“We can’t leave him. We—”
“Not we. I. I will get you back to Macao and Thorn someplace he can sober up. I don’t promise to do it at the same time.” She looked ready to argue, but he stared her down.
The door opened, interrupting them. A Chinese servant brought a tray of food, placed it on the tiny table by the window, and bowed out without a word. Charles tried the door. It opened easily, and he pulled it shut. A test? “We could walk out,” he said.
“Not without my brother.” She had steel in her voice.
He briefly considered throwing her over his shoulder as he had on the Reliance and carrying her down the wharf until he found Oliver’s premises. She would not make it easy, and the likelihood that Jarratt had men watching made it unappealing.
He opened the door again. The bruiser waved from his chair at the end of the hallway and asked if he might help them. Charles pulled the door shut, dragged one of the chairs over, and wedged it under the handle. When he walked past the table, delicious smells bombarded him. One porcelain bowl held rice; the other, bits of meat and vegetables in a savory sauce.
“We’ll think better on a full stomach.” He moved the table so that one of them could sit on the bed now that the other chair had taken on guard duty.
“We again?” Zambak grunted.
He glowered at her and ladled food onto one of the two plates they’d been given. “There is no fork or spoon,” he said, mystified.
Zambak lifted two sticks from the tray and waved them in front of him. “Allow me to show you how the Chinese eat,” she said. She proceeded to manipulate the articles into a scoop and carry food into her mouth. Where did she learn that skill?
“Lai-min Lau taught me,” she said, answering his unspoken question.
Several spills and missteps later, Charles managed the thing with some success. Hunger is a great motivator. “Jarratt sent these on purpose,” he grumbled.
“Probably,” she responded cheerfully. “Do you suppose he is watching?”
“Watching, listening, or both. I’m afraid he plans to expose you publicly in the morning, and then put it about we spent the night together.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I thought he meant to put it about you have an unnatural relationship with your valet.”
“It isn’t me he wishes to disgrace, at least not entirely,” he replied with exaggerated patience. The simpleton hasn’t even the sense to worry for her reputation. Except Zambak isn’t simple; she’s devious and too damned intelligent. If it weren’t for her brother, she’d be enjoying this.
Charles carried the tray to the hallway, waved to Jarratt’s spy, and put it on the floor. The man still sat at the end of the hall. If I have to guess, that is where they put Thorn. At least he doesn’t appear to have his ear to our door.
He joined her in searching for a peephole and found none, even when he pulled the bed from the wall. The bed, table, and two chairs made up the only furnishings. No pictures decorated the walls.
“Spartan accommodations indeed, but at least his spies aren’t watching us,” she said at last.
“Listening perhaps?” he suggested. She put a finger to her lips and tiptoed toward the bed with mock seriousness. He stifled a laugh.
The window, loose in its frame, opened onto a back alley. If she could handle the final drop, he could hand her down. He leaned on the frame, visions of her alone in the lawless smuggler’s enclave at night in his mind, and rejected that idea. He leaned out farther so he could see to his left. Four windows stood between his and the end of the building, one of them opening on Thorn’s room. The sound of footsteps below made him pull back inside.
“Zamb—” he began and lost track of his thought at the sight of her asleep on the bed. She had sat down on the edge and fallen over. He knelt to remove her boots and pulled her legs up onto the bed.
“Charles?” she said without opening her eyes, the sound muffled. “We’ll get Thorn in the morning.” She turned to her side.
He watched her steady breathing, pulled back the hand that itched to touch her, and forced his eyes back to the window. He sat on the far side of the bed and studied it while he explored possibilities. He could raise the window, stand on the sill, and swing himself up and onto the roof. It wouldn’t be the first time he performed that stunt. From there, it was a short crawl across the roof to the farthest window, the one most likely to open up onto Thorn, where he would swing down, drag the self-centered fool out, and drop him to the ground. It would be easy enough.
If shattering the other window didn’t cut me too badly.
If Thorn made no sound.
If the fall didn’t kill the boy.
If I didn’t have Zambak to protect.
If I didn’t have Zambak.
She lay curled to her side breathing evenly, the cropped hair around her head like a nimbus, and his heart turned over. Asleep, the tough outer shell she used to keep the world at bay evaporated; vulnerable and relaxed, her feminine curves called out to his least honorable instincts.
He hesitated, grateful for Jarratt’s pointed reminder about his marriage, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her, and finally gave in to temptation. Lying under the thin blanket, he justified himself on the grounds that the night grew cold. Surely the Almighty won’t begrudge us the warmth. He wrapped himself around her and felt her relax into his arms still sleeping.
Heaven and hell in one embrace. The exquisite torture of Zambak curled against him and the need to protect her kept him sleepless until dawn sifted through the windows, and she began to wake up. Long lashes blinked over pale blue eyes, while he kept himself perfectly still. He had waited too long to move.
“Charles?” she asked, confused to see his face close to hers.
His erection, hard and painful, had to be obvious to her. He swallowed, frozen in place, and found no answer to her unspoken question. When puzzlement gave way to joy and her mouth curved into a contented smile, her tempting lips lay inches from his. She raised a hand and pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead, and the last of his self-control crumbled; he leaned toward her.
The door rattled, shaken by unseen hands on the handle, and he jerked away. Charles couldn’t be certain whether he felt relieved or frustrated. “Both,” he muttered, sitting up and ruffling his hair, and willing his unruly body to behave.
Zambak flopped onto her back and covered her eyes with one arm. “Bother,” she grumbled.
Neither had time to ponder what had just happened. Thorn stood in the hall dressed for travel, Jarratt’s servants on either side of him. “Mr. Jarratt doesn’t like to wait,” the bruiser told them as if it explained everything. He urged them to follow, and they did, still in yesterday’s clothing, rumpled, and unkempt.
“There has been excitement in Canton over night. Business demands that I visit the factories before I can return you to Macao,” Jarratt told them, adding slyly, “And you may hear the same from any you approach.” He stood at the front of his wharf, impeccable as always, and did not explain the nature of the “excitement.”
He led them out toward the docks with Thorn staggering at their side. The marquess either failed to recognize his sister through her disguise or, judging from his smirk, had been coached to ignore it.
The bustle of ships readying sail—the large ships to return to Macao and the smaller craft to go upriver to Canton—seemed to confirm Jarratt’s prediction. Charles scanned the anchored fleet looking for the Wild Swan or barring that the Reliance, hoping for a friendly face, and praying Jarratt would back down from a public confrontation if he found one.
“What’s going on?” Zambak hissed from behind him. “I can’t make out what the Chinese are saying, but their eyes shift from side to side. Something made them nervous.”
“Elliot has ordered the traders out of Whampao,”
he guessed, but he didn’t elaborate. He had more immediate concerns. “We’ll leave you here, Jarratt,” he said. “Elliot must be here still. I’ll have to throw us on his mercy.”
“You wish to stay in Whampao while you search? It won’t be safe for you—or your valet,” he added pointedly. “I’m afraid the superintendent finished his little circus with the viceroy, and gunboats are ordered out of the Pearl Delta. All foreigners are pulling out while Elliot lurks off shore on the Reliance.”
“Oliver and Company doesn’t employ gunboats,” Charles responded. We’ll wait.”
“Oliver and Company doesn’t have dealings in Whampao. You won’t find the mission set here.”
True enough normally, but Dan said he wanted to observe Elliot’s action. He must— He looked around frantically. Only one small ship, blessedly nearby, flew the American flag. As if conjured by the wish, Dan Oliver’s voice called from the deck. “Your Grace! I expected you yesterday. You almost missed us.”
“Oliver, thank God,” Charles responded. The ship across from them wasn’t the Wild Swan, but a smaller vessel. American seamen swarmed the deck preparing to sail. Jarratt looked like he’d swallowed something vile.
Oliver’s eyes narrowed at the figure behind Charles. No fool, he. “My valet came with me,” Charles told him, praying he said nothing about the woman. “And I’ve brought an extra passenger.” He indicated Thorn with a shrug of his shoulder, keeping his eyes averted from Jarratt. “I presume you have room for all of us.” I hope to Hell you do. He also hoped they planned to return to Macao, but given the vessel appeared to be one suited for upriver travel, he feared not.
Oliver peered at Jarratt who looked ready to object and shrewdly asked no awkward questions. “Of course. Come aboard, quickly though.”
Charles took Thorn by the arm before Jarratt could speak and gestured Zambak toward the gangplank.
“See here,” Thorn mumbled. “I don’t know . . .”
Jarratt turned to his guards but stopped when several of the American seamen moved down the gangplank, and one reached over to assist the swaying marquess. A fight with the Americans did not appear to suit Jarratt’s plans.
“As you wish, Murnane. We will settle my associate’s contract soon. I never leave business unconcluded,” he growled, staring right at Zambak, who stood poised to bolt up the gangplank.
“You may be sure of it, Mr. Jarratt. We will most certainly settle.” Charles turned his back to the man and followed Zambak and her brother.
Chapter 20
“Sorry, m’lady.” Oliver leaned back in his chair, the ever-present pipe in one hand. “We can’t take you and your brother directly back to Macao. The good Lord knows I wish I could.” He glanced around the tiny cabin that served as his command post, everywhere he could but not directly at Zambak. Once she climbed aboard his ship, he had not been able to contain his horror at the sight of a woman in trousers and waistcoat. There would be no pretense on the vessel.
“Captain Oliver,” she objected, “my brother is just emerging from an opium sleep. My understanding is that shortly he will—”
“Aye th’boy will need the drug, and that’s for certain.”
“I’m supposed to deliver him to the Lau medical center. Temperance—Mrs. Knighton—expects us. We plan to—”
“I know. I spoke to our mutual friend. Can’t be helped. I have to transport medical supplies to the clinic at Zion’s Quarter first. We’ll find help for you there.”
“We don’t have much time. Without the opium, Thorn will be difficult to handle.”
Oliver’s customary compassion warmed her, but his eyes skittered away quickly, fixing on Charles who sat with his head down, hands folded in front of him, a picture of exhaustion. She suspected he hadn’t slept since he found her on the Reliance.
“I sent a man to fetch a bit of opium tar, enough to begin weaning th’lad without throwing him into crisis, at least until we can get him to Canton.”
Zambak’s brewing frustration came to a boil. “Canton? We’re no closer to our goal than we were with Jarratt! We ought to have stayed and—”
Charles shot upright. “Don’t talk idiocy, Zambak!” He looked nervously at Oliver, leaned forward, dropped his voice, and folded back into formal address. “Lady Zambak, Jarratt means you and your brother harm—or rather your father harm. He means to bend Sudbury’s influence through the two of you. It’s vital that we extricate both of you from his sphere.”
“We? I have no say in it. You mean ‘vital to Her Majesty’s government,’ and our needs don’t matter. Keep the Marquess of Glenaire and Lady Zambak Hayden wrapped in cotton wool for the sake of queen and country. That’s it, isn’t it, your ‘commission’?” Rigid with outrage, she glared at Charles. “I will not be used as a political pawn! Not by my father, not by Jarratt, not by the government, and not by you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Jarratt is—”
“—only the latest in a long line,” she said suddenly weary. “Someone always wants a piece of Sudbury’s heir or, barring that, the daughter. They always have plans to exploit us for gain.” She tapped the captain’s desk with the middle finger of her left hand.
Charles looked toward Oliver, his hands making an apologetic gesture. “We’ve had a difficult few days,” he explained.
“Don’t apologize for me, Charles. I know I sound like a sullen child.” She straightened up. An embarrassing excess of emotion solves nothing. “Needs must when the devil drives, Captain Oliver. Canton it is. Will my brother be made secure at this clinic of yours while we deal with his illness?”
“Dr. Peters has some knowledge, m’lady. He’ll see to the boy.”
“I will care for my brother, myself, Captain. What promises to be a most unpleasant task is entirely my responsibility. I’ll be grateful for the mission’s hospitality, however, and certainly see to it you are reimbursed for any costs.”
Oliver tipped his head to one side and looked at her fully at that. His approval slipped under her guard. The respect of this man, not easily given, mattered to her. She looked down at her clothes and back at the American. “I apologize if my appearance offends your sensibilities, but I have none other at the moment.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Oliver said with reluctance. “I can’t think how we would smuggle an English woman into Canton otherwise. You’ll be needing a hat as it is.” He rubbed his chin. “Though how we’ll find women’s clothing in Canton—Western clothing, that is—I don’t know.”
Zambak felt a smile tease the edges of her lips. She rose, and the men did as well. Rather as if we just chatted over tea in my mother’s house. How does one curtsey in trousers? “If you will direct me to this seaman sent to fetch the demonic substance, I’ll check in on my brother.” Cow shite. I hope I can manage the thing. Fear for Thorn dogged her steps.
~ ~ ~
Canton at last. I ought to have come here straight away. I might have avoided— Charles squashed the thought as Oliver’s seamen rowed them closer and closer to shore. Regrets were pointless; there had been other fish to fry. Now, with Julia under his protection in Macao and the Hayden offspring where the missionaries would keep the two of them confined, he was free to learn what he could for the queen and positioned to do so thoroughly.
As it unfolded, darkening twilight covered Zambak’s entrance into the foreign compound. The sailor’s cap Oliver insisted on helped as well. Her silvery hair would have gleamed in the moonlight and drawn attention. In the shadows, she easily passed for a common seaman. Charles watched Thorn shake off his sister’s embrace and sifted through their earlier argument.
Her attack on his motives, if she actually believed what she said, set their relationship back where it had been upon his arrival: she, the put-upon daughter; he, the father’s spy. It’s best if she believes it. Thorn certainly does. He told h
imself to be grateful that she put a wall between them. Even if he sorted out the mess that was his marriage, no good could come of his growing attraction. He had her report; he would add what he gleaned in Canton and embark for London as soon as he could manage the thing.
Their boat butted against a pier, and unseen hands tied it up. Oliver alighted first, helping both Zambak and a hostile Thorn get out. Charles followed, jumping on to the pier and taking a moment to savor the sight. An open ground, one the traders called the exercise yard, spread in either direction. Beyond it, buildings lay tooth by jowl the length of the waterfront, their backs to the city, each one flying the flag of its nation. Union Jacks fluttered over the East Indian Company factory and the smaller consulate building next door.
Oliver motioned him toward a building at the far-left end, past a massive flagpole flying the stars and stripes. Thorn spun his head around as if looking for an escape somewhere along the dark parade ground and, finding none, slouched forward. Charles couldn’t hear all his complaints, but he made out the word “Jarratt.”
He didn’t envy Zambak the task she set for herself, but he admired her for it. Her chances for success were few. Even if she did manage to see him through the hell, Charles suspected Thorn would try to bolt back to Jarratt or whoever would supply him with opium as soon as he got free of her. It would be up to Charles to prevent it.
Light flowed out across the stone pavement when a door to the American’s factory opened. It drew them in, the warmth of the welcome matching the warmth of the private quarters. The competent young men who made up Oliver’s Canton staff, Americans all, asked no questions nor did they show any surprise when ordered to escort an unknown man obviously under the influence of opium to a room near the clinic on the lower floor and lock him in. Charles suspected Thorn might be known by reputation in Canton.
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