Elizabeth Powell (22 page)

“Ordinarily I would agree with you,” she said, a trifle breathless, “but this particular portion of the docks is all but deserted. There is no one to be seen besides the rats. And if your patron is here and expecting us, why is it so dark?”

Harry glanced toward the source of the rustling, and his expression soured. “He wanted to meet me here, Amanda, for reasons he would not reveal. Considering the favor he’s going to render you, shouldn’t you give him the benefit of the doubt?”

Amanda swallowed her apprehension and wrapped her cloak around her to ward off the chill, dank air. “All right. Let’s get on with this.”

“Stay close,” Harry advised. “I know how you detest rats.”

“You needn’t remind me.” Amanda shuddered again and stepped carefully around the piles of refuse on the floor.

She followed Harry down the dim corridor, then through another, larger door and into the warehouse itself. The squawk of the door hinges ricocheted up to the ceiling and back, disturbing the pigeons roosting in the rafters. Amanda winced; they might as well announce their presence at the top of their lungs. She surveyed the place with a sinking heart. Pallid light filtered through the grimy windows on the upper floor, which did little to dispel the pervading gloom. A combination of dirt, straw, and pigeon feathers swirled around their feet as they traversed the rough wooden planking. The warehouse itself was about half full; a number of wooden crates and barrels lay stacked along the dockside wall near the loading door, and a larger group of crates occupied the center of the floor. A few bales of straw languished by the stairs leading up to the loft.

Movement caught her eye. A man sat atop one of the barrels, in the deepest shadows beneath the edge of the loft. Amanda’s eyes narrowed with concentration as she peered through the dusky air. The silhouette was not that of a naval officer—she saw no bicorne, no scarlet-lined cape, no contrast of blue jacket against white breeches. The man seemed to be a civilian, with a high-crowned beaver hat and caped greatcoat.

Harry cleared his throat. “Admiral, I brought Amanda with me. She insisted on delivering the letters herself.”

The figure rose from the barrel, dusting off his breeches. “Come closer, Lieutenant. I would like to meet this remarkable young lady.”

As they approached, the man lit a lantern and set it on the barrel. Amanda suddenly grasped the reason behind this morning’s secrecy. The moment she saw his face, her body stiffened in shock. She knew now why there were no lanterns lit when they had come in—this
man had wanted to keep her from recognizing him until the very last moment.

Rear Admiral William Locke.

The Lion of the Mediterranean.

The traitor.

Rage and loathing consumed Amanda. She spun to face Harry, her lips contorted in a snarl. “What have you done?” she spat.

Harry retreated from her anger, his hands raised in front of him. “Easy now, Amanda. No need to be at daggers drawn. Let me explain—”

“
This
is your patron?”

The young lieutenant shot an uneasy glance at Locke, his face pale. “Give the admiral a chance. He will tell you his side of the story—he’s innocent, Amanda. It’s not what you think.”

Had he been within range, Amanda would have slapped him. “What I think, Harry, is that you’re the greatest looby who ever lived! You’ve delivered me right into the enemy’s hands. I shall never forgive you for this!”

“Calm yourself, my dear Miss Tremayne,” said the admiral in a weary tone. “No histrionics are necessary, especially so early in the morning. Since you were so obliging as to accompany Lieutenant Morgan, I will make this process as easy as possible. May I see the letters?”

Amanda clutched her reticule. “No.”

Locke took a step forward; she retreated. He held a hand out to her. “Come, child, I will not harm you. I merely wish to read your father’s correspondence. Perhaps they will give me a clue as to who committed these crimes.”

Amanda stared at the hand as though it were a snake, poised and ready to strike. “Do you take me for a fool?” she demanded, incredulous.

Locke sighed, removed his hat, and set it on the barrel behind him. When he turned back to Amanda, his pale eyes were warm and full of concern. “You seem convinced of my villainy, my dear; it pains me to see you so
upset. I explained my situation to your young friend last night, and he believes me. Is there nothing I can say to convince you that I am not your enemy?”

Amanda began to shake with the force of her fury. “There is nothing you can stay to redeem yourself, sirrah. I don’t know what lies you told Harry, but they won’t work on me.”

The lines of Locke’s face softened, his expression became almost paternal. “You are overwrought, my dear. You and your family have suffered a great tragedy. Come, let me help you.”

“It won’t fadge, Admiral,” Amanda snapped. “I believe every word my father wrote. You’re a traitor to the Crown. I know what you’re capable of.”

Locke cast an amused, knowing look at Harry, as if the two of them shared a private joke. “Is she always like this?”

Harry flushed. “Yes, sir.”

A roaring began in Amanda’s ears. She stood, her breath coming in painful gasps, her reticule clutched to her like a talisman. A red haze consumed her vision, and the words came out before she could stop them. “I heard you! I head you talking with the man from the Admiralty. You’re going to intercept navy intelligence and give it to the French. You monster! Too many good men have died because of you!”

A pregnant pause settled around them.

“Amanda?” Harry’s complexion turned the color of moldy cheese. “What are you saying?”

Locke glared at Amanda, his eyes glittering like chips of crystal. “She’s saying, Mr. Morgan, that she knows too much.”

The admiral’s chilling gaze ripped the breath from Amanda’s body, and she berated herself for losing control of her temper. Oh, now she’d gotten them in the suds.

“What … what are you going to do?” She took another step backward.

“You’re not going anywhere, Miss Tremayne, until you give me those letters.” Locke held out his hand again.
Gone was any pretense of patience or good humor. The man who faced her was cold and relentless. When she hesitated, he pulled a pistol from his belt.

“Don’t do this,” protested Amanda. “I know the hold he has over you, but you must not let him make you his cat’s paw. You’re betraying your friends, your shipmates. You cannot allow more innocent men to die.”

Locke advanced on her. “Military men know the consequence of war,” he rasped. “The letters, Miss Tremayne. I will not ask you again.”

Amanda shook her head.

The admiral’s brows drew together in a harsh line. “I remember now. You were at the ball.” A statement, not a question. “Mrs. Seagrave—I should have guessed. Very clever, my dear. You might have succeeded, had you chosen your second disguise with more care; anyone with eyes in his head could see that you did not belong with members of the muslin company.”

“I did what my conscience dictated,” Amanda snapped back, her jaw tight. “Something you will never understand.”

“Enough of this,” said a gray voice from the shadows.

Amanda froze. She knew that low, gravelly tone—it belonged to the other man from that fateful conversation: the traitor from the Admiralty. She glanced fearfully toward Harry, who seemed rooted where he stood, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. He made no move to draw it; he seemed to know as well as she that a blade against pistols was a forlorn hope.

“Kill them both, you fool, and destroy the letters. Weight the bodies and throw them into the Thames,” commanded the unseen traitor.

“I won’t kill a woman in cold blood,” Locke growled over his shoulder.

“You weren’t so particular when you killed your wife. Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”

“I am supposed to meet Captain Everly this morning,” Amanda announced. Try as she might, she could not keep her voice from shaking. “If I disappear, he will come looking for me. And he will not come alone.” An
empty threat, but she had to try. There was no way Everly could know where she had gone. Oh, heavens, if only she’d waited for him!

“So Captain Everly is involved?” Locke’s mouth twisted. “I’ll deal with him when the time comes.”

Footsteps sounded from the shadowed pile of crates, and three men walked into the light. The two larger ones were bruisers, mountains of human flesh dressed in rough, stained clothing. One of them grinned at Amanda, displaying the yellow, rotted stumps that were once his teeth. She shivered all the way down to her toes.

“Surely you don’t think that Captain Everly will come riding to your rescue,” scoffed the traitor. “Such a quaint notion.”

Amanda’s attention snapped away from the two thugs to the figure who stood between them. The traitor was slender and slightly dandified, a young man with thinning brown hair and a hawkish nose. Lusterless black eyes, glassy and cold like a shark’s, stared back at her with such callous cruelty that Amanda bit back the urge to scream.

Then the puzzle of voice and face came together.

“You!” She pointed a trembling finger at him. “You’re the clerk who ordered me thrown out of the Admiralty!”

“Stephen Garrett, at your service.” The traitor sketched a mocking bow. “But I am no clerk. No mere clerk could get access to secret orders and other documents, or do what I have done. I am a man of singular talent, Miss Tremayne.”

“Yes,” she snapped, ashamed of herself for showing fear. “A talent for blackmail, murder, and treason.”

The self-satisfied smile vanished from Garrett’s face. “Her meddling is your fault, Locke. You should have dealt with her earlier.”

“I had no idea she’d seek me out,” Locke argued.

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Just get on with it.”

Locke raised his pistol and set the hammer back to full cock.

Amanda backed away, her eyes fixed to the barrel of the gun. A hard lump of panic wedged itself into her
throat. “No—you can’t do this,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“Wait … what if we swear never to tell anyone?” Harry edged over to stand at her side. “We will give you our word that we’ll keep silent, and you can let us go.”

“I don’t think that’s an option for these men, Harry,” Amanda murmured.

“She’s right, Mr. Morgan,” Locke replied. “I’m truly sorry, but I’m afraid there is no other alternative. Stand still, and I will make your deaths quick and painless.”

Harry stepped in front of her. “This is insane. You can’t betray your own country,” he stated, glowering at Locke and Garrett.

“My country,” snapped the traitor, “betrayed me first. My father was an officer in the Flanders campaign of ’95; he was accused of allowing his men to run riot, to loot and burn an entire Flemish village. He was innocent, but no one would listen to him. He blew his brains out, leaving his wife and six-year-old son to get out of that hellhole on their own. I will spare you the rest of the sordid details, but suffice to say that the French were more sympathetic to my plight than England would ever be. I came back to England a few years ago under an assumed name, and proceeded to exact the perfect revenge. You are an even greater fool than I thought, Lieutenant, if you expect any consideration from me.”

Harry turned to Locke, desperation ragged in his voice. “Admiral, these are your countrymen! This is unconscionable!”

Locke sighed. “I had no choice. I’m doing you a favor, Mr. Morgan. You may be a talented officer, but you are hopelessly naïve. Step back. Now.”

Harry did as he was told.

“He has only one shot,” Amanda whispered to Harry, her horrified eyes never leaving the gun. “You could make it to the door before he can reload.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” he hissed back.

Locke aimed his weapon straight at Amanda. “You first.”

Amanda’s breath came in short gasps, every muscle in
her body drawn taut to the point of numbness. Images flashed before her eyes: her father, her grandmother, Jack Everly. She would never see him again, never hear his warm, deep laugh, never feel his strong arms around her. Before she met him, her only thought had been to avenge her father. Now she envisioned a life with him, having his children. An impossible dream. She had held her tears in check until now, but could do so no longer. Jack proved to be her undoing, and the tears flowed freely.

The barrel of the pistol wavered.

“Bloody hell!” Garrett exclaimed in disgust. “Give me that. You may not have the stomach for this, but I do.” The traitor grabbed the pistol from Locke’s shaking hand, pointed it at Amanda, and fired.

Amanda felt herself shoved aside at the same time as she heard the pistol’s deafening report. Thunderous flapping erupted from the rafters as the host of pigeons took wing. She staggered and realized with horror what had just happened.

“Harry!” she cried.

Harry crumpled to the floor with a grunt of pain, a rapidly expanding patch of darkness staining the breast of his lieutenant’s uniform. He put a hand to the wound; it came away wet and crimson.

“Damnation!” shouted Garrett. He ripped another, smaller pistol from beneath his own jacket.

Harry turned to Amanda, his eyes rimmed in white. “Run, Amanda!” he gasped. “Run!”

Everly planted his booted feet and held on for dear life as the carriage careened around a corner and onto Fleet Street. The wheels skidded on the wet pavement, throwing him hard against the railing. Agony shrieked through his injured leg, but he fought the urge to cry out. Raindrops pelted into his eyes; he dashed them away with a wet hand. He was soaked to the bone, his wool cloak weighted down with water, but he paid scant attention. Like a lookout in the rigging, his eyes strained
against the weather, desperate to catch any sight of Amanda’s coach.

Next to him, MacAllister handled the ribbons like a master, deftly threading the team in and out of traffic, unmoved by the oaths of other drivers and passersby. He slewed them through spaces Everly thought were too narrow, without even scratching the glossy black finish of the coach’s exterior. Despite the seriousness of the situation and the pain in his leg, the captain could not help but smile; as a coachman the young Scot was either a child prodigy, or a complete and utter lunatic.