The Captain Claims His Lady. ANNIE BURROWS
Captain Harry Bretherton ducked his head as he entered the waterfront tavern and ran his eyes swiftly over the occupants of the low-ceilinged, smoky taproom. He hoped that none of his former crew members were drinking here on this dank October night. For the meeting being held in the back room was supposed to be a secret.
Grinding his teeth, he strode through the room that swarmed with dockers and sailors, wondering what on earth the Marquess of Rawcliffe had been thinking, arranging to hold his meeting here, of all places. He certainly hadn’t been living up to his nickname of Zeus, the all-knowing, not by a long chalk.
He’d even picked the most memorable of his footmen to stand guard at the door to the back room. Though Kendall was wearing a drab coat and slouch hat, he still managed to look every inch the footman to a marquess.
Harry looked the man straight in the eye as he drew near, wishing he knew exactly what orders Zeus had given him. If it came to a fight, he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to get past Kendall. The footman was over six feet tall and extremely muscular, as well as being utterly loyal to his employer. And it had been a long time since Harry had been in his best form.
He’d just have to hope he could bluff his way past.
‘Good evening, Kendall,’ he said, in what he hoped looked like a confident manner.
‘Wasn’t expecting you here tonight, sir.’
No. He wouldn’t. Zeus had arranged the whole affair with Ulysses without consulting him, let alone inviting him to take part. If he hadn’t overheard a couple of conversations between Lady Rawcliffe and Lady Becconsall, he might never have discovered what their husbands had been planning.
Behind his back.
‘Only had orders to let three naval officers in, sir,’ Kendall explained, a touch defensively. Harry drew himself up to his full height and lifted his chin slightly, utilising the single inch he had over Kendall to its full effect. There weren’t many men the footman had to, literally, look up at.
‘Three other officers, besides myself,’ Harry improvised quickly, ‘I dare say that was what His Lordship meant.’
‘Oh, I see, sir.’ Kendall looked relieved. But then he wouldn’t have wanted to test his strength against a man who’d been a guest in his employer’s home, any more than Harry had wished to start a struggle that would probably have escalated into a full-scale brawl within seconds. He might be an officer, but he was navy. And Kendall clearly wasn’t. The man had never looked more like a footman than when he opened the door to let Harry past.
Having successfully cleared the first hurdle, Harry stepped into the back room.
The four men who were seated round the sticky, blackened table went quiet. Zeus, who was at the head, made his feelings about Harry’s presence known by narrowing his eyes and thinning his lips.
By way of reply, Harry looked at each of the other men seated at the table in turn, before training his eyes on Zeus and raising his eyebrows.
These were the men Rawcliffe deemed acceptable to carry out the investigation into the murder of their former schoolfriend? A drunkard, a bully and an inveterate gambler? Personally, Harry wouldn’t trust any of them any further than he could throw them. Which wouldn’t be all that far, these days.
Rawcliffe met his expression of disbelief with one of bland defiance. Their staring match might have gone on indefinitely, had not Captain Hambleton drained his tankard, slammed it down on the table and belched.
At which point, Rawcliffe wrenched his gaze away from Harry and shot Captain Hambleton an expression of disdain so cold it practically sent a sheet of frost across the tabletop.
Captain Hambleton met that icy gaze with the kind of aplomb that came naturally to a man who’d spent years honing it under fire. ‘Are you going to carry on informing us about the service you wish one of us to perform on your behalf, my lord, or are we waiting on anyone else?’
Harry made the most of the opportunity Captain Hambleton had unwittingly provided, to pull up a chair, sit down on it and fold his arms across his chest.
‘I may as well proceed,’ said Rawcliffe, with resignation, having looked at each of the men now sitting round his table with varying degrees of repugnance. ‘You already know that the service I require from whichever of you I choose is not for the faint-hearted, or squeamish. I made that perfectly clear when I approached each one of you. The task will necessitate acting in a way that many...’ he turned briefly in Harry’s direction, his eyelids lowering fractionally ‘...would consider dishonourable. If that perturbs any of you, then I urge you to leave now, before I make my final selection.’
Nobody moved. But then none of the other men had all that many scruples. Lieutenant Nateby was a brute, renowned for flogging men under his command on the flimsiest pretext. Lieutenant Thurnham was so deep under the hatches, because of his addiction to gambling, that he was willing to do just about anything to stay out of debtor’s prison. And as for Captain Hambleton, Harry rather thought his conscience had long since been pickled in alcohol.
‘Just how do you plan on making your final selection,’ Harry challenged him, ‘from this pool of...talent?’ He could not keep the scorn from his voice. Or the anger. Rawcliffe should never have brought strangers into this. Especially not men like these.
‘How about drawing straws?’ sneered Captain Hambleton.
‘Yes,’ said Lieutenant Thurnham eagerly. ‘Place it in the hands of fate.’
‘Are you sure you only want one man for your...task?’ Lieutenant Nateby said, twirling his brandy glass round and round. ‘If it is as difficult and dangerous as you were suggesting before Captain Bretherton joined us,’ he said, darting a rather sardonic smile at Harry, ‘then it might be easier to accomplish if two of us joined forces.’
‘No,’ said Lieutenant Thurnham. ‘That would mean splitting the fee. Unless you would pay each of us the same amount you mentioned?’