My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (8 page)

“Aye, my lord,” Goodayle said, suddenly himself again.

“Exceptional,” Simon said, tenting his hands below his nose. “That leaves us with unfinished business, doesn’t it?” At Goodayle’s harried nod, he continued, “I cannot believe Holt infiltrated Nelson’s Tea with every intention to defeat it. Someone found a way to use him against us. Nelson’s death was the trigger.”

“Who, my lord?”

“That, my good man,” he said, pointing his finger aloft, “is what I’m going to find out.” He turned to leave then faced Goodayle again. “Make sure Russell has everything he needs at his disposal. Alert me right away if the baroness’ condition changes before I return.”

“Yes, my lord.” Given something productive to do, Goodayle bowed his head and retreated down the hall.

Simon faced the mahogany scrollwork decorating the entrance to the study. Inhaling deeply, he gripped the door handles and stepped into the room, turning to quietly close each door behind him. With little effort, he gave his library a thorough once over, noting the fire blazing in the hearth. He moved to the fireplace, flanked by floor to ceiling bookcases and deftly grabbed the third Grecian medallion frieze from the right, moving the circular dial left, one and a quarter turns. A mechanism inside the wall slipped into gear, popping a wall of books outward. Simon eased the bookcase open, turned another knob, and watched the hidden aperture close before making his way into the tunnels beneath the townhouse.

“Who sent you?” the angry voice drifted to him in the darkness.

Another one followed. “How could you betray us?”

The same questions riddled Simon’s brain. Why? Did Holt have anything to do with the diminishing legacies left by deceased aldermen and merchants in Langbourne Ward, funds meant to help the poor frequenting St. Dionis Backchurch? Why would the head of a church dependent on parishioners dip into an ecclesiastical pie? Had someone found out? Was Holt being blackmailed? A man was innocent until proven guilty, but the fact that Holt had tried to kill him alarmed and convinced Simon of horrifying negligence.

Simon moved through the winding tunnel, suppressing his guilt, registering the irate voices, and once or twice Holt’s pain-induced shouts of denial. The noise drew Simon like a fly to sweet meat.

Within a matter of minutes, he reached a secluded room nestled behind an iron door. It was via this route Garrick and his men, Douglas and Melville had passed to reach the outside world. And Simon knew this was where he’d find Percy and those who remained to witness Holt’s interrogation.

He brushed sediment and cobwebs off his sleeves and straightened his coat before opening the door. The hinge grated loudly, announcing his presence.

“Should you be here?” Percy asked, looking up then moving away from Holt. His white wig and fashionable attire were gone. Here, this man was in his element, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, drops of blood splattered across his chest. His knuckles were red and swollen, and he rubbed them momentarily when Simon walked in.

Simon ignored the worrisome expression on Percy’s face. It was Holt he wanted to see, seated mid-room, struggling against his bonds.

The rugged looking vicar cried out, “P-Please, m-my lord.” He dropped his face to hide his trembling chin. “You must believe—”

“I believe you tried to kill me.”

The vicar sobbed. “I didn’t—”

“No. You did not. I’m only alive today because of the baroness. There will be no negotiations,” he snapped, his tone sharp. He moved closer, near enough to look into the vicar’s bruised, guarded eyes. He distinctly wanted to know why Holt had nearly robbed him of the one person he’d ever wanted, desired at his side. “Why?”

Holt sniveled. “Is she d-dead?”

In a fit of fury, Simon backhanded Holt. The vicar’s head rebounded then sagged toward his chest. “She’s alive, no thanks to you.” He raised his fist to strike again.

Percy caught his hand. “No, Simon.”

“I
want
answers,” he ground out between his teeth.

“
I
will get your answers.”

Holt’s eyes widened. “N-No! You cannot leave me w-with
him
!”

Simon didn’t want anyone else to interrogate the cleric. “I want to deal with you myself,” he said, venom dripping from his words.

“You’re too emotionally invested, more likely to kill Holt than any of us. If you do, we’ll never find out
who
sent him.”

Lucifer take Percy’s rationale. As always, it was spot on. “I’ve no intention of killing him. Maiming him, perhaps, ensuring he suffers unimaginable pain, but not killing him.”

Clemmons and Stanley joined Percy, slapping their palms together, a look of expectant glee on their faces while Winters and Edwards played a game of Twenty-One. Hamlet had taken up residency in the corner, sketching out Holt’s interrogation. Chapman sat beside him, jotting down notes as if he took minutes. Whitbread gleamed over a mug of ale, as Forsyth brooded in the corner, arms crossed over his chest.

The latter nodded to Simon. “Lucien, Collins, Cavendish, and Walden are dead, m’lord. Whitbread claimed Holt had something t’do with Walden’s death. I’m eager to find out if ’tis true.”

“I like nothing better than to discover the truth myself,” he said, discarding his coat in preparation for a long night.

Forsyth’s revelation didn’t surprise him. Walden and Forsyth had grown up in Aberdeenshire and, having hidden their Scottish ancestry and brogue, Forsyth probably felt Holt’s betrayal as much as Simon did.

Had Holt been involved in Walden’s death as Forsyth claimed? Lucifer take it, how long had the vicar been undermining their efforts?

Simon clung religiously to Nelson’s code. Unorthodox, dangerous, the policy helped them tread a thin line.

1. Induce the enemy, tempt him to react.

2. Ensure capture.

3. Be on hand to assist friends.

4. Maintain coolness in deliberation.

5. Execute with astonishing heroism.

Aye, every one of them had invested in this logic. It was second nature to them now.

Simon approached Holt. “Let’s begin.

Henry, silently stationed at Holt’s side until now, moved to stand in front of Holt. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, my lord.”

Simon glared at Henry. “Do tell.”

Percy, lounging against the table, inspected the state of his fingernail. “It isn’t like you to get your hands dirty, old man.”

Percy was right. In the years since they’d been part of Nelson’s Tea, Percy and Garrick had been the ones he’d relied on to take care of the ‘ugly details.’ It had been easy work for Garrick. His winner-take-all attitude allowed for risks, which had led to his incarceration in Spain. Not only had adhering to the code kept the pirate sane throughout his ordeal, it had helped Garrick find ways to escape interrogation.

Would Holt last as long? Not if Percy was involved.

Percy was a different beast altogether. While outwardly he took great effort to appear a man of delicate character, averse to atrocities — his intent — inwardly Percy was ruthless, a man who’d use whatever means necessary to glean every last piece of information an enemy could dispense. He’d scoured England on a nine-month mission to uncover his sister’s killers on Captain Frink’s ship
The Striker
. No one knew suffering and deprivation like Percival Avery, a man whose entire family had been taken from him by a vengeful lunatic. No one but this duke by day, rogue by night could mete out punishment and obtain the identity of Simon’s would-be assassins.

Stanley moved forward. “Sir, I wish to kill the bear that I might carry its skin to my father.”

Holt struggled against his bonds.

Winters dropped his cards, rose, and spoke next. “Officers are born to command, seaman to obey — when this fails, there is always the cat.”

Sweat began to bead on Holt’s forehead. “Please,” he said, pleading for Simon to intervene. “Have m-mercy.”

Did Holt seriously think his pitiful attempts to attain Simon’s acquittal would work? “Nelson’s words, not ours, Holt,” Simon said. “You stand before us convicted by Nelson’s law. The very one you swore to uphold.”

“I only owe allegiance to God,” Holt confessed through cracked, swollen lips. “Nelson was a man, an adulterating, vain man.
You
are only men!”

“More than men,” Whitbread said, shoving his ale away then rising to move swiftly toward Holt. “Friends. And there is no commandment more extraordinary, vicar. Blessed is he who lays down his life for his friends.”

“You won’t get away with this. People in high places will look for me. My congregation. My fellow clergymen.”

“Only God can save you now.” Henry chortled. “No captain can do wrong if he places his ship alongside the enemy.”

“Leave Holt to me, Simon,” Percy implored. “Your place is with Gillian.”

Chapman, ever in the employ of
The Gazette
, put down his feathered quill. “There is only one option, my lord. Holt must disappear. His removal will surely send a message to whoever put him up to
this
,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Percy grinned wickedly. “My thoughts exactly.”

Simon’s anger simmered just beneath the surface. His brief loss of control and his brash actions behind him, he contemplated Holt’s fate with deadly calm.

“What you propose will surely rock the foundations of Nelson’s Tea, setting off a chain of events certain to endanger every last one of us.” More importantly, Gillian, though she’d already been targeted.

Percy popped his knuckles in one swift action. “And when, I ask you, have we run away from danger, eh?”

Laughter settled over them, masking the turmoil Simon knew each one of them felt inside. The road they chose led to unconscionable suffering. They were declaring war on the person or persons involved in Holt’s descent from grace.

“You cannot do this!” Holt raged when Simon put his coat back on in preparation to leave.

“Oh, but there you are wrong, vicar.” At Clemmons’ and Stanley’s nod, Percy moved closer. “As a peer, I answer only to my sovereign. As a pirate, I’m at liberty to do whatever the hell I please.”

For there must be fine Lords and fine Ladies;

There must be some little, some great;

Their wealth the supply of our trade is,

Our hands the support of their state.

Here’s a health, &c.

~Song, Anon, The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV February 1805

“Gillian.”

She blinked, squinting as bright light and a familiar voice fractured the peace she’d found in darkness. Tinkling porcelain and the swish of a woman’s skirts tickled her senses. She moaned and opened her eyes, clenching her jaw to hold back the sob threatening to burst from her throat.

“Gillian?”

Simon had always known how to reach her. And there was no way Gillian could resist the pull he had on her soul.

She rose to claim reality only to find it hurt to think, to open her eyes. There was a throbbing pressure on her side. But it was the sound of Simon’s pain, his misery and heartache that frightened her most. She wanted desperately to put an end to it.

Warmth spread through her hand as he held her fingers between his, squeezing them tightly before placing a cool compress on her forehead and smoothing errant strands of hair away from her face.

“Come back to me, my love.” His quivering voice fueled her, giving her life. It was laced with a hint of torment and fatigue similar to the time they’d sought refuge on the banks of the Thames. That mission had not ended well.

She parted her numb, thick, chapped lips to speak. But when she tried to make a sound, her own voice vibrated in her head like thousands of birds screeching at once. She winced and moaned.

“Shhh. Easy now, Gillian. Shhh. Take it slow.”

Why was it so hard to concentrate? She fought to fill in the details of her foggy thoughts. A gunshot echoed somewhere in her distant memories, making her quiver. How long ago had it been? Who had been in danger? Suddenly, she remembered.

Holt had tried to kill Simon!

She spring up from the bed. Was Holt still in the room? Had that been a dream? Was Simon really present or was she hallucinating? Had she failed to protect him? Was he dead?

“Holt!” she finally managed to say aloud.

“You needn’t worry about him. He’s being dealt with.”

Dealt with? The brevity of the situation hit her fully. Holt was either dead or close to it. That wasn’t good enough. Good God! She wanted to kill the man herself!

She tried to conjure pity for the poltroon but couldn’t. He’d tried to kill the man she loved, just when their fates had been destined to join. Everything within her rebelled and she took a steadying breath to calm down. “Take me to him.”

“You are in no condition to go anywhere.”

“Take me to him,” she cried.

Simon leaned away from her, frowning, distancing himself. “Are you afraid he’s still alive, or do you want to make sure he’s dead?”

“I want to kill him!”

He put his palm on her chest and gently pushed her back against the pillows. “No,” he said with finality. “I will not allow you to put yourself in jeopardy again.”

His words cut her to the quick, but his commandeering tone didn’t dissuade her. She struggled to sit up without his assistance, grimacing as she worked up on her elbows.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to ease her back down again. “You are supposed to be resting.”

“I’m going to take care of Holt myself to ensure he never tries to kill you again.” She lifted her arms to ply the top of her hair with her fingers then rejoiced when she found the small knife she kept hidden there. She lowered her arms and brandished the blade before Simon, swish-swashing a semicircle.

Daisy screamed and turned to Russell. “You didn’t get the knives?”

“Knives?” Russell turned a strange shade of pink. “I’m a doctor. Not a weapons expert.”

“You know the baroness ’ides weapons on her person. Surely you didn’t neglect to check her ’air during your examination.”

“I do not arrange hair, Daisy. That is your job.”

Gillian blinked. The status of her hair or what she hid there was none of their concern. Only one thing mattered — making sure Holt never hurt anyone again. Pain stitching her side was nothing compared to the possibility Holt would get another chance to kill Simon and ruin everything he and Admiral Nelson had worked so hard to achieve.

“We have to find out who sent him, what we’re up against,” she said, her brain and mouth finally working together. “Where’s Holt, the sniveling coward? I’ll carve out his heart.”

She ground her teeth together and smacked Simon’s hand away, struggling to place her legs over the side of the bed.

Russell stepped forward, stretching out his hand. “Baroness, I don’t recommend—”

“You should be resting,” Simon said unfalteringly, cutting Russell off.

She didn’t care. She had opened her heart and home to Reverend Albert Holt. Under her tutelage, he’d abused her generosity — her trust. If only she’d known from the beginning who the vicar had pledged his loyalties to. If only she’d been able to sense there was something false about him. Perhaps then she could have spared them all what they were going through now.

Her mind was a whirl of motion as she sought a tangible fact, image, word he might have said that would have keyed her in to his true intentions.

The weight of guilt proved too much. The room spun.

“What did we miss?” she asked as Simon firmly gripped her arm.

Dizziness weakened her knees. Her vision blurred. She cast a questioning glance at Simon, Daisy, and Russell. Their faces flashed in and out of view. She grasped her side and grimaced with pain, bracing the throbbing flesh there with her hands. One look down at the red color leeching through her white shift proved her undoing. Her stomach roiled. She bent forward, clasping her side, fighting the urge to retch. Thankfully, Simon caught her just as her legs gave way, bracing her close to his chest.

“Take me to him,” she pleaded, clawing at him in vain.

“You are going to rip your stitches out. No need to worry yourself. Percy has Holt.” He ushered her back into a sitting position on the bed then gingerly eased her back on the pillows. He snapped at Russell over his shoulder. “I thought I told you I didn’t want Gillian taking any laudanum.”

“She hasn’t, my lord. I gave her a tonic of saffron. I cannot bear to see a woman suffer.”

“Lucifer take it, Russell! You must have given her too much!”

“Or not enough,” Daisy added.

“Never mind,” Gillian pleaded. She narrowed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of pain shooting from her hip to her thigh and released an exasperated sigh.

Simon jerked his head back to her. “Never mind? I cannot bring myself to think what—”

“Do not quarrel over me.” She winced as she grabbed Simon’s hand more insistently. He’d said Percy had Holt.
No no no.
That wasn’t any good at all. “Where is Percy?”

Percy would kill the vicar before she was healthy enough to get her hands around his throat. She wanted to be present when the light went out of Holt’s eyes. She simply couldn’t be happy until she had proof he was dead.

Simon didn’t answer. Close-lipped Daisy and Russell stood nearby, dropping their heads, refusing to offer any helpful information.

She changed strategy. “Where’s Garrick? Perhaps he will tell me what I want to know.”

Simon blinked, shifted positions then cleared his throat. “I… sent him to Spain.”

“
You
sent him… where?” Without thinking, she bolted upward. The sudden movement produced another sharp pain. Her breath hitched in her throat. Near tears, she collapsed back on the pillows.

“It couldn’t be helped,” Simon explained.

Distraught, she placed trembling fingers on her throbbing temples, hoping to rid herself of the urge to scratch his eyes out. “What did you give me, Russell? I believe my hearing has been affected.”

“Saff—”

“You heard me fine, Gillian,” Simon said flattening his lips, dismissing her scorn. “
I
sent Garrick to Spain.”

“No,” she implored, “surely you are not real. This must all be a dream. The Simon I know and love would never purposefully send Garrick back
there
. Not now. Not ever.”

A fresh wave of nausea and panic swept over her. Good God, Garrick had barely recovered from his last foray to Spain. And Simon had sent him back? Would he survive or return with his sanity intact? She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for the pirate.

Several tense moments passed before she shouted, “Are you in-insane?”

Simon didn’t flinch. “My state of mind isn’t in question here. Garrick’s voyage to Spain cannot be helped. He’s the only one of us capable of getting into San Sebastian without detection. He speaks the language. The Seatons have contacts there.”

The seriousness of his decision reflected in Simon’s eyes. His icy stare chilled her to the bone. And yet, she wasn’t convinced.

“Adele does too. Send… Henry. Adele can accompany him.”

“Henry is busy elsewhere.”

Her eyes felt like they were battling each other and her stomach rebelled. But she wouldn’t stop fighting for Garrick, no matter what it cost her. “What is so important that you’d send a man back into hell for it?”

A baffling aversion washed over his face. “More than the life of one man — our future.”

Their future? What was the likelihood she would ever be happy knowing Simon had knowingly sent Garrick back to face his demons? She squared her shoulders and raised her chin defiantly. “Nothing better happen to him.”

“Shhh, now. Leave Garrick to me. He’s stronger than you think.”

“What I think doesn’t appear to matter,” she snapped.

Simon sighed heavily. “I want you to concentrate on getting well. When you’re ready, I’ll reveal more about Garrick’s mission. First, there are things I must know.”

“What things?” Heaven help her, she wasn’t ready to discuss anything pertaining to the two of them. Not after his insensitivity about Garrick. “You appear to have everything under control. What could you possibly want to know?”

Daisy moved quickly to pick up Gillian’s discarded clothes.

Russell blanched. “It’s time to leave, Daisy.”

Daisy didn’t hear him. Transfixed, she stared dumbfoundedly at the blood on Gillian’s dress.

“Daisy? Come along,” Russell said, reaching out a steadying hand. “Don’t be so squeamish.”

“Oh no, sir. My constitution is sound. It ’tis only…” Daisy’s forlorn gaze settled on Gillian. “I never dreamed you’d come to ’arm ’ere, m’lady.” She dabbed a tear streaming from the corner of her eye. “If you ’ave need of me, I’ll only be down the ’all.”

Gillian’s heart thawed. She and Daisy had grown close over the past four years. She reached out her hand and smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

Daisy moved forward, gently grasped Gillian’s hand between hers, raised it to her lips and curtsied. Then laying Gillian’s hand gently back on the bed, she exited the room behind Russell.

The hurt she’d seen in Daisy’s eyes made her frown.

“What is wrong?” Simon asked, testing her forehead with the back of his hand. “Are you in pain?” He caressed her cheek softly.

“’Tis nothing.” She settled her head gently back on the pillows, torn by conflicting emotions. Inwardly, she mourned to get back the hope, now lost, she’d clung to for so long.

“You cannot lie to me.” Simon’s green eyes softened. His stare was no longer brutal and assessing, but filled with sympathy and adoration. “How do you feel?”

She took inventory of her body, testing her fingers and toes. They appeared to work quite well. She shifted her knee and felt an unmerciful pinch in her right side. Lowering her head, she glanced down at the counterpane.

“Exactly how bad is it?” she asked. Simon would tell her the truth. Lying to her wasn’t in his nature.

He seemed taken aback. He raked his hand through his hair. “You are lucky to be alive. The bullet barely missed a major artery.”

She sensed he wanted to tell her more, but didn’t. Russell had been silent as the grave, unusual for a man who spent hours giving her lengthy descriptions of surgeries pertaining to members of Nelson’s Tea.

“There is something else you and Russell aren’t telling me, isn’t there?”

He eyes took on a moist sheen as he nodded slowly. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

“Related to the surgery?”

“To the bullet he took out of you.”

“What did Russell tell you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes, lowering her voice to a whisper.

Simon’s voice broke. “Gillian.” His throat bobbed strangely as if he couldn’t get enough air. “He said it is unlikely you will ever be able to carry… a child.”

Her breath caught. What? She clutched Simon’s arm. “No… children? But he must be wrong. Tell me he is wrong, Simon!”

His voice broke, “I’m sorry, my love. I cannot.”

A sob tore out of her mouth. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Grief and despair instantly gripped her. Wasn’t it enough Holt’s betrayal had nearly taken Simon’s life? No children? Over the years, she’d clung to the idea that someday
she’d
be able to give Simon a child. But like Simon, then Lucien and Admiral Nelson, this too had been stolen from her.