“We?”
“I’m guessing a gent like you’d pay extra for a little help?”
“You guessed right.”
The boy glanced at Blackstone’s missing hand. “I can take that package up. Add it to my bag.”
He handed over the package, praying the pistols had stayed dry enough, and started up.
Although this time he was confident he looked the part of a common sailor, he hadn’t counted on coming aboard drenched. They did the best they could to dry off, and he redonned the coat and boots the mayor had cleverly thought to keep out of the water. It would have to do. He kept his eyes down and they began to walk, passing holds filled with bolts of fabric. They needed to figure out where Billy would be. Probably he was being held near the crew’s quarters, so he could be watched.
And Emily? The mayor had seen a lady being taken aboard, but he had no idea if it was her. Le Cafard could have taken her anywhere. But Billy was on this ship. Once he got Billy, he wouldn’t be working alone. And he would have finished the task to which Emily had dedicated the last several years of her life. After that, if need be, he’d spend the rest of his miserable existence searching until he found her.
“What are we looking for?” the boy whispered.
“A lady and a man. The man is African.” The boy wasn’t startled. He would be accustomed to seeing Africans—free and slave—in this port city. “We need to search the cabins, somehow.”
“The man in charge here, what’s his name?” the boy asked. “He arrived suddenly a few days ago, without warning.”
“Manning.”
The boy shrugged. “Whoever he is, they’re all afraid of him.” Beckoning Blackstone, he took off down the deck, heedless of the need for stealth. Blackstone had just opened his mouth to rein him in when they came upon a pair of sailors leaning against a railing, smoking. The men registered only mild interest—and, to Blackstone’s relief, no suspicion—at the sight of them.
“We’ve a package for the lady,” said the mayor.
Blackstone swallowed a curse as the larger of the two men pushed away from the railing.
“Oh, you do, do you, brat?”
Damn. He couldn’t afford to waste his fire on these men—or to risk drawing the attention that would inevitably follow.
The boy nodded at the oilcloth-wrapped package he held and jerked his thumb toward Blackstone. “Manning sent him.”
At the name of their employer, the men stood a little straighter and exchanged a glance. The younger of the two snubbed out his cheroot on the railing and craned his neck to see the pier. “Manning’s back? I thought he’d gone back to London.”
“He wants to make one final inspection,” Blackstone said, picking up the story. “He’ll be here soon. I’m to deliver this to the lady in the meantime.” At that, the other man threw his lit cheroot overboard.
The mayor held the package out. “You wanna give it to her?” He tried to give the package to the men, and Blackstone prayed they would not call the boy’s bluff.
The larger man nodded at nearby hatch. “Two decks down, last cabin on the left.”
The mayor was off—scrambling down the hatch still holding the package—before the sailor had finished the sentence. Blackstone descended at a more sedate pace—no need to alarm them unnecessarily. But once his feet hit the ground two decks down, he began to run. “Wait!” he whispered as he caught up with the boy. “If the man they call Talbot is in there, he’ll be armed.”
“And so are we, right?” The boy grinned.
“So am I,” said Blackstone, taking the package back. As much as the mayor had proven himself invaluable, he couldn’t put a child directly in harm’s way. Even he wasn’t that craven.
“Hey!” the boy protested when Blackstone slipped one pistol into his boot and another into his waistband. “You can’t fire those both at once without two hands.”
Blackstone silenced him with a look, but the reprieve was only momentary. The boy made one last stand. “I thought you were the sort of gent who would pay extra—”
“I am the sort of gent who will pay you beyond your wildest dreams to stand outside this door—outside—and alert me if anyone comes.” When the boy started to protest, Blackstone lifted his eyebrows until the lad kicked the wooden floor and muttered a grudging assent.
Blackstone studied the door. It was the only way in. If he was lucky, he’d find Le Cafard already gone and this would be easy. If he was unlucky, his only hope was surprise.
Another hinge moment—he was about to open the door and everything would change.
He’d faced dozens of these moments in his career. Would all his work come to nothing? It was the question he always asked himself, but it was no longer the right one. Here, now, it fell away in favor of another, infinitely more frightening question: would all his life come to nothing?
With a great, guttural war cry, he retracted his leg and kicked down the door.
And his heart sank.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The horrifying tableau was so carefully composed it could have been a painting. Le Cafard held a blade to Emily’s throat. They looked almost posed, as if they had been waiting for him. He’d often thought of Emily as a muse, come to life from brushstrokes on canvas. This image was equally indelible. She did not struggle as those deep blue eyes locked on his. They seemed to say a thousand things he fought to untangle. He saw apology there, and vehemently shook his head, for none of this was her fault. Regret, fear, anguish—the longer he looked, the more resolute he became that he would banish those ghosts or die trying.
“Ah! Bonjour, monsieur!”
Blackstone had allowed himself to hope that the spy would prize his own freedom above all, scurrying off once more, an insect blending into the dirty, chaotic docks. He had come to peace with the idea of giving up the fight, but he could see that his enemy had not. Hatred glittered in the man’s eyes—pure, unadulterated hatred.
Blackstone used his peripheral vision to assess the scene. They were not alone in the cramped room. Billy sat in one corner, a few feet away, hands bound behind him and legs tied together. Like Emily, he was silent, and like her, his eyes reflected a heart-wrenching mixture of anger, pain, and regret.
It took Le Cafard’s sneering interruption for Blackstone to realize that though he’d meant only to glance at Billy, he’d been drawn in, caught openly staring.
“Is he worth it?” the spy jeered.
Blackstone’s attention shot back to Emily, to the spot on her beautiful neck where the bastard’s blade rested. Le Cafard held her as a shield, her body flush against his own, and he rested his face against hers, his rough whiskers an affront to her pale, smooth skin. She didn’t wince overtly, but Blackstone sensed her emotional recoil.
“Your little doxy here seems to think so. It positively boggles the mind.”
Blackstone took a small step forward, skin prickling.
“If you make another move, I will kill her.”
He couldn’t help it. The lunge that followed was involuntary, and echoed by Billy, who struggled forward, even in his seated position.
“I will kill her!” This time Emily flinched as the blade nicked her skin. “Step back!”
Blackstone obeyed, feeling the knife in his own gut, twisting hard and deep. Le Cafard had control. There was no way Blackstone could reach for his gun without the man reacting. Even if he could, it would be impossible to ensure he’d hit the Frenchman and not Emily.
He raised his hands. “It’s me you want. Let her go. Let both of them go.” Billy cleared his throat as Blackstone spoke, drawing his attention. His heart jumped, buoyed by a sudden, violent wave of hope. Billy had his body angled slightly, turning just enough so that Blackstone could see his back. His hands were clasped behind him, but they were no longer tied together. One of them held a splinter of wood that he must have been using as a saw, because the rope that had bound his wrists now hung in ragged tatters. From his angle, Billy might be able to shoot Le Ca
fard in the legs without endangering Emily.
Blackstone made a show of backing up, arms still held high, but he listed a few steps toward Billy as he did so. “How did you know about me?” he asked, hoping to distract the spy.
“A happy coincidence. Imagine my delight when you started sniffing around my father-in-law.”
“But how did you know I was anything other than a run-of-the-mill English aristocrat?”
“You will no doubt remember your recent sojourn in Paris.” He grinned. “I was so sorry to have missed your visit. One of my men—one of the ones who made sure your stay was…exciting—works as a sailor for Manning now. My people are everywhere. It was easy for him to identify you.” Letting loose a cackle, he shrugged theatrically. “After that, I didn’t even have to do anything. You invited me to your lovely home. Which I proceeded to turn upside down.”
“You didn’t find anything.”
“That’s right. Clareford was clean. I should have killed you then. I knew you were getting close. But, oh, the prospect of using your cove to make my crossings—right under your nose! It was too delicious to imagine you the unwitting agent of your country’s demise.”
“It’s always been about us, hasn’t it?” As he spoke, Blackstone extended his leg toward Billy. “Let them go, and you win.”
“Ah, ma douce ennemie,” Le Cafard said, almost crooning. “So long we have hated each other. So long I have dreamed of this moment, the moment I break you.”
“It’s here,” Blackstone whispered, as an eerie calm washed over him. “Let them go, and your moment is here.”
“Ah, but there’s where you’re wrong. I always imagined the end being the day I killed you. But that was before her.” Le Cafard turned his eyes to Emily for a moment, looking at her almost adoringly. Blackstone seized the chance to capture Billy’s attention. Jerking his head down at his boot, he lifted his leg a few inches off the ground.
“Now that I know about her, I see I was wrong. The end isn’t when I kill you. No, that’s too easy, too clean. The end is when I utterly annihilate you—when I unman you. I was going to send her off to the wilds of America and enjoy watching you lose your mind slowly. But now that you’re here, and we’re at, shall we say, an impasse, I think the answer is to compromise. I’ll kill her, and you’ll watch her die.”
“You’re forgetting the inconvenient fact that if you kill her, I’ll kill you,” Blackstone said, trying to draw Le Cafard’s attention away from Billy as he felt the pistol being slid from his boot. “A savvier man would bargain her life in exchange for his freedom.”
“Yes, but alas, we French are tragically attracted to beauty. And the beauty of seeing you ruined, if only for a breath, is too compelling. Imagine it, my friend. Imagine that exquisite moment. I will kill her, and in the instant that follows, before our lifeless bodies fall, united in death as we have been in life, I will see you break. And I will win.”
The crack of the pistol came then, the stark punctuation to Le Cafard’s declaration. Exactly as Blackstone had hoped, Billy hit the spy in the foot. Blackstone scrambled for the gun in his waistband, and Emily, not missing a beat, grabbed the knife out of Le Cafard’s hand and plunged it into his shoulder as he crumpled to the ground.
“Get away from him,” he shouted, curling his finger on the trigger. He had but one shot, and he planned to use it well.
“Wait! You don’t have to shoot him,” she said, eyes filling with tears.
Those eyes. It was as if they had the power to let the air out of him. He heard it hissing out of his lungs, and a strange, heavy sense of relief flooded his limbs. A years-long grudge was melting away, leaving him weak from the effort of having carried it for so long.
“Revenge is not the same as freedom,” she whispered.
He looked down at his hands, his attention drawn by someone tugging at them. A chocolate-colored hand nudged the gun out of his grip. He let it go without protest. Billy aimed the gun at Le Cafard’s head. Then he turned back to Blackstone and nodded. He seemed to be reassuring him, demonstrating that he would stand guard.
“Revenge is not the same as freedom,” he said, echoing Emily’s words, letting the pure, elemental truth of them sink in.
“Yes,” she said. “We both needed to learn that, didn’t we?”
He opened his arms and she stepped into them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emily wondered if there were ever a circumstance in which it was permissible for a lady to propose marriage to a gentleman. If so, it probably wasn’t when the gentleman in question was forcing an enemy of the Crown off a ship with the help of an about-to-be-illegally-transported slave.
Perhaps also not when he was arranging surgical care for his mortal enemy and ensuring that charges were laid by the local authorities. Or when he was overseeing the incarceration of one’s own long-time enemy and ex-guardian.
“Do you want to see Manning?” Eric asked that evening, after the day’s chaos had subsided. He spoke to both Billy and Emily as they dined in a private parlor back at the inn. “I can take you if you do.”
Emily glanced at Billy, whose face betrayed nothing. “Is he very upset?”
The earl did not mince words. “Yes.”
“The truth is, I do not want to see him, but I’m not sure that’s the correct choice. I don’t want to see him because I’m afraid. It seems weak not to face him.”
“No,” said Billy. “Being afraid isn’t weak. Letting your fear paralyze you is—and you never did that. My God, you risked everything going up against him for me.”
She’d expected to feel more triumphant once Manning was in custody. Instead, there was just this anguished indecisiveness. She hated that she still feared him.
“Revenge is not the same as freedom,” Eric said softly. “A wise woman taught me that. There’s no need to see him. Perhaps the strong thing is merely to walk away.” He turned to Billy, and then back to Emily. “Leave him behind and walk toward freedom.”
Though they were sitting, Eric extended his hand, as if he were inviting her to take it and actually walk away. Tears prickling, Emily nodded.
“Though perhaps walk is not the right word,” he said, quirking a smile. “Tomorrow we shall begin a long, tedious, bumpy carriage ride toward freedom.”
A two-day journey, then. That would seem the perfect opportunity for a lady to propose marriage to a gentleman. But the truth was, once they were underway, she lost her nerve. Eric had been so kind at the inn, showing her that she needn’t confront Mr. Manning. It reminded her how much care he had always taken with her. And why she’d refused his suit. He’d proposed because he felt responsible for her. To make him feel responsible forever was too much to ask, especially given her sense that he’d found a measure of freedom of his own back on that boat. She couldn’t be the one to make him give it up.
Besides, he’d been utterly proper at every turn, bowing when greeting her or taking his leave. Conducting himself with an air of formality, he addressed her as Miss Mirren and Billy as Mr. Smith.
Billy. Every time she looked at him she was flooded with a complicated mixture of love, relief, and sorrow. To Emily’s surprise, Billy and Eric developed an almost instant camaraderie. The silent brand of communication that had carried them through the confrontation with Le Cafard continued that day as the men worked together to restrain the spy and locate Manning. By the time they had all settled into the earl’s carriage for the journey to London, everyone was speaking quite openly, if formally. Billy and Emily filled each other in on their years apart. They spoke of abolitionist politics and the wars.
Life, it seemed, was going to work out exactly as she had always hoped. Manning was out of business, and she had Billy back. Even Eric, she suspected, would be able to lay down some of his burdens now that Le Cafard had finally been captured.
Happy ever after for everyone.
Then why did she feel like her heart was breaking?
…
Blackstone was not surpr
ised when, after he’d retired to his room at the posting inn the first night on the trip back to London, he answered a knock on his door to find Mr. Smith standing in the corridor.
Billy Smith was proving to be a most remarkable man. How could someone who had been so grossly mistreated for so long have such a friendly, open manner? It boggled the mind. Still, he’d wondered when he was going to be called to account. Silently, he motioned the man in.
Mr. Smith stepped into the room’s small sitting area and fingered the book Blackstone had left on the side table—he was still working his way through Clarkson. “Interesting choice.”
“You’ve read it?” Blackstone feared he had not adequately hidden his surprise.
“She taught me, when we were young.” After a beat, Mr. Smith cracked a smile.
“I don’t doubt it.” Blackstone smiled in return. “Shall I send downstairs for a drink?”
His visitor’s smile disappeared. “I’d rather get straight to the point.”
“By all means.”
“I am, of course, exceedingly grateful for all you’ve done—both for me and for Emily. I want to make that clear. I haven’t thanked you properly.”
Blackstone made a dismissive gesture.
“But if you do anything to hurt her, I will kill you.” Blackstone looked up sharply. “And there won’t be any of this pistols at dawn nonsense. I’m not a gentleman. I’ll just kill you in your sleep.”
Then, as if he hadn’t just issued a chilling death threat, Mr. Smith stood. “If I’ve made myself clear, I’ll take my leave.”
Blackstone nodded—what else was there to do? “You’ve made yourself abundantly clear.”
…
Her first thought was that Manning had found her. As Emily struggled awake, tangling in her bedclothes, she tried to scream, but the hand that clamped over her mouth prevented it.
“It’s me. It’s only me.”
Relief flooded through her, followed by a sharp stab of desire. He was as arresting as ever, moonlight gilding the planes of this face. It sharpened, rather than softened them, but the effect made it impossible to look away. As he stood amidst her familiar things, she could almost pretend he belonged here, that he belonged to her.
The Miss Mirren Mission Page 27
