"You had no business reading my notes."

  "They were confiscated property. I especially applaud the one you wrote to yourself. Something about checking the contractors' records against the naval ones to ensure that the prisoners are not being cheated. How magnanimous of you, my lady, to start investigating the problems at their source instead of laying them all at my door."

  "You agree?"

  "Of course. Though you'd be wise to have me accompany you when you visit the contractor from whom we purchase the prisoners' clothing."

  "Why?"

  He sat down on a low bench, one arm draped lazily over the top, hat dangling from his fingers as he challenged her with his unflinching gaze. "Radley says he is not to be trusted around women."

  "And you are."

  He smiled, just the briefest, tiniest reflection of genuine amusement, and in it she saw the man he could be, the man that perhaps, in a kinder, more innocent time, he had been.

  Her heart tripped, missing a beat.

  His gaze remained on hers, penetrating, amused. Gwyneth, to her chagrin, could not hold that gaze. Lips pursed, face growing hot all over again, she bent her head and attacked a blade of grass springing up between the rocks. "Very well then, I shall expect your company tomorrow afternoon, as that is when I intend to check those records."

  "My pleasure. Be on the pier at two o'clock, and I shall meet you there."

  "But my appointment with Mr. Rothschild is at three!"

  "So? Change it."

  "You are impossible, Morninghall."

  "I know." His grin was spreading. "Damned infuriating, aren't I?"

  "Yes, you are. But as you have asked such a personal question of me, I now find I have one for you. Tell me, Morninghall. You once had a promising career. Now you hate the navy, hate Bolton, and apparently hate yourself." Sitting back, she cocked her head and gave him a speculative look. "Why is it that Bolton put you — not only a nobleman but a promising young officer — in charge of a prison hulk? Why did he demote you when he could've just thrown you out of the navy?"

  He jerked his head, indicating her notebook. "You tell me."

  "It's something to do with that duel, isn't it?"

  "The duel was the culmination of everything that had gone before it. And yes, the reason that Bolton put me in charge of a prison hulk. It was his way of avenging that sniveling brat he called his son."

  "There's got to be more to it than that."

  He shrugged, set his mouth, and looked away, as though the whole thing were no longer worth taking about. "It was simple, really. Adam Bolton and I were rivals from the day we first met each other as lieutenants on the same ship. He hated me because I was higher born than he, and I hated him because he was a swaggering braggart, not above using his father's influence to excuse his failings, his ineptitude, and his cowardice." He looked away, his eyes hard now with remembrance, his body taut and defensive. "When promotion time came, I was passed over and the post of commodore was given to Adam — though I was the one with more seniority and, if I may be so bold, more laurels. But what did that matter? Adam was the son of an admiral, and I lacked such a weighty sponsor."

  Gwyneth sat back on her heels, quietly listening.

  "Needless to say, Adam Bolton took great delight in ordering me around, giving me the most ignoble assignments, and spreading slander about me throughout the fleet. Naturally, I got resentful, but he was spoiling for a fight. So was I. One day he went too far and I took a swing at him."

  "Ah. So this must've been the reason for the court-martial."

  "Yes. But the cocksure little bastard didn't stop there. When he chose a naval gathering to accuse me publicly of slandering his father to the First Lord of the Admiralty — a ridiculous accusation as I'd never even met the fellow — I challenged him to a duel. You know the rest."

  "Yes, it becomes very clear now. The Boltons effectively ruined your naval career, pulled the rug right out from under you, didn't they?"

  He turned away, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  "Why didn't you resign, Morninghall? Why suffer the indignities they've heaped upon your head?"

  "I have my reasons. And you've already gone tit for tat as regards our questions. I've answered yours, as you answered mine."

  "I see. Enough for one day, eh?"

  "You could say that."

  Gwyneth went back to her weeding, surprised and oddly happy she'd got even this much out of him. "Fair enough. We could discuss our forthcoming visit to the contractor, instead."

  "We could."

  "I mean, I am grateful for your gesture of concern on behalf of the prisoners."

  That smile — fleeting, wary, hesitant — came back to his unforgiving mouth. "Do not delude yourself, Lady Simms. The concern is not for them . . . but for you."

  She jerked her head up, but at that moment the door opened and Rhiannon swept out, looking from one to the other like a hen overseeing her chicks. She held a tray in her hands; a teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of scones competed for space atop it.

  The concern is not for them . . . but for you.

  Gwyneth's mouth was suddenly dry, and butterflies beat in her stomach. Standing up, she shook the weeds from her skirts and shot him an equally wary look. The marquess was watching her, still smiling, still dangling his hat from his hand with negligent abandon.

  "Cream and sugar, Lord Morninghall?" Rhiannon called, pouring tea into little china cups and interrupting the fragile moment.

  "Please," he said, turning his all-too-considerable charm on her innocent sister. "Three sugars, if you will."

  "Three sugars, my lord?"

  "I'm sure His Lordship needs all the sweetness he can get," Gwyneth put in, wryly.

  "Indeed," he responded, with a hot, private glance at Gwyneth that left her wishing for a cool breeze to come up. He took his cup and a plate from Rhiannon and, to the raised eyebrows of both sisters, slathered so much honey on his scone that it required a supreme balancing act on his part to keep it from dribbling onto his fine white shirt.

  Gwyneth watched as he lifted the pastry to his mouth, his tongue slicing out to catch drops of the honey as it oozed from the top of the crumbly pastry. Then, slowly licking the sweet syrup from his lips, he slanted her a wicked, sidelong glance from under his lashes that said all the things his mouth didn't.

  Gwyneth choked on her tea.

  He merely lifted an eyebrow, a mocking smile touching one corner of his mouth.

  Gwyneth's cup began vibrating madly against her saucer. She set them both down on the grass.

  "Are you well, Gwyn?" her sister asked, cocking her head and looking at her with concern.

  "Yes — yes, the tea is just a bit hot, 'tis all."

  Morninghall lifted his cup, his eyes wicked behind the rim. "Yes. Very hot," he said, still watching her.

  Rhiannon was oblivious to this silent communication. She buttered a scone and lifted it to her lips, her eyes dancing with excitement. "So, my lord. Gwyn tells me that you gave her a tour of your ship yesterday."

  "Yes. At gunpoint, I am afraid."

  "My sister can be very persuasive when she wants to be," Rhiannon chirped, slipping a piece of her scone to the dog who waited patiently at her feet. "But you have to admit, she gets the job done. And what do you think of her dress, my lord? Doesn't she look pretty today?"

  "Rhiannon," Gwyneth warned.

  Morninghall's eyes warmed, and if she did not know him better, Gwyneth would've sworn that there was a teasing twinkle in those arresting depths. "I would like to say the yellow suits her and she looks quite charming. I would like to say she looks gentle and sweet, fairer than any of these flowers that surround her in this garden, but since her fingers are tightening around her spoon, and I already know what damage she can do with flying projectiles, I think I shall refrain from making any comment whatsoever."

  "But my lord!" Rhiannon cried happily as Gwyneth went as red as her flowers, "you have just made your comment! What a clever man you are. Don't you think he's clever, Gwyn?"

  "I think I'm still gripping that 'flying projectile,' Rhia, and that you have as much cause to fear it as does our esteemed guest."

  "Don't listen to her, my lord," Rhiannon said, airily waving a hand. "She hates it when I play matchmaker."

  "And do you do so often?"

  "Oh, no. Gwyneth does not have time to think about finding a new husband. She never speaks of anyone — well, she didn't until you came along, that is — and seldom allows gentlemen to call on her or take her out. You're the first one she's taken this much of an interest in since William died, and a fine choice she's made — " the girl giggled shyly — "I mean, Gwyneth told me you were handsome, but I had no idea you were this handsome, and Gwyneth could do much worse than to chose a marquess for her next husband —"

  The tea Damon had just sipped exited his mouth on a violent expulsion. He grabbed for his napkin, choking.

  "Rhiannon!" Gwyneth cried, mortified. "His Lordship and I barely know how to be nice to each other. I can assure you that marriage, of all things, is the very last thing on either of our minds."

  "Yes, your sister and I were just discussing how much we abhor each other's company," Morninghall added, recovering himself.

  "Detest it."

  "Loathe it."

  "Simply cannot tolerate it."

  Rhiannon sipped her tea, unfazed. "Funny," she said, "for two people who profess to hate each other, you both have awfully big smiles on your faces."

  Morninghall's disappeared immediately.

  Gwyneth looked down at her half-eaten scone, her face blazing.

  It was Morninghall who finally broke the awkward silence. He got to his feet, setting his teacup down on the table. "Duty calls. I'm afraid I have business in town that cannot wait. Thank you for tea. Good day, Miss Evans. Lady Simms."

  He turned his back and all but ran to the door.

  "I shall expect to see you tomorrow afternoon, my lord," Gwyneth called, cupping a hand to the side of her mouth. "We have that date with the clothing contractor, remember?"

  "Of course. Two o'clock."

  "Three."

  "Two, or not at all," he snapped, and with that he moved past a cowering Sophie and disappeared into the house. Moments later a door slammed in the front of the house, and the garden was quiet once more.

  In the lingering stillness Rhiannon shut her eyes and settled back in her chair. Gwyneth, still looking at the door through which the marquess had passed, let out her pent up breath. She looked at her sister, not knowing whether to throttle or praise her.

  "Rhiannon —"

  The girl blushed. "You were right, Gwyn. He was positively . . . magnificent."

  Chapter 10

  Toby Ashton sat listlessly on the lower deck, his Transport Office clothing hanging in sweaty tatters off his bones. The air was so hot and soupy that it cost him precious energy just to draw it into his lungs. He did not know what day it was. He did not know what time it was. Neither mattered anymore, for Nathan was back in the Hole, Connor was gone, and their steely determination had been all that had kept him going. Now all he had left were his memories of home and the miniature of his mother that hung from a grimy chain around his neck.

  And gnawing hunger.

  Even hope had deserted him. He drew his knees up to his chest and leaned his head against the curve of the hull, too weak, too tired to do anything but wish for the only thing he could wish for and expect to receive — death.

  The sounds of everyday life aboard the prison ship surrounded him. Most of the prisoners — some of the Raffalés excepted — occupied their time and minds with various professions and trades, charging one sou for an hour-long lesson of dancing, fencing, math, or languages. Their more noisy compatriots marched up and down the battery like a pack of gypsies at a village fair, trying to sell the clothing off their backs, even the space where they slung their hammocks, for money to spend on gambling. Fifteen feet away a group of Frenchmen were singing bawdily in a language Toby didn't even care to understand, and through this melee he caught the endless back-and-forth tread of the guards' feet on the deck above. He stared sightlessly into the gloom. The ceaseless din of the ship was as much a part of his existence as the constant hunger, the heat, the stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies, the vaporous fumes that passed for air.

  Closing his eyes, he put his hand to his throat and gently stroked the miniature's surface, quiet tears of grief slipping down his wan and sunken cheeks.

  He hoped the French prisoners wouldn't notice. They were an ill-mannered lot, as cruel and vicious as a pack of childhood bullies, and if they saw him crying . . . Toby wiped his face on his sleeve as inconspicuously as possible. Without Connor and Nathan to defend him, the bullies had resorted to ridiculing him about his weight, his meekness, and for not eating the rats they laughingly tried to cram down his throat. Although the American prisoners had tried to defend him, their energies were usually spent in devising a new method of escape, and they could not be everywhere at once.

  If only Nathan were out of the Hole. If only Connor would come and rescue them.

  Toby huddled into a ball, the miniature hidden in his hand lest one of the French prisoners see it and rip it right off his neck. So miserable was he that he didn't even notice the commotion near the hatch, until the mass of milling, shouting prisoners began to shove backward, coming in his direction.

  He dragged his head up, shoving the cracked spectacles back up his nose. Yes, it was definitely coming his way, the excited chatter of French voices growing louder and louder.

  Had someone been released?

  Had that someone been Nathan?

  He thrust the miniature down beneath his shirt and half-rose, peering through the milling bodies, steadying himself on a knife-carved bench and hoping against hope. He shoved a greasy swatch of hair out of his eyes and stared desperately. Survivors of the Black Hole always got a hero's welcome back among the other prisoners. Could it be Nathan, released prematurely? Oh God, please, let it be Nathan!

  He got to his feet just as Jack Clayton, one of the guards, thrust through the milling throng, a lantern held high and his eyes sweeping the gloomy depths.

  "Toby Ashton? I'm lookin' for Toby Ashton!" Clayton, a murky form in the gloom, was stooped nearly double, swinging his head this way and that like a giant, lumbering bear. "Ye down here, lad?"

  Hope fled, and fear tingled through Toby's blood like tiny crystals of ice.

  Something had happened to Nathan.

  One of the Frenchman bullied his way to the forefront of the oncoming crowd.

  "There he is, hiding in ze corner! I'll get him for you!"

  It was Armand Moret, one of Toby's most virulent tormenters. He grabbed Jack Clayton's sleeve, his beady, black eyes dancing excitedly, his mad grin showing a mouthful of broken teeth, most of which had been lost in the fights he and his kind staged nearly every night in order to have something on which to bet.

  Toby shrank back against the hull but there was no escape. Armand lunged forward and yanked him brutally toward the guard, snapping his neck and making his teeth slam together. A piece of the filthy old shirt tore off with a dull shriek. Laughing, Armand tossed the scrap aside as Toby jerked the torn shirt up to cover his chest — and the miniature that was now frightfully exposed to Armand's greedy eyes. But Armand had not seen it. He grabbed Toby's arm, his bony fingers sinking like claws into his flesh, and shoved him violently toward the guard.

  Toby tripped and landed in a heap at the guard's boots. His chin smashed painfully against the damp deck, knocking the breath from out of him and sending his spectacles skidding away.

  A large, beefy hand caught him beneath his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Wiping the sudden flow of warm blood from his chin, Toby looked up, chin quivering in the effort to contain his tears.

  "Come with me," Clayton growled, retrieving Toby's spectacles and pushing him toward the hatch.

  Dread coursed through him. "My brother —"

  "Move."

  Toby shot a fearful glance at the guard and began to walk. The planking was sticky and hot beneath his bare feet, and the low overhead deck only added to the feeling of suffocation. Sweat broke out of every grimy pore, trickled down his back. The filthy rags clung to him, scraping against the inside of his thighs and skinny arms. He forced his head up, staring straight ahead and clutching the tattered shirt at his throat to hide the tiny painting of his mother. Leering faces filled his view, swimming out of the gloom. Taunts and inhuman screeches met his ears, and someone stuck a foot out, trying to trip him, before falling back, laughing.

  Jack Clayton wheezed in the acrid gloom just behind him, hurrying him along.

  The hatch to the upper deck loomed just ahead, hazy with the light coming down from above. Toby stopped, looking fearfully around at the guard.

  "Go on up."

  Swallowing his terror — why have they summoned me? Nathan, Nathan, please God, let him be all right! — Toby scampered up the filthy ladder, one hand still holding his shirt closed and the other clutching each step to maintain his balance. By degrees the cloying heat of below began to slacken and cool, fresh air, alien to his starved senses, swept against his face. He looked up at the rectangle of light above him and saw wispy, feathery clouds moving across a pastel blue sky.

  And then the awful premonition hit him.

  He froze, unable to take those final steps onto the deck to confront the terrible scene he knew he would find. Connor had come to rescue Nathan and had failed, and both were lying dead on the mudflats. The Black Wolf was no more, and the final hope was gone. And now the guard was forcing him topside to make him look —

  Toby couldn't move.

  Clayton's knee thumped into his arse, hard, spilling Toby out onto the deck and breaking the moment of paralyzed horror. He landed on his hands and knees, slivers of the deck impaling his palms, and looked up to see stumpy masts rising dizzily above him, a line of laundry fluttering between them. Clayton's musket prodded him in the backside, and gasping, Toby scampered to his feet.