The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  Taking a moment to think of the four cannons, two to each side, as well as the number of blunderbusses, pistols, and swords kept locked in the hold, he knew they were insufficient if the pirates caught them unawares and off guard.

  If that happens, we are all dead, and God alone can protect Merial from their savagery.

  Chapter 14

  Searching the study, he frowned, unable to understand why he could not find the coffer made of cedar wood. He had seen it there in the past, on a shelf, and had asked what was in it. Nothing important came the reply, but he knew that people did not keep unimportant items locked in strong boxes.

  Surely it holds jewels, and riches, perhaps it is filled with gold coins.

  He continued to search, growing more and more puzzled. He looked behind books, in all the drawers, under the desk, in the cabinets. No cedar box met his inspection. He had searched all of his predecessor’s possessions in his private quarters, now his, and found nothing.

  Frustrated, he sat down in the chair, and gazed around with his lips pursed. Using the bell pull, he summoned the butler. Moments later, the stiffly formal servant entered the study and bowed low. “You called for me, My Lord?”

  “Yes. I want to know if you have seen a cedar wood box with letters of the alphabet on it.”

  “Only in the past, My Lord,” the butler intoned. “The last I saw of it, it was here in this room.”

  “Could your previous master have sent it to one of the estates?” he asked.

  “If it was, I was not informed of such.”

  He rubbed his face with both hands, confounded by the coffer’s absence. “I want you to send footmen to the estates and make inquiries of it,” he said at last. “I want that box found.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “And I want a search of this house made for it as well.”

  “I will see to it.”

  With an impatient gesture, he dismissed him. The butler bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him. He leaned back in his chair, feeling certain the coffer contained riches beyond his imagination. Though he was now a very wealthy man, he firmly believed that one could never be too rich.

  “I must find that box,” he muttered. “I know it must be filled with a treasure. Gold, jewels, surely a king’s ransom lies within it. But where did that idiot put it?”

  Two days later, his hunting dog returned.

  He greeted the little man eagerly, feeling certain he had found the girl and had disposed of her. He received the man in his private study, and wondered absently about putting him on the trail of the missing coffer. “Well?” he asked, smiling. “You have good news, I trust?”

  “I fear not, My Lord,” the man replied, his dark eyes unreadable. “But I have heard things that perhaps you should know about.”

  His smile faded. “What things?”

  “People have been asking questions about the deaths of the old Earl and his Countess,” the investigator answered. “An inquiry has been opened at the behest of Lord Rockston, the Marquess of Saxonshire.”

  He shrugged casually. “Why would they investigate an accidental fire?” He sat down in his chair, eyeing the little man sourly. “What has Saxonshire to do with anything?”

  “It appears he has the ears of the magistrates’ offices, and he does not believe the old Earl died of an accident, as is the common perception of the ton. The magistrates have enlisted the aid of the Bow Street Runners, who are now asking questions of the Earl’s friends and acquaintances.”

  “But they have not asked any questions of me.”

  “Not yet.” The hunting dog watched him carefully, his expression neutral. “They may knock at your door, My Lord, and ask what you may know.”

  He shrugged carelessly. “What can I tell them? I know nothing.”

  “Of course you do not,” he answered, his small smile feigned, as was the lightness in his tone.

  Studying the inspector, he wondered if the man toyed with him, and played some paltry game of his own. “Let them come,” he continued. “I have absolutely nothing to hide, and they will leave my home quite satisfied with my answers.”

  The man bowed, hiding his eyes. “I am sure of it.”

  “And what word of the girl?” he asked.

  “Still nothing, I fear, My Lord. A few trading ships have arrived into the London docks, but no word of her.”

  “It has been nearly two weeks since she vanished,” he fumed, his right hand clenching into a fist. “She must be found.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  He gazed at the investigator with confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” the man replied slowly. “Sailing vessels seldom carry women, and those on them regard women with suspicion and fear.”

  “So? What are you trying to say? Out with it.”

  The hunting dog studied his fingernails. “I am saying that as she boarded a ship for America, how long before the superstitious crew throws her into the sea?”

  He put his hands behind his head and began to smile.

  Chapter 15

  With Henry trotting at her heels, Merial went up the steps to the main deck, her stomach in knots from the same recurring nightmare. Flames. Someone shouting at her. Explosions. The feeling of terror and impending doom she could not shake off even while awake. She knew her memories were in her head somewhere, and they screamed unintelligible warnings she could not understand.

  The sound of someone retching caught her attention, and she glanced to her right to find a sailor bent over the gunwale. Slowing down to watch him in concern, she witnessed him vomit again into the sea below.

  The after effects of a night of drinking rum.

  She walked on several paces before the realization hit her that Christopher did not permit the crew enough rum to get drunk on.

  Dismissing it from her mind, Merial went in search of Christopher, and found Mr. Mayhew instead. He stood in the bow as Christopher often did, the helmsman piloting the Valkyrie with a sure hand. “Have you seen the Captain, Mr. Mayhew?” she asked.

  He bowed. “Nay, M’lady. He may still sleep, as he were up late last night keeping a watch for them heathen pirates.”

  Merial smiled. “Perhaps he is. If he asks for me, I will be in the galley helping with breakfast.”

  “Aye, M’lady.”

  Down in the galley, Maurice sat on a stool with his head hanging, soft groans emanating from his slack lips. Instantly concerned, Merial went to him. “Maurice?”

  “Oui.” He peered at her blearily through red-rimmed eyes, with dark circles under them, and his flesh appeared ghastly pale.

  “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  “Oui. I have been vomiting since before daybreak, cherie.”

  Worry swept through Merial.

  The sailor throwing up, Christopher absent, now Maurice sick.

  “Tell me, Maurice,” she said, urgent. “What could be wrong? What are your symptoms?”

  “Sweating. Chills. Fever. Now I no keep anything down.”

  “Return to your bunk at once,” she ordered, realizing she had to send someone into Christopher’s quarters to check on him.

  He blinked. “Then who will cook breakfast?”

  “I will. Go on now.”

  Without waiting for him to answer, Merial rushed from the galley and back onto the deck, searching for either Christopher or Mr. Mayhew with her eyes. She found two more sailors retching over the side, and her fears doubled. A third sat on a bench with his head hanging, his groans eerily similar to Maurice’s.

  “Mr. Mayhew,” she called, hurrying across the deck, seeing him turn at the sound of her voice.

  “M’lady?”

  Reaching him, she pointed to the sick sailor. “Something is wrong,” she told him. “The cook is ill as are at least three members of the crew. Please, I need someone to go below and check on the Captain.”

  Mr. Mayhew’s brows drew together as he gazed around at the crew, and now Merial studied them more closely. Those
in the rigging, or coiling ropes moved sluggishly, pausing often to wipe sweat from their brows although the day’s heat had not yet risen enough to bring sweat.

  “Heaven’s mercy,” he whispered. “What is wrong with them?”

  “Something is making them ill,” she said, her voice urgent, her fears rising to near panic over Christopher’s absence. “How do you feel? Fever? Chills? Nausea?”

  “Me belly is not at its usual,” he admitted. “I have no hunger this morn. I have a headache, but that may be from a sleepless night.”

  “You may be ill also,” she said. “Just not as bad as the others. Please, go check on the Captain.”

  “Aye, M’lady.”

  He crossed the deck with long strides, slowing on occasion to gaze at a sailor who ran to the side before hurling up whatever may be in his stomach since dinner the night before. Then he vanished down below, leaving Merial to wander amidships, trying to count those crewmen who appeared hale and healthy.

  She counted them all on one hand.

  Feeling helpless to do anything for them, as she had no idea what could be causing their illness, Merial discovered two pairs of eyes watching her with cold menace. Benson and Daunger, the survivors of the sunken White Gull, gazed at her from eyes as red and pallor as white as any, then Daunger ran to the gunwale to vomit over the side.

  Glad for the weight of the dagger under her sleeve, Merial did not quite dare to turn her back on them, as her protectors were either ill or absent. Yet, without obvious haste, she put distance between them, and strode toward the steps that led below decks.

  Christopher, Mr. Mayhew behind him, strode wearily up them, obviously as sick as any of the others. He sweated profusely, his pale eyes bloodshot, and he offered her a tentative smile as he found her dashing toward him.

  “Christopher.” The relief in her voice overshadowed her fear, and she forgot the looks she received from Daunger and Benson.

  “I expect I am not feeling so well,” he said, his voice thick.

  Standing on the deck, he swayed slightly on his feet, and Mr. Mayhew urged him to sit down. “I am told many of the crew are sick?” Christopher asked, gazing up at her under a tumble of his hair over his brow.

  “Yes,” she replied, gazing around. “Some seem well, but they number few.”

  “And you are not?” he asked.

  Merial looked back at him in surprise. “No,” she answered slowly, realizing she felt just fine. “Why am I well and not everyone else?”

  “The fears of the crew will rise with this, M’lord,” Mr. Mayhew growled. “I am sure of it. They will blame M’lady. Mark my words.”

  “Consider them marked.”

  Christopher met Merial’s gaze with a fierceness that surprised her. “Be on your guard, Merial,” he told her, his voice as hard as his eyes. “You have few that can protect you now, not with so many ill.”

  “I will look after her,” Mr. Mayhew declared stoutly.

  “I need you to run the ship with all hands who are able,” Christopher replied sharply. “Unless she stays beside you for every moment, you cannot do both.”

  “I must do what I can to aid the sick,” Merial told him, thinking of the cold eyes that stared at her with malevolence. “Maurice is also ill, and thus cannot cook. I must do it.”

  “I would rather you remain in your cabin.”

  “I will not hide,” she snapped. “As I am not ill, I will prepare breakfast for those who can eat, and I will find the source of this illness.”

  She watched Christopher’s reddened eyes widen and Mr. Mayhew studied her askance.

  “Yes,” Christopher said slowly, drawing out the word. “This is not some sudden disease. If the pair we rescued were sick when they came on board, we can blame them. But they were not.”

  “They are now,” Merial told him, but refrained from informing him of the deadly stares they directed at her.

  “I do not think this be a disease, M’lord,” Mr. Mayhew added. “Bad food perhaps?”

  Christopher snapped his fingers. “Gauthier prepared some shellfish dish last night, did he not?”

  Merial nodded slowly. “I did not eat it, as I do not care for shellfish.”

  “That is right, I remember now. Mayhew, how much of it did you have for dinner?”

  Mr. Mayhew shook his head. “I ate, M’lord, but I have the constitution of a shark. I can eat anything and not become ill.”

  “You admitted to not feeling well, however,” Merial stated firmly. “So it must have affected you. Thank God for your constitution, for we need you hale and hearty.”

  “I did not notice it tasted bad,” Christopher said, his tone wondering. “I thought it delicious.”

  “Maurice’s curry may have disguised the flavor of the bad food,” Merial told him. “Unfortunately, there is no cure for this save time. Christopher, perhaps you should return to your cabin.”

  He shook his head with resolution. “No. Not while there is the smallest chance the crew will blame you for this in their superstitious fears. Mayhew, please fetch me a pistol from my cabin. You know where it is.”

  Mr. Mayhew gaped, his eyes huge. “M’lord?”

  “Christopher, no—”

  “I will tolerate no argument from either of you. Go, Mayhew.”

  Merial gazed at Christopher as Mr. Mayhew walked away, observing the tight lines around his mouth and eyes, the sweat that matted his hair to his neck. “What can I bring you?” she asked softly.

  He smiled slightly. “Outside of a cure, nothing. I fear my stomach will rebel if I put anything into it just now.”

  “A tea perhaps?”

  He took her hand. “You are so good to me, Merial,” he murmured. “Ask me in a little while.”

  “Very well.”

  Glancing around the deck, she observed the crew who lay in the shade cast by the sails, some moaning, others simply curled on their sides. Still more vomited over the gunwales, and among them were Daunger and Benson. A handful tended their duties, eyeing their groaning and hurling comrades in puzzlement.

  “There is no one in the crow’s nest.” Merial turned back to Christopher.

  “Barker,” Christopher called.

  A slender sailor trotted toward them, a question in his eyes. Christopher pointed up. “Aloft, if you will. We need eyes on the seas.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  As nimble as a squirrel, Mr. Barker scampered up the rat lines to the crow’s nest, and set the spyglass to his eye. Mr. Mayhew returned with the pistol, and handed it to Christopher. He accepted it, and tucked it into the waistband of his breeches, hidden by his coat.

  “Off with you now, Mayhew,” he said wearily. “Keep us on an easterly course with all speed.”

  “Aye, M’lord.”

  He went forward to the bow, leaving Merial to gaze ruefully at Christopher. “I expect making breakfast for only a few will hardly be difficult.”

  “If the men feel as I do,” he replied, “there is no point in feeding them. They will only hurl it over the side.”

  “You will sit here?”

  “I will be here.”

  Leaving him, Merial went below to the galley, and discovered Maurice must have taken her advice and gone to his bunk for he was nowhere in evidence. Before lighting the stove, she went in search of the seafood suspected of making most everyone on board sick. She opened barrels and found the salted pork and herring, flour, sugar, the leftover fish they had caught and preserved, and finally the shellfish.

  The instant she lifted the lid, she smelled the foul odor emanating from it. “Good Lord,” she muttered. “How did no one realize it was this bad?”

  Returning topside, she beckoned a pair of crewmen who appeared healthy. “Come and dump this barrel overboard,” she instructed, bringing them below and showing them the one that contained the shellfish.

  They, as she did, took one whiff and covered their mouths in disgusted horror. “This is what is making everyone ill, M’lady?” asked one.

/>   “How could they have eaten that in the first place?” asked the other.

  “While I cannot say for certain,” she replied, “I am guessing that Maurice cooked what was on the top, and it was not nearly this horrid. His spices covered the foul taste.”