Yankee Earl (44 page)

      
A light rain began to fall as they made their way through the muddy streets. Thick ocean fog masked every building in swirling mist. The wet cobblestones were slick and the footing as treacherous as the denizens of the waterfront taverns along the way. When they passed by one called the Blue Whale, an ancient sailor hobbled out, his peg leg tapping an uncertain rhythm on the street.

      
Approaching the bent form, Jason inquired, “Do you know where Beckworth's warehouse is located?”

      
The old man squinted through the fog-laden air, trying to make out the face that went with the cultivated voice. Dressed in bloody, torn Gypsy clothes and armed like a brigand, the Earl of Falconridge was not exactly a reassuring sight, even to one with impaired vision. “Why d'ye want to know?” he asked cautiously, lobbing a large mouthful of phlegm onto the already noisome bricks.

      
“I'm second mate signed on with the
Seasprite.
Jason Beaumont. This is our cabin boy, Cam Barlow. Our friend Ruben Fairchild was to meet us at the Mermaid,” he said, gesturing to another tavern at the opposite end of the street. “But he was taken by crimps. Someone told us they hold their ‘cargo’ at a deserted warehouse around here. Beckworth's. You ever hear of it?”

      
“Ye don't talk like no tar. Ye're not with the Customs, are ye?”

      
Jason laughed. “Believe me, the last thing me and my mates want to do is run afoul of those fellows! But we do have to rescue our mate from Beckworth's.” He produced a coin, letting it wink enticingly in the dim light emanating from the Blue Whale.

      
The old man seemed to relax slightly. “Ye'd best 'ave a care, then. Crimps in Bristol er like roaches in a cargo hold. I be able to guide ye to the ware'ouse,” he said, eyeing the shilling.

      
“If you can take us there and then do us another service, I'll see you get a sack of these,” Jason replied, handing over the coin.

      
“Wot do I 'ave to do, guv?” the old tar asked, taking the shilling in one filthy, gnarled old hand and stuffing it into his sash.

* * * *

      
Rachel strained against the bonds biting into her hands and feet. Useless. They had lashed her to a huge oak chair wedged into a corner. It was far too heavy for her to move—even if she had been able to get her feet on the ground, which she could not. Each ankle was securely bound with coarse hemp to a chair leg. She could not even chew at the ropes binding her wrists, because they had lashed her upper body against the back of the chair and stuffed a foul-smelling gag into her mouth. She could barely breath.

      
She was alone now, in utter darkness but for the slim line of light coming from beneath the door to the adjoining room. Thank God they had finally left her. Rachel Beaumont had never been so frightened in her life, not only for herself, but far more so for her husband and her young brother-in-law who were riding into a trap.

      
When she had awakened and attempted to cry out as they neared this hellish destination, Mace had laughed at her, then struck a blow to her head which had rendered her unconscious again. The next time she awakened, she was in this ghastly room, tied and gagged. Relieved that Bings had some reason for keeping her alive, she had puzzled over who would pay him to abduct her and had concluded it must be Forrestal.

      
How mistaken she had been…

Chapter Twenty-three

      
Jason explained to the old sailor what he wished him to do as they walked toward the end of a deserted pier on which sat a large two-story building. After they left the old man in front of the ugly structure and made their way through a narrow passage to the alley behind it, Fox whispered, “Do you think we can trust him, Jace?”

      
“Greed's a universal incentive, brother He wants that sack of shillings. I expect he'll do as he's told,” Jason replied as he eyed the tall structure speculatively.

      
“It seems to be deserted,” Fox volunteered as his gaze swept over the darkened windows in the upper story.

      
“Appearances can deceive, though. See that faint glow from the far window,” his mentor said, pointing to the broken glass panes about forty feet above where they stood concealed in shadows.

      
“How can we get up so high?” the boy asked.

      
“How, indeed,” Jason replied as they made their way closer, moving like two wraiths under cover of the fog.

      
They found a rusted old pipe for draining some sort of noxious substance, which cut through an adjacent wall. When tested, it proved sturdy enough to hold Jason's weight. Then the duo waited until a loud brawl broke out on the previously deserted street.

      
“Our peg-legged friend is earning his coin, I see,” Jason whispered as he began climbing the pipe. His injured thigh ached abominably, but he ignored it as he used his legs to grip the rough surface of the rusted metal.

      
Fox followed closely behind him until Jason reached the top of the pipe. From there he could lean over, precariously, and reach for the rotted edge of a windowsill. Although it would never have supported his weight, it could hold Fox. Jason boosted the lad past him and held him as the boy hoisted himself agilely over and unlatched the pane, then swung the window out and climbed inside.

      
The noise of the disturbance in front of the warehouse covered the squeak of rusty hinges and Fox's voice as he whispered, “Tis an empty hallway, Jace. Can you swing across now that the window is open?”

      
“No other choice,” Jason replied, trying not to look down at the bricks below. He reached for the open sash, then leaped from the pipe to grasp the rotted wood by the inside edge. After swinging by one arm for a moment, he was able to lever his other arm over the sash with help from Fox, then hoist himself through the small window, at some considerable expense to his now throbbing leg.

      
Both man and boy drew pistols from their sashes and began creeping down the long, dark hallway. Along the way Jason very carefully opened each door to see what lay inside. The first two rooms were deserted; but upon opening the third door, he could hear muffled sounds in the far corner. Motioning for Fox to be silent and stand guard inside the doorway, Jason made his way toward whomever was shrouded in the darkness.

      
The moment he drew near, he recognized her scent. Rachel! His hand found her hair, a tangled mess, then felt the tight gag binding her mouth. “Close the door, Fox,” he whispered as he knelt at her feet. His heart pounded and his head grew light with relief that she was alive. Pray God she was unharmed! As he drew his knife from his boot, it was all he could do to keep from raining kisses all over her beloved face.

      
At once she stopped struggling. “Shhh, my love,” he crooned as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Once he could see enough, he was able to slice away the kerchief holding the gag in place.

      
“Jason, this is a trap,” she croaked, her voice hoarse and weak.

      
“I know,” he whispered. As he worked to free her arms and legs, he rubbed the cruel abrasions to restore circulation where the rough hemp had cut into her wrists and ankles.

      
“Jace, someone's coming up the stairs,” Fox whispered.

      
“Give me a pistol,” Rachel hissed, as she stood up.

      
Jason handed her one of her own Clarks. “How many men does Forrestal have besides Bings?” he asked as he and Fox stationed themselves on either side of the door Jason had quickly closed.

      
“There are four more of them—but 'tis not Forrestal,” she murmured, making her way toward them just as the door swung open.

      
Garnet Dalbert's face was framed by the light of the candle in her hand. The instant she stepped inside, her expression shifted from a malevolent grin to twisted rage. “How did you—”

      
Before she could complete the sentence, Rachel moved as swiftly as a Whitechapel cutpurse. Raising the butt of her pistol, she struck the older woman a hard blow to the head. Mistress Dalbert crumpled to the floor in an ungainly heap as Jason deftly seized the candle from her nerveless fingers.

      
“She's been amusing herself with me, describing how they were going to drown me in the harbor, tightening that gag until I almost blacked out from suffocation. She's a Bedlamite, Jason, utterly mad! 'Twas she and her son who've been trying to kill you, not Forrestal.”

      
“Explanations will have to wait,” Jason whispered, silencing her with a kiss. “We have to get you to safety before our diversion out front ends.”

      
He pulled her behind him and led her and Fox from the room, leaving the candle on the floor with the unconscious Garnet Dalbert. They got no further than the stairwell leading to the ground level of the big warehouse when they heard Evelyn's voice.

      
“Back to your posts, you imbeciles! 'Tis only a bloody pack of drunken tars wandered onto the pier. You'd better not let them see light in here, or they might mention it in an alehouse and bring the watch to investigate.”

      
“I don't know, guv,” Mace replied, scratching his greasy scalp. “Wot made 'em come ‘ere so far from the taverns ta start a fight. I says I takes me a look.”

      
“We do not dare attract attention. Remain inside and keep a careful watch for Beaumont and that boy,” Simmons said curtly, turning on his heel. “I'm going to check the perimeter of the warehouse, then go see how Mother is doing with our bait.”

      
Mace spat on the filthy wooden floor and muttered beneath his breath, “I knows wot ye'd like to do wi' 'er, even though ye wouldn't let me 'av 'er.” He motioned for the three men Simmons had hired to slip back to their posts, watching the other door and windows around the big cluttered warehouse that Simmons Shipping had purchased only a few weeks ago and had not yet had the time or money to refurbish.

      
As the men shambled off, Mace's eye happened to stray to the rickety open steps leading to the second floor. He caught a flash of movement and at first assumed it was either that old hag coming down or her bastard of a son going up. But Mace Bings had been raised on the streets and his instincts were well honed. Whoever it was, was moving far too stealthily to belong here.

      
Disobeying Evelyn's orders, he bellowed, “Wot's goin' on ‘ere?” He started to run toward the stairs, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at the figure who slipped behind a half-collapsed wood crate on the landing. One of Evelyn's other men darted in from the opposite direction, also armed and ready to shoot the intruder.

      
Fox took careful aim and fired at the fellow nearest him. Rachel aimed at Mace, aching to repay him for her throbbing head and jaw. Fox hit his target cleanly, but Rachel's shot was off since Mace moved with amazing speed. He dived behind a pile of rubble, emitting an oath as her ball tore a deep gouge across his shoulder.

      
Jason used the confusion to vault over the railing and take cover beneath the stairs. He was just in time to send a shot dead center into another of the thugs, dropping him in his tracks. “Stay down and cover me,” he yelled up at his wife and brother, aware of the headstrong natures they both possessed. He knew that the truly dangerous adversary was Evelyn Simmons, who had vanished silently somewhere in the dark shadows of the vast, debris-filled warehouse.

      
Moving silently from crate to crate, he searched for Garnet's viperous offspring, wondering in dull amazement if his cousin Roger, too, was a part of this monstrous conspiracy. He did not see Bings until he smelled his blood and whirled to face the big ruffian's upraised knife blade. Before Jason could aim, Rachel fired.

      
This time she did not miss.

      
The last of the hirelings, desperate to escape from the trio of armed enemies, made a dash for the front door. He got no further than yanking it open before Fox fired his second pistol and the man crumpled whimpering to the floor, dropping his gun as he cradled his injured right knee.

      
Rachel peered into the darkness, looking for her husband, who had vanished into the bowels of the warehouse in search of Garnet's son. Cautiously she began descending the stairs with Fox beside her. Both were reloading their spent pistols as they moved. Then Rachel heard the sound of steel ringing on steel and knew that Jason had found his quarry.

      
“Guard that one,” she ordered Fox, who coolly aimed his pistol at the miscreant groveling on the floor. She clutched one reloaded Clark in her hand and stuffed the second one into the waistband of her skirt as she headed toward the fight.

      
Jason had the advantage of height, being taller than Simmons, but Garnet's son had a decidedly greater advantage in that he was using the blade from his sword cane. Both men were lightning-quick to thrust and parry, but it was, Rachel knew, an uneven contest. She wanted desperately to shoot Simmons, but the two men circled each other rapidly and the light was poor in the warehouse. She feared hitting Jason or distracting him.