Chapter Thirty-One
Gwen peered out the travel coach’s small-paned window at the two- and three-story Georgian-style townhomes lining Portsmouth’s High Street.
It was full-on evening now and the sporadically placed flickering lamps and occasional lanterns cast meager illumination over the grand, brick-and-stone-faced homes.
“I’ve never been to Portsmouth,” she said. “It’s much different from the parts of London I’ve visited, and of course, nothing like Little Giddingford.” She knew she rambled, but she did not know how to deal with Gideon in his particular mood.
Gideon, her husband. Gideon who’d marched down the makeshift aisle in his father’s parlor, fully cognizant of the fact that once the wedding ceremony took place, he would be bound to her for life.
“No? It’s not the metropolis London is. It’s more of a naval town.”
He spoke in a neutral tone, masking the worry she felt coming off him in sheets.
The coach slowed to a halt.
Gideon met her eyes. “Let us hope our house guests have not left the premises.”
Mrs. Kennedy and her daughter, a curly-haired toddler of, Gwen guessed, two, had not departed, but it was a near miss. Gideon and Gwen entered to find the woman packing up her few belongings, clearly in preparation for leaving.
Her brown eyes went wide with fear when she spotted Gideon standing in the doorway to the bedchamber she and the child had evidently been using. She relaxed visibly when she noticed Gwen hovering behind him.
Gwen shot Gideon a smug smile, and was gratified by his soft snort.
Mrs. Kennedy looked to be in her early twenties. She had brown wavy hair, bound into a knot on her crown and was thin to the point of gaunt.
Her daughter, however, appeared hale and hardy. She smiled and clapped in delight at the sight of two new faces.
Interlacing her hands, Mrs. Kennedy stepped in front of her daughter as if to shield her.
“Mr. Devereux, I hope you don’t mind Celia and I’ve been…
er…here. It’s only been a few days. We thought, as the runner making enquiries for you said you wished to speak with me, you wouldn’t mind.
But then, you didn’t come straight away and I worried someone might notice a woman and a child and—”
Gwen slid past Gideon into the bedchamber.
She sent Mrs. Kennedy a gentle smile. “He does not mind, Mrs. Kennedy. We are both very happy to see you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gwen. I am Mr. Devereux’s wife.
Would you care to join us for a cup of tea?
We can sit down and have a nice chat and you can tell us how Mr. Devereux might be of assistance. ”
The woman’s eyes welled with tears. “Call me Meredith, ma’am. Dirk always said how Mr. Devereux would never turn his back on one what belonged to him. But…”
“Quite right. Tea?”
Several minutes later, the three adults sat at the scarred wooden worktable in the kitchen’s center, steaming cups of tea before them. Celia tottered on the wide-planked floor, carrying on what appeared to be an in-depth conversation with her doll.
“Meredith, can you tell us what happened? Where Dirk is? What of the missing rifles?”
Gwen shook her head as Gideon peppered the young woman with questions.
A look of belligerence darkened her features. “They say Dirk is a traitor. They say he sold them rifles to the French.”
“And did he?” Gideon asked, stone-faced.
“Not like you think. He had to sail. He didn’t want to, and I begged him not to go, but he said they’d kill me and Celia.” Her chin trembled and tears leaked from her eyes. “And now he’s dead.”
Gideon drew a long breath, and Gwen gathered he was losing patience with the questioning process.
Gwen decided to take over. “Meredith, why was Mr. Kennedy convinced you and Celia were in danger? Let us start there.”
The younger woman appeared to relax somewhat.
“It all started when a man came to visit the house, a few days before Dirk was to set sail for Spain, the last time. He and Dirk talked for a good bit. After he left, Dirk told me he was sending me and Celia away, and not to come back to the house, no matter what. He said not to tell nobody where we were going. He gave me all the money he had stashed and sent us to a boarding house outside London. He said he’d come for me there, after. ”
Her lower lip trembled. “He’d promised he would quit the sea after one last run, and I feared he had changed his mind.
I said I wouldn’t go anywhere. Then he told me what happened.
He said the man who visited told him if he didn’t do what they said, they would kill all of us, but if he did do it, they promised they’d take care of Celia and me, and then maybe we could join him, after. ”
Gwen and Gideon exchanged looks.
“What did they want your husband to do, Meredith?” Gwen asked.
She swallowed. “To betray Mr. Devereux. He said as how you would understand, sir, but, I know you wealthy folk. I told him you wouldn’t care that they’d threatened him and us.”
Gwen covered the younger woman’s trembling hand. “Mr. Devereux does care, very much. I think you know he considers Mr. Kennedy as close as blood. Please go on.”
She licked her lips, a cautious hope lighting her eyes. “My Dirk was not stupid. He said he had to go or they would kill us. He also knew they wouldn’t keep any promise about taking care of me and Celia after, and that is why he sent us away and told us not to tell no one where we went.
“I waited at the boarding house, waited ’til we ran out of money.
Then I went back to Wapping, and called on one of my cousins.
That’s when I learned what they were saying about Dirk.
She also said men came looking for us, but not to help us.
Official-looking men, from Scotland Yard, and the one who put Dirk up to all of it—to clean up behind him, to get rid of us.
But Dirk kept us safe. And now my Dirk is dead.
” She scrubbed fat tears off her cheeks.
“I know he’s dead or he’d have sent word of how and where we’d find him, but there’s been no word.
I don’t know where to turn. Celia and I have no money left and nowhere to go.
That runner said you wanted to help us. Is that true? ”
Gwen answered for him. “Of course, dear. Mr. Devereux will help. He will set you and Celia up in a nice home somewhere far away from here and London.”
“Will you, sir?” She looked at Gideon for confirmation.
He glanced between Gwen and Dirk’s wife, or more likely, Dirk’s widow.
“Yes, I will. It’s the least I can do. We must get you out of town first, and quickly.
You and Celia should depart tonight. You were right to worry someone might wonder at a woman matching your description with a toddler tied to her apron strings, residing here. ”
He started to push back from the table.
Gwen stayed him with a touch to the back of his hand. “Meredith, do you know the name of the man who first approached your husband?”
She shook her head.
It was worth a try, Gwen thought.
“But I’d recognize him anywhere. He has hair, bright as copper penny, and an odd sort a gate.”
Gideon went very still. “What was odd about it?”
“He kinda shuffled, like.”
His green-gold gaze sparked like a flint strike. “A red-haired man with a limp.”
“That’s him,” Meredith said.
“You know him?” Gwen asked Gideon.
“Unless I miss my guess, his name is Mr. Rory, and he’s the customs official who oversees the London docks.”
Several hours later, after seeing Meredith and Celia safely ensconced in a hackney bound for Yorkshire, Gideon bundled Gwen back into his travel coach to make for London.
He knew Gwen well enough by now to understand having been away from her precious publishing house for several days now meant she would be anxious to return to it. She likely had her fingers in several pies, editing and overseeing all aspects of production.
Meanwhile, he wanted to be in place to question the customs official first thing Monday morning when the office opened.
The moment the equipage set off, he turned down the lamps, casting the coach interior into virtual darkness, save for the intermittent bursts of light spilling in from a street gas lamp.
He did not wish to talk. He did not wish to think, for that matter, but he did not have the luxury of avoiding the truth of what had happened to Dirk.
Evidently, he had betrayed Gideon, but it was hard to fault his motivation for doing so. He’d wanted to save his wife and child.
Gideon shot Gwen, seated across from him, a covert look. She stared out the window, surprisingly bright-eyed after the long day they’d spent traveling, not to mention the ceremony that had altered her very existence. As well as her name, which was now his.
If someone threatened her, what would he do? What would he not do?
He turned his head to look out the window, mostly to keep from studying her. It was so hard not to. The woman distracted him beyond measure, tied him up in bloody knots when he needed to focus on other things.
Such as what Dirk got pulled into, when all he wanted was to get out of the shipping business and live a simple life with his family.
One could argue the man should have gone to the authorities, but when the order to commit treason came from an authority figure, where would a common man safely seek assistance?
If Gideon had been here, Dirk would have gone to him, no doubt. But Gideon had not been here, thanks to going off on wild goose chase, and now the man was likely dead. Gideon may as well have taken a pistol to his friend’s head and pulled the trigger.
“Gideon,” Gwen said, her voice gentle.
He would not look at her. “Yes?”
“It was not your fault, Gideon.”
Of course. Of course she knew where his thoughts had gone. He fisted his hands. He wanted to punch something. To hurl something. “But, it was,” he gritted out.
“No,” she said, the single word infused with compassion he did not deserve. “As we already deduced, you were set up. You were lured away because you were the one person this Rory individual knew he could not intimidate into misadventure.”
Unable to resist the urge, his head snapped in her direction. “So he told me my shipments were short and I took the bait, hook, line, and sinker.” Gideon had been a bloody fool.
“Why would you not? Think about it, Gideon. You are an accomplished businessman. You did not rise to your level of success by looking the other way when men tried to swindle you.”
He wanted—needed—her closer.
As if he’d spoken aloud, she crossed the aisle and sidled up beside him, then tried to wedge one of her hands behind his back.
He was insanely grateful for her nearness, the sweet, floral scent of her that seemed to emanate from her person. “What are you doing, madam?” he asked, even as he leaned forward to allow her arm to go around him.
“I’m cold,” she said and grinned up at him.
He knew, somehow, she fabricated the excuse—for his sake, no doubt, but he let it stand.
“Oh. Well, then. Up for a moment, if you please.” He shifted in much the same way he had when they’d set out from London, pressing his back into the side of the cab, stretching one leg atop the bench, and dropping the other over the edge, and then, God, yes, pulling her lithe body into his arms.
She rested her head on his shoulder and snuggled into him, without a word.
“Better?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“Yes, Gideon,” she answered.
He closed his eyes and held her—his wife. What would he not do to keep her safe? Absolutely nothing.
Gideon rose early the following day. He had much to accomplish, and saw no point in staying abed as sleep evaded him.
They’d arrived home well past midnight. He’d awoken a slumbering Gwen, and helped her from the coach. Inside, he escorted her to the stairs and watched as she ascended en route to her bedchamber.
She had glanced back once when he had not followed, a silent question on her face, and he explained he had something he wanted to take care of before turning in.
He had stalked to his den, poured himself a liberal quantity of brandy, dropped into his chair behind his desk, and retrieved the leather-bound journal in the top drawer.
He wanted to get his thoughts down about Dirk, and record all that he could recall about Rory’s claims of short falls in his inventory—when the so-called discrepancies began, and any interactions he remembered between Rory and Dirk.
Jotting down details, he recalled Rory had been the one to suggest the privateer company Gideon had hired.
He hadn’t meant to write anything about Gwen. He never recorded romantical gibberish. Not once had it occurred to him to do so. He was not a flowery poet like the one her blasted husband had befriended.
And yet, the words began flowing like a flooding stream.
At first, just a few drops, then a trickle and then finally, it rushed forth in a gush of words he could not contain.
He wrote of the awareness he had of her from day one, of her beauty, even garbed in one of her gowns purchased with the sole aim of dulling down her innate loveliness.
He marveled over her clever brain and keen insights—into him, his thoughts, his preferences, for God’s sake, from the quality of the furniture he purchased to the caliber of liquor he kept on hand.
He lamented over his seeming obsession with her, his uncharacteristic craving for her touch, his devastating weakness. He confessed to having knowingly and willfully married her before God and man, out of his own selfish desire to keep her.
Then he closed the book, stowed it in the top drawer, downed the remainder of his brandy, and made for bed. He had not stopped at Gwen’s door. He had not knocked on the adjoining door. And then, he had not slept for thoughts of the woman separated from him by one thin wall.
As the sun burned off the horizon, he headed for the mews, saddled one of his mounts, and went for a hard, mind-cleansing ride. Then he made for the customs hall. Time to get some answers.