Speaking out loud seemed to reassure myself that I was still alive. I cranked my head around the best I could to take stock of my situation.
The first sight I beheld was the soles of a pair of boots. Not mine—these were thick-heeled and well worn. I levered my shoulders as high as I could and followed the boots to homespun breeches and a wool coat on a round body. The wearer had an equally round face, red now from sun and wind.
“Bickley!” I shouted.
He was bound as thoroughly as I was. We were alone in this small craft, tossing on the waves, who the devil knew where. The boat was small, old—patches and holes in the sides met my eyes—and smelled strongly of fish.
With much struggling, I managed to lift myself enough to peer over the gunwale.
I saw nothing. Gray sea met my gaze wherever I looked, land nowhere in sight.
“Damnation.” I thumped back down, my head banging painfully.
Dizziness swamped me. My breath hitched, and as I tried to catch it, I recalled the gun, used as a club, that had rendered me unconscious. The hand that plied it had belonged to Comte Desjardins, his face lit with glee as he used his very costly Purdey to pummel me.
He must have trussed me up, or had help to do so, and trundled me out the open windows of Bickley’s back parlor. I had admired the unbroken way to the sea—so handy for spiriting us off to a waiting boat.
I’d been confident as I’d tamely walked to meet Bickley, certain Bickley had sent for me, not Armitage. Bickleyhadwritten the note, but he’d obviously lured me to the house so Desjardins could strike.
What had they threatened him with this time? Had they vowed they’d see him strung up for murder alongside me? Had Bickley decided to confess all, either to me or the magistrate? Bickley had a sister—I wagered Armitage had threatened to hurt her. Bickley would not be able to bear losing any more family.
But I supposed, from Bickley’s presence, that they’d decided to rid themselves of Bickley as well. They’d tricked Bickley today as much as they’d tricked me.
I also might have known that my plot—to have Denis imply he could deliver me to Desjardins and Armitage for a price—would not work. Either there hadn’t been time for Denis to get word to them, or they’d decided that their trap was the better one.
“Am I correct that they killed your son because he knew?” I croaked. “Joshua must have found out you were helping them with Isherwood’s murder, even if you were keeping yourself in the wings. Joshua was a good lad, by all accounts. I wager he tried to talk you out of giving me the opium. Did he vow to go to the magistrate?”
Bickley did not answer, did not move. I could not tell at present whether he was dead or alive.
I wriggled and thrashed, my left leg and head blasting pain through me in waves. I had to stop, breathe, and keep my roiling stomach from heaving up its contents.
How long had I been here? I’d departed to visit Bickley near noon, and the sun was on the horizon now. The wind was cold, but did not hold the iciness of dawn, so it must be evening, not morning. Sunset these days came about nine of the clock, which meant I’d been here nearly eight hours. I reasoned that I’d be wetter, more stiff, or possibly dead from my head wound and exposure if a night and a day had passed.
What was the idea? I wondered as I continued trying to loosen my bonds. To send us out to sea to sink, drown, or simply die of thirst and cold?
An inefficient way to kill us, but then again, possibly a wise one. Who would know, upon finding our bodies, what hands had thrust us into the boat and pushed us out to sea?
They’d done a similar thing to Josh, I realized, except he’d been strangled before being put into the boat. He must have fought his captors much harder than Bickley and I had. Josh had been killed on Monday night, soon after Isherwood or possibly even before, when he’d threatened to reveal the plot.
“Your son knew you’d dosed me or were planning to,” I told the inert Bickley. “I imagine he, an upright lad, was appalled at what you wanted to do. Then he stormed off. You weren’t worried enough about him that night to refuse to help stitch me up for Isherwood’s murder, so I wager you truly did believe he’d gone to visit friends in Hove. You had no idea they would kill him, no idea they were such monsters.” I paused, running my tongue over my parched lips. “You wouldn’t hurt me yourself, or even Isherwood, and so not violate the letter of your beliefs. But you’d be happy to see me disgraced, ruined, even hanged for murder. I deserved it, in your eyes.”
Bickley lay motionless. I thought I saw his chest rise, but it could be the dazzling light and my hopes.
I continued my struggles. “Men die in wars, Bickley. Your brother knew that. The battle at Salamanca was a confusion, and your brother fought honorably. He was a good officer. I always tried to keep my men as safe as possible, but there was only so much I could do. My orders were to skirmish with the French lines, to add to the confusion, and we did that. I lost several men that day. I hated it, but I knew at every battle it was a risk.”
No response. My words were taken by the uncaring wind, the boat rocking on waves I’d once thought beautiful.
“I am glad Grenville is not with me,” I said with grim humor. “He is terribly sick on boats.”
The thought of Grenville gave me some hope, as did thoughts of Brewster. Brewster would have reached the house where I’d met Bickley and realized I’d been abducted from it. He’d have sent word to my friends and family, and Denis.
Unless Armitage and Desjardins had waited for him and simply killed him. I prayed I was wrong about that.
The bonds around my arms began to loosen. More struggles and plenty of skin off my hands, including nearly wrenching my shoulder out of joint, broke one of the ropes.
An abler man would have thrown off his bonds, leapt overboard, and swam robustly to shore, whichever direction shore lay.Icollapsed to the bottom of the boat, panting, wretched, and willing the feeling to return to my limbs.
“Bickley!” I shouted over the wind. “Wake up, damn you.”
