Elizabeth Powell (23 page)

Amanda’s trail was leading them toward the heart of the City; if they continued in this direction, they would pass St. Paul’s Cathedral, the ’Change, and eventually the Tower of London. Everly scowled, then clamped his bicorne more securely to his head as they rocketed around a slow-moving dray. Where was this lieutenant taking Amanda? They had already passed the more fashionable neighborhoods, and the Admiralty was back in the opposite direction. Everly cursed himself for his lack of foresight. If only he had given in to his paranoia and brought Amanda to spend the night under his roof, she wouldn’t be in danger now. She’d be hopelessly compromised, but she would be safe.

Everly’s eyes glazed over. If he had compromised her, he’d have to marry her, honor would demand it. Much to his surprise, he found this thought appealing. Amanda, his wife. Amanda in his home, raising his children.

Amanda in his bed.

He blinked. What was he thinking?

The carriage hit a pothole, and the resulting jolt sent a stronger spasm through his leg. Everly welcomed the pain; it brought him to his senses. Amanda would never consent to marry him, the stubborn chit. She despised him. Even if by some great stretch of imagination she did agree, Everly would be away at sea for the remainder of the war, and God only knew how long that would be. He could not ignore his duty to his country. Either way, he would have to leave her, and they would drift in separate directions.

Damnation!

Everly pinched the bridge of his nose, partly to ward off the throbbing from his leg, partly to divert his thoughts away from Amanda. Where was she? What sort of danger had she gotten herself into now? She was a clever and capable minx, but if Locke were involved in her disappearance, she was in over her head. In the worst case, she might be dead already. The thought nauseated him. He couldn’t bear to lose her….

“Are you all right, Captain?” shouted MacAllister over the pounding of the horses’ hooves and the rumbling of the wheels. The Scot’s blond hair was plastered to his head; water ran in rivulets down his pale face.

“I’m fine,” Everly yelled back. “How much further?”

As if in reply, MacAllister hauled on the reins, bringing the team to a neighing halt. A short, scrawny man in a flapping greatcoat and outdated tricorne rode up on a lathered horse, both of them breathing hard.

“Blackfriars Bridge,” the man wheezed. His nervous horse threw up its head and danced sideways, and the agent fought for control. “Bingham is on the other side; he can take you the rest of the way.”

Everly and MacAllister exchanged a worried glance.

“They’ve gone into Southwark,” the Scot said, his jaw set at a grim angle. “Damn. That place is a rabbit warren of warehouses, narrow streets, and blind alleys.”

“And docks,” added Everly. “We should check the riverfront. Maybe this lieutenant had a ship waiting.”

“In which case, let us pray we’re not too late. Follow us, Evans. We still have need of you.” MacAllister flicked the whip over the lead horse’s ears, and the carriage lurched forward through the steady curtain of rain.

“Run!”

No sooner had Harry uttered that word than Amanda took to her heels. She had to get out, to find help! Her skirts bunched in one hand, she darted around the cluster of crates. She could see the stairs up to the loft, which meant the exit was close by. Behind her, she heard the traitor curse.

“Get after her, you beef-brained idiots,” he howled. “I want her dead!”

Fear spurred Amanda to greater effort. With a burst of speed, she rounded the last set of boxes … only to see a third brute enter the warehouse. The man was smaller and thinner than the other two, more of a molehill than a mountain, but the large, wicked-looking knife in his belt made up for any differences in size. Amanda skidded to a stop.

“’Ere now, wot’s all this?” he demanded. “I ’eard shootin’!”

“Stop the girl!” Garrett ordered. His shout rang to the rafters.

“Come ’ere, missy,” the third thug said with a malicious grin. His dark, ferrety eyes glittered as he crooked a finger at her. “I won’t ’urt ye none.”

Amanda cast a wary glance around the man; there was not enough room for her to try to slip past him out the door. It was either the stairs to the loft, or double back through the warehouse and try to get out through the main doors. If they were unlocked. And unguarded. She edged toward the stairs.

“Oh, no ye don’t.” Molehill lunged for her and caught hold of her cloak.

Amanda screamed, her reaction instantaneous. She balled up her fists and tried to hit him, but her aim was off, and she missed. In return, Molehill backhanded her across the face. Her oversized bonnet caved in over her forehead; he ripped it away.

“Uppity, ain’t ye?” he growled, his breath hovering between them in a fetid cloud. “Lemme show ye wot I do t’ uppity wimmin.”

Amanda’s head spun from the force of the blow. This had never happened before; a stiff facer had dissuaded most bullies. But when she was still in the schoolroom her grandmother had advised her of another, more potent form of defense. She’d never had to use it, but now was as good a time as any. As the thug hauled her toward him, she brought her knee upward into his groin.

“Ooof!” The man’s eyes crossed with pain and he staggered
backward against the wall. He let go his hold on Amanda’s cloak, but he didn’t fall over. Instead, he snarled at her and took a shambling step forward, his face a mask of murderous rage. “Bitch!”

Oh, heavens—she hadn’t hit him hard enough.

Now the loft was her only option. Amanda lurched for the stairs, one hand gripping the flimsy railing for support. The thug swore again and swiped at her. Amanda felt his grimy hand brush her arm, and it galvanized her to greater speed. She clattered upward as fast as her skirts would allow.

“There she is!” yelled the traitor.

Another gunshot resounded through the warehouse, and a track of burning pain spread across Amanda’s ribs. The blow spun her around and threw her against the wall. She cried out and crumpled to one knee, one hand pressed to her side. Stunned, she realized the shot had sliced into her flesh; her fingers came away red.

Keep going—she must keep going. The bullet must have just grazed her, and she must not give Garrett an opportunity to better his aim. She kicked her sodden skirts out of the way and lunged awkwardly toward the landing, keeping frantic watch on the men below.

On the warehouse floor, the traitor cursed and threw his spent weapon aside. He yanked a second from his belt and pointed it up at her. His glittering eyes smiled at her as he sighted down the barrel. Amanda had nowhere to hide. She screamed.

“No!”

The word had not come from her throat, but from someone below. Amanda watched, shocked, as Admiral Locke tried to grab Garrett’s pistol. With a snarl, Garrett shoved Locke aside. Amanda heard the tinkle of shattered glass. The admiral staggered back, and Garrett shot him at near point-blank range. Locke sank to his knees, his eyes wide with disbelief as his chest bloomed red. Then he collapsed, facedown, on the straw-strewn floor.

Garrett looked up at Amanda again, his expression a dark promise of pain and death. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her; the mountainous thugs had reached
the stairs. Amanda reached the loft, panting. A broken barrel caught her eye. The top had been staved in, but it would serve her purposes. Ignoring the spreading numbness in her side, she wrestled the barrel to the top of the stairs and shoved it downward. It tumbled straight into the two brutes, knocking one of them through the railing and off the stairs with a crash. The other, who had flattened himself to the wall to avoid the barrel, growled at her and resumed his ascent.

Amanda gulped. Aside from the barrel, sawdust, a few broken boards, and pigeon nests, there was little else in the loft. She began to back away from the stairs.

Then Amanda heard the crackle of flame. Acrid smoke curled up from between the loft floorboards. She coughed.

Oh, heavens—the lantern! Garrett or Locke must have knocked it over during their struggle, and now the straw was on fire. That tinder, combined with the dry, rotted wood of the walls and floor, meant the whole warehouse could burn down around their ears in a trice.

Harry! He was still down there!

“Harry?” she called, frantic. “Harry!”

“I’m afraid your companion is indisposed,” called the traitor in that cold, emotionless voice. “But don’t worry; my associate will see that he’s taken care of.”

“You monster,” she hissed, but the man couldn’t hear her over the crackle of the flames. Fresh tears stung her eyes.

The smoke increased in volume, drifting up to the loft in huge black plumes, stinging her eyes and throat. Amanda coughed again, grabbed her kerchief from her reticule, and held it over her mouth. There was no other way out of the loft besides the stairs. She glanced to the railing, but knew she wouldn’t survive a jump to the bare floor below. Well, she wouldn’t survive a pistol shot from close range, either. Her choices were decidedly unappealing: death by falling, pistol, or fire.

The first set of footsteps heralded the approach of the traitor; the set behind him was probably Molehill, for it
did not sound heavy enough to be one of the larger cutthroats.

“There is nowhere to run, Miss Tremayne,” Garrett called as he stalked up the stairs.

Amanda, flattened to the wall, her heart in her throat, found that she had to agree with him.

T
hroughout the morning’s ordeal, Everly had done his best to keep his emotions confined behind an impassive mask—a mask which might as well have been made of wax, for it melted now with alarming speed. Seething with rage and frustration, the captain thrust his face into the agent’s with a snarl. “What do you mean, you lost them? Well, man, speak up!”

Startled, the slender youth drew back, his horse curvetting beneath him. He turned to MacAllister, hesitant. “Sir?”

“You heard the captain, Mr. Bingham,” rapped MacAllister. He laid a restraining hand on Everly’s arm. “Explain yourself.”

The agent looked between the two men and managed to turn paler still. “W-well, after they crossed Blackfriars Bridge they followed Clink Street, but once they came to London Bridge they turned off into an alley. Then my horse stumbled and threw me, and by the time I searched the surrounding streets, there was no trace of them. It was as if they vanished.”

“Damnation!” Everly exclaimed. To have come so far only to lose them … this was unacceptable. The sensation of impotence was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. Amanda’s life might hang in the balance. His body tensed.

“We’ll find them, Captain,” MacAllister insisted. He turned to his agent, face grim. “Are you all right, lad?”

“A little bruised, sir, but well enough.” The young man swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My apologies, Mr. MacAllister.”

MacAllister dismissed his subordinate’s remorse with an impatient wave of his hand. “There will be time enough for you to amend your mistake, Bingham. Do you still have your pistols?”

The agent brightened. “Yes, sir.”

“Then come with us. I still have need of you.” MacAllister again took up the whip, but engaged the team at a slower pace. “Dockside is still the best place to begin; I believe your instincts are correct, Captain.”

Everly inclined his head in a curt nod. “Let us hope we are not searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

Lead by Bingham, MacAllister guided them along the route Amanda’s carriage had taken. Once the trail ended, however, the Scotsman advised them to begin a methodical search.

“I know that time is of the essence, Captain.” MacAllister’s sympathy was unmistakable. “But you know as well as I that we cannot simply start beating on doors all the way down the street, hoping to find her. My men and I are doing all we can, but I am neither magician nor miracle-worker.”

Everly growled a brusque agreement under his breath and shifted on the hard driver’s bench. His throbbing leg did little to sweeten his temper. Better at this point that he simply kept his mouth shut.

With the mounted agents acting as scouts, they continued through the dockside warrens of Southwark. As they passed London Bridge, Everly shifted his straining eyes from the colorless rows of buildings to the horizon.

“There!” The cry tore from his lips. No, he hadn’t been mistaken. He
had
seen it.

MacAllister drew the team to a halt, his brow furrowed in a puzzled frown. “I don’t see anything.”

“Smoke. Just a wisp. It’s wood smoke, not coal, coming from somewhere up ahead.” Everly stood and scanned the nearby buildings, ruthlessly ignoring the protests of his injured leg. The steady rain kept any telltale plumes from rising too far into the air, and obscured his vision, as well. At this distance, and without his spyglass,
he couldn’t be certain of its exact origin. He hated to think that Amanda’s welfare depended on his best guess.

“Smoke? Where? I don’t see anything,” said Mr. Evans from beneath his battered tricorne.

“Use your nose, man,” MacAllister snapped. “I can smell it, Captain, but can you spot its source?”

Everly’s leg nearly gave way beneath him; he sat down harder than he intended. Pain shrieked a scarlet path behind his eyes, and the skin at his temples drew taut as he quashed it. “I cannot say for certain until we get closer, but my estimate is about five to six blocks ahead.”

MacAllister paused, as if selecting his reply with care. “What makes you so certain Miss Tremayne is there? We will lose valuable time if you’re wrong.”

Everly shook his head, water running out from the tasseled ends of his bicorne. “I am no magician either, Mr. MacAllister, but every instinct tells me she’s there.”

“I pray you’re right.” The young Scotsman turned his anxious attention back to the horses.

Everly drew a long, deep breath. “So do I.”

The measured footsteps neared the head of the stairs. For a frantic moment, Amanda imagined herself a doe cornered by hounds. She gritted her teeth and gathered her wits; she was no frightened animal to be driven mindlessly to her death. There had to be another way out. She darted to the row of windows and peered through the dirty panes. Perhaps there was an overhang, something above the dock onto which she could jump. She squinted until her eyes were the barest slits, but could barely make out the shape of the pier through the glass beneath the first window. She went to the next window, and the next, until she came to the corner of the loft. She saw nothing below but the dark water of the Thames. Amanda gulped. If only she could swim.