’Twas the surest way to steer clear of the gallows.
The soles of Blackheart’s boots tread silently against polished wood as he strode aft toward the gunroom skylight. He descended the ladder to the Captain’s cabin and slipped inside to gather his supplies.
Item the first: a freshly starched cravat. This mission would require charm. Item the second: a freshly cleaned pistol and extra ammunition. A pirate might not expect trouble, but he certainly intended to finish it. Item the third: a heavy coin purse. If everything else failed, gold was often more powerful than bullets. And he planned on using every weapon at his disposal.
By the time the schooner docked at the port, Blackheart was clean-shaven, dandified, and fresh as a daisy. Oh, certainly, his sun-bronzed skin was an unaristocratic brown—and was generously adorned with a truly ungentlemanly quantity of scars—but most of that was hidden away beneath his gleaming Hessians, soft buckskin breeches, muted chestnut waistcoat, blinding white cravat, and dark blue tailcoat with twin rows of gold buttons.
The hidden pistol in its fitted sling made barely a bulge beneath so many layers of foppery.
He forewent both sword and walking stick because he intended to make the rest of the journey on horseback, and debated leaving his hat behind as well. It was unlikely to stay on his head at a gallop, and would be crushed in the saddlebag…
With a sigh, Blackheart scooped up the beaver hat and shoved it on his head. He had no idea how easily manipulated Mrs. Halton might be, or whether she’d turn out to be one of those histrionic old matrons who refused to be seen in public alongside a gentleman with a bare head.
Plan B was to toss her over his shoulder and have done with the matter, but Blackheart had promised the Earl of Carlisle he’d at least try to coax the package into accompanying him voluntarily.
And although Blackheart would never admit it aloud, he had a rather high opinion of both his own charm and grandmotherly women. He would do everything within his power to make the journey to England a pleasant one for Mrs. Halton, and had already instructed his crew to treat her as if she were their own mother. With any luck, she’d be the sort to bake pies and biscuits. Or at least not to get seasick all over the Dark Crystal.
Carrying nothing more than a pair of gloves and a small satchel, he made his way down the gangplank in search of the fastest horse to rent—and nearly tripped over an underfed newspaper boy hawking today’s headlines for a penny.
Under normal circumstances, Blackheart would have flipped the boy a coin and let him keep the paper…but the black font stamped across the top stopped the captain in his tracks.
MOST DANGEROUS PIRATE:
THE CRIMSON CORSAIR
Blackheart snatched up the paper and tried to read over the grinding of his teeth. He wasn’t certain what he hated most about the Crimson Corsair: that the man was a dishonorable, coldblooded madman, or that he’d started to receive better press than Blackheart himself.
“You gonna pay for that, mister?” came a belligerent, high-pitched voice below his elbow.
He slapped the newspaper back onto the pile along with a shiny new coin, and stalked off the dock. Now was not the time to think about the Crimson Corsair. Once Mrs. Halton was safely delivered, Blackheart and his crew would be free to pursue any mission they wished—perhaps a quick seek-and-destroy of the corsair’s vessel—but for the moment, he needed to stay focused. Not only had he given Carlisle his word, this mission would be a doddle. Grab the woman, get the money. The easiest three hundred pounds of his life.
The Pennsylvania countryside flew past, the sky darkening as he rode. Blackheart kept to the mail roads in order to trade for fresh horses at posting-houses…and also to keep from losing his way. He was used to England and to the open sea, not these sparsely populated American trails winding endlessly between bigger cities. He never felt comfortable when he was out of sight from the water, and he was heading further from the ocean with every step.
Despite the impressive number of small towns intersecting the long dusty roads, he felt more isolated with each passing mile. The hurried meals he took in country taverns were nothing like the rowdy camaraderie aboard his ship. He could scarcely wait to complete this mission.
Fortunately, he had to spend the night at an inn only once before finally reaching the town where his target resided.
The shabby little cottage was right where his instructions said it would be, but the state of disrepair gave Blackheart pause. The garden was so overgrown as to be nearly wild. The exterior was dirty and covered in spider webs. No smoke rose from the chimney. No candlelight shone in the windows.
Had someone already abducted his quarry? Had she simply moved? Or, God forbid, died of old age during his journey from England?
Rather than blindly march into unknown territory, he turned his horse in search of the local postmaster, in order to determine whether his target was still in his sights—or whether the rules of the game had changed.
“Mrs. Halton?” repeated the pale-faced postmaster when Blackheart interrupted his nuncheon. “Mrs. Clara Halton?”
“Yes,” Blackheart replied calmly, as he towered over the dining table. “I’ve come to pay her a visit.”
“But you mustn’t, sir.” The postmaster forged on despite the captain’s raised brow. “You cannot. She’s ill—”
“I’m aware that Mrs. Halton has been sickly.”
“—with consumption,” the postmaster finished, his eyes wide with foreboding.
Although Blackheart’s smile didn’t falter, his blood ran cold. Consumption. The game had indeed changed.
“How long has she been afflicted?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t rightly know—”
“How long does the doctor think she has?”
“I don’t…He hasn’t seen her since the diagnosis.”
“Hasn’t seen her?” Blackheart frowned. “She won’t allow him in?”
“He hasn’t gone.” The postmaster’s cheeks flushed. “It’s the contagion, sir, can’t you understand? He’s the sole medical practitioner for miles, and if he catches the illness…”
The spider webs and overgrown garden now made perfect sense. Blackheart’s jaw tightened. They’d left her to die. “If the sole medical practitioner does not visit his patient, I presume neither do the dairy maids or local farmers.”
“No, sir. I can’t even deliver her letters anymore. Too dangerous. We could die if we caught—”
“Without food or medicine, how is Mrs. Halton expected to live?”
“She ain’t expected to live, sir. That’s the point you keep missing. Most folks with consumption don’t last longer than—”
“You said you possess post you’ve failed to deliver? Hand it over.”
“You can’t possibly intend to—”
“Now.”
The postmaster scrambled up from the table and hurried over to a cubicle, from which he drew two folded missives. “I wouldn’t normally hand post to a stranger—”
“—but since you’ve no intention to deliver it anyway…” Blackheart finished dryly as he shoved the letters into his coat pocket. He turned toward the door, but then paused to pin the postmaster in his stare one final time. “Keep in mind, not everyone dies of consumption—but we all die of starvation.”
He stalked back outside without waiting for a reply. There was nothing the postmaster could say that would be worth the time it took to listen. Perhaps Mrs. Halton’s consumption was in fact fatal. Most afflicted parties did not survive more than a year or two after diagnosis.
But not all.
Blackheart should know.
He’d been eight years old when consumption had attacked his father. Then his mother. He’d still been young Gregory Steele in those days, and no lock in the house could keep him from his parents’ sickbed for long.
What they’d thought was pneumonia had proven otherwise the moment they’d started coughing up blood. Then one of the nurses became infected. Another—just like
little Gregory—developed a few of the symptoms, but eventually overcame the illness.
He was in perfect health the day they’d buried his parents in the ground.
His fingers clenched. Depending on Mrs. Halton’s condition, he might not be able to complete this mission. But the least he could do was deliver the lady’s mail.
He tied his horse to the rusting iron post at the edge of Mrs. Halton’s overgrown front walk and rolled back his shoulders. For the next few minutes at least, he would not be Captain Blackheart, second-most feared pirate upon the high seas. Instead, he would be Mr. Gregory Steele. Again.
It had been so long since he’d last removed his mask, he’d nearly forgotten what being plain Mr. Steele felt like. It was so easy to forget that “Blackheart” was a persona and Gregory Steele was the real man. Especially when he liked being a pirate so much better.
He rapped his fingers against the door.
No one answered.
He glanced around for a knocker. There was none. He rapped harder. Thunder rumbled overhead.
No one answered.
His stomach twisted. He couldn’t help but note the very Steele dismay at the idea of arriving too late to save a total stranger. A pirate like Blackheart would only care that he and his men had been effectively swindled by the earl who’d set them upon this impossible mission.
Gregory Steele, however, would deal with Carlisle and the crew later. First, he needed to determine whether his quarry was still alive—and figure out what to do next.
“Mrs. Halton?” he called, tramping across overgrown grass to squint through a grimy window. “Are you in there?”
“Go away!” returned a muffled female voice from the other side of the wall.
Steele’s shoulders loosened. Relief rushed through him even though he well knew Mrs. Halton’s non-dead state didn’t mean any of their lives were about to get easier. One step at a time.
“Mrs. Halton, my name is Mr. Gregory Steele, and I have come all the way from London, England to—”
“Go away,” the stubborn voice repeated. “I’m armed.”
A grin played at the edges of Steele’s lips. Pirate or not, he did love a good gunfight. Any old woman cantankerous enough to suggest one was well on her way to being a kindred spirit.
“I’m not here to rob you, ma’am. I—”
“Well, I’m not here to kill you. I’ve consumption, which is almost always fatal. I shan’t be giving it to you.”
Almost always. Steele’s smile faded and he considered the closed door with renewed respect. If the occupant was aware of the minuscule chance that she might not die, she was also probably aware that temporary exposure to an invalid did not necessarily—or even usually—result in the infection of the caretaker. And yet Mrs. Halton still valued a stranger’s life over any concern for her own.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” he said calmly.
“Try me.”
Her voice didn’t sound grandmotherly. But then, they were on opposite sides of a wall. He needed to put paid to this farce. She would realize soon enough that even real weapons were no deterrent. Her empty threats were laughable.
“If you wished for me to die, you’d have no objection to me entering a sick chamber.”
“Perhaps I simply wish for you to die quickly,” came the cheeky response.
He blinked and then bit back a silent laugh. How long had it been since last he’d been threatened to his face? Years. Not since becoming Blackheart. No one had dared to challenge him. Until today.
“Please open the door. I’m coming inside.”
“I’m busy adding extra powder to my pistol to make certain the first ball takes you down if you come near my door.”
“Most pistols only have one ball, Mrs. Halton. If you miss, you won’t even have time to reload it. Besides, we both know you haven’t—” Steele paused at the familiar sound of a ramrod forcing a patched ball down a metallic chamber. “You have a pistol?”
“You really should consider leaving before I’ve finished loading it. Oh, bother…I’ve finished. A smart man would take his leave.”
Steele stepped away from the window in case the dear old bat was mad enough to shoot him.
He ran his hands down his coat. He, too, had a pistol. And, no, he would not be drawing it. He had something even more powerful.
Letters.
“Stopped by the postmaster on my way to your cottage,” he said conversationally. “Seems to have forgotten to drop off a couple of items. First letter is from a…” He squinted at the spidery script. “Can’t rightly say. ‘Mayer,’ perhaps?”
“My father?” The voice on the other side of the wall sounded tiny and shocked. “What does it say?”
“The second one was franked by the Earl of Carlisle but seems to be from a Miss Grace Halton. Relation of yours, is it?”
“My daughter,” Mrs. Halton breathed, her voice so quiet and so close that Steele could imagine her pressing up against the wall to be closer to the letter. “Read it to me.”
He shoved them back into his coat pocket as noisily as possible. “Let me in, and I will.”
“Blackguard,” she hissed.
He smiled. “You have no idea.”
Silence reigned for a scant moment before the soft sound of a tumbler indicated the front lock had been disengaged.
The door did not swing open.
Steele strode up and let himself in, just as the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky.
The tiny cottage consisted of very few rooms—all of which were visible from the vantage point of the front door. No candles were lit and no fire burned in the grate, but enough natural light filtered in through the windows to illuminate the musty, but surprisingly clean interior.
The furnishings were shabby and worn, but otherwise spotless. The dishes were clean. The beds were made. The woman aiming a triple-barrel flintlock turnover pistol toward Steele’s midsection was bathed and neat.
And not a day older than Steele himself.
Where his own beard was starting to appear more salt and pepper these days, Mrs. Halton’s long black hair cascaded down her back with nary a hint of gray. Dark eyelashes framed wide green eyes. He swallowed and tried not to stare. She was beautiful. Porcelain skin. Rosy lips.
The lady didn’t look sick. She didn’t even look like the right person.
He narrowed his eyes. “How can you possibly be the mother of a grown woman? Or…acquainted with the Earl of Carlisle?”
“Read me the letter, and perhaps we’ll both find out.” She gestured at him with the pistol. “Better yet, leave my correspondence on the table, and see your way out.”
“Why don’t you put that thing down before you lose a hand? Multi-cylinder pistols have been known to explode rather than eject their ammunition. Yours looks like it’s twenty years old.”
“It is. I bought it after my husband was killed and taught myself to shoot it. Don’t worry, it won’t misfire. I clean it every night.”
The increase in Steele’s heart rate had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the confident woman in front of him. Owning a gun had made her interesting to him. Being willing to use it had made her even more so. Now that he saw it for himself and realized not only was it three-barreled firepower instead of a lady’s simple muff pistol, but that she also knew how to take care of it…and herself… He was very, very interested.
He held out his palm. “Give me the gun.”
“Why would I do so, when I’ve the upper hand?” She succeeded quite admirably with sending an imperious glare down her nose until a sudden violent cough wracked her thin shoulders. She hid her face behind her elbow until the onslaught passed.
Steele backed up a step without even realizing it, unable to tamp a frisson of remembered terror from sliding down his spine. As soon as she was done coughing, he stepped forward and lowered his voice. “Give me the pistol now, or I’ll wait until your next coughing fit and take it from you.”
Green eyes flashing in silent fury, she slid the flint out of the pistol’s jaws and slapped the disarmed weapon into his upturned hand. “Give me the letters.”
“In a moment.” He helped himself to the larger of two uncomfortable-looking chairs. “How long have you had consumption?”
“I started coughing about six months ago.” She sank into the chair opposite him as if she no longer had the ability to stand.
He couldn’t help but remember watching his parents’ eventual decline into death. How angry he had felt. How helpless. But at least they hadn’t been alone. He softened his voice. “How did you know it was consumption?”
“A traveling surgeon told me in November. There had been other cases nearby, and when he learned I’d been sick for three months… He just knew.”
Steele frowned. “He knew, or he examined you?”
“Of course he examined me. From a safe distance. I was already bedridden. Even now, I can’t keep my feet for more than a quarter hour at a time without losing my breath. Once he told me he suspected consumption, I sent my daughter as far away as I could. May I please read her letter?”
“In a moment.” He held up a finger at her glare. “I’m not being cruel. We both know you’ll stop listening to me the moment I hand over the post. I’m trying to understand the timing. When your daughter left, she didn’t know your diagnosis?”
Mrs. Halton shook her head. “If I’d told her, she would never have left. And I couldn’t have her death on my conscience.”
“How did you get her to leave? Triple-barrel turnover pistol, I presume?”
She smiled sadly. “I lied. Oldest trick there is. I told her there was a miracle cure we didn’t have enough money for, and that if she went to England to find her grandparents, perhaps they would give the money to her. If not outright, then as a dowry.”
“And you’ve been wasting away ever since? How are you managing, with no servants and no food?”
“I have a patch of vegetables behind the cottage, between the fruit trees. It takes me all day to tend what a farmer might in a mere hour, but I’ve nothing else to do with my time, other than wait to die. And count the raindrops every time the roof leaks.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 66
