by Jenna Jaxon
The boy’s bug-eyed gaze never left the pouch, though he nodded.
“Good. Then I want you to snatch this purse from me and run, first around me, then over to the carriage. Open the door, scoot through the carriage and out the other door. I’m going to act like I’m chasing you, but once you get through the carriage, run for your life, because I’m going to send the guards after you. And you don’t want them to catch you under any circumstances.” Rob nodded gravely, and the lad blinked. “Are you with me?”
A slight nod, and the boy set his rope aside.
“Good lad. Thanks for your help.” Rob tensed, but held the pouch loosely in his hand and whispered, “Go.”
In that instant, the boy leaped from the barrel, taking the pouch lightly from Rob’s fingers as he went.
“Stop, thief!” Rob yelled in his best Drury Lane voice as he pursued the lad toward the carriage. Stirrings inside the inn told him he’d been correct.
The boy headed toward the waiting carriage, yanked the door open, and jumped in. Rob slowed just a bit. He didn’t want to get too close to capturing the lad. Not that he thought he could. “Stop that boy!” He continued to call out, directing his cries toward the inn. “Someone help me!” Rob climbed into the carriage as the boy jumped out the other side, hit the sandy ground, and took off running. “Come back here, you jackanapes!”
“What are you doing, my lord?” A deep gravelly voice behind him made Rob swing around to face a tall man with a flattened nose.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I am trying to retrieve my belongings, and you and your partner are going to help me.” Rob jumped to the ground as a second burly fellow came up to the carriage. “Both of you, chase that urchin down and bring him back here to me.”
The man took a step back, looking around almost comically, as if to see who Rob was addressing. “Yes, you there. Tall fellow. That boy stole my purse. Go after him this instant.”
“I ain’t allowed to—”
“I do not care what you are not allowed to do or by whom. You will pursue that thief, or you will answer for what he stole.” Puffing out his chest, Rob tried to make his voice as supercilious as possible. “Now!”
“What’s goin’ on, Bill?” The second man looked suspiciously at both Rob and Bill.
“This cove got his purse snatched.”
“Both of you, stop talking and follow that thief. I will send my servant for the watch, and they will deal with this urchin, if you will move your arses and go find the little rotter. You’re letting him get away.” Taking the men by the arms, Rob shoved both in the direction the lad had gone.
With reluctant glares at Rob, the men finally trotted down the street in the direction the lad had gone, but Rob had no fear he’d be caught.
Immediately, Chapman and Ayers scrambled toward the carriage and grabbed the trunk stowed beneath while Barnes and Cartwright removed the straps that secured the chest to the rear. To cover this activity, Rob sauntered over to the innkeeper of The Ship’s Arms, who stood in the doorway shaking his head, a tankard he was polishing in his hand.
“Have you ever seen the like, sir?” Rob scowled at the man and gestured to the vanishing guards. “A thief takes my purse, and no one will assist me. What has Portsmouth come to, I say.”
“It’s a real shame, my lord. I never would have pegged Jim Carpenter’s boy for a thief. Jim’s been a carpenter for nigh on twenty years. Crews with the Nantucket and keeps a good eye on his lad. Had him waiting at the captain’s table this past year.” The innkeeper shook his head. “Jim’ll tan his hide proper, make no mistake of that. Be lucky if the lad don’t lose his job.”
Gritting his teeth, Rob clenched his fist. This wouldn’t do. Not by half. “Mr. Harriman, I believe it is?”
The innkeeper nodded, though his eyebrows rose just a fraction.
“I’ve been in your tavern a time or two. I’m asking you not to tell the lad’s father he stole my purse. He didn’t steal it.”
Confusion crept over the man’s face. “But, beggin’ your pardon, milord, you just said—”
“I know.” Rob blew out a breath. Dash it, he was no good at subterfuge. He glanced back at the carriage, but his men had gone, thank goodness. “I must confess, I was playing a jest on the servants of a friend of mine. So I told the lad to take my purse and gave him the money in it. So he absolutely did not steal anything.”
“You did, my lord?” Harriman gave Rob a wary look, but returned to polishing the pewter tankard.
“I’m of a fanciful nature, Mr. Harriman. Pray don’t mention it to Mr. Carpenter. I wouldn’t want to get the lad in trouble.” Rob fished out another half crown and pressed it into the innkeeper’s palm.
“Thank you, my lord.” The coin disappeared, and the innkeeper’s face lit with a smile. “No, my lord, I’ll say nothing of it to Jim Carpenter. You have my word. Can I do anything else for your lordship?”
“No, thank you. I’m meeting my friend in a short while. I’ll let you know if we require anything then.”
Mr. Harriman turned away, still smiling, and Rob heaved a sigh of relief. If he could just get back to the ship without running into Bill or his chum, they’d be sailing in no time, and the danger would finally be past.
* * *
An inch of brandy remained in the bottle when Travers sank his chin onto his chest and drifted into an uneasy doze. His men should have caught Lady Georgina and her maid by this time. Tanner might not be the brightest star in the sky, nor Norris—not Norris, it was Morris—but they were like hounds to the scent when they were set to pursue a quarry. Shouldn’t have taken them this long, though. Should’ve sent Cole. A human bloodhound that one.
“My lord.” Crawford gripped his shoulder, and Travers came upright with a snort.
“What’s the news? Where’s Lady Georgina?” He peered around the dimming room. Sun must be going down. How long had he slept? Shaking his head to brush away the brandy’s fog, and failing, he instead grabbed the cup and downed the bit of spirits left in it. Not enough by far. “Where is the lady, Crawford? Has Tanner not returned with her yet?”
The valet shrunk back toward the door. “He returned some time ago, but had no one with him.”
“Damnation!” Travers slammed the glass down on the table, and it shattered into a spray of fine shards. “They’ve done nothing right the whole blasted day.” He shook his hand, glass fragments and blood flying. “Serve them right if I gave them all the sack.”
Crawford ran for the bedchamber and returned with a wet washing cloth and began to sweep the shards together.
“Did you speak to Cole?”
The valet looked up, eyes wide and wary. “Who, me, my lord?”
“No, the blasted Lord Mayor of London,” Travers roared. Why did he only employ imbeciles? He dropped his gaze to the cut on his hand, blood welling up in a bright red bead that grew larger. Fishing in his pocket, he put his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood in, then spat it into his handkerchief.
“Should I fetch a surgeon, my lord?” Careful not to cut himself, Crawford gathered the sharp glass into the wet cloth and shook the contents into the fireplace.
Travers gazed at his hand. One piece of the glass had slashed it rather deeply, and the cut ached. He nodded and waved Crawford toward the door. “Did you speak to Cole? Did the woman or her maid attempt to retrieve their belongings?”
Crawford stopped as if stabbed in the back. Slowly he turned toward his master, his face unusually pasty. “Mr. Cole wasn’t sure, my lord. If it was the lady or her maid . . . or someone else.”
“Someone else who did what? Stop speaking in riddles, man.” Travers was through with his servants. Tomorrow he’d sack the lot and begin again.
Crawford had managed to open the door. Now he darted his gaze from his master to the hallway beyond the chamber. “Who took the trunks, my lord.”
“What?” The pressure behind Travers’s eyeballs rose until he expected them to pop out of their sockets. “Some
one took the trunks?” His voice hit a crescendo that rattled the glass in the window.
“Yes, my lord. I’ll just fetch the surgeon now.” Crawford bolted out the door, slamming it so hard in his haste that it rebounded into the room.
Too shocked to move, Travers clenched his jaws, his fists, his toes in his boots in an attempt not to bellow out his rage that the one way he had to track Lady Georgina had been lost. All was not lost, all was not lost. If he kept telling himself that often enough, it might make it true.
He still had the cargo from Mr. Sturgehill to think about. The whole reason he was here in this Godforsaken port to begin with and not snug at his primary estate in Essex. But Sturgehill, God rot him, had insisted Travers pick up the goods from this run himself. Maybe he didn’t trust Cole after the last time. His servant had apparently lost his edge when it came to sharp dealing. Still, once Travers married Lady Georgina, he’d no longer have to rely on the proceeds from his smuggling venture. He could pay off his debts and start anew. With his wife’s money. All he had to do was hold on a little bit longer.
Slowly he exhaled, straightened his jacket, and wrapped the bloody handkerchief around his hand. Nothing had gone right today. Finally, he strode out of the chamber, leaning to one side. He pelted down the staircase, going so fast he missed the bottom step and fell into the wall, bounced his shoulder off the newel-post, and careened into the innkeeper, who had emerged from the kitchen at the worst possible moment. Luckily, Mr. Harriman had nothing more in his hands than a pewter tankard.
“Beg pardon, my lord.” The man righted himself and bobbed his head. “Are you in need of something?”
He was in dire need of Lady Georgina, but he could hardly say that. “I need my man Cole. Is he still with the carriage, blast him, or has he dragged himself in here to hide in your taproom?” Travers whirled around, casting his gaze over the establishment in search of the man who had allowed his prisoner to escape him not once but twice today.
“I believe Mr. Cole has bedded down above the stable, my lord. He and your other servants secured the carriage and horses and retired rather abruptly.”
“Hiding,” Travers growled. Now his blasted hand was beginning to hurt fiercely. “Ought to go sack the lot of them.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but I’m sure your friend meant no harm.” Mr. Harriman set the mug down.
“My friend?” The innkeeper must have been sampling his own wares. “I have no friends with me at the moment.”
“Perhaps he’s just come to town and recognized your equipage, then. He said he was playing a prank on your servants.”
Narrowing his eyes, Travers softened his voice. “What joke was that, if I may ask?”
Mr. Harriman proved quite loquacious. A veritable fount of indispensable knowledge. By the time he finished the tale about the supposed “friend’s” exploits, Crawford had returned with the surgeon.
“Take him to my chamber, please, Crawford. I’ll be there directly.” Travers fished in his pocket and drew out a shilling. “Did my friend give you his name, Mr. Harriman? I confess I have several who would play such a jest.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but he did not give it.”
Damn. Just his luck. He started to put the shilling back in his pocket, when Mr. Harriman spoke up again.
“However, he did remind me that he’s been in the tavern a time or two. And I recollect now who he is.”
Travers stared at the man, the coin falling from his fingers. “Who?”
Harriman caught the coin neatly. “Lord St. Just, my lord. The Marquess of St. Just of Cornwall.”
Chapter Seven
Sunk down into her now uncomfortable seat, Georgie kept trying to keep her eyes open despite the almost constant pull to close them and drift off into a much-needed sleep. Determined not to give in to the weakness, she opened her eyes wide, staring hard at Lulu curled up at her feet. Perhaps she should follow Lulu’s example and take her rest when it came to her. Clara had managed to find a comfortable enough position to doze off. A gentle snore emerged from her from time to time, attesting to the maid’s exhaustion.
Still, Georgie forsook sleep, wanting to keep herself alert and prepared for the moment when Lord St. Just returned. Oh, but she longed to escape this ship, though she’d be going God knew where. She had to try. Her presence alone with his lordship and his crew, even with the chaperonage of her maid, could spell disaster for her reputation if word of this voyage got out. What St. Just was playing at she didn’t know, but make no mistake, when he finally reappeared she’d ring a peal over his head so loud he’d think a bell clapper had been struck. She’d make him forget all about this outlandish scheme to sail all the way to Cornwall with her. If she and Clara could evade him, then make a run for it, perhaps they could find an inn in which to spend the night. In the morning she could send word to her father to come rescue her.
Not the best of plans considering that she didn’t really want her father to know anything whatsoever about this escapade. But it was the best she could come up with on such short notice. Unfortunately, it all hinged on getting off this dratted ship.
Thudding feet and shouting voices brought her instantly alert. Jumping up from the chair, she winced at the sharp pain in her back and narrowly missed Lulu, who had also risen and was stretching herself right beneath her feet.
“Please be careful, Lulu. You don’t want me to step on your paw, do you?” Untangling herself, Georgie stepped away from the King Charles spaniel and hurried to the door. She pressed her ear against it and listened.
“What’s going on, my lady?” Clara had sat up and was rubbing her eyes.
“Shhh, I’m trying to find out.” The door panel was thick enough that what Georgie could hear sounded like the quacking sounds of someone in distress. And of course the actual words were too indistinct to make out. Drat. “I assume this activity means Lord St. Just has returned to the ship, although I have no way to be certain. For all I know we’ve been beset by pirates attempting to steal the ship.”
“My lady!” Clara looked scandalized. “Don’t borrow trouble. We’re in a tight enough fix as it is.”
Without warning, the ship bobbed violently. Caught off guard, Georgie stumbled backward into the bed behind her. The back of her knees caught the edge of the bunk, and she sat down hard. She grabbed the railing that ran around the bunk, pulling herself upright. Excellent idea to have something to help keep a sleeping person in bed if the ship took a notion to pitch like this. And the person most likely occupying this bed every night was . . .
A flurry of heat shot through her, as if she’d suddenly stepped into the blazing sun of a summer’s day. Not that merely sitting on a gentleman’s bed was improper, especially if he wasn’t present. Or maybe it was improper. She certainly felt wicked all of a sudden. Shuddering, she leaped to her feet. “Something is happening.” More than she cared to admit, too. She hurried to the porthole and gasped.
The sandy beaches of Portsmouth were speeding by her, as though the ship had put up its sails and . . . “Drat the man!” Oh, but she longed to be able to curse him properly. “He’s set sail with us.”
“He does seem to have given us no options.” Clara sniffed, her eyes beginning to moisten. “And all our belongings back in the carriage.” A tear slid down her cheek. “I shudder to think what your gown will look like when he introduces you to his mother.”
“That is the very least of my worries now, Clara. Although, as you are my lady’s maid, I suppose it is only right that it be your first concern.” She patted the maid’s shoulder. “We will devise a way to make him pay for this affront as well.”
A key grated in the lock. Lulu growled and stalked toward it, the fur on her back rising straight up.
“Not yet, Lulu.” Georgie gathered the leash. “Don’t bite him quite yet.”
Her dog stopped advancing on the door; however, the growling did not abate. Better be safe. She gathered Lulu into her arms. “I’ll give you the signal.”
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The cabin door swung open, revealing Lord St. Just, an impossibly broad grin on his face. “Wait until I tell you what my men and I just did.”
“You don’t have to tell me, my lord. I already know.” Georgie glared at him and held Lulu tighter. The little animal was shaking, and Georgie was sure if she loosened her grip Lulu would launch herself at the unwary marquess. Serve him right too.
“You do?” He frowned and cocked his head, which made him look like a puzzled puppy. Lulu looked just like that whenever she was unhappy. But what did he have to be unhappy about? He was the one who had kidnapped her.
“You have set sail, my lord, with me and my maid aboard against our wills. Many sensible people call that kidnapping.” She’d always known this man was a pirate. In fact, she’d told her brother so. She handed Lulu to Clara before the dog could leap out of her arms and tear at his lordship’s throat. If anyone was going to attack the marquess, it would be Georgie herself. Plant him a facer and see how he liked being set upon.
“Oh.” The impossible man was all smiles again. “Yes, we had to put out or miss the evening tide.” His grin had returned, showing many straight, white teeth. “But we did manage to steal your trunks, Lady Georgina. If you will consider yourself abducted again, at least rejoice in the fact that you will have clean linen throughout the ordeal.”
Georgie blinked. What an unusually thoughtful gesture from Lord St. Just. The man deserved credit for that at least. And since they had already set sail, there was likely no going back. She’d have to make the best of a bad bargain and pray that it all came to rights eventually. If Folger and the other servants were still alive, and she certainly hoped they were, they would likely inform her father of her abduction as soon as they could reach Blackham Castle. Of course, they would have no idea where she’d been taken so he certainly would wonder where she was. She’d have to worry about that later. “Thank you, my lord. That was very . . . thoughtful of you.”
St. Just’s smile threatened to crack his face in two. “My utmost pleasure, my lady.” He stepped aside, allowing her to precede him into the passageway. “My mate has taken both trunks to your cabin. Well, it will be your cabin as soon as Ayers finishes removing my belongings from it. I usually use it as an office, and it has become quite cluttered. He is now elevating it to the status of stateroom fit for a lady.”