Damn! What was taking so long!
The ship bearing Nick's solicitor, and hopefully Jem, docked no more than an hour ago. A young boy, whose job it was to watch the harbor, ran from the docks to Nick’s home bearing the news of the ship’s arrival.
Jem.
She would have had the entire voyage to be furious, and he thought it unlikely she would be pleased to see him. If she could get over her anger at having been kidnapped, it would give her time to focus on the fact that he’d deserted her after ruining her.
As I originally set out to do.
Nick winced with guilt, both at hurting Jem and for disappointing his grandfather. He'd tossed his family's honor aside for want of one slender girl from Bermuda, a fact that displeased his grandfather, Henry. So much so that Henry had died almost immediately after Nick’s arrival in London.
The death and subsequent burial of Henry Tremaine, 10th Duke of Dunbar required all of Nick's attention, as did the mantle of responsibility for the vast properties and wealth of the Dunbars. He could not leave London to return to Bermuda to fetch Jem, even though every fiber in his being instructed Nick to do so without haste. Instead, he'd dispatched Hotchkins, his most trusted solicitor, in his place. Hotchkins was a resourceful, discreet man who promised Nick he’d bring back Jem. Nick pressed his nose against the glass of the window as if he were a child staring into a candy shop, his stomach churning with frustration and worry.I should never have left her that day on the beach.Damn George Corbett.
Nick awoke after his unexpected meeting with Wren that ill-fated night with a knot the size of a hen's egg on his temple. The floor on which he lay moved softly beneath him and the smell of the ocean reached his nose. A dull ache thudded in his temples and one eye was swollen completely shut. When he wiped at the crusted blood on his cheeks, he found he was limited by the heaviness of manacles about his wrists. He was chained aboard a ship.
Several days went by, but no one came to see him. No food was left for him, nor water. He assumed that he would die slowly from starvation and thirst.
“I should have killed Corbett that night,” Nick said out loud, his words fogging the window.
He awoke one day to find the sun streaming through the small porthole above his head. The creak of the door sounded loudly in the dim light of the tiny cabin.
“Whatever it was you did to the Governor of Bermuda, he's making damn sure you don't visit him again.”A small, neat man, sporting an enormous beard reaching nearly to the middle of his chest, approached Nick’s shackled body. Two beefy sailors stood on either side of the man whom he took to be the captain.“Make your peace with God, man, before you are food for the sharks.”
Nick found himself quite opposed to becoming someone’s dinner.“I am worth far more alive to you than dead,” he whispered, lifting his head so that he could stare directly into the face of the man who spoke. His face had healed enough so that he could finally open both eyes.
The effect on the trio was immediate and not unexpected. The captain quickly made the sign of the cross. He waved for the two sailors accompanying him to move back, well out of Nick’s reach.
Lifting his lips in a mocking smile, Nick kept his eyes on the captain. He absolutely adored Catholics, for they held the deepest respect for the devil. If only he could have convinced the captain to return to Bermuda.
“Your Grace?” A firm wrap of knuckles on the study door brought Nick back to the present.
“Yes.” Nick bellowed, hoping it was his solicitor being announced.
Only Peabody, the butler of the Dunbar town house entered and bowed as low as his elderly body allowed.
Nick hissed in annoyance at the butler's appearance. “Well?”
Peabody had served the Dunbar family for many years, and like any servant who knew he’d never be sacked, made known his displeasure at Nick’s mood with a mere raise of one eyebrow.
Nick didn't mind. Serving the Dunbars, particularly Nick’s grandfather, was not for the weak of heart. He appreciated Peabody’s courage, to say the least, as a lesser man would have fled years ago.
“Your Grace.” Peabody held out a silver tray on which lay a missive.
Nick recognized the scrawl of his solicitor, Hotchkins, across the creamy vellum. He looked over Peabody’s shoulder to the hallway beyond.
“I am sorry Your Grace.” Peabody's lined face continued to remain bland, but the butler’s voice held genuine concern. “Mr. Hotchkins is not here. A messenger dropped this off. I'm feeding him for his trouble, and he'll wait for a reply.”
“Where's Hotchkins?” Nick growled.
“I fear,” Peabody’s face creased a bit as he frowned, “that he has not returned from his errand.” The silver tray was thrust at Nick.
Nick grabbed at the note, annoyed to find his hand trembled. A chill descended over him as if the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. “Leave me.” Moving towards the sidebar, he clutched the note in one hand. He needed a drink. Jem was not here, which likely meant she'd married Corbett, and Nick would now find it necessary to make her a widow.
Peabody stood frozen at the door and cleared his throat.
“What isit?” Nick snarled at the butler. “I am capable of pouring my own drink.” Nick poured out the dark amber fluid into a glass. He set down the decanter, then picked it up again. He might well need more than a glass.
“Lady Arabella wishes to know if she should expect you at dinner.”
