Wicked at Heart (23 page)

He lurched to
his feet, pushing a fist against his clammy brow, and on unsteady legs reeled
his way back to the table.  The ledger lay just as he had left it.  A stack of
leather-bound books, which Rothschild must have dumped there as the attack had
struck, made a haphazard pile beside it.  He threw himself down in the chair,
his brow bent and resting in one palm, his eyes on the page so that he wouldn't
have to look at either of them.

The expectant
silence was unbearable.  Neither one of them had moved, and he could feel them
both staring at him.

Hold me . . .
please . . . I'm dying.

Bloody hell, he
wanted to die, wished he
had
died, if only to escape this humiliation.

Go ahead,
laugh at me.  Laugh at me for my weakness.  Ridicule me, I dare you!

But she wasn't
laughing.  She hadn't laughed at all.

He turned the
page, blind to the writing before him.  A moment went by, then he heard the
rustle of her skirts as she got to her feet and moved across the room, toward
him.  She pulled out her chair.  It made a faint scraping noise, a sound
amplified a hundred times in the awkward silence.  He stared down with what he
hoped was calm insouciance, his face burning.

And Rothschild,
that miserable wretch — Damon jerked his head up and saw the contractor standing
in a corner, his expression a mixture of scorn, malice, and fear.

"Go on, get
the hell out of here!" he roared, lunging half out of his chair and
shooing the contractor off with a violent motion of his hands.

The old man
fled.

Damon sank back
down into the chair and raked his hands down over his face.  Lady Simms sat
quietly across from him, not saying a word.  Unable to stand it any longer, he
looked up and impaled her with a stare hot enough to melt rock.  "I
suppose you think me a raving madman now, don't you?"

She only sat
looking at him quietly.  There was no mockery in her eyes, no ridicule, no fear,
nothing but tenderness.  For some reason that was more frightening, more awful,
than any emotion that soft violet gaze might've conveyed.

She took a
great, bracing sigh.  Then, as though the incident had never happened, she
pulled one of Rothschild's books toward her and calmly opened it.  "Right. 
Shall we start with January?"

~~~~

Midshipman Foyle
didn't get any respect.  He didn't get it from the prisoners, he didn't get it
from the other midshipmen who served in Portsmouth's
real
naval ships, he
certainly didn't get it from that fire-breathing bastard of a captain,
Morninghall.

Earlier in the
week Morninghall had found out that he and Radley had been lying to him about
the conditions below, and the marquess' rage had been of the sort that Foyle
never wished to experience ever again.  He dreaded to think what would happen
if the captain found out that he, in partnership with Radley, was stealing food
and clothes from the shipments meant for the prisoners and selling them back to
the contractors for a profit.

His eyes swept
contemptuously over a group of prisoners scrubbing the deck.  He didn't see why
the captain suddenly had decided to care so much about them.  They were only
prisoners;  they didn't count for anything, except as something on which to
take out one's anger.  Oh, yes, they were definitely good for that.  Who would
know if he withheld the food of some wretch who'd given him a dirty look? 
Who'd know if he cracked a rib with his musket because one of them had failed
to get out of his way?  Not Morninghall, and it was all the better when that
arrogant tyrant was off the ship, because then he could bully and threaten to
his heart's content, swaggering up and down the quarterdeck, hands behind his
back, chest puffed out against his uniform as he surveyed his command.

In Morninghall's
absence his word was law among these wretched masses.

Except this
morning, Morninghall — who had never bothered to go belowdecks, before — had
caught him tormenting one of the French prisoners, an old man with a peg leg
who'd needed to be shown who was boss.

Given
Morninghall's apathy toward the prisoners, Foyle hadn't expected to be punished,
but Morninghall had shown no sympathy.  Grabbing Foyle by the ear, he had
marched him topside, and there, in front of all the other midshipmen, the marines,
the sailors, and yes, even the prisoners, given him such a fierce dressing-down
that Foyle's ears were still ringing.

Foyle directed a
baleful glance at the empty cabin.  His Lordship had gone ashore, and it was no
secret he was checking Rothschild's records against the ship's.  Foyle dreaded
his return, because if he found the discrepancies, heads were going to roll.

And two of those
heads would be his and Radley's.

Cold sweat ran
down his back, but at least he now had an ally, Admiral Bolton.  Fit to be
tied, the port admiral had come aboard first thing this morning, marching
straight to Morninghall's cabin, shutting himself inside, and hopefully giving
the bloody nob the lecture he so richly deserved.  Five minutes had passed.  Ten. 
Then the door had banged open and Admiral Bolton, red-faced and furious, had
emerged.  Immediately spying Foyle, he had called him aside.

"Ah, Mr.
Foyle."  Admiral Bolton had beckoned him with a fatherly arm.  "Walk
with me for a moment, will you?"

"Yes,
sir," Foyle had murmured, awed and flattered.  "Of course."

The admiral had
drawn him well away from everyone.  It had taken a few minutes for his color to
return to normal, but when he spoke, his voice was calm and friendly.  "I
couldn't help noticing that your captain gave you a good drubbing this morning,
Foyle.  What was that all about?"

Foyle had
swallowed nervously.  "I was late for my watch, sir," he'd lied. 
"But it wasn't
my
fault.  The captain had me scrubbing latrines and
nobody told me what time it was — "

"Scrubbing
latrines
? 
That's a pretty damned humiliating task for a young and promising officer like yourself,
isn't it?"

"Yes sir. 
Very
humiliating."  That part of it was true at least.  Morninghall
had
forced him to clean the prisoners' toilets, probably as punishment for letting
them get so bad in the first place.

"And
reprimanding you in front of your peers.  I can just imagine how embarrassed
and angry that must've made you feel."

"Yes,
especially as I didn't deserve to be punished in the first place.  But I'm
always getting blamed for things that aren't my fault, sir, things I didn't
do."

"It's
terrible when you find yourself with a tyrant for a captain, isn't it?  I bet
you'd just love to be transferred off this miserable hulk, away from that bastard
and onto a
real
ship."

"A frigate,
sir?" he'd asked hopefully.

"Hell, why
not?"  The admiral had rested his arm on Foyle's suddenly proud and eager
shoulders, just as a father or best friend might've done, and guided him to the
rail.  The fact that all the other midshipmen had been watching from some
distance away, green with envy over the attention he was getting from one so
powerful, had done much to take the sting and humiliation out of Morninghall's
earlier dressing-down.  At last the admiral had spoken, his eyes fixed on a
distant point somewhere out in the harbor.  "You know, Mr. Foyle, there
could be some . . .
financial reward
, let alone that transfer for you,
if you play your cards right.  Only thing standing in your way, my boy, is that
damned Morninghall."

Foyle had
swallowed hard, not daring to speak.

Bolton had still
been gazing over the harbor.  "What happened to that last captain?  Ah,
yes, prisoner uprising.  Got to watch those prisoners.  One spark and they go
off like a keg of gunpowder."

"Yes, sir .
. . we have several wretches aboard who are all too ready to start
trouble," Foyle had said, fidgeting with sudden understanding and
excitement.

"Hate
Morninghall as much as you do, do they?"

"Yes, sir,
just as much."

"Well, boy,
only you know what you want out of life.  Transfer, that frigate, a bit of
money on the side . . . ah, never mind.  Just the ravings of an old man, pay
them no heed . . ."

Pay them no
heed,
but the look in the admiral's eyes had bade him to do just the
opposite.

Admiral Bolton —
for reasons most likely connected to the outcome of a recent duel, Foyle
thought wryly — very clearly wanted the Marquess of Morninghall dead, and was
willing to pay highly to ensure the deed got done.  Foyle knew well how to
accomplish what the old man wanted, in a way that would never be traced to
either the admiral or himself.

Now, as he made
another stately turn about the deck, Foyle paused and, inclining his head,
motioned to one of the guards.

"Wilson?"

"Sir?"

"Bring me
that Frog prisoner, Armand Moret, up from below.  The one who's been making all
the trouble.  I understand he's been inciting the savages, and it's time
someone of authority had a
word
with him."

Wilson
brightened.  None of them liked Moret.

"Aye,
sir!" he said, his boots echoing on the deck as he hurried off to find the
Frenchman.

Foyle turned and
resumed his slow pacing of the deck, smiling.

If he closed his
eyes, he could almost see that frigate that Bolton had promised.

Chapter
14

The next two
hours passed in uncomfortable silence, with Gwyneth taking notes and
Morninghall, the ship's ledger at his left hand, Rothschild's records at his right,
saying no more than he had to as he waded through five months of figures.

His face was as
hard as a wall of flint, his eyes glittering with shame and anger.  It was
obvious his attack had severely compromised his pride, and Gwyneth knew that
only a fool would open her mouth and make mention of it.

Instead she put
on a businesslike face and made a note of each discrepancy His Lordship found,
wishing she could fix her mind on her task instead of on the way his hair
tumbled over his brow, sticking up through his splayed fingers as he rested his
forehead in his hand.  All through this silent scrutiny a niggling little voice
was making itself known in her mind.  Morninghall was not such an evil man
after all.  A baffling one, yes.  A potentially violent one, yes.  An arrogant,
intimidating, enigmatic, moody one, yes.  But not evil.  No man who took pity
on a suffering child was evil.

She silently
watched his finger moving down a column of figures.  What a lot she had learned
about him this afternoon . . .

She'd learned
that he did indeed have both a heart and a soul and, for some strange reason,
was fiercely reluctant to admit he had either.

She'd learned
that, when he felt threatened, he had the same kind of reaction that Morganna
used to get when frightened by thunderstorms.

And, she'd
finally admitted to herself that his kiss had left her unfulfilled, that she
was madly infatuated with him, maybe even starting to
like
him.

For despite
everything, he seemed to value her brain as much as he professed to want her
body.  These ledgers alone were proof of that.  Since the two of them had been
sitting here, he'd asked her opinions, sought and encouraged her input. 
William never would have let her help like this; William, dear as he was, simply
would have indulged her, patted her on the head, and, with a smile, told her to
leave such things to him.

Gwyneth
swallowed, feeling a sudden pang.  Although the very air cracked and simmered
around him, she wanted nothing more than to get up, go around behind his chair,
and thank him for treating her as an equal.  She wanted to put her arms around
him, tell him he had no need to be embarrassed or ashamed about the attack, no
need to hide behind a facade of ice or to think she was so cruel that she would
ridicule him.

But he would not
thank her for doing such a thing.  He was a man — magnificent and yes,
dangerous — and men did, after all, have their pride.  Better — and safer — to
keep silent . . . for now.

Still, it was
all becoming clear.  She'd been fooled — at first —by that satanic face, that
malevolent arrogance, that sinister, lethal grace that defined his every move. 
But now she was beginning to suspect the reasons Morninghall behaved as he did,
the reasons he kept everyone at a safe distance.  She thought about what he'd said
about his mother, how she'd hurt him, humiliated him and let him down.  She
thought about how the navy had done much the same thing.  Who could blame the
man for refusing to let anyone near him, when everyone and everything he'd
tried to trust in his life had failed him?

Not an evil
man, after all.

Rothschild,
however, was not so perceptive.  His waxy face was a study in dread as he
cowered in a nearby chair, understandably terrified of Morninghall.  As well he
ought to be, Gwyneth thought on a note of private glee, as she saw the marquess
slowly straighten up, his dark brows drawing together and his lips going tight
once more.

"Rothschild,"
he said in a hard, flat voice, without looking up.

"M—my
lord?"

"It seems
that a shipment of clothing was sent to the hulk on the twenty-first of
February.  Your records also show you were paid for this shipment in full. 
Correct me if I am wrong."

"That is
so," the contractor said nervously.

Morninghall
turned another page but still did not look up.  "Then why is it," he
murmured with frightening calm, "that when I consult the records in
my
possession, it becomes apparent that this order was never, in fact,
delivered?"

Cold, slate-blue
eyes lifted and locked on the contractors', and Gwyneth suppressed a shiver of
admiration.