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Chapter 28
Mac leaned away from the iron-barred door, shaking his head to clear the confusion. “What do you mean, he is gone?”
The man blinked. “He isn’t here, gov. Been gone a week hence.”
Mac’s shoulders dropped. It had taken two days to reach the bustling metropolis and he’d ridden hard with little rest until he saw the hazy coal-fire smog that indicated London on the horizon. Once Captain Sheffield had delivered the promissory note to his hands, Mac had had no other recourse but to free his father and move forward accordingly. But now this gatekeeper claimed his father to be gone.
“Gone where?” Mac asked. “How?”
“Don’t know where,” the man said, adjusting his cap over a balding head. He indicated the prison behind him with a nod. “Had his debts paid by another prisoner and left.”
Mac rolled the words around in his head, trying to make sense of them. How was a man inside the Marshalsea able to afford paying the debts of another prisoner? Particularly one so encumbered as Alexander MacKenzie?
“Who might know where he’s gone to?” Mac asked. “Can I speak to the other prisoner?”
“He’s gone, too. Tried and punished, I’m afraid,” the gatekeeper said gruffly. “Don’t know how to find MacKenzie. I didn’t bother asking where he meant to go.”
Mac blew a frustrated breath through his teeth and turned around, leading Orion down the street. The city was both stifling and busy, and to a man used to the open sea air, it was oppressive. He turned, rubbing Orion’s neck and looking his tired horse in the eye. “One night of rest, eh? And then we’ll go to Mother.”
His horse yanked against his hand, appearing to nod, and Mac rubbed his neck harder. Now to find a reputable inn for the night.
* * *
His aunt’s townhouse loomed over him, and Mac brushed the dirt from his sleeves, certain he was not about to receive a warm welcome. He’d stopped in a few months ago, before going to Devon, and his mother had seemed content in her situation, but Mac hadn’t known how she could be. Her sister was a whiny, wheezy old woman with nothing kind to say about anyone and was prone to far too much prattle.
But Mac was not forced to endure her company day in and out, so he had gritted his teeth and born it for his mother’s sake.
And now he would be able to free her from the situation. He would stop in, inform her of Father’s sudden disappearance—good riddance—and then he would be off to purchase Camden Court and beg Mabel to become the mistress there. To become his wife.
His chest warmed and he mounted the steps, unable to tamp down his smile. The butler opened the door, sweeping his gaze over Mac’s dirty clothing. “Is my mother in?”
“Indeed, sir,” he said, stepping back to allow space. “If you will follow me.”
The butler led the way toward the drawing room and opened the door, motioning for Mac to precede him.
Mac stepped into the room and passed over his aunt’s face to land on his mother, and then the man beside her. Alexander MacKenzie.
Mac froze, holding his father’s gaze, the air fleeing his lungs in the semblance of a scoff. He was tired from his incessant travels and weary.
“It would appear I am the last one to learn the news, Father,” he said, taking a step into the room and bowing.
“What a pleasant surprise.” His mother rose as though she meant to come toward him.
Mac lifted a hand. “I am covered in dirt. I traveled too much these last few days and would like to change before I soil my aunt’s drawing room.”
“Of course, dear,” Mother said, her eyes round and warm. She gave him a welcoming smile before looking to her sister.
Aunt Marion nodded regally. “You may use the bedchamber you had on your last visit. My man will see to your needs.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Mac said, before turning back toward his father. A man who had caused Mac years of grief and hard work, had put his wife through the shame of losing her home and reputation, sat there comfortably as though he’d done no wrong, no thread of repentance on his countenance. “And you, sir. I learned from the gatekeeper at Marshalsea Prison that your debts were paid from a fellow prisoner.”
Mother’s face flushed, and Mac felt a moment’s shame before he shoved it away. There were no servants present and each person in this room was entirely aware of the situation. Mac would learn the truth of it, and he would do so right now.
“Jimmy Poole,” Father said, rising from his seat and looking Mac in the eye. He had aged in the years since Mac had been forced from his home and left to join the Royal Navy. Wrinkles lined his father’s face and his eyes were deeper-set, sunken. His stringy, gray hair was long and hung past his shoulders. Mac pitied him.
“Who is Jimmy Poole?”
“A smuggler,” his father said. “A prisoner of the Admiralty. He was in there for avoiding excises. I told him about—about my boy, my Liam in the navy. A seaman, like Jimmy was.”
