Resting her cheek on the cold wall, Penelope breathed, “I should have seen them four days ago.”
Fear tunneled through Alice—a horse bolting away from a carriage. She could never utter the words, but they reverberated through her head anyway. Penelope was not married. She was unwed. And she was possibly pregnant.
Now, it was more imperative than anything that she made Rutledge marry her. Otherwise, Penelope would be shamed and ostracized from society and would fade away into obscurity. The happy, positive girl she had known from birth would never be the same again.
“It's all right,” Alice found a glass on the counter, filled it with water, and handed it to her sister. “You will be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”
“How?” Penelope croaked, tears now brimming at the corner of her eyes. “How can you fix my mistake?”
While doing her best to comfort her sister, Alice could only reply, “I will get him to honor you and not run away from his responsibilities. I have help too.”
“From whom?” Penelope asked.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Alice redirected her. “I will make it right.”
With one hand holding fast on the rail of his yacht, William brushed a fresh spray of briny seawater from his face as he stared out at the endless sea; if he squinted, he could see the Isle of Wight. It was there where he would find Rutledge in a private boating club owned by Duke Renford.
When he had purchased the yacht, while simply ninety feet, the man from the HMS Navy told him the ship, once a Royal Yacht twenty years ago, had been used in the French Revolution. Pirates had commanded it for three years after the Dardanelles operation, and then the HMS army had recovered it and decommissioned it.
His turquoise waistcoat mirrored the depths of the Solent as the ship cut through the waves with the speed of a schooner. His trimmed hair curled at the ends in the dampness, and he tucked a lock behind his ear.
Will this move, by enforcing his debt, push Rutledge to do the right thing?
He shifted back and forth on his feet, unsure if his tactic this time was going to work. The journey would take a half-hour at least, so he left the deck to his personal chambers below.
“Other than putting a flintlock to his head, the blackmail is the only chance I have to get him to honor that girl,” Edward muttered while flicking a look to the wide four-poster nailed into a corner of the room.
Rich red velvet drapes were tied back with black tassels on either side, while the plain sheets and the mountain of pillows pulled an errant imagination from him.
What I would give to have her here…
He could see Alice’s flaxen hair strewn across the dark cotton, the light from the window across the bed falling gently on her beautiful face and sparkling eyes.
He’d flatten his palm against her throat, run it in a straight path down between her heaving breasts, over her delicate rib cageand her silken belly. He’d cup her quim— just hold her there, relishing her lushness, the way she arched to his touch.
“Mine,” he’d whisper. “All of this. All of you.”
Shaking his head vigorously, as if he could physically shake the inappropriate thoughts out of his mind, Edward moved to the dark desk dominating much of the cabin and slid the papers to the edge.
A note from the man who held all Rutledge’s vowels was not much of a threat, was it? But then again, Hamlet Grimes was the king of the rookeries and stews, with eyes on every corner and fingers in every pocket, not to mention knives at every throat.
It could help—or it could send Rutledge on the run. He did not know which way the cards would fall, but he had to try.
“Your Grace,” Jones, a trusted footman he’d carried with him, knocked on the half-open door. “We are about to make port.”
His brow cocked up, “That was quicker than I had imagined.”
“The wind was on our side, Sir,” Jones replied with a bow.
Reaching for his jacket, great coat, and hat, Edward grasped a lions-head walking stick as well. After tucking the documents inside his jacket, he headed up to the deck. The port was approaching and his eyes lifted to the rocky crags to the east. Upabove the cliff, he saw the terra-cotta roof of the house where he was heading.
Finally, the docks came into view, and he felt a certain amount of tension tightening his chest. With the boat moored, he stepped onto the jetty and made his way up the ramp and to the railed gangway, then headed west of the docks where his hired carriage should be waiting.
The sounds of chattering seagulls echoed through the air and the salt-tinged air made him want to sneeze. He made his way along the narrow walkway of the railed dock with boats bobbing on the water, absorbing the wild energy of the sea.
Just beyond the dockmaster’s house, and behind it, was his carriage. Jones went to speak with the driver first, then opened the door as he entered.
Here to the second salvo.
