Page 2 of Romancing the Scot
Before they left, she had orchestrated every stage of the journey—from packing their six chests, to hiring the boatmen in Bordentown for the trip downriver to Philadelphia, to the arrangement of the cabin for the ship’s passage.
“You have my directions?” he growled in a low voice. “Portugal code.”
“You know me, Father. Your orders are locked in my memory.”
Under the effects of the laudanum, his mind was again wandering back to his fighting days on the Peninsula. She was one of his subordinates, and he insisted on her knowing the orders.
Grace kissed his hand and nodded at the valet, who was waiting to help her father into his boots.
Above the din rising through the open windows outside, she heard the wheels of a carriage approach. She glanced at the two manservants standing ready to bring the colonel’s chair down to the street.
Going to the window and looking out, she espied the vehicle she’d hired.
“Something’s wrong.”
Drat, she cursed silently. No luggage had been secured on top of the carriage. She peered down at the driver. It was definitely the same man with whom she’d arranged for their transport. She’d directed him to take charge of their chests as they were unloaded from the ship, but he hadn’t brought them.
“Wait here. Don’t bring him down yet,” she said to the valet before touching her father’s hand. “I’ll be right back.”
Grace stormed along the dark, winding hallway. This was unacceptable. She wanted to be on the road to Brussels now, while the laudanum made the trip easier for her father.
She descended the battered back staircase to the odorous, garbage-filled alley that ran along the side of the inn. As soon as she exited the building, a gang of street urchins left off their play-battle for a barricade of broken crates and ran to her.
“Hullo, boys,” she said, taking a breath to calm her rising temper.
It didn’t matter if she were in Antwerp or Naples or Madrid or Paris or Philadelphia; these ragged children of the streets existed everywhere. She pulled a handful of coins from her pocket and distributed them as she strode quickly toward the front of the inn.
The boys moved with her to the end of the alley like a swarm of bees, thanking her profusely. When she reached the carriage and looked inside, the driver climbed down from his perch and joined her.
“What happened to our trunks? I told you to bring them from the ship.”
“But I was told they were to come in the other carriage.”
“I hired no other carriage.” Grace felt the blood pulsing in her temples. They didn’t need this complication. Now they would need to return to the pier and locate their belongings. “Who told you such a thing?”
“The other gentleman.” The driver’s face fell. “You mean he wasn’t amongst your party, m’lady? He said he was traveling with you. He seemed to know you. His servants took the luggage.”
“I gave you explicit directions. Instead of following them, you gave our trunks to a stranger.”
“I’m so sorry, m’lady.” He looked helplessly back toward the docks.
Grace quickly ran through her options. She’d send one of their manservants running ahead to the pier. Perhaps this “other gentleman” had realized by now that he made a mistake and had returned the trunks. She glanced up at the windows of the inn, knowing that was too much to hope for.
“Wait here,” she ordered.
Grace went down the alley and took the back stairs. Her mind was racing as she hurried along the dim hallway. Turning the corner by their rooms, she slipped on something wet and nearly fell. She held on to the wall. Her father’s valet lay motionless at her feet, his blood pooling around him.
Bile rose in her throat. Horror locked her knees. She stared, stunned and chilled, unable to fully comprehend what had happened.
From inside, she heard the muffled sound of men’s voices. Fear for her father slid like a blade between her ribs and pierced her heart. Grace forced herself to step past the valet and looked in.
They’d been traveling under an assumed name, but trouble had been waiting for them here in Antwerp, after all.
Men were searching the room. Chairs were upended. One of the manservants lay sprawled across the table and the other had rolled against the wall. Directly ahead of her, she stared aghast at the body of her father slouched in his chair, his blue eyes staring lifelessly at her.
The room tilted and began to spin. She could not tear her eyes from the center of the maelstrom. He was dead. Her father was dead. They’d killed him. But it couldn’t be. She’d spoken to him only moments ago, touched his hand, tended to his wounds. Denial battled with the truth. Anger roared in her head. A fierce and urgent desire to attack and slash at these villains rushed through her even as the peril struck home. She was powerless against these killers, and frustration fueled her fury.
A man’s curt order cut into the moment. “Get her.”
