He glanced from one to the other, considering whether he should shake them off. He could do it, but it would likely just be postponing the inevitable. And he’d hate to wake up Clark, just for something like this.
The man who’d spoken pushed through to step in front of Griffith, his face blanching as he looked up. “You’re Captain Davies?”
Griffith bowed, at least as much as he was able to, given that his arms were being held. “At your service. What’s this about?”
“You’re being arrested by the authority of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. If you’ll come with me?”
“As though I have a choice,” Griffith muttered. His improper procedure must have drawn the ire of Her Majesty’s Navy. He’d like to have a word with Her Majesty even more. It was unfortunate the queen wasn’t waltzing into disreputable pubs brandishing hat pins.
He glanced toward the lady who had done just that, nodding in her direction. “We’ll have to schedule another time to speak, my lady. As you can see, I am somewhat busy at the moment.” He winked as she glanced from him to the officers and back again, a frustrated expression on her face.
“Damn it,” Della fumed as she watched the police escort the gentleman away. She didn’t doubt but that he could overcome the policemen—he was certainly muscular enough, and she’d sensed his confidence when he’d stood up for her at the pub. Not that he’d rescued her, she hastily amended; he had merely hastened the inevitable conclusion. She had been doing fine by herself. Reminded, she tucked her hat pin back into her pocket, but kept her hand on it in case she needed it.
As she watched the group recede from her view, a part of her wished he would do something to escape. It would certainly be exciting to watch.
The most aggravating part was that he was the person she was hunting for: Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury, the mysterious nobleman who had turned his back on his aristocratic family and gone to sea. It wasn’t his viscountcy she was after; no proper aristocrat would deign to speak to her anyway because of her scandal.
And she was grateful for that, she assured herself.
It was that he was the captain of record for the ship her friend Sarah’s husband had been aboard before going missing. He was the only lead they had on where to find Mr. Wattings. And unlike Della, Sarah actually loved her husband, the father of her child.
Della was just relieved that the father of her child had not married her despite his promises, and that he had run away when the couple had run out of money. She would never be swayed by a charming blackguard again. She’d long ago resolved never to get involved, much less married, to anyone again. There was too much risk.
Besides, she didn’t lack for family and companionship—Sarah and Della’s sisters, whom she’d been reunited with in London after running away to a tiny town called Haltwhistle. Her sister Ida had come to fetch her, and Della had agreed to return, even though Society was certain to blackball her on account of Nora, her illegitimate child.
Haltwhistle was also where she’d met Sarah and her daughter, Emily. Her family, even though they weren’t related by blood. Sarah also knew just what it felt like to be on her own with a small child.
Sarah had rescued Della when she’d been at her lowest—no money, no food, and holding Nora, who was six months old and crying constantly, in her arms.
Della had never doubted her ability to survive, but in Haltwhistle, abandoned by Mr. Baxter, she’d begun to feel hopeless.
Until Sarah had given her food and a warm place to sleep. Eventually, Della had shared her story, while Sarah had shared hers.
They’d forged a bond of motherhood, lost love, and a determination to thrive, despite their birth families. Della would do anything for Sarah, and her friend would do anything for her.
So, if Della could possibly find a way to return Mr. Wattings to his wife, she would. And if it meant she had to storm the Navy Police headquarters to speak with Captain Enormous, she would do that also.
She just needed more than a hat pin.
“Sarah!” Della called as she burst into the hallway of the small but serviceable London house she shared with her friend, their daughters, and the assortment of people and animal rescues Della and Sarah had already acquired in their short time back in the city Della had grown up in.
The house wasn’t close to the luxury she’d been accustomed to when she had lived with her parents, but it had the distinct advantage of not housing either the duke or duchess. Neither of whom wanted to see her. Perhaps the only thing they had in common now.
The house—purchased with help from Della’s brothers-in-law, all of whom were besotted with her sisters—was comfortable, from the mismatched chairs in the dining room to the worn rug in the hallway. Neither she nor Sarah had to worry that their daughters would ruin the furniture by playing. The furniture was already well used, and it made for an altogether more relaxing abode.
It wasn’t in the most fashionable area of town, of course, but it was convenient to the shops and wherever else the ladies chose to walk. Their neighbors were friendly, but busy, and none of them had raised an eyebrow at seeing the variety of occupants.
That was definitely a refreshing change from what she and Sarah would have expected if they lived in a more fashionable area. Della because of her reputation, and Sarah because of the color of her skin.
Della ran into the dining room, narrowly avoiding a few pairs of discarded shoes, carrying the morning paper. Sarah was seated at the long wooden table, a piece of toast on a plate beside her.
“What is it that has you in such a state?” her friend asked, raising a dark brow. “You bolted as soon as the paper arrived.”
Della went to the other side of the table where Sarah sat, laying the paper in front of her and pointing at the news item.
“That’s the name of your husband’s captain. It isn’t the same ship, of course”—that one capsized, with most of the crew still unaccounted for, not that she needed to remind Sarah of that—“but the captain is here. In town.” She didn’t tell Sarah just how impossibly large and handsome he was.
That was not pertinent to the story.
Della put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s never been so close, he certainly hasn’t answered all those letters we’ve sent. This is the best opportunity we might ever have to being able to find out for certain.” She took a breath. “In fact, I went and found this Griffin person, though I didn’t get a chance to ask him about Mr. Wattings’s whereabouts.”
“Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury,” Sarah corrected in a soft, faltering voice as she stared down at the paper.
“Viscount Whateverhisnameis,” Della said firmly. Captain Enormous. “The point is I saw him. And I’ll do whatever it takes to speak with him, to find out what happened to Henry.”
When she was able to talk her way past the Navy Police desk officer. And persuade the rakish captain to hold off on flirting so he could actually assist her.
Only a minor impediment.
“Della,” Sarah began, her voice even softer. She stared up at Della, her eyes wide. “I’d nearly given up hope. If you can find out what happened, that would be . . .” she continued, her gaze unfocused, and then she swayed in her chair and slumped to the side, avoiding falling completely out of her chair because of Della’s hand on her shoulder.
Of course Della should have anticipated that Sarah would be overwhelmed by the shock.
She took Sarah’s deadweight into her arms, gently sliding her onto the carpet. It had happened before, so it wasn’t a complete surprise, but Della felt her heart thudding in her chest. If anything were to happen to Sarah . . .
“Damn it, Della,” she said to herself, “you are far too abrupt.” Not many people were as resilient as Della was, a fact she frequently forgot.
She settled Sarah on the floor, then rang the bell on the table before plucking Sarah’s napkin from the floor and fanning her friend with it.
“You rang, my lady?” Mrs. Borens said a few minute
s later as she entered the room. “Oh my lord, Mrs. Wattings,” she said, bustling over to kneel at Sarah’s feet.
Sarah uttered a moan, and Della leaned into her friend’s face, watching anxiously as Sarah’s eyes fluttered open.
“Sarah? Are you all right?” Della asked. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast it felt as though it might just emerge from her chest. “I didn’t mean to upset you with the news, I just—” She shook her head. “I just got excited.”
“You always do,” Sarah replied with a slight tilt to her mouth.
Della exhaled and leaned back on her heels, relief coursing through her at her friend’s familiar joking tone. Mrs. Borens patted Sarah’s ankle, took the napkin from Della’s hand, and folded it instinctively.
“It will be too upsetting for you to come with me. But I need to go right away. I need to speak with the viscount,” Della said, pushing Sarah’s soft hair away from her face. “You can stay here; the girls will be downstairs soon anyway.”
Sarah nodded. “Thank you.” She made a vague gesture in the air. “For everything. I had given up reading the papers, it was too hard to be disappointed every day.”
Della felt her throat close at her friend’s sad tone. Dear Lord, she hoped this captain-viscount person would have something to tell her.
She took Sarah’s hand and squeezed it, meeting Sarah’s gaze. Her friend smiled weakly at her.
“Do you want to get up?” Della asked.
Sarah considered the question. “I think I’d like to stay down here for a bit.”
Della nodded. “You do that.” She looked up at Mrs. Borens. “Can you stay with Mrs. Wattings as she rests?” She looked back at Sarah. “Do you want tea?”
“That is all you British people can think about,” Sarah replied. “It is not as though tea is the cure to everything.”
“But it is,” Della said with a smile. “And besides, you were born here too.”
Sarah raised her hand toward Della.
“You want to get up so soon?” Della asked.
Sarah wrinkled her nose. “The carpet must have belonged to a family with a dog.”
Another reminder that Della was no longer living with her parents—a duke’s rug would be beaten regularly, and even if the duke had owned one hundred dogs, they would not have been allowed to do something so vulgar as to make it clear they were in residence.
This covering, however, they’d found on one of their foraging trips when they’d first arrived. Della couldn’t bear waste, whether it was worn rugs or people or animals whose families had decided they were unwanted.
Della took Sarah’s outstretched hand, helping her friend to rise. She wrapped her arm around Sarah’s waist, then sat her back down in her chair.
“Tea?” Della asked again, patting Sarah on the shoulder.
She grinned at Sarah’s eye roll.
“I was born here, as you remind me several times a day,” Sarah said, sounding more like her usual self, “but I wasn’t raised on tea. But we can’t get good coffee.”
Sarah’s parents had come from the West Indies before Sarah was born, but according to Sarah, her parents had maintained their West Indian traditions at home, even though all their children were British-born.
They’d grown up working on and around coffee plantations, and therefore tea was apparently not allowed in their household. They’d arrived in London to improve their situation, and now Sarah’s father was the owner of an import company that did a respectable business bringing goods, including coffee, in from the Caribbean. But since Sarah’s parents were speaking to Sarah as little as Della’s parents were speaking to Della, there was no possibility of obtaining coffee.
Like Della, Sarah had found an unsuitable man to fall in love with. Unlike Della, she had married him, at which time her family had disowned her.
Della nodded. “Fair point. I’m delighted that you are feeling well enough to argue national beverages with me. Stay here with the girls, and I will go hunt down the griffin viscount and see what he might know about Mr. Wattings.”
“Thank you,” Sarah replied. She stretched her hand out to touch Della’s arm. “Thank you,” she repeated in a more emotional tone.
Della’s throat tightened, and she nodded and rose, smoothing her skirts. She paused at the door, looking back at Sarah, who was watching her go. A pang of hope skewered her heart, and she felt her chest constrict. If she could discover Mr. Wattings’s fate—no matter what it was—Sarah would rest easier. Her friend had suffered so much from not knowing what had happened to her beloved husband. And Della, even though she was a scandalous disgrace, was still a duke’s daughter who could get answers where a woman of Caribbean descent, like Sarah, could not.
She just had to be able to ask questions.
Chapter 2
“I know he is here. I demand you bring him out and release him.”
Griffith opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the ceiling of his cell as he figured out where he was.
Swirls of dirt above him, a small filthy window too high for anybody who wasn’t Griffith’s size to see through, and marks on the wall.
Right. Naval prison, with charges still to be specified. He wondered if Clark had woken up and wondered where he’d gone. Or just assumed he’d wandered off in search of other pleasures to be found on land.
“He is the Viscount Stanbury. You cannot hold him.”
Griffith frowned, swinging his legs over to the floor as he sat up on the bed. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, but that could be because he’d been sleeping in a hammock recently. Other ship captains demanded the captain’s berth—hence its name after all—but some of the men had come down with dysentery, and Griffith had insisted the sickest one rest in his cabin.
“Viscount what?” a disgruntled voice replied. “He didn’t mention any of that when we brought him in last night. Are you sure it’s the same one?”
“Captain Griffith Davies, correct?” the first voice said.
“Yes,” the other man replied slowly. “But wouldn’t a nob mention he was a nob when we arrested him?”
“Not this nob,” the voice replied in a rueful tone. Griffith began to reflexively smile as he recognized who was speaking. Of course it was Robson—the son of the Duke of Northam’s steward, he was always the most serious of the Three Musketeers, as Griffith, his cousin Frederick, and Robson called themselves.
And since Griffith was by far the most adventurous of the musketeers, Robson was frequently called upon to talk him out of a difficult situation.
That was close to fifteen years ago. And Robson was still talking Griffith out of a difficult situation.
Some things never changed.
Although Griffith had; he frowned as he considered why the hell Robson was here. He would not return to that life, even if Robson tried to use his skills of persuasion on him. The queen herself might want him to resume being a lord of no fixed purpose, but he’d be damned if he’d ever agree to that. Not until he was the absolute last person that could be called upon. And even then he would have to weigh his own future happiness with what his lineage demanded.
“Griff, where the hell are you?”
Griffith rose, feeling his muscles complaining about having been in the same position all night. Neither they nor he were accustomed to this much stillness. “Down here, Robson.” He spoke in a weary, apprehensive tone. He really did not want to have to go against his old friend, especially if said friend was rescuing him from jail, but he would if it meant Robson would try to prevent him from returning to sea.
Griffith heard quick footsteps, then froze when he saw Robson’s face. He hadn’t spared a thought for Robson, nor anyone he’d left behind, since he’d gone. Likely because it hurt too much to think about who he was missing. But when he saw his friend’s familiar face?
All the feelings came rushing back, and he felt as though he’d been punched.
“What the hell are you doing here, Griff?” Robson turned to address the officer wh
o’d scurried after him. “Release this man at once, he is required by the Duke of Northam.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Griffith echoed, his tone belligerent. He had no desire to see the duke, his father’s brother, certainly not after all this time. That would feel more like a punch to the heart, given how little love they had for one another. He glanced around the cell. “I might rather stay here,” Griffith said, “given the alternative. Why are you here for him?” he asked, feeling the sharp slice of betrayal cutting through him. Robson knew how he felt about his uncle, about his whole family except for Frederick. Had his old friend changed so much?
Well, if he had, he’d soon discover so had Griffith. For one thing, he was a lot bigger. And a lot more muscular.
“We don’t have time for that,” Robson replied. He turned to address the officer. “Get him out now.” The man hesitated, looking from Robson to Griffith and back again. “Now,” he repeated, “or I shall be forced to report you to the authorities.”
“They are the authorities,” Griffith pointed out.
“The Duke of Northam wants him. Now,” Robson said, gesturing to the door. Griffith’s jaw was clamped so hard his teeth hurt.
The officer unlocked the cell and swung the door wide to allow Griffith to exit. He stepped into the hallway, ducking to avoid getting slammed on the head by the metal of the bars.
“Well,” Robson said, looking Griffith up and down, “it has been a long time, Griff.”
Robson’s widow’s peak was more pronounced than before, but otherwise he looked nearly the same. He wore respectable, if somber, clothing. He was carrying a satchel that bulged out on the sides, so there must have been a lot of papers in there.
Robson was always studious, a good thing since his father was an ambitious man who wanted more for his son. It appeared that Robson had achieved it. Although retrieving errant black sheep lords from naval jail cells must be one of the lower levels of tasks he was asked to perform.
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