The Pirate's Debt (The Regent's Revenge Book 2)
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Authors: Katherine Bone
The Pirate’s Debt
Copyright © 2016 by Katherine Bone
Cover Design by Romance Cover Creations
Editing by Double Vision Editorial
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The Regent’s Revenge Series
The Pirate's Duchess
, A Regent's Revenge novella
The Nelson’s Tea Series
My Lord Rogue
, A Nelson's Tea Novella #1
Duke by Day, Rogue by Night
, A Nelson’s Tea Book #1
The Rogue’s Prize
, A Nelson’s Tea Book #2
My Lady Rogue
, A Nelson’s Tea Novella #2
The Rogue’s Surrender
, Nelson’s Tea Book #3
To my husband, Johnnie, who stepped out of a romance novel and became the hero of my dreams.
The UNION of Lord M and Her Grace ended in quite the SPECTACLE, resulting in the SCANDALOUS conclusion of said ENGAGEMENT. A DUEL at the DOWNS climaxed with shameful MURDEROUS designs on His Grace, D of B. Lady O informs
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
that CREDITABLE onlookers witnessed Lord U’s DIABOLICAL crime and subsequent ARREST. No information has SURFACED on Lord M’s whereabouts.
~
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
, 22 April 1809
Smuggler’s End Cove, Devon
20 July 1809
Basil Halford, Earl of Markwick, tented his fingers below his nose and stared at the
Fury’s
log, a book chronicling the past three months of his life as the Black Regent, a pirate hailed throughout Cornwall and Devon as the pauper’s avenging angel. He grimaced
.
Vengeful, yes. But angelic? Far from it.
The Regent’s role offered hope where none was to be had, but unlike those who benefited from contraband, piracy forever put him at odds with excisemen, particularly his good friend, Captain Pierce Walsingham. Yet, what hope was to be had for him from such torn allegiances?
Markwick was beholden to Tobias Denzell, Duke of Blackmoor—the original Black Regent—a man who’d agreed to help Markwick fulfill his vow to aid the people whom his own father, the Marquess of Underwood, had destroyed. To do that, he’d had to distance himself from the few friends he had left—Lords Algernon Barrett, Thaddeus Standeford, and Frederick Landon, men who had no idea to where Basil had disappeared after his duel with Blackmoor at the Downs.
He continually had to remind himself that a man was nothing, soulless, without purpose. His days philandering without a care were gone and gladly so. His eyes were open now. He saw the world as it truly was: filled with evil men who’d stop at nothing to fill their own coffers. Such a realization came at great cost, however. He’d traded an earldom—and his role as the son of a murderer—to deal on account and become a smuggler. Neither way of life offered an angelic end, but if caught, he’d inevitably see a hangman’s noose. Blackmoor had spent two years perfecting the piratical tactics he’d used aboard the
Fury
, a lifetime compared to Markwick’s paltry three months. What were the odds that he’d survive long enough to help the people his father had destroyed?
Aye, Markwick had always prided himself on being an uncompromising man of upstanding purpose, but scandal had brought him lower than he could ever have imagined possible. His father’s treachery forced him to do the one thing no one in the nobility and gentry had ever expected: join forces with pirates. Blackmoor, in particular, had been one of his father’s victims. He had risen from the grave to reclaim his wife, Prudence, and stop Underwood from murdering her. Upon his soul, Markwick was all for rectifying his father’s mistakes. Even if that meant Blackmoor chose the particular moment to return to save his wife minutes before Markwick and Prudence were just about to say,
I do.
The best laid plans . . .
Markwick had loved the duchess, though he’d been motivated more by honoring Blackmoor’s friendship than anything else. His primary purpose had been to protect Prudence after Blackmoor’s supposed death. Few opportunities were available to women in this world, and he’d hoped to one day earn half the love she’d given her first husband. Aye, he’d set out to shield her from the pain this wretched world could inflict while knowing, fearing, he could never take Blackmoor’s place.
The irony was that he’d done just that. He was now captain of the
Fury
, commander of over thirty men and
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post’s
heralded savior of the downtrodden.
Markwick sat back in his chair and propped his feet on the intricately carved mahogany desk. He rubbed his eyes and swiped his fingers through his unkempt hair as if such an action had the power to revitalize him or purge his mind of the memories that lanced his heart. It was no use. Nothing, not even plying his new trade along the coast, searching for enemy ships, discovering new ways to make amends to the less fortunate, could turn back the hands of time.
He might not be the best at it, but he was determined to make his mark, come what may. Blackmoor’s faith in him had returned some semblance of dignity to Markwick.
Yet the salty truth stung mightier than a lead ball fired at close range. Nothing he did could undo what his father had done. No amount of repentance lessened the weight on his shoulders. As much as he had hoped his stint as the Black Regent would prove otherwise, the harder he bled himself dry in an effort to succeed, the more of a disservice he’d ultimately do the
Fury’s
crew.
The Earl of Markwick wasn’t a pirate. His heart wasn’t in the sea. He was bookish, and he excelled at numbers.
Do something meaningful with your life
, he told himself
. Achieve something worthy of your namesake, the Black Regent.
It is in your hands to make a difference.
It was up to him to finish what Blackmoor had started, seeking justice and reestablishing their friends’ incomes and reputations, as well as ensuring the destruction of the Marquess of Underwood. The latter was a larger conundrum than ever because his father was already dead. As Underwood’s heir, everything associated with the marquess’s estate belonged to him. Rightly,
he
was now the Marquess of Underwood, though he’d vowed never to bear the title.
How could I have been so wrong about you, Father?
Was he expected to pay for his father’s sins for the rest of his life? Everywhere he went, the name Underwood elicited malcontent. How does a man negate a lifetime of lies?
He lowered his feet to the deck beneath him and got out of his chair to pace to the wide stern windows. The orange glow in the iron-latticed lanterns swaying above him glinted off the misty panes as he raised one of the heavy damask panels, draping them closed.
While it was true that the
Fury
was getting resupplied in a hidden cove situated within the white chalk cliffs of Exmouth, the darkness flooded his soul, providing his former carefree life with a far-reaching contrast. As the Black Regent, he’d grown accustomed to the
Fury
’s swaying dance, her noisy decks, the activity of her thirty-plus crew, and the solitary confinement the captain’s cabin provided him when melancholy saturated his soul. Sired by a lunatic, he’d chanced death more than once in the
Fury’s
service to prove he wasn’t his father, who had shamefully bartered for morsels of food in Bodmin Gaol, dying mere weeks after being incarcerated there.
A fitting end to the Marquess of Underwood’s life after the misery he had caused.
Frustration washed over Markwick. After everything his father had done—destroying his friends, trying to kill Blackmoor, then Prudence—Markwick felt little remorse for his sire’s death, only the bitter sting of what could have been. His emotions were swallowed by the wails of the people reliant on Underwood’s estate. Their need was the primary reason he didn’t demolish the large manse in the first place. With his loyalties divided, how could he avenge the ones his father had wronged—including servants loyal to the family—while striving to strengthen the bonds among friends whose fathers
his
father had destroyed, bilking their combined mineral corporation of £300,000? And after all was said and done, Markwick would have to return to the estate that was now synonymous with evil in many minds, including his own.
Markwick swiped his hands over his face once more before threading his fingers roughly through his hair.
He was—in terms of savage sarcasm—carrying more of an impediment than his first mate Angus Pye’s peg leg. Though no one could see Markwick’s deformity, it would follow him all his days, which made the Black Regent’s mask all the more necessary.
Markwick moved back to the desk and sat before his logbook, flipping through one page after another.
The numbers didn’t lie. He wasn’t a good pirate.
Though he’d found extraordinary pleasure in bookkeeping, attacking other ships, and strategically plotting his next target, the events had become mundane, taxing affairs since he’d begun his captaincy. One smuggler taken to task was like any other. The bitter brew of balancing such responsibility on his shoulders didn’t appeal to him. And yet, he owed Blackmoor. He owed the duke more than his life, in fact, not only for the continuation of their friendship but for the confidence Blackmoor had placed in Markwick when
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
made every effort to learn of his whereabouts. If it weren’t for Blackmoor’s warnings—or his frequent visits to the ship—the
Fury
and her crew might not have escaped excisemen.
“Courage and command of this ship will save many a life. All you have to do is trust your instincts and your men,” Blackmoor had told him when tasking him with the challenge.
Aye, he was right, too. Upon his soul, Blackmoor had always been right.
For this reason, Markwick would continue raising the Black Regent’s ensign until he was either ready to pass the mantle on to someone else or Blackmoor took it back. In the meantime, he had to find a way to rally his spirits, to keep the pirate’s legacy alive, to offset his father’s betrayal, and to forge a path for himself by ensuring more lives didn’t get crushed beneath someone else’s tyrannical boots.
A knock at the cabin door drew him out of his thoughts. “Enter,” he said.
The screen portal opened, but it wasn’t Pye or Quinn, his quartermaster, standing there as he had suspected it would be. It was Blackmoor.
To what did he owe this pleasure? Did the duke have news that would end Markwick’s boredom?
He jumped to his feet to greet the man.
“Good morrow.” Blackmoor stood on the threshold, seeming uncharacteristically polite as he removed his gloves. “May I join you?”
“You need never ask, Your Grace.” Markwick bowed. He gestured with his arm to the chair in front of his desk. “Make yourself at home. After all, the
Fury
was your ship before you graciously handed her over to me.”
“She still belongs to me.” Blackmoor smacked his gloves against his other hand. “Which brings me to the matter I’m here to discuss.”
“The
Fury
. . . or me?” A strange prickling washed over his spine at the look of Blackmoor’s stare. Something was, indeed, amiss. Was it Prudence? His heartbeat shuddered to a stop. He fought to speak calmly. “Your wife and unborn child . . . are they in good health?”
Blackmoor took his time before answering. “Aye.”
The duke’s gaze searched the room ravenously, sparking to life as he removed his tricorn, ducked his head, and stepped through the door, closing the screen behind him. He reached the desk in just a few long strides and set his hat down before removing his cloak, the fabric whispering in the air with a flourishing whoosh.
Markwick studied the duke’s furrowed brows, fighting the urge not to jump to conclusions. Blackmoor appeared tense—another indicator that something was wrong. But if Prudence and the baby weren’t in jeopardy, what brought the duke to Smuggler’s End? And what was so dire it warranted the duke’s personal attention? Usually information could be conveyed by courier and dispatch, instead.
“Is everything well with Barrett, Landon, and Standeford?” The lords he and Blackmoor had attended Eton with, and who had been affected the most by his father’s diabolical scheme.
Blackmoor allowed the anticipation to stew inside Markwick longer than necessary as he sat in the chair at the opposite side of the desk and planted his forearms on the armrests. “You may cease your unnecessary worry.
Our
friends are busy trying to put their lives in order and hold nothing against you for what has happened.”
Markwick hadn’t missed the duke’s emphasis on the word
our
. Was it too much to hope that Blackmoor spoke the truth and that Barrett, Landon, and Standeford held nothing against him?
There had been a time that Markwick had believed each would rise to prominence within their own social ranks, given their fathers were capable mineral lords. All that had changed, however, when Barrett’s father, unable to accept that the Marquess of Underwood had tricked him into signing over corporation funds, killed himself, and Landon’s father had succumbed to fatal wounds after Underwood had hired men to beat the elder Landon and leave him for dead. If not for the fifth Duke of Blackmoor, who’d conveyed that history to his son, Tobias, on his death bed, the truth might never have been known, and his father would have lived on to subjugate more innocent victims.
Silence swelled in the room, Underwood’s deceit a living, breathing entity forever branding them. “If you aren’t here because of your wife or
our
friends, why are you here?”
Blackmoor cleared his throat. “A pressing, confidential matter has delivered me to you, Markwick.”
“Well, what is it? Is it about my father’s funeral?”
“Underwood?” The duke’s stare never wavered. “What you have done with your father’s remains is your own business.”