He looked at the chaplain for a long moment, and there was an unspoken urgency in that direct, intelligent gaze that articulated Peter's own thoughts. Toby Ashton was dying, and if the Black Wolf did not get him off the ship, his young life would end here — in the stinking bowels of hell itself.

  "So be it then," the chaplain said quietly, and even as he murmured the words, he sent up a silent prayer that God would watch over this final rescue.

  For a sense of doom was moving over his heart just as surely as the mists were darkening the sea outside, and he had the awful feeling that this rescue was the one that would go wrong.

  Terribly, horribly, wrong.

  Chapter 26

  Darkness had begun to fall over Portsmouth, but in the thick, gray gloom that shrouded both land and sea, it was impossible to discern at what hour day had ended and night begun. Gwyneth, who had spent the day packing up clothes and belongings with Rhiannon and Sophie, terminating their lease, and dashing off notes to her former brother-in-law, her friends, and various other contacts, never noticed how much time had passed until she happened to look up from her desk and realize that lamps were already lit in nearby windows and glowing upon the wet, darkening street below.

  A couple of miles away Damon, attending to various matters of official business and correspondence as he awaited Peter's return, heard the bell on the forecastle announcing the evening meal and looked up in faint surprise before hurrying to finish his final tasks as commander of a prison hulk. And out in the Channel the schooner Kestrel, cruising in the mists that wreathed the Isle of Wight, was running with no lights and her captain was not about to call for any, despite the fact that gloom had now settled over the wet, shining decks and it was all he could do to pick out the ship's bowsprit as it cleaved the mists some ninety feet out from where he stood at the helm. Only Peter Milford, who was with Connor, and young Toby Ashton, still aboard the prison hulk and wrapped in a thin, moth-eaten wool blanket as damp as the night itself, were keenly aware of the time. Hiding in the shadows just outside the forward garrison, the boy sat in total darkness, coughing and trying in vain to muffle the hoarse and phlegmy barks against the blanket so that no one would hear him.

  He had no watch, but he knew what the hour was. He'd been on the prison hulk long enough to pinpoint the time just by noting the thickness of the smoke that came from the galley pipe a stone's throw away, or by listening to the clatter of utensils against plates as the guards ate and, later, the merrymaking in which they, and even some of the prisoners, indulged after the meal to try to fool themselves into thinking their lot was any better than it was. But Toby wasn't fooled. His lot was bad and he knew it. He was frail, he was sick, and he was dying. Now, with a defeat borne of illness, he doubted very much he'd make it off the ship alive.

  His gallant cousin Connor, however, held an entirely different view on the matter. Tonight the Black Wolf was going to make a last attempt to get Toby off the ship. Toby coughed again and shivered violently, too sick even to contemplate how Connor was going to do it. But do it he would. Reverend Milford had sent word through Jack Clayton: Be ready at eleven o'clock. Someone will come for you.

  That had been two hours ago. Now the ship was beginning to quiet down. It was half past ten, by Toby's guess. Again he coughed, unable to help himself, hoping no one had heard him as he crouched shivering in the blanket, all the protection he had against the cold drizzle. Seven sentries paced the gallery that ran all around the ship just above the waterline, and a few shadowy figures moved about through the darkness. If he was discovered, they'd haul him before Radley and all would be lost. Toby was past caring if he lived or died, but he didn't want poor Connor to go through all the trouble of rescuing him and then coming up empty-handed.

  "Toby?"

  The whispered voice came from the darkness several feet away.

  Toby held his breath, not daring to move.

  "Toby, it's me, Gerry Osley. You know, Jack Clayton's friend. You remember me, don't you? The Black Wolf sent me to come get you."

  The night pressed all around, ripe with the scents of wind and salt and rain. A few cold, heavy drops spattered Toby's shoulders, immediately soaking through the thin blanket and chilling his skin. Somewhere aft, in the officers' garrison, laughter and revelry ensued, a lonely sound in the damp and drizzly night. The shadow moved, closer now. Toby squinted and craned his neck, trying to see through the inky gloom, but to no avail. No one but Jack had ever come for him. He kept very still — and then it happened.

  He coughed, the violent spasm nearly imploding his tired ribs.

  "Aha! There you are!" The whispered voice was vaguely familiar, and now the figure hurried forward, a stealthy shape in the darkness, borne on light, agile feet. Toby curled within the blanket, suddenly afraid. A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up.

  The night was dark, but he could see the young, friendly face with its dark eyes and lopsided grin. The guard was not much older than Toby himself, and yes, he had seen him talking to Jack Clayton lately. If Gerry knew about the Black Wolf and the fact that Toby was to be rescued tonight, then certainly Jack — or even Peter Milford — must have sent him. Toby decided the guard could be trusted.

  He stood up, his legs shaky and cramped, the movement making him feel dizzy and sick. He balled the blanket and pressed it against his mouth to still another bout of coughing.

  "Hurry," Gerry said, steadying him. "The Wolf is waiting."

  They moved out onto the open deck. A heavy mist was falling, grainy bits of moisture that dewed Toby's glasses and the shoulders of his blanket, and made his lank hair cling sadly to his scalp. He reached up and clutched the miniature at his throat, shivering.

  "You know where I'm supposed to bring you?" Gerry whispered over his shoulder, his face pale and round in the gloom.

  "I thought you're supposed to know that."

  "They don't tell me anything. Take a guess, Toby. You know if Radley finds us, my arse will be tasting the cat!"

  Toby stifled a cough. His knees were knocking with fatigue and cold and he just wanted to lie down someplace and go to sleep. "I was told somethin' about the bow."

  "The bow?"

  "Figurehead, to be precise."

  "Well, then, let's go. We sit out here in the open and we'll be in trouble for sure." Seizing Toby's elbow through the blanket, the young marine steered him down through the decks and forward. Toby ducked as they passed a sentry, but the man pretended not to notice him and Toby suspected Connor had bribed him too. Once, Toby's bare feet slipped on the slimy deck, but Gerry jerked him up before he could go down. Presently they emerged out in the bows, as far forward on the ship as they could go.

  Above, the superstructure of the soldiers' garrison blocked out the sky and shielded them from the rain. Beyond the damp, curving railing, Toby could hear the sea moving, and he was suddenly afraid.

  All was quiet up there, and he figured the occupants of the garrison must be asleep. But he heard a strange, familiar click from someplace near, and the hair on the back of his neck rose.

  "Gerry, I think someone's watchin' us."

  "It's your imagination. Trust me, if anyone was watching us, you'd know it. The Black Wolf's already tried for you once, so it stands to reason he'll try again. Anyone sees you sneaking around in the dark, they'll automatically assume he's making another attempt and the alarm will be raised sky-high."

  "You sure, Gerry?"

  "Of course I am. Now be quiet or someone will discover us."

  Toby swallowed hard and drew the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. The great figurehead faced the night just before and below them. The garrison above made him feel closed in, trapped. Far below, waves washed against the stem, the bows, the hull. Moisture dripped from the old wood above, trickling into his hair. He crouched down, miserable, wet, too sick and too uneasy to feel excitement.

  Gerry crouched down beside him, his shoulders touching Toby's.

  "This Black Wolf fellow, they say he's your cousin. That so, Toby?"

  "Aye."

  "You must be damned proud of him."

  "Aye."

  "Everyone's talking about him, you know. Never heard of so many women fainting and swooning just at the mention of his name. Sure wouldn't mind being the Black Wolf myself."

  A noise thudded from somewhere above. Toby whipped his head up, but there was nothing to be seen in the darkness. His uneasiness grew, and his heart began to beat wildly. Something wasn't right.

  "I don't think the Wolf's coming for me tonight, Gerry. I want to go back."

  "Nonsense. That noise? Just old Hawkins, falling out of his bed. Does it every night —"

  "No, really, I want to go back — now. I — I don't feel well."

  "Don't be so damned lily-livered!" Gerry said with sudden sharpness. "Only babies whine so. You're American, aren't you? We British have respect for you Yanks. You're cut from the same mold as we are, unlike those dancing French monkeys. Now quit whining, and show some mettle, for God's sake!"

  Toby gasped at the sudden harshness of Gerry's tone. Sudden dread shot through him. He had to get out of here, now. Something was wrong, this just didn't feel right. He jumped to his feet, turned —

  And ran straight into the chest of Lieutenant John Radley.

  He had no time for a scream. Radley's palm immediately clamped over his mouth, and he was caught in a hold from which there was no escape. "Move and you're dead," his captor snarled, nearly crushing Toby's fragile body with the force of his grip. He dragged Toby back with him against the roundhouse and yanked a pistol out of his coat. "Fine work, Gerry. You'll be richly rewarded for this, I promise you."

  "Yes, well it wasn't easy. Jack Clayton wouldn't tell me a bloody thing. Couldn't help but wonder what creature he was harboring when I saw him sneaking into the strangest places with food and coming out empty-handed."

  "You're certain the Wolf's going to strike tonight?"

  "Damned certain. Clayton wasn't willing to confess, but when I told him what we were going to do to his wife and brats if he didn't, his tongue loosened up a little. Loosened up even more when Hawkins and I took the paring knife to the quicks of his fingernails." Gerry shot a nasty, malicious glance at Toby. "His little pet here confirmed everything. The Wolf's coming, sir. Tonight."

  "You'd better be correct, Gerry. I've waited too long for that rascal's head on a platter to have it denied me. Damn you, quit your struggling, you wretched bag of bones!" Radley snarled, slamming his elbow into Toby's stomach until the boy convulsed, retching.

  From above, on the railed walkway built onto the sentries' garrison, Toby heard movement and whispers, and knew that Radley's forces were poised for action.

  Training their muskets on the water below.

  Waiting for the Black Wolf.

  The horrible truth was too much to bear. Gerry had been spying for Radley all along, and had tortured Jack until he'd gleaned the details of tonight's rescue. No wonder the guard had let them pass. No wonder no one had raised the alarm. It had all been a trap. What had they done to Jack? What had they done to the Reverend Milford?

  And oh, God, what would they do to Connor?

  And then each man who stood poised in the wet darkness heard it: the faint splash of muffled oars and the sound of a boat slicing through the water below. From out of the mists came a shape, moving like a phantom through the night, so much a part of the darkness that no one could be sure it was even real. In horror Toby watched it disappear beneath the railing, and heard the sounds of the oars backing water. He struggled, trying to make a sound, but Radley cuffed him hard across the temple and, nearly crushing his jaw, dragged his head around to whisper savagely in his ear.

  "Make one sound and your cousin's dead the minute he shows his face above that railing, you got it?"

  Toby froze. The night pressed down on them, so thick and black that no star, no moon, not even the lights from the nearby ships could penetrate it. He felt the wind pushing the drizzle against his face, the excited thump of Radley's heart against his ear —

  And heard faint scratching noises just below.

  Climbing noises.

  "Get back," Radley mouthed, signaling wildly with his free hand. Instantly the guards pressed themselves against the roundhouse and headboard, their muskets trained on the rail.

  Toby's throat closed with sobs. He heard the scratching noise coming up the deadwood, the main wale, the base of the figurehead, growing closer, growing louder, but still fainter than the whisper of a cat moving along a fence. Connor. He heard Radley's tense, measured breathing and that of Gerry and the guards around and above them. Connor. Now Radley was quietly bringing his pistol up beneath Toby's chin, its cold muzzle pressing against the soft flesh that spanned the underside of his jaw.

  "Toby."

  One short, authoritative command.

  The Black Wolf.

  Again: "Toby!"

  Radley held his breath and pressed the pistol hard into Toby's jaw, slowly driving his head back against his shoulder. Toby struggled to see, trembling and looking down the plane of his cheekbones. A hand, gloved in black, reached up and seized the railing. Another did the same. Then, slowly, with more grace than a panther on the hunt, a figure hoisted its head and shoulders up over the rail.

  Tension hung in the air.

  Not a soul moved.

  Radley's hand was shaking as he pushed the pistol deeper into the soft flesh of Toby's jaw. Come on, my friend, Radley thought, clenching his teeth, clenching his finger on the pistol's trigger, clenching the boy he held hostage. A little closer . . .

  The Black Wolf hung there, half over the rail, head raised as he surveyed the darkness for danger. Then, slowly, he swung one long leg over the rail. Radley quivered, and thick saliva filled his mouth. He felt the boy trembling in his grip. He saw the tall, powerfully built figure in black straighten to his full height and look warily around. He was magnificent, deadly, and certainly not a man with whom Radley cared to do business.

  He wouldn't have to. In his mind's eye he saw the guards around and above him slowly training their pistols and muskets on his unsuspecting quarry.

  Come on, damn you!

  His heart began to thump wildly, and the excitement over the hunt, over the kill, had given him a fierce erection.

  The Wolf turned back toward the railing, and in the darkness Radley saw Gerry silently bringing his pistol up, clenching it in both hands and sighting down it toward his quarry.

  "Halt right there or the boy dies."

  The Wolf froze in a half-crouch, one hand still stretched toward the railing. Slowly he turned his dark head toward them, and beneath the mask that covered his eyes Radley saw his nostrils flaring with contempt.

  Radley stepped from the shadows.

  "Give it up, Captain Merrick," he said smoothly, keeping his pistol beneath Toby's chin as he moved forward. "We have you surrounded. Any sudden moves on your part will only make me splatter the brat's head all over the place. You wouldn't want that, now, would you?"

  Tears leaked from Toby's eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He saw the Wolf's masked face turn slowly toward Radley, saw the quivering tension in every muscle of his tall, powerfully built body. When he spoke, his voice was dark with rage.

  "Let the boy go," he whispered savagely. "He is innocent."

  "Really, you're in no position to bargain, Captain Merrick."

  "I said, let him go."

  The Wolf took a menacing step toward Radley.

  "Another step and my men will shoot you dead. And don't think the boy won't follow."

  The Wolf did not move. Toby could feel the huge, frightening force of his fury, the magnificent tension that warred within him as he considered Radley's words. He seemed larger than the night, dark, terrible, diabolical.

  He towered over Radley, staring down at him with barely leashed menace.

  "What do you want?"

  "You, Captain Merrick. Preferably alive."

  The Wolf glared down at Radley a moment longer. "Let the boy go, and I will freely give myself up to your authority." The dark figure loomed over the both of them. "A trade, Radley. My life for the boy's."

  Radley laughed, a low, dark sound of pure evil. "Very well, then. Come here."

  "Release the boy."

  From above, there was a clicking sound as someone cocked his musket. The guards shifted, never lowering their weapons. Finally Radley made a noise of derision and shoved Toby toward the Black Wolf, who swept him up into his embrace and laid his cheek against his hair.

  Slowly, he reached down to retrieve the rope he had brought with him and tied it securely around Toby's waist.

  "No sudden moves, Merrick," Radley warned, training his pistol on the Black Wolf's heart.

  The figure in black did not answer him, merely taking Toby's shoulders and looking down into his eyes in a final goodbye. "A friend awaits you in the boat below," he murmured for Toby's ears alone. "And your brother and cousin await you aboard the schooner Kestrel. Go. And Godspeed."

  "My brother and cousin? But who . . . what . . ."

  But the Black Wolf only smiled, and saw him safely down into the boat that would take him through the mists and back to his family.

  Then, slowly, he turned to face his fate.

  "Who indeed?" Radley murmured coldly, and as his men leaped forward to restrain the unresisting figure, he ripped the mask off his face with one vicious yank.

  And found himself staring into the ice-cold eyes of Damon Andrew Phillip deWolfe, the sixth Marquess of Morninghall.

  Chapter 27

  "Lud, would you look at these newspapers! It took me the better part of the last two hours just to wade through them!"

  Rhiannon swept into Gwyneth's bedroom, her arms piled with the papers that had collected during their absence. Casting a swift glance at Gwyneth, who sat scribbling at her desk, she placed the stack on the chest at the foot of the bed.

  "Anything interesting happen while we were away?" Gwyneth asked absently without looking up from her letter to Maeve, Lady Falconer, who, with her family, had just left for the West Indies.