Twenty-eight

Dare instructed the coachman to continue on toward the docks and pushed aside thoughts of the lovely Emma St. James. At least he tried to do so. Thoughts of her kept rising to the surface, unbidden, unwanted, and unwilling to subside. He doubted he would ever stop thinking of her.

He unrolled the small scroll of paper she had given to him, wondering what she had written. Did he have the courage to look? He had to know. On the page was a simple verse.

O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me…If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.

—Psalm 139:1, 8–10

It was her encouragement to him. He stared at the words. He was not sure if he believed in a compassionate God, but he did have faith in Emma. If she believed, then maybe that was good enough for him. He carefully rolled up the small paper and placed it in his breast pocket. It was a message of hope in a world devoid of it.

He had never anticipated developing feelings toward a member of the fairer sex. The thought of experiencing strong emotions at all had seemed inconceivable. No, the experience he had in his chest was something completely foreign to him. He had the sickening sensation of falling. He gulped air, but it did not help. He could not shake the feeling that he had been hollowed out from the inside and there was something missing. Something important. Something like Emma.

She was a bright light, making him realize how dark and dreary his life truly was. To be shown another way only to have it ripped away was cruel. To think of her giving herself to another man made him rage within.

Dare directed the carriage to pull to a stop at the Round Tower, an old fortification built by King Henry V to protect the harbor from invaders. The old tower stood with its base in the choppy waters and its cannon trained on the harbor opening. Nothing could get by without being raked by the thirty pounders.

Dare jumped out of the coach into the blustery winter day and directed the coachman to take his sea chest to the Lady Kate, while Dare walked along the battlements toward the royal dockyard. He welcomed the stinging wind blowing the sharp saltwater spray into his face. The slap in the face helped him to think.

Until Harcourt was dead, everyone around him was in danger. Kate was at risk. And Emma too. He would protect them no matter the cost. He had to find Captain Harcourt. And fast. Then return to Emma and convince her not to marry that American sod.

Dare shook his head, not wanting to give himself false hope. And yet if he could eliminate Harcourt quickly…

Dare turned his focus on finding Harcourt. He was a naval man and would no doubt captain his own ship. If Harcourt was after Dare, he would start with the Lady Kate. She was moored in Portsmouth, and so Dare bet Harcourt was too. He just needed to figure out which ship.

It would have to be a ship that would not raise suspicion, but also not be known, for Harcourt could not show his face in Portsmouth, where the locals knew all the captains and most of the crew. One place he could not be was on a ship of the line. The ladies of the Royal Navy often knew more about the disposition of the ships and crew than did the admiralty. So he must have been on a fishing or merchant vessel.

Dare walked along the sea wall, squinting into the wind at the ships in the harbor. All sorts and sizes of vessels were moored in Portsmouth—frigates, schooners, brigs, hulks, ships of the line, and modest fishing vessels dwarfed by their larger cousins. One of them might be holding Harcourt, but which one?

Dare studied the small shipping fleet with a critical eye. No, he reasoned, as in any tight community, the fishermen would all know one another. They would know if there was someone who did not belong. Harcourt would have to be a stranger in a situation where being a stranger would not be unusual.

Dare continued his walk along the wall, trying to discern where Harcourt might be hiding. A merchant ship, the Kestrel, moved slowly out of the harbor. It was a frigate with smooth lines, flying the flag of the Colonies, or rather the new United States of America. Could that be Harcourt?

Or maybe Harcourt was on the brig with a sturdy build and a floating armament. Dare didn’t know. But one thing was for sure, Harcourt certainly knew him. He might be watching him even now. Was he aware that Dare knew he was alive?

Darington continued along the sea wall, passing the mud flats toward the bastion. It was low tide, and the little rivulets ran through the mud, silt, and sand, waiting for the tide to swallow them up again. The wind stung his face and Dare pulled his greatcoat tighter around him. It was January in Portsmouth, and a cold one.

The streets were unusually vacant and Dare guessed the cold was keeping everyone indoors. He ducked into the Mariner Pub and walked past weatherworn men in blue naval coats to lean against the bar.

“Cap’n Dare!” A young lad greeted him informally, earning him a cuff from a large man with beefy arms.

“You talk proper now,” the landlord admonished, shoving the lad back to his work. “Greetings to you, Cap’n Lord Darington. How can we be of service to you?”

“Got something warm?”

“Ah yes, mulled wine, just the thing to put the heat back into your heart.”

Dare doubted anything could do that now that Emma was gone, but he accepted a warm cup with a nod of gratitude. “Most folks staying in with the cold,” commented Dare, attempting to engage the landlord in conversation for the first time. The man had started to walk toward the other end of the bar and stopped short to turn back to him in surprise. Dare had frequented the pub when he had first weighed anchor in Portsmouth harbor months ago, generally eating in a far corner in silence. He had never been the conversational type.

“I warrant the cold has got people staying by the hearth,” replied the landlord, striding back to him. “’Course, the Victory and twenty ships of the line sailed out yesterday. Things were all a rush before, but now it’s a little thin on company.”

“There are the merchant ships,” said Dare, hoping to find out as much as he could about the ships in the harbor. “I warrant they are good for business if they grant shore leave.”

“Some do, some don’t. Some of them foreign ships don’t let off their crew, same as the navy.” The man shook his head sadly, for a crew unable to leave the ship was of no use to his livelihood.

“Truly? I thought all merchant ships allowed at least some shore leave.”

The man shook his head. “Wish they did, and that’s the truth.”

“But at least you see the captains.”

The man shrugged. “Some prefer to stay with the ship. Especially them foreign ones.”

“I saw a Spanish galleon far out there. Strange to see it here, since I remember Trafalgar so clearly. I suppose we are at peace now.” A Spanish galleon was suspicious to Dare.

“Aye, strange though it may be. The captain and crew, they nearly drank me out o’ rum and paid in doubloons for it, so I’m inclined to think charitable like toward them.” The man gave Dare a smile.

So maybe it wasn’t the galleon. Perhaps it was a ship Dare suspected of smuggling. Maybe they were hiding more than French wine. “I saw the Rooster in the harbor. I’m sure they are good for business.”

The landlord straightened his back, his smile fading. “Aye, they be loyal customers.”

Dare took the hint. Smugglers provided the shopkeepers with valuable commodities and everyone turned a blind eye when the officers’ love of French wine was at stake.

“What about those Americans?” Dare tried to change the subject. He wished Emma were here, for she could charm anyone into talking about anything. “I’m sure they are no match for our lads when it comes to a pint or two.”

The landlord laughed and the easy smile returned. “No, they aren’t, though they give ’em a run for it.”

“Too bad for you the Kestrel just left.”

“Nay, they stayed mostly on board. Only saw a few of the crew, and they were a sullen lot.”

“Damn Americans,” Dare muttered with feeling.

“Now the Alliance, she’s an American too, but she pours out her crews and they drink up their pay like good sailors.” The barkeep wiped glasses with a towel as he warmed to his topic. “The Maiden Lilly never let a single man off, but kept running bumboats back and forth. I think every harlot in Portsmouth got a tour.” The man laughed heartily.

Dare nodded mechanically and drained his mug. He would have to get information on every potential ship, forcing him to frequent every public house in Portsmouth to do it. The more questions he asked, the more likely Harcourt would be to hear about it and be able to slip away.

Dare paid for the drink with resignation and walked to the door to continue his search with heavy feet. Raised voices caught his attention.

“You gave him another bottle?” exclaimed the landlord, chastising his young apprentice. “What’s wrong with you, boy? He hadn’t paid for the first dozen and run off without paying his shot.”

“S-sorry,” stammered the lad.

“Well, if Silas Bones wants another drink, he needs to pay up first!”

Dare had his hand on the door latch when the landlord’s words froze him in his tracks. Silas Bones? That was the same surname Harcourt had used to masquerade as the doctor. Could it be a coincidence?

Dare stalked back into the bar. “Forgive the intrusion, but I might know the man you speak of. Silas Bones?”

“Friend o’ yours?” asked the landlord, wiping his hands on his white apron.

“No,” said Dare in a low voice, leaning closer over the bar. “But I’d like to find him.”

“He sped out o’ here today, he did. Got no idea where he might go.”

“Could you describe him to me? I’d be willing to pay his shot for your trouble.” Dare pushed a crown toward the landlord across the polished wood bar.

The landlord palmed the coin with an easy swipe of his large hand. “Younger man, late twenties I’d say. Short, curly black hair, blue eyes.”

If he were a younger man, then it could not be Harcourt, but didn’t the old housekeeper say Dr. Bones had a son? “The man I’m looking for had some friends. Last I saw them, they each had a different color muffler, one black, one red, one blue.”

“That sounds like them,” said the lad, joining the conversation. “Was the man in the black muffler a big bloke with a low voice?”

“That sounds right. Which ship was Silas Bones from?” Dare clenched his fists at his sides, trying to keep the urgency from his tone.

“He never said.” The bartended shook his head.

“I saw him go a few times to the Kestrel,” the lad interjected.

The Kestrel! The American ship whose captain had not been seen with his officers. It must be it, but it had just left.

“Thank you.” Dare strode with purpose out the door. The chilling blast did not bother him anymore. He was on the hunt once more.