Shrupp carried himself inside as if it were already his home. An old crone carrying a bundle of laundry hobbled down the hall from Henrietta’s room to the one barred from his use.
“What the devil is going on here?”
She tightened her hold on the bundle and glowered. “If you’ve come for your kit, I left it in the parlor.”
“She finally hired a servant. I guess you’re all she could afford.” He snorted, continuing toward the kitchen. “Where is she? Your mistress?”
“Mrs. Caldwell isn’t present,” she sneered.
Insulted, he turned to backhand the disrespect from her mouth, but was distracted by a flash of unbound black, silky hair. Abandoning the crone, he chased the woman with the black hair up the stairs to the attic.
Shrupp tried to speak. Air cut off from his lungs. A ribbon tightened around the meat of his neck with as much bite as a wire garrote.
“Forget Mrs. Caldwell.” She stood behind him, tall for a woman. Her minty breath cooled his flushed skin. His cock hardened.
Striking blindly, Shrupp caught layers of skirts, missing vital organs. Her grip on the ribbon tightened with a twist. He buckled to his knees, his vision blackened. The garrote released, and he fell forward.
She stepped around his body. A blue ribbon dangled from her one hand. His gaze traveled up to the dark eyes that mocked him. She was the woman who’d stolen his letters meant for Major Nelson.
“I’m going to kill you!” he roared, leaping from the floor with all the strength in his cavalryman’s thighs. He caught her at the waist and brought her down with a satisfying thud. Crawling up her body, his pulse drummed in his. His hands went for her throat. Pain burst a blinding bright light in his eyes, ringing in his ears, and exploding from his ballocks.
He grabbed his crotch, teetering to the floor with a groan.
“God. Damn. Fucking. Whore.”
“Wrong.” The woman shoved him away.
She kicked him in the head once, provocative and sharp. She tried again, and he grabbed her ankle, cutting her down. Her other foot shot out, pinching the tips of his fingers. He howled and tightened his grip, dragging her across the floor. Grabbing both her wrists, he pinned them above her head. “Kick me again, and I’ll fucking crush your remaining hand.”
“Do that, and I’ll blow your head off.” The hammer of a gun clicked behind him. The old crone stood in the entranceway, hands steady on a pistol.
“Aw, Mouse. I was having fun.”
“I’m sure you were. Fun’s over. We need to go.” The older woman stepped closer, aiming between his eyes. She had a coil of rope tucked under one arm. “Get up.” Gesturing with the pistol, she had him sit on the cot abandoned by the rebel.
Archibald evaluated his odds against a one-armed chit and a frail old woman. How the fuck were his odds this bad?
The old woman tossed the rope on the ground. The chit picked it up and astonishingly had no trouble binding his arms to his chest. With another coil, she tied his feet. There was no chance he’d be able to reach the knots in the middle of his back.
“You’ll pay for this.”
The chit put her face to his and blew her minty breath. “I’m not hard to find.”
Every muscle tensed to leap from the bed, drawn back by the knots tightening from his movements. He growled like a beast.
“Quit antagonizing him, An. We’re running out of time.”
Chapter 26
Lower Manhattan
Marcus found Yankel Moskowitz in the workroom at his mantua shop on Crown Street. For fifteen whole minutes, he waited while Yankel guided a new seamstress through measurements on a dress form. As if the dress form had a pressing appointment, and to make her wait would be the height of impropriety. Marcus took out his pocket watch to stare down time.
A large hand struck his shoulder and gave it a shake. “Nu? Why so impatient? I’m thinking you like this uniform a bit much.”
Marcus growled. Yes, he was wearing a bloody British uniform again, but it couldn’t be helped. “Hen is on Bedloe’s Island. I need a runner.”
The amusement faded from Yankel’s face. “What happened?”
Marcus waved his question aside. “Later. Mouse is safe. I need—”
“A runner.” The older man was already placing his hat on his head.
Having grown up on the desperate streets of the southernmost tip of Manhattan, Yankel knew the area bordered by Trinity Church and King’s College, known ironically as the Holy Ground for its profusion of bawdy houses, gambling, and cheap gin. They cut through an alley and came upon a gang of ragged boys no older than twelve or thirteen. The tallest grappled with a smaller boy while the others took turns punching him on various parts of his body.
The one stationed as lookout shouted, “Moskowitz!” and they took off, scattering over fences and under rails.
“Know those boys, do you?”
They’d stopped in front of an unassuming house. A gin shop operated on one side and a gaming den on the other.
“I was those boys.” Yankel opened the door, allowing Marcus to enter first.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, Marcus inhaled the heavy scent of exotic perfume overlaying a funk of stale tobacco smoke. Three young women sat at a green baize-covered card table drinking coffee in their dressing gowns. It was late afternoon. As Yankel approached, their dull faces transformed with artificial smiles. The one with black hair fashioned with a twist atop her head stood, casting him a knowing gaze.
“We ain’t open, old daddy.” Her voice was sweet, meant to allure.
Ah, a bawdy house. Marcus should have guessed.
Yankel took off his hat and spoke abruptly. “Where’s Apollo?”
“Sit down, Kitty,” one of the women muttered in warning, her smile long gone.
The woman ignored her and responded with an eye-roll. “We ain’t that kind of house, mister.” Her gaze flittered between Marcus and Yankel. “But if you come back later—”
“Kitty, Mr. Moskowitz wishes to speak with Apollo.”
The color drained from her face. She took a step back. “I apologize. I didn’t recognize you, sir.”
“Bring me the boy, and we’ll call it even.” Yankel’s voice was noticeably milder with a lilt of amusement, suggesting he was neither offended nor affronted. The three women left them their privacy.
A minute later, a boy emerged from behind a shimmering silk curtain. He had a small slope of a nose and pouty lips. Marcus recognized him from Asher’s last drawing of the boy at the harbor. He flung himself into Yankel’s arms, talking as fast as a dozen horses about a magnifying lens and all the things he saw with it.
Yankel set Apollo down and ruffled his blond hair. “If you aren’t too busy with your experiments today, perhaps you’d like to do me and my friend a favor?”
Apollo arched a skeptical brow and pointed a filthy finger at Marcus. “He’s a friend? But he’s a bung-buggering, cock-sucking British bastard.”
Yankel threw back his head and laughed, amused by the profusion of colorful language. “No, he’s not. And he’s willing to pay.”
“Top coin.” Marcus tapped his cane to underscore his promise. “What’s your going rate for prison breaks?”
The lad’s eyes grew large. “You won’t tell Mam, will you?” he asked Yankel.
Yankel set his hand on Apollo’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of your mother. She’ll not need to work for a good long time.”
~ ~ ~
Marcus and Apollo set out for Bedloe’s Island in a jolly that once served aboard the Valiant but found better uses along the inlets of the East River. While rowing the mile and a half, Marcus crafted a plan. Sort of. He knew they wouldn’t hold her at the hospital prison and that Colonel Caldwell was behind this, therefore
she had to be at the War Office. Getting her out was the only hole in his plan.
“Gather as much hay as you can from the barn and don’t get caught.”
Apollo heaved his oar through the water. “I never get caught.”
“See that you don’t. This is the second prison break involving me on Bedloe’s. I wish to not do it a third time.”
“Sounds like you ain’t good at it.” Apollo wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He was strong for being no bigger than a pottle.
“I’m shit at it. That’s why Mr. Moskowitz asked for you.”
That earned him a wide grin and a renewed vigor in rowing.
As they drew close to the island, Marcus moved to the front of the jolly and had Apollo row him to the dock, as if he were the nob he dressed as.
A soldier helped Apollo tie the boat to the dock. Marcus hobbled to the War Office. By the time he arrived, his ankle had swelled to fill the leather shaft of his boot. Between the throbbing and sweating, surliness overtook his mood. If Henrietta were at all harmed, even a little upset, he’d take pleasure in dismantling Colonel Caldwell and deal with the repercussions another day.
“Captain! You’ve returned. What news?”
A white-wigged soldier caught up to him and pounded him on the back with a grin reminiscent of Sissy’s. Marcus didn’t recognize him. Dressed in a redcoat and wig, Marcus could have been anyone, and apparently, he was someone special.
“No news yet. Mighty good to see you.” He nodded and limped inside the sprawling house. Heads turned as he entered, his cane thumping against the wood plank floor. Two clerks sat at desks facing each other, a soldier rushed through a set of doors carrying sheaves of paper, another held a stack of ledgers, and beside the desks, a sleepy boy wove splits into a basket.
Another white-wigged soldier who’d come through the door popped up in front of him. Was his cane not visible? It wasn’t easy to stop mid-gait. “What battle, good sir?” the soldier asked excitedly.
“Uh.” Concord came to mind, for whatever ludicrous reason. But he couldn’t remember if the British or locals pronounced it Con-CORD or CON-kerd and didn’t want to reveal himself as a counterfeit so soon. “Bunker Hill.”
The soldier hung his head. “Tough battle. Glad ye came through.”
“We all do our part.” Which was true. While Boston was under siege, he was part of the back-channels funneling food into the city.
“Captain!” Another soldier saluted him. He saluted back.
Marcus scratched a finger under his wig. The horsehair was itchy, and the powder was sifting into his eyes. He supposed it wasn’t too out of the question for everyone to confuse him with someone else. To him, they all looked the same.
“Sorry to rush this reunion, men. I’m in a hurry to find Colonel Caldwell.” He waved a letter he took from his pocket to prove his importance.
“Right this way.” The soldier led him up the stairs.
Marcus gripped the mahogany banister and began the arduous climb to the landing where it turned ninety degrees and kept going. Sweat poured down his back and brow. “What floor?”
“Third.” He glanced at Marcus’s cane.
Marcus groaned. Of course, it couldn’t be the first or second floor. That would be too easy on all accounts.
“Might be a while. If you tell me where, I’d be pleased to make my way at my own pace.” He tilted his cane to illustrate.
“Certainly. Third floor, make a right. Second room on the left.”
As Marcus climbed, the slowest hostile advance ever staged, he had no idea what might await him at the top. He was no hero. By the time he made it to the third floor, he’d be completely drenched in sweat, dreaming of hacking off his own leg with a shingle froe, and likely killed, or at least arrested. Maybe not killed. That might be excessive and ungentlemanly, as he was dressed as an officer.
Finally, the third floor.
It was obvious which room was Caldwell’s. There was a guard stationed before it.
“Bet you’re glad to see me,” Marcus bellowed from the distance of the stairwell. The guard startled awake. Christ, he was drunk. “I’m here to relieve you. Find yourself refreshment.”
Bleary eyes peeked out at him. “Aye, sir.” He stumbled away.
Once the hallway was clear, Marcus pressed an ear to the door. Nothing. He gulped air as if he were about to dive underwater and forced the door open.
Henrietta’s angry face flashed before him. She held a chair above her head. Then sharp pain crowned him, and he was on the floor. Shards of wood skewered his wool coat. His wig lay a foot away like a squirrel hit by a speeding carriage.
Someone shrieked. Marcus prided himself that it wasn’t him.
“What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?”
“I came for you. You know? You spring me from gaol, I spring you? We’re a team.” He held his breath. If she wasn’t pleased to see him, he’d keep holding it until he passed out. Or died. She had to be pleased to see him because at this minute, his heart was leaping from his chest, trying to make its way to her, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.
“Marcus.” Her arms came around him, cradling his shoulders and head, smothering him in her bosom. He still couldn’t draw breath, but this he didn’t mind.
She stroked his hair from his sweaty forehead.
“Sorry to say, but you might need to carry me out. I meant this to be your rescue, not mine.”
Hearing this didn’t please her. She released him. Losing the warmth of her breasts against his cheek felt especially cold. “Help me up, and we’ll call it even.”
Standing unsteadily, his vision doubled and shifted, as if the room was built of words instead of objects. Henrietta handed him his wig. He took it, studied it a moment, and tossed it out the window. The door opened before he retrieved his cane. Caldwell entered, followed by another man. The other man was not a soldier. He wore a black frock with two white strips of cloth at the neck. Under one arm, he held a leather folio embossed with a cross. His expression was priestly grim.
Marcus went with the element of surprise and turned to the Colonel. “I was hoping to run into you. There are a few things I wish to discuss.”
Outside noises drifted in through the window during the moment of confused silence. A horse neighed, someone sneezed, and the casement windows squeaked with the breeze.
“What the devil are you’re doing here?” Caldwell thundered. The priest winced.
Henrietta’s hands fisted at her sides. “I’m not marrying him. I’m not marrying anyone!”
Marcus was, hand to his shiny gorget, affronted. “You told me no, and I accepted your answer.” How hard had the chair hit him? How was he missing a portion of the conversation, the part where he was forcing her into marriage and conjuring priests?
“Not you,” she snarled. “Shrupp.”
If ever there was an indelicate way to say his name, she’d given it her all.
Marcus rubbed a sore spot over his brow. “Ugh. If you don’t marry me, I beg you not to marry him.” In case he’d missed something vital, Marcus did a quick search of the room. “As for potential grooms, I’m at least present.” It had been a week since he’d last seen Shrupp.
Caldwell sat down at his desk. He held out his hand to offer a chair to the priest before noticing the splintered mess on the floor where it should have been. “She’s not being offered the choice.”
The priest placed the folio on the desk, rifling through a stack of papers, trying to make like a holy ghost and failing miserably.
“If I’m not mistaken, Henrietta is a widow of your nephew. I don’t see how the choice is yours. You are not blood kin.”
Colonel Caldwell stood and pressed his fingertips to the table, pitching forward
threateningly. “Try me. Reverend, the special license, if you please? We’ll have this wrapped up by the time the groom arrives.”
“I do not agree to this,” Henrietta said through clenched teeth.
Marcus chewed on his lip, trying to make sense of this new development, taken with everything else he knew. Was this about her helping him and Asher escape prison, or rumors, however true, of him compromising her? Clearly, he was a terrible influence on Henrietta.
If Dr. Nealy spread gossip, it might embarrass Caldwell, shame upon the family name and all that. But she wasn’t his blood. She was a burden, a financial responsibility. If he had maintained her home all along, repairs would have been minimal. Not that it mattered. The house, along with the rest of the town, would burn by the end of the week.
But, if this were about her helping them escape, why would Caldwell insist she marry his lackey?
“You know,” Marcus speculated, feeling his way through the muck. “I half-expected you to offer for Henrietta. Sure, Shrupp’s young and virile, but to marry Hen would be to control her. Isn’t that what you wanted? I mean, she is the least biddable woman I’ve ever known, and you strike me as the kind who prefers biddable women. And as we’ve established, Henrietta is not.”
“Are you done?” she roiled.
“Just getting started. I’m stalling for Shrupp’s arrival. This shall become infinitely more interesting with his take.”
“Marcus, please.” Henrietta radiated deep dissatisfaction with the whole of the male sex.
“She didn’t start out a pawn, did she? She was a grieving shell of a woman, and you saw an opportunity. You gave her purpose with your assignments and rewarded her in the guise of your generous hospitality. Eventually, she’d find another husband, and you wouldn’t have to pay another shilling. But that didn’t happen, and you don’t expect it to. We need not discuss why. Unimportant. Hearts were broken, gossip spread.”
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 24