A Gentleman By Any Other Name (23 page)

“He was fronting for the local smugglers, wasn't he? He'd give them money from the church coffers to buy goods across the Channel, then they'd pay him back, until the next time. Not for profit—unless you can call a cask of tea or perhaps some silk or lace for the pretty daughter
profit—
but to help his struggling congregation. How long had he been doing this? Who knows. But there was a storm or two at a bad time, and the goods had to be scuttled to save the men, so now there was no money when the officials from Rye came to call.”

Julia nodded, giving up the fight, as it seemed there was nothing Jacko didn't know. “They were suspicious in Rye even before the storm. The church officials demanded answers, and Papa wouldn't give them to them, wouldn't betray our congregation, didn't even tell our people he was in trouble.”

She looked at Jacko. “They
were
his people. For as long as I can remember, they were his people. And he'd rather die than betray them. There,” she ended, wiping at tears with the back of her hand, “are you satisfied now?”

“I am that.” Jacko got to his feet, hiked up his trousers that had a tendency to slip low on his belly. “You'll do.”

“I'll
do?
Really. And precisely what does that mean?”

“Only a fool trusts the town drunkard, Miss Carruthers.”

“What?”

“I needed to hear the story from you, Miss Carruthers, and you were brave enough and proud enough to tell it to me.” He gave a quick tilt of his head. “And I suppose I wanted you to know that I know. You knew too much, you see, and reacted too well—on the Marsh, with that fool Diamond last night. Now I know why. Your papa may have killed himself to protect his congregation but mostly he did it to protect you. Because you were also a part of it.”

Julia sighed. “Only marginally. But, yes, I was involved from the time I was a young child. I would have stood with him, Jacko, proudly. But he didn't give me the opportunity. I understand why he did what he did and have come to grips with his death and can even remember him fondly now. You'll tell the others? You'll tell Chance?”

Jacko shrugged. “Don't see the point, do you? Unless you want to one fine day. Not as if you've lied to us. You lived in Hawkhurst, your papa was the vicar and now he's dead and buried in the churchyard as the holy man he was. Oh, and Penton, his pockets full, is aboard ship and on his way to Saint Augustine in America, which he'll learn when he eventually sobers up and looks over the rail.”

Julia's heart leapt in her chest. “He's gone? You did that for my father and me?”

“We protect our own here, Miss Carruthers.”

“So you no longer believe me to be a danger to…to the family?”

Then Julia had to grab hold of the chair behind her as Jacko advanced on her with his lumbering walk before bending to raise her hand to his lips. “Welcome to the family, Miss Carruthers. Chance would be more the young fool than I take him for if he let you go.”

“Julia,” she said, her mouth so dry she could barely get out the words. She still wasn't sure quite how it had happened, but Jacko had accepted her. “Please. I'm Julia.”

Jacko's smile suddenly didn't seem quite so dangerous, although she doubted she'd ever be so foolish as to consider the man harmless. “All right then,” he said, nodding. And then he shouted out so unexpectedly that Julia jumped. “Waylon! Haul your singed arse back in here and fix Miss Julia's betrothal ring. What a pitiful excuse for a smithy you are, Waylon, letting a lady stand waiting on you.”

Julia bit back a laugh as Jacko winked at her even as Waylon and his young assistant came scurrying back into the smithy.

But that didn't mean that her hand refused to stop shaking for the whole of the time Waylon measured her finger and refit the ring…especially when she had a sudden thought: had Morgan deliberately maneuvered for her to be alone with Jacko? Had this entire meeting been planned?

But when Morgan finally joined her at the blacksmith shop, her smile was devoid of guile as she asked Julia if she wanted a piece of rock candy she then handed to her in a twist of greased white paper.

“I saw Jacko,” Julia said, accepting the sweet as the two of them waved good day to Waylon and made their way back toward the village proper.

“Did you?” Morgan remarked in seeming innocence, licking her fingers after popping a small bit of the confection into her mouth. Then she winked broadly at Julia. “Had the old warhorse come to Waylon to be re-shod?”

Julia smiled at the small joke as she wavered between two conclusions. She was overreacting to what she had romantically imagined to be a family not only rife with secrets but loyal to the death…or this
really was
a family rife with secrets and loyal above all to each other.

No matter which conclusion was correct, she knew she was very glad to be on the inside with the Beckets rather than classed as the enemy….

C
HANCE SAT IMPATIENTLY
,
looking toward Becket Hall as he was rowed toward shore, having been told he was dressed like “too much the toff” to be handed an oar of his own. Four days since he'd seen the Hall. Three full days too many, to his way of thinking.

He was caught between anger and bemusement at how much he had missed Julia. Her voice, her smile, her dogged inquisitiveness. Her bravery. Even her stubbornness.

Her ability to draw him out of himself, make him look at his past again, at his choices, at his failings. At his newly discovered hopes.

His last sight of her had haunted him as he'd stood on deck on the
Respite,
his face turned into the wind. Her nervousness as she had complied with his wish to leave her as she'd lain half-naked and sated in her bed had stayed with him, along with the certain knowledge he had taken with him that this woman would bend, but she would not break. There was a strength in her, a quiet strength, and more than a little daring.

Being on the water again had set Chance's heart pounding, not with the hated memories he'd expected but with the desire to have Julia standing beside him, sailing ahead of the wind. Showing her the stars by night, holding her close against his side as they raced the tide, chased the moon. Lying beside her in the captain's cabin as gentle waves rocked them to sleep after an evening of loving…

It wasn't just the timing of the thing—Julia coming into his life just as he returned to Becket Hall, just as he began to make peace with his past, with his family.

Or maybe it was. Perhaps Julia had entered his life precisely when he needed her, turning it upside down, questioning his responsibilities to Alice, even questioning his loyalties. And never taking a step back.

Chance swiveled on the plank seat to look back at the
Respite,
its sails lowered and secured, riding high in the water while firmly anchored. How cannily Ainsley had crafted her, a gentle mix of the Bermuda and the Jamaican sloop.

Over sixty feet long and twenty-one feet wide, her weight had to be close to one hundred and fifteen tons, yet her draft was only eight feet. Fast, agile with its fore and aft rigs so superior to the square-rigged Waterguard vessels.

The
Respite
could be safely handled near the shore with a skeleton crew of twenty, skim shoals that would ground Waterguard vessels, yet was fitted to take to deeper water with a crew of forty-five or more.

The gun ports were so cunningly disguised by what appeared to be a rich man's penchant for costly overly ornate decoration that even Chance hadn't noticed at first that the sloop carried ten four-pounder cannon that could be readied and fired in less than a minute's notice.

Yes, the
Respite
could outrun anything the British Navy had made available for chasing down freebooters, and not only defend itself but be the aggressor in a fight.

An intriguing mix of a man, Ainsley Becket. Retired from the sea, a ship fashioned from dreams anchored within sight of his self-imposed life on the shore. Didn't he itch to take the
Respite
out, at least to put her through her paces? Or was the
Respite
actually another penance for the man?

Chance clamped his teeth together tightly and turned once more to look at Becket Hall. Ainsley's penance. But not Chance's penance. His has been removing himself to exile in London. Chance saw that now, and if he saw Ainsley's actions as overdone, what then would he call his own?

“Foolish,” he said quietly as the hull of the small boat hit the sand and he and the others jumped into the shallow water to pull the boat ashore. “Thanks, mates,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out several gold coins. “Here you go. Have a drink or three at the
Last Voyage
to celebrate our success, why don't you.” Then he grinned. “And it's up to you whether you row back for Billy and the others before you do.”

“A fine idea, 'cept that Billy'd skin us alive,” one of the seamen said, saluting Chance. “Good to be on the water with you again, Chance Becket. Almost like havin' the Cap'n callin' out the orders. 'Course, coulda taken her out inta the wind more, mayhap played some slap an' tickle with that there Frenchie cutter we seen off Folkestone.”

Chance grinned. “Perhaps some other time, Cholly,” he said, then headed along the shoreline toward Becket Hall, his mind once more concentrated on seeing Julia, even as he knew Ainsley and Court were waiting for his report. He had two, after all. A carefully worded packet to be sent off to London via one of the dragoons and the one meant only for the family.

First things first, though, as once he was alone with Julia, he had no plans that either of them would be disturbed until morning. Smiling at the thought he didn't bother to examine beyond the notion that she would welcome another “lesson” in loving, he climbed the stone steps to the terrace two at a time and headed into the house via the door to the morning room, then down the hall to Ainsley's study.

And he had been expected. Ainsley sat behind his desk, balancing a silver letter opener between his fingers, while Courtland immediately halted his pacing to stand in front of one of the windows, his hands clasped behind him, to stare at his brother.

“Well?”

“I didn't expect you to fall on my neck, weeping in joy over my safe return, Court. But not even an offer of wine?” Chance asked facetiously. “Very well, I'll pour my own. Ainsley,” he said as he walked past the desk, toward the drinks table.

“You're looking particularly well-pleased with yourself,” Ainsley said, putting down the letter opener and folding his hands in front of him on the desktop. “What do you think of the
Respite?
”

“She's a wonder,” Chance said sincerely, holding up his wineglass in salute to the sloop—and to Ainsley's genius at insisting he take her out, get his feet wet again, as it were. “And a bit of a wolf in sheep's clothing, I'd say.”

“When your back is to the sea, a measure of prudence is only natural,” Ainsley pointed out quietly. “What have you learned?”

Chance dropped onto a soft leather couch and smiled, already loosening his neck cloth. “That why the French aren't chomping down frogs and snails in Carleton House right now, with Prinney waiting on them hand and foot, is a true wonderment. That's what I discovered, to my dismay—or at least, the War Office Chance Becket would see things that way.”

He slid the undone neck cloth out from around his collar, then sighed as he opened the top button of his shirt. “Ah, that's better. How quickly a man can lose any affection for starched collars. But back to business. The Waterguard, as I'm sure you know, is criminally understaffed and ill-equipped—I think you could outswim some of their ancient ships, Court. Of course, there's a war going on and the best ships are needed elsewhere. I'd say that now that the fear of imminent invasion seems gone, the coast is remarkably underprotected, with most of the hopeful deterrents reduced to land defenses. I will, naturally, suggest a readjustment of London's mind-set on that. We need double the cutters we're allotted now and ships that aren't in such a sad state of disrepair. Not that anyone will listen.”

He turned to Ainsley. “Rethinking building so close to the Channel?”

“No, because I'm not concerned. If the French didn't attempt an invasion before Nelson trounced them at Trafalgar, they aren't coming. Besides, Bonaparte would never so divide his
Grande Armée
to fight on yet another front, not when we're so willing to present ourselves to him on the other side of the Channel. I agree with the government on that head. Now other than what we already knew, what have you learned in your absence?”

“Very well. I've learned that being stationed in the Martello Towers, that make up much of the land defenses I spoke of, is somewhat akin to living at the bottom of a damp well, one that just happens to grow upward, not down. Two dozen men squashed in together in one windowless barracks room, with the officer of the tower having a similarly sized room all to himself—with windows, naturally. We heard considerable grumbling about that. The food is nearly inedible, the hours long and the pay atrocious. Such conditions don't breed loyalty—and certainly don't encourage the men to risk their skins to intercept a load of salt, soap and shoelaces.”

“In other words, the common soldier, unlike our Lieutenant Diamond, can be bought,” Courtland said.

“Correction, Court,” Chance told him. “They
have
been bought. Or at least enough of them, including many officers, had to have been willing to turn a blind eye for smuggling to have increased at least tenfold across the board in the past year. From Hythe to Dover and to the other side of us, from just west of Rye and into Sussex and probably beyond Wexhill—and all of the operations highly organized. I was quietly taken aside and given quite a tale of woe from a few of the frustrated officers stationed at Dover Castle, although I don't think anyone expects me to return to London and effect a miracle that will change anything for the better. Most of them sounded more resigned than hopeful.”

“A tenfold increase from Dover to beyond Wexhill. That's even more than I'd imagined,” Ainsley said consideringly. “Quite enterprising. Extremely profitable. And with hirelings to take most of the risks as those in charge keep their hands relatively clean while pocketing the lion's share of that profit.”

Chance neatly folded his neck cloth. “Exactly. Somebody, probably an entire group of powerful somebodies, are becoming very, very rich, and all that stands between them—the Red Men Gang, if you will—and even more wealth is our dominance in this area of Romney Marsh now that the Black Ghost is riding.”

Ainsley pressed his lips together a moment, then asked, “And everywhere they're known as the Red Men Gang?”

Chance shook his head. “No, nothing like that, which is fairly intelligent. One gang large enough to control over forty miles of coastline would have drawn London's attention very quickly. However, in each area the gangs do wear distinctive colors—their caps, their smocks, whatever. Very clever. But when you have the opportunity to stand back, look at what's happening as parts of a single whole, you could—”

“You could,” Courtland interrupted, “look at any map of Romney Marsh and realize we are completely surrounded except for the sea. And how long will they leave that avenue open to our people?”

Chance toasted his brother with his wineglass. “My thought exactly. Until I considered the thing.”

Ainsley sat forward, looking intently at Chance. “And what have you considered?”

Chance sighed, put down his wineglass and lightly rubbed his palms against each other as he looked at Ainsley. “That we might be able to convince the Red Men Gang—or whatever we choose to call it—that we're simply not worth the effort it would take to destroy us. London is already nervous or else I wouldn't have been given my last-minute assignment. One good fight, one solid defeat and, if I were in charge of this string of gangs, I'd cut my losses and be content with what I had rather than continue the fight and call any more of London's attention to Romney Marsh—which could end with London paying considerable attention to this entire stretch of coastline. Hell, Ainsley, half of London doesn't even realize the Marsh is home to anything but sheep.”

Ainsley began tapping the tip of the letter opener on the desktop. “Lieutenant Diamond and his men discovered some of the bodies,” he said quietly. “He undoubtedly sent a report to London, which I'd considered a stroke of bad luck. But you'd say it was a stroke of good luck?”

“Definitely,” Chance said, not even bothering to try to conceal his excitement. It was as if his mind had gone to sleep years ago and was now finally waking up. “A gang this huge—and it's definitely huge—must have informants everywhere, including London. When they realize that further bloodshed might bring fresh troops to the Marsh, they may just take their losses and leave.”

“But you don't think so?” Courtland asked.

Chance smiled at him. “No, I don't think so. Not for one skirmish. We have to whip them, whip them soundly, just once. And it would be fortunate, indeed, if we were to capture a few of them, question them.”

“So that we actually gain ammunition we could use against the rest of them? The leaders, those in London?” Ainsley asked, apparently without needing an answer. “We question the prisoners, get what bits of information we can from them, then send them back to their leaders with a message. An offer of a truce. They leave Romney Marsh alone or the next time, anyone captured will be trussed up and delivered directly to London, a list of the names of his cohorts pinned to his chest.”

“And it's true that only a fool would try to navigate the Marsh without locals to guide them. The entire area is useless to them if we band together, refuse to join them. So why keep fighting, right?” Courtland said, then looked from one man to the other. “And this will actually work?”

“Ainsley?” Chance said, grinning, because three-fourths of the plan was based on a similar triumph Ainsley had managed in the islands, years ago—a triumph that had ended in actually “dividing” the sea into exclusive areas of operation. Speak certainly, act boldly, back up your words and defeat someone else very, very decisively to prove your point and discourage further argument. Fight once and well, and your reputation does the fighting for you in the future. “Do you want to answer that for the halfling?”