Page 25 of Much Ado about a Widow

Lulu bared her teeth at him.

“Her name is Lulu,” Georgie managed to say before dropping her head back onto the pillow, exhausted.

“Well, neither Lulu nor Clara can take care of you at the moment.” Jaw set, he glared at Clara. “Go to the small cabin just down the passageway that is usually used for storage. Chapman has made up a bed of sorts for you there. All the crew is on deck, so no one will disturb you. Get some sleep.” He turned a thoughtful eye on Georgie. “In the meantime, I will see to Lady Georgina.”

Opening her mouth, hopefully to object to this scandalous proposal, Clara locked eyes with St. Just. Her shoulders sagged, and, with a fleeting, apologetic glance at Georgie, she fled the chamber.

Chuckling, St. Just settled himself into the chair. “I have that effect on servants when I deem it necessary.” He looked her over, concern showing in his gray eyes. “And this is necessary.” He pulled the chair closer to the bunk, settled back, and gave her the piercing look she assumed he’d given Clara. “So, my lady, what shall I do with you?”

* * *

Ten o’ clock in the morning was hardly the time for brandy, but Travers simply couldn’t help himself. He’d spent the best part of the night cursing his fate, St. Just, Lord Blackham, and Lady Georgina herself. In between curses he’d drunk glass after glass of the inn’s middling vintage, which explained why his head had been thumping with horrible regularity this morning ever since he woke. After an hour of groaning, he’d finally called for more of the vile stuff, and a little hair of the dog had calmed his head to a dull throbbing.

“Crawford!” Oh, God. A white-hot sizzle of pain shot through his head, threatening to pop out his eyeballs. Curse St. Just most of all.

He’d been livid when Mr. Harriman had told him the name of the gentleman who had orchestrated the theft of Georgina’s trunks. A name vaguely familiar to Travers, belonging to one of the dozens of gentlemen of the ton to whom he’d been introduced over the years—the image of a tall, lean man with oddly bright gray eyes appeared in his mind’s eye—but not an intimate by any means. So definitely not a friend playing a joke. Much more likely a friend of his betrothed who was assisting her in fleeing and therefore knew where she was hiding.

Had he been at home he could simply have looked the chap up in a copy of Debrett’s, but he’d not find such a volume at this establishment. Cole and Brown had denied any knowledge of the man beyond this encounter, although their description of him had coincided with Travers’s own recollection of his appearance.

As the surgeon had dressed the cuts on his hand, he’d done the only thing he could think to do and sent his men out to scour the waterfront establishments searching for anyone who knew or knew of the marquess. Was he a local landowner? If so, the retrieval of Georgina might be easier than expected.

The surgeon’s parting instructions had been rest and the liberal application of spirits. This advice Travers had taken to heart, perhaps a trifle too well in fact, for he’d passed out before the men had returned. Steeling himself against the pain, Travers shouted again. “Crawford.”

The parlor door opened, revealing Crawford standing hesitantly, somewhat like a deer sensing danger but compelled to enter an open meadow all the same. He carried a jug of steaming water by way of peace offering. “Good morning, my lord.”

Despite the hushed tones of the valet’s voice, a searing, agonizing bolt shot from one temple to the other. Clenching his teeth against the pain until it passed, Travers hunched over the table, glaring at the man. “For the love of God, Crawford, be quiet.” He breathed deeply, and the ache receded. “Where are Cole and the others? Did they find St. Just or Lady Georgina?”

The valet set the washing water on the stand. “They returned around midnight with news, my lord. Should I fetch them here?”

“News?” Travers sat up so quickly his head snapped back, sending waves of misery through his skull. “What news?” he whispered.

“I believe you should speak with Mr. Cole for the exact details, my lord, but I gathered they located Lord St. Just.”

Squeezing his head between his hands, Travers tried to speak forcefully, though it came out a groan instead. “Send Cole to me now.”

Crawford scurried out.

Gingerly, Travers made his way the six steps to the wash basin and upended the jug over his head. Warm water cascaded over his hair and face, soothing him a little. He would tear the head from the marquess’s body with his own two hands, if only he could stop his own from pounding.

Using his sleeve to wipe his face, he shuffled back to the table and eased into the chair. Where the devil was Cole?

At last a hesitant knock sounded on the door.

“Come.”

Cole presented himself, hat in hand, looking chastened and frightened. As he should.

“Tell me that you found St. Just.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, looking as if he would bolt from the room any second, the big man bit his lip and said, “I did and I didn’t, my lord.”

The dull thumping in Travers’s head had returned, more insistent than before. “You did or you didn’t find him, Cole. It has to be one or the other.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, milord. We searched all along the waterfront, stopping at every inn and tavern we thought a gentleman might put up in.”

“And sampled the wares at each one, I’ll wager.” Travers stopped glowering at the man long enough to eye the bottle of brandy. Another drop would taste good, no doubt. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to Cole. He needed to gather his wits and concentrate on the man’s tale.

“Well, a pint here and there makes for easier talk.”