The Tattooed Duke Page 27

  “It’s something for the Bow Street Runners,” Harlan replied.

  “I’m more suited for this task. I know my way around a ship in utter blackness. Plus, I know her,” Wycliff said plainly.

  “That ship is Burke’s,” Harlan said, pointing to one of the ships. “And the one right next to it, on the left, is the one I saw her board.”

  “Spirited Away. Departing for America,” Knightly said.

  “How do you know that?” Wycliff asked, once again surprised by the editor’s knowledge.

  “I read the newspapers,” Knightly replied, as he had previously. “Do you not?”

  “Only the bits with me in it,” Wycliff retorted.

  “Why is she on a ship bound for America?” Harlan wondered aloud.

  “I can’t imagine,” Wycliff said. “She’d never mentioned a hankering to go. Never mentioned any plans.”

  There were a lot of things she hadn’t mentioned, in fact. But that didn’t signify now. Because even through the lies, he had known the true version of herself. And that girl wouldn’t climb aboard ships to America late at night without telling those close to her.

  His stomach knotted at the conclusion he was coming to: she had been kidnapped. He realized then he’d been holding out hope that she’d just run off of her own free will in a rush of anger. That meant she’d cool down and come back. But kidnapped . . .

  He thought of the ten thousand pounds. She was an heiress. And thus a target.

  There was activity on the decks, which meant they could not just stroll aboard and politely inquire if any heiresses had been brought aboard.

  “It we wait until morning,” Harlan suggested, “we could more easily slip aboard in the commotion of everyone boarding.”

  “I cannot wait,” Wycliff said. It would be impossible. They paused, and he surveyed the scene and considered their options. He factored in the darkness, the men on deck, the likelihood that it was she on board and held captive. And then he formulated a plan.

  “Harlan, Mehitable, I need you to cause a scene. Draw their attention so that Knightly and I can go ahead undetected. If one of you runs off, it’ll draw the crowd and allow the other on board.”

  “You’d like one of us to be chased by an angry, drunken mob of sailors on shore leave?” Mehitable asked skeptically.

  “You can do something else, but I need to get on that ship,” Wycliff replied tersely. It wouldn’t be easy with so many sailors and God knew who milling around.

  Harlan shrugged in agreement. And then he shoved Mehitable. Hard.

  “Oi! What the devil . . . ?” Mehitable drew up to his full height of six feet six inches.

  “Ain’t you gonna hit me back?” Harlan taunted. Even though he had one working arm, one working eye, and his opponent was twice his size.

  Mehitable shoved Harlan, sending him stumbling back a few paces.

  A few heads turned. Harlan called Mehitable unspeakable names. Mehitable replied in kind. Pushes, shoves, and punches ensued.

  “A fight!” someone hollered, and a crowd began to gather. As anticipated, those on the deck of the ship rushed to the front to look down at the ruckus on the dock. Knightly and Wycliff would be able to sneak on the back.

  They walked briskly, but did not run, toward the ship. Wycliff was annoyed to have a city boy like Knightly at his back. His expectations for the newspaperman’s performance were low. But Knightly didn’t complain about scuffing his boots and climbed aboard the ship with ease. He might not be useless.

  They hesitated. A bunch of sailors were leaning over the side of the ship, watching Harlan and Mehitable hurl insults and punches at each other.

  “She’s probably in one of the rooms belowdeck,” Wycliff murmured.

  Down the dark, narrow, steep stairs into the belly of the ship they went. Wycliff first, with Knightly at his back. The ship groaned and swayed and one could hear voices somewhere—they were not alone on this ship—but it was impossible to discern where the others were.

  “This is an impossible task,” Knightly said under his breath.

  “I know,” Wycliff said, continuing to move forward. It was impossible. But it was unthinkable that he would not try. He thought of Eliza, laughing. Of that sly smile of hers. Of her quick wit and the way she felt in his arms.

  Just to test the effect it would have on him, he thought about “The Tattooed Duke,” and her writing it. Would it send him into a rage? A dull ache, a slow burn? Wycliff discovered that he couldn’t even hold onto the thought long enough to experience a feeling about it. He thought only of her, and wanting to hold her. The desire was overwhelming.

  The minutes had gone by. They’d inspected nearly everything: the cargo hold, the kitchen, rooms, cabins, and hallways. They found nothing. Well, they found lots of things, but no Eliza.

  “There you are, luv.” A woman’s voice cut through the silence. The men paused to listen. It was a welcome distraction from the terror of not knowing if Eliza was safe, after hours of searching.

  “Did you bring supper?” a man asked, hastily adding “luv.“

  One could almost see her scowl from the other side of the wall, in the dark.

  “I hope you’re not going to be a bore for the whole trip to America,” she said. “Because these quarters are too small for two, let alone one with a stick up his bum.”

  “We’re eating, Maggie, must you be so vulgar?”

  “Why are you saving so much of your supper? Did you sneak a stowaway on board or something?” Maggie asked. Wycliff’s pulse quickened.

  “Lord above, Maggie, just mind your own business,” the man exploded. Wycliff and Knightly shared a look.

  “I’m your wife. Your business is my business,” Maggie retorted.

  Hearing enough, Wycliff stepped forward to knock on the door. He heard the sound of frantic activity: wood scraping on wood, cutlery on pewter plates, hissed curses and conversation.

  The door opened, and Wycliff knew he was in the right place. He recognized this unshaven man with the messy hair and the hard, cruel eyes. They’d met once before, briefly, in an alley off Fleet Street, after this bounder had plied Eliza with chloroform. In fact, Wycliff’s fist was intimately acquainted with the man’s face, but that was the extent of their involvement. The bloody cad had escaped him once before, but it wouldn’t happen again. Not tonight.

  Wycliff just hoped he wouldn’t be recognized right away. He adopted the persona of bored, obtuse aristocrat.

  “This isn’t the ship to Boston, is it?” Wycliff inquired.

  “No, New York,” the man replied. Good to know.

  “Ah, good. Then I am aboard the right ship. However, I believe this is my room,” Wycliff said.

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” the man replied, bored.

  “The captain directed me here. Down the stairs, he said. Count the doors on your left. I’m looking for the seventh. Is this not the seventh?”

  “I didn’t count.” The man was getting irritated now. Good.

  “There is one thing to do, then,” Wycliff said, becoming more cheerful as the other man grew less so. “Let’s just see if any of these other rooms might be it.”

  “We have these two rooms,” the man said sharply. “Don’t look in those.”

  And that was all Wycliff needed to hear to know which doors to open. When the man moved to stop him, Knightly stepped out of the shadows to block him.

  “What the devil! That’s my—”

  Wycliff pushed open the door. It flew open, slamming into the wall. His heart stopped beating, only to resume with a ferocious intensity.

  Chapter 57

  A Revelation

  Eliza hated to say it, but being in captivity, such as she was, was bloody boring.

  She’d spent the previous night and today in that dingy little back room. She had remained on high alert for a chance to escape as she was escorted to the ship. But pistols had been pressed into her spine every step of the way, and she knew those things go could off at the slight
est provocation.

  That was not the escape she was looking for. They had all moved to the ship for the evening, since it would be harder for her to escape in the night, or so Liam told her. A woman’s voice joined in now, no doubt the woman she’d briefly seen earlier, and again Eliza couldn’t tell who she was or how she fit in with Liam.

  She heard them eating supper. She smelled it. She was starving. Her hands were still tied. And she was tired from remaining on alert. And bored. She might as well just close her eyes and sleep now . . .

  She could escape in the morning, on the way to the bank.

  Suddenly, the door burst open and slammed against the wall.

  She saw Wycliff.

  She thought she must be dreaming.

  “You can’t go in there,” Liam said hotly from the hallway. “That room is mine.”

  “This is the room for your mistress?” Wycliff questioned loudly. She wasn’t sure what he was about. But he was here, and she trusted him. So she kept silent.

  “Mistress? Mistress?” the other woman squawked. “I’m his wife! Not his bloody mistress. Why the devil would you think that—”

  “Madame, it seems you and your husband have much to discuss. He is your husband, correct?” Wycliff inquired. Eliza suddenly was no longer bored. If Liam was with a wife . . . what did that make her?

  “At the moment he is,” the woman retorted. Her blond curls shook violently. “He might be my late husband before the night is out.” No one attempted to talk her out of it. She pushed her way past the men and into Eliza’s chamber.

  “Do forgive me if I don’t stand to join you, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment,” Eliza drawled.

  “Who the devil are you?” the woman asked. She set her hands on her hips. She was a full-figured woman, with pale skin and a mass of blond curls.

  “I’m Eliza Fielding. Who are you?” Eliza asked politely.

  “Maggie Fielding.”

  “I really don’t think we need to have this conversation—” Liam started.

  “Shut up, Liam.” The women—the wives—snapped this in unison and didn’t even bother to look at him.

  “We cannot both be married to the same man,” Eliza said matter-of-factly. Then she paused thoughtfully. “Well, actually we could, but then someone is looking at bigamy charges.”

  “Not if the second marriage was never valid,” Liam said triumphantly.

  Eliza’s eyes connected with Wycliff’s in an instant. She felt the intensity of his gaze in her very soul. Hope beat in her heart.

  Do you know what this means?

  The question was unspoken, but it was there in his eyes and hers. There was a chance . . .

  And he was here, with Knightly! Two unlikely rescuers. She knew her eyes sparkled with happiness, even though she was tied up and held captive. Wycliff had come for her, and Liam might be a bigamist. What wonderful news.

  There was nothing holding them back now. No silly technicalities, anyway. They could be together, freely, if they wished it.

  Wycliff impatiently shoved Liam aside and pushed past the other Mrs. Fielding to kneel by Eliza and begin to work on her binds. He did so gently, without sacrificing speed.

  “How long have they had you like this?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Since after the ball,” she replied. “Since your betrothal.”

  He swore violently. He kissed her wrists. He whispered, “I am sorry I couldn’t find you sooner. And there is no betrothal.”

  Eliza smiled. Wycliff grinned, and held out his hand to help her stand. He didn’t let go.

  “What are you doing? Where do you think you’re going?” Liam interrupted, trying to intercept Eliza’s liberation. Knightly yanked him back.

  Somehow, in this awful, impossible situation, she felt love. And joy. She looped her arms with Wycliff and he pulled her close.

  “Mr. Fielding, is it?” Wycliff asked casually. “It looks like we have you guilty of kidnapping and bigamy, let alone what other crimes you’ve committed that have you fleeing to America.”

  “Kidnapping? Bigamy?” Maggie echoed loudly. Liam cringed at the sound of her voice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied in the calm tones of a practiced liar. “It’s not what it seems.”

  Wycliff turned to Maggie. “When did you marry this—”

  “Jackanape?” Maggie said, echoing Eliza’s own words earlier. “This lying bounder? Let’s see . . . It was the summer after the great storm, and six months after my sister married. You were in town with the theater troupe. I daresay it was 1816?”

  “And ours was in 1818,” Eliza said. “I remember everything.”

  “Eighteen eighteen . . . that was the summer I was home with the fever,” Maggie recalled. “and too sick to travel.”

  “We eloped,” Eliza said, “and I just turned eighteen. I carried a bouquet of wildflowers.” She had been idiotically giddy and in the throes of one’s first, foolish infatuation. Liam was so handsome, and such a charmer. She imagined a life of travel around the country with the star performer. What foolish dreams.

  “I signed. In the church. Before God,” Maggie said. “You did, too, Liam Fielding. And from the sounds of it, within a year of our wedding you were marrying other women. There was the summer I was home caring for my sister during her confinement. Did you take another wife then, too?”

  “While I am fascinated by this marital dispute,” Wycliff drawled, “there is one point to confirm.”

  “We are not legally wed, are we, Liam?” Eliza asked. She tried not to sound too hopeful. Too utterly delighted.

  “No. Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you go. Not with ten thousand pounds on the line.”

  “Do you hear that?” Knightly cut in.

  They all fell silent. Off in the distance was a roar, growing louder. There were gunshots. And the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

  “It sounds like a mob boarding the ship. Makes our escape a deuced bit more tricky,” Wycliff said, pulling Eliza close to him.

  “This ship is not only transporting passengers,” Knightly said in a lecturing tone, “but a significant shipment of gunpowder as well, which you would know if you read the newspapers. Therefore, I suggest we attempt escape.”

  Chapter 58

  In the Duke’s Bedchamber

  Eliza closed her eyes and sank into the hot bath with a sigh of pleasure. She knew what it took to haul those buckets of boiling hot water from the kitchens to the duke’s bedroom on the second floor, and Lord above, was she grateful to relax in the water after the dramatics of the evening.

  Harlan and Mehitable’s efforts to create a distraction were too successful. One dockside brawl devolved into a riotous mob. She, Knightly, and Wycliff managed a treacherous escape from the ship—only to have it explode once they hit the docks. They had managed to flee as the fire spread from one ship to another. The Bow Street Runners arrived with the Duke of Brandon. Order was restored. Arrests were made, including one Liam Fielding, thief, kidnapper, and bigamist. The fire was contained.

  Through it all, Wycliff—Sebastian—never released her hand.

  Now, Eliza opened her eyes when she heard the door open. Flames flickered in the fireplace. Candles wavered lazily in the slight breeze sneaking in through the windows.

  “Well hello,” he drawled, leaning in the doorway and indulging in a long, heated look. She slid lower in the bath, so the water covered everything up to her bare shoulders.

  He closed the door behind him and came to kneel beside her.

  “Wycliff, I—”

  He pressed one finger to her lips, holding back hundreds of explanations and a thousand apologies.

  “Your stories are your adventures. I understand. Now close your eyes,” Wycliff said, succinctly, as he gently tilted her head back and poured water over her hair and lathered it up.

  Eliza kept her eyes closed, holding back tears. Was this forgiveness?

  “It’s just as
well,” he continued. “I could never be content with some dull wife who stayed home while I explored the world. A wife ought to be by her husband’s side.”

  She opened her eyes and turned to look at him through the steam rising up from the water.

  “I thought I told you to close your eyes,” he said. And she mumbled something about his overbearing, ducal demeanor, and he muttered something that sounded awfully like “impertinent chit.”

  She closed her eyes and a smile played on her lips. Wycliff poured more warm water to rinse her hair. She could get used to this attention. Did she dare?

  “I am sorry, Wycliff.”

  “I’m not. Not anymore, at any rate. How was I to find you if you weren’t right under my nose?” And with that, he dropped a kiss on her nose.

  She parted her lips, wanting his kiss.

  “I almost lost you—”

  “Because of my stupidity,” she muttered, sinking lower in the water. Note to self: do not rush into the London streets at night, alone.

  “No, I was going to say that I almost lost you because I didn’t see that you were giving up your dream for mine. I know you had to give up the Writing Girls and The London Weekly for the Alvanley money, which you meant for me. So I could leave you.”

  “It sounds very noble when you say it like that.”

  “Noble. Troublesome. Beautiful,” he remarked.

  “And not married,” Eliza said, exhaling freely. It was so glorious to be free of tortured secrets and troubled pasts. To just be herself.

  “For the moment,” Wycliff said. She glanced at him, questioningly. Her heartbeat quickened.

  But then he distracted her in a very Wicked Wycliff sort of way. He grinned, rakishly, picked up the bar of soap and began to lather it up, and then with silky, smooth, soapy hands began to caress her shoulders first, and then lower, to her breasts.