by Cheryl Holt
Time had run out. After the message he'd received earlier, there could be no more blundering, and no more waiting for the opportunity to stumble into a successful conclusion. They had to rind Penny. Today!
"Certain as I can be," Purdy answered. "We've been watching it for two days now."
"I thought his ship was the Sea Wind."
"This is it. It's just recently gotten a new name is all," Purdy explained, pointing to a section of stain and paint that didn't quite match the old.
"Any sign of Pendleton?"
"No, Your Grace." Purdy shifted uncomfortably. "An old sailor seems to be the only one aboard."
"Is he one of Pendleton's men?" Harold asked hopefully.
"Don't rightly know," Purdy answered, "and, just in case he is. we didn't ask. We didn't want him to suspect we were on to him."
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"How is he passing his days?"
"He appears to be readying the ship for a lengthy voyage."
To take Penny away from England? To aid Pendleton in his escape? "Do you think Penny might be stowed away below?"
"Perhaps," Purdy said, shrugging. "Anything is possible."
"Is the sailor there now?"
"Yes."
Harold regarded the sailing ship for a few minutes. He didn't want to make a wrong move, but with the most drastic threat of all staring him in the face, he was doubting his ability to discern the best course. Finally he said, "Let's do it."
On Purdy's nod, several armed men materialized out of the crowd and converged on the ship, rushing up the gangplank and swarming across the deck. By the time Harold stepped aboard, they'd located the sailor and brought him to his knees.
"What's your name?"
"Fogarty," he said gruffly, bravely staring Harold down. "Theodore Fogarty. What do you bloody bastards think you're doing on my ship?"
"Show some respect for your betters, old man," Purdy said, stepping forward and slapping him hard across the face, but the wizened elder didn't flinch.
"Where's Pendleton?" Harold asked.
"Who?"
"Lucas Pendleton."
"Oh, Cap'n Pendleton. The American."
"Yes."
"How would I know?"
Purdy raised a hand, ready to strike again, but Harold stayed him when he saw that the clenched fist caused no fear. ' 'This is his ship."
"Not anymore. I bought it from him several weeks ago. Got the papers in my cabin, if'n you don't believe me."
That would certainly explain why the old sailor was there all alone, with no crew as of yet. Harold fumed and stewed.
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"When you had your business dealings, did he say why he was selling?"
"He said he'd contracted for a brand-new ship. Built by the Fitzsimmonses, down in Portsmouth. He didn't need this one anymore."
Harold's heart sank; he had limited contacts in the distant city. Was Penny being held there? He'd need to send men, divert his resources. If Harold had calculated incorrectly, and Pendleton was truly crazed, he could be on his new ship and sailing away before anyone could stop him. As for Penny, it wouldn't matter where she was or wasn't being kept in captivity. She'd be dead.
Just then Purdy's men burst back on deck. "No sign of anyone below, sir," one of them said to Purdy. "Except the old codger."
The man handed some papers to Purdy. Purdy scanned them, then passed them to the duke. They were a bill of sale, just as Fogarty had explained. "Do you know where Pendleton was staying?'' Harold asked. “Where he might be? Where his men might be?"
"I don't know anything about him really," Fogarty responded. "I just heard the vessel was for sale, and I needed it. Never had no contact with him other than to make the purchase transactions."
Harold continued to fire questions, but Fogarty answered each with a shake of his head. Finally the duke could think of nothing further, and in the pause Purdy leaned close and said, "He might be lying. Do you want us to find out? We could take him below and learn the truth right quick...."
Harold glared at the stooping sailor, wondering if he was bluffing, but he continued to glare back with the same steely gaze he'd shown since they'd come on board. He was either a complete fool or stupidly brave. Harold contemplated what Purdy might do to the elderly man behind closed doors and decided he hadn't the stomach for it. Besides, Fogarty's tale
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rang true: Pendleton was nowhere around, and the seasoned sailor hadn't any idea where he might be.
"Let's go."
As quickly as they'd come, they returned to the docks. Purdy's men dispersed, but Purdy and Harold huddled beside his coach.
"What now?" Purdy asked.
"We need to send some men to Portsmouth."
"I don't think she's there "
"What if you're mistaken?" Harold barked.
"It's just that ..." Purdy began cautiously, "Pendleton is close by. We know that."
"That doesn't mean she is."
"You're right, of course," he said deferentially.
"Locate their messenger boy," Harold said. "Seize him. He and I need to have a long, long talk."
"Will do!" Purdy declared, fairly skipping away at the prospect of finally getting his hands on the lad.
Harold hadn't shown Purdy the disturbing note that had just arrived from the American. Lucas Pendleton had played his trump card, promising to slay Penny if Harold didn't give in to his demands. While Harold persisted in assuming that Pendleton wouldn't hurt her, the message had definitely been chilling, and he couldn't help asking: what if he'd pushed Pendleton too far? What if the information they had on the scoundrel was erroneous and they'd misjudged his resolve or his lethal intent?
If Pendleton killed Penny, Harold would have no one to blame but himself. The foolish game of cat and mouse in which he'd engaged would all have been for naught, a poorly planned, ill-advised scheme based on incomplete facts. So he hadn't told Purdy about the murder threat. If the ending went awry, he didn't want Purdy to know how badly he'd allowed his own pride and misjudgment to foul the entire situation. He didn't want anyone to ever know.
“I'm not wrong though,'' he muttered vehemently to himself.
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"I can't be!" Pendleton wouldn't maltreat her, and they would rescue her by sticking to the course they'd laid out from the very first. He had to believe his initial assessment was correct
Wearily he climbed into the carriage, ready to head for home, to where he knew Edward was waiting. What was he supposed to say to the man? And what about the duchess? There was no way he could continue to avoid their inquiries. The wedding was drawing near, like a runaway horse, and they were both loudly demanding answers as to where Penny was and when she would return.
"Bugger Edward," he grumbled. "Bugger them all."
He wasn't about to start making excuses, and they wouldn't dare question his word. All he needed was a few more days. He'd see her home before the ceremony, in plenty of time for final alterations on her dress and whatever else the duchess felt were the last-minute emergencies.
If the predicament wasn't resolved in an expeditious fashion, he'd simply postpone the wedding, saying she was ill or giving some other pretext as to why she hadn't been able to return from her stay in the country.
He had to keep a lid on things for just a bit longer, but he couldn't help worrying that at any moment someone might ascertain the truth. If rumors circulated that Penny had gone off by herself with Pendleton, there'd be no containing the gossip and innuendo, and there'd be no reparations he could make that would be sufficient to fix the debacle. The consequences would be so horrid that she'd probably wish Pendleton had never brought her back.
How well he remembered the snide castigations and beratings she'd suffered after her first two arrangements had fallen through. No one should have to endure such an experience once, let alone twice, and the third occasion would be worse still. He didn't know if she could survive such an ordeal again.
Edward would vocally cry off, stirring up another hornet's nest, and the derogatory insinuations about Penny's personal problems would flare anew, burning a swath through Polite
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Society that very likely could never be stamped out. Duke or no, there were only so many of her matrimonial disasters he could smooth over. He had too many enemies who loved nothing more than to see both him and his daughter brought down a peg or two, and he'd not be able to convince anybody to have her.
As it was now, they'd already scraped the bottom of the barrel with Edward; they couldn't possibly sink any lower. Penny was out of options, and she would be forced to pass the remainder of her days as a lonely spinster, without ever having the chance for children and a family—the things a woman needed to make her life complete—and Harold would have failed totally in his duties to her as her father.
All because of Pendleton.
Well, none of that calumny was going to happen to his girl. He intended to resolve the disaster favorably, and he refused to accept any finale other than the one that would see her safe and under his protection again. He gave a tap on the roof, and the driver started toward Mayfair.
******************
Fogarty waited on the deck, scanning the docks but not seeing anyone watching. Still, a man could never be too careful, and the exalted gentleman who'd just visited might have men hovering about. Then again, maybe not. Considering how readily the regal-looking fellow had bought his fabricated story, perhaps they had all moved on.
"Bloody fool," Fogarty grumbled, and he couldn't help wondering if the wealthy bloke had been part of the royal family. Now, wouldn't that be something? A lowly sailor such as himself having words with a man who sat about drinking his port with kings and princes!
Captain Pendleton had prepared him carefully, telling him what could transpire and exactly what he was to say if the worst occurred. Fogarty felt elated to have performed his part so well, the entire scene playing out just as the captain had
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explained. Fogarty didn't know what sort of dubious activity Captain Pendleton was involved in, and he didn't care either. It was enough that the man had asked for assistance, plus there was the added fun of giving it to the likes of the blowhard who was just aboard.
He walked down the gangplank and let himself be swallowed up by the crowd as he strolled casually toward the alehouse where he'd made a habit of taking his midday meal. Passing the alley on the way, he slowed but didn't turn his head; he could see the boy out of the corner of his eye.
"Tell the cap'n," he said softly, "that they've found his ship. Tell him everything went just as he'd expected." Then he continued on without stopping.
******************
Paulie sneaked up to the tavern and peeked in the window. Lucas was sitting at a table near the back. His brother, Matthew, was with him, and Paulie was surprised to observe them together. Usually they came to London separately, one remaining in the country while the other carried out the business of the day by sending and receiving the notes that Paulie so skillfully delivered.
They were deep in conversation, leaning forward, and glaring at each other, furious expressions on their faces. Inspecting them silently, he imitated Lucas's hand gestures and facial movements. When he grew up, he wanted to be exactly like Lucas Pendleton. During the dreary hours he passed on the city's streets, he constantly fantasized about the dashing American sea captain who had filled his young life with excitement and intrigue.
With the money Lucas was paying him, he could have rented a bed and found himself shelter, but he hadn't. He kept sleeping under the deserted stairway with the other boys he considered his family. The nights passed safely enough in their tiny hovel, and he felt secure there. He didn't desire to have the others thinking he'd taken on airs with his stroke of financial luck.
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As he lay on his pallet of smelly straw, covered with a ragged blanket—the only place he could ever remember slumbering— he would listen to the sounds of his friends shifting about during their dreams, of an occasional carriage passing by, and he would stare out at the sky and wonder where Lucas was, what he was doing at that very moment.
Long and often he thought about the house in the country— the one he wasn't supposed to know about, or ever have seen, lest the duke's men catch him and force him to tell—but he hadn't been able to stop himself from following Lucas home in order to see how the man lived. Surprisingly the beautiful princess, Miss Penelope, lived there too.
He'd often imagined sitting down at the table in the kitchen that he saw whenever he peeked in the windows while sneaking around secretly to visit Harry. In his reveries Miss Penelope would feed him supper. His stomach growled every time he conjured the tranquil scene.
Sometimes, but not too regularly, he'd close his eyes and pretend he was Harry's older brother, that he resided in the grand house with the boy, and that Lucas and Miss Penelope were his parents. The vision was painful and always left him feeling sick afterward, although he didn't understand why. If he'd been older or more mature, he might have recognized the sensation as a desperate yearning for a type of love and affection he'd never encountered.
Since that pretty view was too difficult to contemplate, he would quickly switch to another, more masculine setting. In this Lucas was ready to leave England. He would pat Paulie on the back, telling him how brave he was, how smart, and he'd insist Paulie was such an invaluable partner that he couldn't be left behind. Paulie could easily picture the two of them out on the middle of the ocean, standing on the deck of the Sea Wind, bracing their feet as the ship crested and dipped with each roll of the waves. They would sail the seas and fight pirates and find treasure and rescue beautiful women who were in danger.. ..
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His gaze moved from Lucas to scan the other patrons. They were a rough-looking group of characters, deep in their cups, sitting in twos and threes and passing the time with ribald chatter. However, one man was by himself and regarding the two brothers with more interest than he should have. Paulie had to admit that it was difficult not to notice the two Americans. Their size and looks definitely made them stand out in a crowd, but this man was paying much more attention than casual curiosity demanded.
He finished off his mug of dark brew, slipped a coin onto the table, then exited, but not before pausing to take one last glance over his shoulder at the two brothers. As he walked out the door, Paulie melted against the wall, becoming invisible.
The man strode to the corner, where another man was just coming out of an eating establishment. The two talked quietly but animatedly, the first one pointing toward the tavern where Lucas and Matthew believed themselves to be shielded from prying eyes. The second man nodded, whispered something, then hurried away. The first leaned against the front of the restaurant, much as Paulie was doing, and he kept shifting back and forth so that he could keep a clear view of the tavern's door.
Paulie didn't like the looks of this suspicious circumstance one bit.
Turning to the window, he peered inside again. Whatever topic Lucas and Matthew were discussing was causing both of them to proceed past caution and restraint. Paulie looked at them, then looked down the street to where the man continued to wait. The brothers' argument grew more vehement; the man on the corner was joined by several others. They were tough, rugged men wearing bulging coats that no doubt shielded clubs and pistols. Making plans, they huddled together for a few moments, then the one who appeared to be the leader gave a nod, and they headed toward the tavern.
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* * *
Matthew glared across the table, keeping his voice low. "Which room are you sleeping in? Isn't it the upstairs one on the left?"
"Yes," Lucas answered. "Why?"
It was dangerous for them to be seen together, but matters were coming to a head with Westmoreland, and they had decided that the affair could be resolved more quickly if they were
both in town during this last flurry of notes and responses. Although they'd come to the city separately and arrived individually at the tavern, Lucas still couldn't get past the impression that every eye in the place was upon them, even though he knew it wasn't so.
On the handful of occasions when he'd glanced about, no one was paying them any mind. He and Matthew appeared to be two workingmen who were enjoying some afternoon refreshment. If any of the other customers were perusing the crowd, it was because the establishment was filled with cutthroats and ruthless characters, the kind you couldn't turn your back on. His fellow troublemakers were occasionally curious, but it didn't have anything to do with Lucas personally. Elevated observation on everyone's part was the reality of the place.
Very likely his perception of a heightened scrutiny was caused by the increasing pressures of the furtive endeavor in which they were engaged, and he would be heartily glad when it was all completed. His patience was at an end, his tolerance for nonsense—never high—completely gone, his mind exhausted by the hours he'd spent trying to come up with an acceptable conclusion.
Factor in his lack of sleep due to his nighttime antics with Penny, and he was like a vicious dog on a short leash, ready to bark and bite at whoever came near. Mix in some guilt and remorse, some lies and continued deception, some joy and heartache, and all told he was a bubbling inferno of irritation
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and exasperation, and he pitied any man who dared approach too closely.
Apparently Matthew was preoccupied enough with their situation that he didn't have the good sense to notice Lucas's volatile condition and to back off because of it.
"I stopped by the barn last night," Matthew said, his teeth clenched, his fists curled, ' 'in order to grab some braiding to repair my saddle, and guess what I saw?''
“What?'' Lucas said, worn down, and not in the mood for any kind of game his brother wanted to play.
"I saw Miss Westmoreland standing at the window. The top one," he said tightly. "On the left." He leaned closer, whispering harshly, "Of course, it may have been just the shadows, but I don't believe she was wearing any clothes!"