A Secret Love

Chapter 20

The coach carrying Alathea rocked and swayed as it rumbled along the dock. Clutching the window frame, she peered out on a world of dark shadows, of looming hulks rocking on the wash of the tide. Ropes creaked, timbers groaned. The soft slap of black water against the dock's pylons was as inexorable as a heartbeat.

Alathea's own heart was beating a touch faster, anticipation high but in this setting, tempered by caution and a primitive fear. She shrugged the latter off as the product of a too-vivid imagination. For centuries, convicted pirates had been hung off Execution Dock, but if ghosts walked, surely they wouldn't haunt a site so steeped in justice? Surely it was a good omen that it was to this place in all the dingy sprawl of the London docks that the captain had summoned her. She, too, sought justice.

The coach jerked to a halt. She looked out, but all she could see was the black denseness of a ship's side.

The carriage door was hauled open. A head swathed in a sailor's kerchief was outlined against the night. "If you'll be giving me your hand, ma'am, I'll be a-helping you up the gangplank."

While undeniably rough, the sailors had been as courteous as they knew how; Alathea surrendered her hand and allowed the sailor to help her from the carriage.

"Thank you." She straightened, feeling like a beacon in the dark of the night, her ivory silk gown shimmering in the moonlight. She hadn't worn cloak or shawl to the ball; the night in Mayfair had been balmy. Here, a faint breeze lifted off the water, brushing cool fingers across her bare shoulders. Ignoring the sudden chill, she accepted the sailor's proffered arm.

The dock beneath her feet was reassuringly solid, the wide planking strewn with ropes, pulleys, and crates. She was grateful for the sailor's brawny arm as she stepped over and around various obstacles. He led her to a gangway; she clutched the rope as they climbed, crossing the dark chasm above the choppy water between the dock and the hull.

She stepped onto the deck, grateful when it did not heave and tilt as much as she'd feared. The movement was so slight she could easily keep her balance. Reassured, she looked around. The sailor led the way to a hatch. As he bent to lift the cover, Alathea inwardly frowned. When the captain had said he plied cargo from Africa, she'd imagined a ship rather bigger. This vessel was larger than a yacht, yet…

The thud of the hatch cover had her turning. The sailor gestured to the opening, lit by a lamp from somewhere below.

"If'n you'll just climb down the ladder, ma'am…" He ducked his head apologetically.

Alathea smiled. "I'll manage." Gathering her skirts in one hand, she grasped the side of the hatch and felt for the top rung with her foot. Carefully placing her slippered feet, she stepped down the worn wooden rungs. A rope formed a handrail; once she'd gripped it, the rest was easy. As she descended, a corridor opened up before her. It ran the length of the vessel, with doors on both sides staggered along its length. The door at the very end was half open; lamplight shone from beyond.

As she stepped onto the lower deck and let her skirts fall, Alathea wondered why the captain had not come out to greet her.

The hatch clanged shut.

Alathea looked up. A thick iron bolt slid heavily across the hatch, locking it in place. She whirled, clutching the ladder's rope-

Her gaze locked on Crowley's face.

Through the open rungs of the ladder, he watched her, black, bottomless eyes searching her face, watching, waiting…

Alathea's lungs seized. He was watching to see her fear. Waiting to gloat. Mentally scrambling, her wits all but falling over themselves in panic, she drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, and lifted her chin. "Who are you?"

She was pleased with her tone-regal, ready to turn contemptuous. Crowley didn't immediately react. A faint trace of surprise gleamed in his eyes; he hesitated, then deliberately stepped out from behind the ladder.

"Good evening, my lady."

Alathea was seized by an overwhelming urge to stuff him back behind the ladder. She was used to tall men, large men. Both Gabriel and Lucifer were as tall as Crowley, possibly even taller. But neither they nor any of the men she knew had Crowley's weight. His bulk. He was massive-a bull of a man-and none of it looked like fat. Hard and mean, his presence at close quarters threatened to smother her. It was an effort to bristle rather than flee. She raised one brow. "Are we acquainted?" Her tone made it clear there was no possibility of that.

To her increasing disquiet, Crowley's thick lips curved. "Let's not play games, my dear-at least, not those games."

"Games?" Alathea looked down her nose at him. "I have no idea what you mean."

He reached out, not quickly but without warning; there was nothing she could do-no space-to avoid the thick fingers that closed about her wrist. Her gaze locked on his, Alathea refused to let her rising panic show. Her chin set. "I have not the faintest idea of what you are talking about."

She tested his grip. It was unbreakable-and he wasn't even trying.

"I'm talking," he continued, ignoring her futile attempt to break free, "of the interest you've shown in the Central East Africa Gold Company." He brought his black gaze fully to bear on her eyes. "One of my enterprising schemes."

"I'm a lady of quality. I have absolutely no interest whatever in any 'enterprising schemes.' Least of all yours."

"So one would have thought," Crowley agreed equably. "It was quite a surprise to learn differently. Struthers, of course, tried to deny it, but…" Locking his grip on Alathea's wrist, he drew her arm up, forcing her to face him.

"St-Struthers?" Alathea stared at him.

"Hmm." Crowley's gaze locked on her breasts. "The captain and I had a most satisfactory conversation." His gaze swept down, raking her insolently. "It was impossible for Struthers to explain why a paper bearing your name and direction in what was obviously a lady's hand was so carefully placed with his maps and the copies of those damned leases."

Returning his gaze to her face, Crowley smiled unpleasantly. "Swales remembered the name. After that, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. You Morwellans have decided to try to weasel out of honoring the promissory note your father signed." Crowley's gaze hardened. Fingers tightening on her wrist, he shook her. "Shame on you!"

Alathea's temper flared. "Shame on us! I hardly think the notion applies to chousing a cheat out of his ill-gotten gains."

"It does when I'm the cheat." Crowley's jaw set pugnaciously. "I know how to hold my own, and as far as I'm concerned, your father's wealth became mine the instant he signed that note."

He shook her again, just enough to let her feel his strength and how puny hers was pitted against it. "Family honor-bah! You can forget all concerns about that. You'll have more than enough to concern yourself with, with what I've got planned for you."

The pure malice in his snarl seized her; Alathea fought down her fear. Some fleeting flare must have shown in her eyes-his demeanor changed in an instant, the change itself so quick it was frightening. "Oh-ho! Like that, is it?" Eyes gleaming, he shoved her against the wall. "Well, then, let me tell you what I've planned."

He leaned closer; Alathea fought not to turn her head away, forced herself to meet his black gaze without a single flinch. He was breathing heavily, rather too fast even given his bulk. She had a nasty suspicion he was one of those men who found fear in others arousing.

"First," he said, enunciating each word, his eyes locked on hers, "I'm going to use you. Not once, but as many times as I wish, in whatever way I wish."

He looked down at her breasts, at the ivory mounds so enticingly displayed by her rich gown. Alathea felt her skin crawl.

"Oh, yes. I've always had a hunger to taste a real, bred-to-the-bone lady. An earl's eldest daughter will do nicely. Afterward, of course, even if you live, I'll have to strangle you."

You're mad. Alathea swallowed the words. His voice had deepened and slowed, slurring slightly. He continued to gaze at her breasts. She tried hard not to breathe deeply, but her pulse was racing, her mouth dry, her lungs laboring.

"Mind you"-his tone was that of one pondering aloud-"I suppose I could sell you to slavers if you survived. You'd fetch a good price along the Barbary Coast. They don't see many white bints as tall as you, but…" He drew the word out, head tilting as he considered. "If I wanted to get a good price, I'd need to be careful not to mar the goods too obviously. That's hardly fun. And I would never be one hundred percent certain the threat was gone. No." Shaking his head, he raised his eyes to hers.

They were flat, bottomless, utterly without feeling. Alathea couldn't breathe.

His face a malignant mask, Crowley stepped back, hauling her away from the wall. "I'll get rid of you after I've had my fill. That way I won't need to exercise the least care in taking you." Abruptly changing directions, he thrust his face into hers. "A fitting punishment for your meddling."

With a leer and a laugh that echoed manically, he started along the corridor, dragging her behind him. "A fitting punishment, indeed. You can join your friend Struthers on the morning tide."

Alathea dug in her heels. "Struthers?" Throwing her weight against Crowley's pull, she managed to jerk him to a halt. "You killed Captain Struthers?"

Crowley scowled. "You think I'd let him go with all the information he had?" He snorted and pulled her on. "The captain has caught his last tide."

"He had information that threatened you, so you simply killed him?"

"He got in my way. People do disappear. Like him. Like you."

Alathea scratched at the hand locked about her wrist. "You're crazed! I can't just disappear. People will notice. Questions will be asked."

He threw back his head and laughed. The concentrated evil in the sound shook Alathea as nothing else had. The laugh ceased abruptly; Crowley's head snapped around. His black gaze pinned her. Unable to help herself, she shrank against the corridor wall.

"Yes." The word was vicious. Crowley rolled it on his tongue and smiled. "People will indeed notice. Questions will indeed be asked. But not, my beauty, the questions you think." He stepped closer, crowding her against the panelling, the gloating she'd noted before more pronounced. "I did a little checking of my own." His voice had lowered. Raising a hand, he went to caress her cheek. Alathea jerked her head away.

A second later, his hand closed like a vise about her jaw. Fingers biting cruelly, he forced her face to his. "Perhaps," he rasped, his gaze falling to her lips, "I'll keep you alive long enough to see it-what's going to happen to your precious family and who everyone will think is to blame."

He paused. His very nearness made Alathea feel faint. She tried not to breathe deeply, to smell his smell. The sheer bulk of him closed in on her. Her head started to spin.

His lips curved. "Your disappearance is going to coincide with the calling in of the promissory notes. I can guaiantee your family is going to be beating off the bailiffs almost immediately. They'll be in turmoil. No one will know where you are, or what to make of your disappearance. All the precious ton will see is your family thrown out of their home in rags and you nowhere in sight." His gloating deepened. "I've heard there are offers in the wind for your sisters. Those offers will evaporate. Who knows?" He pressed closer, his gaze locking with hers; she felt the panelling hard against her spine. "If I enjoy breaking you, I might just send some 'gentlemen' I know to make an offer for your sisters. All three of them."

Alathea's temper erupted. "You blackguard!" With the full force of her arm, she slapped him.

Crowley swore and jerked back, hauling her arm up, pulling her off balance. Alathea screamed. He clapped a hand to her mouth and she kicked him.

That hurt her; the pain only infuriated her more and lent her strength. Swearing viciously, Crowley let go of her arm and caught her around the waist. She jabbed him in the ribs. He juggled her, then locked his beefy arms around her, trapping her with her back to his chest. Half lifting her, he bundled her down the corridor.

Toward the open door at the end.

Alathea wriggled and squirmed. No use. The man was as strong as an ox. She kicked back with her legs, but that was worse than useless. Dragging in a panicked breath, she thought back to her days of fighting with two young sprigs who had always been taller than she.

Gulping in another breath, she stretched and reached back. She grabbed Crowley's ears and tugged as hard as she could.

He howled and jerked his head back. Her nails scored his cheeks.

"Bitch!" His voice grated in her ear. "You'll pay for that. For every last scratch."

She could only be glad that, broad as he was, the corridor was too narrow for him to easily strike her. To do so, he'd have to risk letting her go.

Cursing freely, he half carried, half pushed her on before him. Alathea fought and twisted furiously, but did no more than slow him. His strength was overwhelming, suffocating; the notion of being trapped beneath him sent panic sheering through her.

Two yards from the open door, Crowley halted. Before she realized what he intended, he flung open another door concealed within the paneling and started to push her through.

Alathea saw the bed fixed against the wall.

She grabbed the door frame and redoubled her resistance, but inch by inch, Crowley forced her forward. Then he slammed his fist down on her fingers locked about the door frame.

With a yelp, she let go, and he thrust her across the threshold.

Footsteps pounded overhead. They froze, and looked up.

Alathea sucked in a breath and screamed for all she was worth.

Crowley swore. He shoved her into the room.

She tripped on her skirts and fell, but immediately scrambled up. "Gabriel!"

Crowley slammed the door in her face.

Flinging herself against the panel, Alathea heard a key scrape, heard the lock fall home. She crouched and put her eye to the keyhole.

And saw the paneling on the corridor's opposite wall. "Thank God!" Crowley had taken the key. She reached for a hairpin.

Outside the door, Crowley stared at the ladder. Footsteps moved over the deck above, checking one hatch after another.

"Gabriel?"

A smiling sneer curved his lips, then he laughed, turned, and strode for the open cabin.

Gabriel found the main hatch. He hauled on the heavy cross bolt and heard it grate. Swearing under his breath, he shot it fully back. Chillingworth appeared and helped him lift the hatch cover, easing it over. They looked down on a circle of lamplit corridor and the rungs of the ladder leading down. Looking at Chillingworth, Gabriel shook out his hands, then signaled that he was going down. His face felt expressionless. He had no difficulty acting nerveless. His blood was ice-cold, his veins chilled. He'd never known fear like this-a cold cramping fist closed about his heart. He'd known Alathea forever but he'd only just found her. He couldn't lose her now, not when he'd finally bitten the bullet and opened his heart-and she'd been poised to give him hers. No-he thrust the idea aside. It was unthinkable.

They were not going to lose each other.

He grasped the hatch's rim and swung himself into the hole. Locating the rungs, he quickly descended. He was so tall, he reached the floor before the corridor came fully into view. Stepping onto the lower deck, he looked straight along its emptiness-directly into the maw of the pistol Crowley had pointed at his heart.

Gabriel heard the trigger click. He dove for the floor.

The corridor wall exploded outward. A door swung across, blocking Crowley's shot. Alathea burst into the corridor. The door panel splintered beside her shoulder. She instinctively ducked.

The percussion of the shot boomed and echoed, the sound bouncing deafeningly around the corridor.

"Get down!" Gabriel roared.

Alathea looked at him, then at the door. They both heard Crowley curse, heard his pounding footsteps nearing. Alathea shrank back along the corridor wall.

Crowley slammed the door shut. He didn't look at Alathea but at Gabriel, coming to his feet, the promise of death in his eyes.

Crowley turned and raced back to the main cabin.

"Wait!"

Alathea heard Gabriel's bellow but she didn't even look back as she raced straight after Crowley. He would need to reload. Gabriel was unarmed. She could at least slow Crowley down.

She rushed into the cabin, expecting to see Crowley at the desk or bed, frantically reloading. Instead, she saw him fling the pistol across the room as he strode past the desk. Reaching the wall, he grasped the hilt of one of the twin sabers hanging in crossed scabbards between two portholes.

The saber left its sheath with a deadly hiss.

Alathea didn't pause-she flung herself at Crowley, trusting in her sex to keep her safe. It never occurred to her that Crowley might use the saber on her.

It did occur to Gabriel; he crossed the threshold just in time to see her grapple with Crowley, now brandishing a cavalry saber. One swing and he could cleave her in two-Gabriel died another death. He should have felt relieved when Crowley flung Alathea aside, much as an ox would swat a gnat. She fetched up hard against the wall, shocked, shaken, but essentially unharmed.

Gabriel saw it all in an instant-the instant before blind rage took possession of his senses. After that, all he saw was Crowley.

Crowley settled his weight evenly, taking a two-handed grip on the saber, his very stance declaring he'd never used one in battle.

Gabriel smiled a feral smile. Crowley shifted. Reaching out, Gabriel pushed a small table out of his way-it slammed against the wall. His eyes didn't leave Crowley's face. Slowly, he circled.

It was Crowley's move; he was the one armed. Despite his pugnacious expression, his overweening belligerence, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Gabriel saw it. He feinted to his left. Crowley raised the saber and slashed-

Gabriel was nowhere near the space the saber whistled through. From Crowley's other side, he stepped inside his guard, left hand closing about Crowley's fists on the saber hilt, right fist slamming into the man's jaw. Crowley grunted. He tried to turn on Gabriel; Gabriel's hold on his fists prevented that, but Crowley's double-fisted grip also prevented Gabriel from gaining any hold on the hilt.

Crowley bunched his muscles to throw Gabriel off. Gabriel released him and spun away. Crowley slashed again and again, following Gabriel as he circled. Each slashing stroke threw Crowley off-balance. Gabriel feinted again; again Crowley fell for it. Gripping the saber hilt, Crowley's fists and all, Gabriel landed a swinging left on Crowley's jaw. Crowley roared and fought back. Wrenching the hilt free of Gabriel's restraining hand, he slashed and found his mark.

Ignoring the stinging bite of the sabre along his left arm, Gabriel flung himself at Crowley, locking both hands on the saber's pommel. Crowley was off-balance; Gabriel forced him back across the desk, pressing the saber closer and closer to his face.

Eyes locked on the blade inching nearer, Crowley gritted his teeth, gathered his strength, and shoved Gabriel and the blade to the side. Reading the move, Gabriel sprang back. The saber flew free, clattering on the floor.

Crowley reared upright-to be met by a solid punch to the gut. He bellowed and swung, starting after Gabriel, his clear intent to grapple with him.

Gabriel wasn't about to give Crowley the satisfaction of breaking his ribs. The man was a bruiser, the sort who'd learned his science in tavern brawls. Given his size and lack of agility, he relied on his brawn to win. In any wrestling match, Crowley would triumph easily. Fisticuffs, however, was another game entirely, one at which Gabriel excelled.

He landed blow after blow, focusing on Crowley's face and gut. Crowley laid not a finger on him. Crowley bellowed and raged, staggering into punch after punch. Gabriel concentrated on softening him up, on enraging him further. On finally beating him to the ground.

But the man's skull felt like rock; knocking him unconscious was not going to be accomplished by one lucky blow.

Backed against the wall, Alathea watched, her heart in her mouth, her breath suspended. Even to her untutored eyes, the fight was a battle between steely reflexes governing strength honed and refined, pitted against sheer brawn and a blind belief in the power of weight. Gabriel was clearly winning, even though he was now risking more to step closer, well within Crowley's reach, to where he could deliver his blows with more force. One of Crowley's swinging fists caught him as he retreated, snapping his head back. To her relief, Gabriel didn't seem to feel it, returning the blow with one that connected with a sickening crunch.

Crowley couldn't possibly last much longer.

Crowley must have come to the same conclusion. The vicious kick came out of nowhere. Gabriel saw it, but only had time to swivel. It caught him high behind his left thigh. Crowley clumsily pivoted. Gabriel lost his footing and fell.

Alathea smothered a scream.

Gabriel's head hit the desk's edge with a dull thud. He slumped to the floor and lay still.

Massive chest heaving, Crowley stood over him, fists clenched, blinking his piggy black eyes, both bruised and half-closed. Then his teeth flashed in a vicious smile. He looked around, then swooped on the saber, scooping it up, hefting the blade as he took up a stance beside Gabriel's twisted legs. Crowley shuffled his feet apart as he settled his hands about the saber's hilt.

Gabriel groaned. His eyes were closed, his shoulders flat to the floor, his spine twisted. He lifted his head slightly, struggling up onto his elbows, frowning, blinking dazedly, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Crowley's gloating expression filled his face. His eyes glittered. He smiled as he slowly raised the saber.

Alathea inched along the wall, unable to breathe, barely able to think through the flood of emotions swamping her. But fear and fury were the strongest; she knew what she had to do. Setting her teeth, she passed behind Crowley, creeping silently further along the wall.

Crowley stretched upward, raising the saber high above his head, tensing for the downward stroke-

Alathea leaped the last feet, grabbed the second saber, and yanked it from its sheath. The angry hiss filled the room.

Crowley's head snapped around. Teetering, he took an instant to regain his balance. He started to shift his bulk, to realign his saber, turning to swing at her-

The weight of the saber flying out of its sheath swung Alathea away from Crowley. With a gasp, she hauled on the heavy sword and sent it arcing back toward him-

Shoulders and torso still turning, Crowley raised his saber-Gabriel finally refocused-what he saw stopped his heart. Hauling up his legs, he kicked at Crowley, catching him high on the thigh.

Crowley stumbled. His weight shifted. He staggered helplessly sideways toward Alathea, into the arc of her wildly swinging saber.

Powered by its own weight, the saber flashed in, burying itself in Crowley's side. Alathea gasped and released the hilt. The saber remained, its glistening tip barely disturbing the front of Crowley's coat, the hilt quivering behind his back.

Crowley's face leached of all color; shock overlaid all expression. He regained his balance, both feet settling square, the other saber held tight between his fists. Slowly, he looked down, then, equally slowly, turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the saber sticking out from his back. His expression said he didn't comprehend…

He shuffled his feet, turning to Alathea, still holding the other saber-

In a rush of footsteps, Chillingworth appeared in the doorway. He took one glance, raised his arm, and shot Crowley.

Eyes wide, Alathea made no sound as Crowley jerked. The ball had found its mark in the left of his huge chest. Slowly, he turned his head to stare uncomprehendingly at Chillingworth. Then his features blanked, his eyes closed, and he pitched forward.

Gabriel pulled his legs clear and struggled to sit up. Still dizzy, his head ringing, he leaned his shoulders against the side of the desk.

Chillingworth stepped into the room, frowning as he took in the saber sticking up from Crowley's back. "Oh. You'd already taken care of it." Then he looked at Gabriel, back at Crowley, then back to Gabriel, frowning even more. "How the devil did you manage that?"

Gabriel looked at Alathea's white face. "It was a joint effort."

Chillingworth followed his gaze to Alathea, still pressed back against the wall, her stunned gaze locked on Crowley's body.

Footsteps approached; Charlie looked in. "I heard a shot." Eyes growing round, he peered around Chillingworth. "I say-is he dead?"

Gabriel smothered a crazed laugh. "Very." His grim expression only tangentially due to the pain in his head, he studied Alathea, then softly asked, "Are you all right?"

She blinked, then she lifted her head and looked at him. "Of course I'm all right." Her gaze traveled over him. Wild concern flared in her eyes. Picking up her skirts, she leaped over Crowley's body. "Good God-the bastard cut you! Here-let me see."

Gabriel had forgotten about the cut on his arm. Now he looked and discovered his coat ruined, blood pouring afresh thanks to Alathea's probing. Crouched beside him, she was tweaking the slashed material, trying to see…

"Can you stand?" She looked into his eyes, then grimaced. "No, of course, you can't. Here." She waved Chillingworth closer as she wriggled a shoulder under his. "Help me get him up."

Frowning, Chillingworth lent his aid.

"Just watch out for that damned dress." Hauled to his feet, Gabriel settled against the desk.

Alathea pressed close, pushing his hair out of his eyes to peer into them. "Are you all right?"

Exasperated, Gabriel opened his mouth to tersely inform her it would take rather more than a severe blow on the head and a shallow cut on his arm to incapacitate him. Then he caught a glimpse of the arrested expression on Charlie's face, and substituted, "Of course not." He gestured to the blood darkening his sleeve. "See if you can stop the bleeding. Just be sure you don't damage that gown."

The gown was a fantasy he had every intention of peeling from her, inch by sweet inch.

"Crowley must have some linen stored here somewhere." Alathea glanced at her brother. "Charlie-look around."

By the time Charlie returned, Alathea had eased Gabriel's coat off and laid bare the wound. It was a shallow but wide cut, lifting inches of skin but nowhere deep enough to be dangerous. It had, however, bled copiously and continued to do so.

"Here." Charlie handed Alathea a pile of clean shirts. He glanced at Crowley. "He won't need them anymore."

Alathea didn't spare a single glance for Crowley as she picked up a shirt and started ripping.

Straightening from examining the body, Chillingworth stepped around it. He glanced at Gabriel's wound, and stilled. Alathea bustled to the sideboard in search of water or wine. Chillingworth watched her go, then sent a disgusted glance at Gabriel.

Who met it with a bland if not challenging stare.

Chillingworth raised his eyes to the skies. Alathea returned, a bowl of water in her hands. Chillingworth surveyed the room. "While you're having your strength restored, perhaps Charlie and I should search."

"Good idea," Gabriel concurred.

"So what are we looking for?" Chillingworth rounded the desk.

"The promissory notes?' Alathea paused in her dabbing. "Would they be here?" She looked at Gabriel.

He nodded. "I think so. Presumably, the reason Crowley is here tonight and not in Egerton Gardens is because he got the wind up when he learned of our investigations." His expression grew grim and he glanced at Alathea. "I assume Struthers's activities kicked up too much dust. Did Crowley say?"

Alathea's eyes dimmed. "He killed the captain. He said so."

Chillingworth cast a dark glance at Crowley's body. "Obviously destined for Hades."

Gabriel caught Alathea's wrist. "Are you sure the captain's dead? Crowley didn't just say it to frighten you?"

Alathea shook her head sadly. "I think he's already thrown the body in the river."

Gabriel caressed her inner wrist, then released her.

Chillingworth grimaced. "Nothing we can do for the captain now. The villain's already savored his just deserts. The best way to avenge the captain's death is to make sure Crowley's scheme dies with him." He pulled out a desk drawer. "You sure these notes will be here?"

"I expect so." Gabriel looked around. "This is not a ship of any line-it's a privateer, and a small one at that, built for speed-for fleeing. My guess is that Crowley moved his operations here, ready to depart at an instant's notice. With Alathea and Struthers removed, he would plan on calling in the notes immediately, and leaving England as soon as he had his hands on the cash."

Alathea started to bind his arm. "Crowley did say he'd call the notes in immediately."

Chillingworth continued searching the desk. Charlie drifted off, saying he'd search the other rooms.

Just as Alathea was tying off her bandage, Charlie reappeared, dragging a small seaman's chest. He brandished a document. "I think this is what we're looking for."

It was-a thick stack of promissory notes filled the chest. Alathea held the one Charlie had brought in, and started to shake. Gabriel slid an arm around her waist, drawing her closer until she rested against him. 'Take it home, show your father, then burn it."

Alathea glanced at him, then nodded. Folding the note, she handed it to Charlie with a strict injunction not to lose it.

Charlie shoved it in his pocket, then went back to reading the names on the handful of notes he'd extracted from the chest.

Chillingworth was doing the same. "He preyed on small fry, for the most part. From the addresses, some of these must be shopkeepers." He pointed to another pile he'd laid aside. "Those are the peers, but most are not the sort who usually invest in such schemes. And the amounts pledged! He'd have turned half of England insolvent."

Gabriel nodded. "Greedy and unscrupulous. That should be his epitath."

"So." Chillingworth restacked the notes. "What are we going to do? Burn these?"

"No." Alathea was frowning. "If we do that, then the people involved will never know they're free of the obligation. They might make decisions assuming they're in debt to Crowley, when that debt will never be realized."

"Are the addresses on all the notes?" Gabriel asked.

"Far as I can see," Charlie replied. Chillingworth nodded.

"Perhaps…" Gabriel stared into the distance. "Find something to wrap them in. I'll take them to Montague. He'll know how best to return them to their owners, apparently properly and legally canceled."

"Our petition, if successful, will cancel the notes." Alathea looked at Gabriel.

He shook his head. "We won't be lodging it. We won't be doing anything to link ourselves with Crowley."

"No, indeed." Chillingworth glanced at the body on the floor. "So what should we do with him? Simply leave him here?"

"Why not? He's got enemies aplenty. He doubtless gave orders to his crew to stay away from the ship tonight."

"All except the guard," Charlie put in. "But he never even saw you."

Gabriel nodded. "Two of the sailors-the ones who delivered the note-will know Alathea was lured here, but no one will know anything more. No woman could have overpowered Crowley. When his men return to the ship, they'll find him here, alone and very dead. They'll assume Alathea left, and then someone killed Crowley."

"I sincerely doubt anyone will mourn him."

"Other than perhaps Archie Douglas, although even that's uncertain."

"Crowley probably had his hooks into him, too."

"Very likely." Gabriel considered, then continued, "It's my guess that without Crowley, and without those notes, the Central East Africa Gold Company will simply cease to exist. It has no capital, and Swales, from all I've been able to glean, is not the sort to drive this type of enterprise on his own."

Chillingworth considered, too, then nodded. "It'll do. We'll simply leave and take the notes, and get your Montague to return them to their owners."

They wrapped the notes securely in a blanket and Charlie carried them off the ship. Alathea helped Gabriel. Chillingworth was their lookout. When he joined the others in the shadows by his carriage, he nodded. "All clear."

Alathea sighed with relief. "Help me get Gabriel inside."

Chillingworth stared at her, then, hauling open the carriage door, cast a narrow-eyed look at Gabriel. "I assume," he asked in a sweetly innocent tone, "I should drive directly to his house?"

"Of course!" Alathea scrambled into the carriage, then turned and reached out to help Gabriel in. "I need to tend that cut properly as soon as possible."

Gabriel shot Chillingworth a wicked grin, then bent his head and stepped into the carriage. Chillingworth slammed the door shut. "Who knows," he said, loudly enough for Alathea to hear, "it might even need stitches."

With that, he climbed to the box seat, took up the reins Charlie was holding, and set his carriage rolling back to London.