Chapter 10
KINGSTON, JAMAICA
‘Faster!’
Viscount Peter Kildare clipped the ear of the black boy responsible for pulling the string that made the ceiling fan move backwards and forwards. The day was humid and dark grey clouds were piling up like congealed smoke. The heat was oppressive.
The boy dipped his head, his big brown eyes moist with tears, his small hands pulling more quickly.
Come rain or shine, day after day – except when a stiff breeze blew – his job was to sit outside on the veranda pulling on the string.
The string ran from his hands, through the top of the window to the piece of sailcloth some six feet long in the middle of the room.
Agitated by his small, strong hands, the ceiling fan flapped backwards and forwards and kept the room cool.
Even this late, close approaching midnight, the air was still heavy with the weight of the moisture it held.
Everyone, including the boy, would normally have turned in by now.
But Peter was on a special mission. There were things to be done imperative to his family’s fortunes.
By right, something should have been done years ago.
Plans had been put into operation immediately following their father’s death.
Unfortunately, the men employed to carry out that task had failed miserably and once the girl was in England under their uncle’s protection and that of English law, the opportunity to rectify matters – namely to dispose of her – had been lost. Until they’d heard of her travelling to America to marry.
‘What an excellent opportunity,’ he had muttered, smiling at the possibilities. The girl could be much easier disposed of once she was in the West Indies or thereabouts. Or she could be drowned at sea.
England and the fledgling United States were at war, though it had to be said the old home country wasn’t giving it their full attention.
They considered Napoleon Bonaparte a more severe threat than a bunch of headstrong ex-colonists.
Thus, it had come to his ears that the lady in question would have to change ships and travel up the eastern seaboard to the plantation of the man whom she would marry.
It was an opportunity too good to miss and he would not miss it, not this time!
Although staunchly patriotic to his home country, he had no scruples about using the war and the enemy to achieve his own ends.
Ten years ago, he and his brother, one of his sisters too, had contrived to get rid of the girl.
Perhaps due to their inexperience, things had not gone according to plan and the girl had had O’Neill to protect her.
O’Neill was not around now, and neither was the old black woman they had been forced to dispose of.
The thought of what had been done to her made him regurgitate his supper.
‘Pour me a drink. Pour two. I’m expecting company.’
There was nothing to stop Peter from pouring his own drinks, but he’d been waited on from childhood. Giving orders and being waited on had got to be a habit he much liked.
The butler set the glasses on a silver tray and crossed the room so he might take a glass from the tray.
‘Not now, you bloody fool! Leave it there. I’ve just told you I’m expecting company!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This room is too bright. Three candles will do.’
Goodenough, the name given to the butler by Peter’s sister Hermione, who had decided that he wasn’t the best of butlers but was good enough!
‘Don’t retire just yet. I need you to answer the door,’ Peter shouted after him.
The viscount lazed back in a chair, contemplating his intentions. Only the three candles from a silver-branched candlestick lit the room, the trio of flames throwing flickering shadows over the pale green walls, the family portraits and the gleaming walnut of the handsome sideboard.
Although desperate for his visitor to arrive, Peter stood with his back to the window, not wanting to appear too needy, though the fact was that he was in need – very much so. There was a lot at stake.
The amber liquid drew him. He slugged it back, then poured himself another. He was ready.
Hoof beats, a single snort of flared nostrils heralded the arrival of his visitor.
He heard the opening of the heavy mahogany double front doors and Goodenough’s voice welcoming his visitor to St Andrew’s Manse. No name was asked for and none given. Goodenough was well trained. He knew when to ask and when to hold his peace.
The doors opened. The man entered the room. His looks were as dark as his clothes.
The butler bowed, eyes downcast as he withdrew, though only to sit outside as directed and wait.
The fan flapped on above Peter’s head, cooling the room.
The candles fluttered, reminding him of the overhead draught and the boy sitting outside on the veranda.
If he’d considered the boy pulling the fan as more intelligent than a mule pulling a plough, he might have told him to go.
After all, the shutters were slatted and sound could travel through them.
Peter did not consider him intelligent. The boy was of no account.
All that mattered was getting the right man for the right job.
His first impression was that the man was tall. Over six feet. And lean, not to the extent of thinness, but athletically long and rangy. His gaunt features were in shadow, a series of peaks and troughs, high areas of shine and deep, dark valleys.
Peter hoped his own face didn’t appear as diabolical as this man’s.
Of course not, he told himself. This man is coarse whereas you are a man of title and standing. Refined. Civilised.
‘You’ve made all the arrangements?’ Peter’s question, placed in a pensive manner, hid his inner excitement.
‘I have. Never fear. The young lady might be expecting to land in Virginia, but the captain has been bribed with new orders. Blaming a change in wind and weather, the ship will take a new course, south to Savannah, where she will indeed be transferred to a Dutch ship. Just not the one commissioned by your uncle.’
‘What guarantee can you give me?’
The look of displeasure on his visitor’s face made Peter cringe.
‘I guarantee that she will not be arriving in Virginia to meet her intended. That’s all the guarantee you’re going to get.’
If he could have read the man’s mind, Peter would have seen the contempt he was held in. Peter would pay to kill his own kith and kin but did not have the guts to do it himself.
Needs must. Fear was easily swallowed when Peter reminded himself of what was at stake.
Without that blasted girl, he was next in line.
His plan was to move to England and run the estate once his uncle was dead.
Arthur could stay and run the sugar plantation.
Such a sweet plan he was convinced could not fail.
Satisfied the family would finally be rid of the impediment of an unwanted relative, the viscount reached inside his coat and brought out a bag of gold coins.
‘Your second payment.’
Keeping his eyes on the viscount, the man tipped the coins out onto the table and counted.
‘Don’t you trust me?’
Steely blue eyes met his. ‘There’s some missing. We agreed five hundred.’
Peter shifted uneasily in his chair. He had not expected the man to count the coins out then and there.
He’d planned otherwise. There was a small pile of coins hidden between two of the candlesticks, a pile he’d thought to hold onto.
The man spotted them. Peter just about refrained from blushing.
Before any accusation could be made, he pushed them forward.
‘There you are. We should be equal now.’
Accusing eyes fixed on him as the man silently placed the shortfall in the bag, drew the string and pocketed the lot.
‘Excuse me,’ said Peter as the scar-faced man headed for the door. ‘What will be your method of disposal? Will it be death by drowning? A pistol or a knife?’ His hand went to his own throat. How would it feel? To some extent, it excited him.
‘It’s best you don’t know. Less guilt that way.’
The viscount nodded. ‘I suppose so, though I barely remember the brat so am hardly likely to feel any remorse. Oh. I’m sorry. I meant to offer you a drink.’
The square-headed, hawk-nosed man refused the drink that was offered. He was already at the door like a dark shroud hanging there in the half-light.
Then he was gone.
In the shadowy drawing room, the viscount poured himself another drink. His hands shook and he spilled some. That drink was not enough. He needed more. The bottle was almost empty. He rang the bell for Goodenough, told him to fetch him another from the cellar.
‘And before turning in, stop that brat from heaving on that fan. It’s getting far too chilly in here.’
* * *
The man on horseback hummed to himself as he made his way back to his lodgings, where rum, a hot meal and a warm woman awaited him. He liked women. Liked them a lot.
His contempt for the viscount stuck in his throat like a stale crust of bread.
The fact that he’d tried to short-change him bred only contempt in his dark heart, though not for long.
He was already considering how best to make even more money from the disposal of this young woman, a fresh flower from England, a bride on her way to be married.
If she was as described, a lady of breeding and a virgin at that, a discerning gentleman would pay a fortune for her in certain places on the American mainland.
He didn’t care that he was contracted to kill her.
America was a country of vast distances and varied cultures, a country where her existence could be easily lost.
She was certain to fetch a good price in New Orleans, a jaded city of Spanish origin where he could turn a good profit, a little extra for putting himself out for the abhorrent titled English gentleman.
The horse clopped along. The moon hid behind a cloud. The man smiled into the darkness. All he had to do now was to carry out his plan.