Lord Sinister (Secrets & Scandals Book 3)

by Tiffany Green

  Chiding herself for giving that man any thought at all, she focused back on Dr. Rutland’s grave. After pressing a kiss to her fingers, then touching them to the cold granite, she whispered a prayer along with her final good-bye.

  Wiping her tears away, she turned from the grave and started back. But as she hurried away from the grand brick homes with the pretty gardens and neatly cut box hedges, toward the crowded, filthy buildings and garbage lined streets, her thoughts strayed to her return to England. And the tiniest chance of seeing Julian again. Her heart quivered at the very idea. She frowned and her steps slowed. The man had ruined her whole life. If, by some miracle, she did happen to see him again, why, she’d make his pretty ears bleed from a tirade he would not soon forget.

  A shock of cold wetness on her right foot startled Amelia from her thoughts. She gasped and looked down, then groaned. She stood in the center of a muddy puddle, the frigid liquid seeping into the hole she had worn through the sole of her only pair of shoes.

  Chiding herself for not paying attention to where she was going, she scrambled out of the murky water, and came face-to-face with a skinny boy not much older than her son, Alex. She started to greet the child, but her smile fled when he withdrew a rusty old knife from his tattered coat pocket and pointed it an inch from her chest.

  “What are you waiting for, Bart, grab her,” the boy ordered to someone standing behind her.

  Still reeling from the sight of the knife, Amelia didn’t react to those words. And not until iron-like hands gripped her arms and yanked them back behind her did she understand their meaning. Pain tore through her shoulders, forcing a cry from her lips.

  “I got her, Vinnie,” Bart said, his voice deeper than the one standing before her.

  Her head spun with pain as she forced the question from her lips. “What is it you want?”

  The boy before her grinned, exposing two rows of yellow, crooked teeth. “Empty your pockets, wench, and I might let you live.” He waved the filthy blade before her nose.

  Black dots danced in her vision. “I-I can’t move.”

  “Ease up a bit, Bart. But only a bit, mind.”

  As the agony in her shoulders and arms subsided and feeling returned to her hands, Amelia dragged in deep gulps of air. Her sight cleared. One of her arms had been freed, the other still held in a grip of steel. She felt around her inside coat pocket and carefully removed the small purse, leaving the two boarding passes behind. “Here, this is all I have.” She tossed it down to his scuffed, muddy boots.

  Vinnie snatched up the purse, opened it, and frowned. He lifted his head and pierced her with a dubious glare. “This ain’t what that fancy man gave you earlier.”

  She gasped. “You’ve been following me?”

  The boy pocketed the pitifully low sum of her last wages from the factory and nodded. He held out his hand and wiggled his grimy fingers. “That’s right. Now give ‘em over.”

  Snapping her mouth shut, she shook her head. She would not hand over her and Alex’s chance to leave this place and have a better life. Forty-five guineas a year. She shook her head again. “I will not.”

  Vinnie sighed and nodded to the man behind her.

  A sharp pain erupted within her skull, so intense, it filled her stomach with nausea. Sounds muffled as she crashed to her knees. The world spun. Then a thick cocoon of coal-black nothingness swallowed her up.

  ****

  “Mama, can you hear me?”

  Alex sounded frightened. Amelia struggled to open her eyes. Why was she having so much trouble moving?

  “Mama?”

  A dull ache beat in the back of her head. She cracked open her eyes. The dark, fuzzy form hovering over her materialized into her son. “Alex.”

  Relief filled his light gray eyes and he smiled. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  The incident with the two ruffians rushed into her mind and she lifted her hand to check her pockets. Realizing her coat was gone, she spoke to her son. “My coat, where is my coat?”

  Alex brought her the threadbare piece of wool folded on top of the small trunk holding the sum of their possessions. She murmured a thank you while searching every pocket for two scraps of paper—the two tickets aboard a ship leaving the next day for England. The only two things in the whole world that would secure their future.

  And they were gone.

  Bitter frustration rose up her throat and spilled into her mouth. She squeezed her eyes closed. Now what? After accepting the governess position that Englishman, Mr. Giles, had offered her last week, she quit her job at the factory then told her landlord she would be moving. The man had been grateful since they were behind on the rent. It saved him from throwing her out, he’d confessed. Then today, after a final meeting with Mr. Giles to receive the boarding tickets, she had walked to the cemetery…and was robbed mere feet from the steps to her apartment.

  “Mama, are you all right?”

  Amelia opened her eyes and focused on her son. So very handsome. She loved him more than anything on earth. Even though he looked exactly like his father.

  That last thought brought a pain to her heart, but she forced a smile anyway. “Yes, dearest, I am well. I was just thinking.”

  “Thinking about how we are getting to England without a boarding pass?” he asked.

  Amelia swallowed hard. Sometimes her son’s intelligence and maturity frightened her. “That’s right,” she answered calmly, hoping he’d not discern the fear growing heavy in her breast. Then a thought occurred. “Alex, how did I get up here? And how did you know about the tickets?”

  Fury sprang into his eyes. “Mrs. McNealy was walking home when she saw what happened. She ran for help but the scoundrels had already left by the time Mr. McNealy, Tom and Patrick arrived. They carried you up here.”

  She nodded, thinking she’d go and thank their neighbors as soon as her head stopped throbbing.

  A knock sounded and Alex turned to answer the door. He returned with their landlord, and a tight ball of dread rose up to stick in Amelia’s throat. “Mr. Wilks.” She tried to sit up. “Can I get you something? Tea?”

  “No, no,” he answered quickly, waving his hand for her to remain seated. He glanced around uncomfortably. “I heard what happened.”

  That surprised her. “Why, Mr. Wilks, I don’t know what to say. You’ve come to see how I fare?”

  He looked aghast for a moment, then shook his gray-streaked head. “No, that’s not why I’ve come.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I already have this place rented, you see. And they’ve paid me two months in advance. So…”

  When his voice trailed off, Amelia finished the sentence, her voice deadpan. “So Alex and I must leave even though we now have nowhere else to go.” She sighed, relaxing back against the couch’s threadbare cushion. Perhaps she could beg her job back at the factory. That still left them with no home. Maybe the new renters weren’t quite ready to move into the apartment. She might have a little time to find somewhere else to live. “When?”

  He adjusted the twinkling diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” Amelia sat up so fast the room spun. She blinked until her dizziness subsided then glanced to Alex. He stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw locked, staring out. She turned back to Mr. Wilks and lowered her voice. “Please, can we at least…”

  The man started wagging his head before she could even finish. She gnashed her teeth together, part of her wanting to roar every curse word she ever heard at the man, the other part wanting to bawl like a baby. She did neither. Instead, she plastered an insincere smile on her lips and wished him good-day.

  When the door closed behind Mr. Wilks, Amelia turned to her son. He hadn’t moved an eyelash. She bit the inside of her cheek, wishing he hadn’t been present to witness their eviction.

  Stiffly, he turned from the window, his eyes seething. “I’m going out for a walk.” He stomped toward the door.

  “Alexander,” she c
alled out. When he halted, she continued. “Please, be careful. And don’t be too long.”

  He nodded once without turning and left.

  Adjusting the scarf his mother had knitted him last month for his ninth birthday, Alex marched down the street. God, how he wished he were older! Old enough to take care of his mother. He hated that she worked so hard and got so little in return. He hated seeing the fear in her eyes, hearing it in her voice. Hated that in a year’s time, his mother had sold nearly everything she’d accumulated in the past ten years just to make ends meet. Oh, why did Dr. Rutland have to die?

  Alex moved faster as memories of the kind, old doctor filled his mind. The man had been just like a grandfather to him, hiding sweets and other goodies in his coat pockets. His mother was always smiling then, too.

  Tears welled up in his eyes and he shook his head, refusing to let them fall down his face like some baby. He started to run, wanting to escape the sadness pressing down on him. Pumping his arms, his feet flying over the mud-crusted road, he didn’t slow until the odor of dead fish and ocean brine filled the air and the bustling quay came into sight. Whenever he was troubled, Alex always came to the dock. The thought of sailing on one of those large ships, leaving his troubles on land as he headed out into the adventurous unknown, appealed to him. And, of course, because of the stars.

  Gazing at the small pinpoints of light scattered across the night sky was one of the few things that brought him joy. He could name every constellation and all seven planets. His dream of becoming a great astronomer, even greater than Galileo, burned like the sun in his heart. And then reality would come crashing down on him, shattering his dreams like a stone into a thin glass pane. How could his mother afford to send him to school when she couldn’t even afford to feed them?

  He halted and lowered his hands to his knees, his lungs burning as he gulped in deep breaths of air. For a minute, he just listened. Dock workers shouted while loading cargo onto the swaying ships. Seagulls cried out as they circled low over two women gutting out a pile of fish. Street vendors called out fresh oysters, flowers, or fruit for sale. Alex straightened and wiped his nose with his sleeve, knowing none of those vendors sold anything fresh.

  “Oy, Alex, what are ye doin’ here so late in the day, me lad?”

  He turned to Mr. O’Malley and shrugged. “Just thinking.”

  The elderly man nodded as if he understood, his expression turning sad. “Heard what happened. How’s yer mither?” he asked and shifted his whale-bone pipe from one side of his mouth to the other.

  Alex gazed up at the rows of fish hanging on hooks nearby, knowing they would have been caught this morning. “She’s well, sir. She wasn’t badly hurt.”

  “Good,” Mr. O’Malley said as he took down one of the blackfish and began wrapping it up in newspaper. “Here, take this to yer mither.”

  Alex shook his head, backing up a step. “I can’t, sir. I don’t have any money.”

  The man snatched the pipe from his mouth and glared. “This ain’t charity, lad. Yer mither saved me sweet Bertha’s life last month. I be payin’ her back.”

  Contrite, Alex took the fish. “Thank you, Mr. O’Malley.” He started to turn away but stopped when the grizzly old fisherman started speaking again.

  “If yer interested, there be a ship called the Sweet Siren leaving for England the day after tomorrow. At dawn.”

  He felt his shoulders droop. “Thank you for the information, sir, but we haven’t enough money for tickets aboard a ship.”

  Mr. O’Malley sucked on his pipe, a faintly sweet aroma threading through the pungent smell of fish. “Well, now,” he began, rocking back and forth on his heels, “me ‘n Mrs. O’Malley didn’t have tickets when we left Ireland nigh on twenty years ago. We packed some food and just sneaked aboard a ship.” The elderly man ended his words with a wink.

  Alex blinked in disbelief. “Didn’t you get caught?”

  The old seaman looked affronted and pulled the pipe from his mouth. “O’course nay. As quiet as church mice we was.”

  After thanking Mr. O’Malley again, he started back, his heart much lighter than before. The cool afternoon had slipped into a cold evening as the building shadows grew longer over the road, and he didn’t want to be out after dark. His mother would worry.

  He ran the entire way back home, careful not to drop their dinner, excitement building with each step he took. There was hope of getting to England yet.

  Taking the stairs in record time, Alex removed his key and opened the door. “I’m home, Mama,” he called. “And I’ve found a way for us to get to England.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Julian lowered the spyglass and frowned.

  “It’s not catching up to us, is it, Master?” his first mate asked with a thread of worry.

  “I’m afraid so, Luke.” He kept his gaze on the black clouds building behind them, his mind whirring with calculations of wind speed and direction in addition to their current location.

  “Can we outrun the storm?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Shall I give the order to try and skirt the storm, then?”

  Lifting a brow, he asked, “Should you?”

  His first mate glanced to the darkening sky, looked up at the snapping flags, then back. “I think it wise, sir.”

  With twitching lips, Julian nodded. “I agree. Yes, give the command.” When Luke turned to the crew and began issuing orders, he smiled and shook his head. His first mate, although younger than most, would do fine in his stead.

  Hearing the crack of sails, smelling the crisp sea air, and feeling the swaying ship beneath his feet caused a pang of sadness to well up inside him. His smile fled. He would miss the sea. Although he’d make small trips from time to time, it would no longer be a part of his daily life.

  No, he’d made a promise to his family the day his father found out he had been commanding a ship, not merely taking trips. Second sons, not heirs, had such occupations. And after a few heated words, a compromise was struck. Upon his thirtieth birthday, he would return to England for good. To do his duty and take a wife.

  Julian grimaced.

  Even as the thought of marriage soured his stomach, he had to give it serious consideration. He would produce the next Kenbrook heir. He’d known that all his life. But looking for a suitable wife might just kill him. All those wretched balls and fetes. He scowled at the thought of spending endless evenings in the presence of pea-brained debutantes and their scheming mamas. He’d rather be skinned alive.

  Yet, he would ride it out like he had countless storms at sea. And in the end, he would be the victor. He would find a beautiful and biddable young lady with a pristine reputation and excellent pedigree. Perhaps that good friend of Megan’s? Huntington’s sister. What was her name? Thank God he only had to go through this torture once, Julian thought as he retreated to the sanctuary of his cabin.

  A few minutes later, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his palms planted on either side of the large map spread out before him, studying the various routes from America to England he’d used in the past. For the last several months, he had been making careful notes of his knowledge as commander to pass on to Luke. Although he had every confidence in the man, conveying detailed information would help ensure the Sweet Siren remained the most prosperous ship in the fleet.

  Two sharp knocks sounded at the door.

  “Enter.” Julian kept his gaze fixed on the parchment.

  The door opened, bringing a gust of chilled sea air along with sounds of furious winds and snapping sails, then closed, muting the clamor. “Sir?”

  Discerning an odd note in Jonas’s voice, Julian’s hand stilled from reaching for a quill, and he glanced up. “What is it?”

  The burly master-at-arms cleared his throat and shuffled a bit further into the cabin. “Sorry to be disturbin’ ye.”

  He straightened, allowing the map to roll back together. “What is it, Jonas?” he asked with a little more authority in h
is voice. What had happened? And why did the man have such apprehension about telling him?

  Jonas pulled off his cap and crushed it between meaty palms. “We have a stowaway, sir,” he said, his words rushing together.

  “A stowaway?” That stunned Julian. It had been better than a year since someone managed to sneak aboard his ship. And recalling how the bloody scoundrel had almost killed several of his men, he erupted in anger. “You’ve captured this stowaway I take it?”

  The large man hesitated, lowering his gaze to the floor. “This ain’t no ordinary stowaway, Master.”

  Unable to believe his ears, he rounded his desk and planted both hands on his hips. “I don’t care if John Jacob Astor himself has sneaked aboard my ship, take him to the hold.”

  “Even if ‘e’s a she, sir?” Jonas asked, chancing a quick peek up.

  Julian opened his mouth to concur, but caught himself just in time. “A she? Are you trying to tell me the stowaway is a woman?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I bloody well don’t believe this.”

  “And the wee missy’s a mite sick, too,” the man added quietly.

  He leveled his master-at-arms a look of severe displeasure. A look that also asked just how in the hell could this have happened. “Where is she?”

  Although Jonas was much larger, the man swallowed and backed up a step. “Dr. Halston is lookin’ at ‘er in the guest cabin, sir.”

  Swearing under his breath, Julian stormed the short distance down the companionway. But as he reached for the latch, the door opened and Marcus Halston, the ship’s surgeon, exited.

  “Master,” the doctor stated nervously, shifting his black bag from one hand to the other. He blocked the entrance and spoke quickly, but in soft tones. “The lady is quite ill, sir. Dehydrated and starving. She wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  Julian sighed, some of his anger evaporating at the news of the woman’s dire situation. “It’s all right, Marcus, I’ll not throw her overboard. I just want a few answers.”

  The man remained stubbornly in the doorway, his eyes worried. “She must rest, sir. Perhaps later—”