Chapter 6
“I’ll not warn you again, Calluna,” the Earl of Shite said, hot in Heather’s ear. “No toast. You may have one piece of citrus and one egg.”
Hell, but if she didn’t find those documents quickly, she would undoubtedly perish of starvation.
With a satisfied smile, the earl returned to the discussion between the officers at the table. It was obvious to none but Heather that his true attention was fixed on her. She took a sip of the weak tea in her cup, the lukewarm liquid churning in her stomach.
The need to retort, to snap at the man who so clearly enjoyed exerting his dominance—or what he perceived to be his dominance—was high. But for the purpose of this assignment, she would play this part, and play it well.
The blackguard shifted at her side, his gaze still on the officer across from them, while his hand slid beneath the table to once more rest on her thigh. The bruises he’d caused the night before throbbed, and she pasted on a smile and cut into a piece of egg.
“I hear tell there are clouds in the distance,” an officer said. “Mayhap this evening we shall see rain.”
Heather traced a finger along the table’s upper ridge, the wooden perimeter no doubt meant to keep the items on the table from sliding off.
And she listened. The discussion turned from the weather to their stores of food, then to the theatre and riding—nothing that would give Heather any insight into the earl’s activities, or proof thereof.
She finished her slice of orange and single boiled egg, then drank the last of her cold tea. Her stomach rumbled.
The earl’s hand tightened on her thigh, squeezing hard, as though the pain he caused would somehow eliminate her hunger. Bastard.
While it had never bothered her before, Heather acknowledged that she was a larger woman.
She doubted her weight was the only reason the earl exerted this control, however.
It was likely that he would have done the same to his previous affianced had Heather and her team not intervened and freed the smaller woman from the earl’s clutches.
No matter what the blackguard did in an effort to dominate her, though, she was grateful that it was her, and not another woman, to suffer.
“Just bloody find it!” The earl’s growl broke her from her momentary reverie.
“I’ve tried, your lordship, but there are numerous trunks,” the earl’s valet said plaintively. “I took the liberty of preparing the blue waistcoat for the morrow, in the event that you might—”
“Not the blue, blast it,” Hanley hissed. “Just find the grey one.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the valet’s temple. “Of course, your lordship. I shall look again.”
“See that you do.” The earl turned back to the officers observing the exchange and scoffed. “Really, how hard is it to find a waistcoat?”
Heather ignored the murmured responses from the officers as her pulse skipped and her thoughts whirled.
The hold. Of course! How foolish of her to not consider it before now.
The earl had packed crates, casks, and trunks full of his nonsense—far too much for just one frigate to hold. That was precisely where she must look.
Nearly every one of Percy’s muscles burned. It had been years since he had manned the lines on a ship, and his body was making its feelings known. He swallowed the last of his watery grog and leaned his elbows on the table.
The sailors around him broke their fast, talked, and joked with one another, some eyeing the earl’s two maids as they ate.
And Percy waited. He wanted another opportunity to talk to Heather, to sort out his feelings about the woman he’d come to know in London and the woman whose body he’d learned so intimately…
It was as though he’d never truly seen her before that night. He’d known her, of course, and had felt things, but she’d been his student and entirely off-limits. Now he was beguiled and wanted to learn more about her.
The door to the wardroom swung open, and Percy’s breath froze as Heather’s gaze caught his. She lifted a brow and notched her chin upward before ascending to the gun deck. She has information.
Percy hastily cleared the table and followed Heather up to the bustling quarterdeck. Men darted about, most beginning their shift, while some withdrew for their turn to sleep.
He spotted Heather at the taffrail. Her chignon was windswept, just as wild and unpredictable as the woman herself.
With a grin—and decidedly more nervous fluttering in his gut—Percy strode over to rest his forearms next to hers, gazing out at the seemingly infinite ocean.
The early morning sun heated him through his uniform, the warmth gratefully broken by the steady, cooling wind.
The ocean splashed as they glided through the water, and for a moment the salt air consumed him.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
“Mmm,” she hummed. “Is it?”
She cast him a sideways glance, one brow lifted, and her lips quirked in a fucking delicious grin.
She huffed a laugh. “The hold, Percy. I don’t know why I hadn’t considered it before, but it makes perfect sense that the earl would store any damning evidence there.
No doubt he assumes that no one would willingly suffer the inconvenience of searching through a plethora of excess to happen upon his dastardly dealings. ”
Percy returned her grin. “He is wrong on that score.”
“Indeed, he is. Are you up for the challenge?”
His pulse quickened. “Always. Shall we?”
He moved to push away from the taffrail, but Heather stopped him with a touch. Sparks of desire raced up his arm, through his centre, and straight to his cock. Sweet fuck. He bit back a groan. The woman had the ability to render him hard at a simple touch.
Damn. He really ought to tell her about their tryst. But how?
Heather cleared her throat and dropped her hand to her side, fisting it in the material of her pretty green frock. “The earl’s valet is down there”—she swallowed and cleared her throat once more—“searching for one of the earl’s waistcoats. We must wait until he resurfaces.”
His gaze held hers as her cheeks flushed with a warmth that he longed to touch. “Then we wait.”
“This is one of his,” Percy grunted, sliding a chest toward Heather.
The gentle glow of candlelight flickered over his striking profile, and Heather’s gut swooped. Whether it was from her fear of the fire or these inopportune feelings for Percy, she didn’t know. Regardless of the reason, it ought to stop. Oughtn’t it?
Her initial uneasiness aside, they’d slipped into the hold without drawing a single glance askance.
The earl had shouted himself hoarse and promptly taken a nap, while his staff took some much-needed respite and the seamen went about their duties.
No one looked, no one cared—not while the earl was asleep.
She huffed a breath and stretched her arms above her head in an effort to dispel the tightness in her shoulders. They’d been searching through the Earl of Shite’s effects for nearly three quarters of an hour and had found naught but some entirely repulsive literature.
She would grant that it would not seem so repugnant—in fact, she might have enjoyed it for some light reading—if not for the awareness that it was the earl’s. Another shiver of revulsion raced down her spine.
Percy laughed, the low, husky sound echoing in the close confines of the frigate’s hold. “You must stop thinking about it, Heather. You’ll give yourself the headache.”
She frowned at him, despite the buzz of awareness humming through her middle. “I’m trying, blast it!”
He laughed again and opened another crate to inspect its contents. Heather did the same, lifting a lid and gazing inside. It was full of hessians, brushes, and cloths. She rolled her eyes.
“How many boots could a man need on a voyage to the Americas in the summer?” she murmured, tracing her fingers along the seams of the trunk’s inner lining.
There was a loose thread, and she picked at it.
“If his valet takes care of them properly, I daresay he wouldn’t need more than two,” Percy returned, setting the crate aside and selecting another.
“There are at least five pairs in here.” She tugged at the loose thread, and the seam came apart, leaving a gaping hole along the trunk’s side. “Bugger it. His valet’s going to know someone interfered with this one; I’ve gone and—”
She paused, staring at the opening.
Percy snorted, but turned to look at her when she went silent. “What is it?”
“I think this seam was meant to open. This looks like it was a false stitch.”
Pulse fluttering with hope and exhilaration, Heather slid her hand into the narrow hole. Her fingers probed, stretching out in search of…anything.
Her breath caught in her throat. Something crinkled beneath her touch. There!
Using the tips of her index and middle fingers, she pinched the pieces of parchment and pulled. A squeak of delight escaped her as she held them out.
“What do they say?” Percy asked.
Heather placed the folded pieces of parchment on her lap and opened one.
She gave the document a quick scan, and dread washed over her.
“Holy hell,” she breathed.
Her skin grew cold, her limbs trembling.
“Jesus, what is it, Heather?” Percy asked, concern lining his features.
“This says that despite the Royal Marriages Act of 1772, the Prince Regent’s marriage to Maria Fitzherbert was legitimate—that they did, in fact, garner consent from the reigning monarch, and that it was declared in council.”
Percy cursed under his breath.
Her heart in her throat, Heather set the parchment aside and picked up another. Then gasped. “This is the certificate of birth of a son, born to Maria Fitzherbert on—”
“It’s a forgery,” Percy interjected. “It has to be.”
Heather’s gaze darted to his. At some point, he’d retrieved the parchment she’d just set aside and examined it.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
He notched his chin toward her lap. “Read the next.”
And she did.
“This is a letter from ‘G’ to ‘H’—who I shall presume is Hanley.” She gasped, then choked and gave a spluttered cough.