Sea of Fire (3 page)

He glanced up to see Hannah enter the parlor carrying a well-filled glass of brandy, which she handed to him. “How is she?” he asked, accepting the drink.

“The powder put her to sleep all right. Poor child. I guess I would assume the worst, too, if I read what she told me the note said. Yet, it doesn’t necessarily mean Mr. Corry is dead. Do ye think?”

“Hannah, I don’t know what to think. My brother’s actions are strange, to say the least, and don’t fit his character, but I know he wrote this. I’ll just have to find him.” He swallowed a large gulp of the brandy.

“Thanks for the drink. You could have thrown me out as Elizabeth suggested you do.”

“Regardless of what yer brother may have said, he don’t strike me that same way.”

He gave her a weak smile at the offhanded compliment to his brother. What had his brother Adam done? True, he had been extremely despondent since the death of his wife a year ago, but Christian never thought he’d go to the extreme he apparently had. If only he could find him and sit him down and talk to him. He was sure there was a valid explanation for everything.

“Can you tell me anything at all you remember about Adam?” he asked, “especially the last night when he called on Elizabeth.”

“He was always a gentleman, but we never struck up any lengthy conversations, though the two spent most of their time here, or with Charlotte Godfrey and her friends. As far as I know, nothing unusual happened the last night she saw him.” She paused and placed her hands on her hips. “That is, unless ye mean his asking her to marry him.”

The statement brought him to his feet. “Bloody hell. The situation is getting worse by the minute.”

“Elizabeth Louise Corry is a prize for any man, and don’t ye be forgetting it. I think ‘tis time ye did take yer leave.” Hannah defended Elizabeth.

“It’s not what I meant at all. It’s just that none of this makes sense. My brother left our estates in North Ireland to come to Dublin to secure a structure that would be appropriate for an orphanage. I’ve learned that no one has seen him in the last two months except Elizabeth and her friends.” He took another swallow of brandy, set the glass down on a side table and put on his coat to leave.

“What are ye going to do?” Hannah asked. She followed him from the parlor.

“I don’t know. Right now, I’m going back to our family town house to think about all this. I’ll call on Elizabeth again in a day or so. Hopefully, she will have calmed down and will remember some detail that will enable me to locate my brother.”

“Aye,” Hannah agreed. “Maybe if ye find Adam ye’ll obtain more information on her da.”

He pursed his lips. “I expect to do just that. In the meanwhile, here’s my card. If you think of anything, please send word to me.” He placed his hat atop his head and saw himself out the front entryway.

* * * *

Elizabeth, though still dressed in her day clothes from earlier, shivered from the cold chill in the air and instantly lay still on her bed in the darkness. She sensed someone was in her room only seconds before a hand clamped over her mouth and face. She struggled against the act and tried to scream, but her voice failed her.

“I’m going to remove my hand,” her assailant whispered. He kept her pinned to the bed. “If you call for help or raise your voice, I’ll run the tip of this along your throat. Understand?”

Even in the dark of her bedchamber, the metal from the dagger threateningly gleamed before her. She nodded. He released his hand from her mouth.

The man rummaged through a chest of drawers near the bed with his free hand while he guarded her with the knife in the other.

He wore a black cloth mask over his eyes and nose like one would wear for a masquerade. He was dressed as a mariner, yet he smelled more of tobacco than fish or the sea.

“Tell me where the molds are and I’ll be gone,” he ordered, in a smooth, cultured voice that hardly fit his appearance.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she truthfully answered.

“Need some encouragement, do you?” The man abruptly turned on her. He waved his dagger dangerously close to her face. “The molds. The dies. Whatever. You know.”

“Nay. I speak the truth. What? What molds?”

“Don’t lie to me.” The man yanked her by the arm from where she sat, now fully upright on the bed, and pulled her to him. He pressed the tip of the knife into her cheek enough to nick her.

She let out a cry. He clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Shut up! The blade barely touched you, but let it be a warning. I mean to have them. Don’t fool with me, wench. The day before yesterday, I saw Roderick’s assistant put them in the drawstring bag you carried.”

Despite the darkness in her bedchamber, her eyes quickly adjusted to it. She turned her head towards the corner of the room where her reticule sat on a wing chair near the heavily draped window. Some of its contents were thrown on the floor. The silk, three-paneled screen she sometimes changed behind lay collapsed on the other side of the chair.

Her intruder, who watched her closely, said, “I already checked the bag.”

“Please,” she said. “Check everything in this room. In fact, I’ll help you. What do these molds look like? Are they silver, decorative pieces, or actually used for baking?”

The man pushed her from him. He studied her for a moment before he kicked a small, but thankfully empty chamber pot on the floor near the foot of the bed. Next instant, he cringed at his error and the noise the chamber pot made as it tumbled across the room. “You stupid wench. You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

She shook her head, relieved that the man believed her, yet uncertain what he might do because she knew nothing about the molds or dies.

“I’m not through with you,” her intruder said and grabbed for her wrist.

She tried in vain to pull away from him, but knew it was no use. Her pulse rate doubled. She feared this man would either beat or rape her. As quick as she was to react to his grasp, she calmed herself, deciding it might surprise him if she cooperated, thereby giving her the smallest advantage, whatever it might be.

Instead, her assailant raised his dagger as if to strike her. Reflexively, she backed away.

“I’ll not harm you unless you cross me, and I don’t prey on the innocent. I’ve learned having the advantage is easier. Now lead me to the front entryway. Unlike my arrival where I had to let myself inside when the old woman wasn’t watching, I think I’d like an escort this time. Move.”

She stepped towards the closed door to her bedchamber when the man stopped her.

“Wait. Who else is in the house besides the old woman?”

“No one, but my governess and myself,” she answered.

The man was a bit of a dimwit to just now be worried about others.

“What about your father?”

“You know my father?” she asked, surprised and at once mindful of the note she received that implied he was dead.

“Everyone on the wrong side of the law has heard of Edward Corry, alias Corry the Cold-hearted. The son of a bitch never lets up. He never bends the law, and favors the smallest crime to be punishable by death.”

He could have pierced her heart with the knife, for the shock and pain from his words she now experienced surely was the same.

“You are mistaken. My father is a kind and gentle man.”

“To you maybe, lassie, but a crueler magistrate, I’ve never known. Now tell me. Is he here?”

She shook her head. Her heart was heavy with fear, but not for herself. If her father was as this criminal spoke, Adam’s note would be understandable.

“If he is as cruel as you say, which I doubt,” she defended Edward Corry despite her negative thoughts, “then why don’t the criminals quit breaking the law?”

“I’ve wasted too much time on you as it is. The sun will be up in an hour or so. Move.”

She wanted to find out more from this man, but understood that to pursue her line of questioning would only anger him.

With him close behind her, she opened the bedchamber door and stepped out into the dark passageway. She prayed Hannah would not hear them.

“Walk quickly,” he ordered in a whisper.

She did so. In a few moments they stood at the bottom of the staircase before the entryway that led outside. “Open the door,” he commanded again, still closely guarding her. Again, she obeyed.

He backed his way out the door. His hip accidentally bumped the wood and brass stand which held her father’s walking sticks. Instinctively, he jerked and caught the stand with his free hand before it toppled and could make any further noise.

“Don’t tell the authorities about this little episode,” he hurriedly whispered. “I’ll know if you do, and I’ll return. Only I won’t treat you as gentlemanly as this, next time.”

He slipped out into the early morning darkness.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared after him until he disappeared, trying to make sense from what happened.

Finally, she shut the door and hurried to the dining room. On the sideboard sat the drum-shaped, silver teapot she had brought home with her two days ago. A tiny hole had formed near the spout, so she had taken it for repair to the family silversmith shop of her best friend, Charlotte. One of the assistants had carefully wrapped it in silk cloth and placed it in her reticule. It wasn’t until she returned home and set the teapot on the sideboard that she realized it was heavier. Still, she was in a hurry, and it simply hadn’t dawned on her that it might not be her teapot.

She also thought nothing about the assistant’s comment about a teapot similar to hers was in for repair as well. Many households owned the same silver pot, as it was a classic style that had failed to change over the years. New ones could hardly be distinguished from the older silver teapots save for the actual date engraved on the pot itself or the date letter or the maker’s mark on the bottom of the thick round base.

Now, she lifted the pot to examine the base and instantly determined by the maker’s mark that the teapot was not the same as the one her mother had purchased when she was small. This teapot was only a few years old. Yet, even if that had not been the case, and the pots had been the same age, the spout showed no signs of repair. Someone unaware of a repair would never have noticed, but the owner would.

Molds. Dies. Her intruder believed she possessed something of this sort. At first it truly hadn’t occurred to her what he was talking about, but after a few moments, she understood. She had talked with Charlotte enough to know that it would be easy for any silversmith to make the dies to counterfeit coins. Charlotte never condoned such a practice and led Elizabeth to believe that her brother Roderick didn’t either.

She silently thanked the Lord that the intruder had accepted her silly reply about baking molds and had believed her innocent—for she truly had been unaware of any such dies in her reticule. Why would he think so, though? A teapot hardly looked similar to anything that dies for coins would be made from. She placed the teapot on the dining room table, withdrew one of the chairs from around it, and seated herself. She stared at the object a few moments, but the only thoughts that formed were about her father.

She sighed. The note from Adam hadn’t actually said he was dead. Yet, what else could “disposed” of mean? She wanted to believe he was still alive. Put it from your mind lest you break down, she told herself and tried to focus on the teapot, but images of her father returned. He kept his work so much a secret. She hardly could believe he was referred to as cold-hearted. The intruder must have confused him with someone else. Edward Corry never so much as spoke poorly about a soul—not even her mother, though no one would blame him if he did so. Her father never talked about it, but when she was ten years old she overheard her mother tell him she loved someone else. The next day she left without so much as a good-bye to her.

Please father, be all right. Don’t leave me, too.

“Elizabeth?”

“Hannah. Is it sunrise already?”

“In about an hour or so. What are ye doing, cracker? I’ll make ye some tea. Ye don’t have to do it.” Hannah grabbed the teapot from the table. “Sweet Mary, what did they do to this? It feels like ‘tis several pounds heavier?”

“I thought so too,” Elizabeth said, intentionally not mentioning it wasn’t the same pot.

“Why did Adam betray me, Hannah?”

“I don’t know, Bethy,” Hannah answered sadly.

“It’s all my doing, you know.”

“What is, child?”

“Adam tricked me into telling him father’s schedule. Now father’s gone.” She rested her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands, trying hard not to fall apart. Until she saw a body, she’d remain positive her father was still alive.

“Nonsense,” Hannah waved her off. “Don’t fret, Elizabeth. The gentleman who was here yesterday, Adam’s brother, Christian, wants to find Adam as much as we both want your da to return. He left his card. ‘Tis in the porcelain dish on the table near the front entryway.”

“That man! He wants to find Adam for his own purpose. He is probably involved too and knows exactly whether my father is alive or not.” She abruptly stood.

Hannah said, “The man thinks his brother may have taken ill, or suffered a memory lapse. He said this was odd behavior for his brother.”

Elizabeth frowned. Her brow puckered in doubt.

“Don’t ye be looking at me that way, Bethy. I go by the gut, and I believe the man. If ye can tell him anything at all, do so. He agreed with my thinking that if he found Adam, he’d find answers about yer da.”

“Sounds like the two of you have become cohorts. Well, my gut doesn’t give me the same feeling. I don’t trust the man. How do we know he truly is Adam’s brother? He doesn’t resemble him. Even so, my opinion of Adam is hardly high now. I’ll not trust the likes of either of those Traynors.”

“All I’m saying is, perhaps Christian Traynor can help us. You said Adam’s note warned that to call the authorities would make matters worse. What else can ye do?”

“I’ll make a decision, Hannah, but first I want to relax in a hot bath. Please bring up some water.”

“Ye want me to make ye some tea, too?”