by Gaelen Foley
It kept him from obsessing any more than he already was about rescuing Virginia and ripping Simon Limarque limb from limb.
He was not proud of the fact, but he no longer really gave one damn about Virgil’s missing book or those kidnapped girls. He could not even think about either of those disasters compared to the knowledge that the only woman who had ever really mattered to him was probably being tortured to reveal the book’s codes.
He tamped down more fantasies of death and destruction at the thought and tried to join in Phillip’s enthusiasm about the dolphins following their boat.
With a quick sail eastward along the Côte d’Azure, then, dipping south to swoop between Sardinia and Napoleon’s home island of Corsica, it was not long before they reached the Italian port town of Livorno, where they disembarked.
Once more, the crates were loaded onto a hired wagon, and once more, he bribed the livery operator not to ask questions. They went thundering through Tuscany into the Le Marche region, or, as he told the boy: “Right across the skinny part of the Boot.”
It was nearly a straight shot through central Italy to Ancona on the Adriatic Coast. The weather here was not an impediment for travel as it had been in France. It was warmer and drier, and though the ground was hilly, the terrain had long been tamed by trusty, old, Roman roads.
Their hired horses, however, did not appreciate their insistence on haste. They lagged, refusing to budge at anything over a trot, as though personally insulted that any foreigner should come to Italy and not even care about the peerless beauty on all sides that had been the glory of this land from time immemorial. What sort of British barbarian could race past Venice with barely a glance?
“Get on, you nags!” He cracked the reins over their rumps. Then he joked to Phillip that they must be Italian horses, used to the strolling, andante pace of life.
Inwardly, it took all he had to keep a cheerful demeanor. He did it for the boy’s sake, telling himself that once he had Virginia back safely—if, God willing, she wasn’t too damaged from her ordeal and in need of many weeks of recovery—their trip back to England would be leisurely and beautiful.
The three of them, almost like a family.
But for the moment, haste was of the utmost.
It was now early December, and as they passed through Italy, they saw glimpses of Christmas preparations under way: Advent processions with candles, statues of the Virgin, and ancient hymns, children in white running from door to door making their traditional visits to elderly neighbors in a token of goodwill and bringing them little presents. Nativity scenes were under construction in every village square they passed.
As a rule, Nick hated Christmas. For a spy, it was undoubtedly the most painful time of year. Even more so now.
Finally, arriving at the horseshoe-shaped port of Ancona, their eyes bombarded by the shocking cobalt blue of the Adriatic, they changed transport one last time. Nick hired a small ship, the brig Santa Lucia, two-masted, square-rigged, with six guns for protection.
The Santa Lucia was large enough to carry their cargo but small enough that it took only a dozen hands to sail—in this case, all the grown males of the colorful Fabriano family. They were a good-natured lot, continuously taunting and teasing each other: the captain, Antonio, and his crew of his seven grown sons and five assorted nephews.
Nick immediately liked them and felt they were men he could trust. He took the captain aside and told him this could take a while and that at some point, there could be trouble. The old, tough, weathered Italian had merely smiled in a manner that gave Nick to understand that, indeed, this was a very good crew to have on hand.
Phillip, for his part, was delighted when he discovered that the Fabrianos sang opera buffa instead of sea chanties when they worked the sails. They were also avid fishermen, constantly trailing their hooked lines off the sides of the ship, and they invited the young English lordling to try it. They told him they would try to net a swordfish.
At last, the Fabrianos were ready to go, promising all their wives that of course they would be back in time for Christmas. They got all the crates loaded in short order and finally pulled up anchor.
“Now,” Nick told Phillip, “we sail for Greece.”
Fortunately, the Ionian Islands were the northernmost island cluster of Greece in the Adriatic, so they reached the archipelago quickly.
Well north of the island of Ithaca, the legendary home of Odysseus, Corfu had been a holiday spot since Roman times. It had spent the past four hundred years under Venetian rule before being taken over by the French.
As of 1814, however, it had passed from French to British control. To the best of Nick’s knowledge, his country’s interest in the sultry, golden island was not in the day-to-day management of local affairs but mainly as a strategic base of operations for the Royal Navy.
The Navy was headquartered, however, well south, on the eastern side of the island at the capital, Corfu Town, facing the mainland.
Nick had been directed to the remote northern shore of Corfu, to the town of Sidári.
He was to report to a quayside taverna called the Seahorse Inn, where he would be given directions to the Villa Loutrá, a luxurious hillside estate where the private auction would be held.
As they sailed to Sidári, he wondered what the Navy would make of all the foreign vessels arriving at this sleepy coastal village, especially at this time of year.
It was hardly the usual season for an influx of holidaymakers. With winter rainfalls and temperatures in the sixties, in December, Corfu was hardly the summery paradise that it became in spring.
Of course, given the crop-killing cold snaps and bizarre middle-of-summer frosts they had seen in most of Europe this past year, due to the giant volcano eruption on the other side of the world, a winter visit to the Greek islands was a welcome change, indeed.
Perhaps if questioned, the organizers of the auction planned to tell the Navy that the visitors were merely Christmas guests of some local grandee.
More likely, Nick mused, they had already taken care to pay off the right people and were not concerned about the Navy’s interference.
At any rate, when they finally dropped anchor off the coast at Sidári, Nick left Phillip aboard with the merry Italians and rowed ashore alone to scout out the territory. He wanted, above all, to see if Simon Limarque had already arrived. Poor citizens of Sidári, he mused as he rowed through the placid waves, they had no idea what manner of visitors were about to descend on their village.
They were to be overrun by criminal merchants of all stripes, along with their henchmen. And that was the role Nick knew he must play, as well.
Thus, it was not Baron Forrester but the wicked Jonathan Black who stepped out of the rowboat into ankle-deep seawater. With the shallows sloshing around his black, waterproof boots, he dragged the dory up onto the golden sands, then paused to glance around, his eyes narrowed against the beaming sun.
He scanned the various ships moored nearby in acute suspicion, then spotted the Seahorse Inn among the several tavernas lining the docks. Heavily armed as usual in light of the dangers lurking at every hand, he took a stroll through the seaside village to get his bearings first and scout out the territory, looking for threats.
Without the presence of summer-season visitors, Sidári seemed nearly deserted. He wandered the cobbled streets, between rows of little stucco houses, either whitewashed or painted some pastel color, all with red-tiled roofs and flower boxes waiting for the spring.
From some of the houses, he smelled the food the women inside were cooking: fish and turtle stew simmering, lamb roasting, pork frying, pastries baking.
Hearty, welcoming smells of Greek food.
He passed a palm tree here and there, lemon trees shivering in the chill, and a few old olive trees with dramatically gnarled branches, their silvery green leaves sl
ightly grayed with winter. Walking past the Orthodox church, he nodded to a long-robed monk who was sweeping the tiled floor at the church’s entrance. The old bearded monk with his pillbox hat nodded back to him, but warily eyed the sword and pistols at his waist.
Not wanting to wear out his welcome, Nick returned to the quay and stepped into the Seahorse Inn. The little seaside pub was nearly empty but for a few old peasant men, rustic locals in traditional garb playing backgammon by the hearth.
He ordered a shot of ouzo from the curly-headed barmaid, then nodded politely to the villagers. Living on an island favored by holidaymakers, no doubt, the people of Corfu were used to being visited by strangers.
Still, Nick did not yet ask for directions to the Villa Loutrá, for that would only invite these folk to start asking questions of him, in turn.
He wanted to remain as anonymous as possible for now. There’d be time to start cultivating the locals—always a useful spy tactic—once he got accustomed to the place and ascertained who else among the criminal participants of the Bacchus Bazaar had already arrived.
Especially Limarque.
Unfortunately, as he downed his ouzo, he was beginning to suspect that in his push to make the best possible time, he had beaten most of the other participants here.
That meant, maddeningly, that he was going to have to wait and do nothing until they began arriving.
Bloody hell.
Finishing his drink, he paid for it with one of the Greek drachmai he had changed for Italian lire back at Ancona. They no doubt would have accepted British coins, but that would have announced him outright as an Englishman.
When he noticed the buxom barmaid with her rosy cheeks and raven curls watching him, he smiled at her. She might be a useful source of information later.
“Efcharistó,” he murmured softly as he set his empty glass on the counter.
“Parakaló!” she answered in surprise.
He made sure to tip her well and gave her a wink full of promise that they would meet again. Then he left the taverna and returned to his boat.
Meanwhile, down in the cargo hold of the Black Jest, the “cargo” had no idea where their captors were taking them. They only knew it was very cold, with great, wild tossings of the ship and howlings of the wind, and then it got warmer, the seas calmer.
Gin concluded that they must have rounded Gibraltar and sailed into the Mediterranean. It seemed the most likely explanation. The warmer temperature obviously spelled a southern latitude, but she doubted Rotgut was taking them to Africa.
Besides, she was certain that nowhere near enough time had passed for them to have reached some far-flung tropical destination like the West Indies.
And it wasn’t that hot. It was enough of a boon simply not to be freezing every moment anymore.
Whatever their current location, she had done her best to keep the girls’ chins up. They had played simple games, sung songs, told stories, explained to one another how they had been tricked or outright kidnapped by Rotgut and his men, and talked about their families.
Gin thought often of her father and missed her darling son even more than she missed Nick.
But she could not let herself dwell on them.
Having quickly emerged as the leader of the captives, she had to keep her wits about her. Especially since she had long since realized that any plan of escape she might hatch could be jeopardized by the traitor in their midst.
Susannah Perkins, the very girl she had first set out to find, was a risk to them all.
The headstrong lass had made it clear that she was chiefly out for herself. She meant to survive this, no matter what. She had taken to pleasuring a few of the sailors with the most clout in order to get out of the cell now and then and to procure a few simple comforts for herself. Better food, extra blankets.
When one of the other girls called her a whore, Miss Perkins slugged her in the face. Gin had had to break up the fight but she knew full well that any girl who would get down on her knees for such trifles could never be trusted.
Moreover, she had no doubt that Susannah would use any information about a mutiny brewing among the prisoners for her own gain, too.
Unfortunately, the only way to escape the traitor’s hearing in their closed prison was to wait for her to fall asleep.
But it scarcely mattered. There was no point in making an escape plan if they were in the middle of the sea.
One day, however, Susannah returned from one of her visits with the crewmen to report brusquely to the others that they had just arrived in Greece.
Still no sign of Limarque.
Nick had been constantly on the watch for him, but the Promethean’s ex-bodyguard and his gang had not yet joined the gathering horde of criminals descending on Sidári.
That day, Phillip was fishing off the side of their boat, determined to net an octopus. Captain Antonio, as patriarch of his clan, was also something of a chef. He had promised to prepare this great delicacy for the boy to sample if he succeeded. And so, the octopus hunt was on.
Nick, meanwhile, was hunting more dangerous prey. He peered through his telescope from the rails of the brig and spotted another person of interest tromping into the Seahorse Inn: E. Dolan from Room Fourteen of L’Hôtel Grande Alexandre. Rotgut, if his suspicions were correct.
At once, Nick ordered the dory lowered into the waves and duly told Phillip, “Of course not,” when the lad asked if he could come along.
As soon as Nick had buckled on his brace of pistols, he was climbing down the ladder, stepping into the boat.
After all, he was going out of his mind waiting for the opportunity to rescue Virginia; but since Limarque had still not appeared, he might as well see about saving those kidnapped girls. It was what she would want, and at the moment, it was the only task that he could fix upon.
He seized the opportunity, his first goal to find out where the son of a bitch was keeping his human cargo.
Once again, he rowed ashore, past the pair of towering rock formations that rose from the shallows on both sides of him. He dragged the boat up onto the sand and strode back to the Seahorse Inn.
The pub was now crowded with all the visiting members of the cutthroat class—though most were respectably dressed. Pausing in the doorway, Nick’s stare homed in on the tall, husky Mr. Dolan, sitting at a table, washing down shots of whiskey with tankards of ale. He wondered how long ago the man had reached Sidári. But one thing was certain.
The direct approach was out of the question.
Fortunately, Nick had a fair notion of how to reel in this Geordie bull shark. The man sold women, after all.
Thus, as Nick crossed the pub to order his usual ouzo, he decided on the spot that this was the perfect day to get very drunk (or seem so) and come on very strong to the curly-headed barmaid.
This he did, without so much as a glance at E. Dolan.
He got louder, laughing with her, complimenting the lass on her body; he pinched her cheek, downed another shot of the fiery stuff, and pulled her onto his lap with a hearty laugh.
The barmaid squealed and giggled; that was rather unexpected. Bloody hell, she was not supposed to react with naughty interest to his loud, obnoxious flirtation.
E. Dolan scowled at his rakish display, Nick observed from the corner of his eye. He had certainly got the man’s attention now. Dolan was studying him, eyes narrowed with recognition.
Nick ignored him, capturing her hand. “Come, take a walk on the beach with me,” he cajoled her. “You’re the prettiest girl in this town.”
“I can’t!” she insisted, her English better than his Greek though her accent was strong. “My father does not let me walk out with the customers.”
“But I can pay you,” he whispered loudly.
“What do you take me for?” she scolded, blushing.
“Come, my
little Aphrodite, don’t be cruel. A man needs some company every now and again.”
Pinned on his lap, she struggled against his hold around her waist, but when he laughingly kissed her on the cheek, she seemed inclined to let him do it.
Fortunately, her proud Greek papa came out from the back just then, saw Nick pawing his daughter, and flew into a rage, as expected.
Now that’s more like it, Nick thought, as her father promptly threw him out of the pub.
Nick went peaceably enough, but pretended outrage. “What’s wrong with you people?” he yelled in a slurred, drunken voice. “Don’t you have any wenches around here? Good God!” He straightened his jacket and staggered away from the door.
But within a few seconds, he sensed someone behind him. “You, there! Don’t I know you?”
He spun around with a mean, drunken glower. “Who the hell are you?”
Dolan took a wary step toward him across the wooden planks of the dock. “I recognize you from Paris.”
Nick looked him up and down suspiciously. “So?”
“You here for the auction?” the Geordie demanded.
“Aye. You?”
Dolan nodded, studying him. “What’s your name?”
“Jonathan Black. You?”
“They call me Rotgut,” Dolan informed him with a cagey nod of greeting.
Nick raised his eyebrows. “I heard about you from my friend, Limarque! I’ve been meaning to talk to you!” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ve got a business proposition for you. Shall we?” He gestured toward the docks; Dolan sauntered along beside him with a wary look, one hand on his pistol. But the slaver heard him out as Nick explained how they were in parallel lines of business and perhaps could profit by sharing transportation costs on their various shipments in future. Coordinating their efforts could also be a boon to help them both evade the Water Guard.