CHAPTER 31
“Oiy!” called Raven as the earl edged out the doorway. “I should come with you—in case you need me to run messages.”
Wrexford halted. With luck, Horatio’s band of sailors had already apprehended Jarvis, and it would simply be a matter of escorting the prisoner back to the King’s Dockyard and turning him over to the proper authorities.
However, he didn’t underestimate the colonel.
Jarvis had proved himself to be awfully cunning in the past, and a predator was always at its most dangerous when cornered.
“Very well,” he said, deciding there was some merit to the suggestion.
Raven raced past him and had reached the reeds before the earl could have any second thoughts.
Once they were on the footpath leading to the river, Wrexford quickened his steps to catch up with the boy.
“Not so fast, Weasel. We need to make a few things clear between us.”
Raven released a harried sigh. “I know what you’re going to tell me, sir.”
“You’re right, it should go without saying. Nonetheless, I shall do so anyway.”
Up ahead, a glint of sunlight reflected off the dark water, the rush of incoming tide stirring a swirling pattern of whitecaps and currents.
“You must do exactly as I say, without hesitation,” he continued. “Give me your promise on that, or else turn around and return to the others.”
A flicker of rebellion in the boy’s eyes gave way to a grudging nod. “I understand, Wrex.” He made a face. “Though I damn well don’t like it.”
The earl repressed a smile. “I don’t expect you to like it. But I do expect you to obey my orders.”
“Oiy.”
“Thank you.” Catching sight of a blue naval coat among the reeds, Wrexford veered off the path and called a soft hail to the sailor.
“Lord Wrexford!” The sailor snapped a salute. “The prototype steamboat wasn’t in the boathouse when we arrived. It must have been moved to a different mooring place. Bosun White has us guarding the perimeter while he has gone to signal Midshipman Porter that it is missing.”
As he feared, Jarvis had been clever enough to take precautions so the Royal Navy would not be able to interfere with his escape.
“We thought we heard an engine firing up in the next cove,” added the sailor. “But we didn’t dare make a move without orders from Midshipman Porter.”
“You did the right thing,” replied the earl. “Now, take me to Bosun White.”
“Aye, sir.” The sailor slung his musket over his shoulder and set off at fast clip.
As he followed, Wrexford began to calculate how big a head start Jarvis had. It was a complex equation of factors. The river currents, the competing engines, navigational skills . . . it would all come down to which boat possessed the right combination of power and an experienced hand on the helm.
The path broke free of the reeds and brought them to the river’s edge. Raven let out a shrill whistle on seeing Horatio standing in the stern of a low-slung boat with a smokestack in its middle belching clouds of pale vapor.
The thump of pistons floated across the water, as the engine idled and a set of hemp ropes held by sailors on the shore kept the vessel moored close to shore.
Horatio waved for Wrexford and Raven to approach. “Jarvis has perhaps a ten-minute head start,” he called. “I saw with my spyglass that he didn’t have Auntie Peake as his prisoner, so I decided to wait for you and your orders. Is she—”
“The dowager is safe and unharmed,” replied Wrexford as he shaded his eyes, and surveyed the river. “Have we any hope of catching him?”
Because of Kurlansky’s promise, he wasn’t worried about Jarvis receiving sanctuary on the Russian frigate. However, smuggling and all manner of illicit activities were rife along this stretch of the river. There were any number of ways for someone to lose himself among the harbors and wharves.
And Jarvis had proved himself slippery as an eel at evading capture for his many sins.
The question drew a small smile from Horatio.
“I’ve been running test trials in these waters for weeks with this prototype, and Mr. Tilden and I have been tinkering with the engine and recently installed a larger propeller.
So yes, we’ll catch him.” He gave a fond pat to the hull of his boat.
“And that’s a promise, milord. So hurry and climb aboard. ”
Wrexford began pulling off his boots. “Find Griffin and his men.” He gave Raven directions to the spot chosen for the rendezvous. “Have them go to the King’s Dockyard and wait there for my return.”
Raven cast a longing look at the steamboat but then turned and darted off, a quicksilver blur that was soon lost in the shadows of the reeds.
“Prepare to cast off!” called Horatio to the sailors holding the ropes that tethered them to their comrades on shore.
Holding his pistols high overhead, Wrexford waded into the water and was pulled on board by a host of willing hands.
“Now stoke the boilers!” ordered Horatio, taking charge of the ship’s wheel. “The hunt is on!”
* * *
Charlotte returned to the others, fighting to keep her emotions in check. Jarvis was a cunning and merciless killer.
But Wrexford is Wrexford, she reminded herself.
Somehow the thought was comforting enough to let her push aside her fears and deal with the drama unfolding inside the abandoned storage building.
“Are you sure that you are not hurt?” Crouching down, she pulled Alison into a gentle hug, as there was no longer any need to maintain her masquerade as a street-tough urchin employed by the earl. She sensed that Lady Taviot was not a threat . . .
“No need to fuss,” assured the dowager. “I am quite well.”
“Excellent—then I won’t hesitate to ring a peal over your head for taking such an awful risk,” said Charlotte. “But that must wait for a moment—as must a great many questions.” She cast a glance behind her. “I had better help Mac.”
“Go,” whispered Alison. “What a terrible thing to happen,” she added with a compassionate sigh. “But Evil begets evil.”
Lady Kirkwall had indeed chosen a dark path, but it seemed that a glimmer of right versus wrong had still remained alight in her heart.
After a quick squeeze to the dowager’s hands, Charlotte joined McClellan, who was kneeling beside Lady Kirkwall.
The maid had fetched Taviot’s fallen knife and used it to cut away the clothing around the gunshot wound.
She had also used it to slice some of her underskirts into strips of cloth to stanch the bleeding, but as Charlotte leaned closer and peeked beneath the padding, it was clear that the situation was not good.
Looking up, she saw McClellan’s eyes reflecting the same grim assessment.
“I-Is there perchance any water?” Lady Kirkwall’s breathing was growing more labored. “I—I find myself thirsty.”
“There’s a flask of brandy in my cloak pocket,” murmured McClellan, nodding to where her garment lay atop one of the crates.
Charlotte rushed to fetch it. Brandy was even better than water, as it would dull the pain.
“Thank you,” whispered Lady Kirkwall, after Charlotte had gently lifted her head and helped her swallow a sip.
“I don’t deserve your kindness, Lady Wrexford.
” Catching Charlotte’s flicker of surprise, she managed a wry smile.
“My appreciation of painted portraits has made me skilled at looking at faces.”
Charlotte helped Lady Kirkwall take another sip.
“My sins . . .” A cough wracked her chest.
“None of us are without sin,” said Charlotte, keeping Lady Kirkwall’s shoulders cradled in her lap.
“You have repented, so allow your soul to take solace in that.” Small comfort, perhaps.
But Lady Kirkwall was not a monster, and her last lonely moments on this earth should not be ones of utter despair.
“Again, your kindness . . .” She gestured for another sip of brandy. “Lean closer,” she whispered. “I—I wish to explain some things. I am aware that Wrexford has suffered greatly from the actions of my family—”
“Don’t try to talk now,” counseled Charlotte. “You must save your strength. A surgeon will be here shortly.”
Lady Kirkwall twitched her lips in a cynical smile. “We both know my strength will soon be gone. A confession may do us both some good.”
“We are listening, milady,” said McClellan as she changed the blood-soaked pads and resumed putting pressure on the wound.
A flutter of lashes. The lady winced and narrowed her eyes. “You—you look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Yes, I was once mistress of the female servants at Taviot Castle,” replied the maid.
“The one who disappeared the night of my half-brother’s death?”
McClellan nodded.
“We all assumed you killed him. The wound to his head could not have been caused by the fall.”
“I did, milady.”
Silence. And then a sigh. “With good reason. I am not unaware of his depravity.” She swallowed hard. “Indeed, it lies at the root of all the ensuing evil. If I had not been so proud of our family reputation . . .”
Lady Kirkwall gave a weak wave. “My younger brother had run up enormous debts, and to save the family name from scandal, I embezzled money from my husband’s business interests—I am quite skilled in finance—to cover the debts.
I intended to replace the money, but his partners became suspicious before I could do so.
I made the mistake of telling Jarvis and my brother of it—”
“How did you come to be involved with Jarvis?” asked Charlotte.
“He and Fenwick—that is, Taviot—had become fast friends at one of those hideously sadistic boarding schools where the aristocracy sends its sons to make them men.” A cough. “It makes some of them monsters.”
McClellan took the lady’s hand and began to chafe some warmth into her flesh.
“With my brother’s aristocratic connections and Jarvis’s genius for scheming, they formed a lucrative partnership.” She made a face. “For a time, I became besotted with Jarvis. My marriage was loveless, and his aura of danger was seductive. We became . . .”
“Romantically involved?” suggested Charlotte.