“For letting them do this to you to keep a man safe you do not even like.”
He said nothing to this, nor changed expressions, but his eyes seemed a little softer when he whispered, “You are welcome,” before he shut the door.
He was no enemy, this man, no matter how different their sides and hopes.
No, Felton Northwood was her friend.
Her first friend.
“What do you mean you knew where Ellis was, sir?” asked Swabian.
Bowles stared at them in the dim light of the tallow candle. Eight men crowded closer. Silent. Wearing age and dirt and fourteen years’ worth of hate on their cursed faces. The Swabian stood in front, cap in hand like a sign of reverence.
Devil of a fool. No reverence lingered between them. Never had. Only fear—because everyone in the room knew what the man standing next to him was capable of.
Whathewas capable of.
“Yes, I knew.” He smiled. Most men smiled for pleasure. A kindness of sorts. Not him though. When he smiled, people fidgeted and mumbled and lost what little nerve they had to begin with. “But it served me better this way.”
“Wot you saying?” Tall Postle took a step next to Swabian. “Say it out, wot you know, ’fore we accuse you of being an Iscariot—”
“My, my.” Bowles pulled out his snuffbox. A handkerchief. “Talkative today, are you not, Tall Postle? Do you talk so excessively in the presence of your wife? No, no—forgive me. I have forgotten. She left you, did she not, with that Romani gypsy?”
The cellar went quieter.
A vein bulged on Tall Postle’s massive forehead, but he only hung his head and stepped back again. Another devil of a fool.
“As I was saying, Ellis was useful to me. After his sins and the grave alternative if I fed him to your lion mouths, he was quite willing to dance a jig to whatever music I played. Do you follow?”
A murmur of answers. Several nods.
“Good. You do have minds after all.” He tucked his handkerchief into his collar, pinched out some snuff, and slipped the tobacco under his lip. “In perfect honesty, I cared nothing for the men who went down with theRed Drummer.They meant nothing to me then and mean even less to me now. Besides that, there are greater complications we must attend to.”
“Sir—”
“But I spent three days in the ocean and three weeks recovering from the gravest sickness I have yet to know in my life. For that, Ellis will pay. Less noble vengeance, perhaps, but vengeance nonetheless.”
The men waited and watched him. ’Twas sickening the way they dropped their mouths and stopped breathing like pitiful beggars wailing for bread. Sickening, but also delightful.
Considering he was the bread giver.
“The captain was useful to me for a season, as I said before.” His smile broadened and he clicked his snuffbox back shut. “But he is useful to me no more. Let us lions enjoy our prey—and having done so, we shall proceed to rip apart the other tribulations in the arena.”
The dancing master was nearly finished with his lessons. The dressmaker had come and gone. Servants were already whispering about sugar sculptures and fruits and drink. Over breakfast, Lord Gillingham had told her that all invitations had been posted, and even the orchestra had been summonsed.
Because in just one week, there would be a ball.
For her.
Eliza pressed herself to the glass of her bedchamber window. Below, the view of the courtyard stirred her stomach. How many days had it been since Captain had climbed over that wall? How many hours a day did she stand like this, watching for him to do it again?
She needed him. She needed to run into his arms and smell the earth and forest in his clothes. When was the last time she’d laughed? Or taken off her shoes and ran? Or escaped somewhere—someplace magic like the stream—and splashed away a hundred cares?
But there was nothing to do with her cares here. Not in this bedchamber, by this window, enclosed in these decorated walls.
And there was no one to tell her heart to. If Captain were here, she would have told him about the ball. How despite all the fears, there was excitement too. She would have told him about Felton. How sorry she’d been for him when he was wounded, how lonely the manor seemed when he left. She would have told him about Minney Bradshaw, how ghastly she was—and yet how easy it was becoming to feel close to the girl.
Captain would have smiled. Or laughed. Or cried when she cried. He would have told her to keep her chin up, and even without telling him of her nightmares, he would have assured her the beast could always be fought.
