CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He sat there shirtless, a reddish-blue bruise rising on the skin under his arm and a cold piece of meat pressed against his cheekbone, listening to Maitland recall the circumstances under which he had learned of the trap that Lord St. John and his odious steward, Mr. Trippier, had sprung for him. These wounds aside, Bingley had only small cuts and bruises, mostly across his arms and torso.
“Should I fetch a doctor, sir?” Wilshere inquired once Maitland’s story concluded.
“No, I thank you, Wilshere,” Bingley answered, shifting delicately in his chair. “It may be a few days, but I do believe I shall recover tolerably.”
“Would you have me reserve our lodgings through the week?”
“That would be fine, I suppose.”
“I will make sure it is in order first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you,” said the master before turning back to the young man who had saved his life. “So, you are sure that they have sailed to France?”
“I am sure that is what he discussed with Mr. Trippier,” retorted Maitland.
“Explain yourself,” Wilshere insisted.
“I cannot be absolutely positive, but I also think their plans to sail for Le Havre may have been a gammon.”
“A gammon?” Bingley asked.
“A ruse, you might say,” answered the young man. “It was too large a vessel to be chartered for nothing more than skipping the channel.”
“Too large even for Lord and Lady St. John?”
Maitland shook his head. “It was carrying cargo, as well as their person effects. Truth is, sir, I was in a tavern along the waterfront and overheard some of the deck hands talking about the journey. They are bound for Valencia.”
“Valencia?” Bingley asked. “You are sure of this?”
“That’s what the word was in the tavern. The size of the ship, the length of the journey, that would seem reasonable to me.”
“And you know much about overseas travel?” Wilshere asked.
“I confess, I do not, sir. I’ve an uncle who is a shipbuilder in Liverpool, but building ships is far different than sailing them.”
“You seem to have a knack for casually learning very useful information, Mr. Maitland,” Bingley spoke up, tossing the meat from over his eye into a bowl on the table next to him.
“I suppose so. But then again, is that not the reason I was hired in the first place?”
“Have you done this kind of work before, Mr. Maitland?”
“Not on such a scale,” the young man answered. “You could say I have made a little name for myself around the neighbourhood, perhaps.”
“What kind of name?”
“As a man who can figure things out when he puts his mind to it.”
“And why, sir, have you put your mind to this task with such vigour?”
“You pay very well.”
Bingley shook his head. “What do you know about Lord St. John?”
“He’s the Earl of Canterbury—he’s one of the richest men in the kingdom.”
With a grimace, Bingley leaned forward and toward the seated Maitland. “There is more than meets the eye with you. Do not pitch the gammon with me, son.”
Maitland’s top lip curled into a wily smile. Wilshere watched him intently, then glanced at Bingley who met his gaze.
“You are very intuitive, sir. I should have expected nothing less.”
“You know what they are up to, do you not?” Wilshere asked.
With that, Maitland’s smile dropped. He bowed his head slightly in affirmation.
“How are you connected?” inquired Bingley.
“Letitia Yates—” the young man’s voice trailed off and he lowered his head before strengthening his resolve and his moist eyes met Bingley’s again: “Letitia Yates was my betrothed, sir.”
Wilshere’s jaw nearly touched the floor. Bingley reached across the small distance between them and put his hand on Maitland’s shoulder.
“Wilshere? Be good enough to pour the man another drink.”