Page 84 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

“I have no intention of going there.”

“I was not asking.”

“I did notice.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “You will find France a good deal more accommodating than England.”

“I doubt that very much. I have been to France.”

He laughed. “You have spirit.”

“I have had excellent teachers. My grandmother once made a bishop cry.”

“I have observed as much.” He put his hands behind him and looked back at our wake, at the brown water folding away toward London. “I confess I underestimated your duke.”

“You have underestimated everyone in this, as you will find out.”

“No, I haven’t.” All the pleasantness went out of his voice, and what was underneath it was flat and level and old. “A man I trusted, one I have known for twenty years, turned on me today. I knew he would. I’ve been expecting it for some time. He has cost me a great deal, more than you will ever know. But you are worth it.” He stroked the back of his hand down my cheek.

I turned my head to bite him. But he was quicker. “I love that about you. Although I expect I’ll have to muzzle you when I take you.”

“Bastard.”

“I’m many things, my dear, but strangely enough, not that. I come from legitimate stock. A second son. The oldest took everything—the name, the money. So, I had to make do with what was left—the silver. It was enough to start my little enterprise. Well, not so little any more.”

“Kidnapping young women to be abused by men?”

He shrugged. “I simply provided a service.”

I spat at him.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his coat and calmly wiped the spit away. “Steele won’t save you. Right now he’s headed toward Gravesend. The man who betrayed me shared that with him,” he said evenly. “That was his arrangement, you see. Berthed in a woman’s name, victualed a week ago, a very sound piece of work. He will have sold it by now to whoever is buying.” He looked out at the water. “One keeps a second door. I learned that a long time ago.”

“You’re vile.”

“My brother didn’t think so. He enjoyed the women I found for him. Sadly, he died from a horrible disease. They weren’t clean, you see, and he did not take care.” His gaze returned to me. “But you are pure. Steele has not touched you, nor will he ever.” He stuck his handkerchief in my mouth, the one with my spit on it, and held it there while he whispered in my ear. “I will be the only one to have you, Rosalynd.”

His hand moved over me with deliberate possession. I fought against him while the rope cut deeper into my wrists. He could do whatever he wished with me and nobody would stop him.

And then suddenly, he stopped himself. “Not here. Not now.” He grabbed my jaw and brought my face close to his. “When we’re in the channel. Then and only then.” He stepped back to yell at a crewman. “How long?”

“Making good time, sir. Not long.”

“Good.” He glanced back at me. “Your duke will come and come hard. But he will be too late to save you.” He removed the handkerchief, stuffed it into his coat, and walked away, signaling my guards to return to their posts.

I did not speak. There was nothing in it worth the breath. I counted instead.

Two men on me, one on either side, both armed, the younger one carrying his revolver in his coat pocket where he would foul it getting it out. One at the wheel. One below with the engine, because the beat changed when somebody spoke down the skylight to him. One forward, coiling. The man who had come up to report. And Harcourt.

Seven, two of them past fifty, and one of them—the young one on my left—had been sick over the side twice since Limehouse and was gray about the mouth.

The cabin door opened inward, which meant a body could hold it. A brass poker stood in the fender by the stove. The skylight was propped. The falls holding the little boat on the port davits were rotten at the turn, frayed back to the core where the sun had been at them. If the boat were ever swung out in a hurry, the after fall would go and she would drop by the stern.

None of it would get me off that launch. I had no illusion about any of it. But I had spent months learning that you never know which small thing will be the thing. So I would observe. Remember. Wait.

We came round into a long reach with the marshes opening out gray on the far side. And there she lay, anchored off the fairway with her cable up and down and her boat already in the water.

A steam yacht. White, with a black funnel, two raked masts, and a gold line along her, the sort of thing a gentleman keeps to take his friends to Cowes. Big enough for the Channel and a good deal more than the Channel. Her counter was fresh-painted, a hard flat white laid on in a hurry and not long dry.