Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(96)

Craning her neck, she watched over Amelia’s shoulder as her friend inscribed a single word.

“Jericho,” Lily read aloud. “Well, that’s not terribly helpful. Is it?”

“Could mean anything,” Meredith agreed. “Perhaps one of his previous owners was fond of scripture. It could be a servant’s name, or even the bird’s name.”

“Or a ship,” Amelia said. “That was Michael’s first assignment in the Navy. I’ll never forget it, having written him so many letters that year. He sailed from Plymouth on the HMS Jericho. The vessel’s been retired now. I remember he pointed it out to me once when we traveled to—” She grabbed Lily’s arm, and her eyes went wide. “To Greenwich. The Jericho is now moored in the Thames, near Woolwich. It’s a prison hulk.”

“A prison hulk?” Lily’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Now wait. That’s a very big leap,” Meredith warned. “And we could be making it in the wrong direction entirely.”

“I know. I know you’re right,” Lily replied, the gears of her mind clicking at a furious whir. “But it’s the only direction we have.” How many miles was it to Woolwich? Ten? Fifteen? How fast could the carriage take her there? “We must leave immediately. There’s not a moment to waste.”

But before she could even rise from her chair, Swift entered the room. The aging butler extended a salver, on which lay a haphazardly folded note.

He bowed deeply. “Forgive the interruption, my lady. But an urgent message has just arrived for Her Grace.”

Amelia took the note and opened it. Her blue eyes shuttled back and forth as she scanned the lines of text. “Oh, no. It’s Claudia. She’s in labor. I must go to her at once.”

Lily was surprised indeed to learn of the note’s contents. But she was stunned immobile by the envelope’s reverse, where the words “Her Grace, the Duchess of Morland” had been hastily inscribed in black ink.

Lily knew that penmanship. Knew it as well as she knew her own.

“Oh my God.” Without even thinking, she leapt from her chair and ripped the note straight from Amelia’s hand. “Who sent this?” But she didn’t lift her gaze to receive a reply. Rather, she read the brief missive for herself.

Your Grace,

Lady Claudia has entered her labor pains. I have taken the liberty of sending for the doctor.

—P.F.

“P.F.? Who is P.F.?”

Amelia gave an answer as she tugged on her gloves. Lily couldn’t catch it.

“Write it down,” she insisted, urging the quill and inkpot toward her friend.

“I can’t right now,” Amelia said, gathering her shawl. “Claudia needs me. I must go at once.”

Lily slammed the inkpot on the table, ignoring the spatter of ink, and thrust the quill in Amelia’s face. She trembled so violently, the feather quivered in her grip. “Write. Write it down.”

While Amelia addressed the footman, Meredith took the quill and quickly scrawled something on a scrap of paper.

Lily read it. “Peter Faraday. Who is Peter Faraday?”

“Amelia’s houseguest,” Meredith explained. “Rhys and I brought him from Cornwall, and he’s been staying at Morland House. He’s injured. He … He was with your brother, the night he was attacked.”

A wave of dizziness dropped Lily back into her chair. She was completely disoriented. This bit of information … it both explained so much, and opened up entirely new questions.

One thing was clear. She had to get to Woolwich, and quickly. Julian had no idea what he could be facing.

Meredith touched her hand. “I’ll go with Amelia now. She needs help.”

“Yes, of course,” Lily said, pushing to her feet. She helped her friends to the door. “I pray all goes well with Claudia.”

“Thank you.” Amelia put a hand to her brow. “I only wish there were some way to get a message to Spencer.”

“Don’t worry, dear. He’ll learn of it soon enough.”

Lily intended to deliver the news herself.

“There they are. Those two, on the ridge.”

From their sentinel post atop the scaffolding, Julian followed Ashworth’s gaze. Two convicts labored on a rocky breakwater, some yards distant from the riverbank. The men, dressed in standard-issue buff breeches and brown coats, were shackled to one another at the ankle. Under the watchful eye of a cutlass-wielding officer, they passed and piled massive rocks, building up the breakwater. Julian noted with satisfaction that the prisoners’ tattered, soiled garments hung loose on their frames.

Good. They’d known hunger these past six months.

“You’re positive it’s them?” he asked.

Ashworth nodded. “Had a chat with the officer down at the dock. He confirmed the names. Nasty sorts, the two of them. Hardly—”

The boom of cannon fire forced him to break off. Between the clanging of heavy machinery and the occasional blast from the artillery range, the armory wasn’t a quiet place.

“Hardly model inmates,” Ashworth finished at length. “That’s why they’re working in shackles. When their day’s labor is finished, a guard will be striking the irons. An officer will give them each ten shillings and their papers, and then they’re on their way.”