The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (28 page)

Garrick offered his opinion. “I have never known you to back out of a challenge.”

“Very well.” She inhaled deeply, aware that her fellow spies were examining her for faults, shortcomings, limitations. She wasn’t weak-willed. She had never been and it was time everyone learned why she’d targeted Admiral Roche. “It gave me great pleasure to undermine Admiral Roche. There, I admit it. I would do everything in my power to subvert the cur even if national security wasn’t involved.”

“Is he really that vile?” Constance frowned and received a comforting touch from her husband.

Mercy nodded. Her mouth suddenly felt dry and she lifted her glass to her lips. “The truth is Admiral Roche has long tried to introduce my brother, Eddie, into the revolution’s fold. Nothing has motivated me more than keeping my brother safe from Napoleon. I feared the admiral’s rising influence, the subtle means by which my brother drifted away from us.” She moved her arms outward to encompass the room. “Eddie is my only sibling. I would do anything in my power to save him from such a man.”

“And you have,” Garrick reassured her.

“I would do it all again, exactly as before, if I had to.” The truth dug deep into her soul. God help her, she would. Even knowing what she knew today, confronted with the horrors of what Garrick had suffered, she’d still strive to save little Jacinta’s life.

Gillian smiled encouragingly. “Your sacrifices are not so little a matter, given that you nearly died for that information.”

“
Sí
.” She had survived, thanks to Garrick and men like him who’d sacrificed a piece of themselves for the right to sit at Percy’s table.

Percy shifted position, doing a brilliant job at pretending the effort didn’t cause him added pain. As he rose to his feet, the chaise longue creaked beneath him.

Constance dropped her knitting and jumped up to join the duke. “What are you doing?”

He paled. “Hand me my glass.”

“Of course, my love.” Determined to serve her husband, she shooed Jeffers away and accomplished the task herself. “You have only to ask.”

The intensity reflected between Percy and Constance made Mercy want to weep. Oh, how she ached for someone to look at her the way the duke gazed at his duchess. But her circumstances had not allowed for frivolities like love and passion. Not yet.

She observed Garrick through veiled lashes, wondering what he was thinking. Did he regret stealing her away in the night, leaving her parents behind, kidnapping her brother? Right now, she didn’t. They’d been through hell. He bore scars through no fault of his own. Hers were anchored deep in her soul, unseen. In fact everyone in the room hid wounds that had been inflicted in one form or another.

“You’re a good woman, my gel.” Percy’s brown eyes moved past his wife, searching the table’s length.

“Gentleman.” He raised his glass, grimacing slightly, and then gestured in Gillian and Mercy’s direction before bowing his head.

“Ladies.” Percy turned to face Simon at the other end of the table then nodded. “Melville is free, though he must wait for authorities to close his case, and
I
am alive. In light of our good fortune, I offer a toast.”

“Another one?” Seemingly amused, Simon bowed his head. “But of course, Your Grace.”

Chairs scuffed against the Turkish carpet as everyone followed Percy’s lead.

Mercy monitored the duke carefully, concerned he would overtax himself. Was he fighting dizziness? Would he rupture his stitches again?

Percy wobbled slightly on his feet even though his legs had healed well enough to bear his weight for shorter periods of time. His ribs had begun to heal, but only time could ease the tenderness his wounds likely gifted him. The injury to his shoulder still made movement difficult. As instructed, his left arm rested in a sling to ease the weight. Was he in pain? There was no way to tell because he wore an unreadable mask.

“Let us once again raise our glasses in remembrance of our beloved Lord Nelson, and the steadfast men lost in service to our country.” Percy locked gazes with Gillian. “I’ll begin with…” He bowed his head. “Lucien Chauncey.”

“Lucien.” Gillian’s voice cracked slightly as she said Lucien’s name. Moisture beaded in her eyes. She concentrated on the rim of her glass, poised to drink in honor of her late husband before taking a sip.

Simon reached out to grasp her hand in a show of unity. “To Lucien.”

Jacko Clemmons, Percy’s right-hand man, lifted a glass and clanged a fork against the crystal rim.

Ting. Ting.

The sight of the salty tars brought back memories of weeks Mercy had spent in Garrick’s company, escaping the French, sailing into the fog, Garrick’s kiss, his nightmarish cries during the night, Murray’s attack, a mournful ship bell announcing bodies cast into the sea.

“To Lucien.” The refrain lingered like a pianoforte’s last chiming note.

Mercy ached for Gillian, recalling that the baroness had held her dying husband in her arms then honored his last request by immediately traveling to London and pretending to be Lady Nelson in order to save Admiral Nelson’s life. Had anyone ever been so brave?

Garrick has.

“Captain Collins.” The roll call continued.

Ting. Ting.

Constance, Percy and his men, Jacko and Oliver Stanley exchanged unwavering glances. Were the stories true? Did
Capitán
Frink’s men torture Collins by cutting his hocks and igniting salt-peter between his toes? A shiver raced up and down her spine. How had Constance gotten over witnessing such a traumatizing ordeal?

“Chester Walden.”

Ting. Ting.

Stanley Milford, Jack Chapman, and James Russell bowed their heads in honor of their friend.

“Phillip Cavendish.”

Ting. Ting.

Mercy’s knees began to shake when Collin’s replacement’s name was announced.

“May their dutiful sacrifices never be forgotten.” Percy’s voice cracked with hidden emotion. “And may we forever strive to live by the example set for us.”

Melville raised his glass. “I find myself impelled to rejoice in the good fortune of Nelson’s Tea. I dare say, we will never again meet their like.” He downed the contents of his glass in one swallow and motioned for a servant to pour more.

“Hear, hear!” The chorus faded as the men once again took their seats.

A terrible foreboding settled in Mercy’s bones as she looked about the room. She was an outsider at Percy and Constance’s extravagant ducal table. Though her father was a
don
, practically Percy’s equal, they’d lived simply in Spain, preferring pewter to the crystal, silver, and French ormolu setting, shimmering in the candlelight amid generous containers of fresh mustard and sugary-glazed fruit sculpted in myriad shapes and sizes, before them.

Above her head, chandeliers dangled from starbursts shooting out along the ceiling freeze in sculptured relief. Cherubs grinned down, mischievously eyeing the sweets, daring her to dream dreams she would have never before allowed herself to contemplate: a home, husband, and children of her own.

Life was meant to be lived, not simply survived, wasn’t it? Or was that a dreadful lie she’d forced herself to believe?

Old demons chose this particular time to storm her defenses. Her pristine surroundings faded as horrifying images flashed before her eyes. Innocent children and the mothers who bore them, raped, lying beaten on the streets per Admiral Roche’s orders. Moaning soldiers, some missing limbs and organs, begging to be put out of their misery. Others simply fighting to breathe, like Jacinta, arching in unconscionable pain. Bodies cloaked in blankets then carried to makeshift morgues. Her fingers stained in someone else’s blood… Percy’s blood.

“Mercy, are you unwell?” Garrick leaned closer to ask.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she struggled to regain her bearings. She blinked, willing the memories to fade into oblivion, knowing they never would. How did one restore a trickling stream when the floodgates opened?

She nodded slowly to Garrick as men spoke past her, around her, their words dancing from ceiling to floor and back again in a strange unfurling fog.

Past caring, she wanted to cover her ears, to blot out the sounds of suffering, thoughts a person should never conceive. Admiral Roche was still free. Lord Fleming monitored their comings and goings, plotting their untimely demise. No matter how much she wished it, the danger to them was incredibly real.

Men shed unnecessary blood over land and power at their own peril.

Her gaze strayed to Percy and Constance. Were her cousins the only relatives she had left in the world? While the duke and duchess wanted her to take credit for Percy’s continued recovery,
Señora
Perez’s herbal remedies and Russell’s ingenuity deserved the accolades. Under Russell’s extraordinary care, they’d been able to travel to Percy’s grand estate.

Getting there had not been easy. The grand exodus — a strategic production only made possible by a duke — had been arranged on short notice.

In the meantime, Constance had hired a modiste to alter several of her gowns for Mercy to wear. She’d ordered several new ones to be fashioned with accessories, including a beautiful blue velvet riding habit, that Mercy coveted, and a ball gown for later use.

Mercy felt undeservedly spoiled as she glanced down at her lap to the delicate black lace adorning her ochre gown, lining her bodice, the edge of her sleeves, and hem, accentuating her olive skin. She almost felt human again.

Sumpton Hall had allowed Percy time to recuperate in private, and it was the first step in helping restore her to gentile life. Constance had great plans for introducing Mercy to the
ton
. The respite also afforded Nelson’s Tea the opportunity to gather together covertly to debate when and how they would arrange Fleming’s downfall.

Samuel Whitbread sat near Melville after calling for a short recess at the Admiralty. “I would like to suggest that we bring this meeting to order. Though I know these have been taxing times, there is no greater import than putting a definite end to Lord Fleming’s hold on Lord Guildford and the House of Lords.”

“I agree.” Melville nodded affirmatively. “The evidence
Señorita
Vasquez has collected — Fleming’s letter to Roche ordering him to set aside coins for their use from Napoleon’s gold cache when it arrived from England, and the ring with a false face bearing Fleming’s crest — proved my innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt. Nevertheless, my lords at the Admiralty have agreed it is imperative I stay out of sight until Roche can be successfully lured to England.”

“And we know how to do just that.” Simon pointed to Garrick. “Tell them.”

“Napoleon’s gold.”

Mercy fought a tremor as Simon gave her a cordial nod across the length of the lustrous mahogany table. The brilliant lord looked into the faces of the men who’d worked tirelessly to fulfill Nelson’s strategic plan before his intelligent study returned to Mercy.

Gooseflesh rose on Mercy’s skin. She’d sailed to England to salvage one man’s reputation and stop Fleming from murdering others. The traitorous lord still wandered free, capable of committing despicable atrocities, endangering lives.

“Holt previously admitted pilfering legacy accounts from St. Dionis Backchurch in Langbourne Ward to pay off his gambling debts. Fleming discovered the discrepancies and later used them to his benefit. Instead of reporting Holt to Lord Guildford and the authorities, Fleming ensnared the reverend in a blackmailing scheme and forced him to act against us. Convinced that Langbourne Ward’s poor weren’t as worthy as his own life, Holt did the only thing he knew to survive… he betrayed us.”

Garrick took a drink then nodded to a servant who placed a bowl of turtle soup before him.

“With Guildford’s influence in the House, Fleming must have believed he could implode the Admiralty Board from within. He began the framework to impeach Melville last year, convincingly drawing attention away from St. Dionis Backchurch’s finances to the treasury administration.”

“We were going over your notes about St. Dionis Backchurch that day in the townhouse. Do you remember, Melville?” Simon reached for Gillian.

She squeezed his hand and closed her eyes. Was Gillian trying to blot out memories of the tragic day she’d almost died saving Simon’s life? Or saying a silent prayer of thanks that they’d still been able to conceive a child?

“I do,” Melville answered, and then swallowed a spoon full of soup. “And I told Guildford as much. The stubborn fool refused to listen. He insisted I had ruined the treasury during my term, pressed Thomas Grenville for support, and then had the audacity to inform me that I was no longer needed now that Nelson was dead.”

Murmuring broke out amongst them.

“Holt told us many things before he died.” The bitter edge deepening Percy’s voice cracked through the room like a bosun’s whip. “We are all given a choice. Holt
chose
to betray us.”

Was Guildford involved? Surely not. Fleming’s greed and narcissistic personality prohibited it. He wouldn’t risk involving a man of such a high rank, known to support King George. A man like Fleming relied on men like Roche — that foul beast — and Fouché, Minister of Napoleon’s secret police, whose policy of ‘the blood of criminals fertilized the soil of liberty and established power on sure foundations’ fueled Napoleon’s revolution.