CHAPTER 27
“You’re either mad or brilliant,” murmured Wrexford, once Sheffield had finished sketching out his idea.
“Sometimes one needs to be a little of both,” said Charlotte. She looked at Cordelia. “Can the logistics be arranged?”
“It so happens they can. Quite easily, in fact. One of our messenger lighters is tied up at the wharf just outside. And with the ebb tide adding assistance to the wind, it can bring you quickly to Limekiln Quay, where Mr. Linonia and his two sons handle moving our local deliveries up and down the river.”
Cordelia fetched pen and paper from one of the cabinets and scribbled out a quick note. “Give him this and he’ll lend you one of his wherries.”
Seeing Charlotte’s brow furrow, she explained, “Our Thames wherries are small sailing craft designed to haul cargo. They have broad-beamed hulls that sit low in the water, and are equipped with a gaff-rigged mainsail, as well as oars for maneuvering.”
“Most important, they can be sailed by one man,” added Sheffield with a smile.
Wrexford thought it over. It was risky, but, in truth, not overly so. However, he could see that Charlotte was apprehensive over one part of the plan. A child’s presence would add a look of innocence to the wherry—
“Oiy, oiy!” Raven suddenly burst into the room, a look of jubilation shining through the streaks of mud on his face. “We found it—we found the bloody ship!”
“The little patch of water just above Mill Stairs?” asked Cordelia.
“No—it’s tucked away in Duffield Sluice, right by Mariner’s Stairs,” answered the boy.
“Clever,” conceded Cordelia. “It’s such a tiny inlet, but now that I think of it, the warehouses fronting the river provide a perfect cover.”
“Well done, lad,” said Wrexford, shooting a glance at the clock on the bookshelf. “And we’ve plenty of time to get upstream.”
“No rush at all,” agreed Sheffield, his smile stretching wider. “We can’t put our plan in motion until after the tide turns.”
“What plan?” demanded Raven.
“We’ll explain that to you as we sail upstream,” answered Charlotte.
She cast a critical look at Sheffield. “You don’t look like a riverman dressed like that.
Go find a bargeman down at the dock and negotiate an exchange of clothing—the shabbier, the better.
The smallest flaw in our masquerade could scuttle our plan. ”
Her gaze moved to Cordelia. “When Hawk returns, please send him to the dowager. Tell him I’m counting on him to help my brother keep her safe. That should ensure that he does as ordered. It’s imperative that he doesn’t chase after us.”
“I’m coming with you?” asked Raven, his eyes flaring wide with excitement as Sheffield hurried away.
“Yes—” began Charlotte.
“As am I,” announced McClellan.
“Mac,” said Wrexford. “There is an old adage, Too many cooks spoil the broth . . .”
“If all I could do was wield a soupspoon, milord, I would be forced to agree with you. But it so happens that I’m a skilled sailor, with a great deal of experience in navigating the tricky currents and eddies of a tidal river.
So I may be of use to Mr. Sheffield,” replied the maid.
“And as you know, I’m an excellent shot. ”
“After sunset, the wherrymen often have a woman passenger aboard. Either their wife or . . . other companion,” pointed out Cordelia. “It will add an excellent touch to the wherry and make your little band look even less threatening.”
The earl looked to Charlotte, who gave a small nod.
Hell’s bells. He surrendered his misgivings with a sigh, feeling he couldn’t, in good conscience, forbid her from being part of her cousin’s rescue party.
That is the trouble with all of us—we’re too damnably loyal for our own good.
“You had better go and find a fishwife with whom to trade clothing.”
McClellan allowed her normally stoic expression to soften for an instant. “You won’t regret it, milord.”
* * *
Darkness had settled over the river by the time they reached Limekiln Quay and finished making all the preparations for launching their plan. The wherry was now bobbing through the wind-ruffled currents, the slap-slap of the choppy waves beating against the low-slung hull.
Charlotte sat wedged between two canvas-covered crates in the belly of the boat and stole a look at Sheffield.
Dappled in the scudding moonlight, he was perched on the fantail, the tiller in one hand, the mainsail sheet in the other, looking at ease as he skillfully navigated a course through the swirling water.
McClellan was beside him, keeping a watch on the flickering lantern lights dotting the river.
With the tide now flowing out toward the sea, quite a few merchant ships were beginning to cast off their mooring lines.
Raven was crouched in the prow of the wherry, ready to wave a signal when Mariner’s Stairs came into view. The plan was to put into the landing there and wait for Lyman’s ship to begin its journey to the sea. It wouldn’t be long now. The breeze was freshening and the current was gaining speed . . .
Curling closer to Wrexford, Charlotte found his hand and pressed her palm to his. The steady pulse of warmth helped to steady her skittery breathing. And yet fear refused to relinquish its hold on her heart.
The earl feathered a kiss to her cheek. “There’s little danger, my love—save for catching a chill from the freezing water.
” His appearance was that of a wraithlike shadow.
He was dressed in black, from head to foot—knitted toque, jumper, trousers, and stockings—and his face was smeared with a coal-dark grease. He had left his boots behind.
An involuntary shiver skated down Charlotte’s spine as she spotted the chisel, fine-tooth saw blade, and wooden mallet beside him. “What if they hear you?”
“A ship is alive with creaks and groans from its timbers,” answered Wrexford. “Add to that the sounds of the wind in the rigging and the floating debris hitting up against the hull, and I promise you, my fiddling with the rudder will go unnoticed.”
A sharp whistle from Raven signaled that the stairs were fast approaching. Sheffield steered the boat up to the stone landing and the boy jumped down to secure a rope around one of the stanchions.
Dark on dark against the night sky, the tips of a ship’s mast poked up from behind a row of warehouses. They waited in silence, straining to hear any signs of its impending departure above the lapping of the water against the stone quay.
Charlotte shifted, feeling the weight of the pistol in her pocket. Sheffield and McClellan were armed as well. Gunpowder would be no help to the earl, but he was carrying a knife . . .
For all the good it would do him against a boatload of cutthroat killers and mercenary ruffians.
Another whistle, but she had already seen it, too. The masts were beginning to move. It seemed to take an eternity for them to disappear into the swirls of fog.
One, two, three . . . Charlotte began a mental counting of the seconds. Wrexford and Sheffield had calculated beforehand how long to wait before pursuing the enemy.
The thump of Raven’s feet reverberated through the deck as he jumped back on board.
She felt the wherry shudder and start to move through the water.
As they angled out to the middle of the river, Charlotte saw their quarry up ahead, ghosting along through the tendrils of fog under her topgallant sails.
The ship was moving sluggishly, as the tide had not yet gained its full force.
Sheffield pulled in the main sheet, tightening the sail, and the wherry picked up speed.
Wrexford lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a quick kiss to her knuckles before releasing his hold. She met his eyes and felt a sob well up in her throat.
He smiled, and then was gone, a dark shape wiggling quick as an eel over the floor toward the stern.
“Ready, everyone,” called Sheffield softly.
He shifted a large jug of spirits to the slatted seat beside him and started to sing a bawdy song in an off-key bellow.
In response to his increasingly erratic tugs at the tiller, the wherry began to pitch and yaw, its prow swinging around toward Lyman’s ship.
McClellan began to curse her good-for-nothing husband, with Raven adding his own mewling to her shrieks.
Charlotte winced. They were making enough noise to wake the dead.
Her own role was to fumble with the rigging, as if trying to help Sheffield change direction.
“Avast, you barnacle-witted fool!” Their cacophony had drawn notice from the ship’s quarterdeck. As they swooped closer, Charlotte saw a man was now standing at the taffrail, waving his arms. “Steer left! Steer left!”
Sheffield raised the jug in a friendly salute. “Y’wanna buy a woman fer yer journey. She be a shrew, but I’ll sell her te ye cheap, ha, ha, ha!”
McClellan slapped him around the head, knocking the wherry farther off course. It was now aimed right for the rear side of the ship.
The thump of wood against wood rose above the shrieks and howls of the combatants.
“Sorry!” shouted Raven as he grabbed up the gaff pole and pushed the wherry free.
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw Wrexford slip over the side and into the water without making a sound. The ripples were quickly swallowed in the gloom.
“Move off, you lummox, or you’ll soon be food for the crabs!”
Charlotte spotted von Stockhausen brandishing a musket. An instant later, another man appeared by his side and caught hold of the barrel.
“Now, now, there’s no need for violence,” called the newcomer, swinging the weapon’s aim skyward. “However, madam, I suggest you take command of your vessel and head for safe harbor.” A note of arrogant amusement colored his voice. “Before my compatriot orders for the cannons to be run out.”
Raven let out a wail of terror and began a frantic paddling with his hands.
The newcomer—Charlotte guessed it was Lyman—began laughing. Wresting the musket away from von Stockhausen, he took aim and fired a shot that came perilously close to the boy, who wisely flung himself back into the scuppers.
“Monster,” whispered Charlotte as McClellan hauled in the sail and set the wherry flying for the opposite shore. Their part was done for the moment. They would circle back shortly and shadow the ship’s progress.
But now, it was all up to Wrexford.
* * *
The water was colder than Satan’s heart. The shock of plunging into its depth froze his muscles for an instant, but as the current pulled at his clothing, sweeping him away from his target, Wrexford forced himself to stay submerged and began swimming toward the ship.
As he rose to draw a gulp of air, the crack of the musket shot cut through the night.
He swiveled around to see the wherry come about and disappear into the rolling bank of fog.
Whether anyone had been hit was impossible to tell.
But the bark of laughter that floated down from the quarterdeck sent a wave of fury pulsing through his blood.
Clutching the chisel and mallet, he ducked beneath the waves and kept moving.
Buoyed by the current, he soon found himself deep in shadow, staring up at the Baltimore Clipper’s graceful stern.
The clank of rudder chains shifting in the waves filled his ears.
At this point in the river, the helmsman had few obstacles to navigate.
The fellow would need only a light hand on the wheel.
Which is all to my advantage, thought the earl, allowing a cold smile.
Kicking closer, Wrexford seized hold of the rudderpost, hauled himself into position, and set to work.
* * *
Charlotte and Raven fought to control the flapping canvas as Sheffield lowered the sail.
“Let it fall into the cockpit, then step aside,” he directed, after wrestling an ochre-colored replacement out from the storage locker beneath the front deck. “I’ll reeve the new sail onto its fastenings, then the two of you can roll up the old one and stow it before changing your jackets.”
McClellan had already shed her garish mustard-yellow shawl and straw bonnet for the more subdued dress of a prosperous merchant wife.
The jug of gin had gone overboard, along with Sheffield’s shabby outer garments.
Once he slipped on his new coat and hat, the drunken wherryman would be transformed beyond recognition.
“Let us hurry,” urged Charlotte, though she knew Wrexford would need at least another quarter hour to finish. She hated to think of him alone in the treacherous waters. As she knew all too well from her work, the Thames was a notoriously dangerous place for a man adrift on his own.
Raven looked up from tugging the old sail out of Sheffield’s way as he worked it free of the rigging, the creamy canvas casting a ghostlike pallor over his narrow face. “Wrexford won’t come to harm, m’lady. He’s . . .”
Immortal?
“Of course he won’t,” she replied, forcing a smile before looking away so the boy wouldn’t see the fear flooding her eyes.
“He’s a very good swimmer, Charlotte,” said Sheffield as he quickened his efforts.
“There was a prank we pulled during our Oxford days involving a very unpopular don. It required Wrex to cross the River Isis and . . .” He continued with a very entertaining story, which made Raven and McClellan laugh.
A smile—a real one—touched her lips as he finished. These close-knit friendships were a precious source of strength when her own nerve failed her.
“Thank you, Kit,” murmured Charlotte as she edged past him to change her garments. He grasped her hand and gave a fleeting squeeze, which said all that needed to be said.
After tucking her hair under a different-shaped hat, she helped Raven finish storing the old sail.
“Ready, Mac?” called Sheffield as he grabbed a halyard to hoist their new colors.
The maid gave the tiller a push, nodding in satisfaction as the ochre-hued canvas billowed out to catch the wind.
The transformed wherry now bore no resemblance to its original appearance.
With all the other small cargo boats on the water, the enemy would have no reason to suspect that they were being shadowed.
“Hard a-lee,” warned Sheffield, signaling to McClellan to bring the wherry about. “Now let us go ensure that those blackguards are stopped dead in the water.”