Ruan's hand was itching to form itself into a fist, and thoroughly punch the recalcitrant man seated before him. They were in the small, damp gaol near the docks, where George Beattie -- the tar who had blown up The Elizabeth -- was being held. Ruan had been informed that Beattie hailed from Bristol, and was a well known thief, who often acted as hired muscle for local criminal gangs.
"I'll ask you one more time," Ruan said, in a voice so low and menacing that even the magistrate who had accompanied him to Beattie's cell, quaked upon hearing it. "Who paid you to wreck The Elizabeth?"
"And I told you," Beattie sneered, "I don't bloody well know."
Whack.
Ruan delivered a blow so forceful to the sailor's chin, that he fell from his chair to the floor.
"Are you going to let him punch me like that?"
"Punch you like what?" the magistrate replied blandly, to Beattie's outraged protests. "I didn't see a thing."
Ruan suppressed a grin; if he was so inclined he could have strangled Beattie to death and the magistrate wouldn't have blinked an eyelid. Such was the power of his title. But Ruan wasn't there to kill Beattie, he didn't need to for he would surly hang on the gallows for his crime; Ruan just wanted to know who had paid him to commit the act in the first place.
"Once again Mr Beattie," he said softly, advancing on the young man, who was still sprawled on the cold, hard ground of the gaol cell. "Who paid you to wreck The Elizabeth?"
"I don't know."
This time Beattie sounded scared, as he made his reply, his eyes darting around the cell, as though searching for a means of escape. "If I knew I'd tell you, but it was dark when I met him. Alls I know is that he sounded like a toff. He spoke just like you did, your Grace."
Ruan frowned; this information didn't narrow down his list of suspects by many. Every aristocratic male of the ton spoke with the same clipped vowels; the product of an Eton education.
"Where did you meet with this man?" he asked.
"The alley behind The Seven Stars, in Redcliff, your Grace," the prisoner offered reluctantly. "I was relieving myself after a couple of pints, and he approached me from behind."
"Brave man, to approach a man engaged in that particular act."
Beattie snorted with laughter; "Aye, he was, but he came ready with a bag of coins the weight of a small calf, and the promise of another once the act was done."
"And you were to collect the second payment here, in Southampton?"
"Aye," Beattie grimaced, "And then I was to take a boat to France and disappear."
"You'll disappear alright, young man," the magistrate interjected, "In a few weeks time you'll hang for this, and the world will forget that George Beattie ever existed."
At these bleak words, the young man paled, and Ruan knew that he would get no more answers from him. Still, he ventured to ask one final question.
"When were you supposed to have met this gentleman, Mr Beattie?"
"Last night, your Grace," the criminal replied.
Damn; so whoever it was that had hired Beattie, would already have heard of his incarceration and fled. Ruan thanked the magistrate for his time, and left the gaol to return to the coaching inn. Southampton had been a clever choice for a meeting place, Ruan decided. The town had a port that was moderately busy due to the Navy ships which docked there, but was also highly fashionable with the gentry. They came from London to take the waters at the spa, and as Ruan walked through the bustling city streets toward his hotel, he spotted a familiar face.
"Lavelle," he called, much surprised to see his friend hurrying in the direction of the port.
"Everleigh," Henry Lavelle, Lord Somerset turned at the sound of his name, and a wide grin broke across his handsome face. "I've been looking for you, heard from your Captain Black that you'd been down to the gaol to interview the cur who blew up The Elizabeth."
"Aye, I did," Ruan grimaced, "Though fat lot of help he was. What brings you all the way down here?"
"Why, you of course; it's all over London that someone tried to kill you. You can't blame your second for hot footing it down, in case you needed my services."
Ruan tried not to wince at the innocuous reference to duelling; Henry had once acted as his second in the first, and only, duel that Ruan had ever partaken in. He had been there to witness Ruan shooting dead Charles Birmingham, the man who had been having an affair with his late wife. Though contrary to rumour, Ruan had only killed the blighter because Birmingham had turned before the count, and shot Ruan in the leg. The man had been deranged, and for what he had done to Catherine, Ruan felt little regret for having taken his life.
"Are you staying in The Dolphin?"
"Where else?" Ruan replied, as Lavelle fell into step beside him. The Dolphin Hotel was England's largest and grandest coaching inn, and after the long journey from Falmouth, Ruan wouldn't countenance staying anywhere that wasn't the height of luxury.
The men repaired to the hotel saloon, and over brandy Ruan shared with Lavelle his suspicions that someone was trying to kill him, the story of how The Elizabeth had sank, as well as Olive's disappearance.
"Any idea where she is?"
For the first time in Lavelle's life, he seemed to be struggling to speak. His face was pale and drawn, it seemed he was shocked to his very core. Ruan felt touched by his obvious worry, though said nothing. Speaking about feelings wasn't the done thing, for men of their ilk.
"Actually," he said, taking a deep sip of his brandy, "I know exactly where she is, and you do too."
"I do?"
"St. Jarvis," Ruan supplied, and he was gratified to see Lavelle splutter on the drink he had taken.
"Good Lord," the blonde haired man gasped, as he struggled to regain his composure. "I haven't been there in years. Not since -- not since --"
Catherine's death; though in truth Lavelle hadn't spent that much time in St. Jarvis at all past the age of eighteen. Once he had inherited, he had moved to London to engage in debauchery on a grander scale, and forgotten clean about the small seaside village. Ruan could see the wistful look in his friend's eyes, as he thought on the place they had spent so many of their youthful summers.
"Is that where you're headed now?" Lavelle asked, his expression thoughtful.
"Aye, it is -- and if you'd like to join me, you'd be more than welcome. I think I might need my second, if Lord Keyford spies me there."
His late wife's father despised him, and with good reason, for he thought Ruan responsible for his daughter's death. The Duke knew for certain that if he saw him, Keyford was liable to do anything, such was the venom he held for Ruan.
"Good God," Lavelle put down his glass. "Keyford has an estate nearby, do you remember Catherine used to say he spent half his time down this way?"
Ruan had, and the same suspicions had crossed his mind. Keyford held a small estate in Nursling, and half the world knew that this was where he had housed his mistress, and his illegitimate offspring. It had been a bone of contention between Catherine and her father; another thing to argue about in a family that had made hurt and anger into an art form.
"We'll deal with Keyford, when we see him," Ruan finally said, a note of regret to his tone. The ghosts of his past kept resurfacing, and it seemed that to claim his future with Olive, he would have to confront them all.