***
The man checked his worn pocket watch for the countless time and searched the thickening fog for any sign of his contact. The hasty note he’d tucked into his jacket was sent less than half an hour before with an urgent request to meet at the docks shortly after midnight. In hindsight, he realized how impulsive he’d been in not telling anyone where he was going, but he figured once this meeting was concluded, he would be on his merry way with no one the wiser. Besides, he’d met with this man dozens of times before, so no harm done, even if he had felt more eyes following him as of late.
But as the minutes ticked by, a prickle of apprehension began to claw at his gut and he wondered if he’d just wandered into a perfectly laid trap. Nervous, he was prepared to turn and scurry back the way he’d come — but froze at the distinct sound of footsteps echoing off the wooden planks. Straining to see through the mist, he barely caught sight of the tall, shadowy figure coming toward him a few feet distant, right before he was bludgeoned over the head from behind, having been totally unaware of another presence until it was too late.
Darkness descended in painful sparks as he fell forward in a crumpled heap, but just as he was about to lose complete consciousness, he heard a familiar, deep voice impart, “Drag him down to theSwanand see that he stays nice and docile for questioning. After that, throw his body in the Thames.”
He felt himself being lifted and crudely dumped into a makeshift wagon, where a tarp was quickly thrown over him. As he was carted away, his heart pounding in his ears, he heard that devilish voice give a husky laugh in parting.
“Compliments of Lady Worthington.”
***
Cordelia was lightly sipping tea in her drawing room when there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” she called out, calmly turning a page in that morning’s gossip column, as her butler stepped over the threshold.
“This just arrived for you, my lady.”
She absently waved him away as if he were a pesky insect. But then, all servants were expendable to her. “Leave it on the side table and go,” she ordered. The butler acquiesced to her demand with a bow and quit the room.
Cordelia didn’t rise immediately, for she knew what the missive would say. Once again her faithful lover had taken care of matters, but then, he really was too easy to manipulate, both with coin — and her body. It was too bad that once she became the Duchess of Chiltern, these affairs would have to cease, at least until she knew if Gabriel could satisfy her ravenous, sexual appetite. Either way, he had to be better than her late husband. What a disappointment that had been.
It truly was a pity Lord Worthington hadn’t been more accommodating to her needs. If so, he might still be alive today. But to be honest, she couldn’t very well take all the blame for his little spill down the stairs, for he’d always been rather clumsy and particularly foolish. Of course, when it came to a pretty face, she found that most men were.
Frankly, if it hadn’t been for her late husband’s wealth, marriage wouldn’t have even come into the equation in the first place. She would have been content to be a mistress, for it afforded her the freedom denied her as a wife, but such things had to be sacrificed. For her to succeed in society and gain the power she required, she’d needed to become a lady.
From the beginning, Cordelia knew she was destined to become someone of import, but being the bastard daughter of an Irish, pig farmer and an English whore, naturally, her parentage was not the opportune choice to marry within theton. She was raised by her mother in London in a less than reputable part of the city, so she’d learned from an early age how to maneuver people to get her way. Not until she’d gained employment as a scullery maid in a country gentry household did she decide it was time for her to climb to the top.
She had stolen a few gowns in order to pass herself off as a genteel relation, and after taking several pieces of silver to pay for passage on a mail coach set for Bath, she changed her name and polished her manners to become the epitome of a well-bred lady.
That was when she’d met George Westchester, the Marquess of Worthington.
He was in the pump rooms one evening, and after setting her sights on the middle-aged man, an easy conquest to be sure, it wasn’t long before she’d won a proposal. She’d easily convinced him of her passionate love as they drove to Gretna Green and got married before her lies could be found out — that the aunt she’d claimed to be staying with had never existed, and her nights had been spent at the local brothel instead of a respectable hotel.
She still remembered the look of utter shock and disgust on his face on their wedding night when he’d found out the truth; that she wasn’t the virtuous female he’d thought he’d given his name to. How she had laughed at him, sneering about how easy it had been to bend him to her will. Furious, but trapped in marriage since the damage had already been done, he demanded an heir. But when she dared to bar him from her bedroom upon returning to London, he finally decided to brave the scandal and petition the king for a divorce.
He never got the chance.
Looking back, Cordelia couldn’t summon a single bit of remorse, because she knew he could have prevented his own demise, if he’d just played his part as the devoted husband. And now, just when things had been going so smoothly, circumstances threatened her comfortable existence yet again. First with that blasted Bow Street Runner getting captured and blabbering everything he knew, and now this latest little “problem” with Triana Abernathy and Gabriel.
However, at the end of the day, Cordelia always came out victorious.
Standing, she took a deep fortifying breath and then crossed the room as regal as any queen in her gilded palace. Upon reaching the table bearing the missive, she picked it up and slid a nail under the wax seal.
One fly in the ointment has been dealt with. The others will soon follow.
S
A smile slowly spread across her face.
Perfect.
***
“Put tha’ one over there along wit’ the others,” Ridge instructed the crewmen of theClaraBelle, as they unloaded the last of the smuggled crates that had arrived early that morning by wagon, and stored them in the hold. While he had noticed the same two figures always dropped off the goods, the most he could ever discern was that they were of a similar height and build, as they always wore dark, concealing masks and cloaks and arrived in the dead of night at their chosen rendezvous location, which was always a different part of the English coast.
But at least not all had been lost during his time as the first mate. He finally managed to figure out how the transfer was conducted between theClara Belleand theEvening Swan. It seemed to be a series of codes between the two captains, but the problem was getting five minutes alone in the captain’s quarters to study the pattern.
However, the setup appeared to be the same. TheClaraBellewould sail into the middle of an abandoned cove, and then wait for an undetermined amount of time. Before long, the wagon would appear, followed by a swinging lantern in the distance. An answering light would shine on the ship in the middle of the quay. Afterward, a few of the crewmen would row a dinghy out to greet the smugglers on shore and the exchange would be underway. Until that point he’d yet to get a chance to join them.
