Perhaps he was slick … for a pirate. Elizabeth would appreciate that. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell her. She would laugh.
Beckett watched Darcy woolgather, seeming to understand when he once again had the attention of his audience before continuing, “The cap’n be a woman scorned. She’s a hot temper, and she be fierce in battle. Ye betray her, and any one of her crew’ll take pleasure slittin’ yer throat.”
Darcy nodded. He had felt her fury and was in no hurry to draw her ire until he had gained more strength. Lord, he was tired. He blinked several times, trying to focus on Beckett.
“That said, she’ll keep yer hide alive if ye prove to be a worthy sailor and a trustworthy man.”
The first mate did not trust him—not yet—but Darcy knew his own strengths, and inspiring trust and respect were foremost among them. He would prove himself, and he would see how he could leverage the crew to help him. At the very least, he would live long enough to get back to Elizabeth. “I shall learn whatever you are willing to teach me,” Darcy enunciated. His lips had gone numb.
Beckett nodded. “That’s good to hear, Mr. Darcy.”He slipped away, his footsteps creaking up the steps to the gangway.
Darcy stretched out as much as he could in his hammock, the canvas curling around him like a cocoon that rocked back and forth, back and forth, lulling him to sleep with the image of two fine, bright eyes.
CHAPTER 7
“Covent Garden. No. 4 Bow Street,” Colonel Fitzwilliam barked to the hackney driver. “There shall be extra if you get me there in under twenty minutes.”
The carriage lurched forward, and though there was no time to relax, Richard’s body melted against the cushions. He had not been so bone-tired since his last campaign on the continent—riding for months through sleet and rain, too exhausted to care how hard the ground was at night, too hungry to mind the meager, tasteless rations. How he wished he were back in Portugal. It was better than this.
After all night searching for Darcy, all night facing dead trails, the dawn forced them to face new, worse realities. Either Darcy had been kidnapped or impressed into service, or he was dead.
Richard hoped he was early enough to catch PhilRouncewell at the Bow Street Runners’ office. Father had agreed that involving Richard’s former colonel was the wisest step.
Rouncewell took satisfaction in helping people, seeing justice done, and making England a safer place for his children and grandchildren to live. He did not chase after the prize money most of the runners pursued when their criminals were convicted and punished. His duties seemed to satisfy his need for purpose while ensuring he returned to his comfortable bed, dinner table, and loving family every night.
Richard envied him.
Fifteen minutes later, the carriage jerked to a halt. Richard settled with the driver, adding a few extra coins in appreciation for his haste.
The Bow Street office was a hive of activity—runners with their blue tailcoats and top hats darting to and fro amidst a sea of victims and defendants clamoring for their attention.
Rouncewell stood out with his gray whiskers and stiff posture—the vestiges of his military days.
He spotted Richard, dismissing himself from the companion with whom he was speaking, and clapping Richard enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Colonel! It has been many moons since I have had the honor of seeing you. What brings you here? You are looking well.”
Richard returned his friend’s warm greeting. “Howis your family?”
“My youngest married last year and recently blessed us with another strapping grandson.” His chest puffed with pride. Elbowing Richard, he asked, “When will it be your turn, lad? Only those who marry young have the energy to play with their grandchildren.”
Richard brushed off his question with a vague, “Soon enough.” Nonchalant as he pretended to be, the question always pinched his heart.
Rouncewell kindly let the matter drop. “I trust your excellent father is in good health?” He had the utmost respect for Richard’s father, Lord Matlock. One word from the earl had secured Rouncewell’s paid position on the Bow Street force.
“Fit as a man half his age. He wished for me to convey his regards. It is, however, another family member who brings me to you.”
Rouncewell’s smile faded into a marked frown. “And here I had hoped your call was of a social nature. How can I be of assistance?” He clasped his hands in front of him, his gaze intent, head tilted so that his ear leaned toward Richard—a stance of attentive concentration.
“Do you remember my cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
Rouncewell nodded. “Tall, dark, proud-looking gentleman.”
“He has gone missing.”
His gaze snapped up to Richard’s. “How long?”
“Since Sunday night, about nine o’clock.”
Rouncewell tugged his whiskers. “There has beentrouble in town of late, especially at the east end. War has made the press gangs desperate.”
