A Matter of Grave Concern (35 page)

“Willy has family here, but they keep to themselves. They didn’t like my mother, accused her of thinking herself above them.”

“If they’re anythin’ like Willy, she
was
above them,” Miss Harper snapped.

Alexandra smiled at the spinster’s matter-of-fact tone. “I do have an aunt on my mother’s side.”

“The one Willy chased away when she came to visit?” Libby asked.

With a nod, Alexandra continued, “I hear from her every once in a while, but not often.”

“Where does she live?” asked Eliza, the young mother.

“In London right now. I received a letter not long ago saying her husband, who’s a military man, just received a post in India. The entire family is moving there—”

“When?” Libby pounced on the question so quickly, Alexandra paused from her work to look up in surprise.

She did a quick mental computation. “In less than a week.”

A sparkle entered the widow’s eyes at the same time a smile curved her cracked lips, and Alexandra began to shake her head. “No. I know what you’re thinking. I can’t go with them. I’ve thought of it and thought and thought, and I wouldn’t dare burden Aunt Pauline by foisting myself upon her. Besides, it’s probably the first place Willy would look—”

“They’re leavin’ the country. Ye just said so yerself,” Sarah put in.

“And ye could always work,” Miss Harper added. “Ye could be their servant, or the children’s governess, or just stay with them for a short while until ye found a post elsewhere—”

Alexandra held up her hand, trying to get them to stop because she feared the hope that their excitement fostered in her soul. “And how would I pay for my passage to India? I’ll not expect my aunt to carry the cost!”

Libby and Miss Harper looked at each other, then at the others, and soon smiles curled everyone’s lips.
“
’Tis almost noon,” Libby announced as Alexandra became the center of attention again. “The shirts for Mr. Cophagen are to be delivered after lunch, less than an ’our away. Madame Fobart’s skirts are due shortly after. Payment on such an order would be significant, if ye get my meanin’.” The widow fell silent, letting the suggestion of her words hang in the air.

Alexandra’s heart doubled its pace, even though her head still insisted she could never run to Aunt Pauline. “I only deliver our completed orders. Willy collects the money. You all know that.”

“Convince Fobart’s manager that Willy sent ye to collect for ’im,” Miss Harper said. “That mother of yers trained ye well. Ye could pass yerself off as a real lady if ye wanted to.”

“But Fobart’s manager has seen me dozens of times. He knows who I am. And I have no time to arrange anything with my aunt,” Alexandra argued. “She’s leaving in less than a week. It could easily take a letter longer than that to reach her.”

“Then ye’ll simply ’ave to convince Fobart’s manager that Willy’s ill an’ needs the money. An’ ye’ll ’ave to travel directly to London, and catch yer aunt an’ ’er ’usband before they set sail,” Libby replied.

“What better chance ’ave ye got?” asked Miss Harper.

A lump of fear congealed in Alexandra’s stomach because she knew Miss Harper and the others were right. Aunt Pauline might be her only hope. But what if the manager at Fobart’s refused her and told Willy what she had done? What if she didn’t make it to London in time?

She shuddered at the memory of the beating she’d received the last time she’d gotten the crazy idea to escape her stepfather, but slowly, she nodded and gave the others a shaky smile. Though the risks of their plan were great, it offered her a chance at freedom. A very slim chance. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll try it.”

Nathaniel Kent strode boldly to the bow, his good arm gripping a rope cable to help him keep his balance on the heaving deck, the other arm hanging useless at his side. The thrill of the chase surged through his body, heightening his senses and causing his heart to pound within his chest. His quarry was close to surrendering. It had to be. The merchant brig had tried to run, but there was no escaping the sleek, fast-cutting
Royal Vengeance
, not on a day like this, when the sun was high in the sky, the water as smooth as satin and the wind as steady as a camel plodding through the desert.

Still, Nathaniel wondered why the
Nightingale
didn’t return their fire; he knew she carried at least four thirty-two-pound cannons.

“What’s going on?” Mystified, he turned to Trenton, his lanky first mate.

Trenton shrugged. “Damned if I can say. I know we come as quite a surprise, but even the first ship we took offered up a better fight than this.”

“Still, I don’t see a white flag.”

“Should we blast ’em again?”

Nathaniel thought for a moment. “Aye, maybe a direct hit will convince them.”

The deafening roar of cannon clamored above the shouts of his men as four twenty-five-pound steel balls plunged into the sea somewhere near the stern of the
Nightingale
, sending large, drenching sprays of seawater across her decks. Smoke obscured Nathaniel’s view but soon cleared, rising like the ascension of a million ghosts.

“We got ’er!” someone cried.

A chorus of cheers resounded.

Nathaniel glanced back over his shoulder. His men were busy cleaning cannon muzzles so they could reload. He doubted such action would be necessary. Since the invention of the steam engine, pirates were a thing of the past, but the tales of their bygone era were not forgotten. Any good sailor could recount, and usually did, at least a dozen hair-raising stories supposedly experienced by someone in his ancestral tree.

Banking on the fear those tales engendered, Nathaniel knew it would only be a matter of time before the
Nightingale
surrendered. He smiled, enjoying the feel of the deck moving beneath his feet, the wind rushing through his hair, even the smell of battle—especially the smell of battle, for it brought him that much closer to his goal.

“There’s the flag,” Richard shouted, pointing toward the other ship. As unpredictable as a wild boar and twice as mad, Richard had been a member of Nathaniel’s crew for less than a year. “We got the bloody bastards!”

Nathaniel turned to look. Sure enough, a white flag rippled wildly in the afternoon wind, hoisted high on the brig’s mainmast. “Good girl,” he murmured to himself. “Now for your cargo.”

Moving quickly, he headed to the side of the ship where his men lowered a boat. He heard it splash in the water only seconds before he climbed over the side and jumped in. Trenton stayed behind to take charge of the
Vengeance
, but Richard and Tiny, a man the size of a bear, came with him.

Nathaniel listened to the rhythmic slap of the oars hitting the water as Tiny pulled for the other ship. The whine of voices from the
Nightingale
shifted on the wind. He couldn’t determine the words, but he could guess that expressions of surprise and dismay were chief among them.

When they reached her hull, Nathaniel turned to his men. “Are you ready?”

“I’m as eager as a sailor with his first woman,” Richard exclaimed. The barrel-chested Tiny merely nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Nathaniel scaled the rope that dangled to the water, climbing with the ease and grace that came only from experience, despite his bad arm. He was the first to stretch his long legs on deck. Richard and Tiny came behind.

An older man with iron-gray hair and long sideburns, evidently the captain of the
Nightingale
, separated himself from his crew almost immediately. He wore a new frock coat, but his face and hands were as crusty and battered as an old sea chest. “What in damnation do you think you’re doing, firing on this ship?” he asked.

Nathaniel hesitated before making his reply, letting silence establish his dominance better than any amount of talking could ever do.

Evidently the
Nightingale
carried passengers. Trunks, stacked in front of the artillery in great rows several feet deep, rendered the cannon useless in an emergency, making it little wonder that the other ship hadn’t returned the
Vengeance
’s fire.

“I’ll have an answer.”

Turning back, Nathaniel focused on the man who addressed him. “You’re hardly in a position to make demands,” he said smoothly, motioning toward the plethora of baggage stowed in front of the cannons and allowing his lips to curl into a smile.

The captain’s face reddened. “You’re a fool if you’re doing what I think you’re doing. There haven’t been pirates in these waters for nearly thirty years, and for damn good reason.”

Nathaniel’s smile turned cold as he let the hostility that smoldered inside him show in his eyes. “Considering your vulnerable situation, I’d certainly be careful who I called a fool, Captain—”

“Merriweather. Captain Thaddaeus C. Merriweather, and I’ve likely been sailing since before you were born.” The old gentleman opened his mouth to say more, then clamped it shut again, obviously struggling to contain the emotions that occasioned this unwelcome boarding.

“I am Dragonslayer,” Nathaniel replied. He was tempted to chuckle at the name, but he could hardly identify himself. Sobering, he scanned the faces of the
Nightingale
’s crew once again. He didn’t want any surprises. Captain Merriweather behaved like a proud old tar, and his men, collectively a hodgepodge of whiskers, tattoos and handmade clothing, looked almost as tough. Nathaniel wondered how they would have reacted had passengers and their attendant baggage not been a consideration.

“I’m glad you were sensible enough to surrender before there was any loss of life or limb,” Nathaniel said. “Especially because I mean no harm to your passengers or your crew. That is to say, we will harm no one as long as you cooperate,” he clarified, liking the old man in spite of himself. Obviously a relic from the old school, Merriweather cared about duty and honor. Men like him were entirely too rare.

Captain Merriweather’s chest expanded as if to draw one last breath before hearing the worst of it. “Providing your requests are within reason, we’ll cooperate,” he said reluctantly.

“Your destination is?”

“Liverpool.”

“As I thought. Your men will stand aside and keep all passengers out of the way. Some of my crew will board and unload what we can carry of your cargo. When we have what we want, we will leave. Peacefully.” Nathaniel gave the man a benign smile. “You will then be free to repair your ship and continue on your way. And of course, to carry the tale of our visit to your benefactor, the most fearsome and noble Duke of Greystone.”

Surprise lighted the old man’s pale blue eyes. “How did you know who owned—”

“I make it my business to know,” Nathaniel interrupted. He turned to Richard. “Send the signal.”

On the deck of the pirate ship, Nathaniel braced against the roll and pitch of the waves, listening to the hoots and hollers of his crew as they celebrated their victory. Rum flowed freely among them as first Richard, then his brother John, toasted everything from the speed of the
Vengeance
to Nathaniel’s estranged father, the very nobleman they had just confounded.

Nathaniel shook his head when Trenton brought him a mug. “Nay, I’ll not ask for a throbbing head come morning,” he laughed. “I’m sure the rest of you will drink enough for me.”

“Come on. ’Tis only our third ship. Certainly you’ve got a bit of celebrating left in you.”

Nathaniel smiled and relented, taking the proffered cup. “To future successes,” he said, and another cheer burst from those who heard him.

“To Mary. We owe what success we’ve had to her,” Richard added.

Lifting his cup high, Nathaniel took a long sip of the warm brew, then reached out to stop Richard before he could volunteer yet another toast. “Speaking of Mary,” he said to the burly, redheaded Scotsman, “when do we learn the position of our next target?”

Richard’s freckled face took on a mournful pout. “Ah, Mary. I’m afraid the lass is being a wee bit stubborn.”

“What do you mean?” Nathaniel asked in alarm. “You said she’d do anything for money.”

“Och, well.” Richard looked longingly into his drink, as though reluctant to be sidetracked at this particular juncture. “Now she claims the money does her little good. She can’t spend it, or her father will know she’s up to something and give her a thrashing.”