Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (14 page)

‘You did promise me an especially entertaining night.’

‘I did indeed,’ said the man with the cane.

‘And a good return on my investment.’

‘A very good return, Mr Black. Mark my words.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Mr Black, and then he moved round to stand
before her, a piece of rope dangling loose in his hands.

She saw him then for the first time, this Mr Black. He was in his
mid to late twenties, his hair dark and straight and cut short, his face
clean-shaven. Beneath the dim flicker of the lantern light her eyes travelled
swiftly over his features, which were strong and regular and intensely
masculine: a chiselled chin, cut square in the strong line of his jaw; a hard
mouth, high cheekbones, and eyes so dark as to appear black. He wore an air of
lazy arrogance. Undoubtedly a man of the
Ton,
a man of wealth, despite
the shabby attire in which he was clothed. Undeniably handsome, in a roguish
sort of way. And he was a villain—a part of this group of thugs into which her
brother had fallen. She shivered.

‘Come along, our little spy,’ he said, and took hold of her
elbow. He guided her through to what seemed to be some kind of large cabin,
leaving the door open behind him so that the light spilled through from where
Mr White sat, twiddling his cane. Then he set about tying her wrists together
behind her back, checking that the rope was not so tight as to cut into her
flesh. He sat her down, bound her ankles, and produced a clean white
handkerchief from his pocket, which he began to fold to form a long strip.

Francesca’s eyes opened wide at that. ‘There is no need to gag
me. I will not cry out.’

‘You should have thought of that back in the harbour.’

‘I shall not be able to breathe with that around my mouth.’

‘You shall breathe very well, I assure you.’

‘Please.’ It was bad enough being trussed like a chicken. The
thought of being gagged brought a feeling of panic.

He looked at her then, with those black eyes of his, and for a
moment she thought that he would heed her plea. ‘You have very sharp teeth,
miss,’ he said, ‘I would not risk you biting me again.’

His voice was arrogant and uncaring, a stark contrast to what she
read in his eyes and the touch of his hands. His fingers were gentle beneath
her chin as he unfastened the ribbons of her bonnet and set it down on the
floor by her side. They were gentle too against her cheek as he tied the
handkerchief around her mouth. He looked at her a moment longer, then he rose
and walked away towards the lantern light and the room beyond. The door shut
behind him, leaving Francesca sitting alone in the darkness, worrying over her
mama who, tomorrow morning, would find not only her son gone but her eldest
daughter too. Worrying too that, instead of saving her brother, she had just
made things a whole lot worse.

Mr Black, or Lord Jack Holberton as he was in truth, sipped from
his hip flask of brandy, knowing that this evening had come close to ruin
because of a slip of a girl who had shown up spying on them at Lannacombe
Harbour. Ten months’ work almost lost and a girl’s life with it too, and the
night had barely begun. He raked a hand through his hair at the thought.

Lord Edmund Grosely, or Mr White, as he was calling himself,
waited until the other men had disappeared up the ladder that led to the upper
deck. ‘Mr Black.’ He glanced towards the retreating footsteps. ‘Feeling lucky?’

‘Naturally,’ said Jack with his usual arrogance. ‘Am I ever
anything but?’

Edmund laughed. ‘That’s what I like about you,’ he said. ‘That
and your money.’

Jack smiled and lounged on a half-cask.

‘What do you think of the clothes?’

Jack surveyed his shabby fisherman’s attire. ‘They make a change
from Cork Street or Savile Row, I suppose.’

‘If we’re stopped tonight then we stay in the background and keep
our mouths shut. Weasel knows what to do.’

Jack cocked an eyebrow.

‘One word from our mouths and the game’s up. There’s no fisherman
that sounds like us.’

‘True.’ Jack gave a half-smile and took another swig of brandy
from his silver patterned hip flask. ‘But venturers do.’

‘Exactly.’ Edmund drank from his own flask. ‘They would know us
for what we are. I don’t normally come out on the trips—Buckley’s trustworthy
enough to do the run himself—but, as I said, the good captain seems to have
taken himself off to God only knows where. Weasel can sail the vessel well
enough, but I don’t trust him with the rest of our business.’

‘Hence our little jolly this evening.’

‘I’d hardly call it that.’

‘What, then, would you call it?’

‘A necessity. I don’t like risking my anonymity, but I like
risking my money even less.’

‘Life’s a bore without risk.’ Jack examined his nails.

‘It’s even more of a bore without money.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Jack. ‘Besides, I thought when
it came to money that Harrow funded you well enough—better than my father does
me.’

‘My father’s a tight-fisted bastard, hoarding it all to pass on
to my brother. David will inherit the lot. I’ll get nothing. But then you know
all about the injustice of primogeniture, don’t you?’

Jack gave a small cynical smile. ‘You might say that.’

‘And life’s little pleasures all come at a cost.’

‘Especially in Mayfair,’ said Jack.

‘You heard about that, then?’ said Edmund.

‘The whole of London has heard.’ Jack laughed, then looked at
Edmund slyly. ‘Three thousand and a house in Mayfair is a lot to spend on an
opera singer, even if she is a pocket Venus. She must be good.’

‘She’s very good indeed.’

‘Doesn’t Harrow ask any questions?’

‘The old man thinks I’m lucky on the tables.’

‘He’s not wrong. I saw you clean out young Jenkins in Brooks’s
last week.’

Edmund nodded. ‘Jenkins is a fool.’ He smiled at Jack. ‘There’s
more money to be made in this game than at the gaming tables.’

‘And more risk,’ said Jack.

‘They’d not imprison me. The old man would see to that. He might
hate the ground on which I stand, but he’ll not see a blight on the family
name. If it came to it he’d pull every string he could. I’d get a slap on the
wrist and nothing more.’

‘And what of the men here?’

‘The Buckleys look after their own.’ Edmund smiled. ‘And
you’ve
no need to worry, because for all that you’re quite the worst son a man might
wish for, Flete’ll not see anything happen to you. He’d hush it up as much as
my father.’

‘No doubt he would,’ said Jack, and something of the arrogance
slipped from his face.

‘You needn’t look like that, Holberton.’

Jack looked up sharply at the use of his real name.

‘Forgive me,’ muttered Edmund. ‘Besides,
Mr Black
—’ he
stressed the name ‘—we’re not about to be caught. We’ll pick up the brandy, get
it off our hands as soon as we get back, and have a lovely bloody time at
Christmas spending it. I’m taking Jeanette to Yorkshire. You’re welcome to come
and spend Christmas with us. Bring one or two little ladybirds.’

‘A Christmas of drink and lightskirts?’ said Jack.

‘Unless you’d prefer to spend it with Flete and the rest of your
family?’

‘Not likely.’ Jack yawned. ‘Did you mean it when you said I was
the worst son a man might wish for?’

‘Afraid so,’ said Edmund. ‘You make
me
look good, and
that’s saying something.’

Jack took another swig of brandy and looked rather pleased. He
raised the hip flask to Edmund. ‘Here’s to errant sons and a Christmas to
remember.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Edmund.

The two men laughed.

Francesca wriggled her hands against the ropes that bound them.
The man they called Mr Black had not tied them that tight. She reckoned that
she might even be able to free herself from them eventually. She peered around
the hold, trying to see through the darkness, but it was useless. The thin rim
of yellow light that surrounded the door did not extend far enough to
illuminate her surroundings. From beyond the door came the hum of voices and
the occasional laugh. She strained to listen, but the talk was little more that
a low-pitched murmur that was not discernible over the slap of the waves
against the body of the boat and the howl of the wind. The stench of fish and
damp and tar surrounded her. The floor was dank and hard. She leaned to her
right-hand-side, resting against something large and solid and wooden. She
thought she had seen fishing nets heaped over in the far corner before Mr Black
had closed the door behind him, and she wondered if that was where the smell
was coming from.

The rope around her wrists was now loose enough that she managed
to pull it lower and work her fingers into the knots. She was still busy with
the knots when she heard the doorknob turn. Francesca froze.

The door creaked slowly open. She held her breath and stared at
the sudden flood of light. A figure crept quietly through the door, a
half-shielded lantern in his hand, a small blade glinting in the other. Her
heart began to beat fast and hard. The door closed quietly behind him.

‘Tom!’ She tried to call, but the word just came out as a muffled
noise behind the handkerchief.

‘Shh!’ he whispered, and came quickly towards her.

He set the knife down upon the floor and pulled the gag from her
mouth.

‘Untie me.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s not much time,’ he said.
‘There’s no way off this boat—at least not alive, Fran—until we’re back at
Lannacombe. If I untie you they’ll know I did it, and we’ll be in even more
trouble than we are already.’

‘Oh, Tom, what on earth were you thinking of, getting involved
with the Buckleys? And who are those gentlemen?’

A closed look came over his face and he answered only her first
question. ‘We need the money, Francesca—especially with Christmas coming.’

‘Lord, Tom! They’re villains. You’re risking too much. What do
you think it would do to Mama were you to end up with a knife in your back?’

‘It would all have been fine if you hadn’t showed up at the
harbour. Damn it, Francesca, you’ve no idea what you’ve done.’

‘Tell them I’m your sister. No matter what I think of the wrongs
of this evening, I’m not about to report my own brother to the Revenue. They’ll
see the truth in that.’

Tom rubbed an agitated hand against his chin. ‘It isn’t quite as
simple as that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I would that you had not followed me on this night above all
others.’ He sighed, and the soft yellow lantern light showed the worry on his
face.

‘Tom,’ she said softly. ‘We will get through this.’

Tom wrapped an arm around her. ‘I only hope that you’re right,
Fran. I only hope that you’re right.’

They heard no noise, nothing to warn them before the door was
thrown open. The man simply stepped into the hold and shut the door quietly
behind him.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said softly. ‘Very cosy.’

Tom jumped back in fright, his fingers instinctively snatching up
his knife.

Francesca looked up to see the tall dark figure of Mr Black
walking towards them. Fear rippled through her.

On seeing Mr Black, Tom sheathed the knife and seemed to relax.

‘Who is she, Linden? Your sweetheart? Your lover?’

‘No!’ Francesca and Tom said in unison.

The colour that flooded Tom’s cheeks was evident even in the
lantern light. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Then what?’

‘My sister,’ Tom said with a sigh. ‘Francesca’s my sister.’

‘What the hell was she doing in the harbour?’

‘I wanted to stop him getting himself into any kind of trouble.’
Francesca met Mr Black’s gaze from her position on the floor.

Tom glanced rather sheepishly at Mr Black. ‘She’s always been
rather over-protective of me.’

‘He means that I can tell when he’s up to no good,’ said
Francesca.

Tom ignored her. ‘I swear she knows nothing of this night.’

‘She does now,’ said Mr Black.

‘If you think that I’ll speak of what I’ve seen, then you’re
mistaken. I give you my word that I’ll say nothing, sir.’

‘Your word?’ Mr Black raised one eyebrow. ‘And you think that
makes everything all right?’

She felt her anger rise at his mocking tone. ‘If I say anything
of this then I will be implicating Tom. Why would I do that? I’m not about to
put my own brother at risk.’

‘I’d say you’ve already done a good job of that, Miss Linden.’ Mr
Black made no effort to mask his irritation.

‘What shall we do, sir?’ Tom rubbed at his chin. ‘Tell Mr White
about her?’

‘You think that telling White will protect her?’ There was an
edge to Mr Black’s voice.

‘I hoped…’

‘You’ve not a hope in hell,’ he snapped. ‘If you go to White with
your story, you’re both as good as dead. And you’ll jeopardise other issues,
Linden. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘What else can we do?’ Francesca could hear the desperation in
her brother’s voice.

‘We can buy your sister time.’

Francesca and Tom waited for an explanation.

‘I’ll keep her from White and the others.’ All trace of Mr
Black’s lazy drawl had vanished. ‘No matter that it may appear otherwise,
she’ll be safe. And for God’s sake don’t show the slightest regard for her
welfare, if you don’t want White guessing the truth. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tom.

‘Now, get out of here before your absence is noticed.’

Tom hesitated. ‘The rest of this night…’

‘Proceeds as planned,’ finished Mr Black.

Tom glanced towards Francesca. ‘Do as he says, Fran.’

‘Go,’ Mr Black commanded.

Tom turned and hurried from the hold.

The door shut with a quiet click, leaving Francesca alone with Mr
Black.

‘Now, Miss Linden,’ he said. He crouched down close before her.
‘Have you no sense in your head? What did you think would happen, following him
alone in the dead of night to the harbour?’ He sounded angry, and nothing like
he had when he had spoken to Mr White.