The box was weathered but sound, rectangular, about the size of a saddlebag. A sturdy clasp held the lid shut, but there was no lock.
Slowly, Richard lifted the lid to the tune of groaning hinges.
He gasped, steadying himself against the table, his head spinning.
Father burst into laughter.
Mother mumbled between her fingers, “Dear heavens.”
Nick hastened awayfrom Matlock House. He couldn’t risk Richard chasing after him, and he certainly wouldn’t risk being late for his wedding. Alex would skin him alive.
Darcy House was in view, and he slowed his pace enough to catch his breath and dry the sweat slicked over his skin. Hopkins would be displeased, but one bath was enough for any man on any given day. At least he had not yet donned his tailored weeds or the new boots Darcy had insisted on purchasing for him. Hopkins had spent at least an hour polishing them intoa mirror-like sheen. If Nick hurried, he could change and run down to the garden just in time. No need to alert Alex that anything was amiss.
Connell stopped him three houses away from Darcy House. Nick had been too preoccupied to see him standing on the pavement.
“Nick! Have you seen Wickham around by any chance?”
Of all the things Connell could’ve said, inquiring about Wickham was the last Nick would’ve considered. “I’m pleased to say I haven’t … though I expect we’ll have to endure his company at the wedding feast.” It was a pity one could not choose one’s family as easily as one chose his friends.
Connell scratched his chin. “No matter. Certainly nothing to concern yourself with. I meant to attend your wedding—thank you for including me among your guests … Lord knows, you did not have to—but one of my informants has a promising lead I can waste no time pursuing. I gave Darcy my regards and apologies, and now I give them to you.”
Nick grinned. “Another family to put right?”
Connell nodded. “You could say that, although this family would be better off if my search resulted in naught.”
If Nick had more time, he would have asked what he meant.
“It is not a story I wish to burden you with on this special day,” Connell added. “Suffice itto say that I am so accustomed to people recoiling at my presence, it is nice to be made to feel welcome.”
“Now, that, I can understand.”
“I believe you do. I pray your transition from pirate to privateer goes as smoothly as mine from thief-taker to enquiry agent.”
They were not so different when it came down to it, him and Connell. “Same work with a kinder name.”
With a frown, Connell looked over his shoulder, past Nick, then over his other shoulder. “You ought not to be out unaccompanied. While there are few who would dare touch you after the riot, until you get amnesty from the Admiralty, there will be others like me seeking you and Miss Lafitte out.”
Well did Nick know it. Six weeks had passed since theFancywas maimed. Six weeks he’d been on land, at risk every day of being captured were it not for the influence of his family. Four weeks since he had walked out of Newgate with Alex, grateful for their lives and another chance at redemption. “We’ll sail outta port once we’re wed.”
“That is for the best.”
Nick’s only regret was that he couldn’t yet accept Darcy’s insistent invitations for him to see Pemberley—his rightful home, as his brother often repeated.
But Nick was relieved he had a solid excuse to delay the visit. He’d been too long on land, and until he felt comfortable in his new law-abiding life with Alex, he couldn’t think about Pemberley without sadnessoverwhelming him. All those years lost. He couldn’t stand before his parents’ portraits as he was now, with little to make them proud. It was a nonsensical thought, but he wanted to be a man they’d wish to claim as a son. A man who could gaze upon them honestly, with dignity.
Connell’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “I know you are done with taking ships, but allow me a word of advice: if you were to take an enemy warship, your chance of invoking the favor of the Admiralty would increase dramatically. They would be more inclined to overlook your former … activities … to grant you a legitimate Letter of Marque along with the protections that come with a naval auxiliary vessel—things that are beyond the influence of even Lord Matlock to arrange.”
The idea stirred Nick’s blood in a way that terrified him. Was he still a pirate at heart? Or was it the prospect of freedom—freedom on his terms, honestly earned—that appealed to him?
The news about his relation to the Darcys and Matlocks had appeared in all of the papers, but thanks to his flashy swordsmanship at the prison gates, they made him out to be a hero. The papers had romanticized his life, casting his former activities in a favorable light. Connell’s account of Nick’s actions inside the prison had helped. As had his brother’s staunch support.
Nick was grateful for Darcy and Georgiana’s sake. Darcy was an honorable man throughand through, and Nick would rather disappear from his life than allow him to feel shame every time his name was mentioned.
“Will you consider the matter?” Connell asked.
Nick nodded. Even after his little gift to the colonel, he had the bond money—one thousand five hundred pounds—the surety of good behavior the Admiralty required of privateer applicants. “I will,” he promised, extending his hand to the man who had once been a great enemy and was now an ally. A friend.
They parted ways, and Nick ran inside Darcy House, darting up the stairs and into his bedchamber where Darcy and Hopkins paced. “Where have you been?” they demanded in unison.
