The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Read online

  “Yes, your lordship,” Archie replied happily.

  It was well past midnight by the time Hugo and Archie got to the docks. Ghostly hulks of ships bobbed in the water, their outlines barely visible against the pitch-black sky. Water splashed against the wooden quays, the stench of the river not nearly as bad at night as it was during the day. A few stragglers were just leaving the waterfront tavern located about one hundred yards from where Hugo and Archie were, otherwise, all was quiet. There were only three ships in port that were large enough to be contenders, so Hugo and Archie walked softly in the dark, peering at the names on the hull. The Persephone was the last one, its figurehead that of a fierce-looking woman draped in a white tunic. She stared straight ahead toward London, her dilated pupils just dark pinpoints in white-painted eyes.

  “Wouldn’t want to meet her in the Underworld, or anywhere else for that matter,” Archie said as he looked up at her, his expression one of mock horror.

  Hugo chuckled and motioned for Archie to follow him. They lifted a wide wooden plank and carried it over to the Persephone to use as a gangplank. It made a loud thud as it made contact with the hull, but nothing aboard the ship stirred.

  “Come,” Hugo whispered.

  Archie and Hugo walked carefully up the plank and were on board in less than a minute, their swords drawn. They needn’t have worried. The two sentries who were supposed to stand guard over the vessel were fast asleep, empty bottles next to them. They were snoring in unison, their heads lolling as they leaned against the main mast. They truly were a sorry sight.

  Hugo nodded toward the sentries, giving Archie the go-ahead. Archie took out a small cudgel from his belt and hit each man over the head, rendering him unconscious, or more unconscious than he already was. He then gagged them and tied them up. Neither man stirred. Then Archie followed Hugo down into the hold. Hugo had already lit a candle which cast a pale glow into the cavernous space. It was full, as Hugo had predicted. Barrels and crates filled the space, strange smells mixing into an unpleasant stench magnified by lack of fresh air. There was salted pork, tack, and fish for the sailors, plus barrels of ale, and the cargo itself, which took up more than half the hold. It was hard to tell what was inside the crates, but the colonists needed luxury goods such as cloth, lace, and ceramics. They paid in tobacco and furs they’d traded from the natives, which Covington brought back and made a hefty profit on.

  Archie took a leather flask off his belt and began to pour small amounts of oil between the crates, making sure to create small puddles all around and connect them with a trail of oil. He shook the flask upside down, letting the last drops of oil plop into the wooden floor.

  “Ready?” Hugo asked as he backed toward the steps. Archie nodded. Hugo set the candle to the nearest pool of oil, the liquid igniting with a satisfying hiss. The flames began to lick the sides of the crates and spread from one pool of oil to the next with frightening speed. Hugo and Archie didn’t wait around to watch. They climbed the ladder and went back for the sentries, who were still insensible. It took no more than ten minutes to carry the men off the ship and deposit them on the quay.

  “Shall we untie them?” Archie asked as he looked at the silent lumps at his feet.

  “They’ll be out for some time,” Hugo replied. “Might as well.”

  They quickly untied the sentries and disappeared into the shadows, positioning themselves behind a dark warehouse to watch. It took no more than a quarter of an hour for a rosy glow to envelop the ship. Thick tendrils of smoke escaped the cargo hold and curled upward, disappearing into the moonless sky. Sparks flew as the crackle of the hungry fire became audible over the slapping of water against the hull. The Persephone was burning from within, the flames devouring everything below decks before bursting onto the deck and spreading up the masts, setting the rolled-up sails alight. The last to succumb was the goddess herself, her eyes staring in now-appropriate horror as the fire began to roast her feet and move up her torso to finally engulf her face in a halo of orange and red.

  Screams tore through the night as men ran toward the flaming ship, buckets in hand. But it was too late; something they realized as soon as they reached the inferno. They turned back defeated after dumping their water into the Thames. The sentries were now awake, cursing loudly, their voices laced with fear. They would pay for their lack of vigilance.

  The crossbar of the mast detached itself from the ship and crashed onto the deck, a shower of sparks lighting up the night sky. The ship creaked pitifully as it began to slowly sink into the river, but it wasn’t deep enough to swallow the whole thing. Part of the hull and the three burning masts stuck out of the black water, eerie in their demise.

  “Let’s go home,” Hugo said with an air of satisfaction as they left their hiding place and headed toward Bradford’s house.

  “You know it won’t stop them, don’t you?” Archie asked as they crossed the road and disappeared into a side street.

  “I do, but it will set them back financially a great deal, and that’s all the punishment I am able to mete out without getting the authorities involved,” Hugo replied. “I can’t save every gullible man who allows himself to be blackmailed, but this is all I can do to avenge Gideon’s death. The rest is out of my hands.”

  “Fair enough,” Archie replied.

  Chapter 54

  I threw on my cloak and stepped outside, certain that I would find Archie either in the stables or chopping wood. Hugo had returned from London in the afternoon, having been gone for the better part of a week. Despite Hugo’s smiles and assurances that everything was well, I could tell that he was in a black mood as he stomped off directly to his study. I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything, mistakenly believing that he was protecting me. Hugo was used to keeping secrets, and I could honestly say that this lack of full disclosure was the biggest issue in our marriage. I told myself that he did it because he loved me and thought he was sparing me worry, but I actually worried more when I didn’t know what I was up against. Well, I would go to the next-best source — Archie.

  As expected, Archie was in the stables, brushing down Hugo’s horse with a clump of clean straw. We had grooms for that, but he found comfort in doing it himself, and often spent hours with the horses, just mucking out stalls and exercising them when weather permitted. Archie gave me a nod and continued with what he was doing. A young groom froze in the act of mucking out a stall, surprised to see me in the stable. After years of living in the seventeenth century, I would still have given anything for a car, preferably one with a working heater and a good stereo system. Horses made me uneasy, not having a control panel or a brake pedal.

  “Give us a moment, Joe,” I said to the groom, who was only too happy to scamper to the kitchen for a warm drink and a bite of something.

  “Archie, what is he up to?” I asked without preamble. Making small talk with Archie was pointless, and there was a directness in our dealings with each other which suited us both.

  Archie shrugged, his eyes firmly fixed on the horse. No one would ever accuse the man of being chatty.

  “Are you just going to ignore me then?” I demanded, irritated by Archie’s lack of response.

  “You know I can’t tell you,” he replied in that matter-of-fact tone that drove me crazy sometimes. In Archie’s mind, it was a foregone conclusion that the trust between him and Hugo was not to be questioned, and that I was violating some unspoken rule by asking him to betray a confidence.

  “Archibald Hicks, I swear to God that I will wrestle you to the ground if you don’t answer me,” I fumed. Of course, I probably couldn’t even budge him, but I knew my threat would illicit some sort of response.

  “I am almost tempted to let you try,” Archie replied with an amused smile. “It would be most ladylike, your ladyship,” he added with a sarcastic chuckle.

  “Archie, please. I’m going mad with worry, and Hugo won’t tell me anything.”

  “He’s only trying to protect you,” came the predictable response.r />
  “Yes, so I’ve been told. Will you at least give me some monosyllabic answers if I ask you something? Shouldn’t be too hard for you,” I added sarcastically.

  Archie gave a nod of agreement, so I plunged on. “Is he putting himself in danger?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is it the kind of danger that can lead to imprisonment and execution?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Is there anything I can do to stop him?” I asked, my voice laced with desperation.

  “Not very likely.”

  “Do you approve of what he is doing?” I asked in an effort to trick Archie into revealing something.

  “‘Tis not for me to say.” I actually stomped my foot in frustration.

  “Why did Hugo’s coat smell of smoke?” I asked, remembering the acrid smell clinging to the fabric when Hugo came in and embraced me.

  Archie actually smiled at that question, his eyes suddenly alight with some private joke. “We doled out some much-needed justice last night. Anonymously,” he added when he saw my look of horror. Archie finally dropped the straw, patted the horse on the rump, and turned to face me, his face going from wry amusement to solemnity.

  “Neve, you know I will look after him, don’t you? I will do everything in my power to keep him safe.”

  “I know that, Archie, but sadly, your powers of protection are rather limited.”

  Archie didn’t reply, but I knew that he agreed. He was one man, and he was no match for the law.

  “Thank you, Archie.”

  I felt defeated and angry, but most of all helpless. And I would be damned if I was kept in the dark. Hugo wasn’t forthcoming with information, but he usually answered my questions if I confronted him. I tried not to back him into a corner too often, but there was a persistent little twinge in my gut which told me that I should be concerned.

  I stomped from the stables and went straight to Hugo’s study where he was poring over some document. His brows were knitted with tension, and his mouth pressed into a hard line, but he forced his features to relax as I entered the room, thinking he could fool me.

  “Our bedroom. Now!”

  “At your service, madam,” Hugo replied, a happy grin spreading across his face. He actually thought I was after an afternoon tryst.

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” I spat out as I turned on my heel and took the stairs two at a time. I only wanted a bit of privacy, since talking in the study exposed us to too many ears which were attached to skulking servants. Hugo followed obediently, probably still hoping to calm me down by getting me into bed.

  I slammed the door shut and turned on him, my voice shaking with fury. “You are not leaving this room until you tell me the truth, and don’t think I won’t know if you are lying to me.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Neve,” he defended himself.

  “No, but you’ve withheld things, which is almost the same.”

  “Is it? I didn’t want you to worry; you have enough on your mind.”

  “Do you honestly believe that I worry less because I don’t know what you are up to?” Only a man could come up with that kind of reasoning.

  “Hugo, I will ask you this only once, and God help you if you don’t tell me the truth. What were you doing in London?”

  “I’ve petitioned the new king for an official pardon, met with prominent members of Parliament in the hope of making some useful connections, and learned a cypher for coding reports for Marquis de Chartres, which, if intercepted would be viewed as an act of treason.”

  I think my mouth actually opened of its own accord at that last bit. “Did I just hear you correctly?” I breathed. “You are spying for France in the midst of the War of Alliance against Louis XIV? To what possible end? You know that James will never regain his throne. Are you completely raving mad?” I screeched, completely exasperated. “You will be executed on the spot if you are caught. Why? Why would you do this?”

  I was breathing hard by this point, my mind refusing to accept what my instinct already knew. Hugo was putting his head on the chopping block, and sooner or later the executioner would arrive.

  “Neve, I don’t have a choice,” Hugo replied quietly. “Did you really think that reclaiming my identity, funding our exile in France, and gaining entry into society would come at no cost? I did what I had to do for us to survive. I made promises.”

  “So, you are some sort of “sleeper” agent who was activated upon return to England?”

  “Yes, I suppose you can call it that. I was able to feed de Chartres bits of information I got off Luke, but for the most part, I wasn’t going to be fully active until my return to England. Now that William is at war with Louis, my information will be even more valuable. I have been contacted by a man who will get my intelligence to de Chartres.”

  “And who is this man?”

  “He is a highly respected Member of Parliament, and a secret Catholic who wishes to see James II restored to the throne. He has channels through which he passes information.”

  I sat heavily on the chair in front of the empty hearth, my feet refusing to hold me up any longer. I thought we were finally safe, but what Hugo was doing now was probably even more dangerous than his scheme with the Duke of Monmouth.

  “So, that’s what Simon meant,” I muttered.

  “What are you talking about? What did Simon tell you?”

  “Simon thought I would be returning to the twenty-first century in the near future. He knew something, Hugo, something he was afraid to tell me. Hugo, I beg you, stop whatever you are doing. It’s not too late.”

  “It is too late,” Hugo sighed. “Neve, I gave my word, I accepted payment, and I sealed my fate. Please promise me that if anything happens to me, you will go back to the future. I want to know that you will be safe, and that the children will have a better life.”

  “You think that living without their father on my pittance of a salary would be a better life? You are more deluded than I thought,” I spat out. I was so angry, I could barely breathe. Angry and frightened. Perhaps Hugo had been right, and not knowing would have been easier.

  Hugo reached for me, but I pulled away from him and left the room. I needed some air and a long walk to exorcize some of the terrible frustration I was feeling. Once again, Hugo was walking a tightrope, and this time, there was no safety net because I had no inkling of what was going to happen and could do nothing to prevent it.

  I grabbed my cloak and walked out into the garden. The shrubs were glittering with a sprinkling of frost, and the path was slippery beneath my boots, but I couldn’t bear the thought of going back inside. My breath escaped in gossamer puffs and my face tingled with the cold, but I was oblivious to the discomfort. The winter-white sky seemed to go on forever, broken only by the intricate pattern of bare branches, which looked like tribal tattoos etched into eternity. Several crows were perched on the branches, watching me with interest as I huffed and puffed along, muttering to myself.

  I was angry, oh so angry, but mostly I was scared. I had been naïve in thinking that anything could happen on its own or come without a hefty price. What a fool I had been to assume that Hugo would simply be accepted as Lord Everly in Paris and treated like exiled nobility. I lulled myself into a false sense of security, needing to believe that we were safe at last and that Valentine had a future after all. But was there a future? I was back to that niggling question. Was history still trying to right itself? Was it like a modern GPS that simply recalculated the route if you took a wrong turn and still brought you to the same destination? If Hugo died and I went back to the twenty-first century, Clarence would inherit and everything would be as it should have been, only with a slight detour. Was this “auto-correct” inevitable?

  March 1689

  Paris, France

  Chapter 55

  Max stopped for a moment before entering the cathedral, oblivious to the driving rain that seemed to come out of nowhere and soak him in mere moments. Still, he hesitated. He’d been th
inking of doing this for months, but now that he was finally here, he felt nervous and deeply ashamed. The downpour seemed to stop as suddenly as it started, leaving the gutters spouting rainwater from the open mouths of the gargoyles, and puddles dotting the square in front of Notre Dame. The sky, which had been a milky blue only a half hour ago, was the color of steel wool, the clouds so thick and dense that they gave the impression of blanketing the city and leaching all daylight, turning the early morning unnaturally dark.

  Max suddenly felt very cold. He needed to go inside before he caught a chill. The cavernous cathedral was not much warmer, but at least he would be out of the wind which blew off the Seine and made him shiver in his damp clothes. He took a deep breath and pulled on the heavy iron ring attached to the massive wooden door. Max was greeted by the usual hush of the cathedral. Dozens of candles threw fanciful shadows onto the stone walls, and several people knelt in the pews, their heads bent in prayer. The funereal scent of flowers wafted from the arrangement at the altar, and mixed with the heady perfume of incense and stone dust created by some minor repair. The masons weren’t there at the moment, but their tools were still carefully arranged in the area, and several blocks of stone sat waiting to be lifted into their slots.

  Max walked down the nave, his steps hesitant as he made his way toward the man who was gazing thoughtfully at the book on the pulpit, perhaps in preparation for the next sermon. Max had attended countless services at the cathedral, but the ones conducted by Father Mathieu seemed to resonate with him the most. Father Mathieu was a man of middle years, with warm brown eyes and deep grooves bracketing his mouth, etched on his face by years of smiling. He seemed to be a kind and understanding man, a man who truly listened to his parishioners and didn’t just subscribe to the usual platitudes and dogma. He treated people as individuals who were in need of his help and guidance, which he was happy to provide. There was another priest who presided over services, Father Marc, but he was a totally different manner of man, one who seemed harsh and unforgiving, fancying himself as the sword of God rather than His embrace. Max had seen several people walking away from Father Marc looking diminished and frightened, and that was not the kind of man he wanted to consult.