Charlotte and Raven fought to control the flapping canvas as Sheffield lowered the sail.
“Let it fall into the cockpit, then step aside,” he directed, after wrestling an ochre-colored replacement out from the storage locker beneath the front deck. “I’ll reeve the new sail onto its fastenings, then the two of you can roll up the old one and stow it before changing your jackets.”
McClellan had already shed her garish mustard-yellow shawl and straw bonnet for the more subdued dress of a prosperous merchant wife. The jug of gin had gone overboard, along with Sheffield’s shabby outer garments. Once he slipped on his new coat and hat, the drunken wherryman would be transformed beyond recognition.
“Let us hurry,” urged Charlotte, though she knew Wrexford would need at least another quarter hour to finish. She hated to think of him alone in the treacherous waters. As she knew all too well from her work, the Thames was a notoriously dangerous place for a man adrift on his own.
Raven looked up from tugging the old sail out of Sheffield’s way as he worked it free of the rigging, the creamy canvas casting a ghostlike pallor over his narrow face. “Wrexford won’t come to harm, m’lady. He’s . . .”
Immortal?
“Of course he won’t,” she replied, forcing a smile before looking away so the boy wouldn’t see the fear flooding her eyes.
“He’s a very good swimmer, Charlotte,” said Sheffield as he quickened his efforts. “There was a prank we pulled during our Oxford days involving a very unpopular don. It required Wrex to cross the River Isis and . . .” He continued with a very entertaining story, which made Raven and McClellan laugh.
A smile—a real one—touched her lips as he finished. These close-knit friendships were a precious source of strength when her own nerve failed her.
“Thank you, Kit,” murmured Charlotte as she edged past him to change her garments. He grasped her hand and gave a fleeting squeeze, which said all that needed to be said.
After tucking her hair under a different-shaped hat, she helped Raven finish storing the old sail.
“Ready, Mac?” called Sheffield as he grabbed a halyard to hoist their new colors.
The maid gave the tiller a push, nodding in satisfaction as the ochre-hued canvas billowed out to catch the wind. The transformed wherry now bore no resemblance to its original appearance. With all the other small cargo boats on the water, the enemy would have no reason to suspect that they were being shadowed.
“Hard a-lee,” warned Sheffield, signaling to McClellan to bring the wherry about. “Now let us go ensure that those blackguards are stopped dead in the water.”
CHAPTER 28
Wrexford paused for a moment, clamping the saw blade between his teeth in order to shake the numbness from his fingers. The lower half of his body, still submerged in the swirling currents, felt like a block of ice, and the chill was slowly spreading up his arms, but on close inspection, he saw that the job was nearly done. He had chiseled the wood away from the massive bolts holding the rudder in place, exposing just enough to saw away at the steel. Two bolts were cut through completely. In another few minutes, the third one would snap away and the rudder would sink into the river, leaving the ship unable to steer.
The villains would then have two choices: They could abandon the vessel in order to save their own necks. Or they could stay aboard and risk taking the time to make repairs, gambling that the authorities had no way of linking Tyler’s disappearance to them.
Either way, the ship wouldn’t be blown to smithereens by the Royal Navy frigate. Once it was helpless in the water, there was plenty of time to send word to Daggett, who could then make quick work of capturing the ship with a boarding party. Even if Lyman’s crew wished to fight, they would have no way of maneuvering to aim their guns.
After blowing some warmth back into his hands, Wrexford resumed sawing. Even if von Stockhausen held Tyler as a hostage, he was confident that the scholar-turned-murderer would be willing to bargain. Avoiding the hangman’s noose was an excellent incentive to make a deal.
The rasp of metal on metal was suddenly joined by a strange scrabbling at the far corner of the stern. Wrexford froze and cocked an ear. Something was scraping down the side of the hull. Perhaps they had heard him?
He quietly regripped the saw blade between his teeth and reached for the knife strapped to his leg.
The sounds grew a touch louder—and then came a soft splash, punctuated by a watery oath.
Bloody hell.
Shoving the knife back into its sheath, Wrexford then grabbed the saw blade from his mouth and let out a sharp hiss. A shadowy flutter of movement stirred the dark water. He couldn’t make out any shape to it, but he heard a faint gurgling as it came closer.
“What the devil are you doing here?” whispered Tyler, who was struggling to keep hold of an inflated oilcloth sack.
“I could ask the same thing of you,” retorted the earl. “Though I daresay, I have the better answer. I’m pulling your cods out of the fire . . . though I ought to have let them burn to a crisp.”
“Granted, I misjudged Adderley. He’s Lyman’s cousin—and a brute—but he’s got a very sharp eye.” The valet had drifted close enough for Wrexford to see the nasty bruise on his face. “However, there is a bright side to my clumsiness—”
“Never mind that now. Hold the rudder steady while I finish sawing through the last bolt.” Seeing Tyler struggle to control both the oilcloth and the slippery wood, Wrexford swore under his breath. “Ye gods, let go of the damnable sack. We need to disable the ship.” Tempting as it was to let von Stockhausen, Lyman, and Adderley sail into a hail of cannon fire, there had been enough bloodshed. He wished to see them brought to justice.
“Seeing as we’ve all gone through hell to find what’s in the damnable sack, I’d rather not let it float away.”
“Becton’s specimen?” demanded the earl.
