In the Arms of a Marquess(87)

“If ye’ve come to finish me off,” he gurgled, barely moving his mouth, “then go ’head and do it right quick, yer lordship. I’d ’preciate it. I got me a nast—” He coughed and blood flecked onto his lips. “—nasty belly ache.”

Ben drew back the blanket covering him. Crimson soaked Sheeble’s shirt and waistcoat. His narrow body shook, the life losing force in his veins. Ben replaced the coverlet.

“Who did this to you?”

Sheeble’s face screwed up. “His connivin’, belly-stabbin’ lordship.”

“Lord Styles or Crispin?”

“ ’Tweren’t Crispin. ’Fraid of his own shadow, that one.” He coughed, sending another trickle of blood along his chin. Ben took up a corner of the blanket and wiped the stain away.

“Lord Styles hired you to load the girls aboard ship in secret here in London, then to make certain they arrived in the East Indies, is that correct?”

Sheeble’s eyes closed.

“You may as well tell me,” Ben said. “You will die very shortly anyway. A confession will place the blame where it is most merited. Lord Styles will be punished for murdering you.”

The man’s eyes slid open a crack, but it cost him effort.

“Went over there in ’nineteen.”

“To Madras? Crispin met the girl on that trip?”

Sheeble’s thin lips twisted. “Didn’t know they was all below until halfway there. Then we had him.”

No wonder so many girls had perished, stored in the hold like cargo aboard a slave ship.

“Why English girls? Why take them to India?”

“He don’t like our boys consortin’ with them womens over there. Got to keep ’em apart to rule ’em right. Ev’rybody knows that.”

English brides for Company men and soldiers. No Indian wives like Ben’s mother. No family connections. No . . . “advantage,” as Styles had put it.

“Lord Styles was not on that journey to Madras two years ago. How exactly did he blackmail Lord Crispin?”

“My idea.” Sheeble hacked again. This time he was silent for an extended minute. His eyes did not open when he spoke, and his voice rasped. “Thought his lordship’d give me half for finding a bloke to sign the shippin’ papers, ’stead of him.” He spoke with obvious difficulty. “Only gave me fi-five percent, the bum Turk.”

“Why did he stab you tonight?”

“So’s I wouldn’t tell you what’s I just did.”

“You intended to tell me all of this before?”

“Crispin was gettin’ cold feet.” He coughed, a liquid sound. “Thought I’d get me another hundred before the game was up.”

“You imagined that I would pay you for information. Why me?”

A weary leer curved Sheeble’s gray lips. “Not too bright, are ye, gov’ner? That’s bum coves for ye, struttin’ around thinkin’ nobody knows nothin’ but them.”

“Lord Styles hid his involvement in this trade behind Crispin’s signature then ownership of the vessel, threatening loss of the girl then exposure to the authorities if Crispin refused.”

Sheeble’s brow puckered, his breathing labored.

“Have you access to documents that implicate Lord Styles in the business?”

“Nothin’. Kep’—” A jolt shook his chest. “Kep’ them all hisself.”

Which meant Ben could find them eventually. But he was not interested in turning his old friend over to the authorities. Not yet.

He placed his hand upon the sailor’s arm.

“Jonas, you will indeed die very soon. What you have done now, telling me this, may go some way toward paving your path more fortuitously in the beyond. I hope so, for your sake. For mine, I thank you.”

Sheeble’s eyes opened again, filled with fear.

Ben waited, not removing his hand, for some time until the life eventually slid from the fretful eyes. Then he closed them, drew the blanket over Sheeble’s brow, and left the stall.

Sully glanced around him curiously, peering into the stall. “ ’S’he dead, sir?”

Ben nodded.

The former dockworker folded his arms across his bulky chest. “Gave him the thumbscrews before he knocked off, I’ll wager.”

“Not tonight, Sully. I am feeling merciful.” Merciful. Staggered. Dizzy with certainty he could not yet fully comprehend. Humbled. And above all impatient to return to the woman who caused this unprecedented state in him. “If he has family, return him to them. If not—”

“The beggars’ cemetery.” Sully shook his head regretfully. “You be treating him better than he treated other folks in life.”

“We can only hope to be judged not by our sins, but by our judges’ compassion,” Ben said quietly. She loved him. She had always loved him. And it made him want to be merciful, forgiving as she had been to him despite how he had hurt her, as even now she was still merciful to Marcus Crispin, who had used her.

Ben’s shoulders prickled. He had learned a great deal from Octavia about honesty and the tragic futility of lies. He suspected he had quite a great deal more to learn of compassion. But he would not waste those lessons on her former fiancée.