Chapter 1- Mitchell
Mitchell Cedric Gray, the Earl of Shaw, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"So let me be sure I understand you. One footman was relieving himself in the alley. The other was flirting with the shopgirl next door. So when Miss Beatrice, Lord Cavendish’s sister, screamed and was shoved into a hackney, the only one in position to respond was the sixty-year-old carriage driver.
To his credit, he followed them pell-mell to the docks, but when he reached the barricade and attempted to give chase on foot, he twisted his knee getting down from the driver's seat. Is that about right?"
The two footmen exchanged a glance. They stood on the rug in Lord Cavendish’s office. Of course it was more Lord Shaw’s office than Cavendish’s these days. Cavendish was two weeks into a months-long grand tour with his new bride.
Mitchell had been brought on as partner in Cavendish’s enterprise—not only to protect the business, but to watch over Cavendish’s sisters, as well. He leaned back in the chair. It had only been a fortnight, and he’d failed in his most important task.
"Yes, my lord," one of the footmen murmured.
"I'm so sorry, my lord," Mr. Chapman said from his chair. He held his crutches in one hand, his leg stretched out before him. His tightly-wrapped knee had swelled to the size of a cantaloupe.
"Mr. Chapman, you have nothing to apologize for. You executed your responsibilities to the best of your ability. It’s these two who have answers to give." Mitchell’s eyes flashed; he leaned forward. "Were you part of it? Did someone pay you off?"
Both men reared back at the suggestion, their eyes wide with the shock of the idea. Mitchell frowned; he could see the answer on their faces even before they said it.
"No, my lord."
"Of course not, my lord."
Mitchell leaned back, shook his head. Pity. If they had been paid off, he could have beat the information from them. There would have been a trail of some kind. As it was, Mitchell was left with the same scant information he'd had from the outset.
A man with brown hair and a half-beard, a sailor, by the sounds of him, had wrenched open the door of the bookshop and hauled Beatrice away, kicking and screaming. Her lady's maid had been across the shop when it happened.
She'd wept when she told him the story. "I ran after them, my lord. I tried to follow. It all happened so fast. I swung my umbrella at his back and it was like he didn't even feel it. I don't think he noticed me at all."
The shopkeeper's account was the same. Both ladies were shaken to the core. Even worse, by the time Mitchell had the gist of the matter, there wasn't any keeping it quiet. It hadn't been quiet, not at all.
"Lord Shaw." Abeer appeared, panting, in the open doorway.
Mitchell was on his feet in an instant. "What is it?"
"I know which ship took her. I know their bearing."
Mitchell clenched his jaw. It was the worst-case scenario—Beatrice on a ship.
Mitchell had spent much time around sailors.
Many were honest, but some of them were the lowest of the low.
Some would steal a woman from the street right before they set sail.
They were usually prostitutes, though of course that didn’t excuse the detestable practice in the least.
But this was Beatrice. Sharp-tongued, intelligent, frustrating Beatrice, who—despite all her faults—loved her books and wanted wonderful things for her sisters.
Who'd watched three of her sisters marry their first Season and expressed nothing but joy for their excellent matches, even though she hadn't found one herself.
Mitchell bared his teeth. "Ready all the ships we have in port. We sail within the hour."
A half an hour later, he and Abeer were loaded into the carriage, their packed trunks lashed tightly to the back. They'd raided their respective kitchen for provisions—neither of them knew how long their journey would be.
Only a sailor could fully appreciate the vastness of the sea.
Though ships were large and easy to spot, there were a different ways to lose a pursuer, a hundred thousand coves large enough to conceal a ship in.
And the wind was a capricious thing—it could thrust one ship along, yet abandon a different ship that had left only fifteen minutes later.
Terror thrummed through his limbs; he jiggled his knee to release some of it. "Tell me," he said.
Mitchell held up a hand when Abeer had tried to tell him earlier.
Once he knew the basics—that Beatrice was on a ship, that it had left port, he hadn't let himself consider much else. He could not allow his imagination to run wild with the information, not until he’d gone home, was packed, and out from beneath the same roof as his sisters. In that house, he was brother first.
It was only once he had shut his front door behind him that Mitchell could fully swing his second mantle across his shoulders. He was business partner to the feared Lord Cavendish and therefore in command of a fleet of ships that made most pirates turn tail and run.
Abeer frowned. "It's very confusing. She's on the Lara Mae, a mid-sized merchant ship that filed a very complete itinerary. They're bound for New South Wales."
"Captain?"
"Mr. Nathaniel Webb. A bastard son of the Earl of Wentworth. Never recognized by his family, from what I could gather. He’s known to be a fair, honest man.”
William frowned. "That makes no sense."
Abeer nodded. "He went into trade to make his own way. Hasn't been nearly as successful as Cavendish, but he maintains a comfortable home north of Liverpool. Been making trips back and forth to England and New South Wales for the past fifteen years. I even got a description of the man."
"And?"
"He doesn't match the man who took Miss Beatrice. Captain Webb is of medium height with grey hair and no beard. Dock master saw him only days ago. He was clean shaven."
"Are we sure she's on that ship?"
"I have no fewer than five witness accounts. Two porters, three sailors. Say she was screaming all the way up the gangplank. They drew it up right after he took her on board."
"So there was more than one man involved." Mitchell’s hands clenched into fists.
He'd kill them. Anyone who'd harmed her. If they'd found the men in London, they might have had to hand him over to the authorities. But the sea was the perfect place for vengeance—every ripple of wave was a potential grave.
“We must find her,” Mitchell said.
“We will, my lord.”
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