Chapter 19

19

“Stay here,”said Spencer as he laid his hand on the carriage door to exit.

“I will not,” said Joanna. “I thought we agreed to do this together.”

“I’m just trying to protect you,” Spencer said.

“If I remember correctly, last night I protected you,” she said.

He sighed, a growl escaping his throat. She got him there. He was just worried about her, but he knew she was strong enough to protect herself…and him. He just didn’t like how much he cared about her. How frightened the thought of her being hurt made him.

“All right,” he said. “But be careful.”

Joanna and he crossed the road and entered the office. A bell chimed as they opened the door, and Mr. Pottinger glanced up, rummaging through the drawers of his desk. In his large, meaty hands—strong enough, it seemed, to crack walnuts—he held a stack of what appeared to be letters. His face fell at their sight.

“Block the door, Joanna,” Spencer said as he retrieved his pistol and approached the man, who straightened with his face darkening, his real eye bulging.

Joanna locked the door from the inside and leaned against it with her back.

Spencer didn’t want to use the pistol to harm the man, but he did want to appear convincing. “Mr. Pottinger, I presume?”

The man nodded.

“Did you send for some thugs to attack us last night? Did you have us followed?”

The man nodded again. Was there anyone else watching the office now, and should Spencer and Joanna expect more trouble? He was glad to have his pistol.

“Very well, Mr. Pottinger,” said Spencer. “I just have a few questions, and if you reply honestly and do not make any trouble, you will be free to go. I only want information. I have no intent of harming you. Do you understand?”

The man, looking paler now, nodded again.

“How are you connected to the Duke of Ashton?” asked Spencer.

Pottinger gulped and straightened, his gaze darting quickly to Joanna. “I do not know the Duke of Ashton.”

“I highly doubt that, Mr. Pottinger,” said Joanna.

“All I’m getting are these letters, and then I must ship them to a destination in America on the way to the West Indies with one of my cargo ships.”

Spencer froze as his mind reeled. America? Why would Ashton send anything to America with cargo ships? Why would he be so secretive as to use a man in Whitechapel? And why was he so afraid of Spencer reading that note in the alley near Tyche that he had Spencer press-ganged? he wondered yet again.

Criminal activities, Joanna had said, and Spencer agreed.

He exchanged a long gaze with her. She was also clearly thinking hard, her eyebrows drawn together, her posture erect, her rib cage rising and falling quickly.

The answer to his questions lay in those elusive letters Spencer and Joanna had been hunting—letters, Spencer suspected, which were now clutched in Mr. Pottinger’s meaty hand.

“Please hand me those papers,” said Spencer coldly. “Or I will shoot you.”

Mr. Pottinger’s mouth thinned into a straight line. He squared his shoulders and stepped away.

“Shoot me if you must. But I will not.”

Spencer’s jaws ground together. He was so close to achieving his goal, he could feel a palpable tremor coursing through him. If only he could get a hold of those letters, he’d have proof of Ashton’s mysterious crimes, and he could start the criminal case and finally have the retribution all his physical and emotional wounds were aching for.

And that proof was only two feet away from him.

But was he ready to harm another man for it? A man who, perhaps, was a victim of Ashton just as Spencer was? Just as Joanna and her family were?

Spencer’s resolve hardened as he eyed Pottinger, who clutched the letters with a desperate grip. Realizing that mere words wouldn’t suffice, Spencer advanced, his steps deliberate, closing the gap between them. Pottinger’s real eye widened and darted around as his wooden one stared straight ahead, fear betraying his facade of defiance.

“Mr. Pottinger, I will not ask again,” Spencer warned, his tone icy. His hand tightened on the pistol, though he still hoped to avoid using it.

Pottinger backed away until he was pressed against the wall. He looked for an escape but found none. Joanna watched the scene unfold with a frown, ready to act. With a sudden lunge, Pottinger tried to bolt past Spencer, clutching the letters to his chest. But Spencer was quicker. He caught Pottinger by the arm, spinning him back against the wall. The letters fluttered to the floor in the scuffle.

Joanna swiftly picked up the scattered letters.

“Enough, Pottinger!” Spencer growled, pinning him against the wall with his forearm. “Those letters are not worth your life.”

Pottinger struggled briefly, but Spencer’s strength was overwhelming. Breathing heavily, Pottinger finally ceased his resistance, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Joanna, meanwhile, unfolded the first letter, her eyes darting across the words with a frown.

“What is it?” asked Spencer, who didn’t dare to step away from Pottinger, afraid the man might try to retrieve the letters and harm Joanna. “What do they say?”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. It’s similar to what I read in the first letter in Ashton’s study. Gibberish, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Read it out loud,” demanded Spencer.

“August 12, 1813, Corinthian – 320 – 32 18-pounders, 10 32-pounders – Portsmouth – Boston.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed, as his mind raced, trying to decipher the information. “Portsmouth is the largest navy port in England…” he murmured. “Boston, it could be the inland port in England or the sea port in America…thirty-two eighteen-pounders means thirty-two eighteen-pound guns and ten thirty-two pounders are”—the realization of what he was saying hit him like a squall at full force—“lighter guns…”

The magnitude of what he suddenly understood made the floor careen under his feet, threatening to topple him.

He stared at Pottinger, who looked at him with sad defeat, his shoulders slumped, all fight knocked out of him.

“What are you saying?” asked Joanna, her voice ringing with impatience.

“Corinthian is HMS Corinthian, Joanna, His Majesty’s Ship, a frigate,” Spencer said, his whole body shaking with implications. “August 12, 1813, is the date of departure from Portsmouth, destination Boston. Three hundred and twenty men on board. The ship carries thirty-two eighteen-pound guns and ten thirty-two-pound guns.”

He paused, his gut wrenching, bile rising in his stomach. “Your uncle is selling military information to the enemy.”

His voice sounded dead as he said that, but his mind reeled as he remembered dozens of men on Concord being wounded and killed. Sam among them. Thousands of men on other ships had lost their lives, too. And the duke who was supposed to serve them in the House of Lords, who was so close to the prince they seemed inseparable, was sacrificing their lives for money.

Spencer’s own life had been destroyed because of Ashton’s treachery, too.

Joanna blinked, her mouth open in shock, the letter trembling in her hand. “He’s committing high treason…” she murmured.

High treason was one of the few crimes a peer could not only be charged with, but actually hanged for.

The pistol in Spencer’s hand shook. He lowered it and stepped back and away from Pottinger. Joanna kept opening other envelopes and reading out loud more dates, ship names, numbers, and ports of departure and arrival. It was similar to what she’d read in Ashton’s study, she’d said. So she knew all along… She could have told him what she’d read. Had she revealed this information to him, they would have known sooner what Ashton had done… At the very least, she should have told him when they’d become allies last night. After he took her virginity.

She should have told him, damn it! He’d trusted her!

But could he really trust her?

Perhaps not.

But besides that, there was the shock of realization at the magnitude of Ashton’s crime.

All Spencer could hear were crows, and all he could see was Ashton’s dead body swaying in the noose.

That would be his retribution. He’d have to charge the man—not just for the destruction of his own life.

But for the lives of thousands of men who’d died in those stormy seas on the other side of the Atlantic.

Spencer shook his head and looked at Pottinger again, who was still standing in the corner, shrunk into himself. “Do you realize you’re committing treason against the Crown?”

The man hung his head. “I realize. The duke holds all my debts. If he invokes them, my family is ruined. My children will lose their home, and we will be on the streets and in the workhouse.”

Joanna, who still looked like she was struck dumb, neatly folded the letters back and hid them inside her spencer. “Mr. Pottinger, do you not want to get rid of him? Make sure your family is protected and not threatened by someone who’s committing treason?”

Spencer had to give it to Joanna. Perhaps because she was in the same situation as Pottinger, she knew how to appeal to him. She was softer than Spencer, and clearly had more compassion than him, could relate to people so much better than he could.

She was selfless and kind. Or so he thought. Despite his anger, his heart melted for this woman, wishing at the same time she could be more selfish and think of her own needs.

Spencer stared at Pottinger. Joanna’s words had clearly affected him—her shot had hit the target. He should give in, but something held him back. Perhaps he needed a bit more persuasion.

Spencer ambled to the desk and partially sat on it, just three feet away from Pottinger now. He could smell the unwashed scent of the man, see the uneven seams on his brown coat, the square patches on his yellowish linen shirt.

“We now have enough evidence to incriminate you,” said Spencer. “And we will bring Ashton down. You can cooperate with us. Or you can hang with him.”

Pottinger paled further.

“If you cooperate with us, you can testify against Ashton, and you may be pardoned or at least not hanged. And if Ashton is punished, you will no longer have debts.”

Pottinger looked hopeful for the first time. Tears welled in his one good eye. “I’m a seasoned captain. I stopped sailing and got into shipping because of my poor health. I’m a good seaman but not a good businessman. I do not like betraying my country. But he has that debt over me—he won’t hesitate to ruin me.”

Spencer’s hatred towards Ashton was boiling, corroding his heart. Were there really no ends to which Ashton would not go to get what he wanted?

“He will do much worse if he is allowed to continue,” said Spencer darkly. “And not just to you.”

As though attuned to him, Joanna went to the desk, pulled up an empty chair, retrieved a fresh sheet of paper, and laid it before her. Then she picked up a pen and dipped it into the ink well.

“Please, Mr. Pottinger, this is your only chance. Cooperate with us. Tell us everything you know. I will write it down as you speak. You will sign it. And be ready to testify in court when the time comes.”

Smart woman. Spencer was very lucky to have an ally like her. What would Spencer have done if she were not here? Without her patience, he’d have reverted back to physical force.

Pottinger swallowed hard and nodded, his breathing quick and desperate. “I am sorry I sent him a note about you two. As well as informed his local man who oversees the safety of my operation. That man, no doubt, sent those thugs.”

To kill them. The unspoken implication was clear.

Spencer’s jaws clenched as Joanna paled, her eyes rounding. “Is he watching your office now?” she asked. “Does he know we’re here?”

Pottinger shook his head. “I do not know.”

Spencer’s stomach tightened with unease. Grandhampton’s carriage no doubt gave him away. Ashton’s local thugs must have followed his carriage or asked around in the nearby inns—there were only a handful. When Ashton’s man in Tilbury reported Spencer and Joanna’s escape from the killers last night, he’d know Spencer had made progress in unraveling the mystery and finding evidence against him. That would make Ashton even more dangerous…to him and to Joanna.

They were running out of time.

“Mr. Pottinger,” said Spencer as he lowered the gun and glanced out a nearby window to see if there was anyone watching them or approaching the office. “Tell us what you know. It’s in your best interest.”

Pottinger nodded reluctantly. “On Sundays, I get the letters. Not every Sunday, mind you, but always in the afternoon. Then my task is to send them within my trading network and get them to the ships going to America. I pay my seamen, who take work on trading ships. When the ship reaches American-held shores, the men take a dinghy to the shore and go to a certain pub near Washington, where the information gets into the right hands.”

Joanna, whose swift hand had been busy writing, raised her head to Pottinger. “Can you tell me what dates you sent those letters? And what were the names of the ships and the names of your seamen? We’ll talk to them and ask them to come forward, too, before they could be punished for treason.”

Pottinger sighed deeply and nodded. He grabbed one of the logbooks and began turning pages, dictating the names. The dates went back two years.

When he finished, Joanna handed him the pen and the paper on which she wrote. “Please, sign it, Mr. Pottinger.”

Pottinger, once again, sighed deeply but signed. Spencer’s and Joanna’s gazes locked; the little victory was like fireworks in his gut. It was even sweeter because he shared it with her. She was right—despite his wealth and power and strength, she did have skills he lacked. He wouldn’t have gotten a signed testimony out of Pottinger without her. He watched how Joanna sanded the paper and neatly folded it, before handing it to him. He put it safely into the inner pocket of his coat together with the letters Pottinger had been keeping in his office.

But something in Joanna’s gaze bothered him. Something was not right. There was some sort of worry, a hesitation. His own gut twisted as he couldn’t place what was wrong.

However, this wasn’t the time to talk to her about it. He wasn’t yet finished here, so he returned to look at Pottinger.

“How much do you owe him, Mr. Pottinger?” Spencer asked.

“One thousand pounds, sir,” said Pottinger, curling his shoulders inward.

This money was considerable. But thanks to his brother’s generosity, Spencer could afford it and make sure Pottinger didn’t go back on his word and was safe from Ashton’s blackmail.

“I will consider investing in your company,” Spencer said. “Once I have reviewed your books and the profitability.”

Pottinger frowned. “Wha—?”

“Consider me your new potential investor. Believe me, I will be a much more fair one. Also”—he reached into his other pocket and put a money purse on the desk—“this is an advance. Take your family and leave for a while. Make certain they’re safe for now. Just let me know your address so that I can find you once we need you for the trial.”

Pottinger’s hands shook as he reached for the purse. “Thank you, sir… Do you really trust me? Me, a traitor of the country? I notified the man who sent those thugs for you… How can you trust me with so much money?”

Joanna’s eyes were on Spencer, and there was wonder and a smile in her eyes. What was she doing to him? Would he even have done something like this before he met her?

No. He’d have crushed this man, thinking he was just as guilty as Ashton.

It was her compassion, her kindness, and her selflessness that softened him.

“I trust that you want the best for your family,” said Spencer. “Clearly, that is not Ashton, and it is not the gallows. The best hope for your family is your cooperation with me and my lovely partner. If you think otherwise, I will simply lose my money, but you might lose your life. I trust you to make the right choice. And once this is over and Ashton is punished, I will invest. I need something to do anyway, and a shipping and trading company would suit me well.”

Pottinger cleared his throat and nodded, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in one line. “I will do everything to make this a worthwhile investment, sir.”

When they left the office, Spencer felt like they had just achieved a great victory, but he looked around the street for any danger, for anyone who may be watching them. The street was busy with regular activity, and Spencer couldn’t see anyone lurking where they shouldn’t be.

They had learned so much…but instead of relief and the joy of victory, Spencer felt as if a boulder sat on his shoulders. Joanna walked tensely, too.

“We made quite good progress today,” Joanna said carefully when they sat in the carriage, Carl driving them back to London. There was a distance between them on the bench. “What do you think needs to happen now?”

Spencer watched the warehouse buildings of Tilbury pass by. He couldn’t shake off the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why was she so careful…so distant with him?

It was clear what would need to happen next. Ashton needed to be charged and hanged, but for a crime this serious they still needed more proof. A few cryptic letters and the testimony of someone who owed Ashton money was not nearly enough to convict a duke of Ashton’s rank and power.

And then it hit him like a tidal wave. Why hadn’t he realized this before? It must have been the shock, the enormous revelation of how grave Ashton’s crimes really were.

If Ashton was hanged, his title and all his lands would be stripped from him and revert back to the Crown. Which meant Gideon would never get his inheritance, not to mention Ashton’s title.

Spencer stared into Joanna’s pretty apple-green eyes, which studied him with wariness. She knew it. She must have realized it immediately. She had been wary of him this whole time, or she’d have told him the contents of that note in Ashton’s study. There’d never been a true trust between them, no matter how much he wished there was. Bitter anger pushed at him in furious waves. Anger at her for having kept a secret. Anger at himself for letting his guard down.

They were truly on opposite sides of the game now, even worse than before. If Spencer got what he wanted, her family would lose. If she got what she wanted and could blackmail Ashton, Spencer would need to wait far too long to start the criminal case. Hundreds or thousands of men could die before Ashton granted Gideon his deed. And Gideon would still lose the title and further inherited holdings once Ashton was convicted.

Their alliance, which had felt so strong last night…hell, this morning even…was now paper-thin.

And she knew it.

Regret ate at Spencer from inside. “What now, you ask?” he said through a parched throat. “We need more. We still don’t know why Ashton is doing all that. He’s close to the prince. He is rich. He occupies probably the most important position in the country, at least unofficially, after the prince himself. Why would he choose to betray the Crown?”

Joanna pursed her plush lips, accentuating the Cupid’s bow he loved to feel with his tongue. “That information would help to make a compelling case.”

It also meant he wouldn’t have to part from her quite yet, which had his chest expanding with happiness.

However, the longer they took to find more evidence, the more likely it was that Ashton would strike back once again.

“I think our best bet is to try and talk to my aunt again,” said Joanna. “She could be persuaded to talk in private given the right circumstances.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. She wanted to talk to her aunt alone?

There it was. The opposite goals they once again had. They hadn’t officially broken their alliance, but could he trust her? Or would she take the chance to use any evidence they got to protect her family’s interests?

She must understand how huge the implications were now that they knew they were dealing with treason. Thousands of lives were at stake.

Despite her not sharing the contents of the letter she’d found in Ashton’s office, he felt close to Joanna…closer than he had felt to anyone for a long time.

Closer than Penelope… Penelope, who he was sure he could trust…just as he had been certain he could trust his brother.

And look how that turned out. His heart swollen and bruised. It seemed the nearer they got to London, the farther away he was from the happy self he’d been as Mr. Hadecliff…and closer he was to the dark and tortured Lord Spencer Seaton. The wounded Lord Spencer Seaton.

The one who wouldn’t trust anyone. Not after what had been done to him, not after everything had been taken away from him.

“And you would like to talk to her alone, would you not?” he asked, feeling his own voice growing cold.

Part of him doubted if he should have revealed so much of himself to Joanna. She could use him. She could take advantage of him, of every vulnerable thing she knew about him. Despite how she gave herself to him, despite how she told him she would accept him. How gently she kissed his very wound.

“Yes, alone, Spencer. She’s my aunt. She took care of me and my siblings for years after Mama and Papa died. Do you think you should be present? Do you think she’d be more inclined to talk when you hover around?”

He swallowed and nodded. She was right. He could agree with that logic. He should just trust her. They were still allies. They shared this incredible bond, this connection that was even deeper than anything he’d ever had with Penelope.

Deeper than anything he’d had with anyone in his entire life.

What would happen to him if she did betray him? If she did smash his heart? He was still not all right.

Would he ever be able to recover from a blow like that?

And what about him? What would he choose now if he had to—his revenge…or Joanna?

He cleared his throat to relieve the tightness in his body at the thought.

“You’re right, Joanna,” he said.

In fact, now that they were getting closer to their goal, very soon their liaison would be over.

And he would need to part from her…

But before that, he’d do one thing for her that would change her life for the better.