Panic gripped Meggy, and the blood drained from her head. Take care of him once and for all? He means to kill my son! She forced herself to remember that Drew was with the earl and surrounded by protection, and for a moment, that reassured her. Another thought almost blinded her with fear. What will Fergus do when he finds out Drew isn’t there? When her knees buckled, she needed her husband’s grip to stay upright.
Cold rivers of fear ran through Meggy’s belly, and she shivered in the dark. Blair had locked her in the bedroom again, but she was thankful the window opened. A single piece of white linen, one of the threadbare towels supplied to the room, hung out the window to signal her location. They needed to come soon; she couldn’t be sure how long Blair would stay away.
Stewart insisted she signal and hand over messages directly. He rejected all suggestions they find a drop-off location to deliver communication because written communication could easily go astray. As it was, Fergus kept her under lock and key, and she couldn’t have delivered anything.
He had dragged her to a room over The Turk’s Head, a tavern at the far end of the waterfront, away from the places where the Crown billeted soldiers sent to keep the peace in Bristol, away from his own quarters. He didn’t much care whether the army objected to him keeping a woman in his room, but he didn’t like her underfoot. She heard him tell Corporal Martin, “Women have big mouths, you know?” Fergus told Meggy directly that he wanted her “where no one will find you this time.”
Time crawled. Fergus left as soon as the sun set, and she had no idea how many hours had passed. Stewart saw my signal this afternoon. I know he did. Has he found me? Does Brill know where I am? She thought she caught sight of the big Bow Street runner the day before, but she couldn’t be sure.
Alone in the dark with worry her only companion, fears multiplied. She extinguished the candle so she could stand in the window without being seen. The thing had burned to a stub anyway. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for her children and prayed for Rand. She wanted to pray to be free of her nightmare of a marriage, but guilt preyed on her. She had been young and stupid enough to marry Ferguson Blair, but vows were vows. If he goes to prison, at least I won’t have to fear for Lena and Drew. God would reward care for my babies, wouldn’t He?
Desperation began to compound her fear before the sound of a pebble against the top of the window grabbed her attention. She ran to the window, lifted the towel, and moved it up and down to signal that she had heard. The urge to lean out almost overwhelmed her common sense. She knelt in front of the window so she could just see over the sill and scanned the street. A group of sailors staggered out of the tavern below, singing rude songs and clapping one another on the back. They staggered down the quay, and the street sank into stillness broken only by the sounds from inside the tavern.
Her eyes, keen from waiting in the dark room, made out a figure in the shadow of a nearby building, too large to be Stewart. When he stepped out into the street, she could make him out. Brill! She moved the towel up and down and reached down for the message she had prepared by tying a scrap of foolscap to a smooth rock, one she had packed for that very purpose—one squared off on all six sides and heavy enough to toss accurately.
She expected Brill to come across. When he did not, she rose higher so she could throw it. Another figure stepped into the street from between the buildings. He had a hat pulled down over dark hair and wore a plain worsted jacket, but her heart leapt at the sight of his familiar bearing. Rand sauntered over toward the tavern, paused under her window, and turned as if searching for something down the street. Brill retreated into the shadows.
She heard Rand whisper, “Now,” and dropped the weighted message out the window. He caught it in one hand and then disappeared across the street. It happened so quickly she wondered if she really heard the soft words he spoke.
“I love you, Meggy. Be safe.”
Chapter 35
Charles passed the message to Stewart. “That’s it. Just the name. Becton.”
“He’s either the maker or a go between. Either way, it should be easy enough to track him down. Well done, Mrs. Blair,” Stewart said.
Rand glared at the two of them. “That’s enough then? Can we pull her out?”
Stewart looked startled. “Not yet. We may need more.”
Rand’s fist hurt when he punched the wall, pain that distracted him from fear. He raised his fist again, but Charles grabbed his arm before he could punch it again. “Let’s try to leave this hotel room intact, please.”
He yanked his arm away, sagged against the wall, and growled at his cousin. “I don’t care about the blasted room. She’s under his thumb, and I can do nothing about it.”
Sympathy in the duke’s eyes did little to calm him. “Your frustration is understandable. It’s also the reason I wanted to leave you in London. You put her in jeopardy last night.”
“I needed to see her. I did nothing Brill wouldn’t have done.”
Charles shook his head. “Brill says you hesitated and spoke too much. Words a passerby would never say . . .”
“I’ve warned Brill not to humor you again,” Stewart said without so much as pausing his work.
“What in Hades am I supposed to do then?” Rand demanded.
“Lay low until we have enough to convict,” Charles replied.
“When you do, Blair is mine,” Rand said through gritted teeth, locking eyes with his cousin.
Charles started to speak, but something in Rand’s face seemed to caution him against it.
“I know the risks, blast it. I won’t hang for that hell-born snake,” Rand told him.
Charles nodded and went back to the table. “Then sit. Use your reason. Help us plan next steps.”
Rand dropped into a chair. “We find Becton, who will lead us back to Fairweather and Blair. I kill the bastard.”
“If we’re lucky,” Stewart said, clearly amused. “Now that Brill knows the name, he’ll begin to frequent every tavern in the waterfront area and listen.”
“That could take days. He should ask questions,” Rand protested.
“And alert this Becton that someone is searching for him? I think not.”
“Tell me again what happened to you when you were asking about Blair last time,” the duke drawled.
“You know damned well what happened. I was taken to a foul-smelling wharf, questioned, and beaten half to death,” Rand responded.
“Only half. They must not have viewed you as an imminent threat,” Stewart said, watching him speculatively. “What specifically precipitated this?”
“A card game,” Rand shrugged. “I asked about Blair. I told them he owed me money. An hour later someone knocked me out from behind.”
“Do you remember the names of the card players?” Stewart leaned in, his eyes sharp and intent.
He wasn’t sure he could remember. It had been two months. He shut his eyes and wrinkled his forehead. “Fowler,” he said at last.
“Describe,” said Stewart, picking up a pen.
“Storeowner, I think. Ships supplies. Common enough looking.”
“They may be filtering money through commercial vessels as well,” the duke suggested.
Stewart nodded. “Who else?”
“A nervous fellow named Simon or Cyril. Something like that. Tall and skinny. He was there when they questioned me. He’s the one you want.” Rand thought for a moment, trying to pull up an elusive memory.
He pushed a shaking hand through his hair to cup the back of his neck. “The one that sticks in my memory is the big one. A bruiser. I think he claimed to be a blacksmith’s assistant, but he’s their muscle.” A memory clicked into place, and he sat up straight, both hands on the table. “Sylvester! That’s the name of the skinny weasel.”
“Good, good,” Stewart said, writin
g it down. “This will make Brill’s task easier. Who else?”
A moment passed. Rand shook his head. “Just the tavern keeper. I can’t remember his name.”
Stewart put the pen down, laced his fingers together, and sharpened his direct gaze. “Do you remember the name of the tavern?”
Rand snorted. “Yes. The Butcher’s Arms.”
“Sounds charming,” Charles laughed.
After scribbling a few more notes, Stewart rose. “This gives Brill a place to start. If not the Butcher’s Arms, another in the neighborhood may give us what we want. We’ll find them. We’ll follow them until the trail leads to the molds and dies used to create the fakes—or the master counterfeiter.” He folded the notes and put them in his pocket. “We may have your villainous sergeant sooner rather than later, Mr. Wheatly.” Though he didn’t say, “If you stay out of our way,” Rand read the message in his expression. The inquiry agent left him with his cousin.
“He knows what he’s doing, Rand,” Charles said softly.
“I know. Brill won’t get himself taken.”
“Hopefully not,” the duke agreed. “But those men are dangerous, the lot of them. You couldn’t have known that.”
“I do now,” Rand spat. “So next we wait?”
“Not I. Stewart and I have pay records to audit. It’s time to put my Under-Secretary of State for Ferreting Out Thieves costume on.” He rose gracefully.
“Are you finding anything?”
“Oh yes. Just as in Portsmouth—inconsistent dates. Odd amounts. All trails lead to Fairweather’s command so far. If there are others, he may sing like a canary to save his neck. We’ll see.” Charles leaned on the table. “The thing is, we already have enough to charge Fairweather with malfeasance. What we want are the forgers themselves. And Rand”—he waited for his cousin’s full attention—“we need enough to charge Blair, enough to get him out of Meggy’s life.”
Rand nodded with a jerk of his head.
“Hold yourself together. It won’t be much longer.”
Eyes burning, Rand stood and leaned in until his face was inches from Charles’s. “Just remember one thing. When you’re ready, Blair is mine.”
Late that afternoon, Rand peered into an empty trunk and cursed his overly protective cousin. The clothes he had borrowed from the grooms had gone missing. He could slip down to the stables and ask again, but if Brill had been instructed not to assist him, he suspected the other grooms had similar orders. Nobody in their right mind would disobey the Under-Secretary of Minding Other People’s Business, much less a meddling duke. He slammed the lid shut.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he banged his head on the trunk. What am I supposed to do the rest of the day? Clean His Grace’s linens? He sat upright. Why not? If I could only disguise myself as a valet, then a valet I will be. Perhaps it is time to replenish His Grace’s bootblack or shaving soap.
In short order, Rand stepped lively down the stairs dressed with meticulous care. Darkened hair under a modest but stylish hat reflected his status while also enhancing his master’s. Carefully applied facial hair once again disguised his face.
The innkeeper came from behind the desk as he reached bottom and bowed. I’m the valet, you dimwit, he thought, not the bloody duke. He raised his chin and spoke to the man, “Ah, Mr. Denewith, well met. I am about my master’s affairs. Do make sure there is sufficient water in the pitchers, some sweeter, I hope, than what His Grace received last night. As to the bedrooms, I will manage the matter myself rather than put us at the mercy of your maids.” Charles had already ordered that the inner rooms be left untouched, but it didn’t hurt to reinforce it. Rand was thankful the duke took the paperwork and left the key.
Memory of the haughty put-down brought a grin to his face when he stepped out into the sun. The charade required actual purchases, and he turned his direction to that first, locating without difficulty stores that catered to gentlemen. Henri would no doubt faint at the quality of the bootblack he found. The man probably concocted his own. He allowed one shopkeeper to talk him into a cream certain to make His Grace’s face as soft as a baby’s bottom. That ought to annoy Charles sufficiently.
He stretched his trip into an hour and then two. At no time did he see Sylvester or Fowler. Nor did he hear the name Becton, even when he paused at a coffee shop and listened to the flow of conversation around him. He suspected people who frequented the fashionable area—or what passed for it in Bristol—would never admit it if they had a use for Becton’s services.
He took the long way back to the hotel under the guise of stretching his legs. If I stray to the far end of the wharf, I can be excused as a confused stranger and claim I’m lost, should anyone ask. If my meandering happens to pass The Turk’s Head, well, a wandering lost man might simply get tired, wouldn’t he?
Rand saw no sign of Brill or any of Charles’s so-called grooms as he approached The Turk’s Head. His eyes moved across the building’s façade, from window to window. No linens signaled for a drop. None signaled distress either. He stopped ten or so yards down the street and considered if he might slip between buildings and watch for a while.
When the tavern door opened up and Blair swaggered out, he forgot to breathe. He stood still as a post, carrying his parcels. When Corporal Martin came out behind him pulling Meggy by an arm and leering down the front of a flimsy red dress, he dropped them and started forward.
Someone collided with him and knocked him to the ground before he had gone two strides. “Well, pardon damn me,” a voice shouted along with a string of curses in accents that belonged in the hold of a frigate. “Y’ought ta watch yerself.”
Brill pulled him by the elbow with one hand and picked up a package with the other. “Get about your business,” he whispered after Blair, Meggy, and Martin passed by without so much as a glance their way. He shoved the package at Rand and slipped away after them.
Rand collected himself enough not to follow Brill with his eyes, brushed off his coat, and picked up his parcels.
What do I do now?
“Ah Meggy-mine, I regret the need, but a man has to see to his business, doesn’t he? He won’t hurt you none,” Blair said with a feigned sigh.
He led her to a man who smelled of the smithy, week-old sweat, and fish, although the fish may have been the warehouse they stood in.
“Prime goods, that one,” the man said, licking his lips and examining her breasts where they threatened to slip out of the cheap, filmy gown Blair had brought her. Her flesh crawled.
Fish-breath stretched out a hand to touch her, but Blair pulled her away. “Now, Becton, you know not to touch the merchandise before we have a deal. Can you arrange it?”
Becton! At the name, she perked up and tried to pay attention to the negotiations that threatened to sicken her.
“I cin arrange anythin’ in Bristol. You want a boat, you got a boat.”
“And crew?”
“Aye. ‘Course.” The man’s avid eyes never left Meggy, darting back and forth from her ankles, which showed beneath the hem, to her chest and her mouth. She forced her mind to think what information Stewart could use.
“If we have to leave before the buffoons I hired make it back from Devon, we may have to stop down the coast in Watchet to pick up a package.”
Meggy stiffened. He means Drew, and he means my son harm. He has to be stopped.
“Don’t matter. Once you have ‘em, they’re yours. We have a deal?”
When Blair nodded, Becton stepped forward and grabbed Meggy’s wrist. A black cloud of fear darkened her eyes, and a moan escaped her when she stumbled toward the man. Only thoughts of Drew kept her from fighting to get loose.
“Not so fast, Becton,” Blair said, clamping a beefy hand over Becton’s. “You deliver the goods, and then I deliver the goods. Isn’t that how business
works? I get six bags of the product and a boat. You get this prime skirt. Not before.”
Becton pulled back, fury in his eyes. “You don’t trust me?”
Blair roared with laughter. “You’re in such a trustworthy business.”
“When do you want delivery?” Becton demanded, rubbing his wrist.
“Give me two days. I’d rather deal with the boy before we go, but the damned duke is snooping deeper this time. Have ‘em ready in two days.”
“Let me touch, and we have a deal,” Becton said, darting a sly glance at Blair. Meggy winced when the man squeezed her breast, his smell threatening to gag her.
Blair pulled his hand back. “Two days?”
Becton nodded sullenly. He turned toward a shadow, and a tall stick of a man emerged. “You got that, Sylvester? Two days.”
The thin man raked narrowed eyes up and down Meggy’s body with deliberate slowness. “I got it,” he said at last.
A cool breeze hit Meggy’s overheated cheeks when they reached the street. Martin had her by the elbow again.
“Are you going to give me to that animal?” she asked as meekly as she could without vomiting once they were out of earshot.
Blair’s lips twitched when he glanced over at her without breaking stride. “I might not if you’re a good girl, Megs. We’ll have to see.”
“You said I could—” Martin whined from her other side.
“You’ll get yours, Martin,” Blair said. “You’ll get yours.”
Martin? What has Fergus promised him? What just happened with Becton combined with the expression on the corporal’s face answered her question, and bile rose in her throat. Her husband, the man she once believed she loved, planned to whore her out, to use her as bait. When did he sink so low?
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