“Course. Splendid. Capital.”
The man gave him a dubious look before retreating. Freddie leaned over the rail and retched. Sometime later—he couldn’t begin to say how much later, as he’d spent a good portion of his time with his head over the ship’s rail—they reached Westminster. Despite the melee, they had not left their fallen comrade behind, and Sebastian went ashore to make arrangements for the body and to fetch Edwards. When he arrived, the cousins sat with their superior in a cabin adjacent to that of the American woman.
“I think you were a bit hard on the poor chit,” Sebastian said, spearing his mutton with a fork. “Her face went white as a specter when you said she’d be burned as a witch. I think she actually believed you.”
Freddie looked at his wine—a rather good merlot. He would have liked to sip it, but his stomach was still queasy. He’d ejected the whole of his insides, including several vital organs, over the rail of the ship, and he felt relatively sure nothing but his stomach itself could come up now, and at this point he wouldn’t mind losing that dashed organ, too. Bloody ships. They would be the end of him.
Freddie swallowed his nausea and pushed the wine aside. “Good. If she’s frightened, she might talk.” And the sooner he could return to his town house. The little hellion had torn the cuff of his Spanish blue tailcoat of superfine.
Edwards finished his wine and leaned back. “I think she’s told you what she knows,” he said, “but it matters not. She’ll protect Pettigru whether she believes him innocent or guilty. Her family was killed by our warships. She has no love for the English.”
Sebastian shrugged. “So what now? She’s loyal to Pettigru, and we can’t exactly lock the girl up for the duration of the war.”
“No,” Freddie agreed, though that would have been the easiest thing. She had the temper of a hellcat and could plant a facer to rival Gentleman Jackson. This was no pink and powdered Society miss.
Still, all in all, not a bad bit. Her mourning dress was not fitted properly, so he couldn’t form a good impression of her figure, but she appeared unremarkable in stature and build. If he’d looked no further, if she hadn’t spoken, he’d have dismissed her from his mind by now.
But she had spoken, and her voice was slow and lush. No one could mistake that drawl, so typical of the Southern colonies. The words rolled from her tongue leisurely, her mouth rounding on each vowel and softening every consonant. As she spoke, he could not tear his eyes away from those full lips, almost too full for her face. The black bombazine didn’t suit her coloring, but neither did it tarnish her roses-and-cream complexion or dull the sherry-colored eyes, edged by thick lashes against her ivory skin.
And still he might have dismissed her as a mere inconvenience. He’d known beautiful women. It might even be fair to say that his acquaintanceship was largely restricted to women one might classify as not only beautiful but witty and stylish in addition. But his downfall—the reason he was still thinking of the colonist—was her hair.
It was the most glorious shade of auburn he’d ever seen, swept back in a simple style without all the waved curls ladies were currently wearing about their faces. Cinnamon with a dash of gold, it was a rich, warm color he found difficult to believe was natural.
He had a weakness for ginger-pated chits. A weakness he fought valiantly to override, considering the color was dreadfully unfashionable. But all the milk-and-honey blonds and peaches-and-porcelain brunettes failed to hold his attention like a woman with fiery tresses and a temper to match.
Freddie lifted his merlot, remembered himself, and set it down again. The last thing he needed was another woman on his mind. He’d been raised in a household of women: his mother and four sisters. Growing up, Freddie could not remember a time when emotions had not run high. His sisters were always overreacting to some perceived problem or other. From an early age, Freddie had learned to control his own sentiments. He would not tolerate another emotional female weighing him down.
Edwards pulled out his pipe, lit it, and said, “Am I the only one among us who thinks Miss Burton might be useful?”
“Yes,” Freddie said slowly, afraid he knew the direction of his superior’s thoughts.
“How would she prove useful?” Sebastian asked.
Edwards puffed on his pipe, then held it aloft between thumb and forefinger. “Pettigru himself gave us the answer. He said he would come for her. We’ve watched him for months, but now he’ll be harder to find than a hare in a bramble. We could chase him all over the country, or we could let him come to us.”
“And Miss Burton is the bait?” Sebastian asked. “I like it.”
“But in the meantime, Pettigru has lists of British troops and supplies,” Freddie said. “Our national security may be compromised.”
Edwards shook his head. “The information is undecipherable using the old codes. What good are the lists if the French generals can’t understand them?”
Freddie considered this. Pettigru was a loyal American aiding the French under the assumption that a British defeat by the French on land would mean an American victory at sea. To that end, Pettigru filched the codes the British commanders used to cipher their missives to one another. He then sold them to the French army for a profit. But now the codes Wellington used had been changed and Pettigru’s information was useless.
“Pettigru will have to stay in London in order to lay his hands on the real codes,” Edwards continued. “And when he does, we’ll lure him out with Miss Burton. We’ll make her irresistible. He’ll come after her not only because she’s his friend, but because she has access to his enemy—to one of our best agents.”
Freddie stood. “Very well. How do we make Pettigru believe all that?”
Edwards smiled. “Couldn’t be simpler. In fact, all I require from you are two tiny words.”
Freddie rubbed his temple where a headache still drummed. Better and better. He wanted the whole business with Pettigru and the hellion behind him. The Season was over, but there still were many choice engagements he was missing. “Two words, eh? Good-bye?” Freddie said hopefully.
“No. Try, I do.”
SHE WAS GOING TO DIE. They’d taken Addy, George knew where, and now Charlotte was going to die alone, in the dark, and no one would ever know or care. She’d been trapped in the cabin for days—at least it seemed like days. She was hungry, cold, and scared, terrified she’d never see Addy or Charleston again. She didn’t want to die in this dank hole. She sat on the berth, resting her head on her knees, which she’d pulled close to her body for warmth. At least Dewhurst had untied her wrists. Perhaps he was not made of stone after all.
There was a distant sound of footsteps, but she did not look up. She’d heard them many times over the hours and screamed for someone to let her out, but no one had come.
Now the footsteps were louder, closer, and Charlotte lifted her head to peer into the darkness. Nothing. The men had taken the lanterns with them, and the darkness often preyed on her imagination. But as Charlotte peered into the gloom, a sliver of light and the creak of hinges made her heart race. She jumped up, tripping over her skirts as Dewhurst and Middleton entered, both carrying lanterns and followed by a servant with a tray of food.
