I Loved a Rogue The Prince Catchers (20 page)

Chapter 18

The Swordsman

T
hey achieved the port town of Plymouth in two stages, with a night on the road spent at an inn tucked along the edge of the moor—a night during which Betsy physically barricaded the door.

“I’ll not have you sneaking off in the small hours to drink spirits or read books again, miss.
That
gentleman has the most suspect sort of admiration for you. I’ll not have you putting yourself accidentally in his way.” She lay down on the cot stretched in front of the bedchamber door. “Nobody’ll ever be able to say Betsy Fortnum let her mistress get into trouble with a swarthy Egyptian, no matter how fine a house he has.”

“And his . . . horses,” Eleanor mumbled. The ride had been long and uncomfortable, the sea winds cold and the wind across the moor even colder. Every bone ached. Yet still she could think of little else than the miraculous contours of his chest, the strapped muscle of his belly, and the strength in his shoulders and arms. “His horses are fine too.” She fell asleep imagining touching him and dreamed of him teaching her how to ride.

PLYMOUTH SPREAD VAST
and complex and like a living creature at the water, an array of houses descending the hill, some of great beauty and some squalid. Wind swept the scents of fish and coal fire smoke across the inlets. The tide was good, the keeper of the Lost Ship Inn told them. That meant that quays and boats were all afloat, a happy circumstance. Most naval ships had embarked upon exercises or to scout for privateers trawling the Channel for unwary merchant vessels. The shops and eateries were peopled mostly with women, old men, and small boys.

All except one tavern, it seemed. Close to the fishermen’s wharf, the cobbles before it strewn with fish guts and bones and slime and circled by a flock of squawking gulls, the Siren’s Lair was packed with men. Every one of them seemed to stop drinking, eating, and throwing dice the moment the door closed behind her and Taliesin. For the length of a second. Then conversation resumed.

As they crossed the crowded tavern, men tipped their caps at Taliesin. Most of them were seamen, clearly. Yet they seemed to know him.

In the farthest corner of the tavern, a tall man was bent over a chessboard, his coat stretched across square shoulders. Tucked behind his neck, his hand threaded through dark gold locks. Whiskers running close upon his chin and above his lip sharpened his profile.

His opponent, a small bald-pated man with equatorial skin, perched on the edge of the chair opposite. A folded handkerchief rested on the table before him. He took it up, dabbed at his upper lip, and set it down again in perfect parallel with the edge of the table.

“Well, look who’s come calling,” the blond man said without taking his attention from the game. “Taliesin Wolfe.” Long, supple fingers moved his white queen a single square.

His opponent jittered.

The blond man chuckled. “There you are, Bose. Counter that.” Every muscle in his face, hands, and wrists tightened as he turned to them, his coat gaping to reveal the hilt of a sword. “Wolfe, you thieving scoundrel,” he growled. He stood with an unfolding of power, rising to Taliesin’s height. His coat hung loosely on his lean frame, but the strength in his stance intimidated.

“Hello, Saint,” Taliesin said, holding his gaze hard.

A grin that glittered like a sword split the whiskers on Mr. Saint’s chiseled features. With his left hand he clapped Taliesin on the shoulder. “I am happier than I can express to see you, my friend.”

Taliesin nodded toward the table. “Game almost finished?”

“I call a hiatus, Bose,” the man named Saint said to his chess partner.

“You cannot call a hiatus in the midst of play, Mr. Saint,” the little man said with pinched lips, his nostrils flaring. “It is simply not done.”

“Of course it’s done.” He bent his head to Eleanor and lowered his voice. “At least it’s done when I’m losing.” A brow went up with supreme indolence. His eyes were deep emerald, rimmed with dark lashes, and sharply alert.

He gestured her forward. Men doffed their caps as she moved to the door, and a few nodded. Emerging onto the street filled with the sounds of gulls and a boat’s ringing bell, she turned to the men behind her. “What sort of place is that?”

“The worst sort. My favorite sort.” Mr. Saint perused her slowly. “Now, Wolfe, tell me how you happen to have the fortune to be in the company of this sweet lady. For, unless my eyes and ears deceive me—which they never do—this lady is a lady far too good for the likes of you.”

“Pretty words, sir,” she said.

“He likes to hear himself talk,” Taliesin said. “Miss Eleanor Caulfield, this is Evan Saint. He knows every soul—”

“And soulless demon,” he said without removing his studying gaze from her.

“—in Plymouth. He will be able to help you.”

“How do you do, sir?”

“Better now that I have your acquaintance, Miss . . .” He cut Taliesin a glance. “Eleanor Caulfield, did you say?”

Taliesin’s eyes narrowed. “I did.”

“Eleanor.” Mr. Saint drew out the syllables, as though tasting each one. “Lovely name. Lovely lady.” Left hand on the hilt of his sword, he bowed deeply. “Enchanted to assist you in whatever manner I am able.” He straightened his shoulders with great grace—a different sort of grace than Taliesin’s confident strength. Mr. Saint’s grace was like a dancer’s, agile and fluid, his face and body so lithe that she forgot she stood before a very tall, broad-shouldered man.

A gull dropped the carcass of a crab on the cobbles beside him. He lifted a bronze brow. “Shall we remove to a more decorous location, madam? Wolfe?”

They walked away from the waterside and deeper into the city. The men remained on either side of her along the cobbles shining with dampness from the descent of mist over the port as night fell. Women turned their heads as they passed, some calling hellos to Mr. Saint, others eyeing Taliesin.

In the tavern, a cozy, fire-lit place that was nearly empty of patrons, Mr. Saint held her chair for her and sat only after she did. Taliesin came to the table with a bottle and three glasses.

“What’s this?” Mr. Saint said. “No tea for the lady, Wolfe? Where are your manners, you motherless cur?”

Taliesin met her gaze. “Would the lady prefer tea or whiskey?”

She bit her lip.

Mr. Saint looked between them and his eyes narrowed.

Taliesin poured three glasses.

“Evan, Miss Caulfield possesses an object of some value which bears a curious symbol. This symbol could be associated with a family.”

“A family crest, perhaps?”

“Or an abbreviation of a surname.”

Mr. Saint nodded. “You believe this is a family of note.”

Eleanor halted with the glass almost to her lips. “
No
.” She choked on the fumes curling in her nostrils. “That—that is, I haven’t any notion that the family is of note. It is my family, Mr. Saint, and I suspect we are of humble origins.”

“I see. What is the valuable object, Miss Caulfield?”

Like a man removed a coat, he had discarded his playful air entirely. Sitting as though relaxed, still he seemed watchful, not only of her, but of the room about him too. Only his left hand rested on the table around the glass. The contrast of his taut vigilance with Taliesin’s assured, focused presence could not be greater.

“I have been instructed not to reveal it to anyone.” Any
man
. Lussha had said nothing about showing it to women. And yet none of them had. Among the living, only Arabella’s husband Luc and Ravenna’s dear friend Sir Beverley Clark had ever seen the ring. Luc’s discovery of it had been accidental, and Sir Beverley’s temporary possession of the ring had been a necessity.

“Can you tell me its approximate value?” Mr. Saint said.

“Not its exact value. But it is very great, I think.”

“I must assume it is a small object, and that due to its value you would not leave it at an inn with your maid. Perhaps you carry it on your person now.”

“It easily fits in the palm of a hand. But where I have stored it needn’t be of concern to you.”

“I respect your wish to keep its location secret.” He cut Taliesin a swift glance. “Miss Caulfield, I know a man that might help you. His name is Elijah Fish. His trade is jewelry. In the fifteen years I have known him, I’ve found his knowledge of trinkets to be extraordinary. He never leaves his shop except on the Jews’ Sabbath, and then only to worship. Will you allow me to make you acquainted with him? Then you might reveal to him alone whatever information you believe would be useful for him to know to assist you.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“After you have spoken with Mr. Fish, if you require my further assistance I will be glad to help. Have you any other questions for me?”

“I do,” Eleanor said. “I seek answers regarding a ship that might have once been in these waters. When we were children, my two sisters and I sailed on a sugar merchant’s vessel from Jamaica. It wrecked off the coast within two days’ ride of here. We were the only survivors and our family was lost to us. We don’t know who they are.”

“Your trinket is the key to discovering them?”

“I hope so. But now I also know my mother’s Christian name and the name of the ship upon which we sailed. Her name is written on the manifest, but is struck through.”

“She intended the journey but was ejected from the ship before sailing.”

“Why do you say that? It might have been her choice not to sail.”

He nodded. “Perhaps. But not necessarily. What year did you sail, Miss Caulfield?”

“Seventeen-ninety-five, if indeed the ship I have discovered was ours.”

“I lived on Jamaica at that time.”

Her heartbeat tripped, quickened. “But you must have been very young.”

“I was. But I remained there for many years. At that time, 1795, anything might have prohibited your mother from sailing. Ships, especially merchant ships, ejected passengers—” The tavern door swung open upon a blast of misty wind. His right arm shifted across his lap, toward his hip. A pair of sailors entered. Mr. Saint’s shoulder relaxed.

Arms crossed loosely, Taliesin watched both the door and his friend without moving.

“Many ships ejected passengers for any number of reasons,” Mr. Saint said as though he had not paused. “A soldier, for instance, might have demanded your mother’s berth.”

“But our nurse sailed with us. She perished in the wreck. If a soldier requisitioned the berth, wouldn’t our nurse have remained on the island rather than our mother?”

He nodded. “Any other mishap of war or rebellion at that time might have precipitated it. But the likeliest candidate is yellow fever.”

“Yellow fever?”

“I suffered through it when I was six years old, Miss Caulfield. It is a nasty affliction and takes more men and women than it leaves. If your mother had shown signs of it at embarkation, they would have refused to allow her to board. I once saw a ship sail into port with only one sailor left alive after a brief journey from another island. He grounded the vessel, of course, and was obliged to pay the harbormaster for the repair of the dock, poor sod.”

“But why wouldn’t my mother have canceled the journey altogether, until she was well again? Why would she have allowed us to sail without her?”

“Perhaps she hadn’t any choice,” Taliesin said.

She turned to him. “Choice?”

“Perhaps she parted with you of necessity.”

What necessity would force a mother to abandon three tiny daughters?

“What was her name, Miss Caulfield?” Mr. Saint asked.

She dragged her eyes away from Taliesin’s. “The name on the manifest is Grace.”

“Grace . . .” He looked carefully at her now. “There was a woman named Grace who lived in the cottage near the officers’ quarters in Kingston. She was young and very beautiful, I remember. My cousin was six years older than me and already liked pretty girls.” His lips curved into a partial grin, then it faded. “I don’t recall her husband, but I know she was married to an officer. A soldier, not a sailor.”

Eleanor’s hand gripped her empty glass, the whiskey in her blood softening her, making hope a tangible thing.

“What did she look like, Mr. Saint? That woman. Do you remember?”

“I do.” His jaw beneath the whiskers was tight. “Her beauty was distinctive. Men—even boys—do not forget stunningly beautiful women.”

“Distinctive how?”

“Her hair fell to her waist like a waterfall of brilliant copper. She wore it bound up when she went into town. But if a boy was lucky enough to see her on the beach with . . .” He sat forward and lifted both elbows to the table. “With her daughters, who were quite small at the time, he could see it flowing like fire all down her back.”

Words stumbled to her lips. “My sister Arabella’s hair is just such as that.”

“Miss Caulfield, you should know something about this woman. It is the only thing I remember about her other than her beauty.”

“What is it?”

“She lived in the cottage because she was not permitted to live in the officers’ quarters with her husband. There were some who would not believe that they had wed. They said she was his mistress only, and mistresses were not permitted on the compound. To others it made no difference; they would have barred her from living amongst them either way.”