Smoke & Lies

by Andrea Penrose

  For now, they could only wait . . .

  Taking another step back, she found her gaze drawn to the harbor. Now that she had a moment to think, Merriweather’s last words began echoing in her head.

  The other objective.

  With a sudden clarity that nearly knocked the wind from her lungs, she saw in her mind’s eye the image of Merriweather, his smile polished by centuries of privilege, hailing Hamilton and asking for a tour of the American frigate.

  Perhaps she was merely imagining specters . . .

  “Hell's bells,” muttered Arianna, darting a glance at where Saybrook and Hamilton were overseeing the wounded. She could be of no further help to them. But a cold frisson slid down her spine, warning that other dangers were still swirling in Portoferraio's tangled shadows.

  She touched the baroness’s arm to get her attention. “Once the wounded are settled, tell my husband and Hamilton to come as quickly as they can to the captain’s ship.”

  Jelena’s eyes widened but before she could speak, Arianna spun around, torn skirts frothing around her exposed ankles, and set off at a dead run for the stairs.

  Chapter 27

  Fog was ghosting in from the sea, the silvery tendrils hazing the twinkling of starlight. Slowing her steps, Arianna crept through the last turn and paused to survey the inner harbor. The wind had stilled, leaving the dark water without a ripple An eerie quiet hung over the wharves, and all appeared peaceful.

  An irony, she thought, given all the chaos swirling outside the central piazza.

  Cocking an ear, she tried to catch any noise coming from the emperor’s private quay. But the mist also muffled sound. Had Napoleon departed? And did he carry with him the spark to ignite his own destruction? Impossible to tell. Pierson was set on playing out his own cards. She must concentrate on what evil was afoot here.

  Ducking low, she shifted deeper into the shadow of the stone balusters and made herself think. It was imperative that the gold aboard Merriweather's ship not reach France.

  “Should I head straight Basilisk, rather than Hamilton’s ship?” she whispered to herself. The wrong choice could sink their chances of stopping the traitor.

  A sudden swirl of vapor kissed against her face, drawing her back from her musings. Someone was moving stealthily across the slick cobbles . . . No, it was a pair of men, and through a ripple in the mist, Arianna saw a telltale flash of gold braid against the deep blue of a British naval uniform. As the pair came to a halt, by the bottom stair, she shrank back against the chill stone, hoping her luck would hold and they wouldn’t spot her.

  One bullet would still leave her to face a very dangerous—and very angry—adversary.

  “Give me a moment to light the lantern and close the shutters before we get any closer to the American ship.” It was Merriweather. “We can’t risk having Hamilton seek to interfere with our departure.”

  Arianna heard the faint clink of glass against glass as the two men shifted position.

  “I contrived to be given a tour of the vessel earlier this week and noted where they keep their canvas, pine tar and linseed oil stored on deck while making repairs to their sails and spars.

  Clink-clink.

  “We’ll light the fuses of these firebombs from the lantern’s flame and lob them onto the foredeck,” continued Merriweather, “and in a flash, half the ship will be engulfed in flames. With any luck, a spark will find its way to the powder magazine and blow the meddlesome Yankee Doodles to Kingdom Come.”

  Holy Hell.

  Arianna heard the snick of steel striking flint. A moment later, a shiver in the fog indicated that they moved on.

  She counted to ten before slowly inched out from her hiding place. There was no chance of her reaching Hamilton’s ship before the two conspirators.

  I’ve no choice, Sandro. She silently mouthed the words while checking the priming of her weapon, if only to quiet her own qualms. Damnation. If only she had the Tsar’s lethal dueling pistols instead of a paltry pocket barking iron. Its accuracy was unreliable except at close range, which meant . . .

  Drawing a deep breath, Arianna plunged into the thickening mist.

  Cutting a path through the crates and barrels stacked along the perimeter of the piazza, she hurried to catch up with Merriweather and his cohort. They had moved from the cobblestone square to the planked walkway adjoining the jutting wharves. Up ahead, the dark silhouette of the American frigate rose up from the ghostly sea of vapor.

  The two men slowed and looked around, then started creeping toward the ship’s bow.

  Arianna darted forward and took cover behind a pile of netting. Closer—she needed to be closer. Up ahead was a barrow piled high with coils of manila rope. But to reach it meant crossing an open swath of space right under their noses.

  Risky. But the alternative was utter disaster for Hamilton’s ship and crew.

  Spotting a chunk of stone by her feet, Arianna took it up and heaved it to the opposite side of the walkway. As the two men spun around at the sound, she bolted for the barrow.

  “Just a cat prowling for rats,” whispered Merriweather. “Keep moving. We’re almost within range.”

  She eased back the hammer of her pistol. Hamilton was a careful captain. Surely he would have a night watch on duty and they would hear the shot.

  A flash of light as the lantern opened—they were lighting the fuses.

  Arianna rose.

  Merriweather had charge of the flame and passed two of the firebombs to Grim-Face. His right arm cocked back—

  Taking careful aim, she pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  A scream pierced the gloom as the muffled echo of the bang reverberated against the American frigate’s wooden hull.

  Oily flames licked up from the walkway, illuminating the shattered glass of the firebombs and the writhing form of Grim-Face, who was clutching his bleeding arm.

  “FIRE!” cried Arianna at the top of her lungs, then dove for cover as Merriweather whirled and squeezed off a shot at her. She hit the planking hard and managed to roll behind a low pile of sprucewood spars. Twisting onto her stomach, she ventured a peek at what was happening.

  The light caught a flicker of Merriweather’s enraged face as he threw his weapon to the ground in frustration. A shout rose from the frigate’s foredeck, and then another.

  Thank God.

  Without a glance at his fallen cohort, Merriweather turned and sprinted off into the darkness.

  Arianna got to her feet, only to feel staggered by a wave of dizziness. Her body felt bruised all over, especially her shoulder. She reached up to massage the spot and winced, surprised to find her fingers came away streaked with blood.

  “You devil-cursed she-bitch!”

  Staggering back a step, she flung up an arm, just in time to fend off Grim-Face’s wild swipe. He had a knife, she realized, as the blade cut perilously close to her cheek.

  He slid to his right, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, and flashed a savage grin. A predator, who took pleasure in the kill.

  She slanted a look at the ship, trying to gauge whether she could make a run for it. Her head was still woozy, and her body was having trouble obeying her brain.

  Be damned with heroics.

  “HELP!”

  With a nasty laugh, Grim-Face lunged at her again. Arianna saw the flash of steel arcing down at her throat. She tried to scream again.

  A shrill grunt of pain—not hers.

  And then her assailant was falling, falling . . . and she felt herself spinning, spinning. The flames, the fog, the lights coming ablaze aboard the frigate—everything was suddenly naught but a blur.

  “Arianna.” A pair of arms were around her, drawing her close. The scent of bay rum . . .

  Sandro.

  “You’re hurt,” murmured Saybrook.

  The warmth of him brought her back to life. “I-I’m sorry. I couldn’t let them—”

  He stopped her with a kiss. “It wasn’t a criticism, my love. Tho
ugh your courage scares the devil out of me.”

  “How is she?” Hamilton skidded to a stop, pistol at the ready. “Bloody hell, that bastard winged you.”

  “Never mind me—it’s just a scratch,” she said. “What of Johannes and Wolff?”

  “Their wounds are serious, but Lieutenant Phelps seems a very capable fellow, and has experience with bullet wounds. He thinks they’ll survive.”

  “Thank God.” A spasm of relief wobbled her knees.

  Hamilton shouted an order to his ship. “Come, let us get you to my cabin so our surgeon can tend to your wound.”

  “Stubble the surgeon!” exclaimed Arianna. “There’s no time for fussing with bandages. We need to stop the gold from reaching France!”

  Saybrook looked at Hamilton. “It does seem our one opportunity to strike a meaningful blow to Napoleon’s plans. War costs money. A great deal of it.” To Arianna, he added, “From the top of the stairs we caught sight of a cluster of sails off the shore. The emperor’s flotilla has already departed.”

  The captain gave a grim nod. “I didn't feel I had the authority to meddle with the fate of the world by firing on the emperor. But I think Grentham—and your King—will thank me for keeping one of His Majesty's warships out of the hands of the enemy, along the gold to fund yet another interminable conflict.” He gave a faint smile. “So we may pursue that skunk Merriweather and see to bandaging your wound.

  “Then let us stop lollygagging and hoist the sails,” exclaimed Arianna.

  “What about him?” Hamilton indicated Grim-Face, who lay unmoving on the salt-scuffed planking.

  “He’s dead,” replied Saybrook. “And no longer a threat to anyone. We need to ensure that the living cause no more grief.”

  * * *

  “Blast it all, where is the wind?” Hamilton stared up at the slack canvas and uttered a low oath.

  The frigate was ghosting along under studding sails, with naught but a gentle zephyr stirring the evening air.

  “These conditions give the advantage to Basilisk,” he fretted.

  Arianna took a sip of brandy that Hamilton had forced on her, glad of the fire now pooled in her belly. She was more drained than she cared to admit. Fear for Wolff and Johannes, concern for Jelena’s fears, trepidation over the coming cost of one man’s hubris . . .

  “Merriweather may have the faster vessel, but he’ll still be moving at a snail’s pace,” she pointed out. “When the breeze picks up, we’ll catch them.”

  “And pound them to splinters if he refuses to surrender,” growled the captain.

  “I devoutly hope not,” she replied. Her heart clenched as she thought of the spotty-faced midshipmen—mere boys, like cheerful little Griggs—and the junior officers with whom they had shared pease porridge and weak tea. “Merriweather has likely told them some bald-faced lie about secret Admiralty orders. And in the Royal Navy, a captain is God, so his word is never questioned. I hate to think of them dying for one man’s perfidy.”

  “As do I,” said Saybrook. “But as Pierson reminded us, it’s nigh on impossible to have it both ways. That’s one of the horrific ironies of war.” He blew out his breath. “It requires that we must kill to save lives.”

  “I shall aim my guns high and try to dismast them,” muttered Hamilton. “However, I must also have a care for my own men.”

  “I know that,” murmured Arianna, shifting her seat on the rope locker to slump back against the hatchway.

  Her gaze fell on the binnacled compass by the ship’s wheel. Discovering the true north of one’s own sense of loyalty and honor was a devilish difficult journey. She thought back to her days in the Caribbean when she didn’t care who she hurt. All that had mattered was the quest for revenge.

  How sure she had been that nothing—nothing—would ever taste as sweet.

  Her throat tightened. Thank God she had come to see that revenge would be naught but ashes in her mouth. It sent a shudder down her spine to think how close she had come to being no better than the miscreants who had murdered her father.

  But she had met Saybrook, and despite the fact that he was fighting his own demons, his unwavering sense of right and wrong had drawn her back from the abyss.

  There comes a time when one has to make an elemental choice.

  Even Wolff, who had always reveled in his lack of morals, had ultimately understood the difference between Good and Evil could only be blurred so far.

  A sudden flash on the horizon, followed by a dull boom, drew Arianna from her brooding.

  “Pierson,” muttered Hamilton. Grabbing up his spyglass from the navigation station, he scrambled up into the rigging. He was back down on the deck in a matter of minutes. “I see a fire alight on one of the smaller vessels—I assume it's Etoile—but from what I can see, the damage doesn’t look bad enough sink it.”

  “So we don’t know . . .” said Saybrook.

  “No.” Hamilton snapped the glass shut. “Impossible to tell.”

  Arianna felt an unexpected clench in her chest. She hadn’t thought of Pierson as a friend, but she admired his iron-willed loyalty to Grentham and the Crown. He was a man of unyielding principle . . . and she suspected that beneath his stone-faced demeanor, he wasn’t quite as hard-hearted as he wished to appear.

  Blinking, she watched the faraway fire fade to a faint glow.

  “Perhaps you should lie down and get some rest,” murmured the earl as he sat down beside her.

  “I wouldn’t sleep.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Not with all that’s still unresolved. I . . .” Her words trailed off. She wasn’t quite sure how to put all her whirling thoughts into words. And then . . .

  “I love you,” she murmured. “That’s the one anchor to our humanity when the world seems to caught in a maelstrom of chaos.

  He put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the creak and rattle of the rigging. With the whisper of the water and gentle rocking of the hull, the ship's rhythms could almost make her forget for a moment the uncertainties that lay ahead . . .

  The next thing Arianna knew, a swirling breeze was tugging at her cloak, and the waves were slapping against the hull. She sat up, wondering how long she had been slumbering. The fog had blown off and the black velvet sky was dotted with diamond-bright stars.

  “Sail Ho!” came the cry from the crow’s nest. “Four points off the starboard bow!”

  Saybrook rose and moved to the ship’s rail while Hamilton climbed up the ratlines to have a look for himself.

  “It’s Basilisk,” he confirmed. “They’ve chosen a more northerly course than Napoleon’s flotilla, to take full advantage of the wind. My guess is Merriweather will put into the nearest port, unload the gold and flee inland.”

  Once back on deck, he hurried to take the wheel from the helmsman and began barking orders to his lieutenants on how to trim the sails. Arianna rose and moved to join Saybrook. A pale speck was just discernable against the dark sea. The rigging’s hum rose to a tighter pitch as the deep thumping of a drum summoned the gun crews to their battle stations.

  The ship was clearing for action.

  “Surely Merriweather sees there’s no hope of escape. He can’t hope to outfight a frigate,” said Arianna.

  “It’s been done,” replied Saybrook. “As you’ve seen for yourself, luck can alter in an instant at sea—the wind can change, a lucky shot can knock down the mainmast, a rudder can snap.”

  He stared out at the waves. “And you have to remember that he’s already a dead man. Treason, along with the murder of his commanding officer, means he’ll be hung from the yardarm as soon as he’s handed over to naval authorities. My guess is he’ll fight. And to the last man if need be.”

  “So, more blood,” she murmured.

  “More blood,” he agreed. “I don’t see any way around it, my dear. We must console ourselves with choosing the lesser of two evils.”

  The ship heeled over another degree, the dark hu
ll knifing through the waves in response to the tightening of the sails.

  “Perhaps not.” Eyes narrowed in thought, Arianna looked up at the mainmast. “I have an idea.”

  Chapter 28

  “You’re mad,” muttered Hamilton.

  “There’s nothing to lose in trying,” pointed out the earl.

  “Even if I were to agree, it can’t be done. You forget—we’re an American warship. I’ve no bloody idea what the British naval signals are.”

  “But I do,” said Arianna.

  Hamilton narrowed his eyes in skepticism. “How?”

  “There was a great deal of free time on the journey from London. Basilisk’s young midshipmen missed their mothers, and I was bored. So I was happy to provide them with some female company. And in return, they explained to me their shipboard duties. They must learn mathematics for calculating the ship's daily position.” A pause. “And they are responsible for hoisting the signal flags during battle.”

  “It’s a very complicated system,” said Hamilton. “You would have to have memorized the entire signal book.”

  “Arianna is good with codes,” murmured Saybrook.

  “She would have to be very good,” retorted the captain.

  “Trust me. She is.”

  He blew out a harried sigh. “I suppose you’re right and there’s no harm in trying.” A grumbled oath followed. “But do try not to make me look like a bloody fool.”

  Arianna smiled. “Perhaps King George will give you a medal if you return his ship unharmed.”

  “And perhaps” he retorted, “President Madison will not ask for my head on a platter for trying to win a sea battle with words, rather than gunpowder.”

  The earl cleared his throat with a cough. Or perhaps it was a chuckle.

  Ignoring Hamilton’s sarcasm, she asked, “Might you summon two of your midshipmen and your supply of signal flags? It may take me a bit of time to work out my message.”

  More grumbling. But a pair of earnest-faced boys soon appeared on deck carrying a large brass-banded teak box between them.