Traitor in Her Arms Page 8

  But Strooper did not move aside. “I don’t like to leave you alone with his lordship, Miss Blake.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Strooper, but I am sure all will be fine. And if Lord Sedgwick attempts to do me some harm, I take comfort in knowing the walls are so thin anyone and everyone would hear me scream.”

  She gave Ramsey a pointed look, and he had the feeling she was not merely reassuring Strooper but warning him.

  “Very well.” Strooper moved aside, and Ramsey crouched down to enter the tiny office.

  The woman sat again, but Ramsey dared not tax the dying chair across from her with his weight. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, waiting until he heard the snick of the door closing behind him. “I think you must know why I’m here, Miss Blake,” he said quietly.

  “And if I said I do?”

  “Then I would beg you to accommodate me. I need your expertise directly. I’m leaving for Dover and the packet to France tonight.”

  “Are you?” She steepled her fingers, studying him. Ramsey felt like a schoolboy, called before the headmaster for misconduct. Several moments passed during which Ramsey forced himself not to shuffle his feet.

  Finally, he said, “I can be generous in my payment.”

  She smiled, and Ramsey was surprised at how childlike and innocent she looked when she smiled. “I don’t care about the money, my lord. I don’t do it for the money.”

  “Then why?” he asked, knowing it didn’t matter, knowing he was in a hurry, but intrigued nonetheless.

  She waved a hand, as though to dismiss the question. “Because once I needed help. Do you need help, Lord Sedgwick?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.” She pursed her lips and continued quickly. “I’m sorry. That was incredibly rude, but I fear your travels to Paris are ill intentioned.”

  She was right, of course. Madame Fouchet did not want the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel because she hoped to become his benefactress. Everything and everyone that woman touched came to ruin.

  But there was no other way. Ramsey had to go to Paris, had to find the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  “I could tell you a pretty story, Miss Blake, but I’d be wasting your time. I have to go to Paris. For me, it is a matter of life and death.”

  She nodded. “That I believe.” She leaned forward. “And my lord? I don’t think you’ll be able to go through with it.”

  Ramsey opened his mouth to speak but could find no words. Did she know what he intended? Surely not.

  Before he could find words of denial, she reached below her fichu and pulled on a plain chain, lifting a small silver key from her bodice. She then opened a drawer, removed a small wooden box from within, and inserted the key into the lock. As she removed the papers inside, she said, “I’m trusting you, Lord Sedgwick.”

  Ramsey wasn’t certain if she meant she trusted him not to betray the Pimpernel or that she was trusting him with the knowledge of where she hid her forgery equipment. Ramsey had a glimpse of official-looking seals and stamps before she angled the box away from his line of vision.

  When she had paper and ink laid out before her, she looked up at him, squinted. “Let’s see. You look like a Citoyen…”

  Ramsey raised his brows and bore her scrutiny. For all her beauty, he felt no flame of arousal when he looked at her. Too bad. She would be a challenge, and he enjoyed a challenge. But no sense in chasing her when he looked at her and thought of his sister.

  “Delpierre,” she finally exclaimed.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Citoyen Ramsey Delpierre,” she said, nodding firmly and beginning to write on the documents before her. “That is your new identity.”

  “But what if I don’t like—?”

  “Shh. I’m trying to concentrate. It seems the revolutionary government changes the format for their documents every other week. You want me to write this correctly, don’t you?”

  “Please.” The last thing he needed was to be stopped at the Paris gates because his papers were worded incorrectly. Dear God, he hoped Miss Blake’s French didn’t lack. His own was less than perfect.

  “Do you have a profession in mind?” she asked, looking up.

  “Oh, I have a choice now?”

  “Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll make you a soldier. Paris needs gendarmes now.”

  “Wonderful.” He couldn’t think of any profession he desired less than that of a soldier—unless it was an earl.

  She finished the document, read it, affixed a seal, then sanded the ink.

  She lifted it, and Ramsey reached out, but instead of handing it to him, she crumpled it.

  “Madam, what are you doing?” he yelled.

  “Shh!” She frowned at him. “Do you want Strooper rushing in?”

  Then to his horror, she dropped the paper on the floor, rose, and stomped on it with her boot.

  Ramsey closed his eyes and wondered if he could find another forger at this late hour. Preferably one who wasn’t daft.

  “Lord Sedgwick?”

  He opened his eyes to see her holding the battered document out to him. “You don’t want it to look new, do you? That’s a certain sign of a counterfeit.”

  With a sigh, he took the paper and examined it. He had no idea what French identification papers looked like, but this appeared authentic to him.

  “I made you a resident of Varenne,” she said. “They’re considered heroes because Varenne is where King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette were caught fleeing France.”

  “Thank you.” He placed the papers in his coat and turned to leave.

  “That will be five pounds,” she said.

  He paused and turned. “I thought you didn’t do it for the money.”

  She smiled merrily. He could have sworn her eyes danced.

  “No, but it’s a welcome bonus.” She held out her small hand, and Ramsey paid her.

  —

  Gabrielle flattened herself against the wall of The Fisherman’s Rest, a cozy inn where she had waited in the coffee room until it was time to board the Fugitive. There had been other passengers for France that night, most bundled so she could not see their faces. She was glad none of them were on the Fugitive with her. She did not want anyone from England able to identify her when she reached France.

  If she reached France.

  She leaned against the side of The Fisherman’s Rest and swore. It was a particularly unladylike curse, but she wasn’t feeling very ladylike at the moment. What was Mr. Pin doing at the ramp of the Fugitive? What was the man doing in Dover? Had he followed her? She hadn’t seen any suspicious vehicles on the Dover Road. Did he know she intended to board or was this some horrible, unfortunate coincidence?

  Thank God she had overheard one of the sailors from another vessel exclaim at seeing Pin. The poor man obviously owed Pin money as well and was as eager as Gabrielle to avoid the man.

  Curses! Everything had been going so well. Cressy had helped her pack, arrange for post-horses, and she’d kissed both Cressy and Diana goodbye. The trip to Dover had been uneventful, the roads good. Once she’d arrived at The Fisherman’s Rest, she’d been told the seas were smooth, the wind high, and the Fugitive would sail on time. She’d peered out at it several times, noting it was docked exactly where it should be, and the crew appeared to be making final preparations for the voyage across the Channel.

  And then she’d heard that sailor.

  She’d been fortunate, but what was she to do now? She couldn’t afford to stand about forever or the Fugitive would leave without her.

  And then what? No Paris, no Saphir Blanc, and no comtesse de Tonnerre. Perhaps she could book passage on another packet. She might even board that one.

  Unless Pin found her first. She had a sinking feeling he’d been watching her and had followed her from her town house.

  Gabrielle took a deep breath and summoned all of her courage. Perhaps Pin didn’t know what she looked like. S
he peeked out from her hiding place. She could barely discern Pin’s features. There were several men standing about the gangplank, and she assumed the one in the three-cornered hat and swirling cape was Pin. The others probably worked for him. Fortunately, none of them were big enough to be the man she’d encountered the night before.

  She was wearing a heavy, if worn, shawl. If she pulled it over her hair and kept her head down, perhaps he wouldn’t think her Viscountess McCullough. After all, in keeping with her identity as a lace maker, she was wearing her oldest dress and shoes. She didn’t think she looked like a viscountess.

  Somewhere a bell tolled a quarter to nine, and Gabrielle pushed away from the warehouse. “Go, go, go,” she urged herself. Her leaden feet moved slowly, and she kept her head down, heading for the gangplank. Even now she could hear the sailors calling that this was the final chance to board. They were casting off the lines. It was now or never.

  She adjusted the sack with her clothing and papers on her shoulder and hurried forward, stepping behind a man who was also boarding. Oh, why did another passenger have to appear now, when she needed to rush on board? Her head was still down, but she thought she caught the glimpse of a black cape and shiny black boots beside her. Her fingers hurt from clenching the rope tied about her sack, and her breath came in short bursts.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry…

  “My lady?” a smooth, cultured voice murmured in her ear.

  She jerked but managed not to look up. Pretend it’s not you. Don’t acknowledge him.

  “Viscountess,” the man—she knew it was Pin—hissed. “Are you hiding under that awful shawl?”

  Gabrielle looked up and into the sharp, narrow face. The man’s name was certainly appropriate, as his head was somewhat pointed.

  “I think you must have me confused with someone else, sir,” she said in French. “My name is Citoyenne Leboeuf.”

  “Yes, and I’m King George III.” He ripped the shawl off her hair and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close. He stared at her before gesturing to his men. “Take her to the carriage.”

  “Wait!” Gabrielle called, backing away, wondering if she could run faster than Pin’s thugs. Her body was still battered and broken from the events of two nights before. “You’ve mistaken me.”

  But the men were closing in now. Gabrielle knew if she ran she’d be hunted down like a fox chased by hounds. “Very well,” she said, holding out her hands. The men looked at Pin, who raised a hand.

  “Viscountess?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s me. And I know I owe you money, and I promise you I will pay. As soon as I return from France—“

  Pin lowered his hand and his men rushed forward again. Gabrielle turned to run, but the man standing at the gangplank in front of her grabbed her arm and shoved her behind him.

  “Wh—?” she managed before she stumbled against the gangplank.

  The gangplank! The sailors hadn’t pulled it aboard the ship yet. Could she make it aboard?

  “Move aside, sir, or you will be moved,” Pin said.

  “I’d like to see you try,” the man said, and Gabrielle, who had been about to sprint up the plank, froze.

  She knew that voice.

  She looked at the man’s back.

  She knew that body…Sedgwick.

  What in God’s name was he doing here?

  “This is not your concern,” Pin said.

  “On the contrary,” Sedgwick answered. “I am well acquainted with the viscountess and called her late husband friend. If you intend her harm, it is definitely my concern.”

  “You wish to assist the lady?” Pin asked.

  “Yes.”

  Behind them a sailor called. “All aboard!”

  “No, wait!” Gabrielle screamed. “I’m coming!”

  “Then pay her debt,” Pin said.

  Gabrielle saw Sedgwick stiffen. He knew what this was about. Knew George well enough to understand the situation completely now.

  “How much?” Sedgwick asked.

  Pin named the outrageous amount, and Sedgwick laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  Pin did not even smile. “Then step aside. The lady and I have matters to discuss.”

  Sedgwick shrugged and gave Gabrielle an apologetic look. The bastard, she thought, right before he lifted her off her feet and ran up the gangplank.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving you. You can thank me later.”

  Behind them Pin’s men clomped up the gangplank. Gabrielle imagined she felt the board bow from the weight.

  Sedgwick, still carrying her, jumped aboard the ship and confronted the startled sailor at the plank. “Shove it off,” Sedgwick ordered. “Now!”

  “But, sir—“

  “Do it!” And then he set her aside, lifted the plank, and did it himself. Gabrielle watched in horror as Pin and his men wobbled, attempted to keep their balance, and then fell unceremoniously into the water below.

  Gabrielle drew in a sharp breath. She could never return to England now. Pin would kill her.

  She looked at Sedgwick. She couldn’t go to Paris either, not with Sedgwick aboard the packet. He’d ruin everything.

  The schooner began to move as the tugs pulled it out into the open water.

  Gabrielle buried her face in her hands. She was doomed.

  Chapter 7

  Once Ramsey and Lady McCullough had dealt with the necessary shipboard procedures and been assigned cabins for the voyage, Ramsey took her aside. “What the devil is this about?”

  She wrapped her shawl close around her shoulders, her eyes flicking everywhere but his face. They were still standing on deck, but they’d moved toward the bow of the ship. The coast at night was alive with lights from ships and Dover businesses as well as the sounds echoing from lively inns like The Fisherman’s Rest. The ship’s creak and the lap of the waves were oddly peaceful as the Fugitive got under way. Gabrielle’s hair blew about her face in the light breeze. Sections had tumbled down to rest on her shoulders at some point in the melee.

  “I might ask you the very same, my lord. What are you doing here?”

  “I should think the answer to that question obvious. Traveling to France.” He watched as her glossy hair coiled about her neck then snaked back again. He almost reached for the dark, curly ribbon before checking his impulses. “Your turn.”

  She looked away from him. “Traveling to France.”

  He grasped her chin, raising it until her eyes met his. “Why the—excuse my language—devil would you want to do that?”

  She jerked free of his grip. “I have my reasons. Why do you want to go to France?”

  Ramsey ignored her question. “Is that thug and his henchman the reason you want out of England? If you need money to pay off George’s creditors, why don’t you ask Exeter’s daughter? She’d help you. Hell, why don’t you do the sensible thing and marry again?”

  “Really, this is none of your affair.” She turned to stalk away, then rounded on him. “No. Wait. It is your affair. In fact, it’s your fault!”

  Ramsey stared at her. “My fault, madam? I just saved you.”

  “Saved me?” She poked him in the chest with two fingers. “How have you saved me, pray tell? Don’t you think Pin will be waiting, and intent on revenge, when I return? If anything, you made the bad situation you created even worse.”

  The woman made absolutely no sense. That was to be expected of women, but Ramsey had always thought Gabrielle more sensible than most. “Until a quarter of an hour ago, I had no idea of your predicament. I did not create it.”

  “Oh really?” Her hands were on her hips and her gaze burned into him. He took a cautious step back from the ship’s rails in case she was entertaining ideas of throwing him overboard. Not that she could manage such a feat.

  At least he didn’t think she could…

  “Allow me to ask you one question, my lord. Are you or are you not in possession of Cleopatra’s necklace?” She’d been yelling, but she ha
d the foresight to lower her voice on the last two words.

  Ramsey merely stared at her. “So that’s why you stole the necklace. To pay off…?”

  “Mr. Pin.”

  He understood completely now and was sorry he had been correct in his initial assumptions about her. George, the blundering idiot, had left her in financial straits—quite dire ones if the actions of one Mr. Pin were any indication. And now she was on her way to Paris. Another scheme to acquire the funds George owed? But if that was the case, Paris seemed the wrong city at the moment. Half the population there was starving and the other half was running around killing anyone who looked at them crossly.

  “So you see,” she continued, “my current predicament with Mr. Pin is all your fault.”

  He raised a brow.

  “If you’d like to atone, I request you leave me in peace for the duration of the voyage.” And with that, she whirled on her heel and set off for a companionway. Ramsey watched her go, trying quite desperately not to notice the sway of her hips. He really did want to leave her alone. Forever. Every time they crossed paths he became more and more entangled. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as though she was charming or pleasant.

  But she was beautiful and seductive as hell. Damn it! If he could only forget ever kissing her. He had his own problems, and Gabrielle McCullough added to them.

  And so he decided to respect her wishes.

  Until two days later, when he realized he couldn’t leave her alone. He was certainly no gentleman, but he couldn’t leave her to her own devices.

  They’d left the white chalk cliffs of Dover and England behind and were tossed about the open waters of the English Channel for two nights. Two nights during which he’d been awake, debating with himself. Trying to convince himself he needn’t bother with her. She didn’t want him to bother with her. He’d tossed and turned in his small, uncomfortable berth, before finally abandoning any attempt at sleep and climbing to the main deck. The dawn sun peeked over the horizon, a dark violet smudge above the black water, and in the murky half-light, he could see the shores of France. They’d made good time.

  Which meant he was almost out of time.

  He made his way below again, skirting the sailors rushing to and fro, until he reached Gabrielle’s cabin. It was a small ship, and she’d been assigned a cabin almost directly across from him. He stood outside for a long moment, listening, but the only sounds were the muffled footsteps of one of the sailors and the creak of the ship’s boards.