The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (27 page)

“I have not been… your captain for some time.”

Ollie grumbled. “Ye will always be our cap’n, Cap’n.”

Laughter erupted in the room, a welcoming sensation after the hair-pulling hour they’d spent trying to save Percy’s life.

Mercy moved to Garrick’s side.

Garrick looked down at her and smiled. “You are astounding.”

Russell moved around the table, lifting bandages, poking Percy’s skin. “I am equally impressed,
señorita
.”

“Please. Everyone call me, Mercy.”

“Well then, Mercy. Everything seems to be in perfect order.” He leaned over Percy, helping him lay down on his back. “You are quite lucky, Your Grace, to have had Jeffers and a practiced healer on hand. I cannot begin to count the times that has not been so.”

“No thanks to you,” Percy said. “You have a devilish way… of disappearing when I need you.”

“Duty has its downfalls.” Russell glanced around the soiled room. “My compliments,
señorita
. I despair that you were made responsible for this frightful scene. Allow me to discuss technique with you at a later time. I’d like to learn more about this poultice you used.” At Mercy’s nod, he added, “Well, it appears I am here for no reason, other than to wish you all well. The duke should be back to prime health soon.”

“How soon?” Percy asked.

Russell dropped his gaze to Percy. “Has there ever been a time you haven’t asked me that question?”

Laughter, a mix of relief and camaraderie, filled the room.

Mercy’s skin paled. Her hands began to shake. Exhaling deliberately, she wobbled slightly, unstable on her feet.

Concerned, Garrick put his hand around her waist. Would she collapse now that her burden had been lifted?

He stared at her blood speckled face. His little Spanish hoyden deserved a badge of honor. Aye. He would always consider her
his
, even if he couldn’t claim her. He took one of her cold hands in his, attempting to warm her fingers.

Mercy’s eyes, wide, fearful, gave her the look of a wounded animal. The crimson stains on her nightgown and her fraying braided hair gave proof of how hard she’d fought to save Percy’s life.

Because of
Señorita
Mercedes Catalina Vasquez Claremont, Percy would live.

But would she be as lucky?

“A spy must
become many things in order to survive,” Percy grumbled and then shifted positions on a chaise longue Jeffers had positioned for his comfort. Nearly a week had passed since his near fatal confrontation with Lord Fleming’s pawns. Now, he and Simon had called together Nelson’s Tea, assembling the group around the famously large table of his private dining room at Sumpton Hall, the ducal estate of six generations of Blendinghams.

A two-hundred-year-old brick and mortar construction with palatial columns, Sumpton Hall had long been singled out for privacy. The manor house stood inside one-hundred acres of rolling meadows and forested hills. It was similarly known as the
crème de la crème
of social gatherings with a reputation for celebrating Michelmas in grand style.

They’d withdrawn inside the manse on the guise of a much-needed holiday, allowing Percy a place to convalesce without fear he’d be caught unawares and forced to reveal his injuries too soon. All but four members of Nelson’s Tea were in attendance, having been ordered to meet at Sumpton Hall.
Capitán
Henry Guffald, his wife, Lady Adele, Lieutenant Lucas Winters and Lieutenant Pierce Edwards had sailed from Talland Bay to meet them and were predicted to arrive at any moment.

A long mahogany table, immaculately spread, glistened appetizingly before them. Three floor-to-ceiling windows strategically placed to overlook a spectacular portico and garden on the northwestern side of the manor house provided natural light during the day. Tonight, however, the curtains were drawn and only four seats remained empty.

“Hear, hear!” Garrick rose to his feet abruptly, sending his chair toppling to the floor behind him. Silverware clanged beneath his hands as, having risen too suddenly and lost some semblance of balance, he tried to steady himself.

Silent expectation gleamed from every eye.

Spine-tingling tension coursed up and down Mercy’s spine. Would Garrick’s overzealousness ignite a firestorm? Would his clumsiness draw pity? Humiliation was the one thing he couldn’t stand above all else and would surely set him off.

She fisted her hands under the table, clasping the silk ochre flowing about her legs. Her entire life hinged on the outcome of this meeting between Lord Simon Danbury and the men of Nelson’s Tea. Danger was her ever-present worry and posed problematic to them all, given the recent attack on Simon’s carriage. If Lord Fleming and Admiral Roche couldn’t be stopped, there would be no end to the misery they’d suffer.

“Excellent show of enthusiasm, Garrick!” Simon’s voice held a formidable edge.

A round of applause filled the room, catching Mercy completely off-guard.

“However,” Simon added, “you might want to save your exuberance for the time we’ve successfully trounced our enemies, one by one.”

“Hear, hear!” The mid-to-deep baritone voices of hardened, cunningly skilled men ignited something primal inside Mercy.

After all this time, Nelson’s Tea would ensure the two fiends got what they deserved… and more.

But would they achieve that end before her parents were murdered? Or was it already too late?

Mercy choked back a sob as she glanced around the table. Her gaze finally locked with Gillian’s. The baroness’s disheartening stare took her by surprise. She nodded, the act assuring like a warm embrace, giving Mercy the courage and strength she needed to continue sitting at the table.

Her hands relaxed. She smoothed out the wrinkles she’d created in her skirts and straightened her spine, seeking the curious gazes of members of the organization that had worked so tirelessly to establish her safe journey to England. In that moment, she realized she didn’t have to fight Fleming and Roche by herself. She wasn’t alone. She never had been. Everyone in the room, excluding the servants who stood silently impassive against the wall, put on a grand effort to veil their pain as glasses were raised high and clinked together in a toast.

“To the immortal memory of Lord Nelson.”

The complexity and gravity of their salute, weighted by the idea that they were responsible for finishing what Nelson started, settled upon the room.

Lord Melville rose. “Hear, hear!”

“Hear, hear!” came the collective response as one by one each person around the table rose to their feet.

An eerie quiet descended on the room. Several men, Garrick included, mournfully contemplated the rims of their glasses before finishing off the remnants of their port, downing the liquor in one swallow.

A servant in black approached Mercy’s right side to pour her more wine.

Mercy picked up the goblet, its crimson liquid glittering in the candlelight, and experienced a staggering kinship with the people in the room, one she hadn’t felt since stepping onto English soil. These men, Gillian and Constance included, would die to protect her. Two of them almost had… Garrick held captive by Delgado and refusing to give up her name. Percy who’d nearly died so she could save Lord Melville’s life and reputation.

Mercy allowed her gaze to roam until it settled on the man whose nightmarish cries still haunted her dreams. Like the other men in the room, Garrick was immaculately dressed. Dark fabric clung to his upper arms, hugging his muscular form tightly as she’d done when he’d pulled her back over the
Priory
’s rail.

She clenched her hands until her nails left impressions in her skin. She wanted to touch him, to feel those very arms clasped around her body. She and Garrick were bonded by danger, by fate, and she didn’t fear their intertwining destinies. She never had. Good Lord, if Garrick wished it, she could be his for the taking. Life was too short. And now, that Melville had been freed, and the falsified charges against him dismissed, would they finally be afforded a moment of contentment?

What would it be like to be loved by a pirate? To feel Garrick’s strong, capable hands roam over her body the way she imagined it now.

“Ahem.”

Simon rose and struck a fork against his glass. A tinkling sound filled the air, and conversation ceased. “I’d like to call this meeting into session.”

Nelson’s Tea convened for the first time since the fateful day Holt had tried to assassinate Simon. That knowledge prevailed as each one examined the other for signs of impending betrayal.

Gillian blanched. She had suffered the most that day after bravely positioning herself between Simon and Holt. The horror was still mirrored in the baroness’s eyes as she carefully scrutinized each and every man present in the room. Did she know something Mercy didn’t? Or did she experience a primal need to protect her unborn child as a consequence of their last meeting?

Simon poured himself a glass of port then leisurely searched the faces staring back at him.

Seated at the other end of the table, in an honorary position, Lord Melville gazed across the wooden expanse between himself and Simon at the other end.

Percy reclined, poised near Simon’s right side. Gillian at Simon’s left.

Constance fussed over Percy as he shifted positions, no concern for the fact that he’d just narrowly escaped death. But he had. Thank God for that. Now, Mercy needn’t worry Constance would hold her responsible for Percy’s injuries.

Mercy contemplated Garrick as he studied his friends, a tic working in his jaw.

Men congratulated Melville for staying the course, pouring more wine or port, whatever their pleasure.

Randall Moore said something to Garrick she couldn’t quit hear. He laughed heartily, the sound gripping her heart with earnest pleasure. What would it have been like to have met Garrick and these men before Delgado had stripped away Garrick’s vitality?

She shook her head, shrugging off a dizzying stupor, stubbornly refusing to allow guilt to weight her heart. She’d made the choice to doctor a child in need the day Garrick had been captured. The child hadn’t survived.
No more port on an empty stomach.

There were greater dangers now. Lord Fleming and Admiral Roche still roamed freely. There was the gold to consider. Would Roche return for it? Would their ploy to return the gold to the crown lure Fleming out?

Melville tinkled his glass. “If I may, I’d like to address you all.”

His position mirrored Simon and the shapes of pillars stationed at the doorways of the room. Filled with exotic sideboards, curtained windows, a stately marble fireplace, molded ceilings and freezes, and gilded family portraits hanging at precise intervals; everyone knew they were in the presence of greatness, prominence Percy had never flaunted before them.

After weeks of fearing for Mercy’s life, after providing evidence proving Lord Melville innocent of misusing the Admiralty’s funds, the principled lord had cast off his bonds and was now a free man. If only the same could be said for Eduardo or her parents.

Melville cleared his throat and the room quieted instantly. “Thank you for such an enthusiastic salute, Lord Seaton.” He bowed then arrowed his reverence at Percy. “Your Grace. My lord,” he said, gesturing to Simon. He turned toward Samuel Whitbread, Leader of the Whigs, and head prosecutor at his trial, a man who’d fabricated support for Napoleon. “Allow me this one frivolity. I am in your debt, Whitbread. The Duchess of Gordon’s response to your wit and eloquence sums these few weeks up quite nicely, you could ‘teach a dray horse to caper.’ How you managed to magnificently ward off my contemporaries for sixteen days, I shall never know. Sixteen days! Masterfully done, sir!”

Men clapped their hands in support.

Russell whistled. “I’ve told everyone for years, Whitbread’s skill for pompous, inflated language is unmatched.”

Several men burst out laughing.

One choked on his port.

Whitbread cocked a quizzical brow. “Still using that joke, eh, Russell?”

“Terribly outdated,” Percy said, “but alas, ’tis true, nonetheless.”

Melville cackled then raised his glass. “La,” he said, glancing at Percy. “Where was I? Oh, yes.” He grew more serious. “Impeachment has ruined my good name. While it is true, I have been acquitted for ‘trousering profits’ as they say, I will never forget that half of my fellows voted to impeach me, nor will I live down the depth of this disgrace.” His prophetic speech over, Melville’s gaze briefly landed on Garrick. “And yet… here we are.”

Percy clicked his lips. “Here we are, indeed.”

Melville stared strangely heavenward then closed his eyes for a moment. He inhaled deeply. “Suffice it to say.” He glanced about the table. “That was quite a miracle you pulled off, Simon. If I believe in such things, I’d be inclined to think our beloved hero, Lord Nelson, had a hand in my release from beyond the grave.”

“Hear, hear!” Forsyth shouted. “More unnatural things have been known to happen.”

Garrick shot Forsyth a frown. He rose again, this time more carefully. “If I may, my lord.”

“Yes?” Melville studied Garrick intensely, giving him a nod.

“I humbly disagree. Though there is much to be said for heavenly intervention, and the belief that Lord Nelson watches over us, your newfound liberty can only be measured against the stubborn, resolute persistence of one person alone.
Señorita
Mercedes Catalina Vasquez Claremont. If not for
her
courage and defiance against insurmountable odds, you might have suffered through more of Whitbread’s long-winded cross-examinations.”

Several men, Randall and Moore in particular, burst into laughter.

“Or horror of all horrors,” Percy interjected. “Conviction.”

Silverware clanged against china as the men jumped to their feet, joining in. “Hear, hear!”

They aimed their glasses at Mercy, held them aloft for several awkward moments, and then each drank a healthy portion.

Servants scurried to refill glasses, moving from one man to the next, while Nelson’s personal militia contentedly sat back in their seats.

Mercy suppressed a glorious shiver as the men in the room casually observed her at their leisure. Heat rose to her face. She prayed the flush burning her skin wasn’t noticeable. Her hands shook nervously and yet her heart warmed with a pride that seemed almost blasphemous. With everything that had happened, why did she feel as if she belonged in this room with Nelson’s Tea?

“Pride is a sin, child.”
Father Santiago’s reprimand had been one she’d kept to heart and it convicted her now.

She wasn’t a hero! How could she make these men understand that she’d only done what her conscience had urged her to do? She didn’t deserve a tribute. If something was right, she did it. If it was wrong, she walked as far away from that immoral thing as she could. Restricting Admiral Roche’s control, preventing Lord Fleming from usurping England from within, these had been her ultimate goals, not selfish gain.

She hesitated to champion her own cause. “Forgive me for saying so.”

“Yes,
Señorita
?” Melville’s penetrating stare bore into her but his lips turned upward good-naturedly. “Do not be afraid to speak. I owe you that much… at least.”

“I confess it was no easy matter to locate the letter detailing a plan to impeach you in Admiral Roche’s possession, but I had no trouble accessing it.
Don
Esteban’s servants despised the admiral. Several, in fact, were quite willing to help me gain access to his chambers where I found a copy of Lord Fleming’s letter. With the time allowed me, I forged a copy and resealed the missive, putting the copy back exactly as I found the original, so he would not miss it. I would have gotten away with my plan completely had it not been for the signet ring linking Roche to Fleming.” She moved her hands as she spoke hoping no one would notice how badly they shook. “May I be frank?”