Page 2 of Any Duke in a Storm

Jimmy returned with a steaming dish in his hand and sketched a ridiculous bow before shunting the bowl in under the bars. It wasn’t the usual fare of colorless, lumpy gruel. Whole pieces of cooked fowl sat in a fragrant broth over thick dumplings. Raphael’s mouth watered and his belly yowled with hunger, but he forced himself not to descend on the meal like a rabid beast.

Jimmy wasn’t stupid enough to give him a fork, but this was a windfall he’d not lose.

Raphael waited until the man left before filling his belly, savoring each bite, and then carefully pulling the meat from the bones of the chicken leg and wing. Hisfingers shook. He might not have any metal on hand to fashion a picklock, but a shard of bone could do just as well. When he was finished and the bones were stripped clean, he had three somewhat sturdy pieces. He took one and ground it against the brick until it was flat and curved, painstakingly working so it didn’t split or snap.

When he was ready, he approached the warded lock of the gate. The latch was old, just like this place, and probably would not take much. Then again, it was old iron and might shatter his makeshift key. Raphael inhaled a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

“Now or never,” he mumbled.

Using the curved piece, he stuck it in the top part of the keyhole and wiggled it around until he could feel the slight pressure of the internal ward.There.Without losing his grip, he took the second piece and inserted it just below. Jiggling it up and down, he tried to engage the simple locking mechanism. Almost there… Suddenly, the bone bowed in his hands and he froze, but it was too late. It snapped in half.

“Merde!”

Discarding the broken piece while still holding on to the curved shard, he reached for the third and final spindle of bone he’d fashioned and repeated the process. As slow as molasses this time. His hands went numb with strain, sweat beading along his spine, when he inserted the shard and gently turned clockwise.

Don’t break, don’t break, don’t break.

The sound of grating iron filled his ears as the lockdisengaged and the cell door whined open a sliver of a crack. Raphael didn’t stop to celebrate his victory. He exited, grabbed his boots and hat from where they’d been tossed in a corner, and ran toward a low window. The front and back entrances would be guarded, and he had no intention of being caught. He grabbed the bottle of rum on the desk and took a healthy swig, letting a good amount splash his clean coat with a wince.

Better to be seen as a drunk than an escaped convict.

Since he couldn’t get to his own ships in the harbor, which would be empty of crew, he’d have to find a way off this island somewhere else. He was almost seen twice as he skulked through the back-alley streets and crept toward the wharves. The late-evening shadows helped keep him hidden. Skirting the main street where the most bustling taverns were, he kept his head down and stumbled every few steps like a sot. When he reached the docks, he slowed his pace and tried not to seem as though he were a fugitive.

Instead, Raphael squared his shoulders and strolled with the confidence of a king toward a sleek-looking frigate that was loading provisions and supplies. That one would likely be his best bet, since its crew was preparing to leave port. He pasted on a smile, reached for his long-forgotten charm, and swaggered to the gangway. He noticed a passing boatswain loaded down with crates and purposefully blocked his way. “Oh, sorry, mate. Need help?”

A muffled voice that sounded female came through the boxes. “No thanks. If you’re here for the sailing master position, Estelle’s on the foredeck.”

Raphael couldn’t help his grin. Apparently, the Fates hadn’t abandoned him after all.

Now he just needed to put on a convincing show.

Lady Lisbeth Medford, Countess of Waterstone and current espionage agent of the American Treasury, hoped she wasn’t going to get blown to pieces. The fuses were fairly long, thank goodness. A short fuse was an accident waiting to happen, and she’d heard enough horror stories with the chemical she was using. As a blasting agent, nitroglycerin wasn’t the most stable. Two years ago, an explosion of the leaking liquid chemical had leveled a building and killed fifteen Wells Fargo workers in San Francisco. While black powder was undoubtedly safer, nitroglycerin worked when wet, which was critical for her current purposes.

Her fingers trembled as she moved to ignite the twined length of the fuses that connected the two ships moored next to each other in the harbor. She’d planted explosives on each ship’s hull, which would hopefully generate a blast big enough to take down both. This wasn’t one of her smarter decisions, but she’d been found out anyway, and she couldn’t leave the ships fit enough to chase after her when she left port. And she certainly wasn’t going to let ships of smuggled cargo fill the coffers of a bunch of lawless criminals.

They aren’t all lawless.

Lisbeth shook her head hard. Most of them were,however, and this wasn’t the time to grow a bleeding heart. Smuggling was a delicate business, with powers shifting as easily as fortunes did. If one didn’t want a knife lodged in one’s back, one had to be ruthless. This was a hard world and she was not a soft miss… At least her current identity, Bonnie Bess, wasn’t.

No, Bonnie Bess was made of salt, vinegar, and bloodthirsty, jagged edges. Known for having a blade on her at all times, the cutthroat captain wasn’t a woman to be trifled with, as many had learned through painful, if not deadly lessons. But now…Bonnie Bess was in real trouble. The kind of trouble that would tell no tales because they’d be rotting at the bottom of the sea. Her identity had been compromised.

Damn and blast that meddling, skulking boy!

Lisbeth let out an angry huff. There was no time to wallow and curse Davy. It was her own fault. She’d blow up the ships, run, and figure out her next steps. A disguise of some kind and another way back into the smuggling ring she’d been infiltrating. Damn her eyes, she’d beensoclose to breaching the inner circle of the notorious smuggler known as Captain Prince. She gritted her teeth in frustration and quelled her spiking nerves.

Was she doing the right thing by destroying Prince’s ships? The combined worth of the cargo in each hold had to be tens of thousands of dollars. Lisbeth frowned, thinking of all the stuffed crates she’d spied in the hull. Maybe more. Criminals shouldn’t get off scot-free, and she knew for a fact these were smuggled goods and not honest trade.

Besides, shehadto do this to save her own neck.

Not that she was any different, considering the contraband on her own ship, but that was sanctioned. Smuggling was the price of the mission and it wasnecessaryfor her to play the part. Then again, some of the men and women who worked on these vessels were only trying to feed their families and eke out a living. Disquiet roiled in her gut.

Stop it!

Lisbeth closed her eyes and wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers. The longer she took, the greater the risk of being discovered trying to sink the ships. Nowthatwould warrant an immediate watery execution by the coldblooded seadogs gambling in the nearby tavern.

Nearly two years’ work to infiltrate a shipping group that she knew was part of a larger illegal ring, and she’d been a heartbeat away from working her way into the inner echelons, instead of being held to the outskirts.Damn it!She had no idea how Davy had found the papers from the American Treasury Department buried deep in the straw of her mattress. She’d received new instructions from the New York Customs Office and hadn’t had time to destroy them.

Lisbeth should have disposed of the damned things the minute she’d read them, but she hadn’t and that mistake was on her. The young boatswain couldn’t read, she knew, but he also wasn’t stupid. Those documents with their crests and stamps looked official. The connection wasn’t much, but it was definitely enough to cause suspicion. Because why wouldshe—a merchant’s daughter and pettythief, and someone known as the vicious Bonnie Bess—be receiving orders from the American government?

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