1
Nicholas Tremaine, Viscount Lindley, heir to the most cursed title in England, hummed a merry tune and pretended to trip over his feet. The alley behind the Green Parrot was dark and quiet, the perfect spot to stage a robbery of a drunken soul, newly arrived to the islands of Bermuda. Which was likely what the pair of dirty nitwits stalking him assumed.
The dirty nitwits were quite wrong.
Nick had much more experience in stalking prey than the fools behind him, though he supposed he did not look dangerous at the moment. They thought him half blind and drunk.
A footstep shuffled behind him. A stone rolled past the toe of his boot and settled in the dirt.
Nick sighed, flicking an ash off his cheroot.Best to get on with this. He forced his feet into a shuffle, tangling his long legs as if he couldn’t walk properly.
The footsteps at his back quickened in anticipation.
A bead of sweat slid down Nick’s forehead to settle behind the eye-patch covering his left eye. He resisted the urge to tear the damn bit of leather off his face. Hot and uncomfortable, the eye-patch was a necessary evil, and he had no wish to allow anyone, even his assailants, see him without it. The risk was simply too great. One look at his mismatched eyes and the jig would be up. His eyes, one brown, the other a brilliant blue, marked him immediately. No one but the Devil of Dunbar sported eyes like that in all of England. The mark, thetongossiped, of the Dunbars’ continued pact with Old Scratch himself.
Nick itched at the flesh behind the eye patch as a rusty cough erupted over his shoulder.
He might be damned, but he was certainly healthier thanthat.The man’s deep hacking, sounding as if he breathed through swamp water, belied his future fate. Nick would be doing his assailant a favor if he snapped his neck tonight.
"Damn! My blasted head hurts!" Nick groaned mournfully, slurring the words. He wobbled, then stumbled and fell against the thorny vines covering the brick wall of the Green Parrot. The thorns tore at his clothes and fluttered about his broad shoulders.
The footsteps hesitated.
Nick gave a drunken sounding snort. He should have taken a fork from the tavern to defend himself, but he supposed his bare hands would have to do. He’d snapped a man’s neck before, but not lately. He was given a wide berth in London, most footpads and pickpockets in the city aware of what Nick was. Being damned had few advantages, but not being set upon by thieves while wandering the London wharves was one of them.
Nick’s ears picked up the sound of hands fumbling at clothing and a knife being brought out. He took a deep breath and waited, wishing he had gone straight to the Governor’s instead of deciding to have a tankard of ale. He had only wanted a bit of cool ale served to him by an attractive woman, who preferably was possessed of lovely tits. Attractive women, and indeed, the viewing of lovely tits, had been in short supply during the ocean crossing. The captain's wife, Mrs. Warren, reminded Nick of a wizened apple one found left from the previous fall. If Mrs. Warren ever suckled anyone from her shriveled bosom, it had to have been a lifetime ago. The woman detested Nick on sight, even though he’d made every effort to be charming. The only other female to make the crossing was a minister's wife. Nick never did find out her name. Mousy and timid, she barely came out of her cabin the entire trip. He passed her once and gave her a smile, which promptly sent her scurrying off to the depths of the ship as if the devil himself were after her. The little mouse did have some sense, apparently.
More whispers. Nick nearly turned to give them instruction on just how to accost him. He was trying to avoid drawing attention, which was why he deliberately chose to draw them into the alley and not the main road leading to the Governor’s. He wanted neither questions nor anyone to come upon him dispatching two of Bermuda’s thieves. Damn that barmaid.
The Green Parrot’s barmaid, Drusilla, was a buxom lass who upon spying Nick, immediately put down a large tankard as well as a plate of cheese and bread. And, Drusillawaspossessed of a lovely pair of tits. Unfortunately, the rest of Drusilla did not quite measure up to Nick’s standards.
Nick admired the large orbs thrust at him but found the rest of Drusilla a bit worn for his tastes, even after his monkish existence of the last few months.
"Will there be anything else?" She smiled broadly enough to show her missing teeth.
“No.” Nick lifted the tankard. He preferred a clean lass who had more than five teeth in her head.
Drusilla brushed a large breast against him and moved back behind the bar, her annoyance at his rejection plain. Two men slid down in front of the bar and spoke to her in hushed tones. The first man, with the sallow looking skin of a corpse, stared particularly hard at the buttons on Nick's coat. His friend, a bit older with a fringe of greasy red hair around the edges of his scalp, chewed sporadically on the dirty nail of one hand. After speaking to Drusilla, the two men sauntered out, barely glancing at Nick.
Now, Nick surmised, the pair from the bar were behind him, intent on theft and possibly murder.
Drusilla herself had tipped Nick off. She’d brought him another ale, one he hadn't asked for. Planting a hand on her hip, she’d leaned over until he could smell the garlic on her breath. “On the house. You look parched, milord.”
As Nick took a sip of the cool liquid, he did not swallow, instead the drugged ale stayed in his mouth until Drusilla turned. Then he immediately spat the mouthful into the sawdust beneath the table. Dru had slipped something into the ale, he was sure. It was an old trick, one that many taverns used in the islands to rob an unsuspecting gentleman. The idea was for Nick to wander away, drugged, and simply pass out so to be easily relieved of his purse. Once, when Nick was much younger, he’d fallen for the ruse on a trip to Jamaica. Never again.
So he’d left the tavern, pretending to be unsteady and decided to allow himself to be followed out into the alley. What else could he do? The men would likely not be put off, and he did not want to be followed to the Governor’s. So Nick picked the alley and told himself he was performing a public service ridding the world of the two miscreants.
The point of a sword suddenly poked him below his left shoulder disturbing his reverie.Finally!Nick gave a muffled sound of distress.
“Stand right where you are, toff. I've got a sword and will run you through in a thrice!” The words dissolved into a moist gurgle.
“Please! Don't ruin my coat,” Nick slurred. “I’ve not much but I do so love this coat. I've only just arrived, and I fear I've had too much to drink." Nick bit his lip to keep from laughing. This whole affair was becoming most amusing.
The sword pressed harder, but the blade was so dull Nick could barely feel the tip. "Stop your blubbering, toff.” The man laughed. “You've only got one eye, and for a big man you're a bit of a coward.”
Nick decided he would break the man's nose. Possibly, a wrist or the man's forearm before killing him.
“Where's yer purse? I seen it in the tavern. Throw it down on the ground.”
