Rogue of the Borders (20 page)

“Janet…came out of the front bedroom,” Caitlin managed between hiccups. “We heard more clashing and a scream and then all three of them tumbled down the stairs.”

“Dear Lord!” Abigail’s hands flew to her mouth. “Is she…did she—”

“Is she alive?” Jacob cut in.

The twins turned red-rimmed eyes toward him. “We…we think so,” Caitlin answered and started crying again. “We are nae sure.”

Abigail jumped up. “I have got to go to the hospital.”

“I will take ye,” Jacob said and turned to the girls. “Ye will come along.”

“We…we cannae!” the twins wailed in unison.

“You
can
,” Abigail answered, “and you
will
.”

Chapter Seventeen

Having decided to put into port in Calais before continuing on to London, Shane hoped his comrades could provide some insight into the puzzling past of Richard Reneau.

“Having a new client is good for business,
non
?” Alain asked as Shane seated himself in the Frenchman’s parlor.

“Aye. ’Tis just a feeling I have that Padget was nae being completely truthful.”

“Well, if Padget is exporting my family’s brandy, he cannot be totally bad.” Remy grinned as he handed a snifter of cognac to Shane and then sobered. “Pardon the poor jest. We have not survived this long without following our instincts. What about him bothers you?”

“I am nae sure. I think my concerns lie more with our new French clerk, Richard Reneau, who just happened to be able to arrange for two new clients at once.”

Alain sat down across from Shane. “You said his references were good?”

“I was nae able to find out much. Reneau told me he was from Le Havre, yet the townspeople said he only arrived six months ago.”

“Perhaps he thought you meant where had he recently lived?” Remy asked.

“Perhaps. I just found it strange that the man showed up on the docks in Edinburgh looking for work and a few days later, my clerk was waylaid and beaten.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Remy said thoughtfully, “but better to trust your instincts. Le Havre is not that far from here. We can have one of our men go down and discreetly make some inquiries.”

“I would appreciate that,” Shane replied.

“Considerate it done.”

“Thank ye. While I am here, tell me how the king fares.”

“About the same,” Alain said. “The pope continues to take a hard line on Masons. We are all but declared heretics.”

Shane grimaced. “Because we believe people should be free to worship as they choose?”

“The idea of common people being able to communicate to God without intervention through the bishops does not set well.”

Remy laughed. “Especially when it results in less contributions to the Church.”

“True,” Alain agreed, “but there are also rumors—probably started by the
Chambre,
that Louis spends money that should be going to the people. The war was costly and made paupers of many.”

“Aye. Britain fares the same, although the prince, as Regent, has nae borne the brunt of it. At least nae yet.”

Alain sighed. “There will always be unrest. All we can do is continue on.”

“Aye, continue on.”

The phrase resonated with Shane as he left and he wondered if it lingered in his mind because of the Templar mission or because of Abigail.

Two days later, with excellent winds off the quarter, Shane docked the schooner at a wharf on the east side of the Thames across from the Isle of Dogs. He normally used the Deptford pier, but Padget had assured him the client preferred to stay on the East Side. The area was not as safe given its proximity to the tenements and slums that had sprung up, but the shipment was paid for. All Shane had to do was declare his goods at the custom house. Once the liquor had been inspected, the cases could be unloaded and he could move the boat to a better location for the night.

As he went down the gangplank, he noted his crew had belted their swords on in addition to the various knives each carried. Donald had strapped a musket to his side as well. Shane smiled and adjusted his own scabbard. There was no real worry of any attempted boarding in broad daylight, especially with constables patrolling the quay, but their own weapons would serve to remind cutthroats lurking about that the
Border Lass
was a ship best left alone.

Shane had barely completed the paperwork and paid the taxes when he was informed the client had a wagon outside, ready to load. That was somewhat surprising since usually a runner had to be sent or the goods would be unloaded to a temporary warehouse. Maybe the man was really thirsty.

The client pacing impatiently on the quay in front of his ship reaffirmed Shane’s thoughts about the thirst. He signaled Donald it was all right to begin unloading and approached the man. “Mr. Avery? Walter Avery?”

The man stopped and gave him a sharp, piercing look. “Yes. Are you Captain MacLeod?”

“I am.” Shane started to hold out his hand, but Avery walked away to supervise one of his men.

Vaguely, the man reminded Shane of someone else. He was fairly sure they had never met. As he watched Avery directing his workers, Shane contemplated. The man was about the same age as Padget, although he sported no grey streaks in his dark brown hair. The hair was overly longish and in need of a trim, as were the mustache and beard. His clothing did not appear to be of quality stock and his boots were scuffed. Overall, he had the appearance of a servant, although his accent bespoke an education. Why would a man who could afford caseloads of French cognac appear so shoddy? He looked like he could blend in with the unscrupulous souls who occupied the East Side.

Something seemed off, but who was Shane to judge? The shipment was paid for. Perhaps the man was a bit down on his luck. Maybe he worked in a public house somewhere and was only taking delivery of the liquor for an employer. The post-war recession had hit London particularly hard.

Avery turned back to him once the last case had been loaded and held out his hand. “I will look forward to the next shipment.”

It was only as Shane shook his hand that he noticed how pale and soft it was—almost like a woman’s.

This was not a man who labored for a living, regardless of how he dressed and how rough he looked.

Shane watched the wagon roll away with an uneasy feeling.

The strange feeling had not left him when he rang the bell on the Earl of Sherrington’s townhouse the next afternoon. He intended to ask Townsend if he’d ever heard of the man.

A white-gloved, liveried footman opened the door and an immaculately clad butler, complete with starched, snowy cravat, greeted Shane in the foyer. He had a moment of misgiving, hoping Abigail wouldn’t go so far as to expect a Scottish butler to dress as though he were attending a grand ball. Shane grinned, imagining what the response would be if Ian’s footmen were required to wear livery, let alone white gloves.

The footman gave him a quizzical look and Shane realized no one had given him a cause to laugh. He sobered, knowing gossip spread amongst the servants below stairs faster than a trashcan fire in the street. Abigail’s reputation need not be sullied by servants thinking she’d married a daft Scot.

With impeccable manners, the butler gave him a formal nod. “This way,” he said, as thought he’d not noticed anything amiss. “The earl is expecting you.”

To Shane’s surprise, Sherrington wasn’t alone. George Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, rose from his chair as Shane entered.

“Your Grace.”

“MacLeod.”

Sherrington raised an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”

“We do,” the duke replied, giving Shane a speculative look. “Since some of my lands lie close to Glasgow, I often use the MacLeod ships.”

Shane caught the warning. Campbell walked a fine line being a Scottish lord who also carried an English title. Not only was he a member of the House of Lords, he was also one of the Brethren, working within the auspices of the Scottish Rite. Some felt he would be Grand Master one day. Most importantly, though, he understood there was an important mission of which he was only partly privy to.

A fact Abigail’s father knew nothing about.

“I hope your lady wife is well?”

Campbell grinned since he always seemed delighted to talk about his wife. “She gives me not a moment’s peace, but I find I quite like her company.”

Abigail didn’t give Shane a moment’s peace either. And apparently, she’d somehow piqued the faeries’ interest in keeping him on the edge of madness. He’d dreamed of her again last night, only this time another man—whose face he couldn’t see—lured her away. Shane had run after them, determined to pound the bastard into oblivion, only to awaken entangled in sheets and punching his pillow.

“I probably do not have to explain that to you, though, since you are recently married yourself,” the duke added.

Shane gave Abigail’s father a quick glance. Obviously, nothing had yet been said about an annulment. Which, of course, was only proper. To protect her from any scandal, Abigail should be the one to denounce him when the time came.

If it came. More and more, Shane was beginning to doubt Abigail would agree to do it. He had planned to talk to the earl about that problem, but it would have to wait.

“I am sure you miss her when you are at sea,” the duke continued. “I doubt I could leave Caroline for any length of time.”

In a strange way, Shane realized he did miss Abigail, even if she did have some rather peculiar traits. Things like the way her voice changed, sounding somewhat like a sick frog croaking as her movements suddenly slowed, causing him to wonder if she was going to topple over. Then there were the strange little slaps she’d applied to his arm outside the office—not that they hurt—before she began muttering to herself and rubbing her hands on him.
Jesu!
If they hadn’t been standing on public steps in the middle of the morning, he’d have thought she was attempting to entice him.

Perhaps the faeries were at work again?

“Of course, women do not belong at sea,” Abigail’s father said, bringing Shane out his musings.

“Aye. They doona,” Shane said, wondering if he were making sense at all.

“I am sure MacLeod has been staying busy—very busy—seeing to all his accounts,” the earl added, giving him a direct look. “You probably have not been able to spend much time at home, have you?”

Well,
that
message was clear enough. Abigail’s father was asking if his daughter was still a virgin. Shane bristled. He’d made a vow, even if it seemed the entire realm of faeries had suddenly decided to get involved in having him break it. “I have been gone quite a bit,” he replied, wondering if the earl would use that as the reason for the annulment. “Presently, my cousins and my sisters have joined Abigail in Edinburgh.”

Shane thought the earl looked relieved and decided it was time to change the subject.

“I did gain a new client here in London. Do either of ye ken a businessman named Walter Avery?”

Campbell frowned. “What does he do?”

Shane told them of his encounter. “’Tis strange for an owner of a public house to be buying expensive brandy.”

“And so much of it,” Sherrington said.

“Especially off the East End,” Campbell added. “The clubs all take deliveries much closer in, so I doubt he works for one of them.”

As unkempt as Avery had looked, Shane doubted any of the private clubs would have allowed him entrance even at the back door.

Walter Avery, it seemed, was another mystery.

Unlike the favorable weather conditions in which Shane had sailed southward, the passage back was rough. Shifting winds, confused seas and continuous tacking had made the journey twice as long as it usually took. Pelting rain had not helped the mood of his crew either. Twice he’d had to intervene to prevent a fight from breaking out—and that was before the cook took ill and they’d had to resort to cold rations again. For most of the last two days, his men had maintained a surly silence.

With the boat closing in on the home dock, Shane breathed a sigh of relief. ’Twas good to be home. He’d given some thought to his conversation with Sherrington regarding his lengthy absences. Two months had already passed. Surely Shane could hang on to his sanity—and his urges—for another few weeks.

The blunt truth, though, was he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t even sure he wanted the annulment either. Knowing Abigail was here, waiting for him, was surprisingly comforting, especially after dealing with fractious, disgruntled sailors for days on end.

Not that Sherrington had given any indication of being willing to change the terms of their agreement. In fact, he’d mentioned it would be good to have Abigail home again, supervising his staff as she had done before. Shane thought the household quite well run as it was, but he knew the earl had become overly protective of Abigail after her mother’s infamous demise. Shane also had a sneaking suspicion the man missed his daughter as well.

Still, Shane was looking forward to an intellectually stimulating conversation with Abigail later, maybe in front of a warm fire in the library—after he’d had one of Janet’s good, hot meals.