A Case for Christmas (The Lords of Bucknall Club Book 2)

by J. A. Rock

  Gale shifted, ready to push himself to his feet, when the narrow doorway behind the boy filled with a man who had the same bodily proportions as a brick: he was big and square with no discernible neck, and he gave Gale a very knowing look as he squeezed into the room. Gale thought of the only biblical character his mother could name: Goliath. He was a big, blond Goliath.

  Gale sank down onto the floor again and showed the boy and Goliath his palms.

  “Water,” the boy said and held out the jug.

  Gale reached out and took it and then set it on the floor. He knelt over Chant. “Chant, sit up. There’s a good fellow.”

  Chant groaned but allowed Gale to help him into a seated position and then lean him back against the wall. Gale held the jug for him until he took a sip of water.

  Goliath said something in a rush of words.

  “Teube says sorry,” the boy translated in heavily-accented English. “No food, sorry. Just water.”

  Goliath—Teube—turned the corners of his mouth down.

  “An apology from pirates for a lack of cake and crumpets, Chant,” Gale murmured. “Astonishing.”

  “No, no,” the boy said, sounding suddenly anxious. “Privateer, not pirate. We have letters. From the king.”

  “It won’t save you from de Cock though, will it?” Gale asked.

  The fear in the boy’s dark eyes was palpable.

  “It didn’t save Visser,” Gale said.

  Even Teube flinched at the name.

  The boy’s mouth trembled.

  “Kees,” Teube said, his rumbling voice pitched low. He squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

  “You liked Visser,” Gale said softly.

  “Was funny,” Kees said. “Very funny.”

  Gale couldn’t recall anything particularly amusing about the fellow, but Kees didn’t strike him as a sophisticated audience.

  “He would dance and sing,” Kees said. “Do silly things.”

  “De Cock killed him,” Gale said.

  Kees nodded, his eyes wide. “For… silly joke.”

  “What silly joke?” Gale asked keenly.

  “Visser put…” Kees paused for a moment as though trying to find the word. “Jewels. Put jewels on the dog’s collar and made him dance. ‘Oh, look at me! I am very important man! I am de Br—’” And then he clamped his mouth shut on his sing-song voice and shook his head.

  But he didn’t need to finish.

  I am de Brouckère, he’d been going to say. Claude de Brouckère, brother of the Governor of Limburg, presumed murdered by the French but actually murdered by his countryman de Cock. And there was no letter from the Dutch king that would save de Cock from a noose if that could be proven. And Visser, stupid, drunken Visser, had put the jewels on the dog as a joke.

  “The dog was still wearing them when he fled the ship?”

  Kees glanced at Teube, then nodded. “We were at the dock. De Cock came in while the dog is… dancing. He was very angry and tried to get the dog, but the dog is fast. Off the ship he goes, down the… the gangplank. De Cock tried to chase him, but Visser, he is trying to escape. So de Cock stabbed him in the leg”—Kees pantomimed it—“told men to tie Visser up, keep him here, and went to find the dog. But too late.”

  Good Lord.

  “Why just Visser? Wasn’t he angry at you two or whoever else was present for this joke?”

  “Visser was only one who knows where the jewels were. So de Cock knew he is the one who is taking them to dress the dog.”

  “But Visser eventually escaped. Did he have help?”

  Another glance between Kees and Teube, and Kees translated for Teube. “We must not tell you,” Kees said.

  “I rather think we’re past the point of no return with regard to this confession.”

  Kees tilted his head, looking confused.

  “Get me and my friend off this ship,” Gale said, “and I’ll vouch for you and Teube. I’ll make certain you are both spared the noose.”

  “No,” Kees said, his voice almost breaking on the word. “No, is too late. Is—”

  Gale heard new footsteps approaching, boots this time instead of bare feet, heels clicking on the boards of the ship.

  It was too late.

  De Cock was here.

  Gale rose to his feet. He was a Gale. He had no wish to meet his fate sitting on his arse. Chant… well, Chant had taken a blow to the head that had clearly rattled his brain. Gale would not judge him harshly for staying seated. But Chant stood too, on legs that appeared as wobbly as a newborn calf’s, but with a determined jut to his chin that made Gale wonder how he’d ever denied to himself that he was in love with this man. Loose strands of golden hair had escaped his queue, and they glittered in the lamplight.

  De Cock filled the narrow doorway in a way that even Teube hadn’t been able to, and Gale didn’t miss the way that Teube moved forward to give him room, keeping himself between de Cock and Kees. His instinct about the sailors had been right. They were afraid of de Cock, which meant that loyalty, built on a foundation of that fear, wasn’t as solid as perhaps de Cock thought. It was an assessment and nothing more. Gale doubted de Cock would allow him enough time to try to drive a wedge into those narrow cracks.

  “Christmas Gale,” de Cock said, his ugly face split with a murderous smile, not unlike the one he’d shown Gale the day he’d tipped Visser’s ear out of his boot.

  “Lord Christmas Gale,” Gale corrected haughtily.

  De Cock laughed and gave a mock bow. “Lord Christmas.”

  The Condor shuddered suddenly, and Chant staggered against the wall. Gale put out a hand to steady him.

  “What’s that?” Chant asked.

  “We are leaving, Mr. Chant,” de Cock said. “That is my men rowing the Condor out into the river, away from the dock.”

  Gale hated the water. He hated it even more when he had no doubt that the only reason de Cock was moving them farther into it was so he could dispose of them unbothered by any witnesses and unhampered by any attempt rescuers might make via the gangplank. But it occurred to him that if most of de Cock’s men were manning the oars of the pinnace pulling them out into the Thames, then what remained aboard the Condor at the moment was only a skeleton crew. Another assessment, not a plan by any means but backed by the burning knowledge that Gale had to get Chant off this blasted ship.

  “You murdered Claude de Brouckère,” he said.

  “You have no proof of that,” de Cock said, “and nobody to tell.”

  “You think I was the one who put all the pieces together?” Gale asked, genuinely curious. “No, I might have known the dog was the key to this whole business, but your treason to your king is already the subject of much speculation in certain circles. And if the English suspect it, you can be damned sure the Dutch do too.”

  Kees shot a worried look at Teube. Teube, whose English was perhaps not good enough to follow along, simply looked solemn.

  “Killing me,” Gale said, “would accomplish nothing.”

  “Perhaps not, Lord Christmas,” de Cock said, “but it will feel so very good.”

  “Why kill Howe?” Gale was aware the longer he kept de Cock talking, the farther they got from the docks and the harder it would be to get back. But he did have to know. For Elise’s sake.

  “Howe?” de Cock laughed. “Ah! You mean the drunken fool. I went to his home days ago to find the dog, but the dog ran from me. I pursued, but—” He held up his empty hands. “I began to… observe Mr. Howe. I saw him speak to you. I approached. Asked him very politely where the dog was. He said the dog was missing. I said he had better find it. He didn’t like being given orders, and I didn’t like being spoken to with such… disrespect.” He planted the tip of his ballock dagger firmly in one of the floorboards and left it there.

  “You still don’t have the dog,” Gale pointed out.

  “Gale,” Chant whispered.

  “No,” de Cock said, his pale eyes seeming to grow dark. “But do you know… I don’t think t
he jewels are on the dog anymore. Lord Christmas, I really don’t. I don’t even think that fool Howe ever knew about them. It has taken me some time to realise where they must be, and I have just now sent some men to… test my theory.” He grinned, the lantern light painting his filthy teeth a sickening red. “Do you know who I think has them?”

  Gale did, and he would be damned if he would let de Cock say the name.

  He moved quickly, bending down to grasp the handle of the lantern. Then, swinging it in an upward arc, he smashed it soundly against de Cock’s face. The light flared for a moment as de Cock howled, his visage wreathed in flames like a demon’s, and then the storeroom was plunged into inky darkness.

  Gale gripped Chant’s wrist and hauled him toward the door. Someone caught at his greatcoat—either Kees or Teube, he suspected, because they were halfhearted about it at best—but Gale pulled free and burst into the narrow corridor below decks.

  He shoved Chant in front of him, pushing him toward the bright rectangle of light that indicated a door to the deck. Chant stumbled and slipped on the steep steps that were pitched as sharply as a ladder, but Gale shoved again, and Chant miraculously continued to climb. They both spilled out onto the deck, into watery sunlight that seemed to blaze after being locked in the darkness for so long.

  Behind them, Rotherhithe receded. To the north, the docks and warehouses of Limehouse clustered at the edge of the muddy river.

  Someone yelled, and Gale twisted around to see a man standing at the ship’s wheel, looking down at them in shock as they bolted like rats out of the Condor’s dark belly.

  Still pushing Chant, Gale headed for the ship’s stern. He pulled Chant over to the edge of the deck, and peered down at the river. It felt as though it was miles beneath them, and Gale grew faint for a moment.

  “Gale,” Chant said, wild-eyed. He gripped the taffrail. “You must be mad!”

  Gale shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Nonsense. Ducks land on the water all the time.”

  “Ducks have wings!”

  “You can swim, can’t you, Chant?” Gale asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Chant said. “Of course, I—”

  “Excellent. You’d best go first then because I can’t.”

  “What?” Chant exclaimed, his eyes wide and horrified. “Gale, what do you mean you—”

  And then, since time was of the essence and de Cock was approaching them with a dagger in his hand and a murderous look in his eye, Gale took hold of the back of Chant’s coat and the seat of his tight breeches, and pitched him over the side of the ship and into the filthy Thames.

  And then, holding his breath, he followed him over the side.

  “Gale,” someone said roughly and slapped his face.

  “Chant?” Gale rasped and then pushed away from the hands holding him so he could vomit up half the Thames onto the filthy stones of… of wherever the hell he was.

  “No,” said the voice.

  Gale squinted up at the man. “Pip?”

  Soulden hauled him upright by his coat. “You fool,” he said.

  “Eh.” Gale’s heart raced. “Where is Chant? I—”

  “He’s fine,” Soulden said, and Gale caught a glimpse of Chant through a forest of men’s legs. He was wet and bedraggled, but someone had put a blanket around him.

  “You took long enough.”

  “I prefer to arrive in the nick of time,” Soulden said dryly. “It’s much more dramatic, I find.” He rolled his eyes. “It takes a moment, Gale, even for me, to commandeer the navy.”

  “The navy.” Gale twisted to try to see the river, and the Condor, but Soulden was in his way. “And de Cock?”

  “On his way to meet a naval blockade at Greenwich,” Soulden said. “Won’t that be a surprise to him?”

  Gale was almost disappointed he wouldn’t see the look on the man’s face. “Soulden!” he said suddenly, desperately. “My family. De Cock said…”

  “It is all taken care of. Your friend Darling was able to apprehend de Cock’s men before they reached Gale House.”

  Gale attempted to sigh out some of his tension but ended up choking.

  “Did you find the jewels?” Soulden asked.

  “No,” Gale wheezed. “But surely the attempted murder of two Englishmen will be enough to hang him?”

  “Oh, he’ll hang,” Soulden said. “But it would have been rather nice to have the jewels as well to prevent war between the French and the Dutch.”

  “Kees and Teube will testify against him. If you promise to spare them from the noose.” He didn’t want to tell Soulden just yet where he thought the jewels were.

  “Good man,” Soulden said and patted him on the back.

  The gesture was perhaps not as comforting as he had intended. Gale went into a paroxysm of coughing and expelled even more water from his heavy lungs. By the time he had finished he was weak, his vision dark, and he was as dizzy as he had been when he’d leapt off the Condor.

  He tried to push away Soulden’s solicitous touch. He had a brief memory of cold, murky water all around him, his limbs heavy as lead as he tried to move them, his lungs tight with sharp, shooting pain. And then a hand had grabbed his coat, pulling him up, up…

  “Chant?” he asked, his voice weak and tremulous, and then pitched forward into a faint.

  Chapter 18

  Chant found that pacing the Gales’ parlour warmed him faster than sitting on the sofa shivering, and had the added effect of distracting him somewhat. He knew he would be fine. The ordeal had been frightening, but it had not ended as badly as it could have. He and Gale had been brought to St. James’s Square where Lady Gale had, without even demanding an explanation, begun to bark orders. Gale had been whisked off to his bedroom, the family physician summoned, and two servants sent to attend to Chant in the parlour. None of Gale’s clothes would have fit Chant, but he’d been given a shirt, dressing gown, and ludicrously soft breeches that must have belonged to Gale’s older brother. He’d been offered cakes, which he’d been unable to eat, and tea, which he’d managed two sips of. One of the servants had noticed Chant was still shivering, even with dry clothes on, and had thrown more wood on the fire and practically flung a thick woven blanket over him.

  Everything would be fine. He kept repeating it to himself. De Cock’s cold eyes were just a memory now. But he worried for Gale, and the effort of trying to observe propriety when all he wanted to do was storm into the man's bedroom and see for himself that he was still alive was even more draining than that endless swim to shore had been.

  He focused on the chintzy furniture—the sofa really was spectacularly ugly: red and gold paisley upholstery and carvings of creatures he couldn’t identify on the arms—thinking of Jenny and her love for shining things. Thinking of Reid, who would buy decorations he knew were in poor taste just so he and Chant might laugh about them.

  Chant had wanted to leave the past behind him, but now it seemed to collide with this horribly uncertain present, and guilt washed over him unchecked. He had put Gale in danger. He had nearly lost him. If he had been paying attention to his surroundings in Mayfair, if he had fought harder to free himself; for God’s sake, if he had not insisted that he and Gale be honest about their feelings for each other, perhaps Gale would not have felt obligated to come to Chant’s rescue. He shivered again, though he no longer felt cold.

  He made himself take a breath, then gripped the back of the sofa and dug his fingers in, trying to remain anchored. He had not lost Gale. Gale was upstairs in his room being tended to, and he would make a full recovery.

  He started as the door opened and turned to see Lady Gale standing at the entrance, looking impeccable as always in a violet satin gown with a square neckline and sleeves to the elbow. It felt disgraceful to stand before her in the borrowed shirt and dressing gown, his feet bare, his hair still damp and smelling of the Thames, knowing he had almost got her son killed. For a second, her face was drawn tight, but then she smiled gently and dipped her head to him.
“Mr. Chant. I came to see how you are.” She approached, glancing about the room. “Where are the staff I sent to attend to you?”

  “I sent them away, my lady. I apologise. I wished to be alone.”

  “I know the feeling well,” she said. “But this hardly seems like the time to be alone.” She said it with a warmth he might not have caught had he not come to know her son these past few days. She seated herself on the sofa and patted the spot next to her. “Will you sit a minute?”

  He wished to keep pacing until he wore a hole through the floorboards and down into the earth, where he might disappear. But he sat beside her. She glanced at the discarded blanket on the sofa arm, and he flushed with an embarrassment he didn’t quite understand. He knew logically that what had happened was not his fault, but he still felt Gale’s mother would be within her rights to despise him.

  “Do you feel you don’t deserve to be comfortable?” she asked bluntly.

  His cheeks might well have been embers from the dwindling fire. “I am quite comfortable, Lady Gale. I mean, I am warm enough.”

  She reached out and put the backs of her fingers to his cheek, saying, “Forgive me” as she did. Chant was so surprised by the gesture he did not pull away. “You are as cold as a block of ice.”

  That seemed impossible when his face burned so.

  “Would you resent me terribly if I were to put this blanket around your shoulders? I don't know how similar you are to my son in this regard. He hates to be mothered.”

  Chant smiled in spite of himself. He doesn’t, he nearly said. He only pretends to. But of course, Lady Gale knew that. “I would not resent you, but it is not necessary…”