“There used to be a child or two running about. Not that I deign myself to village gossip, mind you, but it has been mentioned more than once that the wife disappeared with some Romani gypsy.” She tapped on the door and sighed. “I doubt he shall answer at all. Indeed, if I were such as he, I dare to say I would never show my face again. But I suppose that is what he deserves for housing his wife in such a place and half starving the lot of them—”
The door eased open to a crack. “Yes?” Gruff, deep.
Miss Haverfield smiled again, said something cheerful, as Eliza reached out with the basket.
The crack widened. A hand seized her wrist. She fell through the doorway, panic striking her chest when the door slammed shut.
And locked.
No, no.The room was dim, every window darkened, as Miss Haverfield’s scream rose on the other side.
Then the pistol. The single barrel stared down at her. The stranger took one step back, then two, then three, as if the reality of pulling the trigger took more courage than he was prepared for.
The shot rang the same time she rolled. She scampered for the other side of the room, heard him curse as the screams outside grew louder.
Then he seized something. A chair. He raised it over his head and charged, but she darted beneath the table.
He threw it over. Bashed his elbow into her face. Twice.
Fear, pain, paralysis, as warm blood flooded over her lips.Please no.But he was already dragging her up, throwing her over his shoulder.
Pounding vibrated the cottage door. A man’s voice shouting. Miss Haverfield’s scream. Boards whining and cracking and hinges busting …
The man threw his foot through the wooden slats nailed in the window. He started to shove her through, wood scratching her arms, but the front door must have fallen through because he yanked her back and dove headfirst out the window.
“Stop! Stop!” The footman’s shout. He raced for the window and shot a bullet toward the escaping madman.
But he wouldn’t stop. None of them would. They would hunt her and terrorize her and hurt her until the beast was happy and she was dead.
Miss Haverfield fell next to her on the floor and framed her face. Blood seeped onto the white gloves. “Oh dear.” Shaky and real and devoid of that usual note of mock sweetness. “Poor little thing, are you dying? Has he murdered you?”
“No.” Eliza scooted back against the cottage wall, escaped the touch, and smeared the blood from her nose and lips. The metallic taste stayed in her mouth. “No…they have not murdered me.”
Not yet.
The Northwood boy was careful. He was nonchalant and imperceptible, an expert at his task.
But not expert enough.
Bowles spared another glance past the beaver hats on display in the window. The coffeehouse across the street was devoid of any lurking figures.
Good. The boy was gone. If he played that game again, Bowles would have to teach him a lesson despite the repercussions.
Tipping his hat at the haberdasher, more to demonstrate the quality of his own hat over those for sale in the store, he quit the establishment and headed straight for the port. He strolled out to one of the docks, breathed in fresh sea air, and pulled out his watch-case. Five till eleven. In less than an hour, Monsieur d’Espernon would arrive to take the £20,000 note from Bowles’s pocket.
Then theCélestine IIwould be his. Another merchant ship. Another victory.
The gray-blue sea rolled in wave after wave, splashing lightly against the poles of the dock. More things still needed to be set in place—a seamstress to prepare the black masts, a few more men to make up a crew, a date to load more contraband, another letter to his Indian and Chinese contacts.
Then theCélestine IIwould be ready to joinMarywichand their six other ships. If only his father could see them now. What had started as a small vessel smuggling out goods from the Durham coast had grown into a full operation.
He would have been proud. Heshouldhave been proud. They were as ruthless, his children, as the man who raised them had ever been.
And more. Much more.
Footsteps creaked the dock, and Bowles’ hand dropped to his pistol on instinct. He waited, expecting the foreign greeting from Monsieur d’Espernon.
Instead, the footsteps halted and no hail came.
