“Edmund!” cried Catherine. “What are you doing? We’ve got to go to the docks! We’ve got to look for Patrick!”
Edmund shook his head firmly. “I’ll go to the docks, Catherine. But I’m taking you home first. You’ve been a wonderful help, but I’ll go on alone from here. It’s far too dangerous.”
Go on alone?! Not a chance!
“I’m coming with you,” she said firmly. She looked over his shoulder at the cab driver. “Saint Katharine’s-by-the-Tower, please.” She strode toward the carriage door.
Edmund grabbed her arm. “Stop. Please. I understand you wish to help Patrick, but the docks are no place for a young lady. I’ll not see anything happen to you while you are living under my roof.”
“Edmund,” she said firmly, “here’s how things are. If you take me home, the first thing I am going to do is climb out my bedroom window and escape through that gate at the side of the grounds that the gardeners always leave the key in.”
Edmund’s eyes flashed, but she continued staunchly.
“Then I will go straight to the docks and begin my search.” She met his eyes. “So either I come with you, or I will have no choice but to go running around the dock yards on my own.”
Edmund rubbed his eyes in resignation. “You were much easier to handle when you sat alone in your room all day.”
Catherine gave him a crooked smile.
“Very well,” he said. “Get in the carriage.” He offered her his hand with an enormous sigh.
Catherine climbed into the coach. “You can’t do this alone either,” she told Edmund, once they were clattering down the street. “I know you’ve come to imagine yourself as something of a crusader, but these are dangerous men. This is not a job for one person.”
Edmund gave a short, humorless laugh. “A crusader? Really.” He gave Catherine a small smile. “Ramshay is a lucky man. I don’t know too many young ladies who would go charging into a dock yard full of dangerous sorts to save the man they love.”
At Edmund’s words, Catherine felt something move in her chest.
Yes, it’s true. I do love him. I love him with every inch of myself.
“I only hope he can forgive me for all I’ve done,” she said softly. “All the terrible conclusions I jumped to. How could I have been so distrusting?” She heard her voice waver. “And what if I never get the chance to tell him how sorry I am?”
Edmund reached out and squeezed her hand. “You’ll have your chance to tell him, Cousin,” he said gently. “We shall make sure of it.”
* * *
Catherine and Edmund stood outside the church and peered at the heaving mess of the docks. Small cargo boats lined the river, men bustling around them like ants. Long, wide warehouses lined the water’s edge.
Catherine’s heart began to speed. Was Patrick close? Was he being kept somewhere among all this?
She gripped Edmund’s arm and began to walk toward the chaos of clattering and shouting.
“It’s too busy,” said Edmund. “We need to wait until the workers have gone home. We’ll never be able to search properly with so many people around.”
Catherine shook her head, not slowing her frantic pace. “Busy is better, Edmund. We can blend into the crowd.”
Edmund looked down doubtfully at their clothes. He was in dark silk trousers, Catherine in a finely embroidered woolen dress. Both were far too neat and clean to pass for someone who frequented the dock yards. “Blend in?” he snorted. “I don’t think so.”
Catherine pressed her back against the wall of one of the warehouses and watched the dock workers stride by. They wore no coats and their waistcoats were patched messes. Their sleeves were shoved up over their elbows and their bearded faces were grimy. “Take off your waistcoat and scarf,” she told Edmund firmly. “And your coat. Roll up your sleeves.”
Edmund did so obediently, folding his silky shirt up over his elbows. Catherine reached up and tousled his hair, tugging on it until it rose from his head at extraordinary angles. She smiled faintly. “Better,” she said. “A little better, at least.”
Edmund arched an eyebrow. “And you?”
Catherine hesitated. There were other ladies at the docks, but they were not ladies like her. The ladies that sashayed around this place had a sway to their hips and hard look in their eyes. These ladies, Catherine felt sure, were the kind who made their living servicing dock workers in the narrow alleys between the warehouses.
She took off her bonnet and unpinned her hair, letting it fall in waves over her shoulders. She undid the two tiny buttons at the top of her dress and tugged her bodice low.
Edmund stared at her in horror. “What in hell are you doing?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Blending in.” She tugged his arm. “Come on. We’ve no time to waste.”
She kept her hand tightly clamped around Edmund’s arm as they wove through men with barrels in their arms, past chains of workers carrying crates to and from the boats. The filthy stench of the river floated up to meet them.
“You watch the warehouses,” Edmund murmured, as they made their way along the water. One of the dock workers cursed at them to get out of his way. “I’ll keep watch for anyone with the same tattoo as you saw.”
Catherine nodded. Most of the warehouses had their doors flung open, crates and barrels and ship’s tools being marched in and out of them. Was Patrick being held in one of these places? It seemed unlikely. Surely it would be too easy for him to escape in all the confusion.
Unless they’ve hurt him. Or…
She wrestled the thought from her mind, unable to follow it any further. Patrick couldn’t be hurt. He just couldn’t be.
After several hours of searching, Catherine sank wearily to the ground behind one of the warehouses. Her skirts pooled out around her and she sighed heavily in frustration. “Perhaps I was wrong about the symbol,” she said. “Wrong about the man’s tattoo.”
She rubbed her eyes. She had been so certain. When she had seen that image in Lord Ayton’s book, she had known it at once.
Edmund crouched beside her and touched her shoulder gently. “Not necessarily. We always knew there was only a remote chance that tattoo would lead us to Patrick. Those men could have taken him anywhere.”
Catherine shook her head. “No. You said yourself these men were involved in smuggling. It makes sense Patrick would have come to the docks looking for them.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, her thoughts racing. “Perhaps we’re in the wrong place. Perhaps they’re keeping Patrick at another dock yard.”
Edmund scratched his chin. “It’s possible, of course.”
“It’s not just possible. It’s likely.” Catherine climbed to her feet and made her way to the edge of the river. The water swept past her in a wide brown arc, disappearing into the afternoon haze. She looked over her shoulder at Edmund. “What’s down that way?” she asked. “Around the bend? More docks?”
“Of course. There are many more.”
Catherine put her head down and began to march determinedly. “How far? Can we make to the next one on foot?”
Edmund darted into the alley where he had left his waistcoat and jacket. He slid the coat over his shoulders and buttoned it to his neck.
“Tidy yourself,” he told Catherine. “We’ll take a cab.”
* * *
The string of East India docks were bustling. Several sailing vessels lay at anchor, both passengers and crewmen flooding from the ships. Searching every inch of these dockyards would be a difficult task. But it was one Catherine was determined to succeed at. She was not leaving this place until she had Patrick in her arms.
Yes, it made sense that smugglers would be keeping him at the docks. But it was more than logic that had her clinging to this fevered search. He had to be here, because if he wasn’t, she had no thought of where to look. He had to be here or they would be forced to admit they had nothing.
Edmund shrugged off his jacket again, shivering as a cold wind whipped
up off the river. He pointed down one of the walkways that led through to the back of the storehouses. “Let’s go this way. It’ll be far less crowded. We’ll be able to see more.”
He reached for Catherine’s arm, but she stopped walking.
“Look.” She pointed at a pile of cargo crates piled up beside one of the gangways. A black marking was printed into the wood. “The emblem. It’s the one I saw.” She let out her breath. “It’s an East India merchant mark. Not the Merchant Adventurers.”
Edmund gave her a faint smile. “So the mistake was Simon’s. Not yours.”
Catherine nodded slightly. “But it doesn’t matter who was to blame. It just matters that I’ve found it.”
Perhaps we are in the right place…
Filled with fresh hope, she gripped Edmund’s arm and began to stride down the walkway toward the back of the warehouses.
She peered through keyholes and cracks and tiny, grime-covered windows, finding shed after shed filled with crates and barrels. Hours rolled by, leaving Catherine’s legs aching and her stomach groaning with emptiness, but she pushed any thoughts of rest away.
I will rest when I know Patrick is safe.
When she reached the warehouse close to the corner of the dock, she peeked through a crack in the worn timber wall. And she felt hot and cold at once. The floor was dotted with dark, rusty stains.
Blood?
“Edmund!” she hissed, sickness rising in her throat.
He hurried toward her.
“I think there’s blood on the floor in here.” She heard the waver in her voice. “We need to get inside.” She began to march toward the front of the warehouse, searching desperately for a way inside.
Edmund snatched her arm, yanking her back. “Catherine,” he hissed. “Stop. You can’t just go charging in there. If this is truly where Patrick is being held, there will likely be dangerous men here.”
A fresh rush of fear washed over her. “We’ve got to get in there,” she said throatily. “We just have to.” Tears spilled suddenly down her cheeks and she swiped them away.
Edmund nodded. “Of course. But we’ve got to be smart.” He squeezed her wrist. “You stay here and watch through that hole for any sign of the men. I’ll go around the front and try to find a way in. Call for me if you see anyone.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. She watched as Edmund slunk down the walkway toward the river. Back to the hole in the wall she went, squinting as she peered through.
She couldn’t take her eyes from the dark beads staining the wood.
Is it Patrick’s blood?
She couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to him. Couldn’t bear the thought of him being in pain.
She waited. And waited. The docks were growing quieter as the workers began to leave for the evening. Long shadows began to fall over the storehouses as the sun drooped toward the horizon. Impatience began to bubble inside her. She glanced down at the dilapidated wall of the warehouse. Could she break it down? Perhaps. But with what?
She looked about her. Surely she could find something among all this industry that might allow her to break a hole in a rotting wooden wall.
“Catherine!” Edmund’s hissed whisper made her jump. He was charging back down the alleyway toward her. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be keeping watch!”
“And you’re supposed to be finding a way in!”
“It’s locked on all sides,” he reported. “Whatever they’re keeping in there, they’re doing their best to keep everyone out.”
Catherine raced back toward the river. Darkness lay over the river and the waterfront was far less busy than it had been when they had arrived.
Knocking against its moorings was a small dinghy. She could see a hammer and some other tools sitting inside the boat. She glanced about her. Surely if these things had been left out, it meant whoever owned this boat was still here.
Still here, but nowhere to be seen.
She darted to the water’s edge and laid on her front to reach into the boat. Her fingers tightened around the hammer and she raced back to the warehouse.
“What are you doing?” hissed Edmund, who had been watching her light-fingeredness from the edge of the warehouse.
“We need to break the wall,” she said, marching back to the hole she had peered through.
She stood in the alleyway, her fingers clenched around the handle of the hammer.
The wall will be weakened close to the hole I was peering through. If I strike it there…
Edmund snatched the hammer. “Let me. Stand back.”
Before Catherine could respond, he swung it into the wall, sending shards of timber flying.
“Again,” she urged.
With Edmund’s second swing, the wall splintered further. He dropped the hammer and grabbed at the split planks of wood, heaving on them until they snapped in his hands.
“One more,” said Catherine. “And then I can fit through.”
Edmund yanked at another of the boards, stumbling backwards as it splintered with a loud crack.
Catherine dropped to her knees to peer through into the empty warehouse. “I’m going in,” she reported.
Edmund nodded. “Be careful.”
With her skirts in her fist, Catherine clambered through the hole, wincing as the sharp shards of wood grazed her back. She scrambled into standing and looked about her. In the thick dusk, the place was covered in inky shadows. She could see little. A rat scuttled across the floor, making her heart jump into her throat.
Holding her breath, she began to walk slowly across the warehouse, peering between the towers of stacked boxes. Her heart was pounding and her stomach in knots. Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The creaks and thuds coming from the docks sounded distant.
She passed another stack of crates and her breath left her. On the floor was a pile of rope. Catherine dropped to her knees, lifting the ropes and inspecting them carefully. There was no blood on them, no blood on the floor nearby. It brought her a tiny flicker of comfort.
“Patrick?” she dared to call. Her voice disappeared into the stillness, bringing an ache to her chest.
She squeezed the ropes between her fingers.
I have to find him. I have to make this right.
There was no other option.
Chapter 42
Patrick found himself back in the carriage. The same carriage he had climbed into the back of the night he had followed these men from the Red Queen. His hands were still tightly bound behind his back, but mercifully, the men had untied his ankles so he could walk to the coach. His legs were stiff and aching, his shoulders crying out in pain. The gash on the side of his head was throbbing. He let out a long breath and leaned back against the wall of the coach.
Where are they taking me?
And why had he been moved? Was a delivery about to take place at the docks? Was he being whisked away so he might remain blind to such a thing? So he might remain blind to the true identity of The Ghost?
He cursed under his breath.
I need to know who he is. How can I stop a man without a name or a face?
And came the more pressing thought:
How can I stop him when I’m a prisoner of men with no morals?
The coach clattered to an abrupt stop, tossing Patrick forward. He heard the thud of boots as the men leaped from the box seat. They threw open the door at the back of the coach. One grabbed a fistful of Patrick’s shirt, yanking him out into the dusk.
He tried to catch a glimpse of what was around him. The carriage had pulled up close to the wall of a crooked stone building with a vague familiarity to it. He turned to look over his shoulder, trying to glimpse the street, but the men shoved him forward through a narrow door, before he could catch sight of anything that might place him.
They had been in the carriage less than an hour. They must still be in London, he reasoned. The thought bringing him a tiny flicker of relief.
The men shoved him down a narrow
staircase and along a long, dank corridor. Dust was raining from the walls, the floor nothing but packed mud. He could feel the earth gathering in his throat.
Narrow doors dotted the passage, lit only by the single lamp flickering by the staircase. What was this place, Patrick wondered? Had it once been a mail tunnel? A burial chamber? A dungeon? Or had this passage been dug by The Ghost and his men to offer them the perfect hiding place from the prying eyes of the city?
Whatever this place was, it was positively ghastly.
One of the men reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He unlocked a narrow door and shoved Patrick inside. The room was tiny and lightless, with nothing inside but an earthen floor. The man pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it at Patrick. His heart somersaulted.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 23
