Page 69 of Unlikely Heroes
He knew the sharpness of her intellect, her vigilance and defense of him in his moments of exasperation with a brain that worked overtime, and her own down-to-earth wisdom. Perhaps he was no different than the Gunwharf Rats who crossed the street just to sit in her kind orbit and feel better.
Making love soothed his restless spirit. And to make love with this wife, the joy of his heart, surpassed any other earthly pleasure he could imagine. He knew a major fleet action was all but guaranteed, and soon. He also knew he could push the danger and terror to the background by loving Meri. What’s more, she knew it, too. Their love intensified as the days passed and everyone waited for theMercuryto put to sea again.
“Why must such a man as Napoleon trouble the world?” she asked, after a breathtaking bit of General Merrymaking. It was hardly a lover’s banter, but Boney, damn him, had a way of weaseling into the most intimate of places.
“Why? I suppose Boney needs to prove himself.” Able chuckled. “He’s short.”
“That’s silly.”
“I suppose it is,” he agreed, making himself comfortable, and breathing deep of her ineffable Meridee fragrance, storing it against a fraught time when he could call her to mind and find serenity in the worst places.
The next day would have gone the same, except that Captain Ogilvie surprised them at breakfast, ate heartily and with good cheer, then pushed Able into a post chaise for a trip to London, all in the space of thirty-three minutes. “Billy Pitt wants to see us,” was all the explanation Angus Ogilvie gave to Grace and Meridee, sitting at the breakfast table and watching all this unfold. The Count preferred sleeping later and missed the fun.
Smart women, they knew better than to inquire further. Meridee reminded Able to put a change of linen in his small duffel, and do his best with a neckcloth. She gave him a scorching kiss on the doorstep and sent him on his way.
That kiss startled the usually unflappable Angus Ogilvie. “If you need another twenty minutes upstairs, I’ll wait here in the post chaise,” he said as Able joined him.
My blushes, Able thought, as his face flamed. “I suppose I have no dignity in your eyes.”
“What you have are my supreme compliments,” Angus said. “I will now change the subject. I lied. Billy Pitt doesn’t know we’re coming. What I am asking you to do is tell him that your father is staying with you right now.”
“In God’s name, why?” Able asked, when he could speak. “What are you doing to me?”
“Perhaps keeping you from the gallows.” He patted a portfolio on his lap. “I have here an indictment against Sir Clive Mortimer and a man so high up in the army that I won’t even mention his name.”
“I am involved with neither,” Able snapped. Only strength of will and, he had to admit, some curiosity, kept him from sticking out his head to demand that the postilion stop the chaise.
“I know you are not,” Ogilvie said with some impatience. “Once these traitors are removed, I predict – no, I am certain – there will be a lot of scrutiny leveled at everyone with any involvement in the war. Tell Mr. Pitt about your father before that happens. Assure him that the count will be gone on the next tide, or as soon as.”
“We have been so careful,” Able said, even though he understood Ogilvie and his motives. In fact, he felt something very close to affection for this troublesome, taciturn, infuriating fellow who was possibly risking his own career for a workhouse bastard. Able raised his hand, as if to brush away comment, whether from Ogilvie or his spectral mentors, he was not certain. “I know, I know. Even a careless word could bring down wrath on St. Brendan’s, me and my family.”
“Aye, Able. That is it. You understand.”
“Most emphatically.”
To Able’s irritation, and then his whole-hearted relief, because he was coming to appreciate this wily fellow, Ogilvie reverted to type. He rubbed his hands together with some glee. “Trust me, Able, and you won’t swing from a gibbet!”
He could return the favor. He tried not to smile. “I had better not, Captain Ogilvie,” Able said, “or someday you might find yourself facing a firing squad and I will give the order to shoot.”
“Touché, you bastard.”
They laughed, but Ogilvie sobered quickly. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said. “I truly am, but your father must return to Spain. You will understand when we talk to Billy Boy.”
They arrived at 10 Downing Street as darkness fell and lamplighters plied their vocation. Able regarded the unpretentious home of the prime minister. His father had described what his estate looked like near Granada. The Count of Quintanar would have laughed in disbelief at this seat of power far plainer than his own mansion.
I do not laugh, Able thought as he followed Angus to the entrance.I hope I come out alive, and not bound in chains to the Tower.
A few whispered words with the butler, and they were shown directly to a booklined, empty office. To relieve his stress, Able did his usual rapid perusal of book titles, which made Angus shake his head. “You really do that,” he said. “Meridee told me. Like a fool I didn’t believe her.”
“If you trust the ladies more, think what you’ll learn,” Able said, when he finished his scan. “I wonder if Mr. Pitt would loan me his copy ofGargantua et Pantagruelon the second shelf down, second bookcase over, fourth book from the left. I’ve never read it. Perhaps I can read it in the Tower before I am drawn and quartered.”
“Come, come, Able. It won’t be as bad as you think! I dare you for a bad shilling…” was Ogilvie’s pithy rejoinder.
“…to ask about the book? You’re on.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Angus was right. Able had never seen a man so worn down by the cares of government as the man who came on halting steps into his own office, leaning on a cane. Mr. Pitt’s eyes brightened to see them, however. He made no objection when Ogilvie helped him to his chair behind his desk.
