13. Tit for Tat

13

TIT FOR TAT

More than anything, Leo missed hearing the wind.

From soft to fearsome, he'd loved the near constant sounds of it whipping or whisping past.

On land, a slight breeze singing through the trees, setting the leaves to dancing.

At sea, the power of great howling gales, heralding an epic storm that comes up of a sudden. Ordering the flapping, wind-spanked sails lowered well ahead of the fury.

The way the air, all but invisible itself, would whisper a greeting. Buffet his cheek. Curve around the shell of his ear… Whistle lightly or echo deep.

How he missed hearing that: the ever-present, completely overlooked sound of wind.

Yet, if offered the ability to experience its comforting refrain again, he'd trade that miracle, easily, for one minute of her voice.

Susanna's. How did her words sound?

Were they the soft, freshly appealing tone equating to her youthful face and mischievous smile? Or, mayhap, did those lips produce a lower pitch, rich like molasses, hinting at the hurts in her eyes?

Hurts he wanted to vanquish.

Starting with sharing how very pleased his superior had been with the knowledge she'd captured. Returning to the carriage house with both stealth and subdued eagerness (that's where the stealth came in), he rolled over parts of his conversation with his commanding officer.

Inside the stable's smallest room, away from prying eyes—and ears—Leo had shared her list, summing up with a concise, "So, if her guess is right, and the ‘sparring match' she heard of is instead the twenty-sixth, then Boxing Day. As to Lady Diamond or Diamond's Lady? A ship name, I'm thinking. Especially if Portsmouth is correct."

His boss had concurred, expressing dismay. Evidently knew a ship matching that description and didn't want to believe its owner might be involved in the wicked happenings they had traced to this crew and the village of East Crossings.

Knowing this latest direction was thanks to the brave, spirited lass waiting for him, a peculiar sort of pride puffed his chest. Well, that, and also at satisfying Ol' Mikey's quest for knowledge.

Aye, Ol' Mikey, of the stench-filled garments, dirt-encrusted face, callused hands and sharpest mind Leo had ever known. The man recognized in other circles—when he wasn't in the back of beyond impersonating a stable master—as Farnswobble in much of London society, a name he both detested and yet cultivated on occasion, appearing weak and indecisive; or, as he was known to most, the venerable Duke of Farnsworth.

"Oliver's sister? Sister…" the duke, currently aliased as Mikey, had repeated, as dazed at the news as Leo had been once he'd imparted select details about the female he'd rescued. (Much of what he'd gleaned, the things of a personal nature, would go no further than himself—ever.)

"Indeed. Journeying to his abode for the holidays. And Oliver himself got married earlier this year, he did." Succinctly, but with relish at divulging something so outlandish, Leo handed over what Susanna had shared about her brother.

"Caught up in that scandal business?" Mikey spoke without haste, still swallowing the unexpected treat. "You are bamming me."

"God's honest truth. Wed her companion or some such."

He saw the other man give a low whistle. Then grunt, imagined the Huh that issued forth, before, "So she does…had started…a hum, to sell more rags and scandal sheets."

"That too, I'm sure, but no, 'tis based in truth. She exists; Lady Scandal is real."

Leo knew the "real" Mikey was a slightly older resembler of the duke's. That the two met in the navy well over twenty years ago, but beyond that? Very little of the stable master the duke had ordered away for a few days.

Though Farnsworth could play many a role, including the rigid, high-toned prig he was rumored to be in elevated London circles, it hadn't been difficult to conclude that his boss was most comfortable away from town trappings and the somewhat weak-of-character image he inhabited there, beyond from his naval office.

"The bridge…out but another stage…coming through…that direction or…another by noon."

Leo grunted, perversely not thrilled with the news that jostled him back to the conundrum at hand. "Whenever it arrives, we cannot send her on unaccompanied."

"Escort her," Mikey said. "'Tis Christmas. None of us…working through the holidays."

"You are."

"…crimes against England to solve." And his own personal ones as well, Leo knew.

Ones from the duke's, and even Leo's, past.

But as Mikey had again perused the list Leo gave over to his care, despite the dimness, he'd seen the satisfaction at closing in on their quarry fill Mikey's glittering eyes.

Time to put work aside.

With every step through the snow-dampened night, the darkness that accompanied thoughts of the prey they were after melted from his shoulders, his movements lighter, faster as anticipation prodded him onward.

After confirming the perimeter remained clear, he approached the door, softly alerted Reaver to his presence and then silently—as far as he knew—let himself in before barricading the door behind him.

The carriage house was naught but a pit of black. He refused to acknowledge the shred of disappointment that flared, instead, allowed satisfaction to thrum through him. Good. She'd doused the lantern and now slept.

"All right, Reaves, you and I shall bed down for the night," he thought more than spoke, unwilling to risk waking her, as he turned.

Only to have a soft yet hard wall of femininity crash into him.

Moments ago

Inside the stable's smallest room, far away from prying eyes, the "ol'" stable master kept his sharp gaze on the cautious exit of Tucker. Though his keenness to return to the female waiting for him was apparent, Tucker didn't fail to register his surroundings before venturing forth. Good man.

Given the way he spoke about the woman who had knocked him off his assignment? Wouldn't surprise "Mikey" any, when he and Tucker met in London for their informance next month, if, instead of the Duke of Farnsworth handing out another assignment based on their latest findings, Tucker handed in his resignation. Announcing he was ready to leave the navy altogether and become a landsman.

Ah well. Tucker was more than due.

Captain Leopold Tucker, a noble giant with a heart of gold. A man Mikey had once thought to call son-in-law.

A pang of grief hit hard, a boot stomping into the hollow where his heart belonged. His willful daughter, the only female issue blessed to him, before his wife died birthing their son some years later, remained missing. Her whereabouts, her very presence still on this earth, a mystery since she'd run off with that knave who would forever remain unnamed and dishonored.

For a true man did not take flight with a duke's daughter… Only to "lose" her in the countryside.

Before the familiar, long-held rage could warp his judgment, Mikey forced his attention back to the boy.

The boy sleeping, filth and all, in the narrow bunk usually reserved for the stable master himself. The little imp he'd rescued from the vitriolic female who had suffered the lad's thieving paws earlier. A young lady he had quite recognized but who he had no doubt had not done the same, his disguise, both to the eyes and the senses, complete.

Of everything he did when personating another…changing his hair, facial expressions, gestures, 'twas maintaining another's bearing that proved, if not the most difficult, at least the most troublous. Sustaining the somewhat stooped posture the real Mikey possessed, thanks to an old shipboard injury, had made Farnsworth's spine yell at him even more than the dark memories.

Though not everyone had the same demons riding their soul that kept them in teeth-black and hair grease a few times a year, when they weren't suffering the ton as an inept, slightly imbecilic duke, he did it, willingly. All with the hopes of discovering the whereabouts of the few still missing females, the ones not accounted for when Lord Blakely and his men splintered that abomination of a lordling's estate and evil society a couple years back. Now that Napoleon had been truly defeated this past summer, that was his sole purpose—finding the women who had vanished. That, and preventing the disappearance of any others.

And, confoundedly, it wasn't only females now. Males had started vanishing as well…

So quietly that it had been going on for nigh on two years before it caught their attention. His attention. Ah well, they were doing what they could. And would continue on until rummaging out the mystery and putting a stop to it for good.

Stretching his arms overhead despite the discomfort, he anchored his thoughts back round.

The boy. How can I use him yet provide for him too? For no near-starving child was found hours from home thieving days before Christmas if they had suitable conditions elsewhere.

How can I use him best?

What might be seen as either callous disregard, or shameless ill use was, in fact, a well-laid gamble.

A service for a reward. Tit for tat.

Was that not how commerce, how very countries even, worked?

Seemed after rescuing a guest of note from the little wag's snaffling, he now needed to put the lad to work. Hopefully aim him on a path better than thievery, an act which could see him hanged if caught by the wrong person.

But not before he studied again the list just delivered.

And read past the hasty scribbles meant for him.

Was he not in the business of information? Of saving lives?

And something at the uppermost of this particular page demanded his full attention.

Stanton House, London, September 27, 1815

My dearest Susanna,

Your recent missive, surmising beyond words put to the page, both calms my worries, and yet heaps concern and regret both heavily upon my head.

I confess to utter shame, dismay over my ignorance , for not perceiving the depths of despair he put you through.

When I think of the months, the years, you so valiantly gave of yourself to assist Ellen and the girls, why, contrition cuts like a ragged blade.

Shall we come to an accord, my dear? You grant yourself however long you wish to heal, grieve how you need to (or not) over this latest loss, and when you express a readiness to move on, I shall do all within my ability to see you securely, and contentedly, settled. Now, worry not, sweet Sus, for I consider myself a most modern sort of woman and have come to know much about the ways of men since locating to London.

Should you desire another spouse, one we would research with scrutinous care, we shall apply ourselves that direction. Should you not…

Well, my dear, in truth, men can be the most satisfying, flattering, confidence-building creatures. And yet, as we have both learned to the detriment of our personal safety, they can also prove the most ruinous, untrusty, vexatious of wretches.

If you wish to remain independent, we will lay our heads together and, however challenging it may prove, find a way to amass some sort of financial wherewithal for you to do so.

Should you (and this might be worth your strong consideration, but only if you are feeling currently stifled and rather bold, or mayhap only curious over how a more reliable, gentlemanly gentleman might treat you in intimate realms) wish to sample a few, before making any commitments, that would be understandable as well.

Sample? A few… Men? Who in blazes was this…this brassy female who dared spout such preposterous drivel to the lass Captain Tucker had taken a fancy to?

Just because you choose to keep your falls closed and your flapper to yourself does not mean others agree.

With a growl toward the pesky reminder of all he'd chosen to do without, for it had been a choice , he wrenched his attention back to the remaining few sentences.

Wherever your heart or head may lie at the moment, do nothing in haste that cannot be undone.

Remain strong and true, dear heart, and celebrate your fortuitous freedom for however long it may last.

With all my stunned and aching heart,

Yours always,

– S –

P.S. You will note my current direction above; please inscribe your next missive to me here.

Here , this unknown female had written .

Here. At Stanton House .

The unusual abode he, along with his brother-in-law, jointly owned?

Who in the blazes was this female?

–S–

–S–, of the brazenly ludicrous advice.

–S– , of the… He had to reluctantly admit, forthright and (somewhat) reasonable counsel.

The mysterious –S– … Whose writing, he also conceded, he rather admired. 'Twas not overly flowery as some of the females of his acquaintance. Nor was it an illegible scrawl. But something in the middle. Feminine, with a flourish or two, yet somehow still… Bold.

–S– , who he was suddenly desperate to meet the next time he was in London.

–S– , damn this secretive female, who currently resided in his London home. The one housing not only his sister, but his nieces as well.

How the devil had –S– managed to beguile her way into living there?

Of vital more importance, regardless of whether he admired anything about her, what sort of devilishly inappropriate advice was she dispensing to his unmarried nieces?