by Carie, Jamie
Gabriel struggled to sit up, finding himself in his bed at the Queens Arms. "They got off with my purse, Meade. We have to find them. We need that money."
Meade's hands fluttered nervously around Gabriel's good shoulder, his reed-thin body blocking Gabriel's attempt to rise. "But sir, the blood. Doctor first."
Gabriel glanced at his shoulder and gave in, lying back down. He looked at his blood-soaked shirt, a wave of weakness overwhelming him. "Very well, help me get this shirt off. Is it still bleeding?"
Meade set to work on the shirt, a tortuous process that made the wound leak fresh blood. Gabriel knew enough about bullet wounds to direct him to press on it and hold the pressure until the bleeding stopped. They discovered that the bullet had passed directly through the upper part of his shoulder, which was good news, a clean shot with no bullet to dig out. By the time the doctor arrived, they had the bleeding stopped and had cleaned the area around the wounds, both front and back. The doctor spoke with Meade and then set to work stitching the one in the back.
"The wound is more ragged in the back, Your Grace." Meade explained as Gabriel breathed hard through his nose and concentrated on staying conscious. How had he let this happen? He would have heard them approach had he not been deaf. He could have fought them off if he'd heard them coming. Would he have to have someone with him at all times now, like a child in leading strings? The frustration gave him something to concentrate on as the needle poked in and out of his shoulder. Finally the torture was done.
The doctor made a poultice of some kind of strong- smelling concoction, applied it to both wounds, and bandaged it with a wide strip of linen around and around his shoulder and under his arm. The doctor held out a bottle of laudanum, which Gabriel refused. It was just a dull ache now and it kept him awake. Meade paid the man, Gabriel wondering how much money his secretary had on him, and then the doctor left with the promise of coming tomorrow to check on him and change the bandage.
"Meade, you must alert the authorities of the theft. There was over five hundred pounds in that purse. I recognized the man from the post office. He came in and must have overheard my conversation with the postmaster. He knew I am a duke. Tell them to check the post office for the identity of the man. If they recover the money, they can send it to us."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"How much money do you have? And what did you find out about Alexandria?"
Meade took out the speaking book.
"Alexandria's name was on the passenger list of the Saint Patrick. It left 2:00 p.m. on a Wednesday, almost two weeks ago. Its destination was Belfast—directly across the Irish Sea. She was not seen with a man, but when I questioned the clerk he said he did remember a striking older gentleman who carried himself with authority and the man did have a sword, which I thought sounded like the same man described by the postmaster. The clerk couldn't remember for sure, but after studying the list of names on board at that crossing he thought it might be James Montague."
Gabriel looked up, startled. "Admiral James Montague?"
Meade's eyes widened. "I had not considered that," he mouthed. "Could it be?"
Gabriel thought back to what he'd heard about the man. He was certain he hadn't met him in person and so had no face to put to the name. He had heard though that the admiral had gone north upon retirement from the Royal Navy. He must be in his upper sixties by now. Hadn't his wife died? He'd turned into something of a recluse after that, the gossip papers had said. But what could one of the most famed military leaders in British history possibly be doing with Alexandria? God save them, she was impossible to second-guess.
"If Montague is for her, she couldn't be in better hands. But if he's against her . . ." Gabriel tried to get up. "We've no time to lose. Let us get aboard the first ferry to Ireland. Do you have enough money for the fare?"
Meade took out his leather purse and emptied it onto the bed. It wasn't much but it would get them across the Irish Sea and then, in Belfast, Gabriel could make a visit to the Bank of Ireland.
"But sir, the doctor warned of infection. You need to stay in bed and rest for a few days at least. You shouldn't travel until it is somewhat healed."
"There is no time to coddle my shoulder. We leave day after tomorrow."
THE COLD BREEZE BLEW BACK Gabriel's hair as they skimmed across the choppy waves that crashed against the bow of the ship. He swallowed hard against the rolling of his stomach and set his teeth, a sheen of sweat forming on his face. Just a few hours . . . and if he kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, it helped a little.
What a mess he was! His hearing gone again, his stomach revolting against the rocking of the waves, and his arm in the sling under his coat aching with the damp air. He felt like the walking dead and hoped desperately that no one recognized him. He wore his collar up and his hat pulled low over his eyes. His anger had diminished into an imperceptible hum as they'd passed the inhabited Isle of Man with its quaint cottages, stone castle, and wide rocky beaches. A little while later, he saw the grandeur of the Emerald Isle coming into view. Land. Blessed relief. Rocky cliffs gave way to rounded hills of green. Those then sloped down into an inlet valley with the buildings of Belfast making black and white smudges against the green.
He'd never been to Belfast, only Dublin and some smaller towns in the south. The northeast of Ireland was said to be more Protestant, more British from all accounts. He would be afforded more respect here as a peer of the British realm, not that it mattered much with his hearing gone. Meade would be doing most of the questioning from now on. He would lend his weight as duke when needed, but otherwise he hoped to stay in the background where the curious couldn't seek him out.
Alexandria, couldn't you make this easy, sweetling? Leave a wide path? It would be ever so helpful. He cracked a smile at the thought. Grasping tight hold of the handrail, he clung to it and tried to think as she might think. She was looking for her parents so she would be searching for clues. Where might she go to find such clues was the question. The letter from her mother had led her to Belfast, so she knew of one place her mother had gone. She must have visited the post office and inquired after her parents there. It was the best place to start.
An hour later they traveled up the channel and docked. Thanks be to God, he could get off this bobbing ride and plant his feet on solid ground. His knees wobbled and his thighs quivered as he followed the crowd off the boat. Once on shore, Gabriel took a long breath, his eyes shut as his body readjusted yet again, and barked orders for a carriage for hire, giving directions to the driver to take them to the post office. It was something of a comfort knowing that if someone said something he should respond to, Meade would take care of it. His secretary was becoming ever valuable, he reflected none too happily, settling back for the ride.
Thatched houses and shops lined the streets with pubs and churches on every corner. After a rocking ride that did little to help the nausea he was fighting, they stopped at a building with the British Union flag flying from the eaves. Gabriel followed Meade out. "You know what to ask, Meade?"
"Certainly, Your Grace."
"I'm trusting you to take charge of this mission and it's well . . . difficult," he murmured as they neared the door.
"I understand, Your Grace. I shall do my best."
Meade's lips were easy to read and his response expected. "Yes, well, see that you do. And if you get into any trouble, just bring out the speaking book. We'll deal with questions about that as they come."
Meade nodded, opened the door, and allowed Gabriel to precede him.
Gabriel watched in tense frustration while Meade struck up a conversation with the postmaster. The man looked at them both with obvious suspicion, a fact that boded ill of getting any information out of him. Gabriel tried to read his lips, understanding only that he'd been introduced as the Duke of St. Easton here on the prince regent's business. Risky that, but perhaps it would
put the fear of God into the man. They proceeded to have an animated conversation with hand gestures and facial expressions Gabriel fought to understand.
Blast! Meade wasn't winning him over, Gabriel could tell. He didn't know how. What came as easily as nature, this golden charm, a velvet voice that he, instinctively, knew just how to use—thrust and parry, like a game of chess or swordplay. Every man had to be willingly conquered; women in a different way, but it had an easy flow to it, like satin against satin. One only need know how to react and counter.
Poor Meade was at sea. After several minutes Gabriel couldn't stand it any longer and interrupted. He leaned over the thin desk that he could easily break with his weight alone. "Tell us everything you know about Lady Alexandria Featherstone and her family, her parents, or see the prince regent's own men at your doorstep, my friend." He tilted his head and gave him an easy smile. "I mean only to protect her. I mean her no harm."
The man looked visibly shaken, but his chin raised in such a way that told Gabriel something important, told him that Alexandria had gotten to him. In their brief encounter, Alexandria Featherstone had won this man's allegiance . . . and that said a very great deal indeed.
Gabriel backed a little out of the man's face and smiled, a genuine smile. He stopped a laugh, knowing it wouldn't be understood. Look what's she's done. She is everything I am imagining she is. The thoughts pounded with the beating of his blood. He had to look away as a sharp sensation struck his eyes. He brought his fingers to his nose and squeezed, still smiling, unable to stop it.
"My good man." He looked back at the postmaster, leaned toward him, and infused his gaze with a penetrating onslaught of belief. "Please tell us what you know. I will, I swear to you, protect her with my life."
They held there. The gaze of the old postmaster's brown eyes and Gabriel's green. Like two swords meeting and testing, they held for a long, silent moment.
"She went to Killyleagh." The postmaster breathed deep as if coming from a battle. "Killyleagh Castle."
Gabriel blinked once, took a deep inhale, and stood back. He'd read his lips. And he knew of the place; he had heard of it from some distant place and time. "Thank you." He touched his forehead with a nod of respect.
Turning to Meade, he quirked a brow. "Come, Meade, the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to make a picture."
Meade looked at him with eyes full of admiration.
Gabriel led them back to the street, both excited and terrified that they would soon be looking into the face of his ward.
Chapter Twenty
So, did you find what you were looking for?" Baylor asked as they walked from Killyleagh Castle back to the inn.
Alex sighed. "Even with the good fortune of Sir Archibald's help, I only learned that yes, my parents had been there and they were looking for something that was missing from Hans Sloane's collection, something to do with a sculptor from the fifteenth century named Augusto de Carrara. I couldn't find anything in the books that mentioned his name. I am sorry to say I'm at something of a dead end."
"If only we knew what was stolen, that would help." Montague's blue eyes scanned the horizon in thought as they walked.
"Yes, I agree. But what could it be?"
"It must have been something of great value making it tempting to a thief."
"Yes, but how would one sell a stolen work of art without being caught? Unless the person who stole it didn't want to sell it. Perhaps he just wanted it for himself."
"Pirates have been selling stolen treasure for centuries. There are ways in which it can be done—middlemen and underground methods and such. I would not count that out of your theorems."
Alex nodded, her mind whirling with possibilities. "Sir Archibald said that Sloane was born here. I wonder if we could find more about him from his descendants, if any of them are still here. He might have told stories about the antiquities he'd found, particularly something of such fame that would have to do with de Carrara."
"That is an excellent idea," Baylor chimed in. "You've the mind of a great sleuth."
Alex grinned over at the big man. "Another thing. We should find out everything we can about this Augusto de Carrara. There may be records of missing art. A newspaper or antiquities society might know of any disappearances. There might be important rumors we can pursue."
"I have some old friends who belong to the London Antiquities Society. I could write to them, if you'd like," Montague suggested.
"Oh yes, would you? That would be wonderful!" She looked back and forth at the men on either side of her. "If I haven't said it recently, I do thank you both. I don't know what I would do without you."
"Ach, this is the most exciting thing I've done in a long time, lass. I wouldn't miss it for the world." Baylor put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, causing the breath and a gasping laugh to whoosh out of her.
"I'll bet your wife is missing you though."
"Good for her, I say. She'll appreciate her man all the more when I return." Baylor's bushy eyebrows shot up with glee.
Released from Baylor's hold and able to walk again, Alex cast a shy glance toward Montague. "Many thanks, Montague. I'll not forget your kindness."
"Ah, well, it's as the giant says. It has done me good to get out of the pitiful hole I was digging for myself." He cleared his throat and glanced away, his voice so low she could hardly hear him. "It was hard to know how to go on after my wife passed. You've given me back some purpose, Lady Alex."
Alex laid a gentle hand on his arm. They didn't say anything but there was a deeper companionship amongst the three as they walked down the windswept hill toward the inn and dinner.
There was no sign of the Spaniards when they returned to the inn and sat in the dining room where dinner and a musical performance were promised. Alex thought that must mean they'd been seen. It was rather hard to hide a giant, so not surprising, but still, there was something to the saying of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. What if they were hiding and watching her again? Her flesh prickled at the thought. If she could just turn the tables again and spy on them, she might learn something more. They certainly knew more than she did about whatever it was her parents had been hired to find. She pushed her plate back and rose from the table.
"Gentlemen, I believe I will find Mistress Tinsdale and ask her some questions about our dear friends, the Spaniards." Baylor started to rise, so she hurried out, "Please, don't bestir yourselves. I will only be a little while. Stay and finish your meal."
Montague narrowed his eyes at her as if judging the truth in her words. "I do have some letters to write." He rubbed his whiskered chin. "You'll not leave the inn?"
Alex bristled. "I'm not a child."
"Not far from one."
"Montague. I will be careful." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.
"I'll keep an eye out." Baylor nudged Montague with his elbow and winked at Alex. "I'll be right here with my tankard and listening to the whistle that lad is about to play. You give a holler if you need me, promise?"
"I won't need you. It's just Mistress Tinsdale," Alex assured them both.
"Very well." Montague rose and adjusted his sword belt. "Give Mistress Tinsdale my regards, will you?"
Alex shook her head at him in exasperation and hurried away before they could think of more ways to waylay her.
Mistress Tinsdale was just where Alex thought she would be, in the kitchen. She was stirring something in a big pot, her back to the door. Alex lingered just inside and cleared her throat. "That smells wonderful. What is it?"
The lady started, spinning around with a wooden spoon clasped in her hand. She brought it to her chest with a gasp. "Goodness gracious, child, you gave me a start."
"I'm sorry. I was just . . . looking for some female company. The inn seems full of men."
"Poor lamb. Take a seat there and I'll dish you out some fine Irish stew. Best stew in the world, it is."
"Thank you." Alex sat at the long wooden table and clasped her hands together over the top. "How long have you been at the inn, Mistress Tinsdale?"
"Oh, call me Helga, dear. My husband and I took jobs here when we first married. We saved our coins, we did, and bought it outright not two years later." She brought over a steaming bowl and a spoon, placed them in front of Alex, and sat across from her, a broad smile on her face. "How excited we were! Still young, with a passel of babes that were always underfoot and in the way, but didn't we love them? A true family business we had."
Her eyes turned sad and misty as she stared across the room, a gentle smile on her lips. She turned and looked at Alex, who was taking her first bite of stew. "I can still feel him near sometimes, you know. The dead, they linger sometimes after they've gone, especially here in Ireland, what with all our leprechauns and fairies and such. It's a magical land, Lady Alex. Where magical things happen."
Alex nodded, caught in the woman's tone and the faith she had in it. "I believe you are right."
Helga gave her a broad grin, her cheeks rosy, her eyes alight with laughter. "Aren't you a fine thing. So tell me your story, my dear. What's made you come to Ireland?"
Alex wondered how much to tell her and decided it couldn't hurt to tell the truth. Helga might know some-thing useful to help her. "Well." She took another bite and swallowed, thinking it was the best stew she'd ever had. "I live on Holy Island, in Northumberland."
"I've heard of Holy Island. Our Irish monks were there once upon a time, were they not?"
"Oh yes. Lindisfarne Castle is just up the road from the old monastery. The barony went to the Featherstone family about a century and a half ago. My parents are the current Lord and Lady Featherstone."
"So you've lived in a castle all your life, have you?" Helga's face beamed with fascination, making the telling of the story a pleasure.
