Chapter 18

 

Something snapped inside Nathaniel as Alexandra disappeared from the wharf. He had bided his time and paced himself for ultimate endurance, but the sight of her horrified expression broke the tenuous grip he had on his patience. He exploded with a ferocity that stunned the guard who beat him. Wrapping his arm around the stick, he jerked it away in one fluid motion that left those around him gaping in surprise. Then he used it to knock the guard to the ground.

The chaos that erupted after that seemed to last forever, but Nathaniel knew it could have been no more than a few seconds. He fought with the energy of a wild man while the shouts and cries of the other prisoners and guards rang in his ears. Some of the prisoners took his lead and began to fight as well, while others cowered in fright.

Ultimately the prisoners didn’t have a chance. Nathaniel had known it before he landed his first blow. The chains were too much of a hindrance, the clubs too devastating with so many guards to wield them.

After some initial fear and confusion, the guards rallied with a vengeance. Nathaniel felt the pain of their attack, but he didn’t care. He kept going when most men would have stopped. Nothing mattered except his need to fight back, to answer their cruelty. But he knew he would pay. Even as the blow that knocked him senseless landed on the back of his head, he knew.

* * *

Alexandra had the cab driver drop her at the end of Berkeley Street. She wasn’t quite ready to face Mrs. Wright and the others. She was still shaking despite the long ride back, and needed a few minutes more to compose herself after the horrifying sight of watching Nathaniel being beaten like a dog.

She had to let Trenton know. The duke had misled him, had sent him off to Liverpool when Nathaniel was right here all the time, in London. Worse was the thought that Trenton might not be able to help Nathaniel. How could they, or anyone else, get him out of that terrible place?

Perhaps she should head to Liverpool in search of Trenton, she thought, anxious to do something. But she instantly knew the folly of that idea. How would they find each other? Besides, her sudden disappearance would arouse the duke’s suspicion, and until they had Nathaniel safely away from the hulks, she didn’t dare provoke Greystone.

If they could get him safely away...

The wrought iron gate of Greystone House loomed before her, and Alexandra took a deep breath. She didn’t want to go back, but she had to face the other servants and Lord Clifton and the duke and pretend she mourned for an ill mother. Otherwise, Trenton wouldn’t know where to find her. For caution’s sake, she knew he couldn’t return to the inn where he had stayed before.

“Where have you been?”

Alexandra jumped as the marquess stepped out from beneath an elm tree. “You frightened me,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest as if she could stop the racing of her heart.

“You haven’t answered my question. Where have you been?”

“If you needed me, you had only to ask Mrs. Wright, and she would have sent another maid.” Alexandra kept her voice calm, trying not to reveal how much his attitude irritated her.

“Mrs. Wright said you went to see your ailing mother. You told me when we were with Nathaniel that you have no family.”

Alexandra’s knees went weak as her mind groped for something that Lord Clifton might believe. “Actually, I—I wanted to show the earrings you gave me to a friend,” she said.

The marquess smiled, making Alexandra grateful that his vanity was sufficient for him to accept the lie. “Of course. Do you like them?” He took her hand and drew her back under the tree with him.

“Not every maid receives such a gift from the son of a duke,” she said, playing her part.

“You’re not every maid. I’ve never seen another so lovely.” Taking her by the chin, Clifton tilted Alexandra’s head back so he could kiss her. She knew what was coming, and for Nathaniel’s sake, she steeled her nerves to accept it. But when the marquess’s ardor mounted and his hand moved down over her hips, she pulled away.

“Perhaps I misunderstood,” she said. “I thought the earrings were a gift, not a form of payment.” And she ran back inside the house.

* * *

Alexandra sat in Greystone’s study, her ears trained for the slightest sound. It was late in the night. The grandfather clock down the hall chimed the hour of three as she hurried to finish.

Dipping the duke’s quill back into his ink pot, she signed her name, then quickly read over her letter. She had no idea if Nathaniel would ever receive it, but word from her was the only thing she could give him at the moment.

The milkman came before dawn every morning and left a can of milk by the back door. Alexandra met him outside today, her letter in hand.

She stepped from the shadows as Mr. Donaldson pulled his wagon to a stop. He got down, and with work-roughened hands lugged a huge can of milk to the ground, its thump as familiar as the rooster’s crow in the morning. Then he turned to Alexandra and silently accepted the letter. She pressed a few shillings in his palm besides, and he nodded his head in acknowledgment.

Alexandra started back through the door, but he caught her by the elbow. She watched as he reached into his other pocket and withdrew a wrinkled piece of paper that had been folded several times.

She smiled her thanks and waited until he left to read Trenton’s words:

 

Alexandra,

Nathaniel must not be in Liverpool. I would think perhaps he was transferred to Newgate, but I can find no record of it. I’m back in London now and hope you have better news. Meet me beyond the stables at midnight Wednesday next.

Trenton

 

Tucking his letter into the folds of her skirt, Alexandra hurried inside lest the new tweenie, who rose earlier than everyone else, find her. Wednesday next, Trenton had said. Why, tomorrow was Wednesday.

Tomorrow night, then, she thought, and prayed the hope of Trenton’s impending visit would be enough to block from her mind the recurring vision of Nathaniel being struck by the guard.

* * *

The following night Alexandra sat in the kitchen, sewing. She had volunteered to make fresh aprons for some of the maids. Servants bore the cost of their own uniforms, and their low salaries often made such purchases a hardship, so she had agreed to do the work for free. Mrs. Wright was grateful for her help, and it gave Alexandra something to occupy her mind and to calm her nerves while she waited for Trenton.

“You’ve put in a long day, lass. Why don’t you go off to bed?” Mrs. Wright asked as she carried jars of fresh preserves to the pantry.

“I’ll go up soon. I’m not tired yet.” In truth, Alexandra was exhausted, but she didn’t dare lie down for fear she’d fall asleep and miss Trenton.

“You’re a hard worker. I’m glad Lady Anne knew enough to hire you, though your story had me worried at first.”

The housekeeper disappeared into the pantry and returned for another load. “You wouldn’t mind retrieving the tray I took up to His Grace in the study, would you? He’s up late tonight.”

Alexandra hesitated, wishing she could beg off. She avoided the duke at every turn, afraid her hatred of him would be too difficult to hide. She also feared his discovery of the broken lock on his metal box, knowing her connection to Nathaniel could easily make him suspicious of her. But Alexandra could think of no good excuse to avoid the task Mrs. Wright requested.

“Is Lord Clifton with his father?” She hoped the answer would be no. She’d made several attempts to return the marquess’s earrings, but he had refused them outright. And instead of losing interest in her as she hoped he would, he seemed to be more and more obsessed with winning her affection, or at least her acquiescence.

Mrs. Wright headed back for another load. “I’m not sure.”

Alexandra set her work on the table and left the kitchen to climb the back stairs. The other servants were asleep in their quarters, so she ran into no one on her way. Much to her chagrin, however, Clifton was in the study with his father.

Alexandra entered as unobtrusively as possible, but the two still glanced up. As she removed the tray, Greystone pulled off his glasses and spoke to her.

“Tell Harry to get the carriage ready. I’m going out tonight.”

Alexandra schooled her features to show no surprise, though it was late to be going anywhere, unless it was to his favorite tavern. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She curtseyed, balancing the tray in one hand, then turned toward the door. Lord Clifton said nothing, but she felt his gaze follow her out.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way back, knowing the duke would be gone when Trenton came.

By the time Alexandra arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Wright had finished moving the preserves and was taking off her apron.

“I’m going to bed,” she announced.

“His Grace wants Harry to get the carriage ready. Shall I go out and tell him?” Alexandra asked. Harry slept over the stables along with his son, who worked for the duke as a stable boy.

“If you would. My poor feet can hardly walk another step.”

Alexandra smiled. Mrs. Wright worked hard, and she was a fair, honest woman. “I’ll be right back.”

Harry was already in bed, but his son answered her knock on the stable door. “Hello, Rory. His Grace would like your father to get the carriage ready,” she told him. “And I brought something for you.”

A boy of only nine, Rory smiled eagerly, still young enough to enjoy the occasional treats Alexandra saved for him, yet old enough not to clamor about her skirts.

“What is it?”

“A whole handful of scones with fresh strawberry jam inside.” Throwing back her shawl, she revealed the handkerchief that held these treats.

The boy’s eyes went wide with pleasure. “Yer the best, Alexandra.”

Alexandra smiled. “Just don’t tell Mrs. Wright I gave them to you, or she’ll blame me if we come up short tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t tell that old bag anythin’.”

“Rory!”

Alexandra’s chastening tone provoked a scowl. “Well, she made me scrub behind my ears this mornin’.”

“No doubt they needed a good scrubbing.” She laughed and ruffled his hair before returning to the house.

Mrs. Wright was gone when Alexandra entered the kitchen. She sat down to her sewing, but was interrupted again when Harry came in.

“The carriage is ready. I’m taking it around front now,” he told her.

Alexandra started up to the study to tell the duke, but by the time she arrived, he’d already gone. She heard his voice in the entry below, just before the door closed behind him. Had Lord Clifton gone, too? She passed through to the balustrade to see for herself, but when she looked down at the front door, she found the marquess standing there, staring up at her.

She gave him an uncomfortable smile before hurrying back the way she had come, praying he would retire soon. Trenton was coming in less than two hours.

Alexandra entered the kitchen just as Clifton came through the green baize doors. “My lord, is there something I can get you?” she asked, more than a little surprised that the marquess would venture into the servants’ domain.

Taking a seat at the table, he asked, “Why do you avoid me at every turn? Abbey or any of the others would love to trade places with you.”

Alexandra sat across from him and took up her sewing as she fished for an appropriate response. She wasn’t Abbey or any of the others. She didn’t care about the marquess’s position in society, or his money. She was already in love.

Alexandra gulped at this admission. Was she in love?

How could she deny it when the mere thought of Nathaniel left her breathless?

“My lord, we are not well suited,” she said. “You’ve mentioned before the difference in our social status. That is reason alone.”

“But I am willing to overlook that. Such things only matter in a wife.”

“And I will be nothing less than a wife.” She tried to return to her work, but being alone with Nathaniel’s half brother made her nervous.

“A mistress is treated better than a wife,” he insisted. “You have none of the demands placed upon a wife, only the benefits. If you weren’t interested in me, why did you come here?”

“I told you. I needed a job. Unlike you, I must work for my living.”

“You could have worked elsewhere.”

“I was having difficulty. I’d met you before, and I hoped Lady Anne would let me work off the dress I took from her. How many times must I explain? Why do you persist in making it more complicated than it is?”

“What about the earrings?”

“What about them, my lord? I’ve tried to give them back to you, and you won’t accept them. What am I to do?”

“Are you hoping for words of love? Would that soften your virtuous heart?”

Alexandra stood at the sarcasm in Clifton’s voice. “I’m sorry, my lord. Gifts can’t buy my affection. Not for anyone. Not even for you. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

She tried to brush past him, but he blocked her path to the stairs. Pulling her to him, he bent his head to kiss her, but she twisted in his arms so that his lips brushed her cheek instead.

“My lord, what are you doing?” She squirmed out of his grasp.

“Call me Jake. I want to hear my name on your lips. I want to convince you.”

“Convince me of what?”

“That you want me as badly as I want you.”

Alexandra couldn’t hold back the laughter that burst from her. “I have no feelings for you whatsoever, my lord.”

The look that suddenly descended on his face frightened her, making her wish she could reclaim her hastily spoken words.

“There will come a time when you will beg for a crumb of my attention,” he vowed, and he struck her across the face.

Alexandra stumbled back, surprised and momentarily dazed. “My lord, I never meant to offend you.” She reached out to put her hand on his arm, but he jerked away, and she fell silent.

Giving her one last smoldering glare, he turned and stalked out, leaving Alexandra rubbing her cheek in astonishment.

* * *

Alexandra reached up to touch him. Her fingers skimmed through his hair, making his blood stir and his heart pound. Mesmerized, he reached out and hooked the small of her waist, pulling her to him. Her arms encircled his neck, and her lips parted in invitation as her eyes fluttered shut. Nathaniel quivered to feel her breath on his face, but just as his lips were about to drink from hers, Alexandra’s sigh became nothing more than the fetid exhalation of the man sleeping next to him, her fingers, the cockroaches that slithered about the place after dark.

Nathaniel shivered, leaving the dream unfinished as his mind returned by degrees to full awareness. He was sharing a narrow bunk with another man aboard the creaking, stinking hospital ship—one of the hulks reserved for those too ill to work, where dying men were sent but from which they rarely returned, receiving too little medical help, too late. Still, it was an improvement. There were no chains, and the fare, though mainly broth, was better than the slop served on the other hulks. The doctors were unfeeling, perhaps numbed by the great number of patients they lost, but apathy was preferable to antipathy.

At least they weren’t like Sampson. Because of him, Nathaniel had already spent more time in solitary confinement than any other man in the history of the Retribution, but it was the last few days that had nearly broken him. Riddled from the flogging they had given him when he attacked the guard, his back refused to heal, and a raging infection had taken hold. Finally the chaplain had intervened and had the guards move him to the hospital.

Since then, he had tossed miserably about in his bunk, breathing the stale air so common to the hulks. Mold and mildew combined with the pungent body odors of the other sick men, who were never bathed, until he would have traded his last meal for one breath of fresh air.

The voices of the doctors hovered above him during their three routine visits each day. Though the sores on Nathaniel’s back oozed pus and blood, he had hardly felt them until today, which was why he imagined himself to be getting better. At least he knew that he hurt, and he knew where.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Nathaniel fought his awakening and tried to recall the dream, but it was gone. He could remember those things Alexandra did or said, but he could not conjure up the feel of her, not like it was. So he channeled his thoughts to her letter. At least that was real.

Prisoners’ mail was unreliable and heavily censored; it was not uncommon to receive only a portion of one paragraph, or half a page at most. In fact, Nathaniel had received just a few lines from Alexandra:

 

... am living in Berkeley Square with your beloved father... found you as Trenton and I planned and am doing all I can... it shouldn’t be long now... Trenton is coming soon... stay alive and well...

Alexandra

 

Nathaniel groaned. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, Alexandra was now living on Berkeley Street with the duke and his half brother—which was like sticking her head into a lion’s mouth. Still, she might not have found him otherwise, and he was infinitely grateful that someone knew of his whereabouts. That was the only thing that helped him to hang on, to fight Sampson’s cruelty a little longer.

His thoughts having made a complete circle, Nathaniel sighed in frustration and shifted to his side. He was damp with sweat, his back pained him no small amount, and a constant hunger gnawed at his gut, which the watery broth did little to relieve. Sleep was ever more appealing than consciousness, for only then was his misery forgotten—if not completely, then at least it was merely represented in some strange or fantastical way in his dreams.

Today, however, something more concrete disturbed him and kept him from returning to that blissful labyrinth of sleep. Though sickness and fever dulled his senses, danger signals penetrated his brain: hushed whispering, a number of men moving as a group, and finally, the voice of Sampson, the clerk.

“Watch that, you fool...”

In the next instant, three men rushed him. One carried a black bag, another, a strong, thick rope, and the third, what could only be a knife. Nathaniel caught the gleam of its blade a split second before someone forced his head into the bag and bound his arm to his body.

The sharp prick of metal at his back confirmed his first impression. They had a knife.

“Take it easy now. Struggling will only get you killed,” Sampson warned.

“Isn’t that the idea?” Nathaniel asked, but he didn’t fight. His limbs felt as though they were made of wood, and the knife at his back provided a convincing deterrent.

“If you so choose, I wouldn’t mind,” the clerk whispered, “but you’re too smart for that, eh? Now move.”

Half pushing, half dragging Nathaniel from his bed, the three men hauled him through the corridor and up the companionway. It was cool and soggy outdoors, and Nathaniel pictured a delicate, low-lying fog moving on top of the water like shiny white satin. He’d seen it a million times before, but he couldn’t see much now. Only vague shapes and deeper shadows. He stumbled again and again until a familiar voice halted their progress.

“What goes here?”

It was the chaplain, Reverend Hartman. Nathaniel was sure of the soft, almost effeminate voice.

“Father, what are you doing about at this ungodly hour?” Sampson demanded.

Nathaniel nearly fell as the clerk’s beefy arm shoved him back behind the others, but he knew he was much too large to escape notice. No doubt Sampson was betting on the reverend’s mild manner, and more than that, fear. Chaplains generally held considerable power in the hulks, second only to the overseer’s, but not on the Retribution. Here the pecking order was clear. Reverend Hartman was allowed to go about his business of saving souls only so long as he did not interrupt with discipline or any other weighty matter. No one dared thwart Sampson.

“There’s a man who’s dying. I promised I would sit with him,” the chaplain explained.

“‘Tis a rare man indeed who takes his job so seriously, Reverend,” the clerk mocked.

“It’s no more than you would do. I see you have already begun the vigil of caring for another brother who is similarly afflicted.”

“Mind your own business,” Sampson snapped. “Things that go on here are best left as they stand—for your own good.”

“So I’ve heard,” Hartman replied calmly.

Then Nathaniel heard the sound of his retreating steps.

No help there, he thought in despair.

The prick of the knife at his back prodded him into motion once more. He blindly struggled to keep his footing on the grimy deck, despite the ropes and other obstacles that lay in his path, until Sampson stopped him at what had to be the ship’s side. Someone bent to lift him over a shoulder, grunting with the effort, then began to carry him down into what Nathaniel could only assume to be a dinghy.

After lowering him partway, whoever struggled beneath his weight dropped him. He fell about eight feet to land on his shoulder, and winced in pain as the clerk cursed his companions.

“Would you capsize us, you idiots?”

“He’s a heavy bugger,” a voice grumbled from above.

Nathaniel managed to right himself as the others climbed aboard.

“How much time have we got?” someone asked.

“When is he coming?”

“Midnight.”

“Then we’re fine.”

“Good. Let’s get us out of here before the doctors make a stink.”

The others took their places, and the slap of the oars on water resounded as the boat began to move. Nathaniel, tense with worry and anticipation, wondered what was happening and why. He knew Sampson’s voice, and recognized one other as the guard who had clubbed him at the Warren on the day he had seen Alexandra, but he couldn’t identify the third.

Three. He considered the meager possibility of self-defense. He was sick and weak and outnumbered.

The boat reached the shore, and two men hauled Nathaniel out. They pulled the lighter out of the water, half dragging him through the soft sand to the pavement where he could walk more easily. Straining his eyes, Nathaniel tried to see beyond the black fabric that covered his head, but the dark night kept all except a few pale shapes from his perception.

He stifled a groan of frustration. When would they remove the blasted hood? He could do nothing without his eyes.

Sampson and the others stopped, and a key turned in a lock. Nathaniel guessed they were entering the building in which the prisoners picked oakum by day.

As they shoved him inside, the smell confirmed it. Since the prisoners rotated between stacking shot and picking oakum, he had spent many days in the shed already.

“Shut the door.” Sampson’s voice echoed through the cool, damp room. “Now we wait till he comes.”

Someone lit a candle.

“Until who comes?” The guard Nathaniel recognized as James voiced the question clamoring in his own mind.

“The Duke of Greystone, no less.” Sampson kicked Nathaniel viciously. “That name mean anything to you?”

Unable to mask a groan, Nathaniel teetered for a moment before regaining his balance. His leg throbbed where Sampson’s boot had landed. He attempted to ignore the pain and concentrate instead on what he could do to escape before his father arrived—before they added any more strength to their numbers.

“Why? What’s happening?” Nathaniel demanded, when he could speak.

Sampson pulled the hood from Nathaniel’s head and jeered into his face. “How should I know? His Grace has paid for the opportunity to speak to you, and we’re accommodating him. Simple as that. But if you try anything, or refuse to cooperate, it won’t be so simple anymore.”

“He’s a strong man despite that funny arm,” James warned. “He almost killed me the other day.”

“I can handle him easily.” As if to prove his words, Sampson pointed the knife he carried toward Nathaniel’s heart and gave him a menacing glare. “And the temptation might yet prove too great.”

“I don’t want this to get bloody,” the third man complained. Judging by his clothes, he was also a guard, but he must have come from one of the other hulks; Nathaniel had never seen him before.

“You’ve killed prisoners with your club easily enough. What’s the difference?” the clerk scoffed. “So I use a knife instead.”

“Cut me loose, and we’ll test your prowess.” Nathaniel focused on Sampson, hoping he could goad the clerk into a fight before the duke arrived. In a way, this little meeting boded well. It meant that Greystone hadn’t yet found the guns, and it got Nathaniel on shore, without chains, for the first time since his arrival.

“I could cut you to ribbons.” Sampson’s eyes blazed with the desire to do so.

“Words mean nothing, right lads?” Nathaniel looked to the two guards. “Let’s put your fearless leader to the test.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” The clerk lashed out, quick as lightning, and sliced Nathaniel across the chest.

He laughed when Nathaniel’s jaw clenched in pain. “What? You’re not going to scream?” Sampson’s mouth hung open in a wicked grin as he laid the blade above the flickering flame that danced at the end of a single candle. “Oh, I forgot. You never show any sign of weakness. Perhaps we should see just how far you can be tortured before you do.”

Despite the evil glint in Sampson’s eyes and the blood pouring down the front of his coarse gray shirt, Nathaniel tried to keep calm. The wound was not mortal, though the pain was severe. He needed to buy some time. His hand worked frantically, straining against the rope that held it fast as he tried to reach the knot. The bands were weakening, but Nathaniel doubted they would give way soon enough.

“How much is the duke paying you? A few guineas perhaps? I’m worth much more to him than that.” Nathaniel’s long fingers continued to work nimbly. For once, having only one arm worked to his advantage. The guards had been sloppy when they tied him, at a loss to know how to secure his hand without another to anchor it to.

Sampson scowled. “He’ll give us what we ask. He’s getting a bit eager to be done with you. Seems someone held him at knifepoint last week, looking for you.”

Worry for Alexandra living with his father lanced through Nathaniel as effectively as Sampson’s knife, strengthening his resolve. He had to get her away from Berkeley Square. Her letter had promised him help, but if Greystone ever suspected a connection between them, she would not be safe.

“Why bother with him when you’re already making a fortune by cheating starving men out of their rations?” Nathaniel asked. “Tell me, how big of a cut do you give the overseer when you use the government’s money to buy inferior meat and clothes for us and pocket the difference?”

Sampson coughed, nearly choking on his surprise.

“Do you think I don’t know how you have gained such a hold on the overseer’s heart?” Nathaniel raised a mocking brow. “You line his pockets with gold, and he gives you whatever you want.”

“Hold him.” The clerk lifted the knife from the flame. “The blade’s ready.”

The guards glanced uncertainly at each other, and their hesitation gave Nathaniel the extra second he needed. He tugged one last time on the knot that bound his arm, and the rope miraculously loosened. Then he exploded with all the force left in his body, shoving James back at the same time he kicked Sampson in the groin.

James landed on his backside. Sampson crumbled to his knees. The last guard’s face met Nathaniel’s fist. Jarred from the impact, the man crashed onto his back as Nathaniel sprinted for the door.

“Get him,” Sampson yelled as they scrambled to their feet.

Nathaniel stopped just long enough to throw the bolt and swing the door open, but the few seconds it cost him were too much. James pulled him back by the collar before he could escape, forcing him to turn and fight.

Swinging with a strength born of panic, Nathaniel sent the guard skidding across the floor into Sampson, then leveled another blow at the unknown man’s chin. But he was exhausted in mere seconds, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed him. He had to make a run for it.

Following one last blow with a high kick to James’s gut, Nathaniel turned to flee, but Sampson managed to grab his arm and pull him back onto the point of the knife. Nathaniel felt the blade slice through the skin of his back, as smoothly as through bread pudding, just before he fell to the ground.

It’s over, he thought, as something warm seeped beneath him and Sampson’s blood-covered knife came into view.

“You’re dead,” the clerk jeered, bringing his hand back for the final thrust.

“That’s enough. If you value your own life, you will spare his.” Reverend Hartman stood at the entrance, his robes wet from a hasty passage. In one hand he held a gun.

Sampson gaped at the chaplain before a self-satisfied smile split his face. “He won’t do it, boys.” He waved them forward. “A man of the cloth could never commit cold-blooded murder.”

Neither Hartman’s hand nor his eyes wavered from their target. “I would consider it an act of humanity. I’ve never killed a man before, but then, I don’t consider you much of a man. Now, tell them to get back and let that prisoner up.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re not thinking,” Sampson insisted, waving the guards back.

“Now drop the knife.”

The blade clattered to the floor as Nathaniel tried to stand. The people around him seemed out of focus and a buzzing filled his ears, but he managed to find his feet. He stood, swaying unsteadily as he surveyed the situation.

“Look at him. He probably won’t last the night. You did this for a dead man,” Sampson shouted.

The chaplain glanced Nathaniel’s way. “No, I did this for me. It was the only moral thing I could do. I’m taking him back to the hospital where he belongs—”

Nathaniel’s mind cleared a bit as Reverend Hartman’s words sunk in. The chaplain was taking him back to the hulks. He would die there. He had to do something.

Lunging forward, he took the reverend off guard. Slamming him into a heavy table, he easily retrieved the gun, and turning, he squeezed the trigger before Sampson landed on top of him.

The blast deafened him as the clerk cried out in pain, the ball penetrating his gut.

The reverend gaped in astonishment. “They’ll hang you for this,” he whispered as the guards backed away.

“They’ll have to catch me first.” Nathaniel waved the priest toward Sampson and the guards. “I’ll have the key to this place, please.”

One of the guards quickly handed him a metal ring on which hung a single key.

Nathaniel felt the cool metal and took as big a breath as the pain in his torso would allow. “I’m sorry, Reverend, but my life wouldn’t be worth a farthing if I let you take me back.”

Forcing his body to move despite the pain, he trained the pistol on the group that huddled around the bleeding clerk and backed outside. Then he locked the door behind him and hurried away. He had to make it to safety, and to a doctor, before it was too late.

* * *

Alexandra blew out the lamp and sat on the last step of the stairs in total darkness. She couldn’t stitch anymore. Lord Clifton’s visit had destroyed her peace. All she could do was wait—wait and think about Nathaniel. Did he long for her as she longed for him? Did he close his eyes and picture her face as automatically as his apparition blocked out the darkness behind her own lids? Did she haunt his thoughts and dreams as persistently as he paraded through her own?

What was he doing right now? And the biggest question of all, how could she help him?

The kitchen clock chimed eleven and then each quarter hour until midnight finally approached. Alexandra stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders, thinking her nerves had never been so taut. At least the duke was out, and Clifton, it seemed, had gone to bed. If she moved quietly enough, no one would be the wiser about Trenton’s visit. At least she hoped not, for all their sakes.

Alexandra carefully lifted the latch of the back door a little ahead of the clock. She couldn’t wait a minute longer.

Moving as silently as possible, she headed through the gardens and sheds, past the stables and beyond, into the mews with only the moon to guide her.

When she arrived, Trenton wasn’t there.

Standing on one foot and then the other, Alexandra waited against the back wall of the stable. She could hear the horses inside, whinnying, but Harry was gone. The footmen slept in the basement of the house. Only Rory was anywhere around, and he was probably fast asleep.

Footsteps on gravel made Alexandra turn. A man approached, leaving his horse several houses down.

“Trenton.” Alexandra whispered his name as she flew to meet him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she nearly bowled him over.

He laughed softly and hugged her back. “This is quite a reception, considering you’re the girl I helped to kidnap.”

Alexandra gave him a fleeting smile, but couldn’t wait to share her news. “I know where Nathaniel is.”

Trenton sobered. “Where?”

“He’s in the hulks at Woolwich.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him there. I watched a guard beat him.” She winced, the memory too painful to relive. “How do we get him out?”

Trenton shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps a bribe or two might motivate the right people to turn their heads.”

“What about the guns? Have you done anything with them?”

“I sent the duke a letter offering to trade them for Nathaniel, but he scoffed at me. I’ve never met a more arrogant bastard. He doesn’t think we can hurt him, no matter what. I’ve since written to the Lord High Admiral. Now I’m waiting for him to respond.”

“I’d better stay here until Nathaniel is free,” Alexandra said. “I’m afraid Greystone will catch on to my reason for coming in the first place, and cause something even worse to happen to Nathaniel. But I don’t like it here. Lord Clifton is—” She stopped.

What was the use of explaining the marquess’s behavior when Trenton could do nothing to stop it? “Never mind. I’ll be fine, for the time being. Just hurry and do something, and let me know what that something is.”

“I’m going to Whitehall in the morning to see if I can meet with the police commissioner. Mayne might listen to us if we threaten to take our story to The Times.”

A sound near the house made Alexandra jump. They fell silent, waiting, but heard nothing besides the horses in the stable. “I’d better get back,” she said, uneasy. “Send me word.”

“I’ll be staying at Marley House if you need me,” he whispered.

Nodding, Alexandra headed back. The house was dark and silent, and despite her nervousness, all seemed as it should be as she made her way to her bedroom. She snuggled beneath her covers, anxious for the rest her body craved, and sleep came in an instant.

But she was awakened long before dawn.

“Alexandra.” Someone tapped timidly on her shoulder. As the sleep cleared from her eyes, she blinked to see Rory, the stable boy, standing above her.

“Rory, what is it?”

He motioned for her to be silent and beckoned her to come with him.

Puzzled, Alexandra rose quietly from her bed and followed the boy back down the stairs. “What is it?” she whispered again when they reached the back door.

He shook his head, refusing to answer until they were outside and well away from the house.

“Tell me, Rory,” she pleaded, mystified.

He turned and took her hand, pulling her toward the stables. “There’s a man out ‘ere. ‘E’s bleedin’ awful bad, an’ ‘e keeps callin’ yer name. ‘E asked me to get ye an’ to tell no one else—”

“A man?”

The boy nodded rigorously. “‘E’s been stabbed, I think.”

“Did he say who he was?”

“Aye. ‘Is name is Nathaniel Kent.”