Of Noble Birth (35 page)

Trenton didn’t reply, but
Alexandra could feel the accusation in his stance.

“He came back here to see
me,” she said, answering her own question. “And when he arrived, I
was gone.” Alexandra shuddered to think what might have happened to
her had Nathaniel not come back for her. But she also realized that
the time he spent searching for her might very well have cost him
his life.

“We must go to Bow
Street,” she exclaimed. “We have to take a constable to see the
duke—” She started to get out of bed, but Trenton’s bitter laugh
robbed her of the energy.

“The constabulary won’t
believe us. They’d never question a man like Greystone on our word
alone. The guns are our only hope, and we have to deal with them
the right way, or the authorities will think we stole them from
somewhere else in order to entrap a powerful peer of the realm.” He
jammed his hands into his pockets. “Nathaniel said he was going to
write to the Lord High Admiral at Doctor’s Commons. I think we
should do the same.”

“But that will take
time.”

“I know. Meanwhile, we’ve
got to figure out where the duke is keeping Nathaniel and see if we
can help him.” Trenton didn’t add, “If he’s still alive,” but he
didn’t have to. The words hung in the air between them, too heavy
to be spoken and too real to be ignored.

“There must be some way of
finding out what Greystone has done with him,” Alexandra whispered.
She had to believe Nathaniel was alive. She couldn’t bear the
alternative. “The duke might have attempted to smother an infant on
the day of his birth, and he might have hired some men to run a
carriage off the road. But even Greystone couldn’t get away with
capturing a man and having him killed, could he?”

Trenton shrugged. “The
question isn’t what His Grace could get away with. It’s what
he
thinks
he
could get away with that matters.”

* * *

Nathaniel stared into the
somber face of his father’s friend and political ally, Sir John
Ballard. The duke had called the magistrate from his bed, and now,
despite the late hour, Nathaniel, Greystone, Clifton, and two of
the duke’s men stood in Ballard’s study while Sir John sat behind
his oversized desk and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“What are the charges?”
Sir John asked the duke. Evidently, the judge hadn’t taken the time
to put in his teeth. A distinctive lisp slurred his words, and his
mouth looked oddly sunken.

“Piracy.”

The magistrate’s brows
raised beneath the gray stubble of his hair that had probably been
covered by a white-powdered wig earlier in the day. “A serious
charge,” he commented. Taking up his quill, he began to scratch
something on the papers before him. “Do you have any evidence
against him?”

“Just sign it, John,”
Greystone insisted. “The details don’t matter.”

“I’ve got my own arse to
consider,” the magistrate cried.

“Then invent whatever is
necessary. Just sign the order and let’s be done here.”

Sir John’s frown deepened.
“I’ll take care of the details in the morning,” he relented. “Now,
what is it you want done with Mr. Kent? I doubt we could get away
with having him executed on my signature alone, if that’s what
you’re hoping.”

“Why not?” the duke
asked.

“Because it will incite a
great deal of interest—”

“We can’t kill him yet,”
Clifton interrupted. “He’s got an entire shipload of our cargo, and
it’s worth several thousand pounds. Send him to the hulks. Perhaps
a good long stay in such a place will make him more
cooperative.”

Nathaniel threw a
smoldering glance at his younger brother, but couldn’t move for the
two thugs who held him fast on either side. He pictured the
decaying line-of-battle ships moored on the banks of the Thames
near the royal arsenal at Woolwich. Essentially prison barges,
notorious for their poor living conditions, the hulks housed
hundreds of hardened criminals and were probably the place most
like hell on earth.

“He’ll be secure enough
there, for the time being,” Greystone added, sounding
amused.

Sir John snickered.
“Capital idea! We’ve had few escapes from Woolwich.” His quill went
back to work on the documents before him. “Most of the men there
are too sick to attempt any such thing, and the shackles are a
convincing deterrent.” He paused. “The only problem is that most of
the convicts aboard those rotting ships are awaiting deportation.
Where do you want Mr. Kent to go? Australia? Tasmania?”

“Nowhere,” the duke
returned coolly. “He might someday find his way back, and such a
surprise would be unfortunate. Sentence him to remain forever in
England, yet laying foot on English soil only to work in a heavily
guarded gang.”

Nathaniel began to
struggle, even though he felt barely strong enough to stand. He
could not allow his father to send him to the hulks. Such a
sentence was far worse than spending the rest of his life at
Newgate. Prison barges were even more rife with disease, violence,
and corruption; it was a miracle anyone survived them.

Greystone scoffed at
Nathaniel’s feeble efforts. “I’m afraid you’re in no condition to
object.”

Sir John rose from his
chair. “Take him over to the gaol. I know the gaoler. There will be
no questions asked.”

“Excellent.” The duke
smiled. “I won’t forget this little favor.”

“What are friends for?”
Sir John clapped Greystone on the back as the duke’s men dragged
Nathaniel out of the room.

When they reached the main
entry hall, Nathaniel began to shout. He hoped to rouse a servant
or a family member who might help him, but a meaty fist thudded
against his skull, and once again he saw only darkness.

* * *

At dawn Alexandra stood
outside the ornate iron gate that circled Greystone House, dressed
as a maid and carrying a tin box that contained everything she
owned in the world. She couldn’t see anything beyond the plethora
of windows that winked at her in the early sunshine, reflecting the
trees in the yard, the small lawn in front, and the fashionable
square across the street with its flowers and cherry trees, but she
hoped to find something that would lead her to
Nathaniel.

After taking a moment to
gather her nerve, she lifted the latch and forced her feet to move
along the flagstone path that approached the house, then veered off
to circle behind. Not knowing whether the marquess would deem her
friend or foe, should he see her, left her frightened and more than
a little nervous. He knew she had been captured against her will.
Had he discerned the softening of her heart toward the pirate
captain?

At the back door, she met
two tradesmen carrying daily supplies. The butcher drove a high
dogcart and was busily engaged with a woman Alexandra assumed, from
her dress and manner, to be Greystone’s housekeeper. The baker was
just leaving. Carrying bread in a large basket covered with a white
cloth, he called, “See you Monday week, Mrs. Wright.”

Alexandra remained silent
until they had concluded their business, then stepped forward when
the butcher drove away.

“Who are you?” A hardy
woman with shoulders the width of a man’s, and hands that were
almost as callused, the housekeeper regarded her with frank
appraisal.

“I’ve come to see Lady
Anne,” Alexandra told her. “Has she returned from
Scotland?”

The housekeeper’s brows
rose as shrewd eyes swept over Alexandra’s plain dress and apron.
“Aye, she’s back. But what business would she have with the likes
of you?”

Alexandra cleared her
throat. “It’s personal,” she said, trying to ignore the anxiety
churning in her stomach. Afraid the housekeeper would dismiss her
if she didn’t explain, she added, “I’ve come to replace something I
took. Tell your mistress I’m the seamstress who was supposed to fix
the dress her mother gave her. We met in Manchester. I’ll wait here
until she wakes.”

Alexandra set her tin box
on the ground and sat on top of it.

The look of skepticism
didn’t change on Mrs. Wright’s face, but she said, “It’ll only be a
minute. Lady Anne’s up already.”

She went inside, leaving
Alexandra to chew her lip in agitation. How would Nathaniel’s half
sister receive her? In light of their last meeting, Lady Anne could
just as easily have her thrown into gaol as hire her as a maid. But
Alexandra knew of no better way to find Nathaniel. She could only
hope her and Trenton’s plan would work.

A moment later, Mrs.
Wright poked her head through the door. “Come inside. Lady Anne
will see you in the sitting room.”

Alexandra followed the
housekeeper through the anteroom of a large kitchen and into the
kitchen itself. A stove sat in one corner, flanked by a huge brick
hearth. Utensils hung from pegs along the wall. Copper pots dangled
above a large deal table. Several baskets littered the floor. One
was filled with fresh eggs, another with carrots just out of the
ground.

A green baize door
separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. Mrs. Wright
charged through it, and Alexandra hurried behind, amazed at the
opulence that suddenly surrounded her: drawing rooms, parlors,
sitting rooms, music rooms, and libraries furnished with silk and
cashmere draperies that puddled on the floor; doors carved from
exotic hardwoods; carpets from Smyrna and Madras. An impressive
wide stairway wound its way up to the second floor, where several
Aubusson tapestries hung on the wall.

They stopped at a set of
double doors off a large, vaulted entry. Mrs. Wright knocked, then
motioned for Alexandra to follow her inside.

Lady Anne sat at a desk,
wearing a pale blue Louis XV-style dress with a jacket-bodice and
tabbed skirt. A Bible was open in front of her. She looked up as
they entered—and frowned.

“There you are,” she said,
her voice indignant. “Where is my gown?”

Alexandra stared at her
shoes. “I’m sorry, my lady. The dress is ruined.”

“Ruined! I should have
guessed as much. Is that why you’re here? To tell me you ruined the
gown my mother gave me?”

“No.” Alexandra glanced
up. “I came to see if I could make up for its loss. You see, I
never meant to steal it—”

Lady Anne waved her words
away, the look on her face softening. “The fact that you’re here
tells me that. Besides, I heard the fuss your stepfather made after
you ran off. I can hardly blame you for leaving. Sometimes I wish I
had as much nerve.” She glanced pensively back at the fire before a
hesitant smile claimed her lips. “You caused quite an uproar. Mr.
Calvert was beside himself. Really, between him and that father of
yours, the entertainment was almost worth the loss of my
dress.”

Alexandra nearly chuckled
at the picture Lady Anne’s words created in her mind—a flustered
Mr. Calvert, a duke’s daughter standing in her shift, her dress
gone, and Willy raging about his money—only she feared Lady Anne
might interpret her mirth as insincerity. “I’d like to repay you,
my lady. I have no money, but I’ll work off whatever figure you
deem fair.”

“As a housemaid?” Lady
Anne’s voice rose in surprise as her eyes marked Alexandra’s
attire. “But you’re a seamstress.”

“I realize I have no
experience as a servant, but I’d like the chance to learn.”
Alexandra swallowed, feeling a twinge of guilt at her duplicity.
She had chosen the role of maid only because, should Lady Anne take
her on, it would allow her access to the house and its staff, and
bring her into frequent contact with the duke.

“How difficult can it be?”
Lady Anne shrugged, glancing at Mrs. Wright. “Surely you can teach
her.”

The housekeeper nodded.
“If you’d like, m’lady.”

Nathaniel’s half sister
glanced back at her Bible. “Yes, I’d like that. A woman with so
much pluck would be an asset to any house, and the Good Book says
we’re to forgive, doesn’t it? You’d have to work several years to
pay for such a dress on a maid’s wages, but I’ll be content with
one. Are you agreeable?”

Alexandra curtseyed. “Yes,
my lady.”

“Good.” She turned to the
housekeeper. “Make room for her in the attic.”

Mrs. Wright led Alexandra
back to the kitchen and from there up a tall, narrow staircase to a
small attic.

“You’ll sleep here,” the
housekeeper informed her. “Put your trunk on that bed. You’ll have
to unpack later.”

Alexandra deposited her
box on a worn quilt thrown over the top of an iron bedstead. Hers
was one of three beds that lined the wall; a fourth was next to the
only window on the opposite side. A spotted mirror hung above each
cot, and a chest of drawers sat between them on bare floorboards. A
chipped washbasin occupied the end of the room; next to it sat a
chamber pot.

“The position of housemaid
normally pays eighteen pounds a year,” Mrs. Wright said as she
turned back to the stairs and motioned for Alexandra to follow her.
“Time off will consist of one full day each month and one afternoon
a week, beginning at three
p.m.
You might be working for nothing, but at least
you’ll have a roof over your head and food in your
stomach.”