“Jarvis isn’t liked by the men,” confided Horatio. “He’s a bully and a tyrant.” He took a moment to gauge the wind. “Elevate the barrel another two degrees and then fire at will, Gibbs.”
In the next instant sparks exploded from the brass snout of the bow chaser, followed by a crackling roar. The shot was a trifle short, the cannonball skipping over the water to land just behind the fleeing steamboat.
“That’ll be a kick up his arse,” shouted one of the sailors, drawing a chorus of laughter.
“Concentrate on the task at hand, lads,” called Horatio. “Make the next one count.”
But before they could reload and fire again, a sudden lick of flames shot up from the other boat, followed by a dull boom.
“Damnation,” muttered Horatio. “I was afraid that might happen.”
“What?” demanded Wrexford, as black smoke began to cloud the boat.
“Jarvis isn’t experienced in actually operating a steamboat. He likely had his henchmen feed excess fuel into the boiler, thinking the hotter, the better. But too much pressure causes the boiler door to blow off its hinges,” explained the midshipman. “Those two varlets will have been killed by the blast . . .”
With the other craft now helplessly disabled, their steamboat was fast approaching it. Wrexford saw Jarvis look back at them, then climb up on the stern and dive into the water.
“Sir, I’m afraid we have no choice but to shoot the traitor,” said Horatio, “unless you wish to let him get away.”
Wrexford was already peeling off his coat. “Keep your boat close, and be ready to throw me a rope.”
“But milord—”
The rest of the midshipman’s words were drowned by the sound of rushing water in his ears. The river was cold as the devil’s heart, and for an instant the earl’s limbs went numb with the shock of it.
But the fire of righteous resolve melted the ice. An excellent swimmer, Wrexford rose to the surface and, on spotting Jarvis thrashing toward shore, drew a deep breath and dove back under the waves.
It was midnight-dark beneath the surface, the tidal flow stirring a dangerous vortex of crosscurrents that could easily draw a man down to his death. Fighting their pull, the earl kicked like a dolphin through the underwater gloom, relentlessly pursuing the colonel. Coming up for air, he found he was nearly within arm’s reach.
Jarvis snarled an oath on seeing him and redoubled his efforts to swim to shore. But the cold and the roughness of the river were fast draining his strength.
Wrexford laughed. “There’s no escaping me.”
Two swift strokes brought him abreast of the colonel, and with a grunt of savage satisfaction, he grabbed the man by the scruff of his coat. Kicking, punching, Jarvis tried to break free, but the earl’s fist was like an iron vise, holding him prisoner.
Fear rippled across Jarvis’s face as a wave slammed into him. Sputtering, he ducked under the swirling foam, emerging a moment later with a knife in his hand.
Anticipating the attack, Wrexford was ready for the strike of steel. Twisting away from the first strike, he grabbed Jarvis’s wrist.
And the fight turned into a battle of wills as the waves buffeted their bodies. Jarvis was strong, but mere muscle was no match for Wrexford’s unforgiving fury. He squeezed harder, feeling the other man’s bones shudder beneath his grip.
With a feral scream, Jarvis slumped, his fingers spasming and releasing the knife. He tried to lash out a punch with his other hand, but Wrexford sucked in a breath and dove, dragging the colonel down with him.
One, two, three . . .
Jarvis was now thrashing in blind panic. The earl could feel the visceral fear pumping through the other man’s veins—the knowledge that death was within spitting distance and all but certain to reach out and squeeze the life from his heart.
This is for you, Tommy, and for Neville Greeley, thought Wrexford.And for all the other brave men who died because of Jarvis’s lust for money. However, he wasn’t about to let the colonel escape so lightly.
A quick death was too good for him. Wrexford intended for him to go through a public trial and have his perfidy known to the world. Then, when the sentence of death for treason was handed down, he would take quiet satisfaction from watching Jarvis be taken to the gallows and hung by the neck until he was dead.
Faber est suae quisque fortunae. As one of Charlotte’s Latin aphorisms said,Every man is the artisan of his own fortune.
The earl kept his prisoner submerged until all the fight died in his limbs. With a hard kick, he shot to the surface and drew in a gulp of air. “Mr. Porter,” he shouted. “Throw me a line!”
A thick manila rope splashed down beside him. After looping it beneath Jarvis’s armpits and tying a knot, he grabbed hold of the tail and gave a tug.
“Haul us in!”
