My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (6 page)

Simon glanced around the room, attentive to the heightened tension. “Nelson once said,
‘The enemy will not have long reason to boast of their security; for I trust, ere long, to assist them in person in a way which will completely annihilate the whole of them
.’”

“In this,” Gillian said, taking a few measured steps, “he was successful. Lord Nelson will be long celebrated as the first hero of our age.”

“Hear! Hear!” Shouts filtered through the room.

Gillian had managed to steer the conversation successfully toward the topic Simon needed and wanted to address. A smile formed on his lips. He looked Holt squarely in the eyes. “There is no doing anything without trying. Nelson’s name, his very presence forced greater opposition from the enemy. And yet, as we can surely attest on a personal scale, men were forever flocking to greet him upon his return, forgetting rank and file. In faith, when his body returns to London, you shall see a crush unlike any you’ve ever witnessed before.”

Holt’s intake of breath was swift. “He wasn’t buried at sea?”

Gillian clutched a hand to her breast. “Good heavens, no! Why would you suggest such a thing?”

Holt fidgeted strangely. “I assumed…”

“The logistics of transporting a body,” Russell said taking note of their faces, “for that length of time would require—”

“Let’s remember Nelson at his best, not at his worst, Russell,” Gillian insisted. “We are not present to debate the state of the admiral’s remains.”

Simon couldn’t agree more. Nelson loved his port. What a shame the admiral would be remembered for being pickled in brandy.

Holt wasn’t finished. “Trafalgar has surely ended Napoleon’s conquest of the British Isles, which is all the more reason for us to vote to disband and be done with it.”

Denials, expletives, and accusations filled the room.

Gillian’s eyes flickered with suspicion as she walked toward Simon.

The vicar paced back and forth with unexplained restlessness. Percy’s annoyance was evident in the way he watched the vicar. In the air, a hint of danger lurked near. Was Holt at the root of it?

Simon’s senses sharpened. Suspicion hardened his blood. Albert Holt was harmless, he told himself — wasn’t he? He’d gained the sponsorship of Lord Guildford in the House of Lords, a more power hungry man any politician would be hard-pressed to find. Holt’s post at St. Dionis was a tremendous asset. The position placed him strategically in Guildford’s inner circle. Holt’s association with Guildford was an assignment not easily won, a fact Simon wasn’t likely to forget. The advantage provided Nelson’s Tea with eyes and ears in the House of Lords. But what explained Holt’s refusal to meet with him for the past month and his bizarre aggressive behavior now?

“Without Lord Nelson to push foreign matters through government hands, how will the Admiralty Board protect us?” Holt demanded.

No one expected a priest to be in league with clandestine operations, so Holt had nothing to fear. Or did he?

“Lord Nelson’s death has affected us all, that much is true,” Simon agreed.

Holt pointed to Melville’s files. “Perhaps we should address the issue at hand. If those are ever publicized, our lives will be forfeit. No. Napoleon’s fleet is done. Finished. England is safe once more. I suggest we disperse and return to our old lives.”

Holt had no reason to fear the files in Melville’s possession would make it into the wrong hands. Procedures had been put in place to thwart such a
coup d'état
. Unless he knew something they didn’t. Simon regarded Holt more closely. Color rose above the vicar’s priestly collar.

Holt smiled strangely then repositioned himself, an action bringing him closer to Gillian. For her part, Gillian flinched almost imperceptibly. What had triggered her response? She’d been uneasy near Holt earlier. What did she see now that he didn’t?

Simon snapped. It was almost as if—

“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding to Gillian. “My lady.” His stare settled on Holt. “Given Holt’s hesitancy to continue the admiral’s legacy,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm, “I suggest we refrain from deciding on anything of importance now.”

Thoroughly castigated, Holt pressed his lips into a thin line and grumbled like a petulant child. His unassertive nature indicated he wasn’t fit to remain in Nelson’s Tea.

Simon ignored him because Holt had never been eager to commit acts of violence. His attention diverted to the other men. “We have all night to discuss recent events and how we should proceed henceforth. But first, it’s only fitting we celebrate the man responsible for our alliance.” He turned to Gillian and gave her a slight bow. “Baroness, will you do the honors?”

“If you please,” she said, tipping her head. Gillian’s sultry voice belied the wariness reflected in her eyes. At her nod, three servants came forward to pour port into the crystal glasses stationed around the dining table. When the last goblet had been filled, Gillian said, “Raise your glasses to the memory of an unconquerable spirit—” She stopped, her voice quivering. “To the immortal memory of Admiral Nelson and… victory.”

“Hear, hear.” The lackluster response came as no surprise. It hinted at a mixture of elation cost by despair.

Simon inhaled a deep breath. A day of reckoning had come at last. Could they go on? Would they? “Our insurmountable loss bears untold hardship on our mission, our country — on us. In a few moments, we will revisit one of Nelson’s favorite pastimes. We will sit down to break our fast.”

Grumbling commenced into a rising cacophony.

Milford choked on his port. “M-My lord, you cannot expect us to eat at a time like this.”

Holt pursed his lips. “I don’t have an appetite.”

“That has never stopped you from eating at m’lady’s table before,” Stanley said, his break in rank drawing several loud guffaws, mainly from Garrick’s men.

“How dare you speak, you filthy pirate,” Holt shouted.

Stanley shot Holt a profane gesture.

Henry’s signal — a shrill whistle — brought an end to the escalating tension. When the room quieted once more, he nodded to Simon. “Proceed, my lord.”

Percy chose that particular time to intrude. “Hear, hear, Captain. More port, Holt?” Percy raised his spectacle and flashed a wicked smile. “It does a capital job of abolishing fear.”

“Who says I’m afraid? I’m bloody angry.” Holt straightened.

Percy’s brows rose to his white powdered wig, his beauty mark bobbed, and fake throaty good-humored laughter erupted from his throat. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen. We are all men of character, judges of fallacy, schemers of persuasion, are we not? Let us not
try
to outwit each other.”

“Outwit—”

“Well said, your grace,” Gillian interrupted. She raised her glass to Percy in a conspiratorial salute.

“My pleasure,” Percy said, winking. “Bickering makes a dead bore.”

Holt’s color rose again. “Are you threatening me, your grace?” He began to pace nervously.

“If I was…” Percy nodded and let Holt fill in the blanks.

“Gentlemen,” Simon said, leveling his palms in the air. “Percy is right on one account.” He trusted Percy’s intuition. Was Holt sick? Crazed? What was he thinking to take Percy on? “Fighting amongst ourselves will not do us any good. In fact, it’s what the enemy counted on when Nelson was cut down in his prime.”

Melville’s feathered quill flashed in an errant beam of sunlight as he absently twirled the writing instrument between his thumb and forefinger. “How will we ever begin to assess the damage Nelson’s death caused if we cannot get along?”

Before anyone could answer, Douglas whispered in Melville’s ear. Melville narrowed his eyes and looked away from Simon to jot down several notations in his ledger.

Holt wiped perspiration from his brow and paced more rigorously than before. He brushed past Milford, knocking the other man’s hand as he poured himself another drink.

“Control yourself, vicar,” Milford snapped as he and Douglas scrambled to wipe up the liquid leeching toward Melville’s account books.

Holt ignored the chaos, plunging on in contrary fashion. “Nelson was more than a figurehead to us. Tell me how we can continue enacting
his
plan if we mere mortals cannot operate without his legendary tactics?”

Percy launched a counterattack. “As one who has been in constant communication with the admiral since Nelson’s Tea first formed, I can assure you, Simon’s strategies and authority are on par with the good admiral’s.”

Holt’s peculiar laughter jolted Simon.

“Which comes as no surprise,” Holt countered. “Enlighten us, your grace. Exactly how intimate is your relationship with Lord Danbury?”

“What are you implying?” Chapman, erstwhile newspaperman, spared a glance at Simon.

Did Holt have a death wish?

Simon held up his hand, motioning Chapman to stand down, and gave Percy a nod. The duke was a man of many faces — nobleman, pirate, dandy, spy. People seldom knew what they were going to get at any given time. But as Percy took several steps toward Holt, the room quieted as the very air they breathed ignited. Simon hid a satisfied smirk, having every confidence Percy would put an end to Holt’s disturbing behavior.

Face to face, Percy flipped Holt’s cravat with his quizzing glass. He cocked his brow and glared at the reverend as though he was daft. “Why, my good man, we are related by marriage, of course.”

Several men guffawed.

Holt’s unhealthy pallor matched the bland color of his wrinkled priestly collar. “Which brings me to another point,” he continued without restraint. “If you hadn’t been treacherously set on finding your sister’s killers, we wouldn’t have lost Collins!”

Horrified gasps filled the room. Hilarity died on Percy’s face. Garrick rose so quickly his chair fell backward.

Simon couldn’t believe his ears. Holt wasn’t increasing his chances at survival. He was limiting them. Why had he brought up a man Percy despised? Did he want to die? At Percy’s wink, he allowed Holt to continue digging his own grave. But how far would the vicar go?

Percy cocked his hip then narrowed his gaze on Holt, who stood several inches shy of Percy’s six-foot height. The obvious tell Holt was in danger? The way Percy’s knuckles whitened around his gold-rimmed oval monocle, where he stored poison in the revolving handle. “Do tell, vicar. Are you actually rankled that Baron Burton and his minion no longer pose a threat? Or would you have preferred ladies in your parish to succumb to his putrid appetites?”

“I’d have done the same, runt,” Garrick grumbled.

Daggers shot from Percy’s eyes as he slanted a glance at Garrick.

Simon clenched his teeth so hard he thought they would break. Would Percy and Garrick come to blows? Garrick had been a wild card ever since his captivity in Spain.

Henry shifted slightly beside Garrick.

Percy didn’t move. “The clothes do not necessarily make the man, dear boy.”

Riotous laughter eased some of the tension building in the room.

Simon relaxed his mouth and tested his jaw, knowing it would probably ache for days.

Garrick didn’t blink. “I was referring to the vicar.”

Holt’s mouth formed an O. He directed his attention to Garrick. “How dare you disparage me, you one-eyed spawn of the devil.
I’m
a man of God!”

Garrick tensed. Henry put a hand on Garrick’s shoulder.

“More like a man of
mis
fortune,” Whitbread added, fanning the flames.

Holt turned on Whitbread. “You—”

“Do remind us, vicar. Who facilitated Chester Walden’s death? I distinctly remember you were the one who delivered information about Wickham and Walden to the House of Lords. Because of you, Walden lost his head,” Whitbread accused.

“
I-I
am not on trial here, sir.” Holt’s eyes turned maniacal. “This is not a court room.”

“Then why have
you
launched an attack?”

All hope of avoiding violence fled. There was no way in hell to escape the leviathan born in the room.

What tho’ nor friends nor kindred dear,

To grace his obsequies, attend?

His comrades are his brothers here,

And ev’ry hero is his friend!

~The Muffled Drum, John Mayne, The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV July 1805

A fissure of
light spilled through the damask curtains, aiming an iridescent beam to the mirror above the fireplace. The reflection split the room in two. Nothing was more frightening than a house divided. Gillian suppressed a shiver of dread as bickering voices swelled around her. She’d been afraid when Lucien died, fearful of a future without her husband’s guidance, terrified of taking the steps she would have to take without the man she truly loved — Simon — in her life. Those events helped her sympathize with these men who now feared for their futures, for a country celebrating its greatest victory over Napoleon and Villeneuve. But sympathy did no one any good if Nelson’s Tea couldn’t find a way to rise above the sorrow of Nelson’s death.

“Why have you launched an attack?”

“Me?” Holt exclaimed, directing Gillian’s attention back to the man who had a particular fascination with the clock on the mantel. He fidgeted with his coat, pulling it closer. What was he hiding? “Whitbread, I am not the one spewing insults.”

Melville’s low curse reached her ears as he jumped into the conversation. “Insults will get us nowhere. What we need to do is sit down like professionals and hear what Simon has to say on this matter. We owe him this courtesy.”

Holt’s eyes rounded. “But—”

“Excellent advice, my lord,” she said, cutting off the annoying
vicar.

He turned on Gillian, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She scoured her mind for facts to help explain Holt’s irrational thinking and poor judgment. Why did he seem so anxious? Desperation ushered in all kinds of hell from which there was no return. What was he afraid of?

She swallowed a lump of alarm and reached out,
trying to persuade Holt against finishing whatever he’d begun. “May I suggest—”

“No.” He shied away.

She wasn’t deterred.
“Your anxiety about Nelson’s death is completely understood. We are all shocked.”

Holt burst into laughter. “You cannot possibly understand how Nelson’s demise complicates my existence, baroness.”

She
leaned toward him.
“But I do. Four years ago, I stood on the precipice of giving up on life after Lucien’s murder. I chose to continue my husband’s work in order to carry on his legacy. We form our own destinies. We
can
continue protecting England in Nelson’s name.”

Holt’s face distorted. “With respect, you are a woman.”

Gillian could not contain her rage. Yes, she was a woman. Wasn’t that obvious? She didn’t have to prove anything to Holt or anyone else. Actions spoke louder than words. She clenched her jaw tight and narrowed her eyes. A woman indeed!

Henry stepped closer to Gillian. The heavy weight of his hand stopped her from launching a physical attack at the troubled parson. Holt was going to get himself killed if he didn’t back down.
“You, of all people, know better than to underestimate a woman, vicar. Or haven’t you learned anything from
Fordyce’s Sermons
?”

“The baroness has earned our trust a thousand times over,” Percy broke in, lifting a hand toward her then lowering it to his side. “No one need ever question her loyalties.”

Holt laughed again. “I find it odd that you speak of trust, your grace.”

Gillian inhaled deeply. She’d tried to take the higher road, to ease the tension building in the room. Percy had attempted to assist her. But by confronting Percy instead of backing down, Holt had fanned the flames igniting around them.

“We all have secrets we don’t want publicly revealed,” she said, a brittle bite lancing her words. “You are not alone, Holt. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

Holt fidgeted with his cuffs, his gaze darting past her. His easy dismissal pushed her over the threshold of her endurance. What was wrong with him? “We must move forward and finish what Lord Nelson started,” she snapped. “Don’t you agree?”

Holt didn’t respond. A strange lethal fury glimmered in his eyes, completely out of character.

Warning bells flared inside her. Blood raced through her veins, creating a telltale throb at the base of her neck. Gooseflesh pricked her forearms. For Simon’s sake, for all of their sakes, she had to get at the root of Holt’s lack of control.

A slight shiver inched down Gillian’s spine. She forced herself to relax and pressed on. “No matter what happens, the job we set out to do isn’t done.”
As a reverend of over eight hundred souls and an overseer of the poor, surely Holt understood. “Napoleon has crowned himself emperor. He will not stop until he has invaded our shores. We must carry out Nelson’s plans. Combine our efforts and talents.
You
can make a difference in protecting
your
parish, Holt,
your
country.” She looked around the room at the expectant faces of the men, several of which moved stealthily closer
.
“
We
can all make a difference by trusting Simon. I do.”

Holt avoided eye contact. He clasped his elbows tightly against his side. “
You
are not
me
,” he said quietly.

“No,” she said. “I am not.”

What explained Holt’s short-temperedness, irritability, his downward gaze, and the slight tremble in his right hand? Desperation? Dread? Or something more sinister? Gillian bit her lower lip and watched as Holt flexed his jaw. Corded muscles constricted above his collar. Other telltale signs he couldn’t be trusted were revealed in the way his fists loosened and tightened. Hers followed suit. She wanted to slap sense into the unruly man. Something was terribly wrong, and Simon needed to be warned.

Before she could act on her instincts, Holt gave her a polite bow. “My apologies. It grieves me to know that you have suffered most cruelly, baroness,” he said, drawing out the s. “I am, due to ordainment, obligated by God to speak the truth — to act as an agent of righteousness.”

“Truth? Righteousness?” Milford’s brows furrowed as he lifted his cigar and gave Gillian a questioning glance. She nodded, giving him permission to continue. Milford leaned toward a candle and lit the tobacco’s end, slowly puffing out one then two plumes of smoke in Holt’s direction. “I never once suggested—”

“No one has,” Chapman said, rising from his chair to snatch Milford’s cigar. He stubbed the tobacco out in a saucer. “Not here, Milford.”

Russell pushed back his chair, the splintering sound echoed loudly in the resulting silence. He walked toward the bow window and closed the damask curtains, effectively snuffing out the one bit of sunlight streaming into the room. “What good is any of this bickering doing us?”

It was unlike them to ridicule one another. Could Nelson’s Tea be saved? The pressure on her lungs made Gillian’s corset feel three sizes too small.

“Indelicate, I agree.” Holt widened his arms, raising his voice. “But true.
Someone
must be the voice of reason. Lord Danbury has to agree.”

Holt’s belief in his own foolishness made Gillian’s stomach churn. Before she said something they’d all regret, she covered her mouth. Had Nelson’s death driven Holt crazy? Or did his sarcasm and arrogant smile conceal something else?

“Agree to what?” Simon asked.

You could hear a pin drop in the resulting silence. The air around her grew suffocatingly thick.

Percy adopted a pondering pose, balancing his quizzing glass over his eye. “Holt, I am curious.”

Holt straightened. He tilted his head, smirked, then looked down his nose at Percy. “About what, your grace?”

“I never ask something twice.”

“I don’t recall—”

“Today,” Percy said, interrupting Holt, his tone flat. “I fear it simply cannot be helped.” Daggers shot from his eyes. “Have you been dipping into the sacramental wine again?” Percy settled back in his chair, exaggerating his movements. After several tense moments, he cracked a scathing smile.

Good God, Percy! Why couldn’t you be the voice of reason?
This did not bode well.

“How dare you!” Holt jeered, his face reddening. “I am a man of God—”

Gillian’s heartbeat pounded a death knell. God had nothing to do with the way Holt behaved now. And if Holt didn’t control himself, nothing, not even his faith, could save him.

“We know
who
you are,” Simon said, finally engaging Holt. Simon had picked him out of the litter, given him access to members of parliament. “But what are you trying to achieve?”

Holt eyed the closed door then shook his hands. “I am
not
afraid to—”

“You should be.” Garrick’s false smile didn’t flimflam anyone.

The ormolu clock ticked loudly in the silence.

Tick. Tick. Tock.

How foolish was Holt going to be? He shook his finger at Garrick, a vein prominently taking shape above his knitted brows. “I didn’t get an innocent woman killed!”

Garrick’s eye began to blink rapidly. He inhaled visibly then went on the offensive, slamming his fist onto the table, shattering a plate. “
You
know
nothing
about
me
!”

Holt stiffened. His arms straightened, and he balled his hands into fists. “There you are wrong. You are a despicable human being, sir.”

“
Lord
Seaton to you,” Garrick argued.

Tension in the room cracked like thunder.

Holt jabbed his finger toward Garrick. “More like a one-eyed devil.” He turned his attention on Simon. “Everyone here knows what Seaton really is — a pirate.”

“Get control over yourself, Holt, before it’s too late,” Henry warned.

Was Holt trying to sabotage everything they’d strived to achieve?

“You risk everything, including my soul, employing these men!” Holt sputtered. “Look at him,” he raged to Simon, pointing his finger at Garrick. “He’s no good to us now. In fact, he’ll probably get the baroness killed.”

Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing.
Or did he?

“That’s a lie!” Garrick roared, his face distorting.

“No, Garrick!” Gillian was too late.
Her warning fell on deaf ears.

Garrick vaulted over the table. Sharp thuds of falling candelabras, bowls of fruit, and crunching glass followed in his wake.

Angry with Holt for setting Garrick off, she tried to step between him and the man she’d worked so long and hard to heal. Holt grabbed her by the arm, yanking her toward him. She elbowed him and heeled his instep before Garrick swept her aside.

“Get back,” Garrick told her as he grabbed Holt by the collar.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Simon moving toward her, instead of the unfolding melee. Gillian shifted sideways to avoid him. Her primary focus was Garrick and the inconceivable fury Holt focused on everyone in the room. Why had the hare-brained cleric deliberately goaded Garrick into a fight? He knew what Garrick was capable of when provoked. It wasn’t a secret. Whatever Holt’s plan, Garrick’s fists met Holt’s flesh, creating a sickening sound.

Furious, unable to stand idly by and watch, Gillian reached out to pull Garrick away from Holt. Before she could reach him however, strong fingers gripped her wrist. She turned, ready to reprimand whoever dared to stop her, but an angry retort died on her lips. It was Simon.

“You know better than to get between two fighting dogs,” he said.

Her gaze darted to the vase on the sideboard beside her. “Then it’s a dousing they need.”

She wrenched her arm free from Simon’s punishing grip, intent on reaching the vase and dumping the contents over the struggling men. But by the time she grasped the container and turned, the fight was over. Garrick stood by himself, his face contorted, eye-patch discarded, glaring
down at Holt with a ferocity that spelled trouble. She lowered the vase as the vicar struggled to rise from the Turkish carpet then staggered to his feet.
In the process, his waistcoat opened and a flash of silver glinted momentarily in the candlelight. Gillian dropped the vase. It landed with a crash. She opened her mouth to cry out a warning.

Garrick lurched toward Holt. Taking advantage of Garrick’s blind side, the smaller man moved quicker than expected, reaching into his coat and throwing Garrick off balance. Holt spun around and aimed a pistol at Simon.

Good God, no!
She stepped in front of Simon. He reacted quickly, attempting to push her away, but she spun around to face him just as a loud
bang
deafened her ears.

A piercing force struck her, jolting her body. She collapsed into him.

“Gillian?” Simon asked, his concern betraying his outwardly calm.

“Baroness!” several men shouted.