by Kate Bateman
Georgie mirrored his stance, but inside she was shaking with fury. Wylde had told her not to give her cousin a penny, but she had no doubt that Josiah was telling the truth about his debts. He might be bluffing—his own precious reputation would be blackened by association if he told the ton about her marriage—but she couldn’t take the chance and risk hurting Juliet or Mama. Josiah certainly seemed desperate enough to do as he threatened. He’d be ruined anyway, if he didn’t pay his debts, so what did he have to lose?
“Very well.”
He raised his brows at her ready answer and watched closely as she crossed to the drop-front escritoire in the corner. Her writing was shaky with suppressed fury, but she managed to sign five hundred pounds over to him. He snatched the paper from her hand and studied it suspiciously, as if she might be cheating him somehow.
“It’s good,” she said bitterly. “But this is the last time I will ever give you any money, Josiah.”
He folded the bank draft into his inside jacket pocket, patted it, and sketched her a sarcastic bow. “Nice doing business with you, Cousin. I’ll see myself out.”
Georgie let out a sigh when he’d gone and sank into the nearest chair. Her limbs still quivered with outrage and dismay, both at her cousin’s daring and her own pathetic inability to refuse him. He’d bullied her neatly into a corner, and she hated the feeling of having been taken advantage of. With a sudden cry, she jumped up and rang for her maid. “Tilly, will you get my hat and gloves please? I’m going out.”
The servant bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am. Pieter’s not back from the stables yet, if you’re wanting the carriage brought around.”
“No, thank you. I’ll just take a walk in the park. I need a little fresh air.”
Georgie didn’t wait for a maid to chaperone her. She reached Hyde Park, hailed a cab, and instructed the driver to convey her to the Tricorn Club, St. James’s.
If Wylde wouldn’t come to her, she would go to him.
* * *
Benedict glanced up from his desk at the knock on his apartment door. “Yes, Mickey, what is it?”
The ex-boxer’s huge head appeared around the doorframe. “There’s a woman ’ere for you.”
Ben frowned, even as his heart gave a little skip. It was bound to be Georgie. He should have known she wouldn’t have the patience to wait for him to call on her. “What kind of woman?”
“The same one as was ’ere last time.”
Ben sat back in his chair. “That’s what I was afraid of. Bring her up.”
She swept into his parlor like a tiny whirlwind, all bustling skirts and windswept coiffure. Beneath a lunatic confection of a bonnet, strewn with all manner of fashionable bows and ruffles, her cheeks were flushed a becoming pink, and her eyes sparkled with a strange, almost combative light.
His brain immediately wondered what he could do to make her cheeks that pink—and he was glad he’d stayed seated, so his crotch was hidden behind the desk.
“Mrs. Wylde,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You know perfectly well.” She tugged at the ribbon bow by her ear, removed her bonnet, and tossed it onto a chair. She must have left her cloak with Mickey. Her morning dress was a delicate sprigged muslin that molded to her body with fashionable and unnerving faithfulness. Benedict prayed for strength.
“You promised to share the contents of the scroll we stole last night. I have been waiting in all morning.”
She sent him a chiding look; he was clearly not dressed for an imminent visit to her house. He wore only a white shirt and breeches, covered by his favorite long, deep-red banyan robe.
He drew himself up in his chair. “As a matter of fact, I’ve only just returned from a meeting with Admiral Cockburn.”
She pounced on that. “The Admiralty? Why? What did we steal?” She stalked impatiently to the desk and tried to get a look at the opened scroll he’d been studying.
“Plans.”
“For what?”
He tried to ignore the heady scent of her perfume as she came closer. “Plans for a submarine,” he said, his throat suddenly dry.
Her eyes widened. “Really? Let me see.”
She placed her hands flat on the desk and leaned over to get a better look, unwittingly providing him with a magnificent view of her cleavage.
A gentleman would have politely averted his gaze, but Benedict rarely behaved like a gentleman these days. He bit back a moan and tried to forget those wonderful moments of madness in O’Meara’s library, when he’d put his mouth to those pert little mounds. He’d been so close to—
She turned the paper to study it the right way up, and her nose wrinkled in concentration. Ben leaned back in his chair and watched her.
Since the war, he’d developed a new appreciation of such simple pleasures. On the boat back from Belgium, after Waterloo, he’d made a promise to himself that he would seize as many moments of happiness as he could. He’d never take them for granted again. In a strange way, it was his memorial to all those who’d lost their lives. He owed it to them to do all the things that they could not. To enjoy life to the utmost, to taste it. To live it.
The feel of the sun on his face was all the sweeter now for having been hard-won; he’d come so close to never seeing another sunrise. He appreciated the grey drizzle, the astonishing greenness of the fields, the relentless bustling optimism of the metropolis, everyone so intent on their lives, the thrust of commerce, the urgent yells of the street vendors. He savored the first sip of his morning coffee, the yeasty taste of fresh bread.
And he savored the woman in front of him.
He’d endured months of abstinence during the war, eons without the soft touch of a female. He’d rarely accepted the dubious attentions of the camp followers; he’d feared infection more than he’d craved the momentary release, so he’d made do with his own hand and his imagination. Since his return to England, he’d spent a few evenings with women, but while they’d satisfied his physical demands, they’d left his heart and mind untouched.
But here was a beautiful, infuriating woman, in his rooms. In his life. It was springtime, a time of hope and renewal, and the world was coming alive again. He was coming alive again, as if the emotions that had been deadened during the war were being coaxed forth by her presence.
A profound sense of gratitude swept through him. He wanted to get on his knees and glory in the miracle of having survived. He wanted to carry her through into his bedroom, throw her down on his bed, and show her just how wonderful it was to be lusty, healthy, and alive. His body throbbed in definite agreement, and he found himself calculating the number of steps to the bedroom. Mentally unbuttoning and unhooking.
Georgiana Caversteed Wylde, however, was completely oblivious to the heated direction of his thoughts. She was far too engrossed in the hand-drawn cross section in front of her. Benedict bit back a wry smile. No doubt she’d grasp the technicalities of it far better than he could. She presumably knew her way around all manner of seafaring vessels, what with owning her own shipping line.
He suppressed a sigh and willed the ache in his groin to subside. Work before pleasure. His mantra.
“The Admiralty have intercepted several plans to rescue Bonaparte since he was placed on St. Helena,” he said. “Some of ’em more harebrained than others. One included the crew of a notorious privateer named the True Blooded Yankee invading the island from Brazil. Cockburn believes Bonaparte plans to travel to the United States, where his brother Joseph now lives, should a rescue attempt be successful.”
Georgie’s captivating grey eyes met his, and he fought to keep track of the conversation in the face of the distracting length of her eyelashes. This close, he noticed she had two little freckles on the bridge of her nose.
“How extraordinary,” she said.
Concentrate, Wylde, he reminded himself. He tapped the plans in front of her. “This suggests our friend O’Meara is involved in something similar.”
Chapter 22.
The plans they had stolen from O’Meara showed the design for a boat—or rather, a submersible vessel—of about twenty feet in length. The hull was divided into three chambers, with a central section for the operator and controls, and two end sections that could be filled with water or air as ballast to sink or rise. Despite her extensive knowledge of ships, she’d never seen anything quite like it. The revolutionary concept made her heart beat faster.
“Who designed this? And what did Admiral Cockburn say when you showed him?”
Wylde smiled at her evident enthusiasm. “He wasn’t best pleased, as it happens because he’s seen these plans before. They were stolen from the Admiralty about a year ago.”
Georgie blinked. “The Admiralty is developing a submarine?”
“They were, when we were at war with France.”
He indicated the seat behind her, and Georgie sat, then leaned forward, eager to hear the story.
“Around fifteen years ago, France paid an American inventor named Robert Fulton to develop a submarine to use against us,” he said. “He did so, but the Treaty of Amiens in 1802 put an end to the war. When hostilities resumed a year later, the French had lost interest in the project, but our own Admiralty had taken note. The government was terrified Napoleon would invade, and they thought Fulton’s innovations could help derail that, so they brought him over to our side.”
Georgie raised her brows. “Very sneaky.”
“All’s fair in love and war. Fulton moved to London and signed a contract with Prime Minister Pitt and Lord Melville, First Lord of the Admiralty, to attack fleets using his ‘submarine bombs.’ By October 1805, he’d actually succeeded in blowing up a brig with this ‘torpedo’ system.”
Wylde’s mouth twisted wryly. “Unfortunately for Fulton, Nelson destroyed the French fleet at Trafalgar that very same month. The Admiralty told him to stop work, believing the threat eliminated. He demanded to be paid in full, despite his invention never having been used. Some bitter negotiating ensued, which resulted in the vessel being broken up and Fulton returning to his homeland, very unhappy, in 1806.”
“What a shame!”
“That’s not the end of the tale, though. When war broke out with France again, four years ago, the Admiralty decided to revisit the idea. Since Fulton was working for the Americans by then, they contacted an acquaintance of his who’d helped make the original vessel, a character called Tom Johnstone.”
Georgie bounced in her chair. “This is fabulous! Just like one of Mr. Defoe’s adventure novels! Who is this Johnstone fellow?”
“A smuggler and an adventurer, by trade. But the Admiralty turned a blind eye to that and commissioned him to work on a new vessel using Fulton’s original designs.” He indicated the papers spread out on the desk. “These designs. They gave him enough money to start building and the use of a shipyard at Blackwall Reach on the Thames.”
“I have warehouses at Blackwall!” Georgie exclaimed. “This has all been going on right under my very nose! Did Johnstone build the vessel?”
“Not quite. Once again, the war ended before work was completed. Johnstone, like Fulton, was ordered to stop work, and went back to smuggling on the Kent coast. Until a few months ago, when Bow Street sent me to investigate rumors of a smuggler who was trying to engage a crew of competent sailors for a mysterious voyage.”
“You think it’s Johnstone?”
He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and nodded. “I do. He and O’Meara are in league together. When the Admiralty’s plans went missing, suspicion fell on a man named John Finlaison who was keeper of their records at the time, but nothing was ever proved. It turns out that Finlaison is a good friend of O’Meara’s. They corresponded regularly the entire time the doctor was stationed on St. Helena.”
“Aha! So O’Meara got hold of the plans and contacted Johnstone to build him a new submarine?”
“Precisely.”
Georgie tilted her head toward the papers and frowned. “But this design is extremely challenging, even for an experienced shipwright. It would take months to construct. You have plenty of time to find your man.”
Wylde shook his head. “Ah, but here’s the rub, as Shakespeare would say. Johnstone doesn’t have to build a whole new vessel. He only has to finish the one he started a few years ago.”
Georgie blinked. “What?”
“The Admiralty didn’t destroy Johnstone’s second model. It was put in dry dock in one of the navy’s warehouses—and then lost.”
“Lost? How does one lose a submarine?”
He chuckled. “I believe the actual phrase Admiral Cockburn used was ‘temporarily unaccounted for,’ but it’s the same thing. When the plans were stolen, they sent someone to check on it, but it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.”
Georgie let out a slow breath. “You think Johnstone and O’Meara have stolen it, don’t you?”
“That would be my guess.”
She sat back in a whoosh of skirts. “But this is unbelievable!”
His devilish grin brought out the roguish dimple on his cheek. “Isn’t it just?”
They sat in a companionable silence for a few moments, contemplating the unusual situation, then Georgie said, “It’s rather ironic, don’t you think, that someone is planning to rescue the French emperor with a British-made submarine designed by an American?”
He gave a world-weary shrug. “War’s like that. Nothing makes sense. Things always come back to bite you in the arse.”
She smiled at his cynical assessment. “So, what’s to be done? I assume Bow Street wants you to prevent any rescue attempt?”
He nodded. “Indeed. Unfortunately, being a smuggler, Johnstone is an expert at avoiding the authorities. I’ve been chasing him for months with no luck—that’s how I ended up in Newgate.”
She sent him a teasing smile. “We have him to thank for our introduction, then?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I suppose so. I’ll thank him, if we ever meet. Bow Street has men following O’Meara now, but he’ll be wary of leading us to Johnstone.” He exhaled slowly, and Georgie stifled the urge to lean over and kiss the scowl off his handsome face. He looked adorably frustrated.
“We need to find the submarine and stop it from sailing,” he said. “But neither Bow Street nor the Admiralty have enough manpower to start searching thousands of warehouses—assuming it’s even being stored here in London.” His hair flopped forward as he raked his hand through it. “Where would you even start?”
The question was rhetorical, but Georgie answered it anyway. “You have to narrow down your search. Have you considered that these plans might provide a way to trace him?”
“How?”
“Well, in the first instance, it’s unlikely the submarine has been moved very far from its original location. Blackwall is a busy place—ships unload at all hours of the day and night. Such an unusual vessel would be extremely conspicuous, which suggests they would have limited the time it was visible to the public. Plus, it has to be built close to the river, because they’ll need to test it, so that narrows your search even further.”
He rested his elbows on the desk, mirroring her position. “All that makes perfect sense, Captain Caversteed”—his lips quirked at the teasing nickname—“but even if it is somewhere near Blackwall, there are still hundreds of wharves and warehouses to look at.”
Georgie pulled the paper toward her and pointed at the craft. “Johnstone cannot be building this alone. Look at how complicated it is. It takes a whole team of men to make something even as simple as a rowboat. You need carpenters and block makers, caulkers to pitch the seams, rope makers, riggers to fit the spars and sails, anchor smiths and blacksmiths to provide the chains and all the brass fittings. That’s before you even get to these more unusual, bespoke parts.” She drew her finger over the section that detailed various complica
ted-looking portholes, piping, and mechanical instruments. “This requires all sorts of gauges and valves.”
She glanced up, and the blood rushed to her face as she realized Wylde was watching her with an amused, intent expression. It was the same kind of look she imagined visitors to a zoo bestowed on some perplexing new creature they’d never encountered before.
Oh, wonderful. Young ladies were supposed to go into raptures over the latest fashion plates in the Journal de Desmoiselles, not display an unseemly interest in technical drawings.
Well, she wasn’t going to hide her curiosity. Wylde would just have to take her as she was.
She cleared her throat. “I know many of the tradesmen who supply the shipbuilding yards, and I can tell you there are very few with the skills to make such complicated bits of machinery.”
His slow smile made her stomach flutter. “I think you might be onto something, Mrs. Wylde. Go on.”
She tried to ignore the feeling his appreciative gaze produced; it was as if she were basking in the warm glow of his approval. But it was a rare thing, to encounter a man who was neither astonished nor disgusted by her knowledge.
“The man who makes the instruments for my ships would be one of those experts,” she said. “His name is Mr. Harrison. Perhaps he can give you some insight. He may have supplied parts for this submarine or be able to suggest the name of someone else who might have.”
“That is a capital idea.” Wylde slapped his palms on his knees and stood, apparently having decided it was time for her to leave. Georgie did the same, swallowing a twinge of pique. She’d been enjoying their discussion.
He stepped around the desk, picked up her bonnet, and handed it to her. “Since you know this chap, and where he works, that makes you the ideal person to accompany me and make the introductions. Shall we say tomorrow, ten o’clock?”
She paused in the act of retying the ribbon of her bonnet and tried not to let her inner leap of excitement show. “You want me to pursue this case with you?”