With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

Squealing like a woman, Beaufort threw up his hands and ducked beneath the hissing cue stick. “She’s sailing to Australia!”

  God on the cross, the words took Drake’s breath away. “Aust-ral-ia?”

  “No!” cried Her Ladyship.

  “Which ship?” asked Calthorpe with calm ire. “There’s none sailing from London. Hasn’t been in over a year.”

  Drake spun on his heel. “You know this?”

  The baron’s shoulder inched up. “I play cards with the Governor of Newgate Prison.”

  As Beaufort tried to sidle away, Drake caught the bastard’s wrist. “Which port?”

  “I have no idea.” Twisting his arm away, Beaufort collapsed into a chair. “I told my man to send her to Australia on a convict ship. Then I washed my hands of the whole abhorrent affair.”

  “Your man?” asked Lady Calthorpe. “’Tis that scoundrel Gibbs, is it not?”

  Though her father did not reply, it was clear by his expression his daughter’s guess was right.

  Her Ladyship drew praying hands to her lips. “For the love of all that is holy, you must tell us where he’s taking her.”

  Beaufort jolted in an attempt to break free. “I know not. That I can admit with utter honesty. Now leave an old man to his peace. I have nothing more to say, especially to you, Ravenscar.”

  Drake loomed over the scoundrel—a bane to the aristocracy. “You’d best pray I find her, or I swear I will see to it you set sail on a sinking ship to hell.”

  “Come,” Calthorpe beckoned. “And let us hope the governor is at home.”

  Reluctantly, Drake stepped away from His Grace, and gave the baron a nod. They were losing time with every tick of the clock. No longer able to withstand the sight of this piss-swilling boar, he turned and hastened for the door.

  Once they reached the carriage, Drake pulled one of his footmen aside. “Haste to Half Moon Street. Saddle my horse and ride like hellfire to Newgate Prison.”

  “You want me to ride your horse? W-with your saddle, Your Grace?”

  “That’s what I said, and have Pennyworth fetch my pistols and dagger. Now run. There’ll be extra wages for you if you have the beast waiting by the time we arrive.”

  With a hasty bow, the lad sprinted away.

  Inside the carriage, Lady Calthorpe sat as primly as the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar. She held her back erect, though the corners of her mouth were taut with worry. “You do not believe that young man can make it to Newgate before our carriage?”

  “My town house is ten blocks away. And that boy is the fastest man in my employ—was a messenger when he was younger. And never underestimate the power of money. He’ll be there. Mark me.”

  Drake clenched his teeth, ready to jump out of his skin. Britannia might be a spitfire, but she was no match for a crew of seedy sailors on a three-month voyage to the south seas. A convict ship to boot. Look at how she’d wilted and swooned after merely crossing the channel! Healthy men perished at sea all the time. And she was so damned frail.

  Worse, the crew would throw her in the hold, feed her slop—Lord knows what more they would do.

  Drake’s stomach roiled.

  By God, he refused to consider it. He would find her. There was no question. He must.

  I love her with every fiber of my being.

  Drake had been right. The footman arrived at Newgate Prison just as he and the Goughs alighted from the carriage.

  “I have news, Your Grace,” said the lad.

  Drake’s heart leaped. “Yes?”

  “Miss Renaud has been found. Pennyworth thought you would want to know.”

  “Thank you.” Drake eyed Her Ladyship. “Well, at least we’re only searching for one woman.”

  “One too many,” she agreed.

  The lad waited outside, holding the horse while Calthorpe gained entry to the governor’s quarters. Of course, they were met with exasperation due to the lateness of the hour. But it couldn’t be helped.

  Once the governor realized he was not only being addressed by a baron, but a duke had taken pains to darken his door at this hour, his sleepy demeanor perked considerably. “Indeed, I have a schedule of all convict ships sailing for Australia. ’Tis in my offices. Follow me.”

  Drake marched behind the man. “Lord Calthorpe tells me there hasn’t been a convict ship sail from London for quite some time.”

  “That’s right. To make the crossing, large ships are necessary, and the Thames just isn’t equipped—there are far too many merchant ships, I should add. Society doesn’t care to have a vessel laden with ne’er-do-wells anchored in the Pool of London. It just isn’t good use of prime moorage.”

  “How do you transport the prisoners to the ships?” asked Drake.

  “By wagon mostly.” Stopping outside a big oak door, the governor grappled for a ring of keys tied to his belt.

  “And from which ports do they usually sail?” asked Her Ladyship.

  “All of them, honestly. I sent a wagon full of thieves all the way to Maryport last month.”

  Drake followed the governor inside, praying for a closer port…but not too close. The further away, the better chance he’d have of intercepting her kidnapper before he reached its destination.

  “The book is just here. My clerk enters the ship’s name and expected date and port of departure.”

  “Expected?” asked Drake.

  “Well, all manner of things can go wrong, what with the weather and the like.”

  Lady Calthorpe crossed herself. “Jesu save us.”

  The governor opened a large, bound volume atop his table. “Let me see,” he hummed as if he had all night to turn the bloody pages.

  Drake was about to rip the book from the man’s grasp when the governor’s pointer finger stilled. “Here we are. The Lloyds, a four-masted barque sails from Portsmouth on August 19th.”

  “That’s two days hence.”

  Calthorpe glanced to the mantel clock. “One, actually, given ’tis just past the witching hour.”

  “At a fast trot I can reach Portsmouth in ten hours.” Drake tugged on his gloves. “I shall leave at once. If I ride all night, I’ll be there before midday. I’ll find her well in advance of the Lloyds sailing time.”

  “A moment.” The governor scanned down the page a bit. “There’s a brig, the Amphitrite, scheduled to depart Plymouth on the twenty-first.”

  “Plymouth?” Her Ladyship fanned her face. “What if Britannia is not in Portsmouth? Can His Grace reach Plymouth in two days?”

  “If nothing goes awry,” said Calthorpe.

  Drake shot the baron a stern look. “I will allow no one and no obstacle to stand in my way.”

  Oblivious to the conversation, the governor continued, “Furthermore, there’s not another ship sailing for Australia until the Royal Sovereign departs Port Chatham on the sixth of September.”

  Drake leaned over and read the entry. “Then it’s either Portsmouth or Plymouth.”

  Her Ladyship did the same. “Very well, count on the Goughs to do our part to save Britannia. Calthorpe and I will travel on to Plymouth in the morning. ’Tis a two-day carriage ride, is it not, Freddy?”

  “A long two days, but even if it takes us three, we’ll arrive in plenty of time to locate both the Amphitrite and Miss LeClair,” said the baron. “Jolly good idea, my dear.”

  “You would travel all that way, my lady?” asked Drake.

  “She’s my daughter. After nineteen years, I’m not planning to lose her yet again.”

  Drake bowed. “Then it is settled. I’ll ride to Portsmouth. If I find Britannia along the way, I’ll send word to Plymouth. If, heaven forbid, I do not intercept her, I’ll continue on and meet you there.”

  “We’ll stay at the King’s Inn. Send your correspondence there.”

  “Your Grace.” The governor clasped his hands. “Might I suggest you wait until morning and give me a chance to organize His Majesty’s dragoons to accompany you to the coast?”

  “There won’t be
time. I must leave straightaway. Miss LeClair is in dire straits and I cannot bear to see her suffer any longer than necessary.”

  “In the meantime,” said Her Ladyship. “Can you issue a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Walter Gibbs? He’s the man who has abducted Miss LeClair. I do not want to leave anything to chance.”

  “Gibbs? The runner?” the governor asked in disbelief.

  “He’s the one,” replied His Lordship.

  “Very well. I shall attend to it straightaway.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was still dark when the carriage rolled to a stop. “Where are we?” Bria asked, her hands tied to a metal handle beneath the window.

  Gibbs pulled down on the latch. “An inn. We’ll stop here for the night. But right now, I expect you to wait here without making a sound.” He hopped out and slammed the door.

  “Mr. Gibbs,” a man called while footsteps approached. “I haven’t seen you around these parts for ages.”

  “I’ve moved on from Bow Street. Opened my own establishment. But presently I’m escorting a lady convict—a special case, if you will.”

  “Oh, my. Is she dangerous?”

  “A thief—headed for fourteen years transport.”

  “I am not a thief!” Bria shouted. “My name is Britannia LeClair. I am the principal ballerina in La Sylphide at the Chadwick Theater in London!” Curses to remaining quiet. She’d profess her innocence to everyone who’d listen.

  “And she’s a tad delusional,” the scoundrel’s reedy voice seeped through the carriage walls.

  “You’re the one who has lost his mind, Mr. Gibbs. Help me! Please!”

  “I should have gagged her.”

  “Are you certain?” asked the new voice. “She sounds convincing.”

  “You would go against the ruling of the Circuit Court?” Gibbs countered, the lout.

  “Of course not.”

  “There is no ruling! There has been no arrest! I have been kidnapped!” Bria screamed so loudly, her throat burned.

  “Do you still have the holding cell out the back?” the bastard continued.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And the key?”

  “Where it always is.”

  “Please!” Britannia tried again. “You must believe me. I am innocent. This man kidnapped me from the theater and is holding me against my will.” Under her breath, she cursed Gibbs to hell in both Latin and French.

  “She sounds awfully young,” said the man. “Do you think she’ll survive fourteen years?”

  “She should have thought about that before she stole the necklace from the Duke of Beaufort. I’ve been assigned with seeing her to the ship. After that, only her wits will keep her alive.”

  In the blink of an eye, Bria’s skin chilled with the coursing of ice through her blood.

  Beaufort? Lady Calthorpe’s father?

  “What are you saying?” she shouted. “The miniature is mine! I found it in Bayeux in a box with my name inscribed atop.”

  Gibbs opened the coach door. Her heart raced as she fought against her bindings.

  She spat in his face. “You deceitful blackguard! First you took my payment, then you lied about Lady Hertford, and now—”

  He worked loose the knot tying her hands to the handle. “I didn’t lie about the dowager marchioness. She was embroiled in an affair with George just as I reported.”

  “I think you knew who my mother was from the outset. I think you—”

  He slapped her. “Shut up.”

  “How dare you?” Bria’s cheek stung like the attack of angry bees. Her eyes watered. “I will never forgive you as long as I live.”

  Uttering not another word, Gibbs yanked her down the steps and dragged her toward a stable. “Pull the carriage off the drive and put up the horses. We’re leaving at nine o’clock on the hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the coachman.

  “Do you want to be a party to kidnapping?” Britannia barked at the driver, her words met with a backhand. The strike only served to ratchet up her anger. Gibbs could manhandle her all he dared. She would die before he pushed her aboard a convict ship bound for ungodly Australia.

  “Do you know who pays my wages?” she looked directly toward the driver, the whites of his eyes prominent in the moonlight. “The Duke of Ravenscar. And if you are a party to this madness, you will swing from the gallows with Mr. Gibbs, so help me God!”

  Turning away, the man took up the reins as if he were deaf.

  Gibbs shoved her into a shadowy, dank cell with nothing but iron bars in place of windows and doors.

  “You will not get away with this!” she shouted.

  He slammed the door and affixed a padlock. “Oh, but I will.”

  Wrapping her fingers around the bars, Bria shook with all her strength. “Why? Why has my grandfather done this? I did nothing. I hurt no one!” A new bout of chills spread across her skin when she referred to Beaufort as her grandfather. If he was the patriarch of her family, she’d choose being a foundling!

  Near half-past three, Drake jerked up from being hunched over his horse’s withers. Shaking himself awake, he reined the stallion to a stop in Guildford to pound on the innkeeper’s door. A man opened with a string of expletives that would have put a jack tar to shame.

  Drake apologized, announced himself, and asked about Britannia, giving a description of Gibbs.

  “The only guests we have at the moment are a merchant and a couple from Southampton.” The man gestured inside. “You look as if you could use a rest. The king’s chamber is let, but I have a soft bed in a respectable room.”

  “Thank you, but no. I must continue on.”

  “Wait a moment, Your Grace. I’ve a bit of cheese and some bread for your journey.”

  “Such a kindness, I did not expect. Please allow me to pay for the meal.”

  “Not necessary. People will come for miles to hear a good yarn.” The innkeeper beckoned him inside. “I couldn’t have dreamed this up, having the Duke of Ravenscar pull me out of bed in the middle of the night in search of a woman.”

  The man led him to the kitchens. “Is she highborn like yourself?”

  Drake wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Higher.”

  After slicing a chunk of cheese, the innkeeper wrapped it in some parchment with a half-loaf of bread. “Higher than a duke?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Lord blind me. And some cad has off and kidnapped her?”

  “The man’s name is Gibbs. The woman is no taller than the center of my chest. Petite. Cinnamon hair. Eyes like aged whisky. If you see anyone fitting my description, send word to Portsmouth straightaway. There will be a reward.”

  The innkeeper held out the food wrapped in leather and tied with a thong. “How much of a reward?”

  “Sizeable.” Drake took the parcel. “Thank you for this.”

  He ate the food as he rode which helped subdue his fatigue. A few miles on, the hint of cobalt illuminated the eastern sky. In another few hours, he’d arrive in Portsmouth. Had Gibbs ridden all night? Had Drake passed them? Was the scoundrel taking a circuitous route? Surely, he wouldn’t veer far from the turnpike?

  No sooner had doubt filled Drake’s mind, when he passed a signpost pointing to the left, indicating the Stag Inn was a mile down the road. He slowed his horse when he spotted fresh carriage tracks, at least by the darker shadows, they looked to be fresh. One wheel had swerved off the road and made a rut in the grass.

  Prickles fanned out across his nape as he dismounted and studied the tracks—they were newly carved, all right. The mud around the edges hadn’t yet begun to curve inward.

  Even on the turnpike, there were stretches of road in poor repair. Drake had seen ruts and hoofprints galore, but due to the traffic, there was no possible way to guess which ruts had been made by Gibbs’ carriage.

  Was he utilizing a carriage?

  Most likely.

  Was this rut caused by Gibbs’ carriage?

  The only way
to find out was to take a detour.

  Dawn came, illuminating the narrow road cutting through a canopy of trees with misty shadows of foreboding. Drake checked his pocket watch—a quarter to six. Riding down a mile to have a look around would cost him fifteen or twenty minutes. His gut squeezed while a shiver coursed up his spine.

  Damnation, it was dawn on August 18th and the Lloyds wasn’t scheduled to sail until the 19th. He could spare twenty bloody minutes for a hunch.

  A pistol at each hip and his dagger at his back, Drake cued his horse forward, but he didn’t ride on the road—he opted for the grass. Though the road was dirt and rock, his horse’s hooves could be heard yards away each time the stallion’s shod hooves kicked a stone.

  The mist had grown thicker by the time he reached the Stag Inn. On first glance, nothing seemed amiss until he rode around the side of the stables. There was a carriage all right, an expensive one. A conveyance not unlike the town coach Drake owned.

  He dismounted, tied his horse and crept to the carriage. Inside, he found a length of rope on the floor. Rope?

  It wasn’t all that unusual, though the piece was too short for tethering a horse.

  A thud sounded.

  Drake froze.

  Another thud.

  Someone’s chopping wood.

  At a crouch, he tiptoed toward the sound.

  A boy no more than ten years of age swung an ax, splitting a log in two. Drake waited while the lad collected another stick and set it on the block. As soon as he raised the ax for another chop, Drake lunged in, seized the ax and clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth.

  Screaming and thrashing, the lad fought.

  “Silence!” Drake growled. “I am not here to hurt you. I am searching for a woman who was kidnapped in London last eve.”

  The boy froze, his eyes wide and afraid.

  “When did that carriage arrive?” He slid his hand down to the boy’s jaw to allow him to talk. Though God save him if he tried to holler for help.

  “Last night. L-late. Well past dark.”

  “Did you see a woman?”

  The lad’s eyes shifted.

  Drake tightened his grip as he followed the young fellow’s line of sight. “Jesu. Is she in there?”