Chapter 29
Alice could not slow her breathing. It was not the same as with her nerves, but something akin to that.
She felt as if, for those long seconds she had kissed Henry Ainsley, she’d neglected to breathe. And ever since, she was at a deficit.
Even now, as he spread out a blanket and unpacked their basket of food, she could not get her chest to fully expand.
Her lips were still warm. Tingling. Her cheeks burned as well.
And yet, she wished to experience it all again.
It was altogether a heady feeling.
“I asked Martha to pack all of your favorites,” Henry said, laying out the last of the wares. “She did not disappoint. That woman has a soft spot for you.”
She took a long breath, worried her words would come out flustered. “And I her. She is one of the few members of Windvale’s staff that seems to truly appreciate me.”
He began to unwrap cloth around some bread. “How can they not all? You are kind, capable, and an impeccable mistress.”
The heat that had never really left flared again in her cheeks. How very red they must be now. What was she to do with her hands? It felt odd to just sit here, purposeless. She reached for another cloth bundle. “You are very kind.”
He appeared contemplative. “Mrs. Sey—Alice, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
His eyes caught hers. “What happened to make you dislike drunks so very much?”
She swallowed. She should have known he would ask at some point. “I fear I have given you a very bad impression of my husband.”
“It was him, then?” Something in his expression darkened.
She couldn’t bring herself to defend the man for the umpteenth time. “Yes. Not always. But when he drank too much, he became angry. Unkind.”
“Did he hurt you?” His tone was dangerous.
“No, or at least not intentionally. Sometimes he threw things. Sometimes—”
His hand twitched out, flexing then fisting.
She bit her lip, continuing. “Sometimes I believe I was simply collateral damage. But as I said, he never targeted me intentionally.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Alice, I am so sorry. For what you experienced and for the weight of my own intemperance that I walked into your life carrying. How you must have hated me.” His jaw tightened again. “How I must have scared you.”
Her throat constricted. Her eyes burned.
She did not like to think on this. It made her chest hurt and a panicky feeling set in.
She fumbled for her bonnet strings; having them beneath her chin felt akin to strangulation.
It took too long to loose them, but she managed it and pulled the contraption from her head, the warm sun grounding her.
“You are . . . you’re nothing like him, Henry. I know that now.”
His eyes were steady on her, brushing over her face. Seeming to search for something. “Thank you.” The words were tight. He looked down, setting aside the bread he held, the motion stiff.
She did not know what to say, but nor did she feel like she had to say anything.
And after a moment, Henry shifted, using his hands to bring himself beside her, his arm brushing her own. He began compiling a plate of food, then handed it to her, leaning over and pressing a kiss into her hair.
And she knew, in that moment, she was in love. With the man who cared enough to give her this day, to fight his past, and sit beside her when moments were hard.
Henry returned Alice to Windvale in the afternoon. She left to the kitchens, and he left to his clandestine work. One could not experience the morning he had and not feel a sense of renewed urgency.
He couldn’t throttle Commander Seymour, but he could get himself into a better position to care for Alice. To protect her.
He strode up the stairs to his room, taking them two at a time. Turning the corner at the top, he nearly ran headfirst into Lieutenant Carruthers.
“Apologies, Lieutenant,” Henry said, stepping back.
“Have no fear.” He looked Henry over, likely taking in his ruffled appearance. The sand and ocean had not exactly been kind to his clothing or hair. “Where are you coming from?”
“The beach,” he said. “It is a beautiful day.”
“Indeed. Far better than this time last year. I swear, it was dreary daily. The ‘Year Without a Summer,’ they are calling it, you know.”
Henry nodded, but it was a slow movement. Something in his mind latched onto the man’s words. They were conversational yet lit a lantern in the back of his mind. Something was off.
“Well, I will leave you to clean up,” Carruthers said, stepping around and continuing on his way.
Delayed by several seconds, Henry turned to watch him go, brow furrowed. Last summer had indeed been dreary. London had lamented it. Julia had complained frequently.
But . . .
Lieutenant Carruthers had not been at the party last year. Alice had not seen him since the year before. But Carruthers had spoken personally, not generally about the weather. Which meant he’d been lying. He had been on the island; Alice had just never known.
A chill crept through him. Had Henry overlooked the man too easily? Yet even Carlton had confirmed that Carruthers was not near the masquerade that fateful night.
But nothing had been as expected on the island. What if this was a copycat at work, or else someone had taken up the role? What if the man who killed his father was not the same person heading up smuggling and piracy operations here?
He backed up, turning as he went to enter the guest wing of the home, but instead of stopping at his own door, he stopped at the one beside it. Alice had told him that first night where Carruthers was staying.
He hesitated, but had to be sure.
The door was locked, but his cravat pin solved that easily enough. He slipped inside, locking the door behind him, which would give him a few precious seconds if anyone entered while he searched.
His eyes scanned the immaculate room, quite the opposite of the Gregorys’. He crossed first to the writing desk and found several papers as well as two letters there. One had nothing of import, but one was half finished and shoved into the top drawer as if abandoned in a hurry.
There was no salutation, only a couple lines of information.
Per my last request, add the following names to your inquiries: Archibald Swasey, John Boltham, Martin Basser, Tom Hamel, Henry Ainsley. Send your next to Roger Standish in Dunsmore proper. The amount of correspondence I am receiving has been noted.
Henry stared, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand why his name was on this paper. He recognized Mr. Swasey’s as well, but not the others.
One thing was clear, though—the lieutenant was hiding something. Blast it all, Henry should have investigated him earlier. But the pool of suspects had been so large, and it made sense to focus on those on the island.
Henry rifled through the rest of the papers. One had dates and times listed, all now past. The third from last of the events on the list was at the White Hart, and Henry was fairly certain that was the day he’d been there and seen Carruthers.
His mind ticked away the seconds. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he crossed to the wardrobe all the same, moving the door aside, and scanning the contents.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He felt around in the shadowy bottom, hands meeting fabric and pulling it out.
He held a pair of breeches, worn and patched.
Far different from anything Henry had seen Carruthers in. Something fell out.
A coin. Golden. With a swan engraved.
Henry thumbed it between his fingers, committing the design to memory in case it had meaning. His eyes turned to the trunk. If the man were anything like Henry, it would have a false bottom. Had he the time to search it?
There was little choice.
The trunk was locked, but his pin worked there as well.
The thing was half-empty, which made feeling around the bottom easier.
His fingers swept every edge and corner until he felt it give way a little beneath the pressure of his hand.
He moved more things out of the way, focusing on the spot that felt hollow beneath.
And there he saw the divet in the trunk’s lining.
He pushed, and something clicked, the edge of the bottom lifting.
He pulled at it, and a section of the floor lifted.
Unlike Commander Seymour’s compartment in the desk, this one was full. A pistol, more coins, maps and papers laden with writing.
He pulled the papers out, rifling through them. The words made no sense, but that was a clue in itself. The man might have his own code he wrote in.
But there was a ledger as well—clearly a household account of some sort. And the writing was different. Familiar in a way.
He flipped a page over, and there at the bottom was a scrawled signature.
Seymour.
These were Windvale accounts.
He thumbed through several more pages until he came to a date with a year attached. Accounts from years before. When the commander had been alive. The same years that Henry had seen the first week in Seymour’s study.
His heart stamped in his throat as he scanned lists of alcohol. Lace. All manner of French goods. These were the true ledgers. The ledgers Henry ought to have found in the study if Seymour had been guilty.
Unless someone had covered the man’s tracks. Someone like his best friend. The man who’d saved his life and served in the navy with him.
Henry scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the internal clock ticking its way to an end in his mind. He had to leave before Carruthers came back. Did he take these things with him as proof of the man’s guilt? Was it enough? All it truly showed was that Seymour had been involved in the smuggling.
He put everything back to rights, mind racing.
He would contact Carlton and have him see where Seymour was stationed the night of the masquerade, and if there was anything in his past—and Carruthers’s—to connect the men and the piracy.
He crossed to the door and left, locking it behind him. If Seymour and Carruthers were involved, it followed that their navy friend, Shelbourne, would be as well. The man didn’t seem the actionable sort—but that was not a reason to discount him.
A few well-placed questions to the butler, and Henry had directions to Shelbourne’s room. He knocked, received no answer, and again slipped inside.
The place appeared ransacked.
How was such a man friends with someone like Carruthers, whose room had been immaculate?
Henry picked through the mess of strewn clothing and belongings—did he have no valet?
His writing desk was entirely empty, and the contents of his wardrobe appeared to be on the floor rather than inside.
Still, Henry searched all the usual places.
He even turned out the pockets of his coats and lay on the floor to peer under the bed.
But outside of a few bottles of brandy that the man must have smuggled from Dunsmore, there was nothing incriminating.
It seemed that Shelbourne had the unique privilege of being someone who was exactly as he appeared: a drunken layabout.
Henry began to push to his knees, when the doorknob rattled.
Blast!
In a trice, he inched himself under the bed, praying that if it was Shelbourne, he would be drunk enough not to go seeking out more spirits from their hiding place now beside Henry.
He watched as boots entered the room and paced to the window. The steps were uneven and slow. Could he be foxed enough that he wouldn’t notice Henry rolling out the other side of the bed and slipping from the room?
That was rather a large gamble to take.
But then the boots changed direction, heading for the bed. Henry did his best to create distance between himself and the brandy, taking care not to nudge the bottles with his feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he relished the fact that he had no desire to take one with him. Not even a little.
Well, maybe a little, but no more than he could overpower.
The bed sagged, and Shelbourne belched as he fell back onto it.
Then he didn’t move.
Henry remained similarly frozen. The man couldn’t—had he fallen asleep? Another minute passed, then a snore filled the room.
He counted to one hundred six times before he inched on toes and palms out from under the bed. He raised himself up to peer over the bed.
Sure enough, there Shelbourne lay, everything down to his boots on, his hat sat across his eyes.
On silent feet, Henry escaped.
Carlton,
I may have found our man, but I need more.
Was Seymour stationed near the masquerade?
And anything you can find on Lieutenant Carruthers is needed immediately.
Was he in London the night of my father’s death?
Look into Shelbourne while you are at it.
Seymour was involved in this all, and both were his friends.
I am certain servants in this household are also a part of it, but I believe Lieutenant Carruthers is positioned to be above them all.
Shelbourne doesn’t seem involved, but I could be wrong. I have been before.
There is a new moon in under a week. Smuggling will be afoot, and I will catch them in the act, but I cannot take an entire band on my own. If you have any men to spare, send them. Have them stay in Dunsmore, but get word to me at Windvale. The constable will be of little help.
–Sir H
Henry stared at the words. And if Carlton had no men?
Henry hadn’t a clue where his father’s contacts—men Henry had worked with for years but not spoken to in even longer—were and it would take precious time they didn’t have to track them down.
He had no one to point Carlton to, should the man not have resources himself.
Except.
No. He’d turned down his friends’ help and could not go crawling to them now.
Lucas might have the skill set to help take down a band of smuggling pirates, but James did not.
And then they would only be three against dozens.
Not good odds to throw one’s friends into.
If they were even his friends any longer.
He ground his fist onto the desk. It was leaving a lot to chance, relying on Carlton to get him the help he needed. Henry would be better off taking the information back to London himself—involving the crown with what he had.
But would that be opening the door to his father’s killer escaping? If Henry stayed, he could keep an eye on Carruthers. And Alice.
He couldn’t leave her. Not with the information he had, and how close she was to danger without realizing it.
Which left it up to Carlton. There was nothing else for it.