Dunham

Chapter 42

Celia's growing tension waned a bit. He couldn't know, as she had set him ashore in Ireland. It was not such a habit for the privateer vessels to lay at anchor deep in Dutch waters. Calais, Oostende, even Dover, for those who were more willing to take the risk, were far more convenient for necessary covert ventures into England.

But Rathbone was no fool. "Aye, well, I doubt that." He waved a hand. "Begone, Zimmerman, and take your tales with you."

"She and Captain Judas are lovers," he blurted.

Rathbone stiffened and he stared at Zimmerman, his head cocked to one side. "And how do you know this?"

"We were becalmed for a time, grappled to two ships. I believe they were the Silver Shilling and the Mad Hangman. 'Twas a near sennight of merrymaking."

"You believe?" he asked calmly. "Where were you during this ... party ... in the middle of the ocean?"

"In the infirmary."

"Why?"

He paused. "I ... was flogged, Sir."

"Why?"

"I ... did not obey an order quickly enough to suit her, Sir."

Rathbone cackled and slapped his palm down on his desk. "God, I love that woman as much as I hate her. If I ever get my hands on her, I'll fu—" Celia barely choked back a startled—nay, delighted—laugh. He cleared his throat. "Then what?"

Zimmerman's Adam's apple bobbed. "I was in the hold for the duration."

"Ah, she threw you in the brig, did she? Why should I trust you any more than she did?" The great weasely fellow opened his mouth, but was cut off. "Can you identify Judas by sight?"

"Captain Fury only, Sir."

Rathbone's eyebrow rose. "I can identify Fury by sight. I need Judas, whom you cannot give me." He paused, tapping one long finger on his desk. "Zimmerman, I will offer you this: Write a full report of your experience. You can write, can you not?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Give me your direction and I will send a lad to collect it tomorrow. If 'tis helpful to me, I'll see that you are compensated for your time."

Zimmerman rattled off an address that Celia was not familiar with, but would remember on pain of her life, then took his leave.

"Nasty business, that Fury," Rathbone muttered as he wrote it out for himself before ordering one of the kitchen lads—whom Celia had every reason to doubt were, in fact, simple kitchen lads—to follow Zimmerman and report back. "Truth be told," he mused, "I could use a few more captains like her. Her and that goddamn Hollander she sails with." He shook himself. "Marianne, I'm terribly sorry, but Celia must attend Lord Hylton tomorrow."

"I understand," she whispered. "But ... I fear he will take the opportunity to snatch her and lock her away, that perhaps this marriage business is a ruse."

Rathbone speared her with a glance. "You do not know your husband very well, then, Lady Hylton," he said stiffly. "Though I suppose that is to be expected after so many years apart. Dismissed."

The simpleton and the invalid shuffled to their chambers together slowly. Oh, so slowly. But once they had entered and the door locked, Mary hissed a stream of curses that had even Celia raising her eyebrows.

"Man and Woman here! Then Zimmerman! And you summoned to Nathan's home!"

Zimmerman was one problem Celia could solve—and quickly.

"One thing at a time, Mama. One thing at a time."

• • •

"MURDERED?!"

Lord Rathbone's enraged bellow fair shook the house the following day at precisely one o'clock.

Mary and Celia looked up from their stitchery in vague curiosity, but Aunt Harriet was looking at the door of the room where she was receiving afternoon callers.

"Get the Mockslings in here this instant!"

Woman cast a panicked glance at Aunt, who was not disposed well enough toward her to give her any encouragement. One eyebrow rose. "You heard him."

"Why does that bitch not work for me?!"

Celia quelled a smirk and bent back to her stitchery, of which she was making an absolute botch, awaiting this moment when Rathbone would learn the fate of yesterday's unexpected informant.

Cap'n!

Ah, now you are more willing to pay proper respect.

The only respect I'll pay you is between your thighs, bi—

After she had gathered every piece of parchment in Zimmerman's rooms and retrieved her dagger from his forehead, she had left him there, bleeding on the floor, and slipped out, heading for a busy tavern on the wharf. With great care, she had fed each sheet into the hearth fire.

"GODDAMMIT!" Everyone flinched when the sound of shattering glass sliced through the house. "No report? Did you search everywhere?"

The lad's voice was low.

"That bitch is here in London, and she wants me to know it else she'd have disposed of his body. Interview every last creature in this house right down to the mice and then comb the wharf. FIND HER! MOCKSLING!"

"What have you done?" Mary hissed once Aunt Harriet left the room in a huff to shush her husband's bellows and to inform him that Man had taken himself off to find—to Woman's horror—gainful employment.

Celia never raised her head from her work and continued to struggle with the one piece of floss that refused to lie smooth. Zimmerman was of no import, and murdering him had been a relatively simple task.

But in little more than an hour, she would have her audience with Admiral Lord Hylton, Nathaniel John Bancroft, the man whose name she bore.

And as soon as she had a plan, he would be as dead as Zimmerman.