“No—it’s tucked away in Duffield Sluice, right by Mariner’s Stairs,” answered the boy.
“Clever,” conceded Cordelia. “It’s such a tiny inlet, but now that I think of it, the warehouses fronting the river provide a perfect cover.”
“Well done, lad,” said Wrexford, shooting a glance at the clock on the bookshelf. “And we’ve plenty of time to get upstream.”
“No rush at all,” agreed Sheffield, his smile stretching wider. “We can’t put our plan in motion until after the tide turns.”
“What plan?” demanded Raven.
“We’ll explain that to you as we sail upstream,” answered Charlotte. She cast a critical look at Sheffield. “You don’t look like a riverman dressed like that. Go find a bargeman down at the dock and negotiate an exchange of clothing—the shabbier, the better. The smallest flaw in our masquerade could scuttle our plan.”
Her gaze moved to Cordelia. “When Hawk returns, please send him to the dowager. Tell him I’m counting on him to help my brother keep her safe. That should ensure that he does as ordered. It’s imperative that he doesn’t chase after us.”
“I’m coming with you?” asked Raven, his eyes flaring wide with excitement as Sheffield hurried away.
“Yes—” began Charlotte.
“As am I,” announced McClellan.
“Mac,” said Wrexford. “There is an old adage,Too many cooks spoil the broth . . .”
“If all I could do was wield a soupspoon, milord, I would be forced to agree with you. But it so happens that I’m a skilled sailor, with a great deal of experience in navigating the tricky currents and eddies of a tidal river. So I may be of use to Mr. Sheffield,” replied the maid. “And as you know, I’m an excellent shot.”
“After sunset, the wherrymen often have a woman passenger aboard. Either their wife or . . . other companion,” pointed out Cordelia. “It will add an excellent touch to the wherry and make your little band look even less threatening.”
The earl looked to Charlotte, who gave a small nod.
Hell’s bells.He surrendered his misgivings with a sigh, feeling he couldn’t, in good conscience, forbid her from being part of her cousin’s rescue party.
That is the trouble with all of us—we’re too damnably loyal for our own good.
“You had better go and find a fishwife with whom to trade clothing.”
McClellan allowed her normally stoic expression to soften for an instant. “You won’t regret it, milord.”
* * *
Darkness had settled over the river by the time they reached Limekiln Quay and finished making all the preparations for launching their plan. The wherry was now bobbing through the wind-ruffled currents, theslap-slapof the choppy waves beating against the low-slung hull.
Charlotte sat wedged between two canvas-covered crates in the belly of the boat and stole a look at Sheffield. Dappled in the scudding moonlight, he was perched on the fantail, the tiller in one hand, the mainsail sheet in the other, looking at ease as he skillfully navigated a course through the swirling water. McClellan was beside him, keeping a watch on the flickering lantern lights dotting the river. With the tide now flowing out toward the sea, quite a few merchant ships were beginning to cast off their mooring lines.
Raven was crouched in the prow of the wherry, ready to wave a signal when Mariner’s Stairs came into view. The plan was to put into the landing there and wait for Lyman’s ship to begin its journey to the sea. It wouldn’t be long now. The breeze was freshening and the current was gaining speed . . .
Curling closer to Wrexford, Charlotte found his hand and pressed her palm to his. The steady pulse of warmth helped to steady her skittery breathing. And yet fear refused to relinquish its hold on her heart.
The earl feathered a kiss to her cheek. “There’s little danger, my love—save for catching a chill from the freezing water.” His appearance was that of a wraithlike shadow. He was dressed in black, from head to foot—knitted toque, jumper, trousers, and stockings—and his face was smeared with a coal-dark grease. He had left his boots behind.
An involuntary shiver skated down Charlotte’s spine as she spotted the chisel, fine-tooth saw blade, and wooden mallet beside him. “What if they hear you?”
“A ship is alive with creaks and groans from its timbers,” answered Wrexford. “Add to that the sounds of the wind in the rigging and the floating debris hitting up against the hull, and I promise you, my fiddling with the rudder will go unnoticed.”
A sharp whistle from Raven signaled that the stairs were fast approaching. Sheffield steered the boat up to the stone landing and the boy jumped down to secure a rope around one of the stanchions.
Dark on dark against the night sky, the tips of a ship’s mast poked up from behind a row of warehouses. They waited in silence, straining to hear any signs of its impending departure above the lapping of the water against the stone quay.
Charlotte shifted, feeling the weight of the pistol in her pocket. Sheffield and McClellan were armed as well. Gunpowder would be no help to the earl, but he was carrying a knife . . .
For all the good it would do him against a boatload of cutthroat killers and mercenary ruffians.
