The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(42)

She nodded.

“Well, here we stand,” O’Malley said, “proudly as ye please.”

“And we’re prepared to do our turn in the tavern, Miss,” Girard said, drawing her attention to the time. She glanced at the Dutch clock. “It’ll do ye good to get away from the Roost for the day. Mrs. Pickering dotes on ye as if ye were ’er own child.”

Her throat constricted. “’Tis another reason we’ll be readin’ Evelina today.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Three knocks pummeled the tavern door.

“Who do ye suppose that could be? The jingle isn’t supposed to arrive for another two hours.” She smoothed her hands down her apron and moved toward the hallway.

“A bit too soon for Nicholas,” Girard shouted.

O’Malley brushed past her. “I’ll get it. Ye go on back to yer chores.”

At her nod of thanks, he broke away and disappeared down the hall.

“If it is Nicholas,” she called after him, “tell him to come in and break his fast.”

Several moments later, O’Malley returned. Alone.

She glanced up from the pewter plates she’d arranged for Mr. and Mrs. Lovell on the kitchen table. “Who was at the door?”

O’Malley’s expression darkened with unreadable emotion. “Watty is here to speak with ye, Miss.”

“Why is ’e ’ere?” Girard snapped.

Visitors didn’t normally appear this time of day, and it was highly suspect that Watty wouldn’t deal with O’Malley, who was well-known at the tavern.

Old fears and uncertainties flooded to the surface as Oriana waited for O’Malley’s reply.

“For ‘a moment of your time,’ he said. He’s got somethin’ for ye. Wouldn’t talk to me.”

Girard wielded the broom like a weapon and glanced at O’Malley. “Do ye ’spect ’e’s connected with Carnage?”

O’Malley shook his head. “Don’t know. Wouldn’t say anythin’ more. Only that the item was for yer eyes only, Miss.”

“Very well. One of ye needs to stay near the fire.” She pointed at the hearth.

“I’ll stay,” O’Malley volunteered. “Girard can go with ye.”

“All right. Check the meal, then. Make sure it doesn’t burn.”

“Aye, Miss.” O’Malley nodded reassuringly. “Ye can count on me.”

Oriana wiped her hands on her apron as she walked through the tavern with Girard at her side, past the hearth, the bar, and overturned chairs resting on tabletops.

When they reached the front entrance, Oriana turned to Girard. “Wait for me here. I’ll alert ye at the first sign of trouble.” At Girard’s nod, she opened the door, and seeing no one standing there, she stepped out into the courtyard. “Watty? Are ye here?”

Watty stepped around the front entrance pillar and tilted his hat. “Miss Thorpe.”

“Aye. Aren’t ye a bit early for a drink?” she asked.

“Ye know the truth of it, Miss.” His mercurial black eyes impaled her, and his tone was tinged with ruthlessness that caught her off guard. This wasn’t the Watty she’d known all her life.

Her former hospitable tone fell away as her heartbeat thundered in her chest, and she tried to exude outward calm. “I was told ye have a delivery for me.”

Another man she didn’t know—this one dressed in a fisherman’s jersey, long boots, and a misshapen woolen hat—took his place beside Watty. He eyeballed her callously, his thin lips spread over a scarred face. “Miss Thorpe.”

“Who have ye brought with ye, Watty?” she asked.

The man’s scruffy sideburns bordered wicked, beady eyes. “Miss Oriana Thorpe?”

“Ye know I am she.” She bristled beneath their inspection. “We’re closed if it’s a drink you’re after.”

“We’re not here for ale. We’ve been tasked to deliver a message to ye.” Watty stepped forward, his smile unapologetic as he handed her a sealed envelope.

Oriana paused, looked at the parchment in his hand, and then back to the second man, who smiled coarsely, as if relishing the sinking dread that was consuming her whole.

Her hands shook, and she fought to keep them steady as she snatched the note and turned it over in her hand. The bloodred seal decorating its back stood out. It was the brand her father had used on milk cows they’d kept on the moors—a T supported by an anchor. Alarms tolled in her head like hourly bells on the longcase clock. Impotent rage and fear made her throat swell, cutting off her breath. Charles had sent men into the tavern to spy on her!

Watty’s betrayal stung, too, reinforcing her deepest fears. She’d never been truly safe; the Roost had never been truly hers. Watty and his men had been watching and reporting her activities to Charles.

“Do hurry.” Watty impatiently wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He wants ye to read it in front of us.”

Oriana shot a glance at the lilacs and sweet Williams creeping over the stone hedges surrounding the courtyard. Was her monster of a brother hiding, observing her reactions as she stood there?

Spiraling into the jaws of hell with no other choice but to read the note that her brother had sent, Oriana felt Watty’s unsympathetic stare as she cracked open the seal and spread the parchment wide.