The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  “Home soon,” he whispered in her ear. “Terra firma. A big bed. Clean sheets. Unlimited fresh bathing water . . .”

  She buried her head against his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her expression.

  When she pushed free, she looked behind and frowned.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She was so used to guarding secrets that she almost lied.

  “I don’t think I left the chest like that, with that bit of cloth sticking out.” She knew she hadn’t. She was tidy by nature.

  He turned to look. “You think someone has been in here? Stolen something?”

  She raised the lid. The cloth was part of a pair of Simon’s drawers. She grabbed for the small box in which she kept her bits of jewelry and Simon’s precious gifts, but everything was there. She checked her purse, but if any of the coins were missing, it could be only few. Simon kept his money in his valise.

  “I’m sure someone has interfered with this chest,” she said.

  She could tell he didn’t believe her, but he said, “Let’s see, then.”

  Together they took out everything—clothes, her box of medical supplies, the portfolio of Jane’s drawings, some books and other small items—but when they’d finished, nothing was found missing.

  “There, see,” he said.

  “Yes.” But she added, “You didn’t disturb things earlier?”

  “I haven’t opened it all day.”

  The thought was so horrible Jancy didn’t want to put it into words. “Simon, what if someone was searching for your documents? What if one of the passengers is a colleague of McArthur’s?”

  He laughed, and she was ready to have her fears dismissed, but she had to add, “It would have been easy for someone to find out we were booked on the Eweretta.”

  “True. But, my love, only consider. The Dacres and the Ransome-Browns booked months ago.”

  “As did you.”

  “As did I,” he agreed more soberly. “But still, who among us could it be?”

  “I don’t know, but”—she lowered her voice—“whoever searched this cabin could also be looking for a way to kill you.”

  He put comforting hands on her shoulders. “Jancy, why now? We’ve been at sea for weeks, and I’m sure there have been times when I could have easily been pushed overboard.”

  “Don’t! Oh, Lord, I thought you were safe.”

  “I am. Stop this. What has actually happened? One of us didn’t tuck everything away tidily.”

  She pulled free of his hands. “I was in the chest only an hour ago to get my muff, and I wouldn’t have left it like that. I wouldn’t. Perhaps no one intends murder, but if someone wants to be rid of incriminating documents, this could be their last chance. The thief could hope we’d leave the ship none the wiser.”

  He inhaled. “Especially if he took only some. Very well, to be safe, I’d better alert Hal. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  When he’d gone, Jancy shivered. She was certain the chest had been disturbed. The rest might be a flight of fancy, but it didn’t feel like it. It was probably her disordered mind, but now she felt the presence on board of someone who wished Simon ill.

  She could bear, just, to set Simon free and never see him again. She could not bear to lose him to death.

  In turning out their chest, Jancy had come across the silk bag that held her cards—the crudely printed ones Sadie Haskett had given her. She’d slipped the bag past Simon’s attention, but now she took out the pack. It was wrong to keep asking the cards the same question, but this was a new one. She needed to know about any immediate danger to Simon.

  Praying he wouldn’t come back soon, she shuffled, asking about his safety, and then dealt a simple spread. She exhaled with relief. The cards were very similar to last time with even less hint of disaster. And yet there was something in them. Something dark that she couldn’t quite grasp. A twisted strand of good and evil. A two-sided person? Or two closely joined people?

  The Dacres? She didn’t want to think that. She didn’t want to think that any of their fellow passengers was not what he or she seemed. She gathered the deck, wanting to ask again, but the cards could easily say something worse. There’d been no card of truly bad omen there.

  She shuffled, wanting to ask about her own future, but put the cards back in their pouch and tucked them away in the chest. As Hal had said, what point in knowing about torture ahead of time?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Simon had found Kirkby setting the table and all the passengers elsewhere, probably tidying themselves before dinner. He knocked on the door of Hal’s room, and Oglethorpe opened it. “The major’s still on deck, sir.”

  Aware of Kirkby, Simon asked, “Where’s Treadwell?”

  “On deck, too, sir.”

  Simon nodded. “Take care.”

  Oglethorpe raised a brow and nodded in return.

  Simon turned away, trying to remember if everyone had been on deck in the past few hours.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Kirkby asked.

  “Oh, quite. Looking forward to reaching land.”

  “Aye, sir, but remember, the winds in the Channel are chancy as a lady. There’s many a ship sighted the Lizard and took weeks to reach port.”

  “No reflection on the comforts of the Eweretta, but I pray we do better.” He supposed Kirkby was a suspect. He certainly had access to the cabins. Did he have Canadian connections?

  “What will you do when the ship docks in London? Is your home there?”

  “Heavens, sir, my home’s the Eweretta!”

  “No thought of settling in the New World?”

  The man’s expression implied Simon had lost his senses. “I’ve been at sea for nigh on forty years, sir. Started as a lad, and when I wasn’t up to hauling lines anymore, I found this fine job.”

  Simon decided that the steward would have to be an actor brilliant enough for Drury Lane to be lying. He might have kept an eye on comings and goings, however.

  “It’s a marvel how you manage with so little space,” Simon said. “Must make it a bit easier when everyone goes on deck, as recently.”

  “It does, sir, especially when I’m trying to set up a meal.”

  “Even Reverend Shore was out, I believe.”

  The steward gave him a grin. “He’s run out of paper, sir.”

  “Ah.” Had the clergyman become so desperate that he’d rummaged through everyone’s possessions in search of more? Don’t be an idiot, Simon.

  “The good gentleman’s been on the deck all afternoon,” Kirkby said. “On the bench, swathed in a fur rug. It’ll do him good, if you ask me. Excuse me, sir.”

  Kirkby slipped away, presumably for more mealtime necessities.

  But that settled that. Unless Kirkby and Shore were conspirators, the clergyman was in the clear.

  The whole thing was probably nonsense. Anyone could leave a bit of cloth sticking out of a chest, but he trusted Jancy’s certainty about that detail, and she was right—she was neat by nature. With land, home, and a bed in Plymouth’s finest inn waiting, he wasn’t going to tolerate mischief now.

  A hot bath, perhaps even shared. A big bed, fresh sheets, a lively fire, and endless time to explore and delight his bride. A blast of cold air was definitely needed, so he went on deck. Hal was chatting to Treadwell. Simon went over and told them what was going on.

  “You take this seriously?” Hal asked.

  “I’m not sure, but it won’t hurt to be especially careful over the next few days. If someone did search our cabin, they didn’t find the papers. Yours is the next obvious spot.”

  “And possibly Norton’s.”

  Simon nodded. “But they can search there with my blessing.”

  Treadwell said, “I’ll return, sirs, and alert Oglethorpe. Don’t worry. We never leave the place unguarded.”

  Simon watched the valet cross the deck. He’s a good man and a dab hand with clothing. I’m tempted to bribe him away from you.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  Simon laughed, tension easing. Any danger had to be product of Jancy’s fretting mind, but she’d be fine once they reached land.

  “If someone was in your chest,” Hal said, “it could be a petty thief. Kirkby, for example.”

  “He wouldn’t keep his job for long if the passengers began to notice things missing, and he loves the Eweretta. Besides, nothing was missing and there were coins there.” Simon shook his head. “It has to be nothing.”

  “But your gut doesn’t agree. How reliable is it?”

  “My gut?” Simon met his eyes. “Very.”

  “Well, then. Scratch the colonel and his lady. It’s impossible to imagine. They’ve only been in Canada for three years. They’re delighted to be returning to England and show no interest in Upper Canada land or politics.”

  “And Shore is retiring,” Simon said.

  “He might still own property in Canada.”

  “But he’s old, frail, and wrapped up in his memoirs. Which leaves the Dacres and the crew.”

  “Not the general crew,” Hal pointed out. “Someone would have noticed a common sailor sneaking into the cuddy.”

  “One of the officers?”

  “Slightly more possible, but I’ve become acquainted with them. None of them appears to have any interest in Canada beyond some favorite haunts in Montreal.”

  “Dacre, then? I can’t believe it.” But then he remembered his suspicion of a code and thought, Acre, land. . . .

  “He’s very ambitious,” Hal said, “and spent some time in Upper Canada a few years back.”

  Simon looked out to sea. “Damn and blast.”

  He returned to the cuddy wondering whether to tell Jancy that there might be something to her suspicions and that the villain was probably Dacre. He didn’t want to distress her and she seemed to like the couple. He found the man a bit boisterous, but he wouldn’t have thought there any vice in him. Ambition, however, was a harsh spur.

  Kirkby rang the bell, which seemed a summons to honesty. It would be wrong to keep things from her, so he went into the cabin and told her all.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “About the code?”

  “No, but there’s definitely something odd about the phrasing of some of McArthur’s papers.”

  She grimaced. “I can’t believe it. Especially not of Rebecca.”

  “He’d never involve her, love.”

  “I suppose not, but I hate this.”

  “We’re leaving at Plymouth and they’re carrying on to London. That’ll be the end of it.”

  Her eyes locked with his. “It could make him desperate.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “What will you do when we land? Alert someone to his likely guilt?”

  Simon shook his head. “No, I’ll leave it in the hands of fate. As long as he doesn’t trouble me or mine again.”

  “Yet you shot McArthur.”

  Simon touched the pistol ball. He’d wondered what she’d made of that. “Yes, and I don’t know if it was right. I was angry, furious. But also, I thought I might die. I didn’t want to leave him in the same world as you.”

  She came to him and kissed him. “Thank you.”

  “It was very Machiavellian. Never leave a defeated enemy alive.”

  “I think I approve of that.” She turned to the mirror to tidy her hair and Simon settled to enjoy watching her. Her body shifted as she pulled out and then pushed in some hairpins. Her raised arms tightened her gown over her breasts—breasts that moved in ways that sternly corseted ones didn’t.

  He supposed she’d soon be wearing a corset, and he did look forward to seeing her in fashionable finery. But perhaps she’d keep her bodices for country wear. Decorated, though. She was clever with her needle. If he asked nicely, he was sure she’d ornament her plain undergarments in delightful ways.

  He couldn’t wait. For their first night ashore, but also for their life. Introducing her to his family at Brideswell. To his friends. Seeing her relax and lose her fears among the Rogues. Setting up their home. A London house, probably, where they could host small, informal parties. Nothing too daunting for her, and he certainly didn’t want a grand establishment.

  Despite another ring of the bell, he stepped forward to cradle her breasts and kiss the nape of her neck, where wisps of golden hair coiled against her creamy skin. He trailed his lips down the fine bones of her upper spine, feeling her shudder and her nipples peak.

  She leaned back against him. He thought he heard her sigh. “We must go.”

  The bell jangled again.

  “We could always eat each other.”

  She chuckled as if it were entirely a joke and eased away to tidy things into their chest. Yes, she was neat by nature. Before closing the lid, she carefully arranged the drawstring of a petticoat into an S.

  “There. If anyone pokes around again, we’ll know.”

  “Clever, but whomever it is won’t return here. They have to know the papers are elsewhere.”

  “They’re truly safe in Hal’s cabin?”

  “Our thief would have to kill Oglethorpe and Treadwell to get to them. I certainly wouldn’t want to try. So yes. They’re safe.”

  He saw in her eyes that she still worried about his safety.

  “And I’ll be careful, too,” he said. “I promise.”

  They went to bed that night with the hope of landing the next day but woke before dawn to the howling of a storm. Jancy fought her way out of bed and, clinging to one of the posts, looked out of the porthole.

  Water hurled at it, making her flinch back with a cry. Then she was tossed farther back, saw raging sky, and was sure the ship was turning upside down. It flung her forward again and Simon grabbed her, holding her and the post close. “You’d be safer in bed!” he cried over the shrieking, cracking pandemonium. “I could tie you there.”

  “Mind your ribs!” she yelled back at him. “We have to dress.”

  “Why?”

  “If we have to abandon ship, I’m not doing it in my nightgown!”

  Jancy grabbed her clothes and lay on the bed to put them on, where the raised side helped keep her safe. But her hands were almost paralyzed with terror. In the ocean a sound ship could ride out a storm, but here, with England to one side and France on the other and the Channel Islands scattered like traps, a storm had wrecked many a ship.

  When they were both dressed, they lurched into the cubby, going from handhold to handhold. They found the colonel, Dacre, and Hal already there, in a room as cold and dark as their cabin, for stove and candles were too dangerous in such a storm. The painted floor already sloshed with an inch of water.

  “I’m going to pin up my skirts,” Jancy called to Simon and fought her way back to the cabin. She took a moment, clutching a post, to gather herself. They couldn’t founder. Not so close to the end. But if their enemy wanted Simon dead, this could give him a chance. She found her pins and managed to kirtle up her skirts. She added her spencer, her plain shawl, and gloves, and then struggled with the door to get back into the cuddy.

  Simon pulled her down into a seat at the table. As the table was fixed to the floor, it was probably the safest spot. He passed his tankard to her.

  “Grog.”

  Jancy managed a mouthful of the rum and water mix without getting it all over herself and choked. It was mostly rum.

  “Nice fresh water, at least,” Kirkby said, bringing her some of her own. “That’s the good thing about rain.”

  “Do you know where we are?” the colonel demanded. “With relation to shore, I mean.”

  “Can’t say, sir. We’ll see come light.”

  “Might be too damned late,” the colonel growled.

  Jancy wondered what he thought anyone could do. Abandon ship, she supposed. But to take to the boats in such a storm felt as good as suicide.

  She was shaking with fear and ashamed of it. When Simon put an arm around her and pulled her against him, she looked into his e
yes and said, “I do love you, Simon.” If they died, she wanted that clear.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t sound as if you think this is doom.”

  Oglethorpe joined Hal for a quiet word and then left the cubby for the deck, managing to do it without letting in much water.

  “He was a marine,” Hal said to the room in general. “Used to ships. He’ll see what’s happening.”

  Colonel Ransome-Brown nodded. “Stout fellow.”

  Mrs. Ransome-Brown appeared in the doorway of her stateroom, her robe open over her nightgown, her hair hidden by a nightcap. She looked like any woman, and distraught. “Henry. The children?”

  He went instantly to her. “My love, if necessary, I’m sure every man aboard will make their safety a prime concern.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, and Jancy was touched by the tender moment. She’d thought theirs an arid marriage. What a one she was for making harsh judgments from appearances—she who should know better.

  Kirkby staggered out of his quarters again, this time with a high-sided tray loaded with slices of bread well covered with jam.

  “All I can manage, ladies and gentlemen, but you’ll need food to deal with the cold, so eat up.”

  They did. The bread was stale and they’d run out of butter days ago. The jam was still good, however, and it was nourishment.

  Oglethorpe returned, drenched. “Close in to England, but not too close, the sailors think. Stoddard knows his business. We’ll ride this out.”

  Jancy studied him, trying to decide how much was true, how much false reassurance. There was no way to tell.

  Simon rose. “I’m going to see.”

  Jancy grabbed him. “You’ll get half-drowned for no reason!”

  “I have dry clothing.”

  She could see from his brilliant eyes that he longed to be out in the storm, not cowering in here.

  He raised his brows at her. “You’re not going to be the sort of wife who wants to keep her husband in leading strings, are you?”

  She had to say, “No,” and watch him go. Only then did she remember that his life might be in danger from more than a storm.

  She looked around frantically. The colonel had gone with his wife. Dacre was here. Shore wasn’t, but he’d surely be in his bed. No danger, then—unless the threat came from one of the crew. Someone needed to be out there to protect Simon!