Virgin Star (4 page)

"The why." O’Connell took a long draught of the hot Irish liquid. "The why of it is the little problem he be havin' with the devil's trade."

O’Connell referred to the opium trade.

"Aye, lad. Opium. India’s opium or 'post' is the only thing that poor bloody country has. Worse off than our own rocky west coast, 'tis. Our dear Mister Clives made his fortune by forcin' the Indian seed into the Chinaman's blood and then—if this is not proof of justice in the world!—he lost his own soul to the addiction. Even an Irish bob like me feels sorry for the wretch."

After years in India running the East India Company, whose main business consisted of trading India's opium for China Black—-the tea preferred by most Englishmen—Robert Clives developed a monstrous addiction to the potent rot himself. Though God knows, Clives wasn't the only one in the upper ranks of the English caste system to suffer an addiction. Opium did not discriminate between classes.

Despite very vocal protestations from the London press, Seanessy did not see opium addiction as a problem. Clives and his kind were a case in point. Opium addiction was less of a concern than the drunks cluttering the alleyways, especially as long as the opium addict had access to a cheap steady supply. True, there was no more pathetic sight than a mother trading her starving children's bread for a dram of laudanum, but there were probably ten times more gin babes than opium infants. For the poor masses he'd pick opium over alcohol hands down.

This was not the issue, however. "So what does our dear friend want?"

"Help, is what," O'Connell said, explaining. "You see, there's, a new Frenchman."

"A new Frenchman?"

'They say his name is the Duke de la Armanac." O'Connell pronounced the French with a flawless accent that spoke of his religious training for the priesthood, training that disappeared the day he met a young girl with blue eyes and laughter even quicker than his own--—Corey, his wife.

"Armanac..." A memory of a conversation with his brother emerged in Sean's mind and he said, "Ram mentioned the man last June when I was in Malay. He owns title to a fair-sized island in the South China Seas, about fifty miles from the Malacca Straits. Ram was having our agents investigate him--" .

"Aye, the man has come from nowhere. Your agents won't find much. No one knows anything about him but that his family fled France during the bloody purges of their revolution. He bought up a fair portion of the poppy fields in Turkey."

Sean whistled. "No more potent rot in the world."

"Aye. And the Chinamen prefer it, there's the problem. The man has a fine fleet of ships to move it into his little island out there. They call it the Isle of Blue Caverns. The lads in the know say it's the new Linton Isle."

Linton Island was the very center of the opium trade into China. Opium was illegal in China, which suited the opium traders, men like Clives, just fine, as it kept prices outrageously high and opium shipments untaxed.

"Ah bad enough, but word has surfaced that the duke's been buyin' up sizable chucks of opium for five bloody years, that his little isle is stockpiled high to God's own heaven, and that he means to dump it all on the market soon."

Seanessy and Kyler exchanged awed stares; Kyler swore softly. This would ruin the honorable company like no apocalypse ever could. The price of opium would drop to the bottom, collapsing the company, and with it, a portion of England's economy.

"Listen to this, lad. The duke keeps a standing army of two thousand there, and I reason Clives wants a favor from you, a favor that has to do with this opium stockpile and you and your boys' well-known reputation for handling fireworks—"

A knock sounded at the door. Four men withdrew pistols as they backed into cover, but O’Connell just laughed. "That will be for me. Time's up."

Seanessy ignored O’Connell, and with pistol in hand, he called out from behind the door, "Yes?"

"Sir." Charles's whisper came from behind the door. "Horses outside. Redcoats all around. I believe the Prime Minister of England has arrived."

Seanessy threw open the door. For one brief and fleeting moment he met Charles's impassive gaze with the surprise of his recognition. So, Charles worked for O’Connell too! Probably half the servants in his house were feeding O’Connell information. Little wonder the man not only knew what night Wilson lay with a serving wench but his angle of preference.

The four Irishmen filed out of the room, disappearing down the darkened gallery of the lower hall. O’Connell came last. "O’Connell," Seanessy demanded. Suppose Earl wants me to blow up this Frenchman's stockpile of opium. Why do they imagine I will do this favor for them?"

"I haven't a single notion lad." O’Connell laughed. "I only know 'tis about time you made the bloody sods pay for what they want. Payment in the form of a parliamentary seat for a good Catholic Irishman." He patted Sean's cheek. "And for-God's sake, keep yer naggin' toothache from the poor lass upstairs"-— toothache being an Irish euphemism for another kind of pain, one very familiar to Seanessy. O'Connell laughed again. "From what I hear, she's in pretty bad shape as she is."

For one brief moment Seanessy did not know whom O’Connell referred to. Then the image of dark gold hair and a comely face rose in his mind's eye, and with surprising clarity. Blast the girl to hell and back! The way things were going, she was going to be not just trouble, but bad luck as well. Somehow he knew it was only the beginning.

*****

Chapter 2

A gray sky melted into a grayer sea. A light breeze blew over the crescent bay of a white sand beach, lifting her long, loosened hair and swirling it around her face. She raised her dressing gown and climbed down the cliff on to the water's edge.

The sand felt cool on her bare feet as she walked along, watching the ceaseless waves crash upon the shore. She loved the ocean. The ocean, with its power and rhythm, infinite and eternal, confronted one with the profound smallness of the personal world, and offered transcendence upon its shore. Transcendence she desperately needed.

An occasional wave washed warm water over her feet, tickling, and she remembered a time when she would have kicked a spray of salt water high overhead and laughed as she felt its cool drops fall upon her. Not now. There was no laughter in her world now.

Something stuck out of the sand ahead. Her heart started pounding. She looked closer. A round object rose from the wet sand. She held her breath as she cautiously approached it. Then suddenly it turned toward her and she screamed. A human skull ...

"Help me ... Please, help me ..."

Dozing in a nearby chair, Tilly jerked awake. Her sleep-filled eyes searched the candlelit room but saw nothing amiss. Grabbing a taper by its brass holder, she rose from the chair and approached the bed where the young lady slept fitfully.

The poor, poor thing. She looked a comely sight in the candlelight, sleeping so soundly! Thank the Good Maker, the doctor could not foresee any permanent damage. A small mercy, that.

Who was she? A princess separated from her kingdom by a band of black pirates? A lost and helpless orphan changeling? "No matter." Tilly smiled. "I'll see ye get back on yer feet in no time."

Tilly looked to the door. Perhaps she'd just catch a few minutes' slumber in the comfort of a bed. Surely she'd hear if the young lady awoke.

With candle in hand, Tilly swept from the room.

Someone was trying to kill her ...

As the dark phantoms chased her again and again, her breathing changed, coming deeper and quicker. Small beads of perspiration lined her brow. She ran for her life—

The girl woke with a start, bolting up in an enormous bed. Bright amber eyes took in her unfamiliar surroundings: the stormy seascape on the wall, rich mahogany furnishings on the smooth white marble squares of the floor, this covered with an elaborately woven carpet. An old marble hearth occupied nearly one whole wall directly in front of her. Dark green brocade and white gossamer drapes hung from the enormous canopy bed, drapes that perfectly matched the window curtains, and accented the paler green of the satin quilt.

Where was she?

Her dream came back to her, and with it, the panic. Someone was trying to kill her!

Her gaze flew to the night table at her side. A glass of warm milk and cheese, a fruit tray, and a candle. A man's shirt covered her naked form.

Where was she?

She tried to make sense of the unfamiliar splendor of the room. A tingling alarm raced through her in a dizzying wave of pure sensation.

Something was terribly wrong.

For a minute or an hour, she never knew, she searched for a clue or for understanding, not in the room but in her memory. She drew deep even breaths, willing her heart to ease its frantic pace and forcing the tension from her body. She closed her eyes to the external reality of strange surroundings. She waited for the cloak of memory that guides one's consciousness.

She stared into a black velvet night, as she hoped for the illuminating light of recollection; she waited first with a deeply ingrained patience, then with increasing alarm as the darkness neither changed nor altered. Her mind's eye saw nothing but a void.

She opened her eyes. Nothing changed. She raised a hand slowly to her head, where she felt a large bump. This too was a void of sensation. No pain defined the apparent accident, arid her ribs ... .She felt a slight soreness there, but it was slight indeed.

An instinctive brake pushed her panic back. She slipped from the bed, crossed the room with quiet steps and opened the smaller of two doors to discover the wonder of an inside privy, which she used.

Where was she? -

She emerged soundlessly, her every movement cloaked in an unnatural stillness as she crossed the room to the other door. The girl's silence and grace spoke of a miracle, a miracle so complete, not even the air seemed displaced by her movement. Her pale hand gently pushed open the door leading from the room.

She stared into the grandeur and magnificence of a house she had never before seen. She stood in the middle of a long hall ending in a richly carpeted, curved staircase that led down to the foyer at the end of an entrance hall. Another hall, a row of rooms, and a staircase were directly opposite, like a mirror image. Nothing and no one stirred.

A palm went to her forehead, rubbing hard, as if to stir her thoughts or memory. Where was this grand place? What was going on here? Why was she here, and what was she doing?

Someone was after her—

She looked down the long hall. She had to flee, to run far away! Every instinct urged it, and quickly.

She needed clothes and money.

She retreated back into the room. A thorough search failed to produce any clothes. Where were her clothes? What were her clothes?

She did not panic, but stood poised, ready for fight or flight. First, get clothes, a pair of trousers and a shirt, this large shirt if she could find no other. Then escape. She had to escape, before it was too late.

Quietly she stepped into the hall again.

Voices floated up from below. She slipped back in the doorway, listening and waiting.

"So what did Jenkinson and Clives want?"

"'T’wasn't the prime minister or Clives, but Ram. Ram sent a letter with Clives, if ye kin believe that. Seanessy be explainin' it. There be trouble in Malica.”

"What kind of trouble?"

The voices drifted off. The prime minister? Clives, she knew that name. Could he be referring to the English Prime Minister? And Clives—Robert Clives of the East India Company? Was this London? And if so, what in merciful heaven was she doing here?

Her heart began pounding as panic threatened to overwhelm her again.

She had to get out of here.

She slowly made her way down to the next door. It was unlocked. She slipped through and found herself in a drawing room. She surveyed the surroundings, looking for something familiar, but she found nothing in the spacious room. Not quite true, she realized, coming to stand before a Jean Auguste Ingres masterpiece, Odalisque. She knew that artist.

Where? Who had been with her? When?

She rubbed her forehead in distress as no answers emerged. She silently made her way to the other door. This too was unlocked. It opened into an enormous bedchamber. A breeze lifted the dark blue velvet curtains and the white gossamer gauze lining at the tall windows, and drew her gaze to the oversized canopy bed where a man lay. She moved closer to see the handsome blond giant sound asleep there. She did not know him.