The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,87
first possible train back to London so I can reach my friends. I can’t stay with the boat.”
“We’re back to the beginning, honey: The rifles will have a decent burial at sea.”
Even so, St. Arles could follow them, hoping to regain his box of tricks, and revenge himself on Portia in the process.
Gareth could escort her and make damn sure the brute didn’t lay hands on her again. But that meant drawing close, far closer than he’d ever dared before, to home and family, everything he didn’t deserve and couldn’t have. Everything that sent him back outside with the wind, where it was safe, or at least less dangerous.
No matter how many of her family’s men were on that boat with her, they wouldn’t be willing to die for her.
“I’ll come with you,” Gareth said.
“To London?” Her voice rose.
“All the way to England,” he affirmed, putting his neck in the noose.
“Thank you, Gareth!” Tears welled up in her eyes until they sparkled like diamonds.
HMS Phidaleia rolled hard, jolted, and twirled in the opposite direction like a Cockney flower girl pretending she still possessed her virginity. A man’s voice rose from below decks, cursing his once-neat equipment.
Waves smacked against her sides, promising a long, bitterly uncomfortable night. Thank God the charts for these waters were younger than the Christian Church and showed every lee shore where a ship might run aground, given these high winds.
St. Arles dropped the telescope down to his side, enjoying the salt spray crystallizing on his hair and wool coat. For a few minutes, he could pretend he was at home, no matter how bad the news was.
As he’d suspected, the silly little house contained no traces of his former wife and her paramour. Or new husband, to give him due credit for an English wedding, at least.
He still needed the damn chest with its rifles and cartridges to create a puppet Sultan. And the sooner the better, too, for both Britain and himself.
“What do you want, St. Arles?” Southers asked.
“Can you see the American yacht which just got underway?”
“Very pretty lines,” the British captain commented, “but she’s having a hard time of it, with this sea.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“True, we’re all fighting the wind. But she’s cutting very close to the Asian side, rather than staying more toward the center of the channel.”
A bit of over-caution which would give him time to catch up with her. Of course, British ships didn’t have to worry about coming close to Chiragan Palace’s bloody-fingered jailers.
“I want you to put me aboard her.”
“Unnoticed, St. Arles?”
“Of course.”
“A little tricky, given the full moon and these sea conditions, but I’m sure the lads will consider it a pleasant break from the recent monotony. What else?”
Life held few pleasures greater than rejoining the Royal Navy, even for a few minutes.
“I will create a distraction and then signal for assistance. At that time, I want two men to come aboard and assist me in taking off the chest lashed down behind the aft wheelhouse. Do you see it?”
“The large oak one, old chap, with black bands?” Southers fiddled with his own spyglass for a moment before nodding with satisfaction. “Yes, of course, the lads will be ready the instant you need them.”
“Thank you, Southers.” He’d have to give the young captain a longer mention than planned for this assistance in his despatches back home, possibly even enough for a medal. Damn. But it would be worth it, to regain the rifles—and ruin the bitch’s happiness.
“Good luck, St. Arles.” For an instant, Southers’ voice darkened to a warning note deeper than the wind’s hungry howl.
St. Arles’s eyes flickered then he shrugged off the comparison as nursery rhymes’ rubbish. He had far more important matters to think about, such as how best to destroy his ex-wife’s new marriage.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The Naiad hit another wave and jounced before settling back on course. Crockery rattled as if all the fiends of hell were trying to escape their bounds. The gas lamp swung, bouncing its light through a blinding arc of reflections.
Portia’s stomach leaped for her mouth, somersaulted, and started to slowly settle.
The steward lifted a cup of hot tea off his tray, moving as carefully as if he were gliding over hot coals. In the same instant, the yacht jolted and rolled again, restarting the hellacious racket.
“I believe I need a bit of night air,” she said firmly, to the world as much as to herself, “to refresh myself.”