Lady Caraway's Cloak, page 22
A scolding would have been rather like the pot calling the kettle black, so after a few heartfelt expostulations and a little tears, for both felt the dangers their men faced keenly, the ladies forgot their grievances—which were really very few, and in great, wondering whispers, laughed a little at each other’s tangled tales of love discovered.
It was all too soon that the silhouetted image of Valmont’s vessel, alight with royal banners and a thousand brilliant tapers, drew parallel with but still apart from The Albatross. Tension markedly returned to the features of both ladies, still caught belowstairs, but facilitated by two well-placed portholes, from which they ventured to peek. It was too dark to see a thing.
Neither would own to fear, but Serena bit her nails as she had not done since childhood and Julia seemed to clutch convulsively at the strange ring of gold upon her finger, twisting it round and round again as though it were a talisman to ward off evil.
Adam, single-mindedly conscious of Robin’s commands, had taken up his position at the helm and was giving orders for the cannons to be positioned, cleared and loaded. Robin, exchanging his dramatic costume shoes for more sensible but less romantic footwear, had just time to thrash out the last details of the revised Whitehall plan. He was casting his mind about for what he would need, when Serena appeared, more subdued than he had seen her in the past.
“You should be belowdecks.” He tried to keep his voice gruff, but failed. Even the sight of her gave him vigor.
“I know. I am sorry. I came to say good-bye.”
“Not good-bye, you goose: Farewell.”
“Farewell then, my Lord Robin Red-Ribbon.”
He smiled that old roguish smile that completely transformed his stern features.
“It was the ribbon, you know, that was your undoing. I found it in your cloak.”
“I shall wear it in my hair as a talisman. I love you, Robin.”
“And I you. Now be gone before I have to start worrying about more than just my back.”
Serena nodded and turned back to the lonely stairwell from whence she had come.
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a piece of paper, my lady? I will need one, if I am to effect a switch. If I switch the prince’s papers, the theft of his precious document might go unnoticed awhile. It is a chance I think we should take.”
Serena did not ask questions. She reached into her cloak and caused a great deal of promising crinkling.
“Will this do? “ She held out a sheet.
“Perfectly. Even the color is right. Pass me that lantern, my love, and disappear, once more, belowstairs. Promise me you will remain there. If we are boarded, I cannot wish Prince Valmont to know there are lady prisoners.”
“No, indeed.” Serena agreed all too heartily, though her throat was suddenly as dry as ash. “I will be very good, my lord, you have my oath.”
Robin, never doubting it, nodded with satisfaction. Then he disappeared into the dark blackness of the night, and all Serena could hear of him was the soft lapping of oars on the waves and the high-pitched calls of his men.
The cannons of The Albatross went berserk on that quiet, dark evening. Serena and Julia huddled belowdecks and wished, for once, they were men. Inaction seemed so paltry! They held hands, however, and braced themselves against the ship’s shaking. Then came the trumpets, and the flames, lit by the helmsmen and the frenzied sounds of sails being rigged to topmast and the rushing of wind against tarpaulin. Serena told herself that this was the diversion, the mad moment that Robin, far on the other side of the cove, most needed to effect his switch.
The Valmont was completely unprepared for an assault on the shore, though it had been stockpiling gunpowder for months in preparation for an assault by sea. His Royal Highness, away on certain strategic last-minute affairs, was not at hand to give the guidance required, and his crew, practically frantic with shock and indecision, were effectively paralyzed on shore. Only a volley of cannons, wildly fired into the blackness, proclaimed a readiness for battle. On all other fronts, the sea seemed as calm and as quiet as Robin could wish.
Julia heard her husband’s voice. It was deeper than usual—authoritative, yet strangely hushed. There were footsteps and the clinking of metal chains and again, a great sense of pandemonium above decks and loud, piratical oaths quite unfit for the tender ears of gentlewomen. It was hard to know, cramped in their small quarters, whether the ship was being boarded or not—harder still to sit passively and let the action happen above decks, without their willing aid. But both ladies were bound by promises, and both sat on their hems rather than betray that trust.
All at once—it seemed like an eon—there was silence once more, save for a few murmured voices and a great jerk as the anchor was raised in earnest.
It was a simple thing for Robin to accomplish his mission—child’s play, really, for a man of his vast experience and daring. He avoided the steps that were guarded by dark, silhouetted sentries and shimmied up mast posts as stealthily as he had done a dozen times or more.
Silencing the guard at the bridge was a mere matter of some quick fisticuffs, though not, unfortunately, before an alarm was shouted that caused Robin to have to spin around at top speed and employ some exceedingly light footwork to avoid a rapier sharp blade presented to his back.
It ripped at his side and tore at his splendid silver buttons, causing a slight flesh wound that sharpened his wits, and he had his own sword drawn in a slightly longer time than he would have wished but nevertheless fast enough to throw his attacker off balance. Before a further alarm could then be raised, the redoubtable pirate apologetically—but efficiently—gagged his assailant while complimenting him in whispers on his swordplay.
“It is not everyone,” he consoled the furious man, “who lives to draw the blood of the famous Robin Red-Ribbon! Allow me to offer you a memento.” And he shook the crimson ribbon from his hair so his locks fell in streams about his face, bowed silently, sheathed his sword, and was gone, deep into the hidden corridor the man had been attending.
Thanks to the information so thoughtfully provided by Major Rittledon, the matter was accomplished speedily, with only the most trifling of hitches. None of these are really worth mentioning, save to let it be known that Robin did not fly through this whole encounter without his heart beating wildly once or twice, nor did he find what he was looking for immediately—it took some agonizing few minutes, in which the Earl of Caraway both cursed and prayed rather furiously.
Through it all, however, his eyes sparkled with an intensity that was both enjoyment and heightened awareness bordering on fear. It was a game—naturally it was a game—but it was also something more, and my lord did not lose sight of that something, even when, his work complete, he came face-to-face with the man he most wished to avoid.
Yes, Prince Valmont, slightly uneasy, had returned early from his festivities. It was he who found the gagged guard, and he who had sprinted with a speed not usually anticipated in a man who wore mincing ballroom pumps with highly polished pointed toes. Almost too feminine for a man, yet no one could deny Prince Valmont his virility.
No, indeed. He emanated a menacing power that women found entrancing and that Robin found a most particular challenge. Valmont’s mistake had been not to sound the alarm, but rather to deal with the intruder on his own terms. He was rather famous for preferring the private duel. Especially the unconventional types, where seconds were not to be found and if a man drew blood no one—least of all the authorities—was any the wiser.
Robin was just emerging into the cool air above decks when he came face-to-face with the prince. Valmont’s sword was already drawn, but a mercurial smile hung upon his rather handsome features. He bowed, mockingly, beckoning Robin to step further into the light. Not moonlight, for the night was black, but lamplight, burning low and a dull yellow from the gas glow.
Robin’s feet never faltered, and his bow—for he would never undertake such a venture without first bowing to his enemy—was as carefree as his fame. Valmont never suspected the unaccustomed doubt, and the extraordinary wave of anxiety that overtook Robin, now that it was not just himself and his own flesh that he cared for, but Serena’s.
A quick clash of steel, and a flash of swords locked, then unlocked, twined then untwining, lunging, feinting, rapier quick, ever with an ear for the crew, who might come to their master’s aid at Robin’s deathly peril. Indeed, one did, throwing a lit taper straight at the famed pirate, until Valmont roared at the poor fellow to mark what he did, for he would very likely set the whole damn ship ablaze.
Which was precisely the distraction Robin needed. With a light jab at Valmont, whose attention had momentarily lapsed, he apologized that he could not stay to actually kill him, which would naturally be the more polite and definitive thing to do, but would instead seize a glorious ruby button—which he greatly admired—as a memento of their interesting bout.
This he did, with Valmont seething and the guard dousing the flames from the taper, which were just licking at the hardwood decks.
Robin did not dally to see if he thought coming to the prince’s aid was wiser than averting a small fire. He shimmied down the rope he had prepared for himself and down into the cool, black waters almost as swiftly as he had come.
It was several minutes before cannon fire was shot in his direction, and though he found the consequent waves a great pother and nuisance, he was not overly alarmed. After all, it was too dark to be any real target, and the twinkling lights of The Albatross beckoned enticingly to the east.
It was Serena who first heard the whistles of the crew. Yes, whistles and some rather bracing obscenities, but so cheerful she felt her heart would lurch into her slippers from sheer, unmitigated relief. These were not the sounds to be expected from a boarded vessel! These were the cheers of a hale crew, greeting their leader in triumph.
“Come on, Julia, let us go see!”
Julia, cooped up and cramped, needed no further bidding. She pulled up her skirts just a trifle (so as not to trip) and rushed after Serena, who was already halfway across the starboard deck.
“Oy! ’And me down a rope! The master is ready, right and tight!”
“Oi threw it into the longboat, along of ’is oars. There is only the spare, and that is a tad short an’ all.”
“Then ’urry up and fetch one from the stern, will ya? Can’t keep our Robin Red-Ribbon awaitin’, we can’t!”
“Give me a mo!”
Serena permitted herself a peek at the waterline. The earl, a triumphant shadow, was standing in the boat, bobbing up and down like a cork with a balance she found perfectly remarkable, and a physique she found, despite the darkness, more than a little satisfactory.
She could swear, as she peered in a most curious and unladylike manner that she saw the flash of white below. Yes, she was almost certain of it: Robin’s teeth were flashing in the half light. A crazy grin, and far too daredevil for her sedate and delicate tastes, but marvelous nonetheless.
“Julia!” But Julia had caught sight of Captain McNichols, on the half deck, and had already deserted her with a little giggle of delight.
Serena, beset with a most uncharacteristic impatience, turned from the view of the men and ripped up several of her sparkling white petticoats. Hurrying, for she wanted to be swifter than the crew returning with the heavy ropes, she knotted piece after piece until she had a length that was wavy and frayed in places, but definitely, as rope went, rather charming.
She tied it to the existing rope to lengthen the piece, then threw the whole overboard, petticoat side first, and held her breath. Robin, catching it, drew in his own sharply. Then, never one to ignore a challenge, he made the slow ascent up and decided that if his lady love did not cause him to actually fall to his death, he would strangle her for his pains.
He prayed that she was proficient at tying knots—which she was, for estate management was a varied affair and Serena was nothing if not thorough—and a third of the way up his unusual cord, he was actually enjoying himself and the supreme, crisp freshness of the underwear. Better yet, he was allowing himself to wonder how much of her linen she had spared for herself, and rather hoped the answer was not much.
He also hoped that his men were standing at a discreet distance and that they were minding their very shocking manners. Which naturally caused Robin to climb all the quicker, until he reached the more traditional coil and positively flew to the vessel’s polished oak banister.
As he clambered nimbly on deck, there was a rousing—nay, a deafening cheer, and he signaled for the boat below to be abandoned to its fate upon the seas. The Albatross sailed within minutes, but for once my lord was not at the helm.
He was being duly—and perfectly justly—rewarded for his troubles. The only small matter to disturb his complete satisfaction was that Lady Serena still had a plethora of petticoats to spare.
Valmont, dowsing the flames upon his blackened decks, cursed. He had miscalculated this infamous Robin Red-Ribbon, bane of the high seas, but his cargo, at least, was safe.
He checked this, for his high style of living depended on the good favors of the gentleman to whom this was being so carefully conveyed. Yes, it was there, safe in his bureau drawer. A telltale little piece of parchment tucked into the gilded picture frame of the Princess Sancha. Really, she was most striking—if only she were not so terribly trying.
Well! The prince counted his blessings. He may not have captured the arrogant Robin Red-Ribbon, but he had, at least, the last laugh. He had his little document and nothing to show for being boarded save the loss of a single red ruby and the aching skull of one of his lesser guards. Stupid fool! Serve him right for permitting The Valmont to be boarded in such a humiliating manner.
The prince nodded, and ordered the anchor to be raised.
“You have the document?” Serena, still breathless, hardly needed to ask. Robin was looking far too jaunty to have failed. She ducked one of his kisses—for truly, the men were all grinning quite unreservedly and a lady had to draw the line somewhere—and begged him to be serious. My lord bowed. Prince Valmont had been mistaken. The cargo he had smugly cherished—indeed checked upon—was not, as he thought, stowed safely away in its hiding place. It was, even now, snug in the doublet of his great arch rival, Robin Red-Ribbon. The Princess Valmont, sadly, was never to receive the emerald necklace she had so prized.
Epilogue
Caraway was in order, the tenants all perfectly content, save for a few grumbles about the sudden hot weather, and the first crop of tea was peeking through merrily. Stanforth Hitchens had been promoted, not to assistant bailiff, as Serena had tacitly suggested, but to bailiff itself. In this capacity, he was exceeding all expectations.
Julia McNichols was big with child, and her husband, a certain Captain Adam McNichols, had hung up his side-sword and packed away certain eye-catching garments in the great sandalwood chests at Strawberry Hill. He had been given command of The Albatross and was looking decidedly more sober—though no less dapper—in his seafaring clothes.
The Marchioness of Penreith was brandishing a note of hand for eighty pounds. She seemed surprisingly pleased with it, though she had no idea of its origins. In the end, it was tucked into an ancient sketchbook of hers, there to be lost forever except to the endless speculation (and laughter!) of Serena and the incorrigible Lord Caraway.
As for Prince Valmont? He was still cursing horribly and clutching, with disgust, a tattered old piece of parchment. Useless, useless, utterly useless! Beautifully inscribed, in letters of gold, was a bill from Gunther’s of London. Yes, indeed, the prohibitive cost of cake, no less. One sugared ice castle, though who would squander such a hideous sum on such a sickly confection, he really could not say.
A mistake, of course, for the direction of the bill was Lady Fanny something or other—he could not quite make it out. He wondered, with annoyance, who in the dashed world she was, and how in heaven’s name that infernal nuisance of the seas, Robin Red-Ribbon, had effected the switch.
He was never to know, of course, for that selfsame Robin had transformed meekly into a dashing but not at all piratical peer of the realm and was even now partaking of a pleasant morning tea of delicate sandwiches and fresh, slightly burnt smoked trout from his lakes.
Any rumors that might have floated about on a tide of nonsensical gossip had been scotched long since. Lord Robin was positively too languid—not to mention too sublimely rich and handsome—to stoop to common criminality. The very idea was absurd, though people would try to puff themselves up by rumormongering! Not comme il faut, not comme il faut at all. And such was the verdict of anyone who was anyone in the polite world.
My lord licked his fingers—yes, his gloves were off, for they were dining outside and there was really no need for extreme formality. Certainly not now, in the shade of the willow tree, well hidden from the interested eyes of their cottagers.
“I think you are forgetting something.” Serena, her mouth filled with hothouse grapes, meekly handed over his share of the plate—but quite spoiled the effect by batting her eyelashes as she did so.
Robin, amused, would not have a bar of her offering, telling her quite sternly that it was not grapes he was after, but something sweeter by far.
So, with a great swallow, then a sigh—not as mournful as the lady wished to pretend—the newest Countess of Caraway—perfectly content—allowed him to adjust her ribbons. They were, of course, a perfect crimson red.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
