Chapter 18

"Well, get on with it then!" Francis snagged the white ruffles from Hammond's hand and flung the garment around his neck with an exasperated click of his tongue.

The Chirton wouldn't dock for another hour, but Francis wanted to be on the quay when she moored.

Finally.

He fumbled with the neckwear and tied it under his chin, but the result looked like something a child could have achieved.

Hammond took a step forward, his chin held high, his stiff gaze looking at the floor along the bridge of his nose. "If I may, sir."

"Of course, you may," Francis barked. "It is your bloody job."

Hammond's face betrayed no emotion as he smoothed his master's cravat. After four years of service, Francis had yet to see a flicker of impatience in the stoic and impeccable servant.

The aide had come with the residence, having spent the last forty years serving the governors in Barbados with an annoying punctiliousness and pride.

Useless, apart from grooming, serving meals, and carrying messages.

When Hammond finished, Francis beheld his reflection in the looking glass. Spotting a few rebellious strands marring his coiffure, he licked his palm with a wet slurp and smoothed down the imperfection.

Francis smiled at his likeness.

Miss Avaline Hawthorn was a lucky woman to wed him, Lord Francis.

"My frock." Francis jerked his hand, signaling for Hammond to hurry.

Hammond handed him the frock, and Francis shrugged into the expensive velvet attire. The collar band tightened around his neck.

"It is too tight, you fool! Are you trying to suffocate me?"

Hammond loosened the collar band with his usual impassive mask of English formality. "You look splendid, sir."

Francis didn't acknowledge his servant. He didn't have time for such nondescript people. He approved of his appearance with a last admiring look in the glass.

Nothing had been left to chance.

He had counted the days until Miss Avaline would grace the shores of Barbados with her father's fortune. Their nuptials would be the pinnacle of Francis's quest for affluence and power. He had arranged every detail carefully, impatient for her to pledge her vow to him without delay.

A rush of exhilaration filled his veins. The union with Miss Avaline Hawthorn would ensure his escape from the dark depths of debt and the hounds of creditors breathing down his neck, waiting to set their greedy teeth in him.

He drenched himself in his cinnamon-infused perfume with a sequence of dabs to his neck and wrists, seized his cherished silver horse-headed cane, and donned the ebony top hat. "Well, hurry up, then, Hammond!"

The Chirton still hovered in the white caps outside the bay as the governor's carriages arrived at the quay. The afternoon sun cast its shimmering rays on the rippling waters of Carlisle Bay. Commodore Hood's fleet had departed a fortnight ago, but a throng of ships still crowded the shore outside the wharf.

Francis leaned back in the sumptuous seat, a faint curve of satisfaction on his lips. Fortune smiled upon him.

Exceedingly so.

As the Chirton furled her sails, Francis stepped out of the coach. He scrunched his nose at the fishy odor from the sea, satisfied he had used enough perfume to smother most of the repugnant smell.

Peering at the ship, he searched for Miss Avaline among those on the deck. His eyebrows furrowed when she eluded his gaze.

Was she not curious about her new home?

A nervous tremor stirred within him. Her sire had granted Miss Avaline the final say in the matter, and if she refused him, his fortune would sail back to England with her.

He couldn't allow that.

Then he eased his mind. Of course, Miss Avaline wouldn't linger at the railing. She may not be a purebred lady by birth, but she had been raised as one, and ladies didn't drape themselves over the railing like vulgar strumpets.

Francis bid his time with fresh contentment as the Chirton moored. Hammond joined him as Captain Neville escorted a woman off the vessel. Her plain garb betrayed her role as a servant.

Splendid. His intended had been chaperoned as a fine lady should during the crossing.

A sudden wave of lust billowed through his body despite Madame Tessa's professional performance last night. If fortune favored him, Miss Avaline would fulfill her duty as his spouse to his pleasure on various fronts.

Francis inhaled a satisfied breath, but he released it instantly when he caught the grim expression on the captain's face. Francis's gaze darted back to the vessel, but he spotted nothing awry. A handful of sailors clustered at the railing as if they had leisure to gape at the dock during mooring.

Laggards.

"Governor Ashcroft." Neville nodded. "This is Mrs. Wright."

"Mrs. Wright." Francis nodded to the maid and addressed the middle-aged man as he stepped ashore. "Captain Neville." He hid his impatience in the tight grip on his walking cane— an exquisite walking cane of the finest African ivory. "Welcome back. I was beginning to think something had happened. You should have arrived days ago. I trust you have had a safe voyage? Some foul weather, perhaps? We had an awful storm a couple of days ago."

"Um, we had a rather e-eventful journey–"

"Oh, for goodness's sake, Captain Neville," the maid clipped. Next to Francis, Hammond's head reared back in astonishment, the first-ever reaction of any kind Francis had observed from the aide. "Tell him, or I will."

Francis's gaze shot from the outspoken maid to Captain Neville, jitters crawling across his skin. "Tell me what?"

Again, he glanced at the Chirton looming behind the captain's shoulders. The handful of sailors assembled at the rail had grown to a dozen, their gazes fixed on Francis. Dread clawed his heart.

Had Miss Avaline taken ill? Had she been too frail to endure the voyage?

"We were unfortunate enough to be attacked on the h-high seas," Neville stammered. "P-pirates, sir—er, Governor. American."

"Pirates?"

"Most brutal and audacious," the maid complained.

"And?" Francis had to contain himself not to grab Neville by the lapels of his immaculate frock and shake the words out of him.

"They captured Miss Hawthorn."

Francis watched Neville's lips move, but the blood pounding in his ears drowned out the words.

Pirates had taken Miss Hawthorn, taken his betrothed.

Pirates had gotten their hands on his fortune.

Slowly, as if he drifted from the bottom of the sea, he surfaced, and the sounds around him assaulted his ears in a deafening cacophony.

"…never been so frightened in my life! It was utterly humiliating, and my poor Miss Avaline, how scared she must be."

"What?" Francis's eyes darted to Captain Neville. "Did you not defend my betrothed?"

"Indeed, Governor, but the pirate sailed a mighty fine ship, a swift super frigate that flew like the wind and with guns that outranged mine by far. We were powerless to stop him."

Francis's hands tightened around his cane at the all-too-familiar story. "The name?" he gritted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The name of the ship, you fool!"

The maid caught her breath in a sharp gasp, and he could feel her accusing eyes burn his cheeks, but he held Neville pinned with his gaze. Now was no time for pleasantries.

"T-the R-Ranger , sir," Neville stuttered. "She is American–"

"I know that the Ranger is American!" That damn pirate again! A surge of emotions rose in Francis's chest, culminating in a scream like a volcano eruption. "I demand to know who this American devil spawn is!"

Whoever he was, he had just signed his death penalty.

"A H-Hayhurst or…" Neville recollected. Francis felt his blood drain from his limbs. "…Hainshurst…or–"

"Hainsworth?" The loathed name escaped Francis's lips as a mere hiss.

"Yes!" Neville's head bobbed. "I believe that was the name of her captain."

"That audacious pirate," the maid complained, her look lingering on Francis's collar as if disapproving of his attire. "Didn't even ask about the cargo. Took my poor mistress and cared for nothing else."

Francis's hand tightened around the equine cane, the horse's ears piercing his palm.

Adrian Hainsworth.

Bastard son of a bitch.

Captain Spence's words spun in his head.

It was the Ranger again. She is a super frigate. There was nothing I could do. Her captain blasted us to pieces from a safe distance and then swept our holds. He didn't even offer his name, a rogue American.

Francis should have known there was only one man bold enough to steal his spoils and peddle them to the French under his nose like that.

The smoldering hatred that had simmered under the surface for years exploded in him, a hate that wouldn't appease until Hainsworth swung from the gallows for his treason.

But Hainsworth had escaped, the whoreson. He had survived despite Francis paying off the guards in Newgate to deal Hainsworth what he considered fair treatment, and now the bloody scoundrel sought revenge.

"Fuck!" he yelled and smacked the cane on the ground so hard the ivory shards flew in all directions. The maid recoiled, and Hammond's eyebrows shot up. "Fuuuck!"

A chill squeeze tightened in his chest. Hainsworth not only taunted him, but he knew how and where to strike. Was somebody feeding Hainsworth information? He had known about the weapons on My Lady, and he had known about Miss Avaline traveling on board the Chirton .

Did Hainsworth know about HMS Goliath as well? The fifth-rate navy vessel was on its way from London, bound for Fort Diamond Rock with weapon supplies. My Lady was already chasing the Goliath , on a mission to seize her cargo and sell it to the French. Hainsworth knew Francis had ties to the French. How far was he willing to go to get his revenge?

Francis shuddered when the answer dawned upon him.

Blasted!

"I-I-I'm so s-sorry," Neville continued stuttering, eyeing Francis carefully as if expecting another burst of anger.

Francis straightened his back and pulled in a deep breath. "This is a grievous misfortune, but we can't reverse the course of events. Miss Avaline has been taken from us, and we must pray that the perpetrators show her some semblance of honor until we can rescue her from their evil hold." Hainsworth had been a gentleman, emphasis on had been , and Francis wouldn't stake a penny—pennies he didn't have—on the bastard's chivalry extending to his betrothed. "Meanwhile, as Miss Avaline's maid, you're welcome to stay at the governor's residence–"

"Where else would I stay?"

Francis stifled the curse simmering on his tongue. "Hammond! Assist the ser—er, Mrs. Wright into my coach."

"Very well, sir. I trust you shall enjoy her company." Hammond proffered his white glove with an exaggerated show of courtesy.

"I'm not ready for the grave yet." Mrs. Wright snubbed Hammond's helping hand and stomped past him and Francis to the carriage.

"She is as bad as they come," Hammond grumbled.

The chaperone froze in her strides and pierced the servant with a searing gaze. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, your royal chaperone."

"What an unbearable man," she muttered, withdrawing her gaze as if dismissing the ostentatious dandy. "A valet wearing silk stockings! A wig he dons as well. Pfft!"

Francis sank onto the seat across from Mrs. Wright.

"Can I assume you will immediately mobilize the navy to look for Miss Avaline?" she demanded more than asked and landed another disapproving look at his collar.

What the hell was wrong with his collar?

"Certainly. I shall inform the commodore as soon as possible, and we shall spare no effort in retrieving Miss Avaline unharmed."

"I must insist that you do so immediately. We have no time to waste, and the British Navy won't tolerate this affront. That poor, poor woman, in the hands of those nefarious and barbaric pirates."

Francis looked at the chaperone, somewhere in her sixties and with a tight braid slung around her head like a bonnet. He shared her sense of urgency but had little faith in the navy's assistance. Hood focused on the prize of Fort Diamond Rock and Martinique, not on pursuing a petty pirate stealing from Francis.

This time, Francis had better take matters into his own hands. This time, Hainsworth would dangle from the noose in Bridgetown, and Francis would personally witness him twitch and thrash in the hemp until the stiff and cold end.

"Absolutely, Mrs. Wright," he gritted. "Absolutely."

But first, a missive to his friend and ally Pierre-Louis Bertrand, the French Governor in Martinique.

It was time to put a price on Hainsworth's head.