Whitby saluted with his glass and drank. “You’ll find, Kennett, that there’s a fine art to giving Jess orders.”
Time to tell him and pray the man knew something that could help. “An hour ago your daughter ran into the Whitechapel rookery as if all the Hounds of Hell were after her.” He waited for that to sink in. “Unless you can think of some way to get her back, she’ll be in a brothel by tomorrow morning. Learn to take orders there, I should imagine. Salut.”
The old man’s eyes turned to brown rock. This was the Josiah Whitby who’d faced down the mob in Izmir and plucked a crew of men back from hanging. This was the king smuggler who ran his gang of cutthroats under the noses of the customs. “The Hounds of Hell being yourself, I take it.”
“Being the British Service.” He didn’t try to hide the anger that filled him. “She gave the slip to men who were supposed to protect her. Fast as a greyhound, your Jess. Comes from all those years doing your dangerous errands. And Lazarus’s. She must be used to running scared.”
Whitby slapped his drink down, rattling. “No games, Kennett. I don’t need to be rooked into helping Jess. Why’d she run from you?”
“We would have stopped her going to Pitney.”
There was not the smallest change in Whitby’s eyes. “Pitney.”
“The part of Cinq that used your company to commit treason.”
A minute passed. Whitby gave a nod. “I wasn’t sure myself, till they told me it was Whitby ships. Then I knew.” He wiped at the spilled drops of port with the side of his hand. “I wish it hadn’t been Jess who found this out. She’ll take it as her fault somehow.”
“He has a dangerous partner—the man who was behind this all. If Jess shows up, Pitney won’t be able to protect her. I have to get to her. Where are they?”
“What happens to Pitney?”
He didn’t answer. They both knew there’d be no amnesty for Pitney.
Whitby sat back in his chair and stared out the window, past the bars. Three sparrows were on the windowsill, tucking into crumbs of bread. It’d be Whitby who set that out for them.
“I’ve known Pitney for thirty years.” Whitby drank and set the glass down. “Jess is headed for the docks. There’s a warehouse. The old Belkey warehouse on Asker Street. That’s the conduit out of England.”
Asker Street. Jess had lost her bodyguard near Commercial Road. That was a long, treacherous walk for a woman. He stood up. “I’ll find her.”
A sleek gray muzzle poked out from behind the curtain. The beady nose sniffed in his direction and slithered toward him. Jess’s vermin.
He said, “Touch my boots and you die.”
There was no fear in the ferret. It was like Jess, that way. It stood on its hindquarters to snuffle up his leg to the thigh. Then it set a clawed foot on him, for balance, and started sniffing across his hand.
“He smells Jess on thee,” Whitby said.
“If it bites, I’m going to wring its neck.”
“I’ve thought of fricassee ferret, myself, from time t’ time.”
“She can’t walk through Limehouse alone. Who will she go to?” The ferret made an odd half scramble, still sniffing, following him to the door.
“It’s been too long, Kennett. Her old friends have gone. Everything’s changed. She doesn’t belong there anymore.”
“Then she should damn well stay out of there.”
The study door wasn’t locked. That was Adrian’s acknowledgment of Whitby’s innocence. The ferret, damn its furry soul, scuttled along at his bootside like a pointy-toothed dog.
“Take him. There’s a carrying cage in the hall.” Whitby stood to watch him go, his hands on the desk, balled into fists. “Take him along for luck, Kennett. He won’t get in the way. And if you get close to Jess, let him out, and he’ll find her for you.”
It was easier to bring the vermin than argue.
“She’ll get to Pitney, wherever he is,” Whitby said. “Whatever he’s done, she’ll get him out of England, and safe. Loyal to the death, my Jess. That’s another reason you have to be careful, giving her orders. If you belong to her, she’ll move the foundations of the earth for you.”
PITNEY dropped the seabag at his feet. It was the same one he’d carried thirty years ago when he signed on with Josiah. Nothing in it but some handfuls of money and a few changes of clothes. Not much to show for a lifetime. He was old now and a pariah and he’d sold his soul for a mass of pottage. It’d be hard to start over in some seaport in the East.
He said, “I left a letter.”
“Inevitably,” the smooth, cold voice beside him said. “The tool turns against its master. Napoleon himself was betrayed by Barras.”
“I named Buchanan. I told them he planted the false evidence and where and how. I named the Frenchmen. And you. I’ve left more than enough proof to hang us all. Josiah’s going to walk free before this day is out and he’ll come looking for vengeance. He won’t come after me, because we were friends, once. But I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“I’ve arranged my own protection against Whitby. He won’t touch me.”
“Maybe not.” It didn’t matter. There wasn’t much that mattered to a man after he’d betrayed his friends. He couldn’t even say why he’d done it. The company felt like his own, after all these years. The warehouse and the ships. It hadn’t seemed wrong to do some smuggling on the side and keep it off the books.
It had fallen apart. He’d done treason. He still didn’t know how he’d come to it.
The voice behind him just wouldn’t stop. “The Republic doesn’t forget its heroes. There’s a place prepared for me. I go into honorable exile, and only for a time. When the emperor rides in triumph down Pall Mall, I’ll be one of the men behind him. They’ll need Englishmen to lead the new government. I have experience.”
Pitney heard the cocking of a gun. He allowed himself one final look at the brown water of the Thames and the clean blue sky above it. He turned.
He didn’t want to be shot in the back.
LIMEHOUSE was full of sailors and stevedores of every country and race known to man, most of them rolling drunk, even in the middle of the day. It was a gauntlet she wouldn’t have wanted to run alone.
Belkey’s warehouse was a quarter mile farther on, in Asker Street, in a row of falling-down waterfront warehouses, slated for destruction. Most were empty now or holding bulk storage.
The Reverend kept beside her. His black jacket and white collar cleared a path for them through the sailors and whores. Men respected his cloth or wanted to avoid the sermons men of religion passed out in this part of town. The locals recognized him and knew he was under Lazarus’s protection.
Asker Street, by the docks, was mostly deserted. The Belkey warehouse, halfway along, had been closed up for a year. Grass grew in the spaces between the cobbles of the loading yard. The windows were broken, even up on the third and fourth story. Must have taken weeks for the local lads to throw rocks that high and break out every blessed pane. Nothing like a challenge.
No sign of life. Nobody had made himself at home in that rubble on the far side of the yard or in some cozy corner of the fence. That alone meant somebody stayed here regular to rout the squatters out. Dogs had set up housekeeping, though. There were a dozen of them, mean and hardy and wise, crouching behind the broken boards of the fence. They watched strangers cross the open space, staying safe in the shadows. The boys in this district taught dogs to be wary of humans.
The river smell was strong. Just the other side of the warehouse wall lay the stinking mud of the Thames. Cold, damp air blew off that water, leaving a bad taste in the mouth. At the wharves, just out of sight, ships creaked and snapped and banged. Chain rattled and there was a sudden loud pop, like a distant gun. It was never quiet down at the docks.
Pitney might still be here, waiting, out of sight, or he might have come and gone. Either way, there’d be a man inside the warehouse, alert and capable, with a boat ready any hour of the day or n
ight. Papa always had a back door out of any city they lived in. Nobody more careful than Papa.
The door in the side of the warehouse was an inch open.
“This is unlocked,” the Reverend said.
“I expect the locks got pulled off some time ago.”
At first, when she walked in, the place looked empty. Gutted. The storage racks had been pulled down and the wood stolen for fuel. Bars of sun slanted through the broken windows.
Somebody was living here. She smelled beer and piss and charcoal and stale food. There’d be rats. There were always rats. “You better stay outside, Reverend, till I see what’s what.”
“I won’t leave you alone. I’ve seen worse, Jess.”
On the far side of the open floor, below the windows, a bedstead was shoved up against the brick wall. Beside that was a charcoal stove with a kettle on it. Good signs. Whitby’s man would show up soon enough.
She led the way inward, past dark, empty arches where they used to store cargo, toward that patch of domesticity. She didn’t see what stepped out behind her and looped a cord around her throat. The world was gone, sudden as snuffing out a candle.
“IT’S the Reverend,” Adrian said.
Sebastian rolled him over. The man groaned and his eyelids fluttered. There was blood on his forehead where he’d hit the floor.
Jess had been here. The ferret chittered in its cage, lashing its body back and forth.
“He was hit from behind. Here.” Sebastian’s hand came away bloody. “This just happened. A friend of Jess’s?”
“Friend of all the world. Jess must have gone to him. Smart, smart girl.”
“Two men . . .” the Reverend’s eyes opened, “took her.”
“Don’t move. Trevor, stay with him. When he can walk, get him to my aunt.” Sebastian laid the man gently back on the floor. “Pitney didn’t order this. Quentin has her.” She could be anywhere on the docks. On any ship. “I need to see Lazarus. I need men to search the docks.”
Adrian stood up. “When’s the next tide?”
“Three hours.” They didn’t have much time. Maybe no time at all.
Doyle’s face was grim. “The Reverend’s under Lazarus’s protection. So’s Jess. He’s going to kill somebody for this.”
Good. “Let’s get moving.”
DARKNESS brightened first at the center. Not with light. With pain. That’s how she knew she was alive. Being alive hurt.
She was wrapped in sailcloth, being carried like a bundle over somebody’s shoulder. He sang. He crooned to himself. She thought it might be Gaelic. Her head flopped again and again against his back. Through a gap at the end of the smothering folds she could see the black wood planks of the dock and blinding sunlight glinting off the river. She was being taken to a ship.
She fought to wake up, sick and terrified. If they got her on board, she’d drop out of sight like a stone in the ocean. Maybe exactly like a stone in an ocean.
One chance. She worked her hand up to her throat and snagged the ribbon at her neck. Got it off over her head and pushed her hand out of the cloth . . . and she let her mother’s locket go. She let it fall on the dock.
Find somebody. For God’s sake find somebody and tell them where I am.
It might work. Folks didn’t leave gold lying in the dirt.
She set to making herself conspicuous, yelling and flopping and trying to kick the cloth off. It didn’t make any difference, as far as she could tell. The bloke carrying her didn’t speed up. Nobody stopped him to ask why his bundle was making a fuss. It wasn’t three minutes later she felt the change in his steps that said he was going up a gangplank. The slosh and clank said ship, and she was carried aboard. Ship smell surrounded her. Nobody would find her now.
She was tossed down and spun out of the wrapping. She landed with a thud that knocked the breath out of her. Shock stole her sight.
Her eyes cleared. She lay on her back, on deck, faced up to the sky. Above her was dazzling blue sky with a mast in it. She let her head roll to the side and saw Blodgett. Captain Blodgett. So she knew where she was. This was the Northern Lark.
Lark was old and lumbering and always in need of repair—a poor excuse for a ship, but she stayed just barely profitable. Lark carried dirty cargo she didn’t want fouling better vessels—horse hides and dried fish and such.
Strange how it didn’t come as a shock to see Quentin here, his back to her, arguing with Blodgett. It was like her brain had kept working and calculating, and it’d already come up with Quentin’s name and was just now getting around to telling her about it.
Quentin and Pitney. Quentin was the schemer. Pitney would never have come up with this on his own.
Lark’s crew was aboard. She could feel their footsteps on the deck boards. Fine weather for sailing, and it sounded like they were getting ready to do it.
“Jess . . .”
She turned her head. Light on the water blinded her. Then the shapes sorted out. It wasn’t a pile of dirty cloth next to the rail. It was a man, tossed down and twisted unnatural.
“Jessie . . .”
She rolled to her belly and crawled to him.
Pitney had been shot. Blood pooled on the deck under him. He had red at the corner of his mouth. It was blood with bubbles in it, and that meant he’d been hit in the lungs. Men didn’t live when they were hit in the lungs. “Pitney.”
“Jessie girl. I didn’t . . .”
His mouth was full of blood. He couldn’t finish the words. She could. “You didn’t mean this. None of it. You wouldn’t hurt me. Wouldn’t hurt Papa. I know that. I never thought anything else, not for a minute.”
She managed to sit and pull him up, into her lap, so his head lay against her. His clothes were sticky wet. So much blood in a man. The tears coming down her cheeks fell on his face.
His breath sucked and bubbled. “. . . just letters, Jess. Letters to France. I didn’t know . . .”
“You didn’t know they were treason.”
Easy to see how he’d been tricked into this. Just letters. That’s how it started. He’d taken a coin or two to send packets of letters, secret, to France. “To my sister.” “To my business in Lyon.” All those years smuggling lace and brandy and tea in good faith, he wouldn’t think about treason. Not till he was in too deep to stop.
“. . . I wouldn’t . . .”
“You never would. Not treason.”
“Thought Josiah would get away . . .”
“He doesn’t blame you.”
“I tried to . . .” His breathing took on the rattle that meant death was coming. “. . . stop . . .”
“You stopped them, Pitney. You did fine.” He was still breathing, but his eyes didn’t see anymore. He could hear, maybe. “Yer always saving me neck. You remember the time you come in arfter me, when I fell out of that damn dory off Hythe? And we neither of us could swim a lick. Papa was so bloody irritated. He yelled at me about it, off and on, for a year. You would not believe . . .”
There wasn’t any more life in him. She could tell the change, holding him.
LAZARUS held court in the same house, in the dim, vulgar parlor. In the back, four men piled the tables with swag from a large robbery. Two others talked to an old woman hunched over an account book. Most thieves paid their penny to the local Runner, but if you took gold, you had to come to Lazarus, to the old woman, to pay your pence. There wasn’t a fence in London would touch it otherwise.
Sebastian strode up the center of the room, Adrian beside him. None of the thugs lounging to the left or right said a word or tried to stop them. All those cold, violent eyes followed them.
Lazarus was holding a fine sable robe, admiring it. He ignored Adrian and cocked his head toward Sebastian. “What the hell’s going on, Captain?”
“We know who Cinq is. He’s got Jess.”
ON the far side of the deck, Quentin wound his way through a long, arrogant, complicated complaint. Blodgett was answering. None of it meant anything. She lay Pitney’s body
back to the deck and closed his eyes. When she turned, Blodgett was saying, “. . . shoot him here. Then you bring me Whitby’s daughter. Get her below, for God’s sake.”
Quentin was different, here. He stood proud as a rooster. Swaggering. “I said to cast off.”
“We will, Mr. Ashton. We will. Nobody’s going anywhere on the slack of the tide.” Blodgett spat, showing his opinion of landsmen. “Billy, clear these boxes out of the way.” He kicked a valise.
“Take her to my cabin,” Quentin ordered a passing sailor. He sounded excited, like a kid going on holiday.
Blodgett snarled, “Not now. You, Henshaw, wrap some chain on that body. We’ll roll it overboard, downriver. And get the damned girl belowdecks.”
“Aye, Captain.”
They caught her before she made it over the railing. A pair of them slammed her to the planking, hard. One added a quick punch to her stomach to make her think twice about trying that again.
When the red faded out of her vision, Quentin stood over her, blotting out the sky. “You have given no end of trouble. And for nothing.” He poked his boot into her ribs. “You waste your time. You waste my time. You cause me expense and danger. It’s ridiculous. You two, hold her. I cannot understand why—”
He’d killed Pitney. She lunged for him. A sailor kicked her down and held her.
“Coward. Sodding, poxy, slimy, lying—”
Quentin leaned down, nagging. “You will learn to do what I tell you. There are good reasons for everything I do. Matters of state beyond your comprehension. If you would stop and listen to me for a minute—”
“I said to get her under cover.” Blodgett shoved Quentin aside and grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to her feet. “We’re at dock in the middle of London. Every ship has some fool with a spyglass. You can play with her when we’re out at sea.” Blodgett pushed, and she fell, staggering, against the belly of a huge sailor. “Stow her.”
She fought while they dragged her off and screamed every time she got her mouth loose. It took two of them to haul her away. She hurt them some. But not as much as they hurt her back.
My Lord and Spymaster sl-2 Page 31