Chapter 22 #3
“… we decided that it would be best if you saw them yourself, Devon. What makes these bills different is not only that they are illustrated, but that they are done so with enormous skill. Furthermore, there are likenesses of others on the Black Joke as well as of Rand Morgan. And of three of our most effective agents in the Washington area. Yes! You may well look surprised. In fact, we were astonished. But, frankly, what disturbed us most was to find your portrait in the group, Devon. I can hardly convey the degree of alarm we felt when we realized that you were operating in the United States with such a risk of exposure! If you had been seen by anyone familiar with the poster, they would have hanged you and asked questions later. Well, that’s neither here nor there,” he said, handing the sheaf of papers to Morgan.
“It was only good fortune that we were able to put our hands on them. A loyalist assistant in the printer’s office notified our people, and the bills were ultimately smuggled into Canada.
… Well, Captain Morgan, what do you think? ”
“But they’re charming,” Morgan said. “Here’s one I find particularly taking.” He read, “Pirate known as Cat. Wanted for piracy, brigandage, kidnapping, rapine, and mayhem. Fifty dollars reward.”
Merry’s insides were a house of cards, falling, falling as Cat got up and strolled toward Morgan.
Malevolently grinning, Morgan read on, “Age seventeen, eighteen, or thereabouts. Tall. Slender build. Very pale. Well-favored.” Morgan handed the sheet to Cat. “They certainly want a lot for fifty dollars.”
It was impossible to guess what Cat was thinking as he studied the paper, gave it back to Morgan, and said, “It’s nice to be wanted.”
“Have you noted the style of the artist? Highly distinctive, wouldn’t you say? One would know it immediately if one ever saw it on another occasion.” Eremuth transferred the pages to Devon, saying, “What do you think?”
Perhaps there had been some clue for Devon in Morgan’s grin or in Cat’s expressionless assessment.
Perhaps as Devon withdrew his hands from her and slowly sat up he knew already.
The long shapely hands received the drawings.
Golden eyes skimmed over the pictures as he quickly studied one after another, taking no greater interest in his own portrait than in the others.
They were distinctive, as the British officer had said.
Trapped between Devon’s fingers as alike and yet as individual as a row of apples were face after face from Merry’s unmistakable hand.
There, minimally altered by the careful printing process, Merry saw her own firm varied pencil strokes, her distinctive cross-hatching, her reed pen detailing.
They might well have carried her signature.
The only surprise for Merry, seeing the pictures after so long an interval, was how childish and inaccurate had been her insights.
She had made Morgan humorlessly satanic, devoid of the more suave menaces.
Cat’s sketch was of a youthful Norse raider who was incapable of conceding to his softer impulses.
And Devon—she couldn’t then, nor could she now capture that natural wealth of perfect male contours and radiant flesh hues that hid a unique and complex character.
Merry’s heart had begun a double-headed beat, an intense ba-bang, ba-bang that reverberated through her lungs.
Though her skin surfaces were numb, she knew that she must have lost color.
She felt Cat’s gaze as a firm and sustaining grip as she heard Prufrock say, “Our artist is obviously an older man. Extensive training, I should guess, probably in Italy. Talented fellow. Pity. We’ve orders to short-cut his career. ”
“Kill him, do we mean?” questioned Morgan in an emotionless tone.
“Regrettably,” Eremuth assented unhappily.
“If the artist was less talented, if the subjects were chosen with less discretion, then we could afford to be merciful.” Addressing himself to Devon, he said, “As you’ve pointed out so aptly in your reports, our intelligence network is poor.
You, I believe, used a stronger word. Since so many on the Black Joke were subjects, we had hopes that you would have some idea who might have done them.
Could you put your hands on the artist?”
A warm wind sucked the cold sweat beads on her palms and licked at her bodice, cupping the fabric into her breasts and midriff.
Wisps of hair irritated her temples. Acid fluids ate the surface of her eyes.
Time moved heavily, the seconds rising to collapse awkwardly, like a warped cartwheel.
Her self-control was stretched to its ultimate limit before Devon stood in an even flood of motion.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“ ’Pon my word, lad,” insisted Prufrock. “Your orders to return to England come directly from Whitehall. No one intends you to trouble yourself in the matter. If you’ll but give us a name—”
Devon slapped the papers into Eremuth’s open hand. “Have I indicated that I’d relish an extended debate? Leave this to me.”
Heaving himself to his feet, clapping speckles of sand from his clothing, Prufrock said good-humoredly, “If that’s how you’ll have it, then.
As far as debating goes, you’re the last soul alive I’d have one with.
Likely I’d end up with my brain bent in more knots than a Chinese puzzle.
You were always too clever for me by half, and well you know it. ”
The pulse in Merry’s ears had become so loud that she could hardly follow their final exchanges and the round of amiable pleasantries and expressions of goodwill that passed between the men.
Prufrock began to amble toward the longboat, the brightly uniformed British boy at his side.
Eremuth would have followed, but Devon halted him with a gesture.
When Prufrock was too far down the beach to hear him, Devon said, “Were you able to find out for me if Granville sponsored a girl to travel with him on the Guinevere?”
“Yes.” Eremuth’s hand raked his sandy hair and settled on his hat. “I’m afraid I have precious little information about her, however. It was difficult to discover anything without drawing attention to the inquiry, and you had specifically requested that I exercise extreme discretion.”
“I appreciate that, Richard,” Devon said. “Thank you. What did you learn?”
“You were correct. Granville did sponsor a girl named Merry to sail on the Guinevere. I couldn’t find out her family name, but one of the clerks recollected that her New York address was given to be the same as Granville’s. It seems that—Devon! I can see this is not welcome news to you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s of no moment. Please go on. It seems that?”
“It seems that the young woman was a chère amie of Granville’s,” Captain Eremuth said frankly.
“How do you know?”
Eremuth’s dark-red flush became evident even in the sparse light.
“There was some comment among the dock-hands on the evening the young woman boarded the Guinevere. A rare piece of goods, I believe, was the assessment quoted me, though apparently her countenance bespoke the innocent. Anyway, Granville was quite friendly with a few of these dockmen, so that later when he came to board, they were able to induce him to confide his connection with the girl.”
“Richard. Be blunt.”
“Bluntly then.” Eremuth’s blush spread to his hairline.
“Granville told them that appearing the innocent was the girl’s most highly developed accomplishment save for—for—” He glanced at Merry.
“Devon, there’s a jest involved that I would be loath to repeat in front of any young female, regardless of her status. ”
Slipping an affectionate arm around Eremuth’s stiff shoulders, Devon began to walk with him toward the beach.
During the whole course of their conversation he had not once looked at Merry.
The strains of his voice, detached and cheerful, streamed back to her on the night breeze: “Heavenly days then, let’s get out of mixed company so you can tell me about it. …”
Everything she saw dissolved before Merry like a melting waxwork. For some time she felt and saw nothing. When her senses awoke again, it was to the tough security of Cat’s arms. His words were a soft streak of sound to her ears.
“Merry, listen! Don’t fight me, Merry. I want you to come with me. Quickly! Merry, can you hear me?”
“Yes. I—Cat!” Long bleeding scratches were dark runners on his forearms. Staring at them confusedly, she asked, “Did I do that?”
“My fault. I put my hands on you too quickly,” he said, dragging her to her feet. “Come now.”
Her body seemed unable to obey his dictates. She hung back, trying to sharpen the hazy images in her brain. “How long have I—How long has Devon been gone?”
“A few minutes. Christ. Your skin is as cold as a hatchet. Merry, you’ve got to let me get you away from here before—”
“Before Devon comes back?”
Moving silently, Devon stepped from blank shadow into the smoky edges of the firelight.
His strikingly perfect features were relaxed, his stance as easy as his voice had been.
He was even smiling, a faintly sugared curve of the lips that made his eyes shine like warm, glittering crystals.
Merry had almost forgotten that smile. She had not seen it since the morning after she had accidentally destroyed Michael Granville’s letters in her first attempt to escape.
His face might as well have been a beautiful mask, with the soul stripped from it.
There was no limit to the price Merry would have paid in this world or the next to be able to obliterate the sleeping damnation from his gaze.
Cat said, “She’s tired. I want to take her—”
“If you have that inclination,” Devon said, his tone serene, “then you’re welcome to take her after I have.”