Gamble With Hearts (11 page)

‘Go on, who d'ye think ye are!’ she jeered.

‘I will tell you who I am, although I cannot prove it. My name is Carlington and I live at a place called Beauchamp Manor in Northumberland.’

 
‘Nay! But I comes from round that way meself. I know t' big 'ouse. An’ t' Lord, he were called Carlington when I were a lass!’

‘That would be my father, Daisy! So please will you not help me for old time's sake, and for all the money you will ever need once I get back!’

The old crone seemed to reach her decision. ‘Aye, I will!’ she answered with a nod that sent her greasy hair flying about her face. ‘I'll do it get me own back on that pig, if nuthin' else!’

‘I can never thank you enough,’ he told her fervently. ‘But stay, tell me where we are. Can I still reach the shore?’

‘Can thee swim?’

‘Well enough!’

‘We're passin' close by t'coast o'
Ireland
. Thee can jump off and I daresay tha'll make it, it's no more but 'alf a mile t' shore.’

Charles was in some doubt about his ability to swim that far in his weakened condition, but obviously he had no alternative. Death by drowning seemed infinitely preferable, in any event, to a lingering death under the tropical sun. His mind was made up.

Daisy departed, leaving the candle behind her. Carlington had requested his conspirator to place it upon the floor beside him and now he was, with little difficulty, able to manoeuvre himself into a position where his wrists were held directly over the tiny flame. It was perhaps just as well that the tight leather bonds had so constricted his flow of blood that his hands were quite numb, for he burned himself badly in his clumsy attempts to burn through the straps. At last, after several attempts had ended in near despair, the leather thongs caught the flame and accompanied by a horrid smell of burning, they at last gave way.

Hurriedly, Carlington attacked the bonds around his ankles but his fingers were weak and the knots well tied. He was forced to rest, and waited impatiently until feeling had crept painfully back into his hands before successfully essaying the bonds once more.

Free at last, he sat for some few minutes massaging his bruised ankles and surveying his little prison more closely. There was no porthole, which conveyed, even to one as nautically ignorant as Charles, that he was deep in the bowels of the ship. The only way of escape lay through the door, and Charles had no way of knowing what might face him on the other side of it. It seemed obvious that the ship would be manned by a substantial number of men and, judging from their captain, they would in all likelihood be an unsavoury bunch of cutthroats. He found himself longing for some weapon. He had not even a stick with which to defend himself.

Methodically he began to search the little room and found that his first surmise was correct. He was lodged in the ship's storeroom. With only the light of the now guttering candle, he pursued his search. At first it seemed that there was nothing but food supplies kept in his prison, but stacked in one corner he found several little barrels which, upon being prised open, were found to contain gunpowder. This discovery considerably elated the Viscount until it was borne upon him that he had no more idea how to use it than a child of six. Ill-used though he had been, he could not seriously contemplate blowing up the ship with its entire crew, even if he could have found a way of saving himself in the conflagration, However, it was in those barrels that his best hope lay.

Glancing about him in search of inspiration, he noticed for the first time a crate of dusty bottles. The captain had a taste for brandy and had provided himself with a good stock. An idea dawned. Quickly, he emptied half a dozen or so of the bottles and, his hands shaking in feverish excitement, he began to fill them with the gunpowder. Reaching into his pocket he found that his captors had neglected to remove his handkerchief, a piece of unlooked-for good fortune. He tore it into strips and provided each bottle with a ragged fuse which would, he hoped, give him time enough to pitch the improvised bombs at his enemies before the flame ignited the powder. His preparations made, there was no time to be lost. The candle was very close to its end and without it his bombs were of little use.

With a philosophical little shrug, Carlington picked up his weapons and placed them carefully about his person. Two in each pocket, one inside his shirt, two concealed rather painfully in the wide tops of his riding boots. The remaining bottle he held to the tiny candle flame and watched the fuse ignite. Standing in the furthest corner of the room, he hurled his bomb at the rickety door and dropped softly to the ground behind some handy sacks of grain.

The explosion was tremendous. Not only the door, but the entire bulkhead, was destroyed. The way was clear, but already the flames had caught hold, and in a very few minutes the room would be an inferno. Protecting himself as well as he might, his arms raised to shield his face, Carlington leaped through the burning doorway into the passage beyond. There were sounds of running feet coming towards him, and for one moment he wanted to escape, but the only way was back into the fire. With a strange calm he turned back to face the rabble as they came upon him in the narrow passage. Deliberately he held one of the bottles out in front of him, the candle almost touching the makeshift fuse. As the first man appeared round the corner he shouted in a commanding voice: ‘Stand where you are! One more step and we all go up!’

The men hesitated just long enough to take in the tableau before them. The more intelligent of them realised what was happening and restrained their fellows. As they wavered, undecided, a voice was heard calling from the back of the group.

 
‘What in the devil's name are you hanging about for, you stupid bastards? Get that fire out or we'll all fry!’

Charles, who was uncomfortably conscious that the fire behind him was heating his burden of explosives dangerously, decided to play a bold hand. ‘Ah, my good Captain,’ he called. ‘The very man I wanted to see!’

The captain forced his way through the press of men and stared open-mouthed as his erstwhile prisoner who lounged with affected ease against the bulkhead. In fact, his condition was so weak that he needed its support to remain upright.

‘Captain, let us keep this short. You see the fire. By now your quick intelligence will have surmised how it was done. I hold in my hand the means to blow you and all your men to kingdom come! Yes and there are more where this comes from! Now I have no desire to use it. Let me go and this bomb remains harmless, you and all your charming friends remain in one piece. You may then be able to extinguish this little conflagration of mine and proceed on your way to the
West Indies
in peace. Attempt to touch me, however, and we all go up!’

The other man folded his arms across his barrel of a chest and sneered. ‘That's likely, I don't think’ he answered sarcastically. ‘Ye've no more got the stomach for it than—’

‘Let me assure you that I would far rather go to my death now and take you with me, than be flogged and starved to death on some hellish plantation. So take your choice, gentlemen. Which is it to be?’

The two men stood for a few moments, their gazes locked; then, quite suddenly, the seaman gave a short laugh. ‘What the 'ell!’ he said with a shrug. ‘Let 'im go, and get that bloody fire out!’

Silently the crew parted to make way for Charles who, hardly able to believe that he was not being tricked, kept the candle only a fraction of an inch from the fuse all the way to the deck. One or two men had followed him from below and these were persuaded, with the help of bottle and candle, to lower a small dinghy for their departing guest. Still clutching his precious burden, Carlington lowered himself into the little boat. Only then, with his hands on the oars, did he toss his weapons into the sea.

Although it would be untrue to say that
Charlotte
soon recovered from the grief and misery into which Carlington's disappearance had plunged her, it was not long before the naturally optimistic turn of her mind asserted itself. She could not believe that Charles was dead; she felt that somehow she would know it if that were the case. While he lived there was hope. Not for one moment did she believe that her betrothed, reckless and impetuous though he undoubtedly was, had murdered Farnley. It was immediately apparent to
Charlotte
's quick intelligence that the real killer must have been present at that fatal quarrel. Therefore, the probability was that the murderer was someone known to Carlington and very likely to herself. Miss Wrexham had every intention of discovering who it might be.

Meanwhile, life continued with its round of parties and amusements. Her pretended engagement to Ruthin which had filled the mind of the ton for at least a week had by now ceased to be talked of and, apart from a certain obligatory intimacy between them, her engagement had little effect upon her. Indeed, she looked forward to seeing the Marquis often, for to him alone could she talk with perfect safety about Carlington.

She was hoping to see him one night about two weeks after her betrothed's disappearance. He was engaged to escort them all to the Duchess of Haymarket's ball; and as she arrayed herself for this event her mind was busily rehearsing the many questions she wished to discuss with him.

It was well that Lady Northwood had instructed her own dresser to attend Miss Wrexham, for of late
Charlotte
had paid little attention to her appearance. She meekly allowed herself to be laced into a new gown of cream satin, lavishly trimmed with floss lace, which her Aunt had most unexpectedly bestowed upon her. It was cut low across the breast and showed off Miss Wrexham's lovely form to considerable advantage.

She descended to the drawing room, still wrapped in thought, but became a little animated when she discovered that not only the Marquis but his daughter and her faithful escort were to accompany them.

It occurred to
Charlotte
that Miss Milverly was a trifle petulant with her admirer, who looked far from happy. In truth, Amelia was extremely cross with Sebastian. Having persuaded him that their elopement was necessary she had imagined that they would be off that very next night. Mr Edridge, however, could see no occasion for such haste. Ever since that night they had been arguing the question and, although still very much in love with his Amelia, Sebastian could not help feeling that she could, at times, be the most tiresome chit imaginable. Tonight, however, she was looking so lovely in a celestial blue crepe gown that such blasphemous thoughts were quite banished.

Amelia, who had been overjoyed by the news that her Papa was to marry Miss Wrexham, was seated next to her upon a sofa, chatting animatedly.

‘It is to be the most elegant affair of the Season, they say, though for my part I do not think that anything could be more charming than your ball.’

‘Thank you, Amelia, but we cannot aspire to the heights of the Duchess's entertainments. I believe that her ballroom can contain up to five hundred persons without being considered crowded. Personally, I dislike such enormous parties. One has so little time to bestow upon one's particular friends.’

‘I quite agree,’ responded Amelia with enthusiasm. ‘You are always right, dearest Mama-to-be!’

Charlotte
blushed. This delighted acceptance had taken her by surprise. Not unnaturally she was flattered, but she dreaded the inevitable disclosure of the truth. Perhaps fortunately, a footman announced that the carriages were at the door and so she was spared the necessity of answering.

The Duchess had taken pains to provide her guests with the best entertainment that
London
had to offer. Not only were her delightful rooms filled with flowers, she had also contrived to have a real fountain playing in the supper room.
Champagne
flowed freely and it was rumoured that not only was the Prince expected, but, more importantly, Mr Brummell himself.

Charlotte
ascended the stairs upon the arm of the Marquis to be greeted most kindly by Her Grace with whom she was rather a favourite. Indeed, the simplicity and modesty of her manners had recommended Miss Wrexham to several high personages who might have been supposed to take little interest in provincial beauties of meagre fortune. She was soon seated upon a charming little gilt sofa, the Marquis at her elbow, her Aunt and mama chatting together a little part.

A group of gentlemen lounging near the door suddenly sprang to attention. The guests rose as the Duchess entered upon the arm of her most honoured guest, the Prince of Wales. It so happened that
Charlotte
had not yet seen the First Gentleman of Europe. He had been attending to some alterations to his little seaside home in Brighton since her arrival in town. She had heard much of him, however, and was obliged to own herself disappointed. Both Lady Northwood and Mrs. Wrexham were ardent admirers of Royalty and quite failed to see that the once handsome Prince was now a ridiculous figure. He was grossly fat, and even from where
Charlotte
stood she could hear the creaking of his corset. For the first time in many days she was obliged to suppress a giggle, turning it into the most discreet of coughs. While taking in the full magnificence of the Prince, she failed to notice that she was herself the object of the most concentrated attention from a man standing alone by the doorway. Had she been aware of his scrutiny she would have much disliked the appraising expression in his rather cold eyes.