The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3)

by Katherine Bone

Published by esKape Press

www.eskapepress.com

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2014 KATHERINE BONE

ISBN-10:1940695929

ISBN-13: 9781940695921

Cover Art Design by For the Muse Designs

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only and not an implied endorsement.

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This book is dedicated to M.V. Freeman, my brainstorming partner and friend, for her generous input throughout my Nelson’s Tea Series. Look how far we’ve come, Mary!

To Vickey McGee who generously offered insight into blindness and helped bring Garrick to life! This is for you!

To Ingrid Seymour and Nicole Laverdure for their generosity and much-appreciated help with the Spanish and French in this book. I owe you, ladies!

To Kim Bowman and Kay Springsteen for their guidance and editorial input. Thank you!

And last, but certainly not least, to my family for showing me what love, trust, and loyalty can achieve. You keep me anchored with hope!

CONQUERING THE BEAST

England’s victory at Trafalgar changed the world, dealing Admiral Villeneuve, commander of Napoleon’s French and Spanish fleets, a deadly blow, frustrating Napoleon, who deemed the outcome a failure and censured the admiral’s cowardice. Secretly, the tactic worked to the emperor’s advantage… prompting retribution. Fouché and his men, engaged on a mission of utmost secrecy, ensured Villeneuve paid for the shame he’d cast over the French navy, even though Admiral Nelson had met his untimely end.

England’s victory was overshadowed by sorrow when news of Nelson’s heroic sacrifice spread to Number Seven Bolton Street where Lord Simon Danbury gathered members of Nelson’s Tea to commiserate, elect a new leader, or disband the clandestine organization. Nelson was dead, the beacon of the Royal Navy, the luminous head of Nelson’s Tea gone, and the enemy had infiltrated their ranks. Reverend Albert Holt’s attempt to destroy Nelson’s Tea from within came at their most vulnerable hour when an assassination attempt on Simon ripped open the veil protecting the select group. This latest treachery jeopardized lives and friendships built on faith, trust, and a combined vision, putting more than living souls at risk… England.

Even more revolting? Before Holt succumbed to Nelson’s Tea’s brand of justice, he disclosed the identity of one of their primary informants in Spain, revealing the news that he’d ordered the young woman’s murder.

Without Nelson or the covert information this particular spy carried, how could Nelson’s Tea stop their archenemies before Fouché and Napoleon crippled the Admiralty and the House of Lords? Danbury had little choice but to send Garrick, the Viscount of Seaton, to the one place he’d vowed never to go again — the living hell of his nightmares — Spain.

Seaton, a notorious pirate known as Captain Blade, agreed, however, when he realized it would be far better to die at the hands of Spaniards stealing back his ship, the
Priory
, than to live knowing he’d been responsible for another woman’s death.

He
was alive, no thanks to the men busily working
Don
Alberto Ramon Vasquez’s docks, Fouché’s
gens d’arms
and
El Capitán
Don
Franco Delgado. Lord Danbury, his wife, Baroness Chauncey, Percy, Duke of Blendingham, Captain Henry Guffald, and his sister Lady Adele, his family, and Nelson’s Tea had fought diligently for his deliverance at a time when better men would have given him up for dead. But hounds’ blood — not Garrick
— not when he had hope of repossessing the only thing he had left in this world.

Returning to his enemy’s shores was a tremendous drain on his emotions, and the Bay of Biscay offered a challenge more experienced seamen than Garrick had failed to navigate. And yet, according to intelligence — in the months since Trafalgar — French sleepers on the ground had managed to gain control of Spanish soil, one city at a time. With public sympathies varying between the good of Spain and fear of the French, coercion and terror were now imminent threats to thousands of innocent people, including the citizens of San Sebastian, making it more imperative he liberated Nelson’s spy.

But whom could he trust? A price had been placed on his head. Anyone associated with him would be arrested… or shot on the spot like Esmeralda, the woman Delgado had murdered before taking one of Garrick’s eyes. If caught, he wouldn’t escape, and the men following him would suffer a painful death, especially his brothers who’d tenaciously joined him on this mission. Another reason it was imperative every stage of Garrick’s plan went off without a hitch.

Plagued by horrific images and memories of the weeks he’d spent under Delgado’s authority, Garrick waited in the shadows of Vasquez’s warehouse for the moment to strike.

San Sebastian

April 1806

The
Priory
bobbed
close to the wharf like a hungry seagull eager for rations. Tips of furled sails fluttered in the lively breeze heralding good sailing weather ahead. Shadows danced on her decks as sailors scurried aboard, hauling supplies meant to sustain the vessel and all aboard her to Calais.

A brawny worker peered at the setting sun. “
Malditos Ingleses!
El Almirante
Villeneuve will never set foot again in
España
.”

“What do you think
el emperador
will do to him?” a grimy dockhand asked.

“Napoleon?” The first man wiped his brow. “Use Villeneuve to discourage failure.”

Lord Garrick Seaton smiled as the conversation continued. Crouched behind several stacks of tobacco and barrels of rum, he applauded the deadly blow England’s victory at Trafalgar had dealt Admiral Villeneuve. Nothing worked better to weaken the enemy than disruption within its ranks.

A house divided upon itself cannot stand, and don’t I know it.

Garrick glanced up, scrutinizing the canvas loosely coiled on yards secured to the
Priory’s
main mast. With a few quick orders, his men could have the ship ready to launch with the tide.
As long as luck is on my side this time.

The
Priory
.

He tightened his fists and inhaled a deep frustrated breath, inspecting the vessel that had once been his crowning glory. Docked before him, the
Priory
’s lines and masts hoisted high into the night sky. Her shadows flanked the docks like a sentinel anticipating her master’s valiant return. Against several odds, he had finally come for her. From bow to stern, she called to him, her moorings chunking against the docks like a lover’s whispered endearments.

Garrick swallowed, nearly tasting triumph. Soon, the
Priory
’s quarterdeck would once more be firmly beneath his feet. Her rough-hewn wooden helm molded to his hands. Aye, how he’d yearned for a brisk wind at his back, the sea spread out before him like a wanton woman’s legs.

The
Priory
was real, undeniable. She had always been his rock. And soon, very soon, she would be
his
again.

Only two things threatened to ruin this longed-awaited reunion: the enemy controlled her and — he tightened his fist trying to curb the violent impulses drumming through him — she’d been badly abused.

Disfigured, now garishly ornamented, the
Priory
no longer resembled what she’d previously been, a beautiful, sleek-lined ship.
His
ship. She’d been painted a gaudy shade of red, her quarterdeck raised to a poop deck, her fine railings covered in grotesque monstrosities: mermaids, demons, and tritons. If it wasn’t for
Don
Vasquez, he might not have recognized her.

An acrid taste filled his mouth. A tic worked in his jaw as he continued to inspect the vessel’s sullied silhouette, from the stern to the blasphemous scantily clad angel figurehead, wings spread, gladiator-skirted legs twirling from her torso like a corkscrew at the foremost tip of the hull.

He growled out another sound of disgust.

Spaniards had replaced the
Priory
’s original monk figurehead, symbolizing God and country, with the skirted nymph, a sacrilegious affront against his father’s fleet. The monk, one of six figureheads his brother Max had meticulously carved, stood for everything Seatons believed in, the freedom of living a life well-served.

“Devil damn me,” he muttered under his breath.

Wasn’t it bad enough that
Capitán
Delgado had stolen the
Priory
from him in a brutal attempt to uncover critical intelligence that could be used against England? The brute had nearly succeeded. At one time, racked with pain, Garrick had doubted whether or not he’d survive his captivity. But, by the grace of divine power, Captain Henry Guffald and his sister, Adele, had delivered his cartel, rescuing him from the abyss.

Now he had more things in common with Admiral Nelson than he cared to admit. One good eye left to gaze upon his beloved ship and the determination to lead his men on a mission sure to propel them into dangerous waters.

The same could not be said for Delgado. He prayed that man’s rotting carcass had been unceremoniously dumped into the Bay of Biscay.

Garrick inspected the docks loaded with crates and burlap bundles intended for
Don
Vasquez’s multiple warehouses. Lights hung from overhanging tiles, the orange glow flickering as the iron-latticed lanterns creaked steadily in the breeze. Several wagons positioned near entryways waited to be unloaded, the contraband meant for other ports, most probably located in France.

An all too familiar hatred impaled him as he trained his gaze back on the
Priory
. Spaniards had taken the lives of innocents, Esmeralda,
his
eye, Admiral Nelson… now they had robbed him of the one thing that had truly been his!

If the people of San Sebastian had set out to provoke him in the wake of Delgado’s death, they had succeeded.

Garrick’s jaw clenched, and he narrowed his eye. Righteous indignation pumped through his hardened veins. His stomach knotted rebelliously. Fingers flexed, he wanted to kill, maim anyone responsible for desecrating the
Priory
. Nothing could return his sight, but he vowed silently to restore his beautiful lady back to her former glory.

But first, he had to steal her back. Expectation that he would do just that coiled through him.

“
Vamos
,” a crew member ordered several loitering crewmates. “We’re needed inside.”

Garrick slid his ringed fingers around the hilt of the sword strapped to his belt then moved them down to caress the cold, sharp, lethal steel. He mulled his plan over in his mind, searching for flaws. Retribution often cost lives. Honor fueled his blood. He’d kill anyone who rose against him.
He
was Simon’s weapon. It was up to him to avenge the men Holt had sent to their deaths.

Patience, Garrick. Patience.

A flash of sunlight reflected off a sailor’s sword and, for a moment, seconds really, a blinding hot light seared Garrick’s face.

“There is only one law you should be concerned with, Seaton.”
Capitán Delgado’s maniacal laughter continued as the cigar moved closer… closer… “Hold him. Tighter.”

“Are you unwell?” His brother Keane hunkered down on his right.

Devil damn me!

Garrick flinched, angry that he hadn’t heard Keane approach. He blinked back the incessant horror that plagued him and forced the gruesome memories hollowing out his brain back into the abyss where they belonged. He couldn’t lose control. Not this time. He was there for the
Priory
, now bedecked and outfitted with Spanish accoutrements, a ghostly reminder of the beautiful sleek-lined ship Keane had designed.

Remembering Keane expected an answer, he nodded.

Focus.

“I ought to burn down the entire wharf for what they’ve done to her.” Keane growled next to him, white-knuckling a barrel of rum.

“Spoils of war,” he said coldly.

Distorted though she might be, the
Priory
was still a welcome sight. “We’ll get her back.”

Keane spat on the ground. “Aye, we will.”

He understood Keane’s rage. A year ago, Garrick had come to Spain to extract information meant to save King George’s life and decipher an even greater threat to England’s security, the whereabouts of an informant carrying critical evidence against a member of the House of Lords. Perhaps, if he’d met the spy then and retrieved that priceless information before he’d been captured by Delgado, he might have been able to prevent Holt from shooting Baroness Chauncey, now Lord Simon Danbury’s wife. Instead, he’d succumbed to a certain woman’s charms — Delgado’s mistress — a fortuitous and costly diversion that had plunged him into eternal hell.

“Cap’n.” Andrew Moore, his navigator, shuffled toward them with Garrick’s three other brothers, James, Max, and Rigby, putting all thoughts of missed opportunities at bay. “The tide will be going out soon.”

Garrick hissed. “Keep your distance. Our package hasn’t arrived yet.”

Rigby flipped open his pocket watch. “Your plan better work.”

“According to Vasquez, it will.” Garrick studied the sun’s descent.

“But can we trust him?” James asked.

The thirty years
Don
Alberto Ramon Vasquez had been doing business with their father, Filbert Seaton, Earl of Pendrim, qualified that as a
yes
. “If Father trusts him, that’s good enough for me.”

“We are at war,” James argued. “Garrick, you know better than anyone how quickly that tide can shift.”

He refused to be drawn into debate. “Shh.” He motioned for everyone to hide. “Someone’s coming.”

Wagons transporting casks of spirits and what appeared to be bales of tobacco navigated the cobblestones. If another delivery was in progress, the dock would soon team to life. To prepare for that eventuality, Garrick and his men shrank back into the shadows.

Fortunately, the wagons rattled on to another berth.

Garrick motioned for his brothers and Moore to wait.

In the half-light, another conveyance, this one strikingly different than the others, materialized out of the darkness, wheeling into sight. A black behemoth, the shiny carriage sported a distinct gilded family crest — a fortress buttressed by a ship and more significantly, topped by a crown — covertly revealing the owner of this carriage was in league with Simon and England.

Don
Vasquez’s crest.

The driver shouted as the horses clip-clopped to a stop on the wharf before the
Priory’s
gangplank. A well-dressed coachman stepped down and, with little ceremony, lowered a set of narrow stairs before extending his hand to whoever waited inside.

Had
Don
Vasquez upheld his end of the bargain? Garrick prepared for the worst but didn’t have long to wait for the answer.

A saffron-cloaked figure stepped down to the cobblestoned wharf, dressed precisely as the
don
had predicted. Of average size, his quarry paused to shiftily survey her surroundings before nodding to the driver.

Keane crept closer from his position then kneeled beside Garrick, peering over a barrel of rum. “Is that her?”

Max followed Keane’s lead. “Do you think there could be two such women visiting the commander of
La Mota
?”

“This isn’t the time for sarcasm.” James turned to Garrick. “She’s late.”

“Not by much.” Garrick studied his ship, the wharf, and the warehouses bordering the dock, suspicion flowing through his veins. Their safe return to England depended upon precision. If the information
Don
Vasquez had provided bore fruit, he would be able to achieve his objective without casualties — intercept a spy marked for assassination — and steal back his beloved ship. “We’ll meet our time table.”

Vendors and harlots hawking their wares stopped to stare at the woman who’d stepped down from the conveyance, ratcheting the danger. Were they Fouché’s or Delgado’s loyal agents? Garrick couldn’t take that chance.

He ground his teeth together as the woman nodded to her coachman one last time before examining the ship’s powerful lines. She glanced left and right, adjusted her hood, and then traversed the gangplank with quick-footed grace.

Garrick sucked in a breath.
Don
Vasquez’s daughter had been on
his
ship before. Somehow that knowledge didn’t cease the prickling sensations crawling up and down his spine. Nothing was certain, not the moon or stars or the sun rising over the horizon.

Deception fed a cruel master.

If
Don
Vasquez’s daughter was indeed the spy he was after, why did the little fool travel unchaperoned? Did she anticipate returning to a waiting maid or companion hiding within the coach? Though her clandestine actions served his plan well enough, the danger Holt had put her in struck him like a splintered mast. Was someone else hiding along the docks to capture and kill her?

Devil damn me, I cannot take that chance. I will not watch another woman die.
He shook his head to clear Esmeralda from his mind as his quarry moved across the quarterdeck, disappearing through a companionway.

Max lowered to his knees. “She seems oblivious to the danger she’s in. Are you certain she’s the one?”

“I bet my life on it,” he said, his voice sounding far away.

Keane grabbed Garrick’s forearm drawing him back.

He whipped his attention to his brother’s hand and jerked his arm free. Since Delgado, he abhorred human touch.