pistol at his much larger prisoner.

  “Merriweather's orders seemed a bit havey-cavey to begin with,” explained the junior lieutenant. “And then thanks to Mr. Diggs, who's very skilled at deciphering signals, we read your message, milord. So all of us officers decided that our duty was to return to Portoferraio and allow Colonel Campbell to sort out the confusion.”

  She forced her eyes away from Diggs and back to the junior lieutenant.

  “Mr. Jadwin called for Mr. Merriweather to surrender the ship’s wheel and hand over his weapon,” he continued. “The captain agreed . . . and then foully shot Mr. Jadwin when he came close. He then grabbed the lantern above the wheel and threatened to throw it into the bags of gunpowder that had been brought up for battle if we didn’t keep sailing.”

  “How did you manage to turn the tide on him?” asked Saybrook.

  A rueful smile. “Well, again, we have Mr. Diggs to thank. Being small and agile as a monkey, he took it upon himself to climb up the foremast and make his way through the rigging to a spot over the wheel. He then unfastened one of the ship’s blocks, attached a rope to it, and hung upside down to give himself an angle to swing it.”

  “Aye,” piped up one of other midshipman proudly. “The block hit Merriweather right in the bonebox and knocked him arse over teakettle!”

  “Some officers say it’s bad luck to have a woman aboard for a voya
ge,” chirped in Diggs with a lopsided grin. “I suppose it is if you’re a traitor . . .” He gave Merriweather a shove in the ribs with the snout of his pistol. “And cowardly cur to boot.”

  With a wordless snarl, Merriweather lashed out a vicious kick, but Diggs danced away and caught his former captain’s boot. A hard flick of the wrist sent him tumbling on his arse for the second time.

  After wiping his hand on the seat of his breeches, Diggs cocked a jaunty salute at Arianna. “On behalf of Basilisk’s crew, we present the prisoner to you, Lady Saybrook. Please have the Americans take him away, so the stench of his betrayal doesn’t befoul our ship for a moment longer.”

  Arianna returned the salute. “With pleasure . . . sir.”

  After a nod from the junior lieutenant, Peabody and several of his marines picked Merriweather off the deck and marched him to the railing, where he was unceremoniously handed down into the longboat.

  “It’s best you return to Portoferraio and await further orders from Campbell,” advised Saybrook to the lieutenant.

  “Yes, it would be wise,” confirmed Arianna. There would, she knew, be a great deal of international intrigue to untangle once they returned to Elba. Grentham would need to know about the gold, the conspiracy must be rooted out at the Foreign Office and within Standish’s cadre of officers. As for the European diplomats still at Napoleon’s court . . .

  They would likely have packed their bags already. The island would return to being an unimportant speck of rock in a large ocean, a rustic enclave of fishing villages and hardscrabble farming.

  The maneuvering for power had shifted to another square on the chessboard.

  “Yes, milord and milady,” replied the junior lieutenant. “We’ll come about and follow Captain Hamilton’s frigate back to port.”

  “We should return to the longboat without further ado,” said Arianna, taking the earl’s arm. She was suddenly feeling weary to the bone. “Our friends . . .”

  “Indeed, I think we’ve done as much as we can here,” he murmured. “The larger battle has now moved out of our reach. And yet, we can take some consolation from having achieved a few small victories, however insignificant in the scheme of things.”

  “Friendships and loyalty aren’t insignificant. It’s the whole reason we fight against Evil.” She found his hand and twined their fingers together. “I’m so sorry we didn’t find Eduardo. But let us not lose hope. Perhaps . . .”

  “Yes, perhaps,” he replied, as her hesitation was lost in the creaks and groans of the ship. “We did our best. However, sometimes that isn’t good enough.”

  * * *

  Dawn was lightening the horizon, realized Arianna as she sat up and rubbed at the crick in her neck. She must have dozed off again, though she hadn’t thought it possible, given the state of her emotions on returning to Hamilton’s ship.

  Someone had draped an oilskin cloak over her and pillowed her head with a folded square of sail canvas. A smile touched her lips, aware of how lucky she was to have the comforting constant of Saybrook in her life amid all the chaos tearing at the world.

  Pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders, Arianna rose and made her way up to the quarterdeck. Saybrook and Hamilton were standing at the taffrail conversing quietly, red-gold flashes sparking like fireflies as they smoked their cheroots.

  “How are you feeling?” asked the earl.

  “Like a regiment of Death’s Head Hussars have ridden roughshod over my body,” she admitted with a small wince. “Perhaps I’m growing too old to keep repeating the follies of my youth.”

  “Or perhaps too wise,” quipped Hamilton. “Age brings with it a certain self-awareness, and with it a tolerance for faults, both our own and those of others.” He exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it drift away in the breeze. “At least one would hope so.”

  Wisdom. Arianna moved in beside Saybrook and slipped her arm around his waist. Wisdom didn’t come easy. But she was getting better at spotting its occasional glimmers amidst all the false gold.

  A comfortable silence settled over the three of them as they watched the white-foamed wake churning in the moonlight. The pearly flickers and the rhythmic sounds of the sea had a mesmerizing sense of calm. She was glad that she had made peace with Hamilton, and put that particular ghost of the past mistakes behind her. He was a good man, and she was happy to have reforged their connection into one of friendship rather than resentment and recriminations.

  She wasn’t sure how long they stood shoulder to shoulder, each lost in quiet contemplation, but the spell was finally broken as Hamilton flicked the butt of his cheroot into the sea and turned to look up at the sails.

  “So, it seems Napoleon is on his way to France,” he said. “The fellow does seem to possess the devil’s own luck when it comes to war.” The wind shifted, drawing a clatter of bootsteps as the deck hands quickly adjusted the lines. “That doesn’t bode well for your country, or the rest of Europe.”

  Luck.

  Arianna was suddenly reminded of the pasteboard box in her cloak pocket. “As to that . . .” She pulled it out and pried off the lid.

  “Chocolate?” Saybrook raised his brows. “I know you think it possesses great powers, but—”

  He fell silent as she quickly plucked away the top layer of concealing confections.

  “Ye God,” murmured Hamilton, staring down at the bejeweled crystal sphinx. “What—”

  “Napoleon’s lucky talisman,” replied Arianna. “Or so he believes.” She explained about her strange encounter with the emperor. “I may be skeptical about mystical powers of the occult, but what matters is that he has faith in them.”

  She lifted the box for a closer look at the carved crystal face and its enigmatic smile. “We all know what a brilliant general he is. However, without the talisman, perhaps his confidence will be just a little shaken. And confidence can make all the difference in the heat of a close-run battle.”

  Saybrook looked thoughtful. “I would usually scoff at such unscientific reasoning, my dear. But in this case . . .” He gazed out at the horizon, where the line between the sea and sky was still blurred by the soft, silvery greys of first light. “Let us hope that you’re right.”

  Chapter 29

  “Dio Madre, it’s good to be home.” Saybrook sunk into his favorite armchair and inched it closer to the cheery fire blazing in the hearth. The afternoon sun, bright with the first hints of spring, flooded the parlor with light, warming the pale yellow walls to a golden glow.

  Arianna took the facing seat and stretched out her legs. Yes, it’s good to be home. Hamilton’s ship had docked at Greenwich just before midday. The captain had rushed off to private meetings at the Admiralty, and amid the bustle of unloading their trunks and hiring carriages, they had just arrived at their townhouse on Berkeley Square.

  “Bianca will be here shortly with a pot of chocolate and a plate of her ginger biscuits,” she said. “She thinks you’re too maigre.”

  He gave a laugh. “She always thinks I’m too thin. If she had her way, I’d be heavier than an ox.”

  Arianna smiled, but as he leaned back and closed his eyes, she couldn’t help but note that the lines etched around their corners were caused by more than travel fatigue.

  Her heart ached for him. Though he had outwardly accepted their failure to solve the mystery of Eduardo’s fate with stoic grace, she knew he was hurting inside.

  “Perhaps . . .” began Arianna, then quickly reconsidered what she was about to say. Perhaps Grentham had learned more during their trip back to England. But the brutal truth was, too many brave young men lay in unmarked graves, the casualties of war.

  “Perhaps,” she amended with a heavy sigh, “it would have been better to have refused Grentham in the first place. I'm not sure what we've accomplished, save for leaving a few more dead bodies in our wake.”

  “We've left Napoleon a far poorer man,” pointed out Saybrook. While still in Elba, they had learned that the emperor had made it to France, c
leverly evading the British and French ships that routinely patrolled the waters. Apparently, Etoile had suffered only minor damage from the explosion. As to Pierson’s fate, it remained unknown.

  “And we've helped root out a nest of vipers in the Foreign Office and the Admiralty,” he added. “Grentham will no doubt think our efforts worthwhile.” And yet there was no trace of satisfaction on his face.

  “I suppose we’ll learn exactly what his thoughts come evening.” The minister had wasted no time in demanding a meeting to hear all the details of the mission. Given the secretive nature of the trip, they had agreed to gather here at their townhouse.

  Strangely enough, Grentham had requested that Sophia and Henning be part of the group.

  “Have you any idea why the minister wants our friends present?”

  The earl made a face. “You’re the one with the vivid imagination, my dear. I prefer not to speculate. We’ll know soon enough.”

  The arrival of the chocolate brought with it the soothing scent of sugar and spices. Arianna poured them both a cup and sat back to savor the first few sips.

  “Perhaps you're right, and it's pointless to speculate,” she murmured through the fragrant froth. “However, I can't help wondering whether he believes that Wolff and the baroness chose to head to Italy rather than return to London.” That was the message they had sent to him from Elba. As for the truth . . .

  A snort. “Of course he doesn’t believe it. The question is whether he’ll bother pursuing the matter. The preliminary account we wrote paints both of our friends in the best possible colors.” Mention of their dealings with the French consortium had, of course, been omitted.

  “We did both agree they had redeemed themselves,” murmured Arianna. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I think it an excellent choice that they’ve accepted Hamilton’s offer to take them to America, where they can start a new life.”

  Saybrook’s brows arched in skepticism. “There’s an old adage about teaching an old dog new tricks.” He bit into a biscuit and chewed thoughtfully. “However, coming within a hairsbreadth of death does give one a different perspective on life. Perhaps Wolff will reform.”