In the Arms of a Marquess (33 page)

Constance’s eyes glistened. “About the fire at the hunting box seven years ago. Ben did not tell you?”

“No.” But apparently he told everyone else everything.

“Walker set the fire.” Her voice quivered. “The fire that killed Jack and their father.”

“No. Oh.” Tavy could say no more. Her heart ached far too much, for him and for herself. He had kept this from her. How long had he known? Surely this morning when he sent her away from his house. “Why did Lord Styles lie about it? Wasn’t the fire an accident?”

“Ben does not know yet. He intends to discover the truth.”

Tavy’s breath caught, hot and sharp alarm darting through her. Her fingers scrabbled for her reticule and the envelope within.

“Marcus said that I was in danger, but that it was all in Ben’s hands now.” She pulled the letter from her reticule.

“He said you are in danger?” Constance’s face blanched. “But how could Lord Crispin know that?”

“Lord Styles blackmailed him. Ben said he had important business to attend to today, but I was so—”

Icy fingers dug into hers.

“Octavia, I told Walker about you and Ben. I am so sorry.”

“What did you tell him?” Tavy spoke to prevent herself from breaking for the door. She told herself she would know if he came to harm, that something inside her would feel it. But dread blotted out all else. He must have gone to confront Lord Styles.

“I told him of your mutual affection. Walker wishes to use you to hurt Ben.”

“He didn’t need you to tell him that,” Lady Fitzwarren interjected. “Anybody can see it plain as day whenever they are around one another.”

Tavy shook her head. “He let me believe it was only about that awful business, which is albeit quite an important matter, but—”

“What awful business?”

Tavy’s fingers tore at Marcus’s letter until the pages lay open in her hands. She consumed the words.

Dear Lord
.

“Is it about the fire? It was arson, wasn’t it?” Constance’s voice was strained.

Tavy disentangled her fingers and patted her friend’s hands, releasing a big breath and fixing a relieved look in her eyes.

“No. Not at all. I have figured it all out. This letter explains it.” She waved Marcus’s pages about. “There is nothing to worry about,” she lied, as though she did it every day with perfect ease. It was not her news to tell, she understood now. And she could not share with her friend the panic sluicing through her, the weakening fear. Not unless she discovered concrete reason to.

But oh, God, it mustn’t come to that.

She bussed Constance on the cheek and cast the dowager a bright look. “I must be off now.”

“Octavia Pierce, before you take another step explain yourself.”

“I will just make a quick call upon an acquaintance, Aunt Mellicent,” she said airily, moving toward the door. “Then I will return here directly and fill you in on all the details.” She flashed a quick smile and sailed out of the room.

Roiling stomach in her throat, she flew down the steps toward the carriage, gesturing for Abha to join her inside. The door closed behind them and she gasped in air. Her trembling fingers thrust the letter at him. Atop his shoulder, Lal clicked his tongue in agitation.

“Where would he go to confront Lord Styles? His house?” She stretched to wrap on the top panel. Abha stayed her hand, lifting his heavy gaze from the crumpled pages.

“To the ship. The noise. The privacy. He will lure him there.” Abha leaned out the door and gave the coachman directions. Tavy could not breathe.

Privacy to do what? Noise to disguise what sounds?

Carts and horsemen clogged the streets through the City toward the East India Docks. The carriage crept along. Tavy’s hands twisted in her skirts.

“Can we not go faster? This is unbearable. Quite as unbearable as anything I have experienced in seven years, only rather worse, actually. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“It is not the first time he has wished to protect you,
memsahib
.”

Her gaze snapped up. “Protect me?”

Abha’s hooded eyes looked intent. “He did so for seven years.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Upon your eighteenth birthday he hired me to watch guard over you.”

“Upon my . . . ?” Her tongue failed, and her heartbeat, her brain’s very functioning.

“Your uncle knew that he must take me in. He understood who Benjirou Doreé was, even if your aunt did not. Later, your brother-in-law suspected, but he asked nothing, although I never took payment from him. My service ended when we arrived in England.”

Tavy could not move.

“That lad you asked me about earlier,” he said when she remained silent. “All day he followed you. He works for him.”

Tavy’s lungs tightened. She turned her face away, but sobs formed in her throat, tears thick in her eyes. After an endless minute of strained silence, she pressed her fingers to the window and peered out.

“Is he in danger now?” She barely whispered the words. Her heart beat fiercely but she mustn’t cry.

“Yes.”

The sky was dark with sea-coal and cluttered with the masts and rigging of tall ships, the water of the Thames inky between vessels lined bow-to-stern in berths along the export basin. Tavy knew the place well. When her sister first married St. John, she had spent hours studying the sparkling new docks, warehouses, and offices, dreaming of one day traveling upon a great ship to distant, exotic lands.

Nine years later it looked different. The gatehouse and the wall surrounding the quays was the same, but the planks of the docks and quayside buildings were worn from constant use and soot, and even busier than when they had first opened. Sailors worked at lines and scrubbed decks, making ready to sail, while watermen rowed a galley alongside, patrolling for thieves. Dockworkers hauled cargo from laden carts aboard the closest ship, ropes squealing and three dozen men circling capstans like mules tied to a millstone, swinging the heaviest crates aboard over the rail.

With Lal clinging to her neck, Tavy dashed from the carriage and along the quay, Abha following in loping strides.

“How will we find him? How will we know which ship?” She fought back the fear.

“You already know which ship.”

Of course. Priscilla Nathans.

“You are his equal,
memsahib
,” Abha rumbled at her side, “as I have long known.”

Chapter 25

CANNONADING. Used in a vessel of war to take, sink, or burn the ship of an enemy, or to drive it from its defenses ashore.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

T
he top deck of the
Sea Bird
stretched long and empty below skeletal masts and yardarms and the loosening clouds overhead. No barrels or crates stood about waiting to be hauled below. No sailors labored at pitch and planking, line or canvas. No dockworkers tread the gangplank, loaded down with cargo. Not even a guard stood at the rail, surety against thieves still common enough on the docks despite Company proprietors’ efforts to halt such incursions into their profits.

Ben strode aboard and to the steps belowdecks. As a child in India he had learned the habits of snakes. They hid, waiting in the dark until their prey came to them.

Not bothering to quiet the clunk of his boots on the boards, he descended. The gun deck was low-ceilinged and dim, all but two gunwales at the far end closed to the daylight without. The air was close, warmer than above and stale, typical for a ship at dock.

A footstep sounded behind him. Ben turned. Styles stood in the doorway to the master’s quarters.

“Ah,” he drawled. “Come to finally speak to me directly, Ben? I wondered how long it would take you to muster the nerve.”

No nerve. Rather, desperate fear. He forced his voice to remain even. “As long as it will take you to begin to feel guilt over what you have done to Constance.”

Styles released a dramatic breath, audible across the deck empty of everything but three dozen cannon lined back-to-back along its length and still coils of rope.

“Constance?” He shook his head. “All you could say now, and you begin with her?”

Octavia could not be aboard this ship now. If Styles had her here, he would not delay in threatening. They had come too far for that now.

“Why did you do it, Walker? Why did you use Constance to get at me? You could have done so easily in any number of other ways. You have.”

A thin smile curved his lips. “I took enormous satisfaction in having her, Ben. Having the woman you never had the courage to take.”

Ben had never noticed before how Styles thrust out his chest when he spoke, like a fighting cock.

“Jack would despise you for what you have done to her. Even more so than because you murdered him.”

Styles’s eyes flickered darkly in the shadows, but he did not speak.

“You did not intend to kill him, did you? It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was an accident.”

The back of Ben’s neck prickled, his muscles tensing. Styles’s voice had quivered upon the words, but his hand slipped into his coat pocket.

“But you give yourself too much credit, you know. I would have had Constance anyway. That it affected you poorly only sweetened the conquest.”

“Misusing a woman already infatuated with you is not a conquest, Walker. It is selfish cruelty.”

He pursed his lips. “Bitter words. Spoken from personal experience, Ben?” He leaned his shoulder against the doorpost as though perfectly at ease. “Now tell me the truth. We are hiding nothing from one another any longer, after all. Is the indifference on your part a show, or does the fair Miss Pierce have you as twisted about her little finger as you have her about yours?”

“If you harm her, Walker, I will hunt you down like an animal and kill you with my own hands.”

“Ah. I suppose that does justice as an answer.” He smiled. “But aren’t you here now to kill me?”

Styles must not have her. Crispin’s fears were yet unfounded. Ben drew in a steadying breath and shook his head. “I am not.”

“Then you’d best get off this ship, because I, on the other hand, am quite prepared to kill you.” He drew a pistol from his pocket. Decorated with silver and ivory about the butt, it gleamed in the dim light. Slowly, he pulled his thumb back and cocked it.

“I understand this ship belongs to Crispin and Nathans.”

“Playing it a bit too cool, aren’t you, Ben? I am quite sincere in my intentions, you know.”

“You would have killed me years ago if you intended to, like you killed my father.”

“You only became a true hindrance to me when you learned of this business.” Styles waved the pistol, taking in the ship with the gesture. “And when I killed your father, I rid Britain of a dangerous man.”

“Dangerous? My father was a gentleman-politician. He hadn’t a dangerous bone in his body.”

“Indian-lovers should not rule Britain’s interests in the East, Ben. Jack knew that, despite your father’s infatuation.”

Ben stilled. So this was it. What he had suspected, now so clearly stated upon his old friend’s twisted lips.

“Jack did not care about India, Walker. He was perfectly happy with his brandy and birding. Politics were the farthest thing from his interests.”

Quiet descended in the space between them, the only sounds the creaking of boards and the lap of water against the hull, and the muted noise of commerce on the quay without.

“I could have influenced him.” Styles’s voice was gravelly. Alien.

“You murdered my father because you wished for greater control over his heir?”

“I brought a quick end to the greatest threat British interests in the East have seen in a century.”

“You wished to halt him from pushing through Parliament the bill that would have put the Company back into the hands of traders who—”

“Who had gone native. Like your father and his cronies. Men like those are a danger to England. A danger to us all.”

Ben stilled, certainty creeping through him like an opiate, twining in his limbs, numbing him.

“When did you begin this trade in humans, Walker?”

“A year after the fire.”

“A year after you murdered your best friend, a man who loved you like a brother.”

Styles’s nostrils flared, his breath forced now. “I never meant to hurt Jack.”

“Why didn’t you save him?”

A pause. “I tried.”

“Tell me how you tried. You owe me at least that.”

Styles bared his teeth in a scowl, but Ben knew he would speak. He had loved Jack, and whatever he and Ben were to each other now, they had shared that love.

“I set the fire in your father’s chamber, but it spread too rapidly. I pulled Jack from the bed. I dragged him.” He looked away into the deep shadows. “He was drunk. He would not come. He kept saying he was on the field at Waterloo amidst cannon shot, with Arthur.”

“So you left him to die, with my father and six innocent people.”

His gaze slewed back, sharp and glittering. “I hated you for what I had done. For a time, I did wish to kill you.”

“But then your arrogance overcame your grief. You thought you could influence me.”

“But no one can, can they?” He laughed, a round sort of contempt. “It doesn’t matter who you are, Ben, whatever it is you do with all those ships, or in that office. You are alone. You may hold a title, but you are not one of us. You will never be a true Englishman.”

Ben shook his head. “How you must have railed against fate when I came into the title instead of Jack.
Me
, a living incarnation of what you most despised. I cannot imagine. Frustration? Fury? So you sought another method for controlling associations between natives and Englishmen, providing wives for all those sailors and Company officials miles away from home. But you did not ask the girls first if they liked the idea. And then you treated them like cargo.”

Styles’s eyes narrowed. “My way will win, Ben, and yours will be trampled under the feet of men whose boots a mongrel like you should not even be permitted to shine.”

“Dirty words, Walker, and beneath you. But you have reached your end, and I think you know it or you would not have been waiting here for me like a snake under a rock. Fate has thwarted you at every turn and you are furious, not only that I discovered your crimes, but that I have never bowed to your natural superiority. You are an arrogant son of a bitch.”

“More arrogant than a man who comes to meet his enemy unarmed? You are a fool, Ben.”

Ben laughed, a dry, weary sound, an affectation perfected in a distant lifetime to depress the attentions of men and women he had used for information and no longer needed.

“What need have I of a weapon, Styles?”

Styles’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “You imagine that I fear you. I don’t.”

“Walker, the greatest difficulty I have had in these past days is in trying to imagine anything at all about your intentions and wishes.” He regarded him steadily. “But you do fear me.”

Styles said nothing. Then he pivoted, strode into the captain’s cabin, and returned with a sword in either hand.

Ben shook his head. “Come now. You know I will win.”

Styles threw a weapon forward. It skidded along the planking, jarring to a halt against Ben’s boot. The tip shone sharp in the dim light.

“No, Walker.”

“Fight me now, or I will shoot you.” He shook the pistol. “I have been carrying this for days for precisely that purpose, you know. Of course you know.” He laughed. “You know everything.”

Ben retrieved the rapier and palmed the hilt. Styles set the pistol down and came forward swiftly. Ben raised his weapon and parried the first attack, metal snapping against metal in quick clicks, echoing across the low-slung space. Styles drew back momentarily, scanning Ben’s easy stance with ever brightening eyes.

“Do you know, old friend,” Ben said quietly, “despite your hatred, I think you are confused.”

Styles came at him again, cheeks florid. Ben allowed him to advance, blades meeting in swift attack and parry, but Styles never pressed close enough for concern, and Ben did not riposte.

“You are a finer swordsman than this, Walker. You are not trying.”

Styles struck out again, blades clashing then the slide of release as Ben deflected the blow and steel clanked against the heavy black flank of a cannon, close to the hilt. Styles’s arm jerked aside and he grabbed his wrist with a strangled oath.

“Damn you, Doreé. You will not win.”

“I have already won.” He diverted another hit, pressing his opponent’s sword arm wide. “You cannot hurt me.”

“You are wrong.” Styles paused, his breaths labored, eyes glittering with something more than anger. With emotion deep and pained. “You did not deserve a brother like Jack. Or Arthur. You did not deserve their title. You don’t deserve any of it.”

Ben lowered his weapon. “I will not kill you, Walker.”

“Then I will kill you.” His sword clattered to the planking. He reached into his pocket, yanked out the pistol and cocked it anew. “Decide now.”

“I wonder.” Ben allowed his gaze to slip along the length of the steel in his own hand. “Is it the fear of being discovered by your fellow lords as a criminal, or your consuming guilt that frightens you the most?”

“Crispin is running scared. He won’t talk.”

“Yes, you have cleaned house very nicely. Jonas Sheeble is dead and you do not even own this vessel any longer. And yet here you are. Interesting.” He set the sword tip upon the floor. “The guilt will never fade, Walker. You know it won’t.” At the corner of his vision, movement stirred. On the stair rail, a tiny shape descended to the deck upon spindly legs, its long tail curled in an arc for balance.

Ben’s breath stilled.

No.

No.

Styles raised the pistol. “You have no proof against me. Watch me win now.”

Ben stepped forward, closing the distance between them slowly, every muscle tensed. “I could turn you in.”

“I have more friends in Parliament than you ever will. You cannot touch me.”

The monkey leapt off the stair rail onto the floor, then scampered atop a cannon. Styles’s head jerked around. Ben’s heart raced. Footsteps descended the steps and he nearly shouted, but the tread was heavy, the boots upon the boards a man’s. Abha.

But if Abha were here, she might be as well.

“The pistol is cocked, Abha.” Ben lifted his blade at the ready, gaze pinned to Styles as he moved away from the stair, dividing Styles’s attention.

Walker cracked an astounded laugh. “You think your henchmen can subdue me?”

“Not his henchmen.” Octavia’s sweet voice rang across the deck, and Ben’s heart twisted. “Only me.”

“Ah, Miss Pierce, welcome to our party.” He raised the barrel.

She paused on the lowest step, her bright gown like an exotic flower in the gloom. Only Abha’s thick body stood between her and Styles’s weapon, but her face was serene.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “But I am afraid this is a party you will not enjoy very much. I have in my possession a document written by Lord Crispin admitting to his guilt and giving wonderfully precise details concerning your shared illegal business activities. Quite a few names, dates, and monetary amounts, it seems, although I admit to only scanning the latter. I haven’t a head for figures, you know.”