Page 20 of Much Ado about a Widow

“Someone else who did what? Stop speaking in riddles, man.” Travers was through with his servants. Tomorrow he’d sack the lot and begin again.

Crawford had managed to open the door. Now he darted his gaze from his master to the hallway beyond the chamber. “Who took the trunks, my lord.”

“What?” The pressure behind Travers’s eyeballs rose until he expected them to pop out of their sockets. “Someone took the trunks?” His voice hit a crescendo that rattled the glass in the window.

“Yes, my lord. I’ll just fetch the surgeon now.” Crawford bolted out the door, slamming it so hard in his haste that it rebounded into the room.

Too shocked to move, Travers clenched his jaws, his fists, his toes in his boots in an attempt not to bellow out his rage that the one way he had to track Lady Georgina had been lost. All was not lost, all was not lost. If he kept telling himself that often enough, it might make it true.

He still had the cargo from Mr. Sturgehill to think about. The whole reason he was here in this Godforsaken port to begin with and not snug at his primary estate in Essex. But Sturgehill, God rot him, had insisted Travers pick up the goods from this run himself. Maybe he didn’t trust Cole after the last time. His servant had apparently lost his edge when it came to sharp dealing. Still, once Travers married Lady Georgina, he’d no longer have to rely on the proceeds from his smuggling venture. He could pay off his debts and start anew. With his wife’s money. All he had to do was hold on a little bit longer.

Slowly he exhaled, straightened his jacket, and wrapped the bloody handkerchief around his hand. Nothing had gone right today. Finally, he strode out of the chamber, leaning to one side. He pelted down the staircase, going so fast he missed the bottom step and fell into the wall, bounced his shoulder off the newel-post, and careened into the innkeeper, who had emerged from the kitchen at the worst possible moment. Luckily, Mr. Harriman had nothing more in his hands than a pewter tankard.

“Beg pardon, my lord.” The man righted himself and bobbed his head. “Are you in need of something?”

He was in dire need of Lady Georgina, but he could hardly say that. “I need my man Cole. Is he still with the carriage, blast him, or has he dragged himself in here to hide in your taproom?” Travers whirled around, casting his gaze over the establishment in search of the man who had allowed his prisoner to escape him not once but twice today.

“I believe Mr. Cole has bedded down above the stable, my lord. He and your other servants secured the carriage and horses and retired rather abruptly.”

“Hiding,” Travers growled. Now his blasted hand was beginning to hurt fiercely. “Ought to go sack the lot of them.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but I’m sure your friend meant no harm.” Mr. Harriman set the mug down.

“My friend?” The innkeeper must have been sampling his own wares. “I have no friends with me at the moment.”

“Perhaps he’s just come to town and recognized your equipage, then. He said he was playing a prank on your servants.”

Narrowing his eyes, Travers softened his voice. “What joke was that, if I may ask?”

Mr. Harriman proved quite loquacious. A veritable fount of indispensable knowledge. By the time he finished the tale about the supposed “friend’s” exploits, Crawford had returned with the surgeon.

“Take him to my chamber, please, Crawford. I’ll be there directly.” Travers fished in his pocket and drew out a shilling. “Did my friend give you his name, Mr. Harriman? I confess I have several who would play such a jest.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but he did not give it.”

Damn. Just his luck. He started to put the shilling back in his pocket, when Mr. Harriman spoke up again.

“However, he did remind me that he’s been in the tavern a time or two. And I recollect now who he is.”

Travers stared at the man, the coin falling from his fingers. “Who?”

Harriman caught the coin neatly. “Lord St. Just, my lord. The Marquess of St. Just of Cornwall.”

Chapter Seven

Sunk down into her now uncomfortable seat, Georgie kept trying to keep her eyes open despite the almost constant pull to close them and drift off into a much-needed sleep. Determined not to give in to the weakness, she opened her eyes wide, staring hard at Lulu curled up at her feet. Perhaps she should follow Lulu’s example and take her rest when it came to her. Clara had managed to find a comfortable enough position to doze off. A gentle snore emerged from her from time to time, attesting to the maid’s exhaustion.

Still, Georgie forsook sleep, wanting to keep herself alert and prepared for the moment when Lord St. Just returned. Oh, but she longed to escape this ship, though she’d be going God knew where. She had to try. Her presence alone with his lordship and his crew, even with the chaperonage of her maid, could spell disaster for her reputation if word of this voyage got out. What St. Just was playing at she didn’t know, but make no mistake, when he finally reappeared she’d ring a peal over his head so loud he’d think a bell clapper had been struck. She’d make him forget all about this outlandish scheme to sail all the way to Cornwall with her. If she and Clara could evade him, then make a run for it, perhaps they could find an inn in which to spend the night. In the morning she could send word to her father to come rescue her.

Not the best of plans considering that she didn’t really want her father to know anything whatsoever about this escapade. But it was the best she could come up with on such short notice. Unfortunately, it all hinged on getting off this dratted ship.

Thudding feet and shouting voices brought her instantly alert. Jumping up from the chair, she winced at the sharp pain in her back and narrowly missed Lulu, who had also risen and was stretching herself right beneath her feet.

“Please be careful, Lulu. You don’t want me to step on your paw, do you?” Untangling herself, Georgie stepped away from the King Charles spaniel and hurried to the door. She pressed her ear against it and listened.

“What’s going on, my lady?” Clara had sat up and was rubbing her eyes.

“Shhh, I’m trying to find out.” The door panel was thick enough that what Georgie could hear sounded like the quacking sounds of someone in distress. And of course the actual words were too indistinct to make out. Drat. “I assume this activity means Lord St. Just has returned to the ship, although I have no way to be certain. For all I know we’ve been beset by pirates attempting to steal the ship.”