A ladder of rope and wood slats dropped down from the side, and I realized I was meant to climb this. I clung to the ladder, trying to move my legs to make my feet find the steps.
The rope tightened. I was half-dragged up the side as I fumbled with the ladder, until I spilled over the gunwale and landed, sodden and gasping, in a heap on the deck.
“Brewster,” I whispered, my voice a thin rasp. “Tell Denis to give you a rise in wages.”
The crowd that had gathered around me drew back in relief.
“He’s all right,” Brewster said to the others in his slow way. “Daft bastard.”
* * *
The tug was a terrible place.It stank of smoke, coal, and oil, the air inside the pilot house barely breathable.
I leaned back on a hard wooden bench, which was a long way from the elegance of the chair I’d used to bash out the window on the yacht, and thanked God for delivering me. I was out of the wind, the sun, and the water. A hot mug of coffee, laced with Grenville’s best brandy, warmed my hand.
“How is Bickley?” I asked after a few more sips of fortified coffee.
The man had been fished out of the small boat and hauled aboard. He was now in a cabin in a deck below this one.
“Ill and unhappy,” Brandon said cheerfully. He sipped deeply of the dark coffee. “But he’ll mend. He was already chattering to the magistrate about all the things Lord Armitage did and threatened to do.”
Brandon gestured with his cup to the portly magistrate, Sir Reginald Pyne, huddled on a bench in the stern. He looked as miserable as Grenville. Grenville manfully sat across from me at the table, holding on to said table while he imbibed directly from his brandy flask.
We were now clanking and bumping toward shore. The wind tore at the boat, and the waves heaved her, but the tug moved unwaveringly.
“Desjardins?” I asked after a time. I’d not seen anyone brought up but Bickley and the yacht’s pilot.
“Bleeding from a nasty wound.” Brandon’s delight was unnerving. “Surgeon’s sewing him up. He’ll be fine, in my opinion, and soon sent back to France, leaving all his money and assets here. He’s safe to live there again—unless the French king objects to him trying to aid Bonaparte.”
“Desjardins is not very bright,” I remarked, drawing warmth from the coffee cup. “But he has managed to grow wealthy and influential on cunning. Perhaps he’ll learn to do that in France as well.”
“No matter what, he’ll be leaving our shores,” Brandon said, his delight turning to determination. “I’ll make certain of it. Poxy bastard made that damned war harder on us, and we lost good men.”
“Where is Armitage?” I asked. “Cowering next to Desjardins? Or washing his hands of the fellow?”
Grenville lowered his flask. “He’s dead, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” I thought of fighting the man, how strong he’d been, how he’d nearly killed me. He’d seemed indestructible. “Drowned? Or run down by the tug?”
“Killed hisself, didn’t he?” Brewster broke in. He too had a flask, no diluting his spirits with coffee. He stood near the front of the cabin, watching the land come at us.
“Killed himself?” I blinked. “How on earth did he do that?”
Brewster turned, taking a pull of his flask. “Had a knife. Plunged it right into his own throat. Bled fast, dead before we pulled him out of the water.”
I gaped. “Good Lord.”
“A swifter and easier death than he’d have been given as a traitor and a murderer,” Colonel Brandon said. “He’d have faced ignominy and then execution, his lands and title taken back by the crown. He knew it.”
“He’d have to be tried first,” I argued. “Easy for him to claim he was falsely accused. Isherwood is dead, Desjardins is a foreigner. Even Bickley’s testimony could be dismissed as one of a grieving man. We can’t prove orders Isherwood might or might not have given seven years ago. I know bloody well Armitage killed Bickley’s son, to eliminate another witness, but there is no proof. Why did he not believe he’d have a chance?”
“Because he’d be tried in the Lords,” Grenville said, his voice calm and quiet to my angry one. “And so many lords can’t stick him. Armitage went over heads to gain that posting to Austria, and the rumor that he killed his own brother is credible. He’d have been convicted, I’m willing to wager. He’s made himself that many enemies.”
“His wife had better claim complete ignorance and innocence,” Brandon said. “Or she’ll be dragged down herself.”
“I could pretend I remember that it was Lady Armitage who assailed me outside the pub and tricked me into going to the Pavilion.” I thought of what Desjardins and Armitage had claimed—that it had been my hand that had dealt Isherwood the fatal blow. Was it the truth? Or the pair still trying to shift the blame for their deeds? Unless my memory returned, I could never know. I sighed and returned to my coffee. “But I’d have to swear that in court, and I am not very good at lying.”
“You aren’t that,” Brewster agreed.
