The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  Surely in all this mess there was some object sharp enough to cut these ropes. She poked a pile of dirty clothes with her toe, wrinkling her nose. No help there. But she did as Pippa had silently ordered, shunting herself off the sea chest and heading to the messy desk. Without caring, she used her wrists to shove papers to the floor, topple a stack of rolled charts, and rattle all the drawers. One drawer opened, and she pounced on a letter opener. It was as dull as a spoon, but still, it was better than nothing and could be a potential weapon.

  Then her eyes fell on the sea chest. A hefty lock kept the hasp closed, but … She went down on her knees and began probing the lock with the letter opener. If she could just force it …

  Her mouth fell open at the same time the lock fell into her hand. The metal had rusted to the point of disintegration, and the captain, the slob, hadn’t replaced it.

  “Thank You, Lord. Please let there be something inside to help us.”

  She shoved the metal-strapped lid up to explore the contents. More dirty clothes, some rolled papers, and … a cutlass. She pulled it out of the cloth wrappings, struggling with the weight and length with her hands bound. At her squeal, Pippa turned and shuffled over, holding out her hands. In moments they were free.

  “Keep searching for weapons. We have to be ready for when he returns,” Charlotte said when Pippa cut her gag away. “I only hope Marcus comes before that happens.”

  “Where did you get this?” Marcus held up the gold-and-emerald locket with one hand, while the other fisted in the dockworker’s collar.

  The stevedore’s friend tried to intervene, but a meaty paw reached over and plucked him away. “Run along, lad. This doesn’t concern you.” Partridge joined Marcus. “No sign of them on the west end. What have you found?”

  Marcus turned the dockworker over to Partridge’s capable keeping, ensuring he was both secured and scared before asking him once more, “Where did you get this?”

  With eyes goggling, whether from Partridge’s stranglehold or guilt, the man sputtered, “Bought it off a navvy. He said he found it in one of the warehouses.”

  “Which warehouse?”

  “I dunno, but he works here at Carnaby’s.” He couldn’t shrug, because Partridge had him right up on the tips of his boots, nearly off the ground. “I paid three shillings for it. I didn’t steal it.”

  They had to be close.

  Marcus glanced at the locket, the prize won the night he and Charlotte had partnered each other for the whist tournament. The night that started him down the path to marrying her. He closed his fist around the jewelry, plunging it deeply into his pocket. He would find her and return it to her.

  “Which one of these is Carnaby’s Warehouse?”

  “Right there, guv!” The man pointed to a building up the row. “With the open doors.”

  Partridge dropped the man, who sagged to his knees, grabbing his throat.

  “What about my three shillings?”

  When the big man turned back, the dockworker threw up his hands. “I can do without.”

  Marcus strode toward the indicated warehouse, where a man pushed a cart laden with an immense crate through the open doorway.

  “Hold up there.” Marcus approached. “Have you seen two women come through here today? In the company of a man?”

  The worker stopped pushing the cart, his eyes wary. “They ain’t here. I ain’t seen nothing.” The lie was so plain it could have been written in ink on the man’s forehead.

  “But they were here.” Marcus looked past the man into the dark interior of the warehouse. Aromatic barrels filled the perimeter of the building, leaving a narrow space down the center where wagons could be pulled through and loaded or unloaded.

  When the man made to move around Marcus, Partridge stepped into his path, crossing his arms. Marcus was running out of patience, and he opened his cloak to reveal the pistol tucked into his waistband.

  The warehouse worker blinked, shrugged, and shook his head. “It’s mor’n my job is worth to tell you, but there were two ladies here, and they didn’t look like they wanted to be. They were taken to the Minerva. She wasn’t slated to leave for two more days, but the captain was ashore a while ago trying to get permission and a pathway to depart as soon as the tide turns.”

  Hope sparked in Marcus’s chest. “Where is the Minerva now?”

  “First ship along that way.” He pointed to their left as they looked at the water. “Got a full crew aboard, pretty mean. I’d take care if I was you.” He picked up the handles of his cart once more and scuttled away.

  Marcus was already on his way up the quayside, pulling out his pistol.

  “Hold up, sir. Take some time to see the lay of the land before you charge in there.” Partridge gripped his shoulder from behind and drew him between two stacks of crates. “Won’t do the missus any good if you get your fool head blown off because you weren’t careful. What’s happened to your craft? You’re all at sixes and sevens.” He scowled.

  Realizing Partridge was right, Marcus slowed and took stock of the situation. The ship looked like so many around them, berthed side-on to the quay for easy loading. The prow bore the figurehead of a woman in a Roman helmet. Appropriate for a ship called Minerva. Men moved over the deck, and some stood around watching the shore. Guards?

  “Think we should send word to Sir Noel, or should we take the ship ourselves?” Partridge asked, pulling a long knife out of the top of his boot and checking it for sharpness. His voice was as mild as a summer day. “There can’t be more than thirty or forty sailors, right?”

  Marcus edged back so as not to draw attention to himself. “If you can account for twenty or thirty of them, that would only leave ten for me.” He spoke dryly, knowing Partridge would take it for the sarcasm it was. Dare they wait for Sir Noel? He had indicated that he was gathering a force to head to the docks, but Marcus had no idea when he might arrive.

  “We can’t wait. No telling what Ratcliffe might do, especially if he sees anyone approaching.” Marcus studied the ship, looking for a way aboard, wishing it was dark rather than midafternoon. In the dark he could be on that ship in three minutes with no one the wiser.

  “What we need here is a nice diversion.” Partridge slipped his knife back into his boot and leaned against the side of the building. “I’ll see to that, and you can get aboard.”

  Marcus nodded. He didn’t ask what the diversion would be. Knowing Partridge, it would not be subtle.

  “Wait for me. It might take a bit to find what I’m looking for.” Partridge clouted him on the shoulder with a meaty paw and disappeared around the corner.

  Marcus kept his hood up, cloak closed, darting the occasional look around the corner of the pile of crates.

  After what felt like an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes or so, a thunderous boom shook the dock area. Marcus instinctively flattened on the cobbles as if back on the battlefield and taking artillery fire. Window glass blew out of the Carnaby Warehouse, along with a huge bolus of smoke. Pops, flashing lights, and sparks flared through every opening, red, green, yellow. The smell of burnt gunpowder and cigars filled the air.

  Still stunned by the noise, Marcus found himself smiling. Partridge must have gotten his hands on a serious amount of fireworks. He’d set fire to a warehouse of tobacco. Guy Fawkes himself couldn’t have gotten a better result.

  Men ran, shouted, and gawked. Partridge appeared out of the smoke, motioning frantically and shouting, “We need a bucket brigade. All hands. The warehouse is burning!”

  “It will spread to the others. Hurry!” another man shouted.

  Men ran from all directions, including the ships. The crew of the Minerva raced across the gangway, buckets dangling from their hands, pushing and hurrying to get to the fire.

  “Form a line!”

  When the last man Marcus could see aboard ship had raced to the fire, he took the opportunity to run across the planks and jump onto the deck of the Minerva. None of the sailors who had bolt
ed off the ship had been Ratcliffe, so either he wasn’t here, or he was still somewhere aboard. Pistol in hand, Marcus put his arm up to cover his face as black smoke billowed out of the warehouse, stinging his eyes and throat. Where would Ratcliffe put his prisoners? He was a creature for comfort, always well dressed, so possibly the captain’s cabin. But he was also evil and cruel, and he might want to punish or scare his captives. He might have thrown them in the hold.

  Marcus headed for the captain’s cabin. He’d check there first and work his way downward. That way he might cut off Ratcliffe’s escape routes in the process. He descended the short flight of stairs, entering a wardroom with hammocks hanging from hooks along the wall. The ship was a sty, with sailors’ belongings and equipment and detritus piled everywhere.

  Footsteps pounded behind him, and he whirled, pistol raised.

  “Pretty good, wasn’t it, sir?” Partridge grinned from a soot-streaked face. “Figured if something was going to go up in smoke, it should be Ratcliffe’s own warehouse.”

  “I only hope you haven’t ignited the entire district.”

  “Never you worry. A lot of smoke and noise but not much real fire. I pulled a few barrels of tobacco into the middle of the room and set ’em alight before I shot off a few rockets. There are plenty of dockhands dousing the place with water. The entire stock will be ruined.” He grinned, unrepentant.

  “Let’s split up. You check the holds, and I’ll check the cabins.” Marcus motioned with his pistol. “There’s no way Ratcliffe missed that explosion, so he’s staying hidden for a reason.”

  Marcus crept down the passageway, hearing a scuffling noise ahead. He quickened his steps, finding a wooden bar on the floor and the end door open. Inside, glass shattered and a man yelled.

  “You’ve got courage, I’ll award you that. I don’t know how you got your hands on a cutlass. None of the other women I’ve brought here has found it, or even tried.” Ratcliffe spread his legs in a crouch, holding a dagger lightly. He’d burst into the room moments after the entire ship had been rocked by some sort of explosion.

  Pippa lay on the floor, holding her ribs, victim of a vicious kick administered by Ratcliffe when she’d rushed him with a chamber pot raised over her head to crack him on the skull. She and the china had dropped immediately.

  Holding the cutlass before her, Charlotte tried to remember a few of the things Marcus had taught her during their fencing lesson, but she couldn’t bring anything specific to mind. She’d just have to rely on her wits.

  The tang of smoke filled the air, and black clouds obscured the view from the stern windows. Something was burning, and Charlotte hoped it wasn’t the ship.

  “I should have killed you when I first had the chance. Still, a pleasure delayed …” He crossed before her, moving the knife in small circles.

  “My husband is going to find you. And when he does, you’re going to regret taking me.” Charlotte edged away, her back hitting the windows.

  “Your husband has been blundering around in the dark for a year. I’ve watched him run in circles and up every blind alley, searching for something that isn’t there while the truth nearly smacked him in the face. I almost laughed when he invited me to be a guest in his home.”

  “You’re mistaken. He hasn’t been blundering about in the dark. He’s been digging through your past, turning over all the disgusting rocks of your life and finding the filth and lies you’ve tried to hide. And he invited you to be his guest on purpose. You’re the one who fell into his trap. He wanted you where he could keep his eye on you while he gathered the information he needed to prove your guilt. He found your bookkeeper, and the man broke open like a dropped bottle. When Marcus arrives, you’ll never breathe free air again.” If she could keep his attention focused on her, perhaps Pippa could escape. Her sister had gotten to her feet, bent at the waist against the pain her barely healed ribs must be giving her.

  “When Haverly arrives, if he arrives before we set sail, it will be to find his wife’s dead body decorating a yardarm.”

  “Run!” Charlotte shouted. Using the hilt of the cutlass, Charlotte jerked backward, breaking the window at her elbow.

  Ratcliffe turned his head for an instant. Pippa ran through the door as Charlotte lunged forward, slicing downward with the sword, slashing through Ratcliffe’s coat, shirt, and upper arm.

  He bellowed, blood streaming down his arm, his eyes wild.

  Knife raised, he advanced, and as she lifted the point of the sword once more, a deafening explosion filled the small cabin. Ratcliffe froze, knife poised to strike, and then like a rag doll with the stuffing leaking out, he sagged to his knees, the blade clattering to the floor.

  Marcus stood in the doorway, smoke leaking from the barrel of his pistol.

  He tossed aside the gun, striding across the room but halting in front of her. She realized she still held the sword up, and with a half sob, half laugh, she let it fall and put her hands over her face. Relief made her weak, and she would have fallen if his arms hadn’t come around her.

  Burying her face in his shirtfront, she allowed him to hold her for a long moment. His chin rubbed the top of her head, and his hands stroked her back. “Shh, I’ve got you. It’s all right, darling.”

  Charlotte raised her head. “Pippa?”

  “She’s with Partridge.” He brushed a kiss on her forehead.

  The sound of footsteps in the passageway had Marcus turning, pushing Charlotte behind him to confront this new danger. Her heart leapt into her throat again. Was it the captain returning or the crew?

  Sir Noel St. Clair entered, followed by several men brandishing pistols. He took in the scene and gave a curt nod, his gaze resting longest on the crumpled form of Ratcliffe slowly leaking blood onto the dirty floor.

  “Well done.” He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a pipe, clamping his teeth onto the stem. “Looks as if you’ve saved the Crown the expense of a trial.” He jerked his head toward the door, and the men who had come in with him filed out. “I regret it took us so long to arrive. The Bow Street Runners had been dispatched throughout the city looking for Ratcliffe, and reassembling them took some time.”

  “Better late than never, sir.” Marcus’s voice sounded shaky, and he leaned against the windowsill as he put his arm around Charlotte’s waist. “I’m taking my wife home now. I’ll write up my report later.”

  “Very well. I’ll see to cleaning things up here. Whose idea was it to nearly burn down the warehouse district?” He eyed those present.

  “That was me, sir.” Partridge entered. “Clever, wasn’t it?” The big man preened. “Your Grace, your sister is refusing to leave without you. She needs a doctor, but she won’t budge until she sees you.”

  How many times had Charlotte taken umbrage at the thought of a man helping a woman cross a room as though she were somehow fragile and incapable of taking care of herself? However, when Marcus kept his arm about her waist, she found it comforting and right. What a difference a few months could make.

  Something stirred behind them, and St. Clair’s expression changed. Marcus’s grip on her waist tightened, and he shoved her into his supervisor’s arms.

  Partridge shouted from the door, and Charlotte swiveled her head in time to see Ratcliffe pushing himself up from the floorboards. Blood dripped from his hand, and his eyes burned with crazed fire. Though he staggered into the edge of the desk, he didn’t lose his grip on the cutlass.

  “Put that down, Ratcliffe. It’s over.” Marcus’s voice was coated in ice. “You’re beaten. We know everything.”

  “I’ll not die at the hands of the hangman.” Red trickled from his mouth. When he leered, blood stained his teeth.

  Charlotte started forward, but St. Clair held her back. Marcus had dropped his empty pistol when he’d shot Ratcliffe the first time. He had no protection, no weapon. Why did his friends just stand by without helping him?

  Like a viper, Ratcliffe raised the cutlass to strike, and Charlotte screamed. Marcus
moved almost too swiftly to see, his hand coming from under his dirty cloak. With a ripping sound, a knife tore through the air, burying itself to the hilt in Ratcliffe’s chest with a mortal thud.

  The color drained from Ratcliffe’s face, replaced by ashen shock. With a clatter, the cutlass hit the floor, and his hand came up to scrabble feebly at the dagger. With agonizing slowness, he sank to the floor, sprawling on his side, his eyes glassy and staring into nothing as he breathed his last.

  Charlotte sagged against the doorframe, staring at her husband.

  Sir Noel took his pipe from his lips. “You haven’t lost your touch with a blade, Marcus. I’ll report to the Prince Regent and see this mess is cleaned up. Best you start concocting a story to fit today’s events that won’t expose your identity as an agent for the Crown, Your Grace. Or better yet, let your wife do it. She’s every bit as intelligent as I’ve been told.” He sketched a small bow.

  Marcus pulled the hood of his cloak up and took Charlotte’s arm. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t report in over the next several days? We’ve got some things to sort out at home.”

  Charlotte didn’t know what he meant by that, and she was too weary to work it out at the moment.

  CHAPTER 17

  BY THE TIME they reached Haverly House, Charlotte was ready to drop. The sun was setting as they mounted the stairs. Partridge carried Pippa, ignoring her protests, and Marcus supported Charlotte. Again, she found herself not minding.

  “Send for a doctor,” Marcus ordered the footman, Pratt, who had a lovely purple eye to show for his encounter with Ratcliffe earlier that day. Had it been really only that morning?

  “No,” Pippa protested as Partridge mounted the stairs as if conquering a mountain. “I don’t want a doctor. I just need Aunt Dolly.”

  “For once would you not argue?” Charlotte asked, feeling limp. “You need a physician. The kick you took was no trifle.”