Chapter 29
The south had been Shaldon’s destination all along, that questioning of Perry only a test. The man was a pain in the arse.
Fox crept up next to the Earl. Before they’d left for the cove, he’d pulled the man aside and asked him to stay behind.
Carvelle’s traitorous cousin, Lady Kingsley, had been arrested some weeks ago, before she could escape on the yacht of the Duque de San Sebastian. And Sir Richard bore Shaldon a grudge. The assassins might well be targeting Shaldon and not King George.
The stubborn man wouldn’t listen.
The stars backlit a soft mist that had settled over the beach, high enough that they could still see the vessel coasting along on the water, turning toward shore, and low enough for the damp to settle into a man’s pores and drip down his nose.
They’d stationed a lookout, and spread out in pairs, he and Shaldon, Farnsworth and Kincaid, along with four dragoons brought up from Norfolk.
Another group of dragoons had gone north with the MacEwens. Whether they could trust these outsiders was anyone’s guess, but Scruggs’s guest at the inn, the local Riding Officer, had not been included in any of the plans.
The soldiers had orders to arrest only one man, should they encounter him. Shaldon wanted Carvelle alive.
They’d not issued orders about Sir Richard. Shaldon was keeping those suspicions close to the vest.
Carvelle was somehow tied to the Spaniard and that damn painting. The Spaniard’s lust for the return of his family’s artwork made no sense to Fox, but then, none of the power-lust stirred among men by Napoleon did either.
Shaldon’s need for revenge? That he understood, and he’d help him take it.
Soreness seared his chest where Carvelle’s man had, a month ago, sliced him.
Hell, it was his revenge, also. He signaled the Earl anall ready.
As they watched, a boat lowered, three men aboard. He slid his glass from his pocket, looked through it, and handed it to Shaldon. They watched the oars churn, silent against the louder noise of the surf, and waited. The clear path to the beach was before them, but so far, a greeting committee hadn’t arrived.
Whilst a second boat with more figures in it launched from the ship out at sea, one man fought the surf to climb out of the first one, waves lashing at his boots. Carvelle.
With only himself and MacEwen to keep a watch on the inn, the man had slipped away back to his ship.
He’d been distracted by Perry, and, oh hell, if she was correct, her father had known that would happen, just as he probably knew of the Scot’s interest in the little maid. Which meant, he’d been willing to risk Carvelle’s escape.
Did that mean that, all along, Carvelle had not been the real target? And would this bastard of a spy lord have let them know so Fox could have done more to keep his daughter out of danger?
Hell, he might have seduced her the very first night and kept her close to home, and didn’t that notion send heat through him? The only thing keeping his prick limp was this miserable dampness.
A rock fell behind him.
That wasn’t right. The others were arrayed elsewhere.
Before he could turn, a voice came out of the dimness. “So, you chose the path I set for you.”
Rougher, deeper, surer, the voice was, but he knew the speaker. Fox turned slowly. Two men stood there, one big man and a smaller shadow.
“Good evening to you,” Lord Shaldon said, sounding bored. His hands brushed, pulling a knife. A practiced move, unseen from the two men’s point of view.
Fox slid a blade from his own sleeve and got to his feet, the steel at his side.
“Ah, Goodfellow. Put the blade away. My man here has a very fine pistol he took off your manservant. Was it only last night? Whatever happened to that fellow? You didn’t mention he’d gone missing.” He chuckled. “Harv’s not a crack shot, but this close he’s bound to hit something.”
“Harv has a gun?” Fox said. “Is that so? I can’t see it.”
Harv’s hand came up. “Loaded and primed.” He pointed it at Fox’s chest. “Want proof?”
This was the weasel who’d punched Perry. A bigger man would have broken a rib or shredded her kidney. Harv would die tonight.
