Never Trust a Pirate

by Anne Stuart

  She shook her head, rising and taking her plate into the scullery to wash it. Far be it from her to add to her fellow servants’ duties. The sun was almost up, she could hear the faint stirrings above stairs, and her stomach knotted.

  Not Luca, she reminded herself. He had disappeared again—it was simply the new servants. She wasn’t quite ready to face anyone, though she wasn’t sure why, and she quickly slipped back into her rooms, closing the door just as the first footsteps reached the kitchen.

  She leaned her forehead against the panel, listening to the cheerful voices. This wasn’t her life. Neither was cozying up to the captain, chatting with him about his books. She didn’t really belong anywhere. Finding the proof about her father wouldn’t fix everything. Even if she managed to get his name cleared and the money back, the hint of scandal would always attach to their name. The House of Russell was no more, and assuming they all married, even their name itself would disappear. Probably just as well, but it would have broken her father’s heart. He’d almost convinced Tarkington to change his name to Russell, just to keep the name alive. And instead the bastard had deflowered her and run off to South America, leaving her brokenhearted.

  Or close enough to brokenhearted that it didn’t matter.

  She wasn’t going to think about that. In fact, she hadn’t thought about it in days. And when she did, there was no lingering pain—just a righteous anger that was deliciously liberating. She was over it. She was free.

  At least, if she could talk herself out of her ridiculous fascination with the captain. Blast him. And blast her, for being such a cotton-headed romantic, that his gypsy beauty and his dark eyes set off ridiculous longings inside her. She was a practical woman, and she had no proof he wasn’t a villain. She had to remember that.

  She would use her time wisely while he was gone. If she were lucky, she’d find what she needed before he returned, and never have to see him again. Never have to risk temptation.

  The door to the library was no longer locked—in fact, now that warmer weather was upon them the door was wide open a few hours later when Maddy wandered by with a deliberately casual air. No one was there to see her, so her affected languor was unnecessary. The two new maids had scoured everything Maddy hadn’t gotten to, but in fact Mrs. Crozier had worked Maddy so hard that there wasn’t much left to work on. Apparently even the formerly sacrosanct library had been put in order.

  She slipped inside, then hesitated. If she closed the door then there was no risk of anyone seeing her as they passed by on their various duties. If she closed it, though, it might rouse curiosity. The day was sunny, though the sky over the harbor was hazy, and a light wind was stirring the trees. On impulse she closed the door, turning the key in the lock. If anyone tried to get in she would explain she’d been looking for a book to read, and the door had locked by accident. It was a thin enough excuse, but at least for now there was no one on the premises who would suspect her of anything. Just to make sure she had her excuse in hand, she went straight for the first section of bookshelves.

  And was promptly lost. He had everything—the latest Charles Dickens serials now bound in volumes, older books by Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. George Eliot and William Thackeray were there, as well as whole shelves of what looked like novels in French, Italian, and Spanish. Even odder, the books looked as if they’d been read fairly recently—their placement on the shelves slightly uneven. Did the captain really speak and read those languages? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  Hadn’t he said something about the long voyages? Perhaps that’s when he learned the other languages as well. She plucked a slim volume of one of her favorite French writers and tucked it under her arm before moving on to the next set of shelves.

  Good Lord, the man had books on everything! Geology, history, maps and sea charts, plant characteristics and gardening tomes, astronomy and mathematics, and some sciences that Maddy, who had always preferred novels, had never even heard of. The idea of the fascinating, dangerous captain being a reader of such complicated and arcane subjects made him even more mysterious. And even more compelling.

  On impulse she pulled out a book on trade routes in South America—she knew a bit about them already, having been at her father’s side, but she’d only heard his views. An expert opinion on them might be fascinating.

  Putting the books down, she turned to the desk. The sheaves of rain-splattered papers had disappeared, but they didn’t matter—she’d read every one of them while she’d endeavored to save them. She half expected the drawers of his desk to be locked, but they slid open easily enough, revealing any number of fascinating things, including a small gun that was clearly loaded. Who did he think was going to accost him in his library, for heaven’s sake? What kind of enemies did he have, and why?

  Three hours later she was hot, sweaty, and dusty—the new staff hadn’t been as thorough as downtrodden Mary Greaves had been—and she had absolutely nothing to show for it but the two books. No mysterious communications—the letters she found written by her father were reasonable and even vaguely affectionate, and she remembered that the man calling himself Thomas Morgan had always been her father’s favorite among his captains. He once explained he liked the man’s sheer effrontery, a pirate, someone with gypsy blood, living as a prosperous seafarer. She should have realized that the man he was talking about was no ancient salt but a far younger man.

  His affection for the captain had made the possibility of his betrayal all the more heinous. What exactly had the note said?

  Don’t trust any of them. Someone’s stealing money, and it looks like Kilmartyn’s in league with them, no matter what excuses he makes. Don’t trust Morgan either. Never trust a pirate. Something’s going on, and I’ll get to the bottom of it, or…

  If only they knew what in heaven’s name he meant. Couldn’t he have written something a little more detailed? Like names, dates, reasons? Dealing with a scrap of paper and a half-finished, almost illegible note was almost worse than nothing. If there’d been no clue to their father’s innocence they might have accepted the inevitable.

  No, they wouldn’t. They were Russells, in the end, and they wouldn’t allow their father to be calumnized without proof.

  Could Luca have done it? Could he have somehow managed to embezzle half the assets of Russell Shipping and then arranged for her father’s murder? The longer she stayed here the less she thought it possible, but maybe she was being blinded by her attraction to him. She needed to pull back, view all this with an impartial eye, or she’d never find the truth.

  There was nothing, nothing in the library to give her any kind of hint. Where else would he keep papers? Up in the locked closet? Might he have an office down by the docks—that was a reasonable supposition, and a good place to hide anything. Or even the less-than-forthcoming Fulton might hold some secrets that he hadn’t mentioned.

  She sat at the desk, frustrated. On impulse she pulled a piece of paper and wrote a note with her exquisite hand, one that her Swiss instructors had insisted upon before she was deemed ready to make her debut in the world. She couldn’t exactly summon Fulton, but she could ask him a question about Luca and his acquisition of the ships and hope he found a way to see her, or at least answer her. Not that it mattered. In the end the captain had figured out a way to take possession of the Maddy Rose, her ship, without her agreeing to it. Fulton had said it was pro forma, and apparently he was right. And the very thought infuriated her.

  What right did he have to the Maddy Rose? He’d taken everything else—the cream of her father’s steamers, possibly his reputation, and his life. Not to mention casting some kind of romantic spell over his stupid, vulnerable daughter and making her a total nitwit.

  Not that she’d ever thought of herself as vulnerable. Nor had she thought herself a nitwit, until now. She ripped up the note and pushed away from the desk. She went over to drop it in the fireplace and paused, admiring the neatly swept hearth. She doubted if she’d take a clean surface for gr
anted ever again, not since her own intimate acquaintance with scrubbing everything in this house.

  Instead she shoved the wadded up pieces of paper in one pocket, went over, and unlocked the door.

  The halls were silent. It was early afternoon—usually a quiet time in any household, once the morning duties were finished. The borrowed servants were probably downstairs in the kitchen, having tea or helping Polly with dinner. The only reason she’d need help would be if the captain was due home tonight, and the last thing Maddy wanted was to run into him without fair warning. She’d better ask, in case she wanted to disappear.

  The kitchen was empty. Very odd—the stove wasn’t even warm. Polly hadn’t said anything to her that morning about going out, but perhaps she’d needed some last minute ingredient. Or more likely Gwendolyn had called everyone home in a fit of pique.

  She headed up the narrow, winding stairs, all the way to the attics, calling out when she reached the bottom of the stairs. There was no answer.

  She could only hope there were no bats as well. She climbed up the final flight of stairs into the shadowy depths of the attic, only slightly out of breath from her rapid ascent, to find the place deserted as well. The bedroom doors on either side were open, and each now held a row of narrow beds and small dressers. The front space, where she’d sat and waited for Luca just a few short days ago, had been transformed, with a couple of desks, a loveseat, and several chairs. The rest of the broken furniture had disappeared, along with the ripped mattresses and bits of trash.

  There were only two questions left. Were the bats still in residence, and was the back closet still locked?

  It appeared the bats were gone. There were no ominous shapes in the corners of the room, at least, as far as she could tell in the dim light. And the closet door at the end of the hallway still boasted a heavy chain and lock.

  She sank to her knees in front of it, pulling a steel hairpin from her tightly coiled hair. It would probably all come tumbling down, she thought ruefully as she stared at the lock, but it would be easy enough to fix, and there would be no one to see her with her hair halfway down her back, in particular the captain. Even the servants were oddly absent, and she should be able to get back to her room and fix her hair before anyone noticed.

  It wasn’t the first lock she’d picked. Sophie had a drawer where she kept her journal, billets-doux from inappropriate suitors, and anything she happened to steal from Maddy, such as her emerald earrings or her diamond pendant, and Maddy had learned to override a simple lock, not just to retrieve her possessions, but to gain an advantage over her younger sister as well. This one was twice the size and weight of the one Sophie had used, but the function was basically the same. Grasping it in her hand, she bent the hairpin straight and set to work.

  It was a long and arduous task. Her knees and legs still hadn’t quite recovered from all that time spent scrubbing, and within moments they were aching again. Every now and then she thought she heard a sound from beyond the staircase, but she steadfastly ignored it. If anyone ascended the last flight of stairs she would hear them, and she had an excuse ready. She would claim that her valise had been stored there, and the Croziers had taken the key to the cupboard, which was more than likely true.

  But she heard no one on the stairs, and she concentrated on the metal contraption with single-minded ferocity, until finally, finally she heard the blessed click, and the bar of the lock fell free. She rose, stretched with a quiet moan, and then listened again for the sound of servants below. It was still oddly quiet, but she could only be grateful for it.

  She slipped the lock off the door, reached for the handle, and pulled it open, not quite sure what she suspected.

  The bats dove at her with shrieks of rage, and she screamed, ducking, covering her head with her arms as they exploded around her, squeaking and flapping their leathery wings, and she crouched on the floor, her eyes tightly shut, just waiting for them to disappear.

  Eventually all was silent, though she had no idea whether they’d simply perched nearby and were waiting for her to emerge from her panicked crouch so they could attack again, or whether they’d found some handy eaves to continue their somnolent daytime activities. And then she heard the sound of someone moving nearby. Not on the stairs. But on the worn wooden flooring behind her.

  It was an undignified position to be found in, but Maddy wasn’t quite ready to move. She listened to the steady footsteps, and knew it wasn’t the captain. Luca’s tread was almost silent, with a catlike grace. This was someone who weighed more and walked with a swagger. Luca didn’t need to swagger.

  “Coo,” came a cockney voice from behind her. “So here’s where he keeps the goodies.”

  She sat up at that, about to turn and face the newcomer, when she looked into the closet she’d gone to such pains to open, and she was momentarily stunned.

  Pirates had treasure—it was a given. Even a tamer privateer would have booty somewhere, though she’d assumed he’d simply sold everything. Not everything. The closet was neatly arranged, and filled with such wondrous possessions that she, unlike the man behind her back, was momentarily silenced. There were paintings with the jewellike tones of the old masters, there were gold figures that had to come from South America and were far too indecent to be seen in mixed company, presumably some kind of fertility gods. There were heavy chests, and whether they were filled with jewels, pieces of eight, or dead men’s bones she had no idea, she only knew there was enough money in this simple closet to buy and sell her father’s fleet twice over. He had no reason to kill Eustace Russell or steal his money—he had more than enough of his own.

  She rose as gracefully as she could, given that she’d been caught snooping and her hair was already coming down, prepared to face one of the new footmen with one of her ready excuses. It died on her tongue.

  “Weren’t expecting me, missy?” the stranger demanded. He was a big man, in a gaudy striped suit with rings on his thick fingers, and the coldest, emptiest eyes she’d ever seen. One of his heavy, bludgeoning hands held a ridiculously small pistol. “No one ever is.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Unfortunately her attempt at calm disdain failed utterly, and she sounded exactly like what she was—a terrified girl.

  “No need to beg anything. It won’t do you no good.” He leaned past her and opened one of the boxes. The gleam of gold and precious stones would have blinded her if she weren’t already stiff with fear. The man pulled out a handful and tucked it in the pocket of the loud suit. “I’ll come back for more after I’ve dealt with you, that is, if I can. Cap’n Morgan’s supposed to be returning today, and I wouldn’t be wanting to run into him, not if I can help it.”

  “Dealt with me?” she said. Her brain had kicked back into working order and it was racing. Her immediate thought was Mr. Brown—for some reason he’d seemed obsessed with having her travel with him to his house near Avebury. Apparently he didn’t take “no” or even “wait” for an answer. “You work for Mr. Brown, don’t you?”

  There was no amusement, no emotion whatsoever in the man’s stolid face. “I do, miss.”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, if he’s that eager to have me come to him right now then I suppose I have no choice. If you give me a moment I’ll assemble my things.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, miss,” the man said with exquisite politeness. “He don’t want to take you away from here.”

  “He don’t? Er… doesn’t?” Now was not the time to give grammar lessons, Maddy, she reminded herself. The man held a gun. “Then what does he want?”

  The man didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, but Maddy had never been one to simply accept the inevitable, particularly when this time it seemed to concern her very existence.

  She looked past him. He was big, and therefore probably slower than she was, but her legs were shaking so much she wasn’t sure she could manage her usual speed. Buck up, she snapped to herself. Just because he’s holding a gun on you and planning to kill you doesn’t me
an you should fall apart.

  “Don’t even try it, miss,” the man said, reading her mind. “I’m a good shot, and I’d splatter your brains all over the floor if you ran. You don’t want to leave that kind of mess for the other servants, now do you? Let’s do this right and tidy, just you and me. No need to make a fuss.”

  “You really think I’m willing to die without making a fuss?” she demanded, perhaps unwisely.

  “Most people do. They accept it, and I makes it as painless as possible. You annoy me and I’ll make it hurt.” And he meant it—there was no mercy in his small, soulless eyes, only practicality.

  “Fair enough,” she said after a moment. There was no way she could escape up here—he’d have a clear shot if she tried to get to the stairs. But there would be other chances as he took her down the flights of stairs, unless he was planning to toss her out the window. No, people would see her. “Where are you going to take me?” The sooner she knew what his actual plans were the sooner she could come up with an alternative.

  “Somewheres nice and quiet-like. We’ll go out the back way and there’ll be a carriage waiting for us. With luck we won’t run into anyone. You ask for help and they’re dead too. You wouldn’t want to go to your grave with that on your conscience, now would you?”

  “I’d rather not go to my grave at all,” she said frankly. “I don’t suppose you feel like telling me why you’re going to kill me?”

  He gestured toward the stairs with the gun. “Twenty pounds.”

  “What?” she almost shrieked, and at the last minute quieted her exclamation. “I’m only worth twenty pounds?”

  He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I do most for ten. I got offered more for this one because my employer don’t want any more mistakes. Come along then. My associate is waiting in the mews for us.”

  The mews, she thought. There was a good chance Mr. Quarrells might see them and rescue her.