Wicked at Heart (17 page)

"My sister
can be very persuasive when she wants to be," Rhiannon chirped, slipping a
piece of her scone to the dog who waited patiently at her feet.  "But you
have to admit, she gets the job done.  And what do you think of her dress, my
lord?  Doesn't she look pretty today?"

"Rhiannon,"
Gwyneth warned.

Morninghall's
eyes warmed, and if she did not know him better, Gwyneth would've sworn that
there was a teasing twinkle in those arresting depths.  "I would like to
say the yellow suits her and  she looks quite charming.  I would like to say
she looks gentle and sweet, fairer than any of these flowers that surround her
in this garden, but since her fingers are tightening around her spoon, and I
already know what damage she can do with flying projectiles, I think I shall
refrain from making any comment whatsoever."

"But my
lord!" Rhiannon cried happily as Gwyneth went as red as her flowers,
"you have just
made
your comment!  What a clever man you are. 
Don't you think he's clever, Gwyn?"

"I think
I'm still gripping that 'flying projectile,' Rhia, and that you have as much
cause to fear it as does our esteemed
guest
."

"Don't
listen to her, my lord," Rhiannon said, airily waving a hand.  "She
hates it when I play matchmaker."

"And do you
do so often?"

"Oh, no. 
Gwyneth does not have time to think about finding a new husband.  She never
speaks of anyone — well, she didn't until you came along, that is — and seldom allows
gentlemen to call on her or take her out.  You're the first one she's taken
this much of an interest in since William died, and a fine choice she's made —
" the girl giggled shyly — "I mean, Gwyneth told me you were
handsome, but I had no idea you were
this
handsome, and Gwyneth
could
do much worse than to chose a marquess for her next husband —"

The tea Damon
had just sipped exited his mouth on a violent expulsion.  He grabbed for his
napkin, choking.

"Rhiannon!"
Gwyneth cried, mortified.  "His Lordship and I barely know how to be nice
to each other.  I can assure you that marriage, of all things, is the very
last
thing on either of our minds."

"Yes, your
sister and I were just discussing how much we abhor each other's company,"
Morninghall added, recovering himself.

"Detest
it."

"Loathe
it."

"Simply
cannot tolerate it."

Rhiannon sipped
her tea, unfazed.  "Funny," she said, "for two people who
profess to hate each other, you both have awfully big smiles on your
faces."

Morninghall's
disappeared immediately.

Gwyneth looked
down at her half-eaten scone, her face blazing.

It was
Morninghall who finally broke the awkward silence.  He got to his feet, setting
his teacup down on the table.  "Duty calls.  I'm afraid I have business in
town that cannot wait.  Thank you for tea.  Good day, Miss Evans.  Lady
Simms."

He turned his
back and all but ran to the door.

"I shall
expect to see you tomorrow afternoon, my lord," Gwyneth called, cupping a
hand to the side of her mouth.  "We have that date with the clothing
contractor, remember?"

"Of course. 
Two o'clock."

"Three."

"Two, or
not at all," he snapped, and with that he moved past a cowering Sophie and
disappeared into the house.  Moments later a door slammed in the front of the
house, and the garden was quiet once more.

In the lingering
stillness Rhiannon shut her eyes and settled back in her chair.  Gwyneth, still
looking at the door through which the marquess had passed, let out her pent up
breath.  She looked at her sister, not knowing whether to throttle or praise
her.

"Rhiannon —"

The girl
blushed.  "You were right, Gwyn.  He was positively . . .
magnificent
."

Chapter
10

Toby Ashton sat
listlessly on the lower deck, his Transport Office clothing hanging in sweaty
tatters off his bones.  The air was so hot and soupy that it cost him precious
energy just to draw it into his lungs.  He did not know what day it was.  He
did not know what time it was.  Neither mattered anymore, for Nathan was back
in the Hole, Connor was gone, and their steely determination had been all that
had kept him going.  Now all he had left were his memories of home and the
miniature of his mother that hung from a grimy chain around his neck.

And gnawing
hunger.

Even hope had
deserted him.  He drew his knees up to his chest and leaned his head against
the curve of the hull, too weak, too tired to do anything but wish for the only
thing he
could
wish for and expect to receive — death.

The sounds of
everyday life aboard the prison ship surrounded him.  Most of the prisoners —
some of the
Raffalés
excepted — occupied their time and minds with
various professions and trades, charging one sou for an hour-long lesson of
dancing, fencing, math, or languages.  Their more noisy compatriots marched up
and down the battery like a pack of gypsies at a village fair, trying to sell
the clothing off their backs, even the space where they slung their hammocks,
for money to spend on gambling.  Fifteen feet away a group of Frenchmen were
singing bawdily in a language Toby didn't even care to understand, and through
this melee he caught the endless back-and-forth tread of the guards' feet on
the deck above.  He stared sightlessly into the gloom.  The ceaseless din of
the ship was as much a part of his existence as the constant hunger, the heat,
the stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies, the vaporous fumes that passed for
air.

Closing his
eyes, he put his hand to his throat and gently stroked the miniature's surface,
quiet tears of grief slipping down his wan and sunken cheeks.

He hoped the
French prisoners wouldn't notice.  They were an ill-mannered lot, as cruel and
vicious as a pack of childhood bullies, and if they saw him crying . . .   Toby
wiped his face on his sleeve as inconspicuously as possible.  Without Connor
and Nathan to defend him, the bullies had resorted to ridiculing him about his
weight, his meekness, and for not eating the rats they laughingly tried to cram
down his throat.  Although the American prisoners had tried to defend him,
their energies were usually spent in devising a new method of escape, and they
could not be everywhere at once.

If only
Nathan were out of the Hole.  If only Connor would come and rescue them.

Toby huddled
into a ball, the miniature hidden in his hand lest one of the French prisoners
see it and rip it right off his neck.  So miserable was he that he didn't even
notice the commotion near the hatch, until the mass of milling, shouting
prisoners began to shove backward, coming in his direction.

He dragged his
head up, shoving the cracked spectacles back up his nose.  Yes, it was
definitely coming his way, the excited chatter of French voices growing louder
and louder.

Had someone been
released?

Had that
someone been Nathan?

He thrust the
miniature down beneath his shirt and half-rose, peering through the milling
bodies, steadying himself on a knife-carved bench and hoping against hope.  He
shoved a greasy swatch of hair out of his eyes and stared desperately. 
Survivors of the Black Hole always got a hero's welcome back among the other
prisoners.  Could it be Nathan, released prematurely? 
Oh God, please, let
it be Nathan!

He got to his
feet just as Jack Clayton, one of the guards, thrust through the milling
throng, a lantern held high and his eyes sweeping the gloomy depths.

"Toby
Ashton?  I'm lookin' for Toby Ashton!"  Clayton, a murky form in the
gloom, was stooped nearly double, swinging his head this way and that like a
giant, lumbering bear.  "Ye down here, lad?"

Hope fled, and
fear tingled through Toby's blood like tiny crystals of ice.

Something had
happened to Nathan.

One of the
Frenchman bullied his way to the forefront of the oncoming crowd.

"There he
is, hiding in ze corner!  I'll get him for you!"

It was Armand
Moret, one of Toby's most virulent tormenters.  He grabbed Jack Clayton's
sleeve, his beady, black eyes dancing excitedly, his mad grin showing a
mouthful of broken teeth, most of which had been lost in the fights he and his
kind staged nearly every night in order to have something on which to bet.

Toby shrank back
against the hull but there was no escape.  Armand lunged forward and yanked him
brutally toward the guard, snapping his neck and making his teeth slam
together.  A piece of the filthy old shirt tore off with a dull shriek. 
Laughing, Armand tossed the scrap aside as Toby jerked the torn shirt up to
cover his chest — and the miniature that was now frightfully exposed to
Armand's greedy eyes.  But Armand had not seen it.  He grabbed Toby's arm, his
bony fingers sinking like claws into his flesh, and shoved him violently toward
the guard.

Toby tripped and
landed in a heap at the guard's boots.  His chin smashed painfully against the
damp deck, knocking the breath from out of him and sending his spectacles
skidding away.

A large, beefy
hand caught him beneath his shoulder and hauled him to his feet.  Wiping the
sudden flow of warm blood from his chin, Toby looked up, chin quivering in the
effort to contain his tears.

"Come with
me," Clayton growled, retrieving Toby's spectacles and pushing him toward
the hatch.

Dread coursed
through him.  "My brother —"

"Move."

Toby shot a
fearful glance at the guard and began to walk.  The planking was sticky and hot
beneath his bare feet, and the low overhead deck only added to the feeling of
suffocation.  Sweat broke out of every grimy pore, trickled down his back.  The
filthy rags clung to him, scraping against the inside of his thighs and skinny
arms.  He forced his head up, staring straight ahead and clutching the tattered
shirt at his throat to hide the tiny painting of his mother.  Leering faces
filled his view, swimming out of the gloom.  Taunts and inhuman screeches met
his ears, and someone stuck a foot out, trying to trip him, before falling
back, laughing.

Jack Clayton
wheezed in the acrid gloom just behind him, hurrying him along.

The hatch to the
upper deck loomed just ahead, hazy with the light coming down from above.  Toby
stopped, looking fearfully around at the guard.

"Go on
up."

Swallowing his terror
—
why have they summoned me?  Nathan, Nathan, please God, let him be all
right!
— Toby scampered up the filthy ladder, one hand still holding his
shirt closed and the other clutching each step to maintain his balance.  By
degrees the cloying heat of below began to slacken and cool, fresh air, alien
to his starved senses, swept against his face.  He looked up at the rectangle
of light above him and saw wispy, feathery clouds moving across a pastel blue
sky.

And then the
awful premonition hit him.

He froze, unable
to take those final steps onto the deck to confront the terrible scene he knew
he would find.  Connor had come to rescue Nathan and had failed, and both were
lying dead on the mudflats.  The Black Wolf was no more, and the final hope was
gone.  And now the guard was forcing him topside to make him look —

Toby couldn't
move.

Clayton's knee
thumped into his arse, hard, spilling Toby out onto the deck and breaking the
moment of paralyzed horror.  He landed on his hands and knees, slivers of the
deck impaling his palms, and looked up to see stumpy masts rising dizzily above
him, a line of laundry fluttering between them.  Clayton's musket prodded him
in the backside, and gasping, Toby scampered to his feet.

He ran to the
rail before anybody could stop him.

"
Nathan!
"

He stopped,
clutching the rail, the wind ruffling his grubby hair.

Beyond the
harbor the mudflats stretched before him, a flat, marshy ribbon on which only a
few gulls picked, their heads bobbing as they trod the grime and filth that
rimmed the high-tide line.

There were no
bloated bodies on those flats.

No Connor, no
Nathan.

Nothing but
seabirds and rippled sand scored by the waves.

Toby fell to his
knees and covered his face, sobbing with relief.

Clayton was
behind him.  "Get up."

He hauled
himself to his feet, gulping in great draughts of the fresh, sweet air, the
very strangeness of it making him want to wretch.  It was too much, too soon. 
He clutched his stomach and, eyes watering in the hazy sunshine, stared up at
the guard.

"My brother
—"

"In the
Hole."  The guard reached out and yanked Toby away from the rail.

"Then why
was I brought . . ."

"His
Lordship want t' see ye."

Toby had no idea
who "His Lordship" was, but the look on the guard's face and the
severe tone of his voice boded ill.  Bravely he tried to smooth his repellent
clothing, determined to conduct himself in a way that would make his brothers
and father proud . . . until he realized the guard was shoving him aft, towards
the captain's cabin.

"Oh no ye
don't," the big man growled, blocking Toby's escape route with his
musket.  "I've about had all I can take from the likes of ye, boy.  Now
get yer arse moving, and don't stop 'til yer beyond that door, ye hear
me?"

Cold terror
washed through Toby.  He had heard the stories about the new captain, how he
was so terrible that he'd made the pretty English lady faint when she came
aboard the ship yesterday, that he was so ruthless some men were faking
illnesses so they'd get transferred off HMS
Surrey
and onto the port's
hospital ship.

And he had heard
that Armand and his friends were already plotting to murder him if the
prisoners' beer rations were not increased.