by Anne Gracie
“I don’t care about the cargo,” Freddy said in a cold voice. “It’s the captain I care about.”
“The captain? Why? What do you want with him?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
There was a short silence, then somebody coughed. They looked up to see the butler in the doorway holding a brandy decanter and two glasses. He looked a little shaken.
“Ah, the very thing,” Max said, giving Freddy a meaning look. “Thank you, Proule, that will be all.” Max took the decanter and poured a generous slosh into each glass. He waited until the man had left, then handed Freddy a glass.
They both drank, draining their glasses in one hit.
“You’d better explain,” Max said, refilling the glasses. “Why do you want to kill the captain of the Liverpool Lass?”
“Long story. Private matter,” Freddy told him. He had no intention of sharing Damaris’s story with anyone, not even his oldest friend. She hadn’t even told her sisters. “Just tell Bartlett to let me know the moment the Liverpool Lass docks. Sooner if he hears she’s on her way.”
Max gave him a thoughtful look, then went to the pile of correspondence. He sifted through it then pulled out a paper, which he checked, then he nodded. “I thought so. According to this, the Liverpool Lass docked in London”—he checked the date on the letter—“three days ago.”
“Three days ago?” Freddy swore and set down his glass with a snap. “I have to leave. At once. Make my apologies to Abby. Tell Damaris I was called away on urgent business—and for God’s sake don’t tell her what I told you. She has no idea and I don’t want her upset. Look after her for me. I’ll be back in a week or two. Can I borrow one of your horses?” Without waiting for an answer he headed for the door.
Max was after him in a flash. He grabbed him by the arm. “Just hold on a moment. You can’t just rush off like that, talking about killing a man with no explanation. What the devil’s going on?”
Freddy wrenched his arm out of Max’s grasp. “No time to explain, even if I were free to. I have to leave now! Just tell Damaris I had to leave on urgent business.”
“Tell her yourself,” Max said. “I’m coming with you.” He yanked on the bellpull.
“This is nothing to do with you!” Freddy was practically dancing with impatience. He needed to leave now! Ships only stayed in dock a few days, depending on their cargo and the sailing conditions. The Liverpool Lass could sail at any moment and that bastard would get away, free and clear, out of reach for another six months or more, damn him.
“If you’re planning to kill one of my captains, it is!” The door opened. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes and I have to go to London on urgent business,” he told the butler. “Tell my valet to pack a bag and order my curricle and team from the stables. We leave in half an hour.”
“We leave at once,” Freddy interrupted. “That swine could sail at any moment. And not the curricle—horses. We’ll ride across country. It’s quicker.”
“Very well, we leave in fifteen minutes. Ten, then,” he said, seeing Freddy about to argue. “And Proule,” he called as the butler hurried away, “where are the ladies?”
“Upstairs in the yellow sitting room, m’lord.”
“We don’t have time—” Freddy began.
“If you think I’m leaving without telling my wife the reason—a reason, at least”—Max amended—“for our unseemly departure, and without bidding her a proper good-bye, you’re very much mistaken. And you damned well owe Damaris an explanation too. Or were you hoping to avoid that? Never took you for a coward, Freddy.”
Freddy gritted his teeth. It wasn’t so much that he was a coward, but that Damaris was too damned perceptive. Not to mention argumentative. And stubborn. She’d try to wheedle the truth out of him and damned if he was going to give her the opportunity.
“All right, I’ll talk to her, but don’t for God’s sake tell her what we’re doing or why we’re going. Just say it’s urgent business. Urgent company business.”
Max gave him a hard look. “All right, but I’m going to want an explanation.”
Freddy nodded. “All right. But you must swear never to reveal it to a soul.”
• • •
“A fresh pot of tea, please, Proule,” Abby said as she and Damaris returned to the cozy little upstairs sitting room. “This is stone cold.” Proule took the tea tray out.
Abby plumped down into an overstuffed armchair in front of the fire. “My, what a whirlwind departure. What do you suppose this urgent business can be? Max didn’t seem the slightest bit discomposed when he glanced through the pile of letters last night. It must have been a message that just came in.” She passed Damaris a plate of pretty little iced cakes, filled with cream. “Cake?”
Damaris took one absently and placed it on her plate. Something was up. And she felt certain from the way Freddy had alternatively not met her gaze and later pointedly looked at her, as he assured her it might be urgent but it wasn’t really all that important, that something was wrong. Urgent but not important? What kind of a ridiculous statement was that?
And yet when she’d asked him he’d been all vague and said it was something to do with Max’s business. And that she mustn’t worry. He’d be back in a week or two. She must enjoy her time with Abby. They should go and look at her new cottage, see that all was progressing well. Not that she’d be living there now, of course. But it was still hers to do with what she wanted.
And then he’d kissed her—on the hand!—and rushed off.
And had ridden away on horseback. Horseback! All the way to London.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she told Abby, “but Freddy was certainly lying through his teeth.”
“Max was too,” Abby said. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but if you noticed it too . . .”
When Proule returned with a fresh pot of tea, Abby asked him, “Did Lord Davenham receive an urgent letter in the last hour or so?”
“No, m’lady.”
“Then what caused him to rush off like that?”
Proule assumed a blank expression. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, m’lady.”
Abby glanced at Damaris, her brows lifted in a silent question. Damaris nodded. The butler knew more than he was telling.
“I’m sure you would, Proule,” Abby said crisply. “So tell us what you know.”
The butler shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Damaris. “I apprehend it was Mr. Monkton-Coombes who had the urgent need to go to London, m’lady.”
Damaris frowned. “But why? Who would write to him here? I’d swear he wasn’t thinking of rushing off to London when we arrived.”
She looked at Abby, who shrugged. They both looked at Proule, who did his best to look ignorant instead of troubled and slightly guilty.
“What else do you know, Proule?” Abby said.
He sighed. “Well, m’lady, I did happen to overhear, just by accident, you understand—I was bringing in the brandy at the time—”
“Yes, of course. Just tell us, please.”
“I did happen to hear his lordship say . . .” He swallowed. “Something about Mr. Monkton-Coombes planning to kill someone.”
“Who?”
“One of his lordship’s sea-captains.”
Damaris froze. “Is the Liverpool Lass in port?”
Proule nodded. “That was the name I heard, miss. It was on the shipping reports that his lordship had been reading.”
“Oh, my God, so that’s it!” Damaris jumped up, knocking the little table beside her chair and overturning the cup of tea. It splashed her dress and dripped down on the carpet, unheeded. She started pacing anxiously. “I have to stop him. He’ll be killed. The fool, the mad fool!”
“I don’t understand,” Abby said. “Who is this captain? And why would Freddy want to kill him?”
“He’ll be kil
led,” Damaris muttered, wringing her hands frenziedly. “The captain is bigger, stronger and more cunning. And if he isn’t killed, if by some miracle he survives, he’ll be hanged for murder! I’ve got to stop him.” She looked at Abby. “I have to go after them! I have to stop this.”
Abby stood and caught Damaris’s restlessly twisting hands. “I haven’t the least idea what any of this is about,” she said calmly. “But if you’re sure we need to follow them, then of course we will. Proule, order our fastest traveling carriage and tell Higgins—he’s the coachman”—this to Abby—“it is of the utmost urgency. Tell my maid to pack only what we will need for the journey.”
“We won’t have time to stop at any inns,” Damaris said. “Only to change horses.”
Abby nodded. “The bare necessities. And some food and drink. We leave as soon as possible.”
“Sooner,” Damaris said. “And Proule,” she added as the butler hurried toward the door, “please ask the cook if she has any ginger. I’ll want all she has, a whole root if that’s possible.”
“Ginger?” Abby asked. “Whatever for?”
“Later,” Damaris said tersely.
• • •
The carriage swayed and bounced as they crossed Hounslow Heath. London lay a few hours away. They’d impressed on Higgins the urgency of speed and he’d pushed the horses to go as fast as they could. He’d even sent a lad ahead on horseback to arrange for a change of horses to be ready at each stopping point.
They’d made good time. But would it be enough?
Damaris clung to the leather straps hanging from the roof of the carriage and chewed grimly on slices of fresh ginger. It seemed to help; she hadn’t thrown up yet.
Over and over her thoughts churned as she fretted. Freddy was doing this for her, because of what she’d told him, because he was ridiculously gallant.
And because they were betrothed, he now felt responsible for defending her honor.
Her honor! What did her honor matter when his life was at stake?
It was all in the past anyway. What good would killing Captain Sloane do? Not that she believed for one moment Freddy would kill him. Captain Sloane was a powerful man and a cunning fighter; he’d fought pirates and won.
Freddy was elegant and funny and charming and he didn’t stand a chance. The fool. The mad fool.
“Don’t look so worried.” Abby leaned forward and put a hand on Damaris’s knee. “It will be all right. Have faith. Even if we don’t get there in time, my Max is with your Freddy and he won’t let anything terrible happen.”
Damaris hoped she was right, but she didn’t have the faith in Max’s infallibility that Abby had. Max was Abby’s hero, not Damaris’s.
She’d told the whole story to Abby . . . was it yesterday? They’d driven through the night but she hadn’t slept a wink and the whole journey was a blur. Abby had listened with compassion, and she hadn’t responded with pity or horror or even the faintest hint of reproach for keeping it a secret for so long. Instead she’d taken Damaris’s hands in a comforting hold and said simply, “You’re a brave girl, Damaris. And it’s all going to work out, don’t worry. You’ve survived so much, it’s your turn to be happy now.”
Life didn’t work like that, Damaris knew, but she felt comforted anyway. She was very grateful Abby had come with her.
“Max is a lucky man,” Damaris had told her.
Abby had smiled. “I’m the lucky one. Oh, Damaris, I never knew such happiness could exist.”
Damaris had tried to smile, but it must have come out a bit bleak, for Abby had said, “Oh, don’t look like that, love. You will find such happiness with your Freddy, I’m certain of it.”
Abby caught her eye now and smiled. “That ginger seems to be doing the trick.”
“It is.”
“I must say, Mr. Monkton-Coombes certainly seems to have changed for the better.” Abby was trying to lift her spirits. Again.
For her sake, Damaris tried to look more cheerful. Worrying fruitlessly over a situation that was out of her hands helped nobody. “For the better?”
“Well, when I first met him he was a rake with a known aversion to marriage, and here he is now, betrothed to you. That’s a sign of maturity, for a start—and he couldn’t have made a better choice.”
Damaris couldn’t help but smile. “You wouldn’t be a wee bit biased, by any chance?”
“Nonsense,” Abby said, her eyes dancing. “I’m becoming fonder of him by the minute. I’ve always thought him handsome and charming and very entertaining, but what you’ve told me has revealed depths in Mr. Monkton-Coombes I would never have suspected.” She sighed. “And riding ventre à terre to defend your honor is very romantic, you have to admit.”
Damaris didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. “It isn’t romantic. It’s insane.”
Neither Freddy nor Abby knew what Freddy would be up against if he tried to fight Captain Sloane. She prayed his ship had already sailed.
She didn’t care what happened to Captain Sloane. All she cared about was Freddy.
She should never have told him her story, never have agreed to a sham betrothal in the first place. And even having done so—because she could not regret the cottage, even if she ought to—she should never have let him talk her into making their betrothal real.
She should have stuck to her guns. She shouldn’t have explained to him why she was an unsuitable wife for him, and she sure as goodness should not have made love with him, no matter that it was the most wonderful experience of her life. She should have just done the honorable thing and told him no. And no. And no. Until he gave up.
But because she was selfish, because she wanted him, because she loved him, and because he offered her everything she’d ever dreamed of—except his heart—she’d gone along with his proposal. Greedily. Selfishly.
And now, never mind his heart, he was going to risk his life in some mad, gallant quest to restore her lost honor.
If he died, it would be all her fault.
She stared out of the coach window and sent up a prayer, no less intense or heartfelt for being silent. Just let him be safe, she prayed. Spare his life, don’t let him be killed or badly wounded—or hanged—and I will do the right thing. I will give him up; I’ll go back to Davenham and live in my little cottage and I promise, oh, I promise, I’ll never ask for anything again. Just let him be safe.
She closed her eyes, and an image of Captain Sloane came to her mind: big, tough and devious. Oh, God. Freddy didn’t stand a chance.
She clung to the leather strap, chewed doggedly on her gingerroot and prayed. Again.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Freddy and Max headed straight to the docks. They were dirty, unshaven, hungry and tired, but Freddy refused to waste a moment. They’d ridden through the night, making God only knew how many changes of horse.
They dismounted and he handed the reins to a sharp-faced little wharf rat and tossed him a coin. While Max told the urchin to take care of the horses and give them a drink and there’d be another tanner for him when they returned, Freddy scanned the docks. They teemed with men, stevedores and laborers, carrying all sorts of exotic goods. And above all the hubbub, dozens of masts, gently swaying. So many ships, dammit.
“Whereabouts?” Freddy asked.
Max shook his head. “Could be anywhere.”
“We’d best split up, then,” Freddy told him. “I’ll go this way; you go that.”
He started off but Max grabbed his arm. “All right, but when you find the ship come and get me. Don’t tackle him alone.”
“I want the bastard.”
Max grabbed his arm again. “I know, but he’s a tough bastard. Don’t fight him, Freddy, especially on his home territory. We ca
n have him arrested.”
Freddy shook off Max’s hold. “Arrested? He’s going to suffer for what he’s done. I want his blood.”
“He won’t fight like a gentleman,” Max warned. “He’ll fight hard and dirty.”
“Of course. He’s complete scum.”
They went their separate ways. Freddy ran from ship to ship, until finally he saw it: the Liverpool Lass. Its crew, if he recognized the signs, was in the final throes of preparation for departure on the next tide. He headed for the gangplank.
“I have business with Captain Sloane,” he said when a seaman stopped him.
The seaman gave Freddy an assessing glance that took in his muddy boots, stained buckskins and unshaven face, but Freddy’s accent and air of assurance must have tipped the balance, for he jerked his chin and stepped back to let Freddy pass. “Cap’n’s in his cabin,” he said and jerked his chin to indicate the direction.
Freddy found the man in a spacious cabin, bending over some papers spread out on a table. He looked up and scowled. “Who the devil are you?”
“My name doesn’t matter,” Freddy said, stepping into the cabin and closing the door behind him.
• • •
The coach pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “I don’t understand,” Damaris said. “We must be almost there. We’ve just come off the turnpike.” She pointed. “There’s Hyde Park, which means we’re now on Oxford Street, so why have we stopped?”
Abby shook her head.
At that moment Higgins swung down from the driver’s seat. “Where to, miss?”
“The docks,” Damaris said. “We told you that before.”
“Yes, miss, but which docks?”
Damaris and Abby looked at each other. “Which docks?” Damaris repeated. “The ones where the ships go.”
Higgins gave a weary smile. He’d driven through the night and swayed slightly on his feet, clearly exhausted. “There are a dozen different docks in London, miss. It’s not like a port, where the ships is all in one spot; it’s a river. Different ships use different docks.”
