After an aggravating pause, he opened his middle desk drawer and removed a small oilskin packet sealed with string and wax. “When you arrive in London, would you see that Lord Eastman gets this?”
She took the packet from him and glanced down at it. “Are you certain you do not wish to include it in the courier’s packet? I could give it to Captain Gilbert.”
“No!” Governor Bascombe stopped and cleared his throat. “That is, I’d rather this remain a private matter. Never do to mix personal and official business, would it?”
“N-no,” she agreed uncertainly. “But I have not met Lord Eastman. Where would I find him?”
“At the Foreign Office, m’dear. And one last favor?”
“Of course.”
The governor sighed and shrugged, his manner belying any particular importance. “Give it into his hands only, eh? Don’t want it languishing on some clerk’s desk for weeks before it gets to Eastman.”
She nodded, relieved to know this was not an important document. She would put it in her writing box to keep it safe. “Of course not, sir. I shall deliver it upon my arrival.”
The gloom outside thickened and the tavern keeper lit the hanging lanterns with a piece of kindling he drew from the fire heating the chowder pot. Muted conversation carried to them from outside. Hunt couldn’t make out the words, but they stopped abruptly when the door opened.
A huge man with black hair and a florid complexion crossed the threshold and halted to stare at them. The man hitched his ragged trousers up, glanced at the proprietor, then at their tankards and then back at the tavern keeper. Clearly, he was not pleased that the man had served them. He and his companions went to the counter, followed by the man with the red kerchief, and spoke in low tones with the proprietor. He wondered if these were new arrivals from one of the ships in the cove.
“Pirates?” Layton muttered.
“Don’t know, but I’d wager my title and fortune that they know where to find them. Too quiet to be a pirate town, but there’s something illegal going on here. Smuggling?”
“What the hell is wrong with these people?”
Hunt smiled in spite of himself. “Not so complicated, Layton. They do not want to hang. For all they know, we could be government men.”
Layton gave a short laugh and looked away from the group at the tap. “If something does not happen soon, we’d better leave.”
Hunt was inclined to agree. He’d never been in an odder situation. He held the tankard to his lips, then put it down again, suddenly wondering if the gunpowder had been added to mask a drug.
The giant in tattered trousers advanced until he stood over their table. “Name?”
Hunt pushed his tankard away and stood. He was nearly as tall as the man and wanted him to know he wouldn’t be intimidated by size. “Lock,” he said, using one of his aliases. “Yours?”
“Saldon. What you want?”
“Chowder.”
Layton snorted in amusement and Saldon gave him a look that could have curdled milk.
“We don’t hold with jokers in Blackpool.”
Hunt shrugged and drew Saldon’s attention away from Layton. “Not joking, Saldon. Can a man get a bowl of chowder in Blackpool?”
“Y’didn’t come all the way from San Marco for chowder, Lock.”
“I want some now. I do not like to do business on an empty stomach.”
“Mathers, get ’em chowder!” Saldon called to the proprietor, then turned back to Hunt. “What you want?” he asked again.
Hunt sat and gestured to an empty chair between him and Layton. “I am looking to do some business.”
“That so? What kind of business?”
The silence stretched out as Hunt deliberately kept Saldon on edge. “The kind I wouldn’t want to do in San Marco,” he said at last. “A mutual friend sent me. Said we might strike a bargain.”
“We don’ ’ave mutual friends, Lock.”
He nodded. “Well, then. You’re not the man I was sent to see.”
The proprietor brought two bowls of steaming chowder with spoons. Hunt and Layton applied themselves to the meal and ignored Saldon. To Hunt’s relief, the chowder was remarkably good and he did not have to pretend to have an appetite.
A grin spread over Saldon’s florid face. He lifted Hunt’s tankard and sniffed. “Ol’ Mathers up to his tricks?”
Hunt pushed the bowl away and did not answer. With a glance, Layton followed suit.
“The man you come to see got a name?” Saldon asked.
“I was told he’d find me.”
“Name Rigo mean anything to you?”
Rigo? Rodrigo the pirate? The bloodthirsty villain who, along with the French pirate, Sieyes, had half the Caribbean quivering in their boots? He shot Layton a warning glance. “Maybe. He around?”
“Might be, dependin’ on why you want ’im.”
“I told you. Business.”
Saldon glanced over his shoulder at the tavern keeper. “You got a room, Mathers? Lock an’ his friend, here, might be too late to go down the mountain tonight.”
The proprietor grunted and headed off to a darkened back stairwell. A moment later he was back and growled something about the room at the head of the stairs. Hunt wondered how much the man would fleece him for chowder and a room.
His initial objective had been to evaluate the town and to see if there was any indication of a pirate base. But now he had an opportunity to learn much more. If he could verify that either of the ships in the cove belonged to a pirate, he could safely conclude that there was some complicity from San Marco. And that would mean that someone in San Marco was passing information to the pirates through Blackpool. According to Layton, the schooner he recognized had been loaded with supplies. If they were being transferred to another vessel, then the connection was made.
Saldon went back to the bar. A moment later, one of his companions hurried out the tavern door.
Layton leaned across the table to whisper, “What the hell are you going to do if Rodrigo actually comes?”
“Fabricate a story,” he admitted. “Keep it suitably vague and allude to my superior. If I can lead him into mentioning a name, we’ll have all we need.”
“And how the hell do we get out of here?”
Hunt grinned. “We’ll have to make something up.” He’d been in worse spots and might have relished the challenge a week ago, but he had Daphne to think about now.
He remembered her as she’d been last night—demanding instead of pliant, aggressive instead of passive, desperate, as if…as if it were the last time?
Suddenly, he was impatient to finish here. He needed to get back to San Marco. No, to Sea Whisper.
The tavern door opened and Hunt noted it was full dark out now. Two men entered—one a wiry individual with stringy brown hair, the other a dark man dressed in a lace-trimmed shirt with a gold loop through his left ear. They glanced toward Hunt’s table, then went to the bar. The first man looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes before turning his attention to his companion’s conversation.
A moment later, the dark man crossed the room and sat in the chair Saldon had recently vacated. He looked between the two of them and raised one thick dark eyebrow. “Lock?”
Hunt acknowledged the question with a nod.
“You desire to do the business?”
The accent was heavily Spanish and Hunt shot Layton a warning glance. “Depends,” he said. “Who are you?”
The man’s lips split in a wide grin. “I am the man who does business in Blackpool.”
Rodrigo. It had to be. Hunt had better come up with a suitable story quickly. He stalled by taking a drink of the noxious ale. “A mutual friend recommended you. He said you could handle anything. Is that true?”
Rodrigo grinned. “His name, this friend yours?”
Hunt donned a wary expression. “You first.”
“I have many friends, Britisher. But not to do the quibble, eh? I talk only private. Better that way, e
h? No witnesses.” He laughed and gave a meaningful glance at Layton.
With a jerk of his head, Hunt sent Layton to the bar.
“Private!” Rodrigo shouted.
One of his men grabbed Layton by the sleeve and dragged him out the back door, followed by the proprietor. Rodrigo turned back to Hunt. “Now we are alone. Speak.”
“Our…mutual friend told me you might be willing to handle a small matter for me.”
“Small?” Rodrigo laughed. “No one comes to Rigo for small matters. An’ who is our mutual friend, eh? Your king?”
A chill went down Hunt’s back. Did this man suspect who they were? There was nothing for it but to bluff. “What makes you think I’m here on the king’s business?”
Rigo tilted his head toward the door. “Your friend. One of my men has recognized him from the other side. He has been asking around, eh? Prying. If he is the mutual friend who told you I could help, he was lying.”
There was a muffled cry from the back.
“If you listen carefully, Lock, you will hear the splash, eh? This is how we deal with meddlers and liars. Your friend is no more.”
Hunt controlled his breathing as rage gurgled upward. He did not even blink as he summoned the dead calm that had gotten him through such situations in the past. Only a cool head would serve him now. The knife in his boot would serve him later.
“You do not care?” Rigo grinned. “Good. Then you will not miss him. Now what is this business of yours?”
“I want someone kidnapped,” he said. “If I give you the sailing schedule and name of a ship, can you capture it and remove this person?”
“You want the ransom?”
“I want him dead.”
“And the rest of the ship?”
He shrugged to indicate his indifference.
“Ah. Good. More for me. Now, this person’s name?”
The first name that came to his mind was one of the few men he knew to be as deadly as he. And a man who would relish the chance to kill a man like Rodrigo. “Lord Auberville.”
“The terms?”
“No terms. You get the schedule and the ship. I get Auberville.”
Rigo sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “And how will I know this is not a trap to draw me out?”
Hunt gave him a cold smile. “I’d say that is your problem. Goes with the territory, does it not? Verify my information with your own source.”
“You do not lie to me, Lock, and give me false promises or silly plans. I like this. I will think on it, eh?”
“When will you give me an answer?”
“In the morning.”
In the morning, Hunt would be gone. And so would Rigo. He stood. He had an even chance of making the pirate believe his next ploy. “I’m going to bed. I’ll expect your answer in the morning.”
“What? No camaraderie? No friendly attempts to make me trust you?”
“I’ve no interest in being your friend. Business is another matter. Mind you have an answer for me in the morn.” He turned his back on the pirate and walked toward the stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.
He heard the pirate’s chair scrape back on the wooden floor and a muffled snort of laughter. But he reached the stairs without hearing the telltale slide of steel against leather. And he reached the room at the head of the stairs without another sound.
Inside, he slid the bolt into the lock, leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. Layton. My God, Layton. They’d both known the risks, had been warned countless times about coming to Blackpool, but Hunt still knew this was his fault. His nod had sent Layton out the back door and to his death. How would he live with that now? Atone for it? But perhaps he wouldn’t have to live with it. Odds favored him joining Layton before the night was done.
His room was on the second level in a back corner of the tavern. One window overlooked the cove, while the other looked out over the back courtyard and privy. As he suspected, a man stood guard outside. Someone would also be posted at the foot of the stairs until they decided what to do with him. This room was a prison and as effective as any cell in any dungeon.
He took a quick survey. The window over the courtyard had been nailed shut but the one over the cove swung open silently. They hadn’t bothered securing this one, since the sheer drop into the cove would prevent escape. He pulled the sheet off the bed and tore it in lengthwise strips, twisted and knotted them and then tied the improvised rope to the foot of the iron bed. He pushed the bed as close to the window as he could without making noise, then slipped his knife from his boot and clenched it between his teeth.
Before he could think twice about the consequences of a failed knot or a weak weave, Hunt was dangling over the cove, swinging in a sideways arc from the makeshift rope. On the third swing, he came close enough to the side of the tavern to leap for the edge of the cliff.
For one breathless moment, he thought he’d misjudged the distance in the dark. Then he landed against the cliff edge, dug his fingers into the ledge and forced the toe of his boot into a crack in the rocks. A shower of pebbles loosened and tumbled into the water below. If anyone heard, they did not come to investigate.
He pulled himself up and rested for a moment, staring down into the inky darkness. The crash of waves as they broke against the cliffs, gave him chills. Somewhere down there, Layton…
But he couldn’t think of that yet. He stumbled to his feet and kept in the shadow of the tavern. His knife in his hand now, he debated the wisdom of killing the guard. If he could do so silently, if he could be sure it would be a clean kill… But Hunt’s objective was not to escape. He glanced again at the cove before he edged around the side of the tavern and into the darkness, taking the path that led toward the platform lift Rodrigo would use to return to his ship.
He melded into the darkness, knowing how to use it to his advantage. In the end, he did not have long to wait. Rigo soon arrived, speaking to his companion, one of the men from the tavern. The Spaniard was issuing instructions.
“Throw him over the edge like his friend, eh? We shall collect their bodies in the morning, if the fishes do not dine on them. Too bad we must kill him, eh? I liked this man, Lockwood. My friend would never use my name. He sends only you, eh, Lowe?”
Rigo came within inches and was only a foot past Hunt when Hunt reached out, seized him around the shoulders and drew his blade across Rigo’s neck. Rigo never had a chance to defend himself. Just like Layton.
Lowe stood frozen and the moment drew out, though it could not have taken more than mere seconds. Let Lowe live and give him the chance to send up an alarm? Kill him and forfeit any chance to find out the traitor’s name?
Lowe made the decision. He opened his mouth to shout a warning to his comrades and Hunt did the only thing he could. He heaved Rigo’s body at him, sending them both spiraling off the cliff. Lowe’s scream echoed into the night, then was swallowed by the endless hiss of waves.
Hunt was halfway back to San Marco before he realized that Rigo had known his name.
Chapter Twelve
London
December 11, 1820
Odd how she had forgotten the gaiety, both forced and natural, of London gatherings, Elise thought as she stood in the ballroom of Lord Bainbrook’s town house. Not that everything was superficial—absolutely not. For instance, the way society was cutting her was quite sincere. In the two weeks since her arrival in London, she’d encountered countless cold shoulders, a few direct cuts and one or two hostile glares. Even her brother had not responded to her letter informing him that she had returned to England.
She had expected no better. A woman who abandoned her husband was bad enough, but a woman who kidnapped the heir and stole the family jewels was quite beyond the pale. She wondered if the men feared she might be contagious to their wives.
This was to be her punishment. And a quite effective one, too—sentenced to stand at Barrett’s side and act the part of a repentant wife while he took various opportuni
ties to demean and embarrass her. And, of course, to wear the jewels she’d stolen—even the necklace she’d sold in Boston. She touched the cold stones around her throat, as effective as any noose. Diamonds. Would she ever like them again? Their glitter? Their fire?
“I knew you’d enjoy the irony, my dear,” Barrett whispered as he tightened his grip on her arm. “It cost me a fortune to buy that back, but it was the first step in tracing you. I like showing them off to the ton now—you and the jewels.”
She shrugged. “We needed food and shelter. It was a calculated risk.”
He pinched the back of her arm. “One you regret now, eh, m’dear?”
“The only thing I regret is sending William to school in Charleston. You wouldn’t have found us if I’d sent him to San Juan.”
“The only thing you regret?” he asked, his voice dripping venom.
“That, and not staying long enough after I hit you over the head to finish what I’d started.”
He laughed. “Thank you for not disappointing me, Elise. It makes my victory so much sweeter. I shall always remember the look on your face when you came running to William’s rescue and found me waiting instead.”
“That makes your victory sweeter? I’d think it would make it more difficult for you to get a good night’s sleep.”
He gave her a cold smile. “I am not worried in the least. You will not attack me again. Not as long as I have William. My brother knows where he is, and he knows what to do if anything happens to me. No, Elise, it is in your best interests to keep me alive and happy. You’ll keep our bargain, because you really have no other choice. And do not think to tell anyone, or ask for help. That would end our little game, and William would have to pay the price.”
Their bargain. Was there ever a more desperate attempt at survival than the iniquitous bargain she’d struck with her husband? If there was, she didn’t know of it. Yes, she’d stand at his side, and she’d play the part of a repentant, dutiful wife. But he wouldn’t use her. He wouldn’t visit her room at night. He wouldn’t avail himself of her person. Somehow, she couldn’t even bear the thought of that after…
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