“Chenier shot his bloody mouth off all over town. Imagine my surprise when I learned from a stranger at Brooks’s that my bloody protégé was going to fight a duel.”
Martín smiled at the word protégé.
“I don’t know why you have that obnoxious smirk on your face, Martín, but you’re not too big for me to thrash it off you.”
“You are not my father, Ramsay,” Martín snapped, bristling at the other man’s tone.
“No, but I’m the closest damn thing to it.” The baron leaned forward, until their faces were only inches apart. “Do you think I rescued you all those years ago and then put up with your shenanigans for more than a bloody decade just so you could throw your life away on a whim?”
“This is no whim, you stubborn, dog-headed—”
“Bull.” The word was soft, like the sound of a razor-sharp dagger being slipped from its leather sheath.
“What?” Ramsay and Martín both said at the same time.
Exley gave them a chilling smile. “Bull-headed, not dog-headed.” The marquess waved his hand. “But that is neither here nor there. As much as I would enjoy watching you two squabble and pull each other’s hair, we don’t have time.” He looked from Martín to Ramsay. “If Bouchard wins, he gets two deeds—the woman’s and his son’s. If Bouchard loses, d’Armand gets everything he has but has still agreed to tender the two deeds. Correct?” He looked at Martín.
Martín nodded.
“Now, you expressed some concern about d’Armand’s honoring his word.” Exley’s skeptical tone told Martín what he thought of the outrageous notion of a gentleman peer not honoring his word.
Again Martín nodded.
“So, to encourage his compliance you would have me offer him something that is in Ramsay’s possession.”
Martín turned to Ramsay. “He’s talking about the—”
“I know what he’s talking about, Martín,” Ramsay burst out, his tone pure acid. “Are you mad? You are going to your death and doing paperwork on your death walk.” He made an almost feral sound. “And you have a son?” Martín nodded, and Ramsay’s face creased into pleading lines. “You have a son and yet you would risk your life before you can ever get to know him? You don’t need to do this, Martín. Let me talk to the man. I will make him listen to sense. And if I cannot, I will know somebody who can. You forget—I am not without friends and influence.”
“I have not forgotten your connections, Ramsay, but this is my matter to handle. It is a matter of honor.”
“You will give up a chance to know your son on a matter of honor?”
“You do not understand! I am doing this for my son, Ramsay. D’Armand will never release him otherwise. Not as long as I’m alive.”
“We can make him, Martín! He cannot compel you or your son to leave British soil against your will—you know that. We can stop him if we just take our time and handle this correctly.” When Martín didn’t respond Hugh asked, “And what about Sarah? Are you doing this for her, too?”
Martín flinched at the sound of her name.
Ramsay saw his chance and pounced. “Does she even know about this? Have you—”
“I have written her everything she needs to know, my lord.”
“But have—”
“D’Armand has a document—something that will force the British authorities to send me back—from a New Orleans magistrate accusing me of the murder. He has probably already given the document to the authorities here. You know they will not let me go free. And you know what will happen if I go back.”
Ramsay’s mouth sagged open, and the carriage compartment became as silent as the proverbial grave.
“How did he find out?” the baron asked, his voice subdued.
“Perhaps he bribed somebody who was at Madam Sonia’s that night? Maybe even she sold him the information—you know she will do anything for money.” Martín shrugged. “What does it matter how he found out? You see now why I must do this? I must get my son to safety now, while I still can.”
“It was an accident, Martín. You and I will go to the authorities. I will tell—”
“Tell them what, my lord? You weren’t there. The only two people in that room were a wealthy, powerful marquis and an adolescent slave whore. Who do you think they will blame? Besides, the minute I set foot in that country . . .”
“Fine. But if we can learn where d’Armand got his evidence, then we can find the person and make him or her recant. If we—”
“If, if, if.” Martín shook his head. “It is time to face the truth, Ramsay. It was inevitable that someday the secret would get out.”
“‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’”
Martín and Ramsay both turned to stare at the usually laconic Marquess of Exley.
“What did you say?” Martín asked.
Exley gifted them with one of his rare smiles. “Benjamin Franklin.”
Ramsay opened his mouth to resume his nagging tirade.
“Hugh.” Martín almost never used his friend’s first name, and the word closed the big man’s mouth faster than he could have imagined. “I am honored by your friendship, truly, but this is my affair. I ask you as a friend, please let my decision stand. Please?”
Hugh’s single green eye burned, but he nodded. “Fine. It is your neck. Go ahead and shove it in the noose. I will say nothing more—to you or anyone else.” He flung himself against the back of his seat with enough violence to make the entire carriage rock.
Exley sighed. “I beg you not to wreck my carriage, Ramsay. I have only just purchased it, and it makes my wife excessively happy.” He glanced at the box Martín was holding and extended his hand. “I will have a look at those, Bouchard.”
They spent the remainder of the journey watching Exley inspect the two dueling pistols, which Martín had commissioned some years ago from a Brazilian gunsmith. He’d fired them in the past, but never for dueling. Dueling was not a pastime men like him engaged in.
The light was just breaking when they reached the appointed spot on Hampstead Heath. There was a light rain falling and the morning held a chill. They were the first to arrive, followed shortly afterward by a very crotchety doctor in a gig large enough to haul at least a half-dozen bodies.
D’Armand arrived a quarter of an hour late to make his point: he would not be punctual for a slave. His carriage had seen better days, and the crest of the d’Armands—a blending of their coronet with some type of vicious-looking bird—was so faded it was almost unrecognizable. A liveried servant hopped down and opened the door. First d’Armand and then his second exited. The servant reached into the darkened coach and handed out a third person.
“What the bloody hell is she doing here?” Ramsay demanded in a booming voice.
D’Armand looked up at the sound of the baron’s bellow, his lips twisted into a contemptuous smile.
Martín glanced at the unreadable, beautiful woman and then looked away. “Valerie told me he always has her accompany him.”
“Why, the pompous arsehole,” Ramsay muttered, loud enough for all to hear. Martín, Exley, and even the grim-visaged doctor chuckled. Laughing might be inappropriate, given the fact that Martín would soon be dead, but Ramsay’s comment managed to settle the pitching, churning sensation that had dominated his stomach for the past thirty-six hours.
D’Armand’s second approached the Marquess of Exley, and they stepped off to one side. Hugh joined them, deliberately looming over d’Armand’s man, as if to make his presence felt.
Martín turned back to where d’Armand and Valerie stood beside the open door of the carriage. The woman wore only a light cloak, and Martín couldn’t help thinking she must be cold. Not that you could tell from her face or posture, both of which were rigid and motionless in the hoary dawn light.
D’Armand opened an ornate metal box that sat on the floor of the carriage and extracted a pistol that was impressive even from Martín’s vantage point. Why had both he and Martín brought pistols?
Would they each use their own weapons? He shrugged away the thought. He knew nothing about duels, Exley would handle such matters.
Valerie stood staring at the horizon while the Frenchman saw to his firearms. When he’d finished checking the guns, he said something Martín could not hear.
The woman went to him, and they stood face-to-face for a moment before he leaned closer to say something, or perhaps to hear something.
Martín knew what would happen even before the woman’s arm snaked around d’Armand’s side, her hand reaching into the carriage. She turned to Martín as he began to run, his mouth open but no sound coming out. She smiled, the first smile he’d ever seen on her face, and it transformed her already beautiful face into something truly transcendent.
D’Armand’s body jolted in such a way that Martín knew he wasn’t the only one surprised by her sudden, almost unholy look of joy. She stepped back from the Frenchman, holding the pistol he’d just finished inspecting.
“Noooooooooo!” The word was torn from Martín’s throat, and his body moved with agonizing slowness, as though he were running through water.
The Frenchman looked at her hand and then threw back his head and laughed.
Valerie raised the gun and pulled the trigger. Without even hesitating, she stepped past his staggering body and picked up the second gun.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Martín marched up and down the deck of the Scythe looking for something or someone to criticize. He was aware of his mood—bad—but felt no compunction to do anything about it.
His eyes swept the deck, searching for his first mate, a man called Butkins. Butkins was new and highly recommended by Ramsay to fill Beauville’s place.
Not only did Martín have to adjust to a new first mate, but his second had also decamped. Daniels had taken an offer from Beauville of all people. Martín had left Oak Park in Beauville’s hands, providing the Frenchman and his new young bride with a home and an immediate position.
To repay him, Beauville had stolen Daniels to act as steward. Not that Martín had ever felt any particular attachment to Daniels, or even liked him. In fact, the man had annoyed him more often than not. But it was the principle of the matter that counted.
Martín paced and brooded about the duplicitous nature of men.
That subject naturally led him to his new, and apparently invisible, second mate. A man whose surname was, laughably, Newman.
Martín had only caught a glimpse of Newman as he’d scuttled on board at the last possible moment and darted below deck.
“Mr. Newman is, er, well, he’s very ill, Captain,” the idiot Butkins had reported when Martín had questioned him on the matter.
A sailor who got ill before his ship even left port? It could not be a coincidence. It had to be some manner of farce—most likely perpetrated by Ramsay. Yes, Martín smelled the influence of Ramsay the same way a mouse could smell cheese.
“Butkins!” His bad mood was made even worse at having to yell such a stupid name.
Feet pounded the deck behind him, and Martín turned.
“Uh, Captain Bouchard?” The shorter man slid to a halt mere inches from his face.
Martín took a step back. “Where is the elusive Mr. Newman?”
“Uh, Mr. Newman?”
“Is it your intention to begin every sentence with ‘uh’ and follow with a repetition of my own words, Butkins?”
“Uh . . . that is, no, sir.”
Martín waited.
“Mr. Newman is below deck, sir. He is . . . uh . . . not well. Or so I comprehend, sir.”
“Mr. Butkins, I am sure it is not necessary for me to point out to you that we are now well under way. At this point in the voyage, at least in my humble experience, it is customary for the second to give his captain a thorough report on trivial matters such as tonnage, cargo—things of that nature.” He smiled down at the smaller man, who wilted away from him as if Martín were a noxious gas.
“Uh . . . that is, begging your pardon, sir—”
Martín held up his hand, rather than wrapping it around the other man’s neck. “I am going to my cabin, Mr. Butkins. I want you—without speaking another word to me—to have Mr. Newman sent directly to my cabin, no matter what the condition of his health.”
Martín stormed down the stairs, stopping only to check on Gaston, whom he’d installed in the same cabin Graaf had once occupied. Martín cracked the door and waited until his eyes adjusted. The boy was fast asleep, his chest moving slowly and deeply. Martín watched for a few moments before closing the door.
His son was a very good boy, although far too quiet. He was also, understandably, torn with grief over his mother’s death. But Gaston’s reticence was not just the result of grief; it was that of a boy who’d lived his entire life balanced on the edge of a precipice. Martín knew the feeling well and could only hope Gaston would come out of his shell now that he was no longer under d’Armand’s warped influence.
Martín opened the door to his cabin and froze. A man sat slumped over his desk.
“Who the devil are you?” Martín demanded.
The figure sat upright, but did not turn.
Martín strode forward and yanked the chair around. “I said—”
The man’s hat tumbled to one side, and brown hair spilled around a pale, freckled face.
“Mon Dieu!”
“Hello, Martín.” Sarah stood and took a step toward him.
He took a step back. “Where did you come from?” he asked stupidly.
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile—an expression he’d never seen on her face before.
“I boarded the ship along with everyone else and hid until we were under way.”
“Are you mad?” He spun around. “I must turn the ship back and—”
“It’s too late, Martín.”
He turned on her. “Did you not read my letter, Sarah? I am wanted for murder!” He lowered his voice. “People might guess you are with me—your uncles, for one. As it is, I will have to take you to Lessing Hall and tolerate Ramsay’s meddling if he is to help shield you from scandal.”
“He already knows where I am. So does Daphne; so do my uncles. And yes, I read your letter. I don’t care that you are an accused murderer.”
“You don’t know what you are saying.”
She crossed her arms, but her lower lip trembled, making her brave stance a lie.
“Tell me you are glad to see me this instant or I will go directly to the crew berth and hang my hammock.”
Martín was on her in an instant. He gripped her upper arms. “You have a hammock? Tell me you have not been below with my crew.” His gut clenched at the thought of her in a roomful of randy, partially clad sailors.
“I have not been below with your crew.” She pulled away from him, her eyes blazing. “When will you realize the only man I’m interested in bunking with is you?”
Martín blinked.
She waved some crumpled sheets of paper in the air. “How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“How could you send me this letter?”
He squinted at the wadded ball of paper. “Why? What is wrong with my letter? Are there mistakes?”
She made a sound not dissimilar to that of an angry badger. “I’m not talking about the grammar, you idiot! I’m talking about the letter itself. How could you?”
“I did it for you. I told you already—I do not want your reputation to suffer.”
“I don’t care about my reputation,” she yelled back, just as loudly.
The cabin door opened a crack, and Jenkins looked through the narrow gap.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his beady eyes flickering toward Martín and just as quickly flickering away.
“What the—” Martín began.
Sarah smiled sweetly at the little man. “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, I’m fine.”
The door shut with a crisp click.
Martín swung around. “Who does he think he is? Doe
s he think you need protection from me?”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Martín.”
“But—”
“You were so worried about my reputation suffering. Didn’t you think about me? About how I would suffer without you?”
Martín opened his mouth and then closed it. And then opened it again. “You would?”
“Of course I would!” She threw the crumpled paper at him, and he caught her wrist, holding it gently.
“You would?”
“You must be the stupidest man alive.”
He opened his mouth.
“No, shut up. You’ve already had your chance. Now it’s my turn.” She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “I’m here because of you, and I’m not leaving—that is”—for the first time since entering the cabin her confidence seemed to falter—“unless you don’t want me?”
Martín groaned and cast his eyes toward the ceiling before shoving her onto the padded bench and taking the seat across from her.
“Who helped you with . . . this?” He waved his hand, unable to find the words.
“You mean this?” She ran both hands down the sides of the mannish coat she wore, the gesture emphasizing the very unmannish body beneath it. “Are you telling me you don’t recognize it?”
Martín looked away from her delectable body, which was—inexplicably—clad in the same clothes she’d worn the first day they met, and massaged his temple as if that would somehow assuage the swelling in his pants.
“Martín.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
He looked up and found her standing in front of him, her right hand at the top button on her coat. She opened the button with a practiced flick.
Moisture flooded his mouth, as if he were a starving man confronted with a banquet.
Her finger released a second button.
He swallowed. He should stop her and see to getting her off this ship. But maybe he could wait a moment and do so after she—
“I am a woman grown, Martín. Or haven’t you realized that?” She flicked another button open.
Her expression was serious, and he realized she was waiting for an answer.
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