Miss Charity's Case (21 page)

With a gasp, she grabbed the wood rail. Blast this ship! It seemed to be coming to life beneath her feet. Knowing she could not manage to cross the deck, even in the most clement weather, she called out, “Oliver, are you here?”

A door opened, splashing candlelight onto the deck. The first pulse of hope died within her when she realized the silhouette could not be his. It was barely as tall as she. “Who be there?” shouted the man in the doorway.

She shrieked when something pricked through her cloak. Looking over her shoulder, she saw another sea-crab glowering at her. His eyes widened when they met hers.

“It be a pretty 'un, Howell!” called the man who held a knife against her side. “D'ye send for a tradin' dame?”

Charity flinched at the insult, but the knife shifted, and she silenced her protest. She did not move as the man named Howell scurried across the rain-washed deck.

“Who be ye?” he asked, sticking his face close to hers.

“Charity Stuart.”

“Lor'!” He motioned wildly. “Put that schliver down, Tommy! This be the cap'n's lady.” He pulled off his cap and twisted it in his hands as rain rolled over his balding head. “Miz Stuart, the cap'n ain't here.”

Charity pulled her shawl closer to her chin. “Do you know where he is, Mr.—”

“Howell. No ‘mister', just Howell.” He shook his head, sending drops flying in every direction. “Don't know where the cap'n be. Thought he was goin' back home.”

She sighed. “I just came from there. I must have passed him on my way down here.”

“Ye shouldn't be here, Miz Stuart.”

That she could not argue with. “I will call at Berkeley Square then.”

“Do ye know yer way back?”

With a soft laugh, she said, “I was able to get myself lost at least once on the way here. That is probably why I missed Oliver.”

“Listen up while I be givin' ye a good way to get back to where the swells live.” He grinned as he rattled off a dozen street names.

Charity repeated them over in her head. It sounded simple enough. After the first three turns, she would be back on streets whose names were familiar. The directions appeared easy enough.

When Howell offered to help her down the plank, she accepted gratefully. He waited on the dock while she turned the carriage away from the Thames and toward the better lighted streets.

Five minutes later, Charity suspected she was lost. Fifteen minutes later, she was certain of it. She had followed Howell's directions, but he either had forgotten to give her a landmark or she had misunderstood him. As the rain pelted the carriage, she steered the horse around rotting garbage and broken crates.

This was ridiculous. These docks were not that far from Berkeley Square. She should have found a decent street by now. Every time she tried to drive in a straight path away from the river, the streets contorted back on themselves until she was lost again.

Why had she been so impatient? If she had waited at Oliver's house, she would not be cold and wet and scared now.

Charity turned the carriage onto a street that was different from its neighbors only because a single lamp brightened one section. Keeping the horse at a good pace, she stared at the road. She could not risk hitting something and damaging the carriage. Without a coin, she had no way to pay for anyone to take a message to Grosvenor Square for her.

Suddenly she pulled back on the reins. She stared at the sign that was drenched by the rain. The words were nearly obliterated by years of sunshine and storms, but she could read them.
The Boar and Bear!
The picture of the two beasts in combat matched the names.

Horror threatened to smother her. The tavern was hideous. Garbage was heaped by the door while sots draped along the walkway, oblivious to the rain.

Resisting the temptation to slap the reins on the horse and hurry away, Charity climbed out. She saw no place to tie the reins, so she left them on the seat. A group of urchins huddled under the leaking roof as she crossed the crumbling walkway to the tavern.

Charity held her shawl over her nose as she was assaulted by the odors of unwashed bodies and unaged wine. Loud voices struck her ears. She edged into the room. She doubted if anyone had noticed her, for the room was thick with smoke from the hearth and a handful of tallow candles.

Charity bent toward a man who was leaning heavily on the closest table. “Where's Joyce?”

The man hooked a thumb toward a serving wench. Charity looked across the room. Instantly she knew there had been a mistake. The woman with black hair must be more than a dozen years older than Joyce and outweighed her by many pounds.

Backing out before she could be seen, Charity shivered in disgust. She wanted to flee back to Mayfair and scrub the scents of The Pool from her skin. Oliver was right. She should not be here. This was more disgusting than she had suspected.

Rain splattered against the boards on the street and sliced through her gown. She bent into the storm, then raised her eyes to discover she must be walking in the wrong direction. She should have reached her carriage by now. What a hobble!

She turned, and she gasped in horror. The street was empty! Someone had stolen her carriage!

Rain dripped along her shoulders, making the shawl cling to her skin. She must send a message to Lady Eloise's house. But how? Mayhap if she promised the lad a coin upon delivery of the message. Then Prentiss would arrange for someone to come to take her home. This time she deserved the scold she would get. She had been a muttonhead to come here when her reputation could be compromised beyond repair.

Charity hurried along the walkway. Not a single urchin was in sight. Where had they all gone? The night was horrible; she longed for the warmth of her fire and the comfort of her bed.

Footsteps echoed hers, and she looked back to see a tall, shadowed form walking behind her. She increased her speed. The man did as well. She swallowed the scream rising in her throat. Surely not all those among these ruins were decrepit. Some must be law-abiding. She could not call the charleys, even if they were about, simply because a man was on the same walkway she was.

She turned a corner to a street leading away from the river. As the man closed the distance between them, she scanned the street. All the buildings were dark. Even if she found an open door, would it be sanctuary?

Wheels rattled as a carriage approached. She ran toward it. Even though she called out to the driver, the carriage sped past. She looked along the street. The shadowed man was coming closer.

Gathering up her skirts, she took a deep breath. Papa had often said that God's salvation came in surprising ways. She hoped that was so, for surprise was the only weapon she had now. She watched the man walking nearer and nearer.

“You look as if you need some help, miss.” She could see the glint of his smile even in the darkness.

Charity shrieked with all her strength and ran toward the man. Startled, he jumped aside. He tried to catch her, but she eluded his hands and sped along the walkway. She heard heavy footsteps behind her. She did not slow. She knew only one place here where she might be safe.

She burst through the door of The Boar and Bear. Slipping into the smoke, she coughed and clung to the walls. Something caught at the back of her gown, something sticky and disgusting. She ignored it as she stared at the door. If the man who had been stalking her came in here … She did not know what she would do.

A hand touched Charity's arm. She spun, swallowing her scream as she looked into the wide eyes of the woman whose name must be Joyce.

“What ye be doin' 'ere, lady?” the woman asked, kindness in her voice.

Charity blinked back tears of relief. “I am lost.”

“That much I guessed. Yer kind don't belong 'ere.”

“Joyce!” shouted an impatient voice.

“Put a cork in it!” the barmaid called back. “Lady, ye need to get out of 'ere.”

“I can't. My carriage—” She choked back a sob.

“Took it, did 'e?”

“You know who stole my carriage?”

The barmaid smiled, and years of her hard life fell from her face. “Could be one of a score of chaps.”

A low whistle rang through the room as a man came toward them. “Joyce, m'love, what ye got 'ere? A looker, I'd say. Some fine gent's by-blow lookin' fer a tumble?”

Joyce knocked his hand aside before he could touch Charity. “Stay away. Don't you recognize quality, Al?”

“Never been quality in this place.”

Taking Charity by the arm, Joyce drew her away from the man and closer to the hearth that was spewing the smothering smoke. “Got coins with ye, lady?”

She touched her empty reticule. “No, but if you will help me, I promise you—”

“Promises don't buy much 'ere, lady. Where ye be from?”

“I live with my great-aunt on Grosvenor Square in Mayfair. If—”

“Mayfair be a long way. Cost 'alf a guinea to get a message there.”

Charity nodded. A half guinea might as well be a century when she had no money. “How much would it cost to take a message to the docks?”

“Docks? What's a lady like ye be wantin' with that place?”

“If you could find someone to take a message there, I promise the lad will be paid more than two guineas.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Promises again. Don't mean nothin'.” Turning away, she said, “Better find yer own way, lady.”

Charity grasped her arm. She could not go back out on that street.
He
might still be there. “Please help me. All I need is someone to go to
The Black Owl
and deliver a message for Lord—” She faltered, then said, “I mean, Captain Blackburn.”

“Cap'n Blackburn?” Joyce again eyed her up and down. “Ye be a friend of 'is?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't ye say so?” She smiled and hooked her finger. A lad rushed up. “Pug, run down to
The Black Owl
and tell the cap'n somethin's waitin' 'ere for 'im.”

The boy's eyes grew wide. “Cap'n Blackburn?”

“Go!” She whirled him about and slapped him on the buttocks. “And don't dawdle! Cap'n don't 'preciate that kind of thing.”

Charity dampened her lips which must be the only part of her that was dry. “You know Captain Blackburn?”

“Everyone knows the cap'n. Famous nib 'bout the docks.” She winked bawdily. “Ye be a lucky lady to 'ave such a fine gent fer yer lover.”

Deciding her reputation was not worth arguing about when it was most likely soiled beyond repair, Charity gave her a weak smile. She had no chance to do more, for Joyce was called away to refill glasses with whatever swill the men were drinking.

Gingerly Charity sat on a low stool by the hearth. Soot stuck to the hem of her gown, but she did not care. As bedraggled as she was, she doubted if a bit of chimney black would make her look worse.

She closed her eyes, which burned with the smoke, and clenched her hands in her lap. What if Oliver still was not on his ship? Surely Howell would send immediately to Mayfair for him. She should have had more patience, but she had been as bull-headed as her sister, rushing off without thinking.

Sighing, she watched the men laughing and drinking throughout the room. They ignored her, save for a few curious glances. One man rose, but took his seat again with a thump when another man leaned across the table and muttered something to him. The only words she was able to understand were “Cap'n Blackburn's convenient.”

Oh, how Lady Eloise would fly up the boughs when she discovered this! As she must, for the stolen carriage would be missed. When the old woman heard that her grandniece was being lauded in the low dives of London as Oliver Blackburn's mistress, there would be the devil to pay and no pitch hot.

“Wise of you to get out of the rain.”

Charity's head jerked up as she heard the voice of the man who had been following her. It had a ring of quality which was as out of place here as she was.

She jumped to her feet and turned to see a man concealed within the shadows. “Who are you?” she cried. “Why are you chasing me?”

“You need help, and—”

A shout rose behind her. Charity looked over her shoulder to see the men on their feet as they raised their battered mugs in a greeting. A curse came from the shadows, but she paid it no mind as the men stepped aside to let her see who stood in the doorway.

“Oliver!” she cried. “Thank God you are here!”

He held out his arms, and she ran to him. Another cheer rang through the tavern as he kissed her lustily. When she gasped, he delved more deeply into her mouth. Her fingers slipped up through his damp hair, and her knees wobbled as he raised his head to smile down at her.

“An interesting place for a rendezvous, Charity,” he said with a chuckle.

“Don't let him hurt me!”

“Him? What are you talking about?”

Charity whirled as she pushed her wet hair out of her eyes. The man in the shadows had vanished. She wanted to believe he had not been following her—intent on some mischief—but his disappearance just as Oliver arrived suggested that truly had been his scheme.

“Take me home? Please!”

“A delightful thought, but I suspect you mean you wish to go to Lady Eloise's home.” He laughed again, but his eyes burned with strong emotion as he added, “However, if you don't, I would be very glad to please you on that request.”

“Oliver, must you always be so outrageous?”

“Yes, as long as it brings such charming color to your cheeks.” Not giving her a chance to answer, he reached under his coat and pulled out a small purse. Tossing it to Joyce, he said, “Buy a round for the house. The rest is for you and Pug.”

The barmaid winked at him. “Kind of ye to take care of yer friends, cap'n.”

“Kind of you to take care of
my
friend.” He put his arm around Charity's shoulders and steered her out the door.