The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “Dash it!” The viscount scowled up at Alex, the pain of his wound—or maybe the way Louisa held his arm out to bind it—evident in the stilted movement.

  “Really, Uncle, Morton’s not worth that much passion. He was merely a pawn in this game of mine, necessary for only a short while.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing.” The viscount’s words travelled thick and slow in a strained voice. “Because of you, England now faces an attack.”

  Robbie chuckled. “Calm down, old man. There’s no real threat—not yet, anyway. That was merely a seed I planted in the head of Overtun during a rather exclusive round of cards.”

  “To what purpose?” The viscount strangled a cry as Louisa tucked in the ends of the bandage.

  Alex watched Robbie with hawk-like intensity, looking for an opening. Any opening. But the man kept his gaze pinging between his uncle and Alex.

  “Money.” Robbie shrugged. “It’s always about money, is it not?”

  “You … you sold out … to whom?” It was hard to tell which robbed the viscount’s breath more—Robbie’s treachery or Louisa’s somewhat rough handling to help him to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, then growled, “And why?”

  “You should know, Uncle. You’ve chided me for it often enough. I have no loyalty to a country that saw fit to humiliate, brand, and rob me of everything.”

  “You deserved that cashiering.” The viscount’s indictment was as salty as the air.

  “I don’t deny I deserted, but it was quite by accident. An opportunity arose—it simply took more time than I thought it would to cut the deal.” His eyes narrowed. “As you would’ve known if you’d ever taken the time to listen to me.”

  Alex studied Robbie’s face by threadbare moonlight. Something wasn’t right about his story. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

  “See?” Robbie flashed him a grin, the whites of his teeth skeletal in the dark. “That’s what I’ve liked about you from the start, ol’ boy. Ever so keen. You’re right, of course. There was also the trifling matter of disorderly conduct unbefitting an officer. Aah, but fleecing that colonel still makes me smile.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be smiling when you hang for this,” Alex said. The eerie snap of a rising sail magnified his threat.

  “They’ll have to catch me first, and judging by the looks of things, that’ll take quite some doing.”

  Alex’s gaze drifted. He should’ve noticed before what a minimal crew ran this vessel. Were the viscount not wounded, they maybe would’ve had a chance at taking charge.

  He flicked his stare back to Robbie. “And what of the viscount and me?”

  “That is a problem.” The moon disappeared, pulling all light from Robbie’s face. “I suppose I shall leave you in the hands of my associates once we land.”

  Alex shook his head. “You know what Leaguers will do to us.”

  “A pity, that. Good faro players are so scarce.”

  The viscount swore. Beside him, Louisa didn’t so much as gasp. Though why should she? Dressed in men’s garments and no stranger to her father’s outbursts, it should come as no surprise the lady didn’t display ladylike sensibilities. She merely stood, propping up her father with a hold on his good arm.

  “La ligue la liberté!” The viscount swore again. “You’re selling out to the French?”

  “The French will pay a premium for a shipment of rockets and frames,” Robbie explained. “Enough to fund my travels around the world.”

  “You mean to India.” Louisa let go of her father’s arm and stepped toward Robbie.

  “Eventually,” he said.

  “Eventually?” The word flamed out of her mouth like a cannonball. She stopped, halfway between her father and her lover. “That was not part of our deal.”

  Alex rocked back on his heels. Good. This he could use. If he could get Robbie to focus more on Louisa and less on him, he’d have the space of a breath to pull out one of the pistols beneath his coat.

  “Tell her, Robbie. Tell her all. You have no intention of going to India and never did. Once a leaguer, a leaguer for life. You are no longer a free man, but a puppet, with failing revolutionaries holding the strings. Miss Coburn”—he shot her a half-smile—“how did you think Robbie, a court-martialed soldier living off his uncle’s charity, managed to give you French perfume, that Cross of Lorraine pendant that is even now surely hot against your collarbone, or supply champagne to a viscount’s entire household?”

  She looked from him to Robbie, face pale in the night. “What does he mean?”

  “Don’t panic, love.” Robbie spoke as to a child. Bad mistake. She’d pick up on it, and it would fuel her rage.

  Alex stifled a grin.

  “Just a few more obligations, Louisa, and then—”

  “Your obligation is to me!”

  “Of course, but—”

  And there it was. Robbie turned his face toward Louisa.

  Alex pulled a gun, cocking the hammer wide open. “Drop your weapon, Mr. Coburn.”

  Robbie jerked his gaze back to Alex.

  And behind them all, the hammers of four more guns clicked, followed by a raspy voice. “Drop yours as well, Mr. Morton.”

  Seven hundred twenty-nine. Seven hundred thirty. Seven hun—

  Something warm probed Johanna’s toes, just at the tips. But it would move from there. She’d learned the pattern, thanks to the wisdom she’d gained from Alex and a stubborn barn door.

  “Assess the situation first. The easiest way to manage a difficulty is to think before acting.”

  Squeezing the fabric of the gown she bunched in her hands at her back—for she’d also learned the unpleasantness of having a rat trapped between her legs and skirt hem—she waited. Let the nose sniff, the tentative paw poke. Wait for curiosity to throw abandon to the wind, heft a furry body up onto the top of her foot, and—

  She kicked with all her strength, then immediately started counting again. Better to focus on numbers than the thwack of the rat’s body hitting a crate. Judging by how many times she’d done this, at least an hour, probably more, had passed. Curse that Mr. Quail!

  Falling back into a rhythm, she escaped the dark hopelessness threatening to strangle her. There was comfort in counting. Soothing, predictable … she stiffened. An off-beat thud of boots scattered her numbers like blown dandelion seeds.

  A key scraped in the lock, and the door swung inward. Light flooded inside, not brilliant, just a yellow glow slanting in from a lantern on the corridor wall. Even so, she blinked.

  “Told you I’d be back. I …” Mr. Quail stopped just inside the threshold, eyes fixed on the floor. “What the devil?”

  She followed his gaze. Three furry bodies lay unmoving, long tails a tangle. She frowned. Only three? Surely she’d kicked more rats than that—which meant they’d only return to torment her again.

  She scowled up at Mr. Quail. “How dare you leave me in here.”

  Without a word, he set down the mug he carried and pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his belt.

  Johanna retreated until her back smacked up against a tower of crates. Hands yet lashed together, she’d be no match for the man—and likely wouldn’t be even if she were free and held her own blade. “What do you intend? You won’t get away with this. Please, Mr. Quail!”

  Her breath came so fast, little sparkles dotted her vision.

  He grabbed hold of her and spun her around. Two tugs and a yank later, the bindings on her wrists dropped to the floor. She whirled, ready to pummel him if he touched her.

  “I am sorry for this, truly.” Stepping back, Mr. Quail tucked away his knife and ran a hand through his hair, then breathed out a curse. “I will see you safely to shore.”

  She rubbed the ache in her arms, which helped some, though it did nothing to remove the pain of what was to come. “I suppose damaged goods will not draw as fair a price once we land in France.”

  “What?” His dark hair hung low over his eyes,
yet no need to see, for the confusion in his voice spoke volumes.

  But what did he not understand?

  His chin lifted, and he shook his head. “No, Miss Langley. I will not see you sold. That was only an excuse to keep them from killing you.”

  Her hands fell to her sides, the urge to return to her counting strong. Numbers made sense. Mr. Quail’s words did not.

  “Why spare me?” she asked—then wished she hadn’t. The answer might be worse than rodents crawling over her feet.

  He said nothing, just crossed back to the door and retrieved a cup. “Here, drink this.”

  Her throat tightened. Thirst waged war with her brain, telling her not to accept what might be poisoned. She tested the liquid with her tongue. Tepid. Smelling of nothing other than the damp wood of the mug.

  She drained the cup dry. Better to die here than face a life of degradation at the hands of unknown men.

  “Better?” Mr. Quail took the cup from her.

  She peered at him, his dark curls framing an even darker face lost in the shadows. “Who are you? Really?”

  “I suppose, circumstances considered, I owe you an explanation.” He pivoted and, with some effort, turned two crates on their sides. He sat on one, and swept his hand over to the other. From this angle, light bathed him like an archangel. “My name is Clarkwell, Miss Langley. Henry Clarkwell. I am a revenue officer, as are the rest of the members of my band.”

  Slowly, she sank onto the crate. His information, while outlandish, rang true, somewhat. “I knew you weren’t musicians,” she murmured.

  “And it was very gracious of you to allow us lodging despite our shortcomings. You will be compensated, but you must understand that while we were in Dover, we had to remain in character—as we must continue to do until we land.”

  “What is this all about, Mr. Quai—I mean, Mr. Clarkwell?” The name felt foreign on her tongue—but no more strange than conversing in a storage closet with rats at her feet.

  Mr. Quail–Clarkwell leaned forward, dangling the empty cup between his knees. “I came to Dover to uncover and break up a guinea gang. Are you aware of such activity?”

  “I know smuggling of all sorts is common.”

  “Well this sort is the very worst, other than wrecking, that is. It’s no secret that gold is in short supply—and in great demand across the Channel. Opportunists ship our guineas over to the French, who pay a premium, trading in lace, silks, and other luxuries. I thought I’d embedded myself in with just such a gang.” His words slowed, and for a moment he said nothing. “Turns out, it’s far more treacherous.”

  Something in his voice shivered—or maybe it was she who quivered. She folded her hands in her lap, gripping her own fingers for support. “What is it?” Reaching for her, he patted her knotted fingers. “Don’t worry yourself, Miss Langley. I sent for reinforcements yesterday. As I’ve said, this will all soon be over.” He stood and offered his hand. “Come, let’s find you a better place to hide and leave the rats to their foraging.”

  She stared at his outstretched fingers. Calloused. Nails bitten off. Strong and unflinching and determined. Should she trust this man? Was this a trick? She lowered her face, and her gaze landed on one of the rat carcasses splayed on the floor. Some choice.

  She put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her out the door.

  “Que!” His name was belted out from down the passage. “Where ye be?”

  Boots thudded closer.

  “Blast!” Mr. Quail huffed out a curse and shoved her back into the storage room.

  “No, not again.” She tried to hold on to his hand, but his fingers wrenched from hers.

  “Sorry.” He slammed the door, leaving her in the dark.

  Leaving her with the rats.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  How many rats were on this ship? Closing the hammer, Alex dropped his gun to the deck, as bid by the growling voice at his back. Robbie did the same. Along with the viscount and Louisa, they all turned to face Major General William Overtun. Three soldiers stood at his side, aiming guns their way. So did the general. How many more layers of subterfuge could there possibly be?

  “Overtun?” The viscount stepped toward him, relief bleeding from his voice as fluid as that from the wound on his arm. “Thank God for putting a stop to this …” His words dripped to a stop, and his feet froze. “But why are you here? What’s gone wrong?”

  Overtun shrugged, and Alex flinched. One wrong move with that loaded pistol in his hand could mean someone’s corpse on the deck.

  “Other than a few anomalies—namely the entourage you seem to be travelling with,” the general swept out his free hand, “nothing is amiss. The plan is running along as expected.”

  Clutching his wounded arm, the viscount swayed. “But you were never to be connected in any way with this mission.”

  “I believe your nephew stated it more plainly than I ever could. What was it you said, Robbie? Aah, yes, you, and all of you now, I suppose, are ‘merely pawns in this game of mine, necessary for only a short while.’” A full grin slashed across the general’s face. “Tell me, Robbie, are you certain it was you who planted the seed of an impending invasion during that card game you and I played—or was it I who did the planting?” He shook his head, his upper lip curling. “You should’ve done as your uncle said and stayed with the frames in Dover, boy. But you were never one to follow an order, were you? Nor were you, Edward.”

  The major speared the viscount with a deadly stare, one that even in the dark gleamed with the threat of murder. “You should’ve finished the job the rajah sent you on, hmm?”

  The viscount staggered back to Louisa’s side. “Good heavens, Overtun! Surely you don’t mean—”

  “Of course I mean it! I’ve meant to do this since that day years ago when your treachery took the life of my sister and her family in Siswapur. I watched them die. I barely escaped!”

  Alex sucked in a breath. The viscount had been right about his past sins, but had the man expected the incubus would manifest here? Tonight?

  Overtun widened his stance. “I was merely waiting for the best opportunity to take your life and your honor forever. But apparently, I’ll be taking your family as well. Goodbye, Edward.”

  A flash of spark, the sharp crack of a small explosion, and a bullet whizzed through the air. The viscount flew backward, his head split apart before he hit the deck.

  Louisa screamed and dropped to his side.

  Alex tensed, ready to drop when the soldiers decided to let loose their fire.

  The general turned his face to his men, his thick lips opening to give the order—

  “Stop!” Robbie shouted, his hands reaching for the sky. “We had nothing to do with the old man’s treachery.”

  Overtun cut a glance to Robbie. “True, but you’ve seen me now. I can’t very well lay the blame on your uncle for this stolen shipment of rockets with you three to say otherwise.” He turned back to the soldiers. “On my mark—”

  “I can get you more money than you can imagine!” Robbie’s voice tightened to a shrewish tone, competing with the wailing of Louisa.

  The general’s big chest expanded, then he blew out a breath and held up his hand to his soldiers. “I’m listening.”

  “The frames for these rockets are no longer in Dover. I hired a crew to smuggle them off. That ship is to rendezvous here within the hour. My league contact is paying top dollar, likely more than yours, and expects both rockets and frames.”

  “I should’ve marked you as a leaguer.” Overtun chuckled. “How much?”

  “Two thousand guineas.”

  Alex’s brows rose as high as Robbie’s hands. That was quite a sum. No wonder the traitor had paid him such a whopping amount to keep the viscount distracted.

  “Hmm.” The general scratched his jaw. “All right. We’ll see if your story is true and wait out the hour. But we won’t be needing the others.”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Overtun.” Alex lifted his han
ds as well. “I can beat his deal.” Sweat beaded on his brow. Think! Think! What could he possibly offer?

  The moon broke out again, highlighting the general’s thick lips. “You know, Morton, you’ve been a wild card since the day I met you. What’s your bid?”

  “Double that.”

  “How?”

  He swallowed. How to make this plausible without being an outright lie? “It’s true that France will pay a generous amount, but the Prussians will pay even more. I have connections—unless I’m dead.”

  “Well, well … quite the high-stakes game we’ve got going, eh? Just like old times.”

  Overtun turned to the soldier nearest him.

  Alex froze, his heartbeat hinging on the general’s next words. Around them, sailors crawled up and down the ratlines as if on deck men’s lives were of no account. Louisa’s sobbing added to the madness. Surely perdition could be no more horrific than this.

  “Take them below, Jonesy. One wrong move, shoot them.” Overtun pried a pocket watch from his waistcoat and snapped it open. “You’ve got an hour, Robbie. If those frames show up, we’ll sell them to your accomplices. More poetic if the viscount is blamed with a sale to the French.” He snapped the lid shut and stuffed it back. “But if not, I’ll go with Mr. Morton’s offer.”

  One of the soldiers stalked out from the rest, the muzzle of his gun urging them to move. The gawky man appeared to be sixteen or perhaps seventeen. A youth, at any rate—with hopefully not much fighting experience. That could be an asset, one Alex tucked away as securely as the last gun that yet remained beneath his coat.

  Alex reached for Louisa’s arm to haul her up.

  “Not the woman,” Overtun growled. “Louisa stays here.”

  She lifted her face to Alex, her wide eyes staring into his, helpless and pleading. “Help me.”

  “I’ll come for you,” he whispered.

  “Move it!”

  The cold jab of a pistol barrel stabbed him in the back. He stumbled forward, catching up to Robbie near the stairs. As they marched down, tripping in the only light from a lantern at the base of the hold, a gunshot rang out.