Page 1 of Who’s That Earl

Chapter 1

In spite of the eerie, not-quite quiet that settled over the island in the hours between dusk and dawn, Lieutenant Thomas Sutherland nearly missed the telltale rhythm of oars slicing through water.

Damn and blast. If he weren’t careful, he’d find himself in enemy hands after all this time. Or at the mercy of his general, once he’d explained how he’d been distracted from his duties by the scent of flowers.

Seven years stationed in Dominica, eyes and ears trained on the most likely landing spot for the French fleet, had honed his focus. He’d even learned to ignore the whine and sting of the damned mosquitoes, though they seemed to have a particular affinity for his blood—or perhaps for the whisky that ran in equal measure through his veins.

But in all that time, he’d never figured out how to ignore the sweetly sensual aroma that hung heavy on the still, dark air. Night-blooming jasmine, whose perfume should conjure no memories for him. Particularly not memories of an English lass from Sussex.

With a scowl—three parts for Napoleon and one part for himself—he dragged his attention to the business at hand and scanned the sheltered cove for the source of the sound. Though the waning moon was no more substantial than the paring of a fingernail, it was enough to silver the thin, rippling line of water at the shore’s edge. A thicker stripe of light ruffled and foamed where the surf broke farther out.

At last, his eyes caught the movement they sought. A skiff moved jerkily against the tide, riding low in the water beneath the weight of a passenger and an oarsman. Tracking their point of arrival, Thomas moved swiftly and noiselessly along the beach, clinging to the protection of the dense foliage as long as he could, pausing every now and then to scan the blackness behind the little boat. Somewhere out there lurked the ship from which the two men had been sent, their mission yet to be determined.

When nothing stood between him and the water but a stretch of gleaming white sand, he sank to his haunches behind an outcropping of rock and waited. The oarsman paused too, letting the incoming tide do a share of his work. Even at this distance, he looked too young for his task. The small craft scudded sideways through the shallows before the lad hopped out with a splash and dragged it onto the beach.

All this time, the passenger had sat without moving, without even turning his head to left or right. But the moment the skiff was securely lodged in the sand, he vaulted from it and stood, scanning first the beach, then the scrub, and finally the more distant trees. He made no effort to hide either himself or his actions, as if the risks of being seen were worth the reward of catching sight of whatever he’d come to find. He too was young, though older by far than the seaman who’d rowed him here. Perhaps twenty or twenty-two. And wearing a pristine British naval officer’s uniform, which made Thomas not one whit less wary of the man or his intentions.

The arrivals spoke to one another, too low for him to make out their words. English? Or French? The distant rumble of the tide disguised the cadence of their speech. After a brief exchange, the seaman clambered back into the skiff. When he was hunkered low in the bow, invisible to all but the best-trained eye, the supposed officer turned and began to make his way up the beach toward the woods, a trajectory that took him no more than five yards from the place where Thomas crouched.

Without taking his eyes from the man, Thomas slipped his knife from the sheath inside the shaft of his boot and followed. They moved as one, any noise Thomas made masked by the other’s fumbling progress through unfamiliar territory, the scuffle of steps slipping on loose sand, the careless crunch of seashells beneath his feet, the rustle of dried grasses against his legs. Bit by bit, Thomas closed the distance between them. Eventually, they reached a clearing where a small cabin stood, elevated on stilts to withstand the strong tropical storms. It formed the base for Thomas’s lookout operations, though he also kept rooms in Roseau, where he went whenever it became necessary to gather other sorts of information or sometimes to send communiqués.

The stranger nosed about, first examining the structure, then peering into the dark woods that surrounded it. When he set one foot on the lowest rung of the ladder that led to the door, preparing to ascend, Thomas spoke.

“Where I come from, it’s customary to wait for an invitation.”

The unexpected sound of a human voice produced exactly the response he expected. The man turned suddenly, lost his footing, and tumbled to the ground before locating Thomas as he emerged from the shadows just a few feet away.

“Bloody hell,” the man rasped, the air having been driven from his lungs by a combination of shock and the fall. “What are you doing?” His uncertain gaze shifted from Thomas’s simple linen clothes to his primitive little cottage to the curved blade of his knife. “When they said you’d been here too long, Sutherland, they weren’t wrong.” He had the voice of a public-school prefect, almost too flawless an English accent to be believed.

Thomas took another step forward. “Aye? And what else did they tell you? The password, you’d best hope.”

“P-password? I’m Captain Bancroft of the Colchester.” Desperation now sharpened his drawling speech, and he scrambled backward as he spoke, scooting across the dirt like a frightened crab. “I come bearing a dispatch from General Zebadiah Scott.”

A string of specifics primed to win a man’s confidence. Thomas, however, held his in reserve. Had it always been in his nature to expect a lie, to suspect a trap? Perhaps he had been here too long.

After a brief pause, the other man spoke again. “General Scott says, ‘Homeward, Magnus.’” Despite his vulnerable position, Bancroft—if that was indeed his name—enunciated the message like a man with no intention of repeating himself. Not even at knifepoint.

But repetition would serve little purpose. Thomas had heard him perfectly. He held himself rigid, determined not to betray the internal disturbance caused by two simple words. With them, any doubt about the genuineness of either Bancroft’s identity or his mission had evaporated.

Apparently interpreting Thomas’s stillness as confusion, Bancroft dared a slight clearing of his throat. “You have the necessary cipher, I assume.”

A long, deliberate pause. “Nay.”

Because for once, there was no code to be broken. Magnus was too obscure, and too personal, to require encryption. Though Thomas had not heard it for many years, the name was perfectly familiar.

How it should come to be addressed to him, here, was the real enigma. But no mere cipher could provide the necessary clarification. Only General Scott could do that, and he evidently preferred to explain in person rather than relay the whys and wherefores through an intermediary. Out of habit, Thomas cocked his head in a listening posture, though his thoughts were too jumbled for him to hear anything beyond the roar of his blood in his ears.

Fortunately, all of his senses had not deserted him. A sudden gust of perfume filled his nostrils. Night-blooming jasmine, again. And with it came the familiar memory. A woman’s upturned face. Nut-brown hair, plump cheeks, blue eyes. He tried to shake her picture from his mind. Good God, what had—?

What had stirred the branches of that infernal shrub? There was no wind to speak of, and they’d come too far from the beach to blame the ocean breeze for driving the scent. Something, or someone, was on the move nearby.

With a swift, silent lunge, he closed the distance between him and Bancroft. Before the captain could react, Thomas had dragged him half-upright and pinned him to one of the stilts that supported the cabin, using both the man’s body and the stout wooden post as a shield against the intruder. With one hand, he twisted Bancroft’s arms behind his back, while with the other he held the knife to the man’s neck.

“Christ,” Bancroft whimpered, almost a prayer. The movement of the man’s throat made the blade twitch. Reluctantly, Thomas shifted the position of his hand. He had no desire to spill blood—yet.

In another moment, the almost-forgotten seaman crashed into the little clearing. His eyes darted nervously from one pool of shadow to another. Though the boy could not have been more than twelve, he could not be safely ignored, for in one sinewy arm he held an oar over his head.

Thomas spoke low, before he could be picked out from the darkness. “Drop it, lad.”