Chapter 32

"He hates me!"

Avaline stormed into her chamber in the governor's residence, followed by Hammond. Sobs wracked her body, spurred from an uncontrollable source inside.

"Heavenly Father!" Molly dropped her embroidery and rushed to Avaline's side. "What happened?"

"He didn't believe me," Avaline wailed and threw herself on the bed. "He is convinced I betrayed him and that I simply wanted to clear my conscience before they hang him."

"I'm so sorry, my darling."

Molly's soft voice spun a lump in Avaline's throat. "I think he has given up, Molly. He is just waiting to die."

"Don't say that, my child."

Avaline dried her nose with the embroidered handkerchief Hammond handed her. "He doesn't want my help. He doesn't even want to see me anymore."

"Though he rejects you, you must fight for him. If not for his love, then at least for his life. Otherwise, you won't be able to go on or forgive yourself for not doing everything you could to save him."

"But what can I do?" She didn't bother to wipe off the tears running down her cheek. "I asked him if there could be evidence somewhere that could tie Francis to the French, but he refused to answer. If I could only get into Francis's writing desk, but he has locked it."

"Lord Francis would never be so stupid as to keep anything that could tie him to the French in his home," Hammond pointed out as if it was as evident as the dawn breaking over the horizon every morning.

Both Avaline and Molly looked up at the servant.

"But he is communicating with Governor Bertrand." Avaline sat up next to Molly. "Francis made a deal with him to send me to Barbados. There must be some correspondence somewhere. Where would he keep that?"

"Where he keeps his assets," Hammond said.

"Assets?"

Avaline and Molly stared at Hammond.

"The deed on the house, the deal with your father"—Hammond barely batted an eyelid—"all the important papers regarding his position as governor. He keeps them in the bank vault. He has frequented the vault several times this past week."

"But Lord in heaven, Hammond!" Molly chastised. "How do you think we'll get access to the vault?"

"How do I get access to the vault, Hammond?" Avaline asked, perching herself on the edge of the bed, her back straight.

"Oh, dear," Molly mumbled to herself.

"You don't. The president of the bank, Sir Davies, personally opens the vault for Lord Francis when needed."

Avaline's eyes latched onto Molly's. "We must try. It is his only chance."

"I just don't see how."

"When is Francis expected to be back?"

"By suppertime. But the bank has closed for today. It opens again at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll have words sent to Sir Davies's house immediately tomorrow morning, requesting a meeting before noon."

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon hatching a plan to get into the bank vault the following day. Exhausted, nervous, and impatient, Avaline excused herself from supper, citing an abrupt and violent headache, a skillful imitation of her stepmother's disposition whenever her emotions took their stormy turn.

She secluded herself in her quarters, her mind consumed by the upcoming conversation with Sir Davies, each rehearsed word tuning over like a polished stone on the beach.

Yet, sleep eluded her as the activities in the governor's mansion subsided and the house settled into silence. The night stretched every second into an unforgiving eternity, a relentless chronicle eating at her spirit without mercy.

Her gaze fixed upon the moon, the same moon that had witnessed her union with Adrian on the distant shores of a secluded isle—a time that seemed an age ago. She clung to the memories of their stolen moments—the warmth of his skin against hers, the fervent gaze in his cerulean eyes as he lost himself in her warmth, and the echo of his laughter in her ear.

Then there was the other memory, the one of his shackled body, bleeding and strung in a twisted pose, haunting her mind, refusing her any solace.

And why should it? She was safe as a pearl in its shell, unscathed, warm, and nourished, draped in silk as smooth as water, and enveloped in the subtle fragrance of blooming flowers from the garden outside.

The darkness of the night seemed to magnify her fear, churning it into a maelstrom of sickness that intensified from the sweet scent of roses. Yet, she held on to a glimmer of hope, a fragile ember of belief that, somehow, she could alter the course of destiny.

As the eastern skies blushed with the first touch of day, she tossed the blankets aside and steeled herself for what lay ahead.

With Molly's help, she donned the most exclusive attire she had brought from home: a moss-green silk dress draping over her bust like a summer cloud, slightly trained at the back, and with long sleeves that tapered at her wrists. A mint cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders, contrasting the dress with its soft hue. A plumed hat with ribbons adorned her head, complementing the elegant ensemble above her sophisticated updo.

"Dearest, you look like a Parisian belle!" Molly looked at her in the mirror.

"Thank you." She turned from the mirror reflecting her anxiety and squeezed Molly's hand. "Molly, if this fails…"

"Don't say such a thing, my child. It won't fail."

"But what if–"

"Don't you worry, my dear. Everything will go just as planned. Have faith."

Avaline nodded. She had to believe in the plan, in herself. They had to seize the opportunity, for there wouldn't be a second go.

When Molly left, Avaline stuck the dagger Adrian had given her into her boot and concealed it with her skirt. With a final glance in the mirror and a soothing inhale—and then another one—she went downstairs to meet the new day.

The inviting aroma of coffee welcomed her as she approached the breakfast room, but the rich notes failed to impart their usual soothing effect on her. Instead, the roast agitated her already upset stomach. She stopped for a beat, breathing several times before opening the door.

As she entered, Francis looked up from the newspaper and gave her an approving once-over. "I see you have regained your reason and are embracing your destined role."

"Yes, my lord." Avaline claimed her seat at the opposite end of the lengthy table, wedging her hands between her thighs under the pristine white tablecloth to keep them from trembling.

What if Sir Davies insisted on Francis being present?

Hammond appeared instantly, not a trace in his stoic face betraying what was about to unfold and his role in it all. With a meticulous hand, he filled her cup with hot chocolate, steaming and fragrant, as if sensing that she needed something gentle and soothing, not the harsh jolt of bitter coffee.

"Thank you, Hammond."

He only released some of his stiffness when he assumed his assigned spot behind Francis's chair. Hammond held her gaze for an extended beat, longer than his protocol dictated, and gave her a nod, like a silent affirmation of their plans.

"My presence is called for at the naval quarters to prepare the constitutional matters related to executing Hainsworth's punishment. Hammond will escort you to the garrison later. I'll meet you there."

"Yes, my lord." She felt Francis's eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on the curling wisps of steam rising from her porcelain cup as she sipped the chocolate. The taste of the finest chocolate enhanced with a hint of citrusy bergamot oil melted on her tongue, creating a rich symphony of flavors in her mouth. Exquisite.

And expensive, like the eggs poached to perfection, the succulent and savory ham, the French bread, the abundant assortment of cheese, and the exotic fruits carved into whimsical shapes.

A breakfast fit for a king, to be paid with her dowry.

"Leave," Francis ordered and tossed Hammond a glance over his shoulder. When the door closed behind the servant, his eyes returned to Avaline. "You may pout as a child, but you will keep it within these walls and not make any spectacle at the gallows today."

"I understand that Captain Hainsworth's fate is beyond my control. I won't jeopardize my future for something I can't influence. However, I humbly beg you to grant me permission to stay in the mansion."

She lifted her chin, determined to demonstrate her sensibility, but the taupe eyes pinning her from across the table shook her resolve, and she lowered her gaze to the lavish table again.

"No. You will be at my side and witness your pirate lover die." His voice was silky, but the steely edge of his look felt like a razor on her skin. "Is there any possibility you might be expecting?"

Avaline's cheeks blazed with such heat she felt like they would melt off her bones. "I beg your pardon?"

"I refuse to raise the spawn of another man, least of all Hainsworth's bastard. If fate should curse me with such a burden, we shall pretend the child was stillborn and cast it away."

His cruel words pierced her, clutching her heart in an icy grip as a reality dawned upon her that she hadn't thoroughly considered—her union with Adrian carrying fruits and Francis casting it away like worthless trash.

Her hand descended to her stomach. Was it possible? Adrian had been inside her several times, and she had last bled while she was on board the Chirton . The possibility was there.

She needed to leave this house for her safety, no matter the outcome of this dreadful day.

But where would she go? Barbados was his territory, and he probably had eyes everywhere. No one on the island would dare to defy him or offer her refuge. She was trapped.

"N-no, there is no such possibility," she stuttered. She needed some time to weigh her options, and though the possibility of her being with child certainly was there, she had to stall his suspicions lest he curtail her liberty. She prayed he would leave it at that, as she wasn't inclined to impart the secrets of womanhood to him, but he demanded no justification for her assurance because he folded the gazette and rose from his seat.

"You better pray there isn't. I am awaiting the commodore and his lady for the evening repast. I expect you to comport yourself with the utmost propriety, and I will brook no mention of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your advent. Mrs. Hood is a notorious tattler and will be eager to divulge her observations to the other ladies in town."

A brief respite of relief eased some of the tension in her back, but the tidings of the dinner soon restored it. If that repast came to pass, Adrian would be no more. "Yes, my lord." She took a sip from her porcelain cup as he left but tasted nothing of the fine chocolate.

How could she endure an evening with Commodore Hood and his lady if Adrian died?

The thought unsettled her belly to the extent she could not eat. Instead, she sipped at her chocolate in solitude until Hammond came to let her know it was time to go.

A beat after eleven o'clock, Hammond followed Avaline into the two-story Colonial Bank on Broad Street. A long, sturdy counter of wood spanned the entire rear wall, secured by grilles through which the clerk transacted the daily businesses. A row of windows admitted the natural light, barred with wrought iron of such quality as would grace Hawthorn Manor's stairways.

She clutched the drawstring reticule containing her velvet jewelry sachet.

"Miss Hawthorn, what a surprise!"

Avaline nearly jumped at the nasal voice but forced her face into overjoyed folds and turned to the man approaching from behind the counter.

He, like Francis, seemed to flaunt his appearance, but where Francis was ostentatious and a braggart, Sir Davies maintained a finesse that bespoke of old wealth. He donned a high-collar shirt adorned with ruffled cuffs and an embroidered waistcoat beneath a burgundy coat with golden buttons. White stockings accompanied his black breeches, matching his shiny black shoes. A white wig with side curls and a queue crowned his appearance.

"Sir Davies, I'm so pleased you could find the time to meet me this morning, and my sincerest apologies for making such an impromptu visit." Her voice trembled with nerves, but she swallowed her trepidation. In less than one hour, Adrian would be executed.

"Not at all, Miss Hawthorn." He sent her an appreciative glance, from the modern updo to the exquisite gown one could only dream of finding from the Bridgetown modistes. "It is my honor, and I'm incredibly pleased to meet you."

"Thank you, Sir Davies. Is there somewhere we can talk in private? I'm here in a most delicate and urgent matter."

"Of course, Miss Hawthorn." He sent Hammond a glance. "The governor is not accompanying you today?"

He led her into his office and closed the door behind them.

"He has trusted Mr. Hammond to escort me to the bank. The governor is busy with constitutional affairs and the upcoming… enforcement of the law. I thought it best not to draw him away from such important matters. After all, he is the voice of our beloved King George here in Barbados. Don't you think he is doing a marvelous job, Sir Davies?"

"Of course, Miss–"

"The last I heard from King George before I left England is that he is so satisfied with Governor Ashcroft that he will bestow upon him a promotion. He was overjoyed when he heard about our engagement. Isn't that fantastic?"

Sir Davies's eyes widened, and his tongue came out to wet his lips. "That is wonderful news, Miss Hawthorn."

"I wouldn't even consider interfering in the governor's business for my petty bank affairs. I need access to the vault." The final sentence escaped her lips as an afterthought.

"The vaults are private–"

"Oh, absolutely, but I'm not here to withdraw anything. This is such a scary day for me, Sir Davies. With the pirates and everything." She lowered her voice even though they were alone in the office. "I managed to lure away most of my jewelry from the pirate scum, among them a valuable gemstone originating from the court of Louis XIII."

"Louis XIII? Absolutely remarkable."

"My father, Lord Hawthorn, wanted me to have it. I can't think of anyone better suited to guard such a priceless treasure, and I won't have a night's rest before my gems are safely locked into your vault, especially on a day like this. You can understand that, can you not, Sir Davies?"

Davies's eyes grew, if possible, even more. She latched onto his arm, and he jolted. "Isn't it a godsend how those pirates were captured?"

"I must say, Miss Hawthorn, if you allow me, we were all most concerned when we learned about the unfortunate turn of events on your voyage. It is God's will that they now will face the consequences."

"Amen to that." Avaline pressed out a smile and patted her reticule. Sir Davies's eyes fell on the small accessory at her side. "Now, since I'm secure within the confines of the bank, I will let you behold the reason for my visit."

She opened her reticule, retrieving a velvet sachet of gems. From it, she produced a necklace adorned with an emerald the size of a thumbnail. She held out her palm for him to marvel at the vivid green jewel, a gift from her father to her mother that she had inherited.

"My, Miss Hawthorn, that is–"

"Isn't it exquisite?" she squealed.

"Why yes, absolutely marvelous." He eyed the gem with a greedy look. "From the court of King Louis XIII, you say?"

"Yes, originally given to him by Osman II. I will gift this to Governor Ashcroft when we exchange vows."

Sir Davies's eyebrows lifted. "A most splendid token of–"

"I must beg of you, Sir Davies, not to spoil the surprise and tell the governor about my visit. I so dearly want to see his face when I give him this jewel. You can understand that, can you not after seeing this treasure?"

"Of course, Miss–"

"I trust this gem to you instead of keeping it in the governor's residence."

"Absolutely, Miss Hawthorn! I shall have it stored in the vault immediately."

She latched onto his arm. "I must beg you to let me deposit it in the vault. This whole ordeal has made me so very anxious, and I'm not sure my frail disposition can handle much more upset. I must appeal to you as a gentleman, and please let me see for myself that it is safely stored."

"Well…"

"My future husband, Governor Ashcroft, and I shall reward you handsomely for this additional responsibility. And we would very much like you and your lady to join us for dinner tonight. Commodore Hood and Mrs. Hood will also be present."

"I must say, we would be much honored to join you. I will take you to the vault, and you can deposit your valuables yourself." Sir Davies unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a set of keys. "This way, Miss Hawthorn."

He led her through a winding descent of stone steps. The cellar was shrouded in darkness, with only the flickering flames of the navy-inspired sconces casting a faint glow on the white stone walls. A mild odor of earth and mold welcomed them, a natural scent coming from the dampness and age of the walls. The air was cool and humid, a relief from the heat outside.

Sir Davies unlocked the twin iron sentinels that barred their way, guarded by watchful soldiers, and pushed open the colossal oaken portal bound with heavy iron bands. He snatched a torch from the wall and entered the vault, Avaline following a step behind. Her heart pounded like a sledgehammer as his eyes scanned the wooden shelves lining the walls, laden with casks and chests of all shapes and sizes, some plain and weathered, others ornate and elaborate. He pulled out a cask the size of the Ranger's gunpowder barrels. "This belongs to the governor." He handed her two keys. "The larger one is the key to the chest."

Avaline felt the weight of the metal in her trembling hand. "Thank you, Sir Davies. If you'll give me a moment, I'll be quick."

"Of course. I shall await you right outside."

Sir Davies left the torch in the bracket on the wall and stepped outside. Avaline eyed the cask, its ornate detailing resembling delicate lacework. Would this cask reveal the proof she needed to free Adrian? She approached the cask with cautious steps as if it would jump up and bite her if she scared it. She reached for the lock, but the key slid from her moist fingers and dropped to the wooden floor with a clink. Cursing under her breath, she picked it up and inserted it, but it stuck in the lock, refusing to budge either one way or the other.

Fuck!

Her eyes widened at the coarse curse she had picked up from Adrian and his crew.

She wiped her moist palms on her skirt and took a deep breath before yanking at the key. It came out with a clatter, once again landing on the floor. She inserted it again, turning it slowly as if afraid of what she might find. The key resisted for a moment, then gave way with a faint metallic clunk. The lock opened, and she lifted the lid with a trembling hand.

A bunch of papers and letters filled the cask, and she sifted through letters, some from her father, a bundle of banknotes, and some bonds. A pile of silver coins lay on the bottom.

Nothing that proved Adrian's innocence.

Sweat prickled on her forehead. There was nothing. No letter, no agreement. No nothing.

She collapsed on the floor, unmindful of how her dress would stain. A wave of panic surged through her, clouding her reason, and her hand gripped the keys so hard they dug into her flesh. She opened her palm and lowered her gaze, her eyes locking on the smaller key. It was too tiny for a cask. Perhaps it fit a drawer, or…

A memory of an adventurous exploration of the Hawthorn Manor old Tudor loft with her Charles resurfaced. In a secluded corner, beneath a heap of old furniture, they had dug out an old Turkish chest. Thrilled about their discovery, they had marveled at the opulent and intricate woodwork—until Charles had accidentally dropped it to the floor, cracking the structure and revealing a hidden compartment.

She rose to her feet, inspected the cask again, scanned the structure, and tapped along the panels until a hollow sound rewarded her efforts.

"Miss Hawthorn, is everything all right?"

"Yes, Sir Davies, I'll be right out. The key got stuck, but I finally managed to open the cask."

She probed the panels on the side of the cask and felt one that was loose. She nudged it out as far as it would go, about an inch, but enough to expose the tiny keyhole.

Her heart thudded like a stampede of horses when she stuck the smaller key into the lock. With a small click, the front panel opened, exposing a pile of papers hidden between the two front walls.

She gnawed her lower lip until she tasted blood as she pulled out the papers. A sharp thud echoed through the vault, making her jolt. She peered inside the small opening and retrieved a seal ring.

Oh no!

If Francis had used another identity when corresponding with Governor Bertrand, it would be impossible to confirm his guilt.

She held the seal ring up to the torch.

A.Hainsworth.

A fierce gasp tore out of her.

Made with my seal ring that had disappeared a few days earlier.

"Miss Hawthorn?"

"Mm-hm?"

She skimmed through the papers, and her heart stilled when her eyes caught her own name.

…confirm the plan to seize HMS Goliath by Captain Spence of My Lady… sailing from London on the tenth day of August… 32 guns… 170 sailors and officers… reduce the price of the weapons from HMS Goliath in exchange for the handover of Miss Avaline Hawthorn… Governor Bertrand of Fort Royal… continue our personal business with British weapons as before…

The letter held both Francis's and Governor Bertrand's seals.

The papers fluttered as a riot of emotions raged inside her, like rustling leaves during a storm.

Adrian was right.

"Dear Lord!"