The Counterfeit Lady: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 4)

by Alina K. Field

  He nodded. “I have.”

  Sweat broke on Davy’s forehead. His hand trembled so, Fox poured both him and his friend another.

  “She wants her revenge,” Davy said.

  “No, not revenge. Justice.”

  “Davy, man,” Gaz whispered, “We can’t be givin’ testimony at a trial.”

  Fox leaned closer. “She doesn’t need a trial to get justice.”

  MacEwen raised an eyebrow. Fox hadn’t briefed him. He hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, but he was cagey enough to play along while he puzzled things out.

  Jenny burst through the door, drawing everyone’s attention. Gasping for breath, she clutched her hands in front of her.

  Chapter 18

  Fox’s heart quaked and he pushed back the chair and stood.

  MacEwen nodded at him. “If she be rattling chains again, go on.” He drew a pistol and laid it on the table, out of their reach. “Try anything, one’ll get shot, the other will go up to that cold room. Give us what we want, and you may just leave with what you came for.”

  Fox took quick strides out of the room and up the stairs, Jenny at his heels.

  He crashed through the door of Perry’s bedchamber and his heart skidded to a halt. On the table, next to the silver handled brush, lay a long, thick coil of wheat-colored hair.

  What that implied crushed him.

  Jenny’s indrawn breath shattered the silence.

  “Where did she go, Jenny?”

  “I don’t know.” The girl went to a clothes press and rummaged around. “She’s taken her breeches and coats.”

  “Where did she go, Jenny?”

  “She didn’t tell me, sir.” She studied the floor and worried her hands. “Nothing. Only, she seemed bothered about something when I took her up dinner.” She lifted her gaze, her lips trembling. “She had her coins out on the table and…on the journey here, she asked me how far I’d like to travel. If I’d like to see France. I didn’t think she’d leave without me.”

  Perry, standing at the window in his chamber, observing that Jenny had a tendre for MacEwen. The fool girl had left on her own, and hieing off to the Continent dressed as a man would be just like her. No one, well, not any man with a keen pair of eyes, would mistake her as a boy for long.

  Scarborough was closer and the bigger port. He’d have to chance that she’d gone there. “What else do you think she took?”

  Jenny went to a case on the floor and searched it, lifting troubled eyes to him. “Her jewelry and all of her money, sir.”

  “No note?”

  She swept her gaze around the room, and went through the door to the dressing room, coming back with a folded paper, squinting at it. She handed it to him. “I’m still learnin’ to read.”

  “Jenny, good luck with MacEwen. Go to one of my brothers’ wives if you are in trouble. I’ll send word to them when I reach safety and you can join me if you wish. I’ll keep my promise to you.”

  Ice ran through his veins as he handed her back the note. The road to Scarborough would be crawling tonight with free traders, maybe even with dragoons and uncorrupted riding officers.

  “You’ll stay here, in case she comes back.” And then he ran up the stairs to his room, arming himself to the teeth in the dark clothes of the night, and with every weapon he owned.

  In the kitchen, MacEwen loomed over Gaz and Davy. He shot Fox a look that took in his change in apparel and grabbed Gaz’s throat.

  “We don’t know who killed her,” Gaz said.

  “It was Scruggs.” The table rattled and Davy winced. “Enough kicking, Gaz, and enough lies. Can’t live with this anymore, and you can go on and leave. I’ve had enough of the man’s whippings. Saw a big man stop the coach. It was Scruggs.”

  Fox went to the storeroom and came out with the casks. “If you need help, you come here. If Pip needs help, you send him here.”

  The mention of Pip made Davy pale.

  “Lord Shaldon will protect you.” He nodded to MacEwen. “If on the other hand, Scruggs or the Dutchman shows up at my door on your telling, Lord Shaldon will not forget. Nor will the lady. Are you taking these barrels north or south?”

  “We’re to take them to the inn,” Davy said. “They’ve cleared out the rest and will be taking them on to Scarborough.”

  Gaz hissed. Davy glared back at him, looking sober.

  “Enough, Gaz. They’re not with the revenuers. Rough water or no, the Dutchman’s men are offloading something big north of the point later tonight.”

  “Davy—”

  “No. I’m not shuttin’ up. You weren’t there. Bein’ drunk all the time, people think you’re gone deaf. Don’t like this Dutchman or the way he rattles Scruggs. Ain’t like Scruggs to be so shaken.”

  “Go on then,” Fox pushed them out, shut the door on them. MacEwen glared. Jenny hovered, rubbing her arms.

  “I wasn’t done,” MacEwen said.

  He needed a moment for the men to clear out to the road.

  “Get what you need to go north of the point.” His heart pounded. “Before you leave, give Jenny a pistol and show her how to use it. The lady is out there somewhere, on that south road.”

  MacEwen bit his lip and huffed. “It needs but that.”

  Fox strode out to the stables, saddled the gelding in no time and led him out into the yard.

  A darker shadow loomed, and his hand went to his pistol, and then his heart crashed. A small figure was leading a horse. Chestnut. And Perry was not sitting atop the mare.

  The horse stopped. “Don’t shoot, sir. I didna’ steal her. I found her like this on the road just runnin’ and she remembered and came to me.”

  This was the boy, Pip. Had Perry taken the boy out for a ride tonight? Had she fallen?

  “Where’s the lady?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t have time to doubt the boy.

  The kitchen door opened and MacEwen strode over.

  “Who’s on the south road, Pip is it?” Fox asked.

  The boy shifted on his feet.

  “Who’s taken Lizzie?”

  “It must be the men from down south. Scruggs sent me carrying a message.”

  “What message?”

  “Watch out for John Black. He be coming.”

  John Black, the smuggler who’d been transported the year before. Fox had read about the trial, and the man had held fast to his innocence until the end.

  “John Black’s gone.”

  “There be another one. The real one.”

  Of course there was, and why had none of them thought of it? The crimes of John Black had been worthy of hanging, yet he’d been transported. Someone had paid off the patsy and the judge. “John Black” was a nom de guerre for a local free trading chief.

  Who he would bet his right painting hand was not Scruggs. “Mac, put Chestnut up.”

  MacEwen took the reins. “Then I’ll follow.”

  “No.” He grabbed the boy, who squirmed. “This one is going with me.” Fox plopped the boy on the gelding and climbed on behind.

  “Where yer taking me?” His little voice shook with a combination of defiance and fear.

  “South. You’ll give your report and help me find my lady.”

  Black night shielded the three men, from their boots to their black neck cloths and caps, and dirt darkened their cheeks and noses.

  One of them pushed Perry, making her stumble in her stuffed boots. Pain shot through her wrists as she caught herself.

  A fist hauled her up by her collar, near strangling her. “What ya doin?” She lowered her voice to what she hoped sounded like an East London growl and brushed the gravel off her hands. “There be no need for this.”

  “Shut it.” That was the big man.

  They were speeding her along, walking quickly north toward Clampton, a good thing, she decided. She’d find a way out before they reached the turning for the village, and scoot her way back to Gorse Cottage.

  Or… the Baronet’
s manor was nearby. If she could find out where, she could seek assistance from him.

  “This be Sir Richard’s land,” she muttered, hoping for confirmation.

  One of the dark heads snickered. “He’ll not help you, boy.”

  She clenched and unclenched her hands. They’d taken her pistols. They’d found the knife on her arm. They’d not found her breasts. Praise be to God, hers were smaller than most.

  They also hadn’t taken the time to question her.

  She needed a story. If only she knew who these men worked for, or who they knew in the neighborhood. They must certainly know the innkeeper Scruggs. Everyone knew Scruggs, except her, so saying she worked for him would lead to more trouble.

  They wouldn’t probably know Fox. Or MacEwen. She could say she was one of the servants from Gorse Cottage. Her master was a painter. He’d sent her to Scarborough at night for a particular color of paint. Had to have it by the morrow.

  Would Scarborough have a shop that sold paint?

  No, not paint. Something else. Think, Perry.

  If you’re going to lie, keep the lies as close to the truth as possible, and simple. Charley had shared that advice with her more than once, bless him.

  Coffee, then. Fox had said he wanted coffee, so there must be none to be had in the village. Temperamental and spoiled, he was. Had run out and needed it in the morning, and she was making the trip down and back before then. Thus, he’d armed her with pistols and knives in case of trouble. Like this.

  She still had the one knife in her boot, along with her jewels and her money, her chance for freedom. She would use that knife on someone before surrendering her freedom, even if it killed her.

  I’m a fool, running away like this. Fox is right. I should have gone home.

  No. Father and Bakeley would lock her away in the country. They’d send an armed guard when she went riding or into the village to visit the seamstress. Or they’d marry her off to a man who, besides locking her up, might take away her horses, and possibly raise a hand to her also. No, no, and no.

  Anyway, she’d have to get away from these men first.

  “Oof.” She collided into the large villain. “What the—”

  A hand clamped over her mouth, smelling of onions and fish.

  A boy came round a bend in the road. Pip.

  Her pulse quickened and her neck prickled. If Pip was here, surely the men from the village would be nearby. Maybe Fox would have followed them. Yes, of course, he would be out and about tonight.

  Under the supper odors of the villain’s unwashed hand, she could almost sense Fox’s presence.

  “Be you the Scarborough men?” Pip said. So brave, he sounded. He’d shown more nerves when he’d encountered her ghostly presence.

  “What if we are?”

  “Might be that you’re with the revenuers.”

  The big man took a step nearer. “And might be I’ll throw you over that cliff.”

  “I come from Scruggs,” Pip said indignantly. “Deliverin’ a message.”

  “What message?”

  “He says, be on the lookout for John Black.”

  In a flash, the big man had Pip hauled up by his jacket flaps. “What’s this?”

  Perry’s heart did flips. These were not Scruggs’s men. And probably not the Scarborough men, whoever they might be. These men weren’t in league with Scruggs.

  “What else did Scruggs say?”

  “Nothin’ ter me. Put me down.”

  He dropped Pip and the boy staggered back, turning to run. The big man clamped a hand on him.

  “I got to get back.”

  “You’re staying with us.” He yanked Pip back to where Perry stood.

  The smelly hand came off her mouth and all but yanked her arm out of the socket. She sucked in a sharp breath. “No need for roughness. Let me go on my way.”

  “And where would that be?” The big man handed Pip over. “Tie their hands together.”

  “I’m for Scarborough,” she said.

  “Another one of Scruggs’s messengers.”

  “No.”

  He leaned closer. “With the Dutchman then.”

  “I dunna know who the Dutchman is.”

  “Traveling on that fine horse? Who are you?”

  “I work at that cottage. That there one about to slide off the cliff.”

  “With the ghost?” Pip asked.

  “Aye.” She took quick shallow breaths, inducing her heart to race faster. She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Seen her last night.”

  A hand cracked across her face and she held back a scream. Pain burned through her cheek, along her neck and into her shoulder.

  She gritted her teeth. He would pay for that, first chance she got.

  “Bugger your ghosts. What are you doin’ here?” he growled. It would be his palm painted on her jaw, and her extra knife in his belly.

  “Master ran out of coffee.”

  The hand came up again and she ducked, heart pounding. It wasn’t so hard to pretend to be servile.

  “Wanted me back with it by the morrow.”

  “He sent a servant, at night, to bring back coffee for his breakfast? And you think you’ll find an open shop tonight?”

  “Or the mornin’. Sleeps half the day, he does. ’E’s a painter. Be back in time. ’An if’n I’m gone at night, I don’t have to see…” She sucked in a deep breath, ducked, and made herself tremble. “Her. Yer know what I’m sayin’, boy,” she whispered.

  “I heard tell in the village that Mr. Goodfellow up at the cottage is a queer one,” Pip said.

  Mr. Goodfellow. Fox was using an alias.

  “And I heard tell he’s got no servants,” the big man said. “So I know you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lyin’. Came later we did. Me and the cook.”

  The third man beckoned the big one. Out at sea, a shadow floated, impossible to make out as more than a black smudge. The two men held a hushed conference, fragments of French floating toward her.

  Fragments that sent her stomach roiling, her hair rising, and her head reeling. Men, and assassins, and weapons, and payment, and then they were moving again, pushed along by the thin man.

  “Bloody hell,” Perry said. “Quit pokin’ me. Can ye not let me go?”

  The big man turned and gripped her throat, fingers tightening, cutting off breath. She managed a sucking wail, and her chest seized, her tongue stuck to her palate, making her want to gag. Pain seared her neck where the blood was cut off.

  Rocks clattered on the side of the cliff. He let go and turned toward the noise.

  She staggered against Pip, sucking in ragged breaths and gagging.

  “Eet ees nothing,” the third man reported. “The wind.”

  “The skiff’s not far,” the thin man said.

  He came up close enough to smell and jabbed her hard in the back.

  Pain seared her. She choked and staggered against the boy again.

  “More of that comin’ if you don’t shut up.” His breath stung her nose, along with the rest of his dinner—onions, many, many onions.

  Him, she could find by his odor. Him, she would kill also.

  They skittered off onto a narrow path, switching back and forth down the cliff side. Gorse tore at her breeches and coats, the heels of her stout boots skidded on rocks, and she crashed into the boy more times than she’d have liked, trying to keep from falling over the side.

  They reached a low promontory overlooking a sheer drop. Damp air penetrated her coats, and she fought her shivers, fought the fear numbing her mind.

  It wasn’t hard to puzzle out their plan.

  Three men stood between her and escape. She glanced back at the sea.

  The folly bridge on the lake at Cransdall was just about this high, and she’d jumped off that many times on Charley’s dares. Mama had made sure they’d dug the lake deep.

  Would the sea bed be deep enough?

  “No witnesses. Take care of this,” the big man said, a
nd stalked off.

  And he’d spoken the words in badly accented French.

  Onion Breath passed by, and she pivoted away from his jabbing. The blow glanced off Pip, who shouted and kicked out.

  “Enough,” the big man bellowed. “I want to get there before them.”

  Onion Breath skittered back to the path, and both men moved out of sight. They reappeared again at the water’s edge, and she saw it then. A skiff was pulled up, another man holding it against the pull of the waves. They got in, took up the oars and rowed away.

  Her heart dropped. The surf battered the shore again tonight. She didn’t want to have to fight it, not with one hand tied to Pip. She didn’t know if she’d be strong enough.

  They turned to face two pistols. “You’ll kneel down now.” This was the Frenchman.

  She scanned the darkness behind the man.

  “He’s back there.” Pip breathed out the words.

  “You could let us go,” she yelled. She must stall. Fox must come, and soon.

  “Non.”

  That was definitely French.

  “We’re not informers,” she said in French. Like every accomplished young lady, she’d mastered the language, but not for social reasons. She’d hoped someday to follow her father into the great Game.

  But not like this. Fox, Fox, where are you?

  “The war is over,” she shouted, “and you have no quarrel with us, or us with you. At least let this boy go. You have no reason to harm him.”

  White teeth flashed as he grinned. “Please to turn around and go to the edge. And then you will kneel.”

  All her blood pooled in her legs, and she dragged them closer to the cliff edge. Her nerves skittered, her breathing…her breathing tightened again, pain ratcheting through where she’d been punched.

  Pip began to tremble. “What did he say?”

  She had to be strong for the boy. “Do not worry,” she whispered.

  The Frenchman leveled his gun.

  “He’s going to shoot us.” Pip shouted, his little-boy voice high and strained. He waved a hand around.

  “Shoot me if you will, but you let the boy—”

  “No buts, messieur. Or should I say, mademoiselle?” He laughed. “These English have no subtlety. I knew from the moment I saw such a fine derriere.” The white teeth flashed again.