His fingers ached to choke the bastard. He might not be able to kill him, but he could wound the scoundrel. Nothing wrong with a wound. He whipped his hand behind his back, grabbed the knife, and hurled it at the captain. It hit the arm that held the pistol. The captain howled. The pistol fired. Smoke filled the cabin with its acrid stench. He ripped the map and fourth pin from the table and ran to the door.
Steps sounded on the planks above the captain’s cabin. In the pitch black belowdecks, he forced himself to wait in the shadows under the stairs until the first group of rescuers filed down the steps into the captain’s cabin. He flattened the map’s scroll and folded it into a six-inch square.
“He’s escaped, you idiots! Find him before he jumps from the ship!” the captain yelled in French.
The group dutifully filed back up to spread across the decks. The captain came running out, clutching his injured arm, blood seeping between his fingers, crimson dripping down his nightshirt. He made his way up the stairs and ran off across the deck.
Springing from the shadows, the thief raced back into the empty cabin. He flew over to the window, said a brief prayer to fit through the tight space, hoisted up to the ledge, and pushed his upper body through. He ripped off his black tricorn, stuck the folded map to his head, and pulled down the hat as firmly as possible.
A rope swung outside the captain’s window two feet to the right. Thank God for small favors. He lunged at it and grabbed it. Noiselessly, he lowered himself down the rope, bracing both feet against the hull to rappel toward the water. Lowering quietly, he winked back at the figurehead of a saucy French woman carved beneath the captain’s cabin. As soon as he made it into the water, he let go of the rope and swam like a mackerel fleeing a shark toward the shore, careful to keep his head out of the foul-smelling drink. He counted on the black of night and the murky Thames to hide him from the searchers on the ship.
As he covered the distance between the French ship and the shore, the Frenchmen’s shouts filled the night air. He dared a glance back. Every lantern on the ship appeared to have been lit and the crew was scurrying about like a bevy of ants on an infiltrated hill.
He swam to the darkest spot on the far end of the docks, around the bend from sight of the French ship, and pulled himself ashore beneath a creaky dock using only his forearms. Exhausted, he rolled onto his back and lay breathing heavily in the pitch-black night. One hand went up to clap the top of his tricorn and a wide smile spread across his face.
He’d done it. He’d escaped from a French ship with the map detailing the planned route to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena. Of course he had. He was the Black Fox.
CHAPTER TWO
The Black Fox Strikes Again!
Cade Cavendish glanced surreptitiously at the headline on the copy ofThe Timesthat sat at an angle on the table next to him. His twin brother, Rafe, reclined just across said table at Brooks’s, the famous gentlemen’s club in the heart of St. James. Cade wanted to crush the headline in his fist. He glanced at Rafe. Had he noticed?
“Did you hear me?”
Cade’s blond head snapped around to face his brother. “No. Pardon?” Damn it. He shouldn’t have allowed the headline to distract him so much.
“I asked if you were planning to attend the theater with Daphne and myself tonight,” Rafe repeated.
The theater? Ah, yes, the pastime of aristocrats like the one his brother had become. Rafe, the white sheep of the family, had been a spy for the War Office during the wars. He’d been made a viscount by the Prince Regent and married the sister of an earl. Meanwhile, Cade had spent the last ten years doing something… much different.
Cade cleared his throat and steadfastly refused to glance at the paper again. “I suppose the theater wouldn’t be theworstidea.”
Rafe blinked his crystal-blue eyes slowly. “Don’t make me twist your arm. I wouldn’t want toboreyou.”
“Brother o’ mine, in our twenty-eight years, you’ve done many things, but never bored me. Besides, I’m always happy to spend time with my gorgeous new sister-in-law.” Cade waggled his eyebrows.
Rafe narrowed his gaze. “Careful there.”
“Where is the fair Lady Daphne this afternoon?”
Rafe leaned back in his chair and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “She’s meeting with potential new lady’s maids. Hers gave her notice. The woman’s moved north to take a position closer to her sister in the country.”
“A shame,” Cade drawled. Another tedious problem for the poor aristocracy. Finding proper servants.
“It’s not so bad, you know,” Rafe said.
“What’s that?”
“Having servants. Money. Power.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Cade said. He’d been staying at his brother’s new Mayfair town house. Filled with fine furnishings and proper servants, it was a far cry from their childhood home in Seven Dials. “I’m quite enjoying being the recipient of such luxuries.”
“While you’re here?” Rafe asked, his eyes still fixed on the paper. “How long’s it been now?”
Cade hid his smile. “I’d say close to nine months,” he replied smoothly. Of course his brother didn’t know why he’d come. The man had been shocked when Cade had appeared at the Earl of Swifdon’s town house last year, introducing himself as Mr. Daffin Oakleaf, one of his many aliases. Rafe had thought he was dead. Hell, everyone had thought he was dead. That was how Cade liked it. But he’d come back for a specific purpose. One that he had no intention of revealing to his brother.
This also wasn’t the first time his brother had hinted at wanting to know how long Cade intended upon staying. It suited his purposes not to tell him. It was downright enjoyable, actually, along with goading Rafe at every turn about his beautiful new wife. Cade might have been known in the past for his seductions and dalliances with women, but he would never attempt to seduce his brother’s wife. Luckily, Rafe didn’t know that, which meant Cade could continue to goad him.
