Lady in the Mist (30 page)

Her head ached. Her shoulder stung. But she was free of sand and dried salt water. Dominick sat beside her on the garden bench, and she felt safe, warm, cherished.

He looked grim as he took his knife from its sheath and laid it on the bench close at hand. “Now that you look more like a lady than a drowned mermaid, perhaps you can tell me how you’ve reached your conclusion despite evidence to the contrary.”

“The man who did this to me”—she touched her now-bandaged shoulder, lumpy beneath her gown—“was the same one who held a knife to me the night I met you.”

“It makes sense in that the method is the same, but how do you know?”

“I caught his scent. It’s tobacco and whiskey and”—she gave him a sidelong glance—“sandalwood.”

“Don’t look at me that way. I am not guilty.” He rubbed his thumb along her chin. “And that’s pretty slim proof.”

“I smelled it in Sally Belote’s room too.”

Dominick straightened, alert. “Who would have been—Wilkins.”

“Yes. She practically admitted to having seen him and how he told her to lie to me about it, to say the mayor is the baby’s father.”

“Kendall? Never.”

“Really?” Tabitha arched her brows. “You were quick to believe him guilty of treachery.”

“That’s different from debauching a young woman.”

“True, but if Wilkins was ready to implicate Mayor Kendall . . .” She trailed off, waiting for him to reach the conclusion she had.

“He could have placed that paper in Kendall’s study hoping someone would find it.” Dominick nodded.

“Someone like you.”

“Who might conceivably look for that paper or, if nothing else, a book.” Dominick pursed his lips. “But where do you come into this? Why is he harming you? Other than this young woman in Norfolk and what you know about that.”

“That would be enough, I think, but I was assaulted before then.”

“Yes.” Dominick nudged her with his elbow. “You accused me.”

“I still could.” She resisted the urge to rest her head against his shoulder and simply let him hold her, forget knives and betrayal, dangers and futures of love she couldn’t have. “But maybe I know more than just about Sally. Or he thinks I do.”

Dominick gave her a quizzical look.

“His wife,” she said. “I was there when she died. The servants said she fell down the steps pacing about the house waiting for him to come home, but what if she fell down the steps before he left home? What if she was pushed? Or even was trying to stop him from doing something?”

“Like go out hunting victims for the British Navy?” Dominick shook his head. “That’s a strong accusation without more than speculation. Unless she did say something?”

“Nothing that made sense without context.” Tabitha rubbed her gritty eyes. “I don’t even recall what exactly she said. Not a great deal. I thought she spoke against the pain. She suffered . . . I could do too little for her . . .” She covered her face with her hands, remembering the woman’s face, her fruitless early labor, her dying words. “‘Don’t go,’ she’d said. But he abandoned her when she needed him most. And where was God?”

“He was there, Tabitha.” Dominick pulled her hands down and held them between his. “He was waiting to be invited to join you.”

“I was too busy trying to stop the hemorrhage and raging against her husband. He should have been there uninvited. God should have been there uninvited.”

“He was. You just didn’t acknowledge Him.”

“Would He have saved her life?” Tabitha challenged.

“I don’t know. Man interferes with God’s plans.” He grimaced. “Believe me, I know that more than anyone. But Wilkins. Do you think she knew something and he pushed her down the steps?”

“It’s possible. It’s as likely as him being our traitor.”

“But why?” Dominick rose and began to pace between rows of verdant herbs—chamomile and mint, rosemary and thyme, parsley, garlic, and comfrey. His voice drifted back to her. “Why would Wilkins or Kendall risk their lives for a few hundred pounds they’re making from the sale of seamen to the British Navy?” He turned down the row of lavender, paused, and plucked a sprig. “What can either of them gain?”

“Men prosper from war.” Tabitha smiled at the sight of him surrounded by delicate plants and wished for the strength to join him. “I kept thinking about this last night, when I was conscious enough to think. Mayor Kendall’s father and uncle made a fortune during the revolution as privateers. Others might want war for that reason.”

Dominick’s head went up, his expression turned haughty. “We’ll destroy you in a month.”

The demeanor, the tone, and the words shouted of his birthright—British aristocracy, pride in his family, in his country. He believed, without equivocation, that England would trounce the United States in armed combat.

She wished he wasn’t right.

“You have no Navy to speak of, and a handful of privateers can’t take down the strongest Navy in the world,” Dominick said, pressing home his point.

“But even men on the losing side make money in war.” Tabitha reached down and plucked a sprig of mint from its shady corner beneath the cedar tree. “And both men have ambitions that cost a great deal of money.”

“How do they make money in war other than privateering?” Dominick asked as he rejoined her on the bench.

Tabitha stared at him. “Building ships. Making weapons, making clothing. Providing preserved meats and ship’s bread. I expect there are others. Ship chandlers too.”

“Ah, trade. Not something I was taught.”

“What were you taught?”

“Latin and Greek, history and philosophy, mathematics and reading . . .” He shrugged, then smiled, tucked the sprig of lavender into the neckline of her gown, and let his fingertips rest on the faint scar on her throat. “Wooing lovely young ladies.”

“A pity you aren’t a better spy.” She removed his hand and raised it to her cheek. “You could be using those skills in a land where they’re appreciated, instead of here, where having land or being a shopkeeper means more.”

“Ah, you wound me.” He smiled, but the fact that it didn’t reach his eyes suggested he spoke the truth despite his light tone.

“I’m not a very good spy either.” She kissed his palm, the healed gash where the knife had pierced him between thumb and forefinger, evidence of him being a poor butler. “We have no more than suspicions against two upstanding citizens of Seabourne and a stronger suspicion against a man whose family is loved here, even if he himself isn’t since abandoning me at the altar.”

“Do you want him back?” Dominick asked. “I mean, if we knew where to find him and I wasn’t here, would you accept his suit?”

“If he’s involved, then he’s a traitor too, and the answer is—”

“Mr. Cherrett?” The cry came from the garden gate. “Dominick Cherrett.” Breathless, Dinah raced toward them. “Oh, sir, you’re here.” She tripped and landed on her knees on the path.

“What is it, child?” Dominick hastened to raise her to her feet again. “What’s happened?”

“Kendall.” Dinah’s chest rose and fell like bellows in the hands of a nervous blacksmith. “Mayor Kendall’s home and furious about you being gone since dawn.”

“Then I’d best be on my way.” He looked at Tabitha. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Tabitha glanced from Dinah’s anxious countenance to Dominick’s too-expressionless face, and stood. “I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t,” Dominick protested. “You’re injured.”

“I’m coming to explain your absence.” Tabitha took his arm, leaning on it more heavily than she wanted to. “So he understands you weren’t up to mischief.”

“It’s not him being here that’s the difficulty,” Dinah gasped out. “It’s Mayor Kendall’s study. He says someone’s been searching it and a key is missing.”

32

______

The eight bells signaling the noon hour rang through the ship like the tolling of a church spire calling mourners to a funeral service. Despite the stifling heat of the bread room, Raleigh shivered like a man with ague. He knew what was coming. He’d witnessed the ceremony often enough, the ritual so rigidly adhered to in the British Navy that it held an aura of religious fervor.

Raleigh wished for religious fervor. He settled for knowing nothing he had done was beyond God’s forgiveness, if not man’s. Or, in his situation, woman’s.

“Don’t forget to tell her,” he told Parks, as he had so many times that he’d lost count. “If you reach Seabourne, tell Tabitha she must forgive me and not blame God for my abandoning her.”

“I won’t forget.” Parks’s voice was tight. “And if you survive and I don’t, tell my family I love them. And there’s money in a bank in Norfolk. My last voyage . . . it was successful for all the crew.” He sighed. “It’ll be my last unless we go to war.”

“If the English keep stealing our men, we will.”

“Then I’ll tell everyone I can what I know in an attempt to stop some of the destruction.” Parks shifted, his body thumping against the deck. “It gives me a reason to live.”

“We both need it.” Raleigh bowed his head. “And Jesus to accept us if we don’t survive.”

“He’s already accepted us.” Parks shifted again. “If—”

The drum began, the wordless order for all hands to assemble on deck. Bile rose in Raleigh’s throat. His skin crawled. Gooseflesh rose on his arms.

Tramping feet accompanied the drum rolls. Then the hatch opened and a marine stood in the opening, two more behind him.

“On your feet,” the first one commanded. “The both of you.”

They rose. Parks laid a light hand on Raleigh’s shoulder, then allowed himself to be nudged forward through the gun deck to the main hatch. Raleigh followed. His boots felt as heavy as the cannonballs that filled those guns during battle. His head felt as though it had received a full broadside. Soon his back would feel worse. Fire. That’s how others had described it. After the blow of the lead-weighted leather straps—nine of them—the fire came, blazing through flesh, muscle, bone. Most men fainted after half a dozen. The bosun’s mate wielding the lash would have him cut down, and the ship’s surgeon would revive him for the rest of his punishment.

Raleigh intended to faint after two lashes.

At that moment, stepping into the blazing sunshine and seeing the ship’s company assembled, hats off in deference to the Article of War about to be read, Raleigh thought he might faint before the punishment began. If not for the firm hand of the marine on his arm, he might have run and jumped overboard.

A quick scan of the crowd showed him Parks, pale but docile, between two marines, and too far from the gunwale.

Raleigh steeled himself for what he must do.

The marine marched him to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. The captain, lieutenants, and midshipmen stood above him and the assembled ship’s company. The lieutenants looked solemn, the midshipmen a little queasy, the captain grave.

“Raleigh Trower,” the captain began.

The ship’s company fell silent.

“In your absence,” the captain continued, “your court martial was conducted and found you guilty of the fifteenth Article of War, which reads as thus.” He opened a leather-bound book in his hands and cleared his throat. “‘Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others so to do, shall suffer death, or such other punishment as the circumstances of the offense shall deserve, and a court martial shall judge fit: and if any commanding officer of any of His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war shall receive or entertain a deserter from any other of His Majesty’s ships or vessels, after discovering him to be such deserter, and shall not with all convenient speed give notice to the captain of the ship or vessel to which such deserter belongs; or if the said ships or vessels are at any considerable distance from each other, to the secretary of the admiralty, or to the commander in chief; every person so offending, and being convicted thereof by the sentence of the court martial, shall be cashiered.’” He closed the book. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I am not a British subject,” Raleigh intoned.

“It has been established by the North Atlantic fleet commander that you are.” The captain glanced to the nearby bosun, who held a green baize bag. “Let the punishment begin.”

The sea breezes grew as hot as the sun. Sea and sky, staring men and blazing sun, spun around him. He was going to lose consciousness for certain.

“None of that.” The bosun threw cold water into his face.

While Raleigh sputtered, two marines grabbed his arms. They stripped him to the waist, then tied his hands to a hatch grating that had been propped upright. He leaned his cheek against the hot metal, certain it was branding him. The sun beat on his back, and every muscle drew up tight like a turtle seeking its shell.

Lord, grant me strength—

The first blow fell. White-hot pain seared through his skin like nine pokers from the fire.

Raleigh screamed.

Only the timbers and sea and rigging made noise. In the quiet, the whistle of the lash sounded like another scream. It bit into flesh. Raleigh sank his teeth into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, then sagged from the ropes binding his hands.

“He’s gone off, the weakling,” a marine called. “Surgeon?”

A knife flashed. The ropes fell from Raleigh’s wrists. He slumped to the deck.

Near the bow, a shout rose. “Stop him. He’s—”

A roar like thunder soared from the throats of the sailors. They tried to run to the source of trouble. Guns and stays and fellow crewmen got in their way.

No one got in Raleigh’s. He rolled and sprang. His hand flashed out and snatched the cat-o’-nine-tails from the bosun’s grip, and Raleigh began to wield it. Heading aft toward where he’d last seen Donald Parks with his marine escorts, Raleigh applied the whip to anyone who got in his way.

“Man overboard,” someone yelled.

“Stop the deserter,” the captain bellowed. “Marines, stop him.”

They closed in around him, behind him. Raleigh caught their red coats, their shining bayonets. He struck one across the face with the handle of the lash and tangled another’s legs with the straps. The man went down. The handle yanked from Raleigh’s hand. Weaponless, he charged forward, lunged for the rail. His shoulder struck a third marine in the chest. The man stumbled. Raleigh grabbed his musket and raised it to club back the next man grabbing for him.

“Take him down,” the captain shouted. “Take him—”

A gun fired. Something like a hammer slammed into Raleigh’s back.

He tumbled over the railing and into the sea.

Dominick lost his ribbon somewhere between Tabitha’s house and Kendall’s study. His hair tumbled around his face and shoulders, and sweat plastered his shirt to his back. He wanted to slip up the steps and wash, but Kendall saw him coming and called for him to enter.

“Close the door,” Kendall commanded from behind his massive desk.

Dominick did so, then leaned against it, his arms crossed over his chest. “Dinah said you wished to see me.”

“I do, but not looking like you did when you walked off that transport ship.” Kendall frowned. “What have you been doing?”

“I’ve been with Tabitha Eckles.” Knowing that could be taken improperly, Dominick hastened to add, “I felt in need of an early morning walk, and found her lying on the beach. She’d been injured.”

“Injured? Tabitha?” Kendall’s face paled. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”

Dominick sauntered across the study to a chair near the desk. He let his gaze stray to the point in the bookshelves where he’d found the list of dates and Raleigh Trower’s name. At the same time, he attempted to observe Kendall’s reaction to the look. Kendall kept his eyes on Dominick, his face grim and revealing nothing. Either he knew about the notations and schooled himself not to follow Dominick’s glance, or he knew nothing and thought his bondsman appeared to be avoiding his eyes.

Again, nothing learned.

His own mouth set in a hard line, Dominick settled into the chair and made himself hold his hands on the arms rather than crossed against his chest, where his heart thudded so hard he feared his raised pulse showed at the base of this throat. Tabitha in danger from Wilkins. Him in danger from Kendall. The twenty-first of June far too close with no definite information available.

“Well?” Kendall prompted.

Dominick jumped. “Well what, sir?”

“Tell me about Miss Eckles. What happened?”

“Oh, yes.” Dominick shifted on the hard wooden seat of the chair. “She was on the beach and was assaulted. He left her unconscious on the edge of the water, but she came to awareness early enough not to be drowned in the tide.”

“And why was I not informed at once?” Kendall shot halfway over the desk. “What are you thinking, Cherrett? This is a serious incident, and I need to know at once. The sheriff needs to know at once. Does she know who did this heinous crime?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir.” Dominick resisted the urge to push his chair away from Kendall, though he was still a yard off. “If she wants you to know—”

“If? If?” Kendall stood upright and began to pace. “First young men disappear from my town, then a new father on his way home disappears along with a young man who has just returned, and now the midwife is attacked.” He reached the window, where sunshine poured in like flames from a grate, and swung back. “I am mayor of this village. I need to know the instant something occurs.”

“You were in Norfolk, sir.” Dominick gripped the arms of the chair to stop himself from standing. He needed to remain in a subservient position at present, and he was a full head taller than the mayor. “I would have told you as soon as I returned.”

“And when did you intend that to be?” Kendall shot back.

“As soon as you returned, sir.”

“Is it?” Kendall strode forward and glared down at Dominick. “I have my doubts.”

“I . . . beg your pardon . . . sir?” Dominick shook his hair out of his face and met Kendall’s gaze. “About what do you have your doubts, sir?”

“You look like a convict off of a British Navy transport,” Kendall said, as though each word was a heavy burden. “Your hair and clothes are a disgrace, and you give me that haughty proper grammar like some Oxford don, as though I am the servant and you the master. Is it training or breeding?”

“A little of both, sir.” Dominick bowed his head, his mind filled with Tabitha’s pronouncement that he couldn’t have both his past and her in his future. “Neither has done me any good. I am the servant and subject to another man’s whims, unable to see my lady safely home at night, or even make her my wife. And it’s no one’s fault but mine that I’m here.”

“I know, Dominick.” Kendall circled his desk and subsided into the chair. “I know why you’re here.”

“Sir?” Dominick started.

“I know about the letters, the duel,” Kendall continued.

Dominick relaxed. For a moment, he’d feared Kendall knew about the mission.

“I know your family wanted rid of you and put you on a ship bound for America with no money.”

So he didn’t know he’d put himself on the ship because he already had no money and his father had made England unpleasant for him.

“I’ve kept you locked up at night for your own safety,” Kendall continued. “If others learned of your background, they could make a great deal of hay out of you wandering about after hours. Wilkins flat-out accused you of being a spy. Because I know you were locked up, I know it’s not true, so that protects you. I will continue to protect you, and you will pay the consequences if you break my rules again. I have no choice in the matter. I can’t be seen as being gentle with an Englishman many don’t trust, and you can’t afford to be subject to accusations. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Dominick thought about the calendar, the date of his last chance at early release from his bond looming ahead of him, impossible to meet, and the room seemed to grow dark despite the sunshine. He needed his freedom to spy on Wilkins.

“Now,” Kendall said, leaning forward and holding Dominick’s gaze, “where is the key that was in my desk?”