Nowhere Near Respectable

by Mary J. Putney

  Howard laughed. “You mean you’re too squeamish to watch a man die. I’m not.”

  “We can play cards by the fire rather than freeze here,” Baptiste pointed out.

  Howard’s eyes narrowed. “Do you play brag?”

  “I know the game,” Baptiste said. If Mac hadn’t been so bruised and cold, he might have laughed at how Baptiste understated his skill to give Howard confidence.

  “I’ll play if the stakes are good,” Howard said.

  Baptiste shrugged. “Set them where you will as long as we don’t stay here.”

  One of Howard’s men said, “I’d just as soon take my money and go home and leave you to this.”

  When the other mumbled agreement, Howard gave them both a couple of gold coins. As they left, he turned to Mac and said in a gloating voice, “You’ll die in the dark, Mackenzie. The sea always wins. Water’s cold at this season, and it will keep coming. Higher and higher, and no matter how much you struggle, it will rise over your head.

  “That’ll take time, though. Sometimes you’ll be able to grab a breath, then the salt will be in your mouth and you’ll be screaming underwater for air until you die.”

  “You’ve a gift for description, Howard.” Mac was just about able to manage a lazy drawl. “And here I thought your only talents were stupidity and treachery.” As insults went, not his best, but he wasn’t in his best shape, either.

  Howard kicked at him but didn’t connect when Mac stepped deeper into the water. “This tunnel isn’t used much,” the smuggler hissed. “I think I’ll leave your body here till the crabs and fish have picked your bones.”

  Mac shrugged. “Do as you will. I won’t care.”

  Expression furious, Howard turned to climb the tunnel, the lantern swinging in his hand. Baptiste lingered. “I’m sorry, Mac. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  “Hell is paved with good intentions,” Mac said wearily. “So get the hell out.”

  As Baptiste turned, he dropped an object to the sandy floor where the water had yet to reach. Then he was gone.

  As the last glimmer of lantern light vanished, Mac leaned over and scooped up the object. It was Baptiste’s penknife—an ingenious special model that Mac had given the other man as a gift the previous year.

  Unlike most penknives, where blade and handle were solid, this knife had two different pieces that folded into the handle. One was a standard blade for sharpening quills, the other was a narrow silver spike for use as a toothpick. And Baptiste had not dropped it by accident.

  Holding the penknife in icy hands, Mac managed to latch open the toothpick. By this time the darkness was absolute, but he didn’t need light to find the manacle. Though the lock was simple, trying to pick it in the dark as frigid water splashed over him was damnably difficult.

  To complicate matters, his right wrist was the one chained and he had to work with his left hand.

  He’d almost sprung the lock when the knife slipped from his numb fingers. Panicked, he filled his lungs and knelt, submerged in the ice water as he felt around on the stony floor with his left hand. The force of the current tossed pebbles and small shells along with the tide, and was strong enough to move the knife.

  He couldn’t find it. He couldn’t find it. He straightened and gulped in more air, then knelt and resumed searching with fingers that no longer had sensation. Where the devil was it? He filled his lungs once more, then ducked under for the third time.

  There! The knife was on the verge of being washed out of his reach, but he managed to grab it. As he stood and gasped for breath, he tucked his left hand under his right arm in the hope he might be able to restore some sensation. But he couldn’t wait long to try again. The water was halfway up his chest and rising fast.

  Working with excruciating care, he inserted the toothpick into the lock and moved it around, trying to strike the pin without breaking the pick. He poked over and over. Howard’s prediction of gulping air in the lull between onrushing waves had come true.

  The lock sprang open as a wave washed over his head. Lungs burning, Mac jerked free of the manacle and staggered upward through the churning water. He crashed hard into a wall, but his head broke above the water and he gulped in the blessed air.

  He spent a couple of minutes leaning against the wall and marshaling his strength as he analyzed his situation. Though he hadn’t drowned, he might freeze to death without warmth and dry clothes. He couldn’t stay where he was because they would find him when they came down to verify his death. There was no place to hide between here and the main cavern, where they would be sitting by a fire and playing cards.

  One way or another, he would have to get by Howard and Baptiste if he was to survive. Baptiste probably wouldn’t attack him, having given him the means to escape drowning, but Howard was armed and dangerous enough to kill both of them.

  Rising water splashed his chin, so it was time to get moving. The longer Mac waited, the more his condition would deteriorate. Emerging from the water into the bitterly cold air made him feel even more frozen, and his saturated boots and clothing weighed on him like lead.

  He climbed grimly, feeling his way through absolute blackness while trying to avoid crashing into any more rocky walls than was absolutely necessary. The way up seemed much longer than the way down had.

  The climb took so long that he was beginning to wonder if Howard and Baptiste had extinguished the fire and left the cave for some more comfortable place. Then he saw a faint light ahead. Rationally he knew he’d be better off if the men had left the cave, but the light was heartening.

  Moving as silently as his numb feet could manage, he continued toward the light—and abruptly found himself in the main cave. He’d thought that it was farther ahead because the light wasn’t strong, but now he saw that the fire was blocked by the two men sitting at a table in front of it.

  He froze, hoping they wouldn’t notice, but Howard must have heard his footsteps. The smuggler glanced toward the tunnel and his jaw dropped with shock before he rose from his chair and grabbed his shotgun. “Damn you to hell! Why can’t you just die? ”

  “I never had much patience for sitting around.” Mac stared at the weapon, wondering his odds for dodging a lethal blast of shot. He could probably avoid being killed right off, but he was bound to be wounded and then he’d become easy prey.

  “Rot in hell, Mackenzie!” Howard raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed.

  As the smuggler’s finger tightened on the trigger, Baptiste stood, calmly took aim with a pocket pistol, and shot Howard in the back at point-blank range.

  Howard made a gurgling sound and his eyes widened with disbelief. Then he crashed to the floor like a felled tree.

  There was absolute silence in the cavern for a dozen heartbeats. Then Mac sighed and walked toward the fire. He spared a glance for Howard and saw that the man wasn’t breathing, and good riddance.

  Mac tossed the pocketknife to Baptiste and came to a stop as close to the fire as he could get without burning. He was shaking all over with a combination of cold and reaction. As he held his icy hands toward the flames, he asked, “Why, Jean-Claude? For money? Even if Swinnerton claimed they were trying to catch a runaway heiress before she ruined herself, you can’t have believed the story or you would have told me about it.”

  Baptiste barely managed to catch the pocketknife. His shaking hands fumbling, he managed to fold the knife and tuck it away. “I suspected Swinnerton wasn’t being truthful, but I didn’t see much harm in giving him the information needed to enter the club. I never thought there would be violence.”

  Mac’s eyes narrowed as he studied the face of the man who had been his trusted friend. “How much did they pay you?”

  “I didn’t do it for money.” His mouth twisted. “Their French master promised to send my mother out of France. I haven’t seen her since I fled the Reign of Terror.”

  Mac caught his breath, understanding the power of that. He would give a great deal to see his mother agai
n, even if only for an hour. “Did they keep their word?”

  “They sent a copy of her death certificate.” Baptiste’s voice broke. “She died over two years ago, and I didn’t know it. So it was all for nothing. I betrayed you and England for nothing!”

  He’d precipitated a disaster in the process, but Mac couldn’t help but feel sorry for the other man. God knew that Mac had made monumental errors himself. Sleeping with a fellow officer’s wife had been criminally stupid, and it had damned near got him killed. He would have died if Will and Randall hadn’t made extraordinary efforts to save him. “Tell me more about the conspiracy. Who is involved, and who is their French connection? Surely not Napoleon.”

  Baptiste’s mouth twisted. “Joseph Fouché.”

  Mac sucked in his breath. The ruthless French revolutionary had been many things, most notably the commissioner of police. “Isn’t he out of power now?”

  “Yes, and he wants to regain Napoleon’s favor.”

  “By targeting the British royal family and creating the conditions for a peace treaty.” Mac whistled softly. It all made sense now. “Who are his conspirators on this side of the Channel? Surely he didn’t contact you directly.”

  Baptiste shook his head. “Lord Fendall and Rupert Swinnerton are half brothers. Their mother, Marie Therese Croizet, was sister to Fouché’s mother.”

  “Making Swinnerton and Fendall first cousins to Fouché. Perfect tools.” Mac frowned. “Didn’t you tell me once your family came from the same village as Fouché?”

  “Yes, Le Pellerin, near Nantes. He was older and I didn’t know him, but I knew his family when I was a boy.” Baptiste gave a very Gallic shrug. “That connection was the basis for my friendship with Lord Fendall. He liked hearing tales of the village, which he had visited several times as a child. I liked that we shared some history. It did not occur to me that he was not to be trusted until it was too late.”

  “I suppose they were after wealth and power.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know the details,” Baptiste said, “but great estates in France and vast wealth were promised to both of them.”

  “Did you know the Frenchman who was killed at the club?”

  “I didn’t meet the men Swinnerton brought that night. But Fouché would have insisted on having some of his men in the group to look out for his interests.”

  It sounded as if Baptiste’s involvement with the conspiracy had been minor. “The kidnappers included two Frenchmen, and also two boxers. One looked enough like me to play my corpse.”

  Baptiste blanched again. “When I came out and saw the bodies and Lord Kirkland said you’d been killed . . .”

  It sounded as if Baptiste had suffered mightily for his sins. Mac couldn’t bring himself to regret that, given the consequences of the other man’s mistake. “When you realized that there was trouble afoot, why didn’t you report it to the authorities?”

  “Who could I have spoken to without getting into even more trouble?” Baptiste asked cynically.

  “You could have talked to Kirkland.”

  “To be honest, I always thought of him as a dilettante who enjoyed having an interest in the club without having to do any real work.” Baptiste’s brow furrowed. “I underestimated him.”

  That was an understatement of massive proportions, but Baptiste really couldn’t be blamed for taking Kirkland at face value. Kirkland worked hard to appear negligible.

  “Besides,” Baptiste continued, “though I was appalled that two men had died, I didn’t know until tonight that the girl they were after was Princess Charlotte.”

  “I certainly never expected her to come to Damian’s in disguise,” Mac agreed. “Did you know that Swinnerton failed?”

  “No, Fendall didn’t say anything about that night, and I didn’t want to ask. I just wanted them to leave me alone. They did until Swinnerton said I must come down here and speak to some Frenchman who had crossed the Channel.”

  “He wanted to shock you with my presence.” Mac’s shivering wasn’t quite as bad, though he was still cold right down to his marrow.

  Baptiste gave him a level look. “Are you going to have me arrested?”

  Mac sighed. “You saved my life twice tonight, so I don’t think I should send you to be hanged.”

  Baptiste looked relieved. “I thought you would be furious.”

  “I am, but if you’re clapped into prison, who will manage the damned club?”

  The other man gasped. “You will allow me to keep my position?”

  “It’s hard to find a good manager I can trust.” Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I will be able to trust you in the future, won’t I?”

  “Oui. Yes. Always.” Baptiste drew a shuddering breath. “England has been my refuge. I would never knowingly have worked against her.”

  Mac believed that. The bait Fendall had offered would have turned most men’s heads. “In another week, I’ll either be dead for real or will be able to miraculously return to life. Go back to London and pretend nothing has happened.”

  Baptiste closed his eyes, shock and relief rippling across his face. “You are . . . generous.”

  “You made a huge error in judgment, but your betrayal was not deliberate.” And there was the small matter of Baptiste’s saving his life. “But for now, get out of my sight.”

  “I shall.” Baptiste handed him a silver flask. “Cognac. Your horse is out in the paddock. Shall I saddle it before I leave?”

  “That would be good.” Mac was glad that Baptiste had thought about transportation back to Dover, since Mac’s concentration was on keeping himself from falling apart until he was alone.

  He opened the flask and drank, allowing himself only a mouthful. The spirit burned all the way down his throat, creating at least the illusion of warmth. Feeling too tired to stand any longer, he slumped into one of the chairs beside the card table. From the cards he could see, it looked like Baptiste had been winning.

  “Is there anything I can do to stop the conspirators?” Baptiste asked.

  “Tell Rupert that I’m dead and my body is food for the fishes. Look normal so he and Fendall won’t feel the need to change their plans.” Mac took another swig of brandy and debated whether to have Baptiste deliver a message to Kirkland. No, Mac could be there almost as soon, and it would be better not to expose Kirkland’s work. “Put more coal on the fire before you leave.”

  Baptiste obeyed, the coal rattling in the scoop, then an increase in light and heat. “Merci, mon ami,” he said quietly, adding a few more words in French that Mac didn’t catch. Then the sound of footsteps leaving the cave, and Mac was blessedly alone.

  He needed to head back to London and tell Kirkland about the plot, but first he had to recover enough for the journey. Steam was rising gently from his saturated garments. Howard’s clothes were dry, except for the blood. Mac’s stomach turned at the thought of stripping the smuggler’s body.

  Telling himself the garments would be too small anyhow, he crossed his arms on the card table and rested his head on them. He’d warm up and get some rest, then off to Dover and London. . . .

  Chapter 39

  Despite Kiri’s clawing anxiety about Mackenzie, she let Will Masterson lead the way down the path to the cave. Not only was he as anxious as she was, but years as a serving officer made him well suited for going into unknown territory.

  They left their horses in the small meadow that the smugglers used for a paddock. The presence of another saddled horse suggested that there was at least one person in the hideout, maybe more.

  Will had a pistol at the ready while Kiri had her knife. The wind blew spray into their faces from the incoming tide as they covered the last stretch. Kiri’s heart pounded like a trip hammer as they entered the cave. Please, God, let Mackenzie be alive!

  Light and smoke emerged from the main cave, but no sound. Will made a hand motion for her to stay near the entrance while he moved forward. She ignored that and stayed right behind him.

  He cocked his pistol an
d held it ready as he stepped into the main chamber. The broad, powerful body that was so much like Mackenzie’s blocked her view. Limned by firelight, Will turned his head, his gaze raking the cave for possible danger.

  “Damian!” Will uncocked his pistol and slammed it into his holster as he sprinted across the cavern.

  Kiri’s heart clenched as she saw the solid figure slumped lifelessly over a table by the fire. Then Mackenzie raised his head, startled into wakefulness.

  “Will?” he said incredulously. He lurched to his feet, battered, bruised, and bloody. He looked like a very large, handsome drowned rat. But unmistakably alive.

  Will grabbed his brother in a crushing bear hug. “You have got to stop getting yourself into these situations!”

  “Damn, Will.” Mackenzie returned the bear hug. “It’s good to have a big brother to rescue me.”

  “Doesn’t look like you needed much rescuing.”

  Kiri followed Will’s gaze and saw a crumpled body on the floor. Apparently she and Will had been right to be worried.

  Mackenzie grimaced. “Not my handiwork. How the devil did you find me?”

  “She brought me here.” Will nodded toward Kiri, who had stayed by the entrance during the brothers’ reunion.

  Mackenzie pivoted and stared at her as if she were an angel descended from on high. “Kiri?” he said huskily. “Is that really you or am I still dreaming?”

  “In person.” Half a dozen steps brought her into his arms and absurdly close to tears. “I told you that you shouldn’t come down here alone!”

  He was soaking wet and deathly cold, but still strong enough to embrace her so tightly that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men would have trouble separating them. “It was a near run thing, Kiri. I . . . I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  Thinking they should not expose themselves so thoroughly to Will, Kiri managed to step away. As she did, she got a clearer view of the body. “Howard!” she said with revulsion. “Did he attack you because you helped me escape?”

  “That was part of the reason he forged Hawk’s handwriting to get me down here, but he was also being paid by the conspirators,” Mackenzie said wearily. “Give me a moment to get my thoughts clear and I’ll give you the whole story.”