The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(57)
Mrs. Pickering snatched the missive from Oriana’s hand. Evelina dropped to the carpet as she staggered to the sunlit window to read the note. “No. No!” She read on, then glanced at Oriana. “This cannot be. We must do something, anything, to stop him.”
Oriana shook her head slowly. “There is nothin’ that can be done.”
Sixteen
CAPTAIN G dispatched HMS DRAGON from FALMOUTH in PURSUIT of a mysterious DEATH ship, but lost its black hull in a dense FOG off NARE HEAD. Sources close to Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post suggest treachery has led BELZYBUB into our midst. Do not fear SUPERNATURAL forces, dear readers.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 20 October 1809
Walsingham left Nicholas in the barn where Mrs. Pickering’s maid had just delivered two pasties filled with meat and fish and the large piece of fuggan. The raisin cake was all he’d spoken of as they’d unloaded the wagon, and while the boy devoured his food, Walsingham was determined to join the meeting going on inside Mr. Pickering’s study.
Angry voices led him to the correct room. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped quickly inside to join the others assembled there. Six men occupied the modest space the vicar had claimed.
“Welcome, Captain,” Mr. Pickering said. “It’s good to see you again. I pray your sister is in good health?”
“Yes, Vicar.” He nodded, finding the conversation a strange segue after the arguments he’d just overheard. “Very much so. My thanks.”
Walsingham searched the faces in the room. Five of the Seatons were there. Max Seaton, the negotiator and second eldest, loomed over his opportunist younger brother, Rigby, whose green eyes and red hair made him look more like a boy than a man. Max, however, was Rigby’s complete opposite with his taller height, dark hair, and blue eyes. The two men stood side by side, leaning against a bookcase that spanned the length of one wall, their mouths visibly downturned, as if there was someplace else they’d rather be.
Keane Seaton reclined in a chair by the front window. Tall and lean with red hair and brown eyes, he glanced up, adjusted his spectacles on the brim of his nose, nodded at Walsingham, and then dropped his gaze to study the illustrations in a large, cumbersome-looking book.
William Seaton rested his dark head and hulking form against the windowsill, his wary green eyes surveying the yard. He was by far the most devious member of the family, a man willing to do anything to protect Abbydon Cove and the harbor where his family fleet was based.
Candlelight flickered on the wicks of melted-down candles, but Walsingham could easily see the frustration that lined the vicar’s reddened, blotchy face. He snatched a paper out of James Seaton’s hand. “I’ll take that,” he snapped.
Tension filled the room as Walsingham looked from man to man, each seething in his own way. He wasn’t sure what had transpired among them while he’d been unloading supplies, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been good. Gooseflesh pricked his arms.
“Gentlemen,” Walsingham said, keeping calm hoping the men would follow suit. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me here. I apologize for taking up so much of your valuable time.”
Six pairs of eyes narrowed on him before everyone began to speak at once.
Pickering raised his hand in the air in a gesture of silence. When the motion didn’t trigger its intended result, the vicar loudly cleared his throat. “Shut it!” To everyone’s surprise, he added, “That is to say, we do not have time to lose our heads, so let us proceed with haste.”
The men quieted, but the tension did not ease.
“Has something happened that I’m unaware of?” Walsingham asked sternly. “This was to be a cordial meeting to discuss our plans and what, if anything, still needs to be done.”
James snatched the note from the vicar, making the portly man pout. “This is what has happened!”
Walsingham reached out and took the note from James. He glanced down at the sprawling script. “It’s the note Watty Hammett delivered to Oriana . . . I mean, Miss Thorpe,” he said, trying to cover his gaff. “How did you get it?”
“Read it,” James said.
Walsingham lowered his head and scanned the note.
Beloved sister,
Pieces of my gold are in Zephaniah Job’s possession. There’s only one way that could have happened. I warned you not to touch it. Prepare yourself. Blood is on your hands, and your day of reckoning has come.
Cold blows the wind,
C
Walsingham crumpled the paper in his hand, growling under his breath. Something had gone terribly wrong. He felt it in his bones. “This was in Miss Thorpe’s possession. How did you get it?”
“Crispin gave it to me several moments ago.” Pickering’s second chin jiggled, and a breathless rage ignited inside Walsingham as he waited impatiently for the man to continue. How the hell had Pickering’s maid gotten hold of the letter? Where was Oriana?
“Ah yes, you would not know, Captain,” the vicar went on. “Crispin is our maid. She told me that my wife insisted I was to have it immediately.”
James slammed his fist into his palm. “As you can see, Captain, we don’t have much time. Our plan has worked, and my brothers and I must make way quickly.”
“Wait! What do your scouts say about the bastard?” Walsingham glanced at the vicar, not caring that, in his anger, he’d used language that damned men in holy places.