priceless jade carvings. Even now, the magistrate and his men are thrashing about the waterfront, searching for you.”
McNeil was stunned. He sat up, instantly sober.
“That’s nonsense.”
“I know. But the carvings were found aboard the Caroline. In your cabin. In the desk containing your private captain’s log.”
McNeil couldn’t take it in. He staggered to his feet. Dizzy as a landlubber on high seas, he braced himself against the bedpost.
“I don’t believe it.”
For response, Annette went to the door, flung it wide and beckoned into the hallway. A young man with scared eyes and a wig that didn’t fit edged into the room sideways, as though ready to bolt.
“Who the devil?” McNeil growled.
The young man ducked his head, swallowed, opened his mouth to speak. Annette cut him off.
“Footman to the duke of Tewksbury,” she said. “It was he who planted the jades in your cabin. A clever choice of emissary by the duke, was it not? If the boy succeeds, fine. If he is caught and tells his story, who will believe it? The duke merely accuses the lad of stealing and trying to escape to the colonies. The lad is thrown into Newgate to rot.”
McNeil’s head spun.
The young man fell to his knees. “Please, sir, I be fearful scared. I’ve runned from my post. Footmen what does favors for His Grace’s steward, them footmen has a way of disappearin’. Please, sir, take me to the New World?”
Garth scowled, scarcely hearing the boy’s plea. He tried to think, tried to make his pickled brain work. For some reason the duke wanted all eyes on the Caroline. Why? His meeting with sweet Flavia could not have been the reason. Their few moments in the garden had been chaste and short, a lifetime too short.
As he stood thinking, Annette dismissed the boy, sending him to the Caroline. Garth shook his head to clear it.
“McNeil, wake up!” Annette scolded. “There is not a moment to waste. The duke is sparing no effort to have the Caroline impounded. Thus far, he’s not been successful.”
She swept through the room, muttering after his boots. When she found the boots, she hurled them at him.
“Get dressed. I have ordered the baron’s steward to do everything possible to delay impoundment. But it won’t last forever. Your first mate, Mr. Jenkins, has obtained clearance from the harbor master. The Caroline sails on tonight’s tide, before Tewksbury can do further mischief—”
She broke off, breathless. Garth drove a foot into a boot, listing a little as he lost his balance. Damn! He was captain of a ship first, a man in mourning second. The Caroline was his responsibility. He would see her safely to Virginia. He owed that much to his stockholders. After that, he could drown himself in rum, drink himself into the very oblivion that held Flavia.
As he wrenched open the door, the baroness flung herself against it. Twisting under his arm, she placed her hands upon his chest in warning.
“McNeil, you shan’t leave on your own two feet.It would mean instant capture.”
Stupidly, thinking slowly because of the alcohol, he stared down at her urgent face. Her eyes were startled starlings.
“Then how?”
She petted his grizzled cheek, touching it gingerly as one touches an animal that both charms and frightens.
“You shall be carried aboard in a wardrobe trunk belonging to the Baroness Annette Vachon.”
“What!”
“The Baroness Vachon sails to America to inspect her husband’s land holdings. She travels with a dozen large trunks. No one— magistrate or harbor master—would have the audacity to search those trunks.”
He stared at her. For the first time in many weeks, a thin smile strained over his lips. He was baffled. Amazed. To think this cheerful titled wench had courage enough, brains enough, to arrange such a deception.
She sensed his thoughts and bridled.
“Jackanapes! There is more to me than tail and tit. As you would know if you took the trouble to find out.”
She pushed past
McNeil was stunned. He sat up, instantly sober.
“That’s nonsense.”
“I know. But the carvings were found aboard the Caroline. In your cabin. In the desk containing your private captain’s log.”
McNeil couldn’t take it in. He staggered to his feet. Dizzy as a landlubber on high seas, he braced himself against the bedpost.
“I don’t believe it.”
For response, Annette went to the door, flung it wide and beckoned into the hallway. A young man with scared eyes and a wig that didn’t fit edged into the room sideways, as though ready to bolt.
“Who the devil?” McNeil growled.
The young man ducked his head, swallowed, opened his mouth to speak. Annette cut him off.
“Footman to the duke of Tewksbury,” she said. “It was he who planted the jades in your cabin. A clever choice of emissary by the duke, was it not? If the boy succeeds, fine. If he is caught and tells his story, who will believe it? The duke merely accuses the lad of stealing and trying to escape to the colonies. The lad is thrown into Newgate to rot.”
McNeil’s head spun.
The young man fell to his knees. “Please, sir, I be fearful scared. I’ve runned from my post. Footmen what does favors for His Grace’s steward, them footmen has a way of disappearin’. Please, sir, take me to the New World?”
Garth scowled, scarcely hearing the boy’s plea. He tried to think, tried to make his pickled brain work. For some reason the duke wanted all eyes on the Caroline. Why? His meeting with sweet Flavia could not have been the reason. Their few moments in the garden had been chaste and short, a lifetime too short.
As he stood thinking, Annette dismissed the boy, sending him to the Caroline. Garth shook his head to clear it.
“McNeil, wake up!” Annette scolded. “There is not a moment to waste. The duke is sparing no effort to have the Caroline impounded. Thus far, he’s not been successful.”
She swept through the room, muttering after his boots. When she found the boots, she hurled them at him.
“Get dressed. I have ordered the baron’s steward to do everything possible to delay impoundment. But it won’t last forever. Your first mate, Mr. Jenkins, has obtained clearance from the harbor master. The Caroline sails on tonight’s tide, before Tewksbury can do further mischief—”
She broke off, breathless. Garth drove a foot into a boot, listing a little as he lost his balance. Damn! He was captain of a ship first, a man in mourning second. The Caroline was his responsibility. He would see her safely to Virginia. He owed that much to his stockholders. After that, he could drown himself in rum, drink himself into the very oblivion that held Flavia.
As he wrenched open the door, the baroness flung herself against it. Twisting under his arm, she placed her hands upon his chest in warning.
“McNeil, you shan’t leave on your own two feet.It would mean instant capture.”
Stupidly, thinking slowly because of the alcohol, he stared down at her urgent face. Her eyes were startled starlings.
“Then how?”
She petted his grizzled cheek, touching it gingerly as one touches an animal that both charms and frightens.
“You shall be carried aboard in a wardrobe trunk belonging to the Baroness Annette Vachon.”
“What!”
“The Baroness Vachon sails to America to inspect her husband’s land holdings. She travels with a dozen large trunks. No one— magistrate or harbor master—would have the audacity to search those trunks.”
He stared at her. For the first time in many weeks, a thin smile strained over his lips. He was baffled. Amazed. To think this cheerful titled wench had courage enough, brains enough, to arrange such a deception.
She sensed his thoughts and bridled.
“Jackanapes! There is more to me than tail and tit. As you would know if you took the trouble to find out.”
She pushed past
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