Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (15 page)

Two Days Later

Isabel dressed the part of a lady. In a dove grey gown of French silk with velvet accents the color of midnight, she was both elegant and entirely forgetful, just the way Owen suspected she wanted it.

She disembarked from the hackney in front of the Hotel Belafort and examined the tall edifice. He sat inside the coffee room by the front window and watched her. He'd come ahead of time to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the hotel. Until they got to the bottom of these matters, he didn't want Isabel alone with Phineas Kitteridge — whoever he was.

The hotel door opened before Isabel reached it. She was Giselda Fairweather now, and she ignored the liveried man holding the door. With a step both delicate and purposeful, she made her way into the hotel's foyer. Hers was not the role of someone who sought answers. Miss Fairweather would wait until someone came to her. Owen marveled at the way she wore her haughtiness. No one watching her would ever doubt she'd been raised to believe she was superior to everyone around her.

She didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, the gentleman from the front desk approached, his posture bowed rather like someone approaching royalty. "What can I do for you today, my lady?"

"I am to meet Phineas Kitteridge. I'll expect tea while I wait." She handed him her pelisse, then she angled away, giving the man a view of her back as she made her way to the parlor Owen had told her about. Her dress whispered becomingly about her as she moved, and Owen fought the urge to picture the form beneath.

Isabel moved to the opposite side of the table, allowing her to face the door. Owen still had a partial view of her — enough to know she sat on the edge of her chair, back ramrod straight, and eyes narrowed disapprovingly as a serving girl brought her a tea tray.

"Would you like me to pour for you, m'lady?"

"I think not." Isabel kept her answer short and her voice disdainful. "Has Mr. Kitteridge been informed of my presence?"

Owen could see the way the serving girl's hands shook. The girl probably felt she was facing an executioner. "We sent word, m'lady, but I'm afraid he refuses to come until he knows who waits for him."

Isabel offered a barely concealed smirk, a well-calculated move. The girl would wonder if the lady's displeasure was aimed at her or Mr. Kitteridge. Pulling her lips back in a subtle sneer, Isabel told the girl, "You may tell him Miss Fairweather awaits him."

The girl half-bowed and half-curtsied as she backed out of the room. "Of course, m'lady, and I'm so sorry for the trouble."

She scurried along the floor, her shoes making a quick
clack-a-ta-clack-a-ta
sound as she approached the waiting front desk manager. Owen's dislike for the man grew. He'd made the poor girl face the lady rather than ask who she might be himself.

Owen bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile that wanted to spread. Isabel was perfection. If she were too kind, people would remember her. If she screamed out a harridan's tantrum, they would remember her. Quiet, calm, and disdainful — she would blend in with every other haughty person to have come through their doors. No one would be able to recall her at all.

Phineas Kitteridge made his way down the grand staircase, his movements as graceful as the last time Owen had seen him. He would be a success of great magnitude in the ballrooms of London. Every debutante would want to dance with him. Phineas carried himself as a man who would never step on a girl's toes. Instead, he would glide her around the dance floor with such grace that, no matter how clumsy she may be in real life, in his arms she would appear so elegant men would line up with offers of marriage.

Owen shook the mental image. If he imagined Phineas dancing with the women of the
ton
it wouldn't be a huge leap to picture him dancing with Isabel. Besides the jealousy evoked by that particular thought, there was the small problem of Phineas being a dead traitor, which quickly transformed Owen's mental imaginings into a nightmare.

He shifted his eyes to Isabel. From where he sat, Owen saw a portion of her face. Leaning forward in his chair gave him a better view. He wanted to watch her eyes when Phineas walked into the salon. Isabel's reaction would tell him a lot about who this man was — or wasn't.

As Phineas reached the bottom of the stairs and moved toward the salon, Owen half-rose from his seat. The urge to intercept the man and protect Isabel was strong, but he needed to let this play out. The same name did not always mean the same man. But still… after what Isabel had told him… Owen's muscles tightened in preparation. He left his table and moved as unobtrusively as possible into the foyer.

He might have been able to see Isabel's reaction from where he'd been seated, but it wasn't close enough to suit him. What if she needed him? Owen swallowed as he realized he was more anxious about this meeting than their planned mission on the ship. His palms itched in anticipation, and sweat trickled down his back.

Then it happened. Phineas stepped into the salon, and Isabel kept a studious look on her face. Her brow wrinkled, but she showed no fear. Her eyes didn't widen, her nostrils didn't flare, and the hand holding her teacup didn't offer even the most miniscule of clenches. Either she was a much better actress than Owen realized, or this was most definitely not the dead Phineas.

Owen slipped into the room, assuming his role. "I'm so sorry to be late, Miss Fairweather. I got delayed at the bank seeing to those accounts you asked me to look into."

Isabel's chin rose by a degree. "I assume everything is resolved."

"Of course. May I introduce Mr. Phineas Kitteridge? He'll be accompanying us to the ship today."

Phineas played his role and brought Isabel's hand to his mouth, brushing his lips ever so lightly across her gloved knuckles. "It's a pleasure to meet such an exquisite creature as yourself, Miss Fairweather."

Isabel dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Do either of you gentlemen wish to partake of tea, or shall we be off?"

Phineas answered for them both. "Whatever you wish, my fair lady. We are but mere mortals here to do the bidding of a goddess."

Owen fought the urge to roll his eyes. Phineas would indeed fit in perfectly if he ever spent a season in London.

Meanwhile, color rose in Isabel's cheeks. She was too smart to be taken in by his lavish flattery. Wasn't she? Surely irritation is what gave color to her countenance…

****

The trio arrived at the docks. Stylish, the carriage Phineas supplied was well suited to their purpose. They disembarked, and Phineas took the lead. Isabel followed behind him, lifting her skirts enough to show her dislike of the unseemly environment but not enough to show any ankle. Again, the perfect lady. Owen came last, his posture and mannerisms those of a man browbeaten on a day-to-day basis by a harsh taskmaster. He carried ledgers and papers tucked under his arms for effect.

In a voice barely above a whisper, Owen said, "You knew before you arrived, didn't you?"

Isabel spared a quick glance back. "I had a friend investigate. I don't know who he is, but he's not the Phineas I remember."

"Did you plan to ever tell me?"

The look in Isabel's eyes might have passed for apology, but her words were lost as they reached the edge of the dock and they both needed to keep their attention in front of them.

Phineas led them up the gangplank and onto the
Âne Hurlants
. Men were unloading cargo, and Phineas made no attempt to get out of their way. Those laboring in the midmorning fog gave Phineas the same sort of looks they gave rats early in a voyage — revulsion. Or wicked delight at having found a new creature to torture for entertainment. After one man stared particularly long — because he couldn't move until they passed — Phineas said something under his breath. Owen didn't catch it, but the man straining to keep his grip on the crate heard it well enough. He dropped the crate with the sound of cracking wood and took a menacing step toward Phineas. A couple other sailors grabbed ahold of the man and pulled him back.

"It's not worth it."

"Don't get worked up over the sorry bloke."

Whatever Phineas had said served its purpose, though. The path to the captain's cabin cleared posthaste, and they made their way along without further delay.

Before Phineas could lift a hand to knock on the captain's door, a man approached from their left. "What can I do for you?" The man was a sight cleaner than the others on deck but didn't carry himself like a captain.

"Are you the quartermaster?" Phineas' voice was more nasal than usual.

"Aye. What are you here for?"

Phineas declared, "We are here to collect a cargo registered to Giselda Fairweather."

The quartermaster's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Perhaps if you check your inventory list you'll find mention of it." Despite his annoying voice, Phineas was congeniality itself.

Without bothering to glance at the inventory papers he already carried, the quartermaster glared at Phineas. "I'm to release the cargo to Lord Rutherford alone, and I don't see him here."

Isabel took a half step forward and lifted a delicate gloved hand in a ladylike gesture the quartermaster ignored. "I am Giselda Fairweather. Lord Rutherford perished, I'm afraid. Thank you for your vigilance in not releasing the cargo to anybody else." Her voice was both demure and commanding at the same time. "Lord Rutherford assured me he could trust this crew. I'm glad to see his faith in you wasn't misplaced, but it's urgent I take possession of the cargo at once."

The quartermaster glanced back and forth between the three of them before he gave his head a small shake. "I'll need proof. How do I know Lord Rutherford is deceased? Until you can prove to me you have permission to access this cargo, it'll be staying where it is."

Owen made a big show of digging through the papers in his ledger. "I've got all the documentation you need, sir." Then, feigning agitation at being the center of attention, Owen dropped both ledgers, and papers scattered across the deck.

"Of all the…" The quartermaster snapped his mouth closed and glared.

Owen dropped to the deck on hands and knees and began collecting papers.

"I believe I have what you need." Phineas pulled a small stack of papers from his coat pocket and handed them to the quartermaster.

That had of course been the plan all along. Owen's mess on the deck was meant to be a distraction so the quartermaster wouldn't examine the papers too closely. They wanted him to feel the pressure of hurrying them along and getting them off the ship before they could do any further damage.

It worked, too, a thing of beauty. Few things were as satisfying as a plan coming together.

Within minutes, they had something that resembled a locked humidor of burl yew wood. Phineas tucked it under his arm as they turned to walk back toward the gangplank.

Owen saw the problem at the same time Isabel reached out and gave a quick squeeze to his forearm.

Lady Rutherford had just arrived and would be making her way up the gangplank within seconds.

Phineas paused and handed the small box to Isabel. He straightened his cravat as if he had not a care in the world. His posturing caused the men moving back and forth across the deck to have to pause, too. Then Phineas retrieved the small box back from Isabel, and as one, the three of them took a large step backward. The men on deck, who had been forced to pause in their work to wait for him, all moved in to fill the void.

This created a curtain of people between the gangplank and them. The three of them cut to the left and ran around the cabin. The quartermaster called after them, but they couldn't stop for anyone. An alarm went up, and before they got around to the port side of the ship, men began blocking their path. If the quartermaster had gone about his business after handing over the cargo, they'd have had a lot more time. As it was, he'd been staring right at them, likely to make sure they got off his precious ship.

Phineas rounded the back side of the cabin and pushed the box into Isabel's waiting arms. Then he called, "Now!" to someone outside Owen's view.

Owen grabbed the two sides of Isabel's dress and ripped. The buttons popped off, and the back of the dress gaped open. He freed her arms. In one quick motion, he picked her up, kicked the dress aside, and set her back down on the deck. As planned, Isabel wore trousers and a man's shirt and rough-hewn vest underneath.

A glance back told him Phineas had everything under control. He'd apparently had help on the ship, for whoever he'd yelled to had provided him with a sword. Phineas fought the sailors off as he slowly backed toward the railing. "Get her to safety. I'll be right behind you."

Owen blinked as the thoughts raced through his mind. Phineas was a man transformed — quick on his feet and strong enough to physically use his sword to push back sailors. His movements remained lithe, his skill obvious. This Phineas was anything but delicate. Even the expression on his face was transformed. The bored look of superiority had vanished. In its place was… exhilaration.

Isabel had climbed up onto the rail. The box weighed heavily in her arms. They couldn't risk throwing it overboard and trying to fish it out of the water. Owen took the box from her and gave her a hard push. She soared several feet out from the ship before her descent began, hopefully far enough out to avoid a run-in with the ship's side once she hit the water and the waves started pushing her back toward the massive structure.

Owen clutched the box to his chest, wrapped his arms around it, and jumped out as far away from the side of the ship as he could.

The water welcomed him with frigid familiarity, pulling him closer and closer and embracing him as a long-lost friend. The box had felt heavy enough on deck, but in the water the weight became too much. Owen almost lost his grip as the determined water tugged at the box, pulling it downward.

Before the cold completely numbed his senses, Owen began kicking. He kicked with all his might, propelling himself upward inch by glorious inch. The surface was too far away, his chances of making it slim. Letting the box go wasn't an option. Eyes closed so he no longer saw the insurmountable distance, Owen kicked as though his life depended on it. Which it did.

Sooner than he would have imagined, Owen broke through the surface of the water, and he sucked in a gulp of soggy air, which gave little relief to his burning lungs but fed his brain enough to help him focus. Two quick turns in the water, and he spotted Isabel swimming toward the next ship rather than shore. That was the plan. Skirt around a couple of the docked ships before making one's way back to shore. Split up, go different directions, and meet up later at a predetermined location.

Owen heard a yell overhead and glanced up to see Phineas flying through the air, sword still in hand. With one last glance at Isabel, Owen whirled in the opposite direction and began kicking to bring himself up alongside the next ship. He shifted the box so he had one arm free to paddle. It offered little help. The box continued to pull him down, but at least now he was making some forward progress. He spared a thought for how Phineas was faring in the water but didn't take the time to investigate.

****

A suitcase to conceal the wooden box, a change of clothes he'd purchased off a sailor too drunk to know what he was doing or to remember how sopping wet the buyer had been, and Owen was ready. The gin house, known more for its female companionship than its drink, had been selected with care. He skulked through the door and to a table in the back. With his foot, he shoved the suitcase as far under the table as it would go and sat where he could watch the front entrance while remaining mostly concealed.

"What'll it be?" A barmaid with thinning hair and a dress cut so low it gave peekaboo a whole new meaning grinned at him.

Owen tried not to wince at the sight of her rotting teeth or the open sores on her arms. He had to play the part in order to fade into the background. With that in mind, he gave her an exaggerated stare and answered, "Gin'll be all fer now. Waitin' on some friends."

She cackled in what she doubtless thought was a seductive manner. Her cleavage danced with the movement.

She brought his gin back and set it down with a wink. "I don't mind handlin' groups, if ye've a mind."

Owen kept his eyes trained on the table, afraid the way she leaned over the table might have affected how much control her dress had over her person. "I'll be sure to let them know."

She walked off then, no doubt sashaying for his benefit, and Owen knew how right Tobias had been. He wasn't cut out for these sorts of jobs. Owen couldn't play the part. If the job demanded he get close to the waitress, give her a kiss, and squeeze her backside, he'd never be able to do it. Even though that's exactly what the character he was playing would have done.

Before Owen could chastise himself further, Phineas slipped in. He too had dressed the part. Stumbling drunkenly, he made his way to the back table before collapsing into the seat across from Owen and starting a rant about what a miserable sot the quartermaster was. It was the sort of conversation everyone in this place expected to hear, and it rose up and disappeared into the din of the room without any notice. Phineas had done more to make them blend into the background in thirty seconds than Owen had done in the ten minutes he'd been seated.

When the barmaid came back over and asked what Phineas wanted to drink, the man leered at her and licked his lips. He stared at the material of her dress stretched thinly across her ample bosom and said, "I see what I'm needin' to be samplin'."

She winked at him and cackled again. "Like I told yer friend here, I don't mind groups if you've a mind."

Phineas belched loudly before saying, "We're waitin' on two more o' the crew."

The barmaid gripped Phineas' upper thigh and squeezed hard. "See that you don't wait too long fer 'em." Then she collected the money for his drink and headed on to another table.

It took all Owen had to keep his jaw from hitting the table. Even Phineas' fingernails were filled with grime. Every ounce of the debonair man had disappeared. In its place was some abysmal creature that made Owen's stomach clench with revulsion.

"Do you have the case?" The slurred words matched the drunken expression on Phineas' face.

Owen gave a single nod.

"Any sign of Queen?"

Owen shook his head then asked, "Why'd you tell her we were waiting on two more?"

The look on Phineas' face didn't change, but his eyes momentarily flashed with humor. "If I'd said one, she'd be hustling us into a back room as soon as Queen gets here."

The thought made Owen shudder, but he shook it off. He had an important question that needed an answer. "Where did the sword come from?"

Phineas' eyes flicked up to look at him then returned to contemplate his drink. "Our mutual friend has other friends. She sent one to scout the hotel and get a look at me. The same man was on the ship."

Owen kept his gaze on the table. He didn't want Phineas to see the hurt he was sure must show in his eyes.
After all we've been through, she's still keeping secrets.
But then, could Phineas be trusted?

A boy came through the front door then. His clothes were too big, and one leg had a slight drag to it. He must have been lame at one point, but the leg had never had a proper chance to heal. One of the men slapped the boy on the back while making a lewd remark. The boy went flying forward but managed to keep his feet underneath him. He kept his head down, but the men around him snickered anyway.

It wasn't until the boy dragged his leg along to their table and slipped into the seat next to Phineas that Owen realized who he'd been watching the whole time.

"You're quite convincing as an inexperienced youth." Owen regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing one says to a woman he's enamored with.

The barmaid didn't bother to ask what Isabel wanted. She plunked the gin down on the table. "Ripe for the pluckin', this one is!"