Joanna Bourne - My Lord and Spymaster

GOOD Lord, but it stank. Quentin pressed a scented handkerchief over his nose and tried not to breathe.

“She’s in ’ere.” The sailor held the lantern up to a section of wood. Behind the panel, the Whitby girl didn’t make a sound. She was in there planning something.

“If it’s alla same wif yer . . .” The sailor hawked and spat on the deck. “I’d jest as soon ’ave a man at my back if I open this up.”

She’d shot a bandit in Turkey, once. He’d heard the story, but he’d never believed it. Not till now. Not till he’d seen with his own eyes what she could do. She’d punched a sailor in the face and broken his nose, shrieking like a fishwife. Clawing and kicking like an animal. What was Whitby thinking, raising his daughter to be a savage?

A day or two in this foul hole without food or water would go a long way toward making her sensible. Naturally, he didn’t want to hurt her. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. Not willingly. But sometimes a man didn’t have a choice.

“Jess.” The wood felt clammy on his cheek when he pressed himself close. “Answer me, Jess.”

Silence.

“If you’re good, I’ll let you out. But you have to behave yourself. I’m not going to hurt you if you behave yourself.”

He’d let her out when she was weaker. She had to be in a state to listen to reason. He’d open the door then. Not yet.

But it was . . . disturbing to hear nothing at all.

“You’re in no danger, Miss Whitby. You won’t be hurt if you cooperate.” He couldn’t hear her breathing. Had she died in there? They’d hit her hard. Maybe he should check . . . “You’ll be perfectly safe. You have my word of honor. I’m asking for nothing but rational cooperation.” She was his prize. His gift to Napoleon. The Whitby heiress. A man who moved in the first circles of government, the way he did, understood these matters. This insolent, bumptious girl was the vessel of power. Power in the East. He’d give that power to France. “You’ll be perfectly comfortable. I’m a decent man. This doesn’t have to be frightening for you.”

He’d take her to the house on the coast and keep her there till she was a fit gift to the Republic. Weeks. Or months. It might take months till she was humbled and cooperative. He might even find a way to collect ransom from her father. That would be clever. That would be best. Yes.

No sound came from the storage locker. She was playing with him, trying to trick him into opening the door. He wasn’t that stupid. Let her lie in her own filth for a while. She wouldn’t be so damned superior then.

“Don’t force me to be . . . stern. It’ll be your choice if I have to hurt you. Remember that.”

Why didn’t she answer?

The sailor pulled at his sleeve. “We’re casting off, sir. I gotta be on deck.”

“You’ll leave when I say—” The sailor just walked away, taking the lantern with him. “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t give you permission to leave. Do you think I can be flouted by a . . .” He had no choice but to follow the lantern. There was no other light in this filthy hole.

Did this dolt think he could get away with this insolence? Blodgett would deal with him. He’d tie this blockhead over the yardarm and beat him till his skin peeled off. That was justice at sea. Manly justice. The ship was a microcosm of the rational social order. Everyone working for the good of the whole. Like the Republic. When he explained it to Jess, eventually she’d understand. The social order was too valuable to allow one person’s selfishness to threaten it. Jess would learn not to fight him. If she got hurt, it was really her own fault.

He climbed out of the companionway into the sunlight . . . and tripped over Blodgett. The captain of the Lark sprawled limp across the ladder, his eyes staring, the handle of a knife sticking out of his throat.

A dozen men moved across the deck, perfectly silently killing people. One of them was Sebastian.

It was happening so fast. Why hadn’t anyone come to warn him?

This was horrible. Horrible. Ten feet away, a man thrashed on the deck, his throat slit. That could have been him. He had to get to his cabin and barricade himself in there till the fight was over. If he stayed on deck, somebody might kill him by mistake.

Sebastian didn’t slow down, didn’t speed up, just came inexorably toward him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything was falling apart.

“Don’t come any closer.” He pulled the pistol out and backed to the railing. He’d have to run for it. A great man knows when to cut his losses. He’d leave it all behind. He still had the bank account in France and the guineas in his money belt. They’d welcome him in France. He’d be a hero there.

Sebastian said, “Where’s Jess?”

“Somewhere safe. Get out of my way, Sebastian. I don’t mind shooting you.” I’ll enjoy it. He’d reloaded, after disposing of Pitney. The gun filled his hand. Heavy. Solid. A Bourdiec pistol, the best gun ever made. Accurate to a hair. He’d force Sebastian with him, past the other men, to the gangway, and kill him there, and escape in the confusion. “Nobody’s going to get hurt if you let me pass.”

“What have you done with Jess?”

Jess was Sebastian’s weakness. And the man with the gun was always in control. “Nothing’s happened to her. Yet. I’ll tell you where she is when you let me go.” Wait. Wait for it. You only have the one shot.

Sailors were being herded into a ragged, terrified line at the stern, surrendering. But he’d escape. He’d use Sebastian to get him off the ship. He was in command. “When I’m on the dock, I’ll tell you—”

One of Sebastian’s mongrel friends ran up. Hawkhurst. “She’s below.”

They were gone, running across the deck. They acted as if he wasn’t there. “Stop. I’ll shoot—” There are two of them. If I kill one . . . They ducked down the ladder to the hold before he could do anything. He had a pistol, damn it. He had his finger on the trigger. They couldn’t ignore him.

On both sides of him, sailors were leaping from the ship, swimming in the toxic waters of the Thames, trying to climb the pilings to the dock. He backed to the rail and threw one leg over. He’d get the guinea belt off and abandon it. All that gold. It’d weigh him down. He pulled his shirt out to get to the tie. Was there some way to take the money with him—

A long, gray streak of rage ran right at him. That ferret. He pointed his pistol. He had only one bullet. If he shot the animal, then he couldn’t—

Claws raked his eyes. He screamed and felt himself falling. The water closed over him.

WHEN HE OPENED THE DOOR, JESS CAME OUT kicking and clawing. She knocked them sprawling on the deck, with her on top.

His Jess. He fended her off, getting clawed up. His wonderful Jess.

She lifted her head. “Sebastian?”

Her hair straggled over her face. Somebody had given her a bloody nose at some point. She was filthy. She was infinitely beautiful. He said, “I’m glad to see you, too.”

She let her breath out, miles and miles of it, slowly deflating till she was limp on top of him. She lay her head down on his chest and began to cry.

“It’s all right.” He held her. He could have held her for a hundred years. “Shhh. It’s over. It’s all right now.”

“I knew you’d come for me.”

“Of course.”

“I knew you’d come. I left because I had to get Pitney away. Pitney is . . .” She shuddered and held on to him harder.

“I saw.” Had she watched Pitney die? She had blood all down her front, so probably she’d been there. He would have given a lot to change the world and spare her that.

He lay on the dirty planking and closed his arms around Jess and pulled her in and let her cry. She was safe. She was alive. Everything else he could fix. He’d get her off this filthy scumbelly of a ship and into the sun. He’d take her to bed and kiss every sweet inch of her. But first he’d let her cry.

Something small and sneaky brushed his arm. Kedger, smelling to high Hades and soaking wet, nosed in between them.

“Kedger?” She pushed herself up. “You brought Kedger here?”

Ten thousand words would not be enough to explain. “Yes.”

“He coulda been hurt. He coulda got ’imself lost. Are you out of your sodding mind?”

Kedger—he’d swear this—made himself look hangdog and orphaned and pitiful. Jess fell for it at once. She got to her knees and swept the vermin in and cuddled the smug bugger of a weasel. If the ferret thought he was sleeping with them after they got married, he could forget it. Maybe they’d find a lady ferret for him.

“Let’s get out of here.” She scrambled ahead of him along the black corridor, heading topside. “All this dark, I’m going to break my fool neck.”

Adrian had drafted Lazarus’s men to cart away trunks and boxes of Quentin’s ill-gotten gains. Agents from the British Service were guarding prisoners and checking the dead. Somebody—Adrian—had put a coat over Pitney’s dead face. Trevor was helping move the bodies, pale but not getting sick.

Quentin, and his gun, were gone.

“Overboard.” Adrian tossed the news as he walked by. “I’ve sent my men searching the wharf. I told them to find him dead.”

Nothing could save Quentin from the gallows. If he died in the Thames today, Claudia wouldn’t see her brother stand trial. “Good.”

“I’ll go home and kick Josiah out of Meeks Street. What we save in hemp alone on this operation . . .” Adrian wandered off.

He followed Jess and found her near the wheelhouse, sitting on the railing, her feet tucked in to keep her balance. She was at home on a ship. She’d look good on the Flighty Dancer.