When the Perfect Comes (The Deverell Series Book 1)

by Susan Ward

  “Come for? You mean kill? Right here. With witnesses?”

  “Morgan warns only once. Blackburn should have listened when he had the chance.”

  Blackburn rose with deceptive calm from his chair, but from Merry’s vantage point she could see his fingers slide to his belt and grab the cold hilt of his knife. Morgan had but three men with him. She tallied at least a dozen on Blackburn’s side. Blackburn lunged for blood. Swift as quicksilver, the boy darted out of his way, brandishing the knife with deadly skill, as the room shook with the sound of overturning tables, shattering glass, and hastily drawn steel.

  Through the melee Morgan never moved. He sat at his table, staring into his drink, setting it to swirl slowly with the air of man slightly bored.

  A bottle whizzed through the air, dangerously close to Merry’s head. Thankfully, the riotous commotion of the room swallowed her scream. Jack grabbed her arm, pulling her down behind the bar.

  “Beyond that door is a storeroom. If there’s a chance of ye getting out of here, it’s while no one be watch’n. Ye can go out the window afore Morgan and his men even notice ye gone. Hurry, lass. The last time Morgan and his cutthroats brawled in Grave’s End, there was little enough left of me tavern and only meself alive ta tell the tale.”

  Scrambling on her hands and knees, Merry made her way across the wet gritty floor littered with broken glass and battered bodies. She carefully darted beneath the hastily hung cloth that acted as a door for the storeroom, and spotted the window on the far side of the room.

  Frantically, she tried to push open the pane. Good Heavens, how many centuries had passed since the window had been open? The jamb was frozen solid and the stuffy room held the dank odor of mold, filth, and air that had not been circulated for a decade.

  With all the strength she could muster, she attempted again to force it open and realized that she was trapped. The tavern was in total bedlam, but did she dare to break the window to get free? Would someone hear the sound and come to investigate? The thought of being trapped in this cramped space with one of Morgan’s cutthroats—no, better not think of that.

  Her frantic musings came to a screeching halt when she became aware of ruffling, coming from the other side of the curtain. Desperately, she searched for a way out. She was about to pick up a chair and knock out the window when she noticed a large, empty crate only a foot away.

  She dashed toward it, and hastily climbed in. There was no room to spare, her arms were pinned at her side, and the interior of the crate was still damp. At least it was a hiding place. If there were an ounce of goodwill in the Heavens left for her, she would gladly stay put, until it was safe to leave the tavern, rather than falling prey to the dangers beyond.

  Trembling, she laid her cheek on her knees, determined to wait out the threat. Much to her dismay, she felt tears sting her eyes. She hated to cry. The tears angered her, but she was frightened. What was the point of pretending otherwise? No one was here to see her cry. Just that rat she could hear scuffling across the room.

  Scuffling? She lifted her face and peeked through the crack in the crate. Captain Morgan was less than an arm’s length from the crate and he wasn’t alone.

  “What a flair you have for creating diversions, Varian, but was that gruesome little knife fight really necessary?”

  Merry tilted her head to get a better look through the crack. Confusion hit her, as she recognized the man with Morgan as the Earl of Camden. What the devil was the foppish Camden, dressed in the garb of a common fisherman, doing here at Grave’s End with a notorious pirate?

  “Blackburn has become a nuisance of late,” was Morgan’s off hand reply. “He has been poaching along English shores flying my flag. I should be accused of sinking the Fleetwood before long.”

  Morgan’s voice brought her up sharply. Low and sensual, it was the distinct English accent that made her heart turn in surprise: English and decidedly aristocratic. By all accounts, she had assumed him to be an American. At least that was what the Times had concluded because of his ruthless penchant for attacking English ships. Never, ever, had she heard a hint of speculation that he was one of their own countrymen.

  “And here I thought you staged it all for my benefit,” the Earl chided glibly, before settling his bulk down on the crate. “Did you have trouble getting into the cove?”

  Morgan’s low laughter filled the room. “Not a British patrol in sight.”

  “Damn tedious bit of work this smuggling. Developed a prodigious thirst from it all. Though, it’s too much to hope that Jack Shelby has anything lying about fit for consumption. Really, Varian, why Grave’s End? Couldn’t you have picked a more comfortable locale for this meeting? You have such a grim fancy for drama.”

  “I have kept your comfort in mind. There are a few amenities I can’t do without.”

  Morgan walked over to a crate and pulled free a bottle, tossing it with amazing accuracy to the earl. Camden raised the bottle to his lips, taking a long pull, before a satisfied smile twisted his thin lips.

  “Ah, French cognac.” The earl took another noisy swallow. “A fortnight ago, you were in Swansea with a cargo of riches from America. Now this. Smuggling out of France. Your recklessness has me on the verge of apoplexy.”

  “I would have thought you’d consider smuggling a sign of my reforming character. In times of war, doesn’t it tend to be considered more honorable than piracy?”

  “I don’t think English law carries a distinction. Two runs in one month. I know waiting bores you, but you must be more careful. You have the devil’s own luck, but there is always the chance that your charms might lose out against currency."

  “I never depend on luck or charm thanks to you, Brian.”

  “I am afraid I have precious little information for you. The thugs I hired were successful in their search of your cousin’s estate. Unfortunately the documents you hoped to find were not there. They did, however, find these.” Balancing the bottle in the crook of his arm, Camden reached inside of his coat pulling out a bundle of age-yellowed papers. “They’re not enough to prove your cousin had anything to do with the sinking of the Carolina, but interesting none the less.”

  Morgan scanned the papers the earl had given him. “It seems that our fine lord is planning on another shipment from the Caribbean. Fifty thousand pounds, he has insured this cargo for.”

  “Quite an accomplishment, considering that his warehouses, as you well know, are empty. He is an expert at insurance fraud. It is still not enough to settle his debts. They are monstrous. Even I was shocked by the extent of them. A small fortune he has made in his last four crimes, but it will take a fortune two times that to see him clear.”

  “Five ships. I was too late to catch the Sandow. A total loss.”

  “Survivors?”

  “Not a one. It is nothing less than a miracle that Indy survived the explosion on the Carolina.”

  “You must not continue to blame yourself, Varian.”

  “Do you think that I can forget that I was his target?”

  “You have done more than anyone could ask of you to set right that tragedy, Varian. You will bring our scoundrel to justice. He will pay for those deaths. His cargo is set to go on the Hampstead.”

  “When is it set to sail?”

  “That information is proving more difficult to obtain. Whitehall is concerned with the secrecy of such information, considering the heightened fighting on the seas, due to this foolishness with America.”

  “Have his rooms in London searched. If we can’t prove his involvement in the sinking of the Carolina then we must content ourselves with foiling his plan for the Hampstead and bringing his ruin with that. How long will it take to have his rooms searched?”

  “There is no point in that, Varian. It has been many months since our scoundrel has seen London. He is in hot pursuit of another interest these days.”

  “Indeed,” Morgan mused thoughtfully. “I did not think he ever journeyed far from London. My estates lay in ruin f
rom his neglect.”

  “You can credit his absence to a pretty filly with an enormous dowry.”

  “Rich, you say?”

  “Enormously so, enough to settle the last of his debts. And the girl is beautiful, to boot. The marriage will gain him a powerful alliance. If I were ten years younger, I would make a play for the gel myself, just to annoy our scoundrel. When last I saw him, he was practically drooling in anticipation of getting his hands on the poor pretty child and her fortune.”

  “And when is the happy nuptial to take place?” Morgan asked scathingly.

  Brian chuckled softly. “There seems to be considerable question as to that. The girl has formed quite a dislike of our scoundrel. She’s had him on the run, but it seems our poor girl is about to run out of luck. Rumor has it that the engagement will be announced this season.”

  “Well, I wish our young filly a hearty wind in her sail.”

  “I have set a curve or two into your cousin’s pursuit myself.”

  Morgan’s great dark eyes flickered with amusement. “Really?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Camden replied, obviously pleased with himself. “It was my hope that another offer would come of its own for the girl’s hand, if nothing but to delay his lordship’s pursuit. As it seemed she was about to run out of room to escape the altar, well, to put it simply, you’ve made an offer for the lady’s hand. If nothing else it should infuriate our pup to no end when he learns.”

  Morgan threw back his dark head, the room shaking with his laughter. “How did you manage that, you scoundrel?”

  “A word here, a word there. Your seal and a forged signature on a marriage offer. It was simple, I assure you, and it afforded me no small amount of amusement.”

  “Yes, I can see that it has.”

  “Have you any doubts? You’d be hardly misused if they accepted your offer. Your cousin would be enraged beyond reason. You’d acquire a proper English bride, with a beautiful face, a fat purse, and a touch of wild spirit to match your own. A rather good stroke of fortune, all things considered.”

  “What a ridiculous fancy, Brian. The sheer amusement of it all … it is well that I have no want of a wife.”

  “Not even to foil our scoundrel’s careful planning? Think how crushed he’d be, all these years standing behind you in succession, and you getting about the business of breeding an heir. I am disappointed in you, Varian. Think of the poor girl.”

  “I can better help our filly by seeing my cousin to the gallows.” Morgan strode over to the doorway, pulling back the cloth to peer out at the ravaged room. The girl was gone. “Jack Shelby’s new helper? What do you know?”

  Merry felt her heart plummet to her feet.

  “Helper? I wasn’t aware he had one. You don’t think...”

  Morgan’s eyes sharpened. “Whitehall?”

  “No, I am sure of it. I would know if Andrew Merrick had put his own agent in here. They know nothing of your past visits here. They believe the tales of you coming to Cornwall are little more than fishermen folklore. Your legend is growing like a wild thing among the masses, often with you popping up in three places at once, doing villainy, terror and debauchery. You should really try to temper it down, Varian, for your own wellbeing. This blasted notoriety, you seem so amused on feeding, in the end might work against you, though it does have its benefit at times.”

  “Then the bar help’s connection to Shelby could only mean one thing.”

  “If you’re aware of Shelby’s connection to your cousin, why do we meet here? Why haven’t you done something about him?”

  “Shelby is our only link between the hirelings who burned the Carolina and my cousin. I have my own man in Grave’s End. He lets me know when they meet, and sees to Shelby’s continued safety.” Morgan’s glowing eyes shifted back to the Earl.

  “Whitehall owes you a great debt. When the time comes, if only you would permit me to lay this matter before Andrew Merrick....”

  “You would sing my praises to Andrew Merrick and see yourself to Traitor’s Gate? Brian, when are you going to accept that my destiny is no longer bound to England?”

  “If I explain to him the circumstances, you could have England’s support in this, as well. Merrick could prove an invaluable ally. He could get you pardon of your crimes.”

  “Ah, but Andrew Merrick provides one of my greatest amusement. What would I have to concern myself with without Andrew Merrick’s artless pursuit of me?”

  “Just because you can outmaneuver Andrew Merrick, doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t prove valuable to your quest. You’ve always been more clever than most by half.”

  “I have no wish of England’s pardon. My home is my ship. It is the life I have chosen, Brian. You know why. Let it go.”

  “As you will. You will be contacting me soon?”

  “I have business in Galway. Plan to meet me a fortnight from now.”

  The words roared, again and again in Merry’s mind, with the force of an exploding rocket. They would meet in Ireland in a fortnight. The Earl of Camden was Morgan’s spy in the Foreign Office. The problem of how she would forward this information to Uncle Andrew, without betraying how she’d come by it, didn’t diminish the thrill of such heady power.

  “The boy. Jack Shelby’s new accomplice. Do you want me to make inquiries?”

  Morgan’s next words sent her back to earth with bruising speed. “I will set Indy to take care of Shelby’s mysterious friend. We can’t risk questioning Shelby. If the boy knows anything Indy, will have the truth from him.”

  In front of Merry’s eyes the world froze. She knew very well how Morgan intended to deal with her. A vision of that horrible knife with the jagged edge rose in her mind.

  Her body became one quivering mass, and try though she might, she could not still the frightened shaking of her limbs. She heard the crate creak from her quaking.

  Hold steady, she chided her trembling form, but her shocked nerves didn’t seem intent on obeying the dictates of her mind. The trembling continued as did the subtle creaking of the crate.

  “God’s speed, Varian, and good hunting.”

  The men clasped hands and the earl departed through the curtain.

  “Blackburn?” Morgan inquired, with the air of a man without a single scar on his conscience. He was peacefully reclined on a crate less than a foot away from her, black eyes glittering, sipping from the half emptied bottle of cognac.

  “We won’t be troubled by him again,” the sinister boy-pirate replied without emotion. “Should I return to ship?"

  “No, there is another matter you have yet to deal with.”

  Indy arched a brow questioningly. Morgan studied the storeroom, then his long strides carried him purposely toward the crate. Every part of Merry went limp. There was no chance even to panic before the lid to the crate was slapped fiercely back in place, trapping her inside.

  “Take it to the beach,” was Morgan’s cryptic order before going calmly from the room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Merry braced herself inside the crate as Morgan’s two pirates carried her toward the beach. Reality lay cold and heavy on her terror dulled senses. It was hardly a comfort to admit she had no one to blame but herself for her current predicament.

  Her panic-wracked brain conceded that she was about to become the pirate Indy’s next victim. There was little she could do to stop them. Not the least of her problems, was the annoying frequency that her handlers dropped her. They dropped her more than once, the force of hitting the ground making her bones crack and ache.

  After each fall, she pounded vigorously on the lid, hoping to remind them that a living organism was trapped inside. She’d given up her protest after the fourth unfriendly decent to the dirt.

  It was obvious that simple decent care was too much to expect from pirates.

  “Damn it, Shay, get a better hold of it. We don’t want the lad dead before I can have a chance to question him. Morgan will have our hides if you bungle this one.”

&
nbsp; “Yer only worried that ye won’t have a chance to take the knife to him. Ain’t one butchery enough fer you? A damn bloody mess you made of Blackburn.”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “But the lad? What if he ain’t got nothing to do with...?”

  “He does,” Indy cut across harshly. “Why else would Morgan bother with him? The lad should have thought twice before deciding to cross Morgan.”

  Distraught, the rest of their conversation was lost to Merry. She had to get out. This was all a horrible mistake. She wasn’t in league with Jack Shelby and his nefarious activities.

  Pressing her palms against the solid confinement of the crate, her mind frantically searched for a means of escape. There had to be a way. She banged an angry fist against the lid, to her amazement, feeling it yield slightly before being slapped harshly back into place.

  She could hear the Channel water crashing against the shore, feel the sense of moving downward, instead of across level earth. They were making the decent from the cliffs to the beach.

  She knew the path by memory, the steep slope, the treacherous footing. If there was a chance to get out, it was now, when it would be no easy task to maintain their balance with a struggling cargo. With sudden purpose, she began to crash her body side to side inside of the crate, taking heart that her captors were having no easy time keeping hold of her.

  “Hold still, you maggot. Do you want us to drop you over the cliffs?” came the anxious voice of one of the pirates.

  Milord, pirates, why do you think I am doing this? Merry thought furiously, deciding her last moments of life wouldn’t be better spent inside the crate than on the beach as the boy-pirate’s hapless victim.

  Redoubling her efforts, she threw her body against the side. The crate jolted. Again. Then, all the sudden she heard cursing from outside the crate. The darkness inside became a dizzying spinning hollow that turned faster and faster with each passing second.