Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  Alexander Bradley.

  The man’s current command was of a large wooden desk in the War Office in Horseguards.

  The mere thought of being stuck behind a desk and spending entire days indoors had Nelson shuddering.

  Meanwhile, Blake considered what the Molly was scheduled to do on this day. By the time the sun reached its zenith, the ship would be in the Channel in search of a French smuggler of brandy wine who had apparently been ferrying the liquor and hiding the casks in a cave just north of Suffolk’s coast.

  A knock had Blake and Nelson turning their attention to the door of the captain’s quarters. “Come!” Blake called out.

  The ship’s youngest crewman, Flinn, appeared just beyond the half-opened door. “Message for you, Capt’n,” he said, breathless as he held out a sealed missive. “A man in blue and green livery delivered it.”

  “Livery?” Blake repeated, just before he remembered they were still in dock at Wapping but scheduled to depart within the hour—the tide was nearly at its lowest.

  He took the missive and immediately noted the seal stamped in the red wax on the back.

  Chamberlain.

  Blake cursed and broke the seal, wondering how his letter detailing last night’s failure could have already been delivered—and replied to by the viscount—so quickly. He had sent it with a caddy to the Foreign Office only the hour before.

  Unfolding the missive, a sense of foreboding accompanied the alarm he felt.

  Russell,

  There’s been a kidnapping. Daughter of Sir Peter Wycliff, a baronet of some considerable wealth. No terms have been received, but a servant who followed the kidnapper reports she was taken aboard the Tuscan under cover of darkness. Report says the ship set sail at dawn this morning. Probable destinations include Calais and Le Havre. Ship is also known to sail the Mediterranean.

  Assignment: Pursue, retrieve, and return Miss Wycliff to British shores at earliest. Cargo identity is need-to-know only. Pay for delivery to Parkenhurst House will be in British pounds.

  Chamberlain.

  Cursing, Blake remembered what had happened the night before. Baronet Wycliff’s coach had left Weatherstone’s mansion in a hurry, he thought with Miss Wycliff inside. Now he realized it was probably carrying the lady’s maid.

  So who had made off with Miss Wycliff?

  With his Little Bo Peep?

  A memory of Lord Dorchester’s coach speeding away came to him in a flash.

  Indignation had him inhaling slowly. Had Dorchester sailed off with the lust of his life? The baron had aimed a number of quelling glances in his direction the night before. Perhaps his attentions toward the baronet’s daughter had delayed the baron’s plan.

  He gave a shake of his head.

  He had been watching Dorchester to ensure he didn’t get away with something of value from Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.

  Blake blinked.

  Miss Barbara Wycliff was something of value. Her father was rich. A kidnapper could demand...

  “Dammit!” Blake shouted to no one in particular. Those in his quarters all gave a start at hearing his curse, however, and straightened to attention.

  Dorchester—or whoever it was who had made off with his Little Bo Peep—wouldn’t get far, he vowed to himself.

  He turned his attention on his first mate. “Sails up. Get us out of here and to the Channel. Now.”

  “Aye, Capt’n.” Knowing better than to question a command, Nelson was up and out of the captain’s quarters as fast as his short stature would allow.

  Blake turned his attention to Flinn. “Find the Tuscan. They left port at dawn with illegal cargo, and we’re going to get it back.”

  “Aye, sir.” Flinn paused a moment. “Under which ensign, Capt’n?”

  Blake inhaled and considered the options. They had flags for any number of countries as well as the skull and crossbones. “British, for now,” he replied. He dared not take a chance at being shot at by a British naval vessel until they were well into the Channel.

  Flinn hurried off in the direction of the main mast. The smallest of the Molly’s crew, he was also quick-witted and eagle-eyed. As a barrelman, his job required he spend most of his time up atop the main mast in the crow’s nest with a spyglass.

  He paused at the base of the mast to assist the hungover sailing master, Fitz, with hoisting the main sail, and then clambered up the main mast. Once in the crow’s nest, he began his survey of nearby ships, intent on locating someone who might know about the Tuscan.

  Spotting a porter on one of the docks, he called out a greeting. When the young man acknowledged him, Flinn yelled, “Did you see the Tuscan this morning?”

  The porter shook his head, but he pointed to another dockworker and repeated the query.

  “Took off at dawn. Wasn’t yet low tide, even. Headed north, followed by the usual departures.”

  Flinn called out his thanks and wondered why the Tuscan’s captain would leave Wapping before low tide. He tested the wind. The early morning departure of so many ships meant the Tuscan wouldn’t have been able to move very quickly. That, and the lack of wind and the tides that morning would mean slow going for a sailing vessel.

  Whistling to Fitz, Flinn called down what he had learned from the porter. Fitz acknowledged the news and headed to the captain’s quarters.

  Moving to the only table in his cabin, Blake unrolled a map of the Channel and traced the usual routes to Calais and Le Havre. If the Tuscan also sailed the Mediterranean, it was possible Calais would be but a brief stop before the ship headed to the Gates of Gibraltar. If the Molly didn’t catch up to her before then, perhaps it could at the Gates.

  Thank the gods the quartermaster had filled the hold with provisions the day before. They had enough to last at least a fortnight at sea. Enough to travel the two-thousand miles to the Cyclades if the winds favored the Molly.

  Blake rather hoped they wouldn’t have to go that far. He didn’t want to lose another crew member to a Greek girl.

  A slight shudder beneath his feet told him the Molly was no longer moored at the dock. Shouts on deck made it apparent they had cleared the other ships. A few minutes later, and he knew they were headed east toward the Channel.

  When Nelson returned to the captain’s quarters, Blake glanced up from the map. “Ever heard of the Tuscan?”

  Nelson furrowed a brow. “Bimmington’s ship?”

  Blake gave a start. Captain Bimmington wasn’t known for smuggling, let alone kidnapping daughters of the wealthy.

  “Fell into the hands of a frog privateer for a time, but it’s back to sailing under a British flag, far as I know,” Nelson murmured as he drew a hand over his short beard.

  His brows furrowing, Blake allowed a sigh of frustration.

  Had someone commandeered Bimmington’s ship?

  Or didn’t he know he was carrying contraband cargo?

  Perhaps the captain had fallen on hard times and had taken a bribe to look the other way. Or he had given his command to another while he spent time in the capital on shore leave.

  Or someone had stolen his ship.

  This last seemed highly unlikely, though.

  Whatever the situation, Blake decided he couldn’t rely on the ship’s captain to be of any help once they found the Tuscan.

  A knock had the two turning to find Fitz in the doorway. “Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, but Flinn says the Tuscan left at dawn, headed toward the Channel, low wind.”

  Blake exchanged glances with Nelson and arched a brow. “Noted. Now do you care to explain why you’re challenging me for command of this ship?”

  Fitz’ eyes widened. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain?”

  Nelson did his best to suppress a grin. “Told ya.”

  “I don’t want command of the Molly,” Fitz said, his jaw slack.

  “Then you might want to lay off the rum after one or two shots,” Blake replied.

  Fitz blinked. “Yes, Captain.” He turned to go and then paused. “I
s that cutlass new, Captain?”

  Chuckling, Nelson pointed to the door. “Get the sails up, damn you.”

  His eyes widening, Fitz nodded and hurried out. When the door closed, Blake turned his attention to his first mate.

  “Crowded docks that time of the mornin’,” Blake murmured.

  “Bimmington still has almost a four-hour head start on us,” Nelson replied. “But we’ll be faster by half or more once we’re out on the Channel.”

  Another knock at the door had them turning their attention to find Fitz had returned. “Pardon the interruption, Captain, but...” He sighed and scratched his ear.

  “What is it?”

  “I found a stowaway, Captain.”

  Blake blinked. “Stowaway?” he repeated. For the entire time he had served on the Molly, there had never been a stowaway.

  “She says she was sent by a Mr. Wycliff.”

  Imagining a distraught mother determined to find her daughter, Blake rolled his eyes. “How the hell did she get on board?” he muttered, not expecting an answer.

  “By way of the ramp, Captain. She came aboard before Blakely saw to pulling it up on board. She has papers.”

  Papers?

  “I’ll see to this,” Nelson said, making his way to the door.

  Blake gave a shake of his head. A woman on board a ship would be nothing but trouble. Although his crew had enjoyed a few days of shore leave, the presence of a female didn’t bode well. Of course, if she was an old crone, he wouldn’t have anything to be concerned about.

  Probably.

  When the door opened again, he took one look and groaned.

  A Maid Tells a Tale

  Miss Althea Woodcock paused on the threshold of the captain’s cabin and dipped a curtsy. “How do?” she said, her gaze darting between the two men who stared at her. “I brought an important paper for Captain Russell. I wondered if you could direct me to where I might find him?”

  At learning they had a stowaway, Blake had hoped it might be an operative from the Foreign Office. Someone with more details about the kidnapping. But the young woman who stood before him definitely wasn’t employed by the Foreign Office. In fact, her serviceable frock and drab redingote suggested she was a servant rather than a relative of Miss Barbara Wycliff.

  He was about to tell her she had found him when her eyes widened.

  “Blake?”

  Blake blinked.

  Nelson’s eyes widened as he mouthed ‘Blake’ and gave his captain an appreciative glance.

  Ignoring his first mate, Blake regarded the young woman in an attempt to remember how she had been dressed the night before. She had obviously been at the ball, for who else would know him by his given name? He hadn’t used it in years.

  Imagining the young woman with a mask covering her eyes, Blake realized she was Miss Wycliff’s lady’s maid. “I’m Captain Russell,” he said, stepping forward to give a bow. “It is good to see you again, miss, although I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

  “Miss Woodcock,” she replied, holding out a hand in anticipation of shaking the captain’s. “So good to see you again, too.” Her gaze took in his mode of dress and her eyes widened in shock. “You really are a pirate!”

  Blake shook his head. “Hardly,” he said as he reached for one of her gloved hands and lifted it to his lips. He brushed them over the cotton. “Miss Woodcock,” he acknowledged. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Nelson staring at the young woman, almost as if he recognized her.

  “Mr. Wycliff asked that I give this to you,” she said as she held out a folded letter. “It was delivered to Parkenhurst House whilst the baronet was at Chamberlain House. Sir Peter insisted it be brought to you as soon as possible.”

  Taking the proffered missive, Blake regarded the woman a moment. He was about to ask why the footman who had delivered Chamberlain’s earlier note hadn’t brought this one, too, but then he realized Mr. Wycliff wouldn’t have known of it until his return home from meeting with Viscount Chamberlain. Since Wycliff has been at Chamberlain House—probably well before dawn—it meant he must have been introduced to Viscount Chamberlain in the past.

  Perhaps they were friends, or attended the same men’s club. No baronet—no matter how rich—would pay a call on the head of the Foreign Office in the middle of the night otherwise.

  But why send a female courier? Surely a footman would have been a better choice to bring the letter.

  As if Miss Woodcock could divine his inner thoughts, she said, “I am Miss Wycliff’s lady’s maid. I...” Here she paused and allowed a sigh that suggested sorrow. “I was the one who followed the kidnapper from Lord Weatherstone’s mansion last night,” she explained. “Thank heavens the Wycliff coach was nearby when that evil man took my mistress. And that our driver was able to keep up. But he couldn’t overtake the kidnapper’s coach, and before I quite knew what was happening, the rogue was carrying my mistress up the ramp to the Tuscan.”

  Blake’s eyes widened. “You saw him?”

  He once again remembered how Wycliff’s coach had sped away from Weatherstone’s mansion in pursuit of another coach. Oh, how he wished he had made it out of the mansion just a few minutes earlier than he did! Then he might have foiled the kidnapping before it could happen.

  Althea nodded, but gave a slight roll of her eyes. “Except that it was a costume ball, so he was masked, as was my lady. He never removed his mask, even after he stole her away.”

  “I don’t suppose he introduced himself?” Even before he finished asking the question, Blake knew what the answer would be. No man would be allowed to simply introduce himself to a young lady—he would have to request that someone else do the introductions.

  Which wasn’t exactly true in his case with Little Bo Peep, but then she had initiated their introduction.

  “He did not, but...” Althea allowed a sigh. “I cannot help but think he seemed... familiar.”

  Although the comment had Blake about to ask why, he was more curious as to how the lady’s maid ended up at a ton costume ball. Little Bo Peep, or rather, Miss Wycliff, had mentioned something about the lady’s maid. Something about ‘who would know?’, but his attention had been so arrested by the young woman, he couldn’t remember if she gave a reason. “Why exactly were you there?”

  A blush colored Althea’s face and she dipped her head. “My mistress... she wished for company, and she needed a chaperone. She asked that I join her. Since everyone there was to be wearing a mask, she said no one would be the wiser. But a man recognized her, because he approached her after a dance and offered her a glass of champagne.”

  “How do you know he recognized her?”

  “He addressed her by name, sir. All proper like.” She frowned. “I had a mind to follow that man up the ramp of the Tuscan, but the driver wouldn’t hear of it. He took me back to Parkenhurst House right quick so I could tell Sir Peter.”

  “Good thing you didn’t board that ship,” Blake said, “or Sir Peter wouldn’t have had any warning.”

  The lady’s maid didn’t seem placated, though, and she dipped her head in despair. “I fear my lady will be ruined,” she whispered.

  “Not if no one but us knows about this,” Blake countered as he popped the wax seal on the letter. Unfolding it, he held it up to the light from the cabin’s only window. Squinting, he struggled to read the messy, masculine script before he held it out to Nelson. “Can you make out these words?” he asked.

  As if he’d been pulled from a trance, Nelson took the letter and studied the script for a moment. “It’s the ransom note, and given its time of delivery, I would say our kidnapper arranged its arrival at precisely the right time to ensure the Tuscan would already be on its way into the Channel.”

  “To where?”

  “Calais, according to this. Payment in the sum of twenty-thousand pounds is to be brought to the Le Chariot Royal, a coaching inn, I think it says, in Rue Edmond Roche,” he murmured, struggling with the French words. “No la
ter than seven o’clock this evening.” Nelson allowed a low whistle as he turned his attention back on Blake. He stood up and rushed to the door. “I’ll let Flinn know where to direct his spyglass,” he said before he disappeared.

  Althea watched him go before she turned her attention back on Blake. “You will get my mistress back?”

  Blake nodded. “Oh, yes. With any luck and a good wind, we’ll get her before the Tuscan puts into port at Calais,” he assured her, feeling a bit of pride when he saw her reaction of relief.

  The oddest sensation had his heart clenching just then. Until they reached the Tuscan, Miss Barbara Wycliff was in danger. In danger of losing her virtue. Of losing her life.

  The thought of beheading her kidnapper with his cutlass gave him a sense of purpose. How dare the cur take off with his Little Bo Peep?

  Then Blake noticed how the lady’s maid reacted to his claim. She was obviously impressed at what they intended to do, so he thought to temper her reaction just a bit. “I don’t suppose Sir Peter gave you the twenty-thousand pounds for the ransom?” he half-asked. If the Molly hadn’t been available, would the baronet have already boarded a fast ship with the intention of making it to Calais by the deadline?

  Her eyes rounding in shock, Althea shook her head. “I should think not. Why, I cannot imagine he will be able to procure such a large sum on such short notice.” Her eyes darted to one side. “Unless he happens to keep that much blunt in his study,” she added.

  Almost as if she knew he did.

  Blake frowned, deciding to ignore the comment. Her words simply reinforced the need to intercept the Tuscan before it put into port at Calais. Since Chamberlain had dispatched them to find Miss Wycliff, he rather doubted the baronet had any intention of sailing to Calais today. “In the meantime...”

  In the meantime? What was he supposed to do with the lady’s maid? Or rather, what was she to do for the entire day? At their current speed, they probably wouldn’t make it to Calais until three or four in the afternoon.

  “If I might be allowed, may I simply watch from the railing?” she asked. “I promise to stay out of the way of your men.”