Chapter 12
Henry stumbled from his bed, eyes barely open, and pulled the curtains closed against the light that was piercing his skull worse than a needle could lance fabric.
The effort left him heaving, and it was too difficult to make it back to bed, so he slid down the wall instead.
His hands shook as he scrubbed them through his hair.
How was he so sick? Something he’d eaten?
He pressed his eyes shut, supporting his head with the wall and contemplating curling up on the floor.
But if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to make it back to his feet in case this nausea overtook him completely.
His mind was as unsteady as a boat in open sea—but beneath it all he felt as if he had to move, had to be doing something.
He was responsible for something of great import, but the fog in his brain would not clear enough to recall what.
Gads, but his head ached. And his stomach tossed.
A groan escaped him moments before the door to his room cracked open.
“Henry?” Blessedly, Julia had chosen to speak quietly. And she hadn’t banged on the door before entering. That lack of privacy may have annoyed him at another time, but for now he was just glad that she was not exacerbating his headache.
“Down here,” he moaned.
He expected to see pity in her eyes. Maybe a softening.
Instead, she laughed. “You look terrible.”
“Keep your voice down.”
She shook her head, coming closer and sitting beside him, lowering herself to the floor slowly.
“I am sorry,” she said, and she sounded it too. Her shoulder brushed his, and he looked at her.
She held out a small cup and some water. He stared at the offering, not reaching for it.
He didn’t need more water. He didn’t need some blasted tisane. He needed . . .
Alcohol.
His body craved it. It would fix everything, he was sure.
This was no sickness.
Heaven help him, his sister was right.
Somehow, in the last several years as he’d been fighting to regain his livelihood, he had become a slave to the bottle again, and he’d not even noticed. Something in that realization made him reach out for the water. Because in that moment, he saw what Julia must see.
“I am pathetic,” he muttered, grabbing and downing the terrible tisane with half the water. He pressed a fist to his mouth, willing it to remain down.
Julia said nothing.
His eyes flicked to hers. There was the pity he’d expected before.
“You will get through this, Hen,” she murmured.
“Remember when you broke your arm climbing that tree? That was far worse, and you had me and half the staff laughing through the entirety of your recovery. Or when that churlish woman spurned you for Norwich of all people. You smiled again not long after that.”
This was far worse than either of those times, but he did not wish to admit it. Nor had he the energy to be ornery when she was only trying to help.
“You have a perfect rate of success for surviving the hard things in your life, Henry. You will survive this too.”
Henry pressed his eyelids shut. When he opened them again, he was alone.
Shockingly, Henry’s head did not hurt when he woke the next day—well into the afternoon. Or perhaps it was two days later. They’d all blurred together at that point.
He sat up in bed and stretched his neck from side to side. Truly, there was no pain.
Well, there was somewhat of an ache about his entire person. Similar to how one feels after a fit of the influenza.
And though he could think clearly enough, a forgetfulness blanketed his memories of the last week. He recalled a conversation with Julia. She’d brought him medicine. But was that only the day before?
No. No, he had experienced several days of this.
Days of the aches in his throat and feeling hot and cold and like he would throw up at any moment.
He raked through his thoughts, squinting at the carpeted floor.
The aches had only begun to subside in the early hours of that morning.
At one point he remembered actually trying to join the group, but .
. . blast. He very suddenly recalled fainting in front of Mrs. Seymour.
The recollection made him feel nauseous again, so he pushed it from his thoughts, scrubbing his hands down several days’ worth of stubbled cheek, then crossing the room to splash water on his face.
He gripped the porcelain bowl with both hands as droplets fell from his skin.
One thing he recalled with absolute clarity was the realization he’d had.
He’d become dependent on alcohol yet again.
That made his stomach heave a second time, and his hands clenched. After all the effort he’d put into getting himself out of that dark place, how had he gone and landed back into a reliance on drink?
He’d had to partake at least a little to keep up his ruse. He couldn’t have sat at so many card tables had he not. But how close had he been to falling back into complete ruin yet again? How had he thought he could walk that line without incident?
Could he keep away from the stuff now? Did he need to—in its entirety?
Perhaps. For the time being, he would keep it at arm’s length. It would be fairly easy, thanks to Mrs. Seymour.
A sealed letter sat on his desk—it must have come while he was abed. He opened it, reading the missive.
Sir H—
I’ve learned that Lieutenant C was stationed in Portsmouth during the masquerade, and Lieutenant S was near France, though the exact location is unknown. Please advise should you need further information.
C
Henry nodded. That removed the lieutenants from his list. He crossed to his trunk, opening the lid and feeling around the base for the false bottom.
Inside lay his pistol and several days’ worth of notes on the piracy scheme.
He scanned them, quickly catching himself up on the state of the investigation.
The same amount of despondency did not fill him at the thought of it all.
The pain at his father’s loss was not entirely gone, it likely never would be, but his focus was on what he needed to do, not what he ought to have done years before.
He would find the man in charge. Would find the Gentleman Pirate and see him hanged for the crimes against England and Henry’s father.
Except—his eyes landed on a note. Devil take it! What day was it? Had he missed Gregory’s meeting? Blast, blast, blast.
Barely thinking, he tore open his door and crossed to Julia’s, pounding his fist on the surface. It opened.
“How long have we been here?”
She recoiled, narrowed eyes taking in his surely terrifying appearance. “You seem to be doing . . . better?”
“Yes, yes, immensely. What day is it? How long have we been here?”
She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, one eye scrunched in thought. “Yesterday marked a week.”
He did a bit of math.
“Today is the twelfth?”
Julia nodded.
Praise the heavens, it was tonight.
If he’d expected some sort of fanfare when arriving in the drawing room for the evening meal, he was sorely disappointed.
Julia flicked him a glance and small smile, then returned to her conversation at the end of the table. A handful of guests murmured hellos. But Mrs. Seymour was the most disappointing of all.
She did not even look up. Not once. She was busy directing a few servants to do something or other, so that would have made sense, except that even when she arrived to address the group, her eyes simply skimmed past him as if he were a picture on the wall. And not a very interesting one at that.
“Our next rehearsal for those participating in the theatrical is tomorrow morning. Later this week, we will enjoy a bit of an excursion to some Roman ruins here on the island for which we will depart following breakfast. Any are welcome, but if you choose not to come, you can enjoy some rest throughout the day. For now, let us eat.” She smiled at Lord Danbury, who held a chair out for her.
Henry frowned. But the woman’s apathy should not concern him. He had other focuses.
He made it through the entirety of dinner and all of the evening’s activities despite lingering frustration that he seemed to have become a leper in Mrs. Seymour’s estimation.
And while the rest of the party retired to bed, Henry only appeared to.
Shortly after ten, he slipped from his room, and out through the back gardens.
He intended to walk to the beach in question—La Petite Anse—and from the maps he’d brought, it was two miles north.
He needed to be early enough to hide before the appointed rendezvous.
Which was how he found himself, with a waxing crescent moon providing dim light between shifting clouds, tucked between a swarthy patch of grass and a pile of boulders, halfway up the hill to a rocky beach.
Waves beat a slow, steady rhythm, and Henry stared out into the semi-darkness, eyes flitting about the expanse of beach below him for movement. Somewhere up the trail, a rock was dislodged, pinging its way down the path. Henry’s hand inched to his boot, in case his gun was needed.
A woman, in a worn gray dress with a fraying shawl pulled about her shoulders, came into view directly below Henry’s vantage point.
Her head swung back and forth as she tightened her shawl.
She seemed to wear it like armor, despite the night being warm.
He could not tell much of her, but caught glimpses of a face neither young nor old, and her clothing was clearly that of the lower class.
Was she a lookout? Would she signal to the band of pirates that it was safe to proceed?
Together, yet with only one of them aware of that fact, Henry and the woman waited. His watch told him that midnight was three minutes past. The woman must have been aware, for her glancing and searching became more pronounced. She had begun to gravitate back the way she’d come, shoulders rounded.
And then another shadow came into view. The woman straightened. Her shawl loosened.
“William,” she said, stepping toward the newcomer. His hat was pulled low, and Henry could not tell definitively who the man was.
“Bess.” The rumbling voice was vaguely familiar. Was it Mr. Gregory?
The two met in the middle of the rocky shore, and the woman’s chin tilted up to look her companion in the eyes. The man pulled his hat from his head, revealing his face.
Of a sudden, Mr. Gregory grasped the woman about the waist and pulled her close. His mouth covered hers. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders.
Henry reared back, disgusted and shocked. The man before him was married! Married and yet kissing a woman who was decidedly not his wife.
That was all this blasted appointment was? A way for a man to carry on an affair? A complete waste of Henry’s time.
Below him, the couple retreated to the cave, her shawl forgotten on the rocks. Henry swallowed back his revulsion, standing silently. He needed to leave now, before they returned.
He cursed himself and the cheating Mr. Gregory the entire two miles back to Windvale. Henry had been entirely wrong. The Gentleman Pirate was still at large, and Henry was back at square one, a week into his visit.