“If he were at all particular, it would be a disaster.”
“Fine, be a coward. Then just switch your fellow with a real convict. If he protests he is not the real Tommy Thief, who will listen?”
Summerhays froze. Hawkeswell stared at Castleford, who blandly gazed back. “Can I strangle him now, Summerhays?”
Summerhays sighed. “Tristan, you have misunderstood. We are not going to make a man disappear.”
“You said men of consequence. I just assumed—”
“We are looking for a man others may have caused to disappear.”
“I see. That is more boring, but not without interest.”
“I am relieved we have not become totally boring in not being criminals, but only somewhat,” Hawkeswell said.
“I still say you should look to the hulks. It isn’t as if anyone wants to know what really goes on there.”
“He has a point,” Summerhays said. “It may be worth a try. I can have a barrister go to the King’s Bench and obtain a writ to allow us to search the hulks and—”
“Such tedious legalities,” Castleford said with a groan of impatience. “Hawkeswell and I will just do it. None of these men will stand against an earl and a duke and ask for writs. You can come too, if you promise not to act too much like the member of the Commons that you are.” He grinned with delight at Hawkeswell. “We must be sure to bring our swords.”
Hawkeswell was dumbfounded by Castleford’s assumption that he would join them. Summerhays was too, for a moment.
“Regrettably, Castleford, this cannot wait for next Tuesday,” Summerhays said.
“He is correct,” Hawkeswell agreed. “I must go two days hence, and trust your advice was wise. I will bring my sword as you suggest, however, and brandish it a bit in your honor.”
“Two days hence?”
“Early morning.”
“Eight, I think,” Summerhays said. “No, actually, seven would be best.” He stood. “You have been very helpful. We will leave now, so you can return to your sleep.”
They almost made good their escape, but Castleford’s voice caught them at the door.
“Seven will be a hellish time, but I expect you will need my yacht. I’ll be damned if I am going to provide both the plan and the yacht and miss the fun. I will see you at the docks.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Hawkeswell’s mood remained surly the rest of the day and most of the next. He almost wrote to Summerhays and Castleford to call off the adventure at the hulks.
While his mind built excuses having to do with those tedious legalities Castleford hated, the thickness in his chest, so similar to what he felt when anticipating bad news, told the truth of it. No matter what Verity claimed, he did not believe that a reunion between her and this girlhood friend would be a small thing.
As his mood darkened, his imagination did too. He parsed through everything Verity had ever said about Oldbury, about Katy, about Bowman, and even about her reasons for running away.
He saw his willingness to believe she had been so bold because of her anger at being hoodwinked, and concluded that he had been an optimistic, dimwitted fool. His initial suspicions were more likely, that she had run off to elope with another man. He remembered his certainty that Katy Bowman had assumed that as well.
Well, Verity could not do that now. That path was closed. And yet, her emotions could never be constrained by law. That was the heart of it, he admitted dismally the afternoon before visiting the hulks. Right now he could forget the suspicion most of the time, and know some joy with her. If he had proof that another man had her heart, he did not think that would continue.
He was accommodating that miserable notion, thoroughly distracted by it, when he almost walked past Summerhays in Brooks’s without seeing him. Only the sound of his own name brought him out of his reverie to find his friend right by his side.
“Has someone died? You look like it,” Summerhays said, kicking out a chair in welcome.
He sat, and refused the offer to call for some brandy. “I am thinking about the morning.”
“I do not believe it is concern with the vague authority you will wield that distracts you.”
“Hardly.”
Summerhays scrutinized him long and hard. Then he smiled a smile that often tamed the world to his command. “Early in my marriage, you gave me some advice. Should I now return the favor?”
“Early in your marriage, I was ignorant of marriage. That was my only excuse for not being more considerate of your jealousy.”
“And yet, for a marriage that was not a love match, it was good advice, was it not? That affairs were inevitable, and I would be an ass to expect otherwise.”
“Yes, good advice. I am so damned wise I can’t stand myself.”
He stared at nothing while he found some small solace in that wisdom. It lessened the restless ill ease, but that thickness remained, dull now, and preparing for the worst.
“I suppose I won’t kill him if I am right,” he said.
“That is good of you. Her past with him does not signify now, and you have no way of knowing the future.”
Except the past did signify, and would affect the future. He was sure of it. What Verity chose to do with her body was the least of it too.
The dullness pervaded him the rest of the day. That night it made the pleasure he experienced poignant. He made love to her slowly, carefully, and thoroughly, savoring each taste, urging her to find release after release in a long series of ecstasies. Only at the end did fury at his powerlessness join his gentler emotions.
He bent her legs high and braced himself above her and watched the way he joined with her and how passion transformed her face. With each thrust his head and body and blood angrily chanted mine, as if this power alone could brand her heart and soul.
He astonished her. She did not think he could anymore, but he managed to this night. The pleasure began sweetly, like trickles into her blood and down her body. The way he handled her, as if she were a precious treasure, wrenched her heart.
He lured her, and seduced her so completely that when he turned hard and commanding at the end, when his body claimed and his eyes compelled and he demanded submissions she did not understand, she had no defenses left. In the aftermath she lay beneath him, raw and sore and so full of everything about him that she could barely breathe.
She ached from the void when he rolled away.
“I will be gone when you wake,” he said. “I must do something early tomorrow.”
She thought such practicalities odd things to speak of now. The night called for other words. Soft words and promises. She had stepped off a precipice, into mystery and wonder, and his voice set her feet on solid ground again.
“And I will be gone when you return. I am meeting my friends out of town. Daphne has arranged for us to visit Mr. Banks at Kew, and tour the private gardens there.”
“Why don’t you stay a few days with your friends too,” he said while he sat and reached for his robe. She had not realized he would leave her bed so soon. When he spoke of being gone when she woke, she thought he meant from her side.
“I would like that. I could bring them home to Cumberworth, then send the carriage back here.”
“The Rarest Blooms, all together once more. You will enjoy it. I will see you in several days, then, if not before.”
He kissed her, and that sad sweetness moved her again, beckoning her, as it had with his first touches tonight. It was in him, she realized, flowing to her on the kiss.
“You forgot your sword,” Summerhays observed.
“I do not need a sword to impress a gaoler. Castleford may need one, but I do not.” He gazed at the impressive yacht being prepared by a crew of ten. “We are only going downriver, not sailing to France.”
“It is sure to impress the officers on the hulks. For Castleford’s sake, that is.”
“He has two minutes to get his sodden ass here, or I am taking that yacht without him.” He was in no moo
d to delay this even that long. Having determined that he would allow maudlin emotions to cause him to do the right thing by Verity despite his own best interests, he did not want to contemplate his own insanity any longer.
“Here he comes.” Summerhays squinted down the pier. “Damnation, he is not alone.”
No, he was not. He strode forward merrily, a woman under either arm and a bottle of wine in one hand.
“They cannot come,” Hawkeswell said as soon as Castleford was at the dock.
“Of course they can. It is my yacht. In you go, pretty doves.” He handed them down to a crew member who swung each aboard with unseemly flourish. “They learned I was sailing this morning and wanted to come, and I so enjoy a woman’s gratitude,” he explained.
He appeared sober enough, but Hawkeswell pried the wine bottle out of his hand anyway.
Castleford allowed it. “You forgot your sword,” he said, patting his own.
“It appears I did. Fortunately for you.”
“Gentlemen, let us be off,” Castleford announced to the crew. “We set sail for mystery and adventure. Get us under way. Unfurl the main sail, et cetera, et cetera.”
The whores thought him witty and brilliant. He thought himself so too. Summerhays sighed and hopped on board. Hawkeswell followed with more misgivings than he liked.
“No point in the sail, my lord,” a crew member said. “It is too calm, so it will have to be oars.”
“It is a good thing there are ten of you, then.” Castleford removed his sword, lounged on a divan set under a sun canopy, and beckoned the women to join him.
Summerhays positioned himself as far away from that divan as possible, and looked out to the river with an oddly stoical face.
Hawkeswell joined him. “You think he is going to swive those two right in front of us, don’t you?”
“I think that he is annoyed we did not wait until Tuesday to do this, and will prove his right to go to hell on his own schedule, no matter what our plans. Expect an invitation to join in.”
“I trust he will at least wait until we are on the way back. We don’t want to pull up against a hulk full of convicts while the show is in progress. There could be a riot.”
Summerhays glanced over his shoulder. “It appears that any hope for discretion and good sense is, as always, wasted on him.”
Feminine giggles and squeals filled the air. Hawkeswell kept his gaze to the river, and contemplated the non-existent legality of barging onto a series of disgusting hulks, demanding the right to search for Michael Bowman.
Chapter Twenty-six
“I do not know why he needs this bloody entourage. He is an ironworker, probably a radical, and we found him on a damned hulk,” Castleford said. “More to the point, I don’t know why I am part of this bloody entourage.”
“You fell asleep as soon as we left the Home Office. We could not wake you for all our trying, so here you are,” Hawkeswell said.
Castleford scowled and looked out the window again. “Three coaches, all with escutcheons. We look like a damned royal wedding. Why did Summerhays bring Wittonbury’s?”
“He is collecting his wife and slipping off to Essex for a while.”
“And why are you in here with me, instead of in your own coach?”
“Because I much prefer your company to that of our new friend.”
The explanation appeased Castleford. It made perfect sense to him that his company was preferable to just about anyone’s. He yawned a few times, folded his arms, and got comfortable. “So why isn’t Summerhays here too, instead of his own coach, also enjoying my company?”
“Because, Your Grace, when you sleep, you sprawl. You toss. You flail. You take up the space of three men. Summerhays could not move to his own carriage fast enough.”
Hawkeswell assumed Castleford would now return to his nap, and sleep until the last sorry chapter in the current drama was finished. Instead he grinned.
“Sidmouth’s expression was amusing when we hauled Thompson in by his cravat.” He imitated the Home Secretary’s bug-eyed, gape-mouthed reaction to their intrusion.
Summerhays had wanted to be more decorous. Hawkeswell just wanted to be done with it. Castleford had decided that Hawkeswell’s indifference tilted the decision to his preference for storming the Home Office much as they had boarded that hulk.
They had pushed past clerks and junior ministers and ignored the objections of various functionaries. They strode into Sidmouth’s office this morning, with a horrified Bertram Thompson hustled along between them.
Without ceremony Hawkeswell had told Sidmouth to sit and listen. Then, on command, Bertram, who had somehow come to believe that his only choices were either confess or die, had poured out a tale of vigilantism that was violent enough to chill an Englishman’s soul.
“I was annoyed that Sidmouth mentioned having his suspicions confirmed,” Castleford said. “That was pride and conceit speaking. He did not want to admit that we had discovered a plot that he missed.”
Actually, Verity had discovered the plot. If not for her tenacity regarding the missing Michael Bowman, Cleobury and the others might have made men disappear forever.
“I believe Sidmouth had suspicions. I think he has a man there, trying to make sense of things. I met him. It is none other than Albrighton.”
“Albrighton? I’ll be damned. He is back?”
“Yes. Living a country squire’s life up in Staffordshire.”
“How boring. He must be ready to put a pistol to his head.”
“My thoughts exactly. Hence my suspicion that he is Sidmouth’s man there. But not an agent provocateur. His role as a magistrate would make that impossible. So, then, why else?”
“Well, he won’t be needed now, thanks to me.”
“You are taking all the credit, I see.”
“As well I should. It was my idea to look on the hulks, my yacht that got us there, my valet who cleaned up Bowman, my coats he is now wearing, and my persuasion that convinced Thompson to talk.”
All of that was true, in particular the last point. Hawkeswell was not present when that persuasion was exercised yesterday, but it had been very effective.
“What did you say to him? Or do to him?”
“It worked, did it not, whatever it was?”
Hawkeswell looked at him.
Castleford looked right back. “Better me than Albrighton, is my guess.”
The coach turned. Hawkeswell recognized the lane leading to The Rarest Blooms. He ignored the way his heart lurched at the realization that they had arrived.
“What is this place?” Castleford asked when the three carriages stopped. He stuck his head to the window and gave the house and its front garden a good inspection.
Hawkeswell reached for the door latch. “My wife’s friends live here. Lady Sebastian’s too.”
“Are the friends as lovely as your wife?”
Hawkeswell paused in opening the carriage door. “Do not even think of it. I am sure that I speak for Summerhays too. These women are all like sisters to each other, and he and I will surely pay for any bad behavior on your part.”
“Bloody hell, I only asked if they are lovely.”
“Go back to sleep.”
He stepped out of the coach. Summerhays had already gone to the door. Hawkeswell waited near the back of his own coach until Audrianna came out. She and Summerhays walked over to him.
“Goodness, this must have been an impressive parade on the road,” she said, taking in the three coaches. “Verity is up in her chamber, Hawkeswell. The others are in the greenhouse.”
Summerhays handed her valise to his coachman. “Why don’t you come to Essex for a few days too, Grayson?” he said.
“Yes, do. I think Verity enjoyed the coast and would not mind visiting again,” Audrianna said.
Summerhays smiled sadly, then looked meaningfully at Hawkeswell. “Either there or in town, I will see you soon.”
They took their leave and walked toward the carriage. �
�Is that Castleford’s coach? Why is he here?” Audrianna asked. She gazed around, frowning. “Who is that in Hawkeswell’s?”
Summerhays took her arm. “I will explain on the journey, darling.” He handed her into the coach, looked Hawkeswell’s way again, then climbed in with her.
Hawkeswell watched the carriage roll. Then he turned his attention to the house. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and walked to the door of his carriage. He looked inside.
A golden-haired young man with green eyes full of intelligence and good humor looked back, with curiosity.
Anger wanted to invade Hawkeswell. He would not allow it. He could not. God knew he could use its shield right now, but Verity deserved better. He did not want her thinking that he acted out of pique or jealousy. He wanted no misunderstandings today.
He opened the carriage door. “Come with me.”
It was the best sort of autumn day, when the sun shone and a crisp, cool breeze carried seasonal scents in the window. Verity sat on the window seat of her old chamber, looking out at the garden, and the yellow leaves flying by.
Last night they had all talked forever, it seemed, with the kind of deep, intimate sharing that only women could know. She had finally told them about Bertram, and the fear, and those whippings and beatings. She could speak of it with composure only because she had already released the worst of the anger and emotion when she told Hawkeswell.
Audrianna had wept, but she was the only one who did. Daphne had always suspected, it turned out. Celia too. And Katherine—well, Katherine had understood better than any of the others, hadn’t she?
Speaking of those sad years had been freeing, just as it had with Hawkeswell. Also exhausting. She had slept so soundly that the whole household had begun their day before she woke.
She needed to dress soon. Summerhays was coming for Audrianna, and the carriage from Hanover Square would probably arrive for her too. She had enjoyed her three days here, but it was time to go home.
A quiet rap sounded on the door. That would be Katherine, most likely. Katherine had stayed close during this visit, and they had formed a strong friendship. Verity called for her to enter.
Provocative in Pearls Page 26