A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (11 page)

"Tell him, Cap'n," Jacko said, levering his bulk up and out of the couch so that he could go refill his glass,

Spencer looked from Jacko to Ainsley, felt the tension in the room. 'Tell me what7 What is it I'm not seeing?"

Ainsley carefully put down the paperweight. "Not what, Spencer. Whom. Edmund Beales."

Ainsley paused to let the name sink into Spencer's consciousness. A name from the past and one that, until last year, they'd believed buried in that past. The man who had sixteen years previously destroyed their world, who had caused them to flee to Romney Marsh. The man who had led the Red Men Gang. The man who had yet again disappeared to God knows where and for the devil only knew what purpose.

"But...but Beales was operating from these shores," Spencer said, trying to sort everything in his head.

Ainsley looked at him levelly. "There are two sides to the Channel, Spencer. An ambitious man like Beales would work both of them. It doesn't matter to him who wins, just as long as he doesn't lose. He could give Talleyrand lessons on playing both sides of a fence."

Talleyrand. Spencer knew that name: Bonaparte's greatest friend, unless he was Bonaparte's greatest critic and enemy, and gathering new fortunes to himself every time he turned his coat, from France to England to America to even the Russians—Talleyrand cultivated them all at one time or another for his own profit. What had the Emperor called the man? Oh yes—filth in silk stockings. To which Talleyrand had said—only after Bonaparte had quit the room, of course, for Talleyrand was a prudent man—that it was a pity the man had been so badly brought up.

It was the sort of intrigue, game playing, that Spencer abhorred. On this he agreed with Bonaparte. If
you dislike someone, tell him so, and then knock him down. Don't play with words.

His head was beginning to ache. "And you think Beales was working with Bonaparte?"

"Beales gravitates to the winners," Ainsley said quietly. "We've learned, thanks to Chance's friends in the War Office, that Beales's Red Men Gang transported precious little wool across the Channel. He favored gold. Gold that would eventually make its way to Bonaparte to pay his army, to supply him with weapons. Beales doesn't give up easily, not when he sees a profit for himself. The allies already have begun fighting amongst themselves, with all of them jockeying for the most power and influence, which means that chaos and unhappiness reign in France. And Elba—Elba and the Empero—are not that far away."

Spencer mentally sifted and sorted all that had been said, and then tried to apply it to himself and to his plans for the Black Ghost Gang. "And where are we in all of this? Beckets are loyal to Beckets. We watch the world, but we're not really a part of it. Even as I fought the Americans, I knew that. Our only real enemy is the possibility of exposure, being connected to what happened so many years ago. That and Edmund Beales himself."

Ainsley stood up and walked to the window to look out over the Channel. "I'm convinced there are already plots afoot to rescue Bonaparte from his plush prison. I could be very, very wrong, but I can imagine Edmund Beales and his ambition being a part of one of those plots in some way, either from this side of the Channel or over there, across that too-narrow strip of water."

He turned to look at Spencer. "Information will pass back and forth between the shores of the Channel. Covertly."

"Using smugglers, the way it was done during the war," Spencer said, nodding his head. "But why us? There are small gangs all up and down the coastline. Nobody needs us."

"True. But they might
want
us, if you were, while in the waterfront bars of Calais, to make it known that your sympathies reside firmly with Bonaparte. And, of course, that statement will be proved rather handily when you offer gold coin to help with the cause."

"And you expect me to sail to Calais and dangle gold I'd willingly give to aid in Bonaparte's escape. A gamble, a possibility—you can't be certain anything you're thinking could ever really happen. Papa, I've got that woman and child upstairs. She's probably already suspicious, seeing what she saw this morning. I'd planned to go to Calais only the one time to set up suppliers and purchasers at that end. But if I am to disappear for days at a time...?"

"I've given you a portion of my affairs to manage," Ainsley put in smoothly. "I've commissioned another ship, this time a frigate."

"And that would be a lie?" Spencer asked, fairly sure it was not.

"That I need you to oversee the building of the ship, which is very nearly complete? Yes, that would be a lie. The frigate, however, would be a reality. There is only one gun deck, but more than three hundred souls can easily be accommodated aboard ship."

"Three hundred? That's more than we have in the village, counting the women and children—and the goats." Spencer looked at Jacko, who was busily inspecting one ragged fingernail, probably gotten while digging in the dirt with his beloved flowers. "Have I had blinders on since Fve come home? What's going on here? Are we planning another retreat? Hell, we don't even know if Beales was the person Jack caught sight of in London."

"Spencer, to wait until we're certain could be courting disaster. Better to be prepared for all contingencies. For anyone who inquires, and some have," Ainsley said calmly, "I am now engaged in the ship building business. That I am only building one ship is my concern and nobody else's. And yes, we do sit here with our front exposed and nothing at our backs but the Channel. If it becomes necessary to leave— only if, Spencer—it is always prudent to have a convenient back door."

"And you'd do that? You'd leave all of this, turn your back on it? Just like that? After sixteen years?"

"Certainly not without regrets," Ainsley told him. "But we will be safe, all of us, yes, to the last goat. The events that took place on the island will never be repeated." He smiled without emotion. "Edmund Beales isn't just one man. He has his followers, some of whom were at his side sixteen years ago. He'll have gathered more, for evil always finds it easy to attract evil. I want him dead, Spencer, it's that simple. I want them all dead. But I will not endanger our women and children. Not again."

"So you go smoke him out for us, bucko," Jacko. said, clapping a beefy hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Go to Calais, dangle your gold and see if you can find Beales for us. If anything will get the Cap'n back on a ship where he belongs, it will be to learn that Beales is chomping down frogs in Paris."

"We find Beales by taking gold to France, hopefully to have it end in Bonaparte's pocket? How high do they hang you for that, I wonder?" Spencer said, feeling the excitement of the thing beginning to course through his veins. "What do I tell Rian?"

Ainsley smiled one of his rare smiles. "Goodbye should be sufficient. We're no longer at war, remember, so you'll be taking the
Respite
quite openly. A week for you in the bars of Calais should be sufficient. After what you've just told me, I believe you should avoid being in Miss Rutledge's presence. I'll speak to her, explain your absence. And remember that boy upstairs and your responsibility to him. I expect you home here in one piece. To be too careful is to invite disaster, but the hotheaded, reckless behavior of your youth is no longer an option you or your son can afford. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Spencer said, finishing off his wine. Then he hesitated, looking to Ainsley. "Why me? I'm flattered, definitely. Chance has more experience at this sort of thing, but he's got his wife, his children. And his face is known in London. I understand that. But why not Courtland? He's the oldest here."

"You both, thanks to Chance and Jacko and their tutelage, are equally proficient handling the
Respite.
In many ways, save age, you and Courtland are equals. The men will follow you. Court, however, is a steward and a good one," Ainsley said, having considered both men for the project. "He's dependable, intelligent and courageous. Solid. You, on the other hand, while also being intelligent," he continued, smiling yet again, "have the heart and soul of a rogue. For this project, that will require not only the skills of a good fighter, but also a touch of larceny and a glib, lying tongue, I prefer the rogue. You even look the part. Where Court could make anyone believe he is a fine country squire or masterfully play the part of a government official, you, son, possess all the flash and fire of an adventurer."

"What Cap'n's saying is that Courtland's a stick," Jacko said, then laughed. "A boring stick, bless his heart. Sure, he was the Black Ghost there for a while, but his heart was never in it. Just his belief that he's responsible for the Marsh and every chick in it
You
rode out for the thrill of the thing, bucko."

Spencer grinned, then nearly fell over as Jacko clapped him heartily on the back. "I'll be ready to sail the moment the sun sets, sir."

He headed off to find Clovis and Anguish, the two men he wanted by his side in Calais. He believed he should talk to Mariah before he left but, when he remembered their fairly intense interlude in her bedchamber and how she'd looked at him when she saw him on the beach.. .well, a week's absence before thev met again seemed a reasonable alternative.

"Which would make me a coward," he told himself as he paused outside the door to Morgan's bedchamber on his way to his own chamber to pack a bag for his journey.

So he knocked on the door, and a moment later, Mariah opened it, looked at him and then turned her back and left him standing in the open doorway.

"I'll consider that an invitation to enter," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"You can consider it whatever you wish to consider it," Mariah told him, retreating to the bed and picking up William, who had been lying there, wonderfully awake, as she had cooed to him. She was using her son as a shield and that was shameful. But what other shield did she have? "At least this time you knocked."

"And at least this time you're clothed," Spencer replied, walking over to bend and kiss his son's downy head. Then he straightened, not backing up an inch, and looked into Mariah's too-observant eyes. "I'm going away."

Mariah's arms tightened around William's small body. "You're leaving? Why? When will you return?"

Spencer nudged at William's hand with his finger, and the child caught on to the tip, squeezing it tight, just as Spencer's heart seemed to be squeezed tight in his chest. "Ainsley's commissioned a ship, and I'm to go to Dover to check on its progress. I'll be gone for a week, possibly more." Then he looked at her again. "Will you miss me?"

"I haven't been in your company long enough to miss you if you're not here," Mariah told him, wishing that were true. "A week or a little more, you said?"

William let go of his finger and Spencer took that opportunity to put a bit of distance between himself and Mariah. "Probably a little more, to be honest."

"Honest? Oh, you're being honest?" She laid the baby back down on the coverlet. "Now there's a novelty. I saw you, you know. Earlier, walking easily across sands Callie had just warned me were treacherous. Rian was carrying a—"

"Cask of brandy. Yes, Mariah, I know," Spencer said, cutting her off. He hated subterfuge, talking around a subject when both parties knew bloody full well what the other was saying. But the damnable thing was, he couldn't simply confess that he and everyone at Becket Hall had been spending these last years aiding and abetting the local smugglers who engaged in freetrading in order to supplement their meager incomes to feed their hungry children. It sounded too much like a noble excuse to commit a dangerous crime.

Mariah twisted her hands together in front of her, cudgeling her brain for something to say, something that would tell him that she wasn't about to betray him. "William is your son," was all that she said. "You have a responsibility."

"Meaning?" Spencer shot back, testing the watery as it were, trying to find out how much she thought she knew.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Spencer, you're
smugglers.
The lot of you," Mariah said, exasperated. "This house itself was built with money your family gained by shipping wool across the Channel. It's obvious. Why else live here, at the back of beyond, isolated from the world?" She lifted her chin. "I will not have my son a part of this. I won't."

Spencer stabbed his fingers through his hair, frustrated by Mariah's assumptions. Angered that they were at least partly correct. "How noble you are," he said, his smile more of a sneer. "You can't be bothered to ask questions, listen to answers. You simply go forward with your assumptions, damning people who have been nothing but kind to you, nothing but kind to me."

Mariah had been so angry, so frightened to think she was all but a prisoner here, she and her son both. "Then I'm wrong? I've seen a cask of brandy, listened to a few things a young girl has said and then come to an incorrect conclusion? Spence? Answer me. Am I wrong?"

He stepped closer, cupped her chin in his hand, looked levelly into her anxious green eyes. "You're wrong, Mariah," he told her in all sincerity, employing the glib, lying tongue Ainsley had so recently mentioned, as if it was an asset, not a fault. Yet he wasn't lying, not really, not directly. He was merely taking the truth and giving it a twist. "I would never do anything that could harm William. Or you."

Mariah closed her eyes, sighing. She so wanted, needed, to believe him. "Onatah says that a woman who has just given birth is prone to,.. to melancholy and to thinking fancifully." She opened her eyes again and smiled up into Spencer's face. "Actually, she said only a fool looks for misfortune in the face of good fortune. Oh, Spencer, I'm sorry. I saw you out there, the way you were walking.. .something about the way you looked, so confident, so at your ease.. .so.. .no, don't—"