Page 53 of Nature of the Crime
What had Philip ever seen in this man? St. John’s good looks were mere surface paint. How could someone like Philip have carried on with, or cared, for someone who so evidently had a rotten core?
“Philip is gone,” Audrey said. “Unreachable. Everything you are doing is for naught. You think we ruined you? You’re lying to yourself. Your father ruined you. If only he could see you now, St. John. He wanted to protect you from scandal, and he paid for it, dearly. Imagine if he could see you now and the monster you’ve become.”
He rowed in silence for several strokes, the golden daylight gone. Clouds had moved in, and dusk would soon be upon them.
“If my father were within this hemisphere,” he said as he maneuvered the skiff toward a jetty of rock, “he, too, would pay for what he did to me.”
His keen hatred, along with the exertion of rowing, must have been keeping him immune to the cold, for his forehead glistened with sweat. Drops rolled from his temples, streaking through the grime upon his skin. How low he had fallen, reduced by his own animosity.
Audrey didn’t notice the fissure in the craggy cliff wall until the skiff thumped harshly against the jetty of rock. A smugglers cave, she presumed. No wonder Edmunds declared they were difficult to find. It was barely visible, even from this vantage point.
St. John was familiar with the location, however. He easily knotted the skiff’s mooring rope around a metal spike that had been driven into the rock and, without wasting another breath, stood.
“After you, Your Grace.” He bowed as low as the lapping current against the rocks would allow. The facetious gesture only kindled her fury. With a grip on her blanket, she uncurled her stiff legs, but stumbled over the lip of the little boat and onto the wet, slippery rocks. The sole of one boot slid away from her, and she cracked a knee onto the hard, rough surface.
“Do watch your step,” he said with a sarcastic snort of laughter.
She felt like screaming in frustration. She could only pray that Greer and Carrigan, or perhaps even Sir, if he’d come back yet from his task to find Becky’s father and brother, had alerted Hugh to her disappearance.
With a shock that helped warm her a little, and got her onto her feet again, she realized that must have been St. John’s newest plan. Audrey would disappear. When she did, talk of it would eventually penetrate the Continent.
St. John was playing a long game here. Patiently biding his time to lure Philip back home. If she were to disappear, it would surely tempt him. He may have left, but that did not mean he no longer cared. He could attempt to come back in some clandestine way, concealing himself in the process. But St. John would be waiting. Watching.
He wrapped his hand around her arm, aggravating the bruises he’d left behind earlier at the beach, and yanked her along the rocks coated in icy sea spray. He did not care when she slipped, and neither did he slow. By the time they reached the gap in the cliff wall, the palm of her free hand stung and bled from shallow scrapes she’d received when she’d caught herself in a few falls.
The sound of the surf softened when they stepped inside the darkened space. It was still cold, but with no wind, her ears became aware of muffled screams. Through the poor light, she saw a wriggling figure next to several crates and sacks.
“Becky.” Audrey rushed to her when St. John released her arm.
“Don’t get comfortable here, duchess, we aren’t staying long,” St. John said as he lit a hurricane lantern. “I only need a few things before we can depart on our adventure.”
Her stomach dropped at the idea of getting back into the skiff. But she focused on working the gag free from Becky’s mouth.
“Are you injured?” she asked.
The lantern light revealed a small cut near Becky’s lip that had bled and crusted over. Her hair was loose and mussed around her shoulders, but at least she would be warm; she’d been wearing her hat, coat, gloves, and scarf when taken by St. John.
Becky shook her head. “I’m not hurt, but your hands are frozen, Your Grace.” She had felt them against her cheek as Audrey removed the gag.
“Do not unbind the girl.” St. John sounded bored as he gave the order. Audrey saw then that Becky’s ankles were trussed together, as were her wrists behind her back.
“What do you intend to do with us?” Audrey asked.
He’d begun rooting through some bags. She inspected the items nearby, illuminated by the meager lamplight. If she could find a weapon of some sort…a heavy object or with luck, a sharp one… But there was nothing except crates and sacks.
“Smugglers frequenting these trade routes are not only transporting liquor and dry goods,” St. John said as he filled a sack with some belongings and, more notably, bank notes. He was going somewhere, she presumed, and needed the funds for it.
He glanced toward them, cutting a greasy smile. “There is another luxury item that men of all society indulge in.”
The lascivious smirk told her exactly which luxury item he referred to.
“Women,” she whispered, alarmed at what he might be planning. “That is barbaric.”
“It is good business. And even better money.” He turned back to what he was doing. “And when everything has been taken from you, what do civilized rules matter anymore?”
So, he saw himself as a victim. It was churlish and infantile, and yet, for a young man who had been given every privilege and every opportunity from birth, never to know a day of struggle in his life, what he’d needed to endure—being exiled from polite society and stripped of his title and inheritance—must have been earth shattering. A better man may have been able to persevere. But this one had succumbed.
“Lord Neatham likely knows I am missing by now. And Mrs. Plimpton will crumble under his questions,” she said. “We’ve already discussed the smugglers caves too, so hewillfind us here.”
