there was Corporal Henry Edwards and young Jack Bright of the Essex militia, who likely stumbled across a boat unloading while doing their routine night patrol of the sea wall at Canvey Island. I say likely as we’ll never know what happened, except to say with some certainty that your smugglers garrotted both and tossed their bodies over the wall into the estuary. Edwards washed up on the beach in Southend a few days later. Bright’s rotting corpse served as fish food for three weeks before he floated up the Thames to be found bobbing in Tilbury dock. One had a fiancée, the other an aged mother who relied on his income.’ A quick glance showed that her face had blanched, but she still met his gaze dead on. ‘Shall I continue?’
She shrugged and turned her head away from his gaze. ‘You will do as you please. No doubt.’
‘You have blood on your hands, Lady Jessamine.’
Her mouth opened as if to speak, then clamped shut, her eyes now fixated on a spot on the floor. Temper had him reeling off three more names just as coldly. Each was met with stoic silence. Her body was as still as a statue and her composure just as hard. ‘Are you proud of yourself, Lady Jessamine? Do you feel no shame for what you have done? No compassion for the lives you have destroyed? The widows and innocent children left bereft and impoverished by your greed and avarice?’
Her head whipped around and those untrustworthy eyes were swimming with unshed tears. ‘You know nothing about me, Monsieur Flint! Nothing! And I shall tell you nothing. You can name every dead man. Every member of his family. Blame me for every travesty. And I shall reward you with my silence. My secrets are mine to take to the grave! A grave I am fully aware I might lie in soon.’
One fat tear trickled over her ridiculously long and dark lower lashes and dripped down her cheek. Flint had seen enough female tears to be unaffected, but the matter-of-fact way she swiped it away and proudly set her shoulders got to him.
His words had hurt her. Deeply. He knew it with the same certainty that he knew his own mind. Lady Jessamine had a conscience. Something he didn’t want to know. ‘Tell me his name.’
Her eyes lifted to his. They were miserable. ‘I don’t know it. I am just the messenger.’ And, God help him, against Lord Fennimore’s voice screaming in his head, Flint believed her.
‘You’re lying.’ Of course she was—Flint had now changed his opinion. Behind the beautiful, deceitful face, she had a soul as black as pitch and blood on her hands.
Her eyes drifted back to the riveting spot on the floor and her slim shoulders slumped for the first time since he had seen her. ‘Have it your way. You will regardless.’
Alone, in the relative privacy of her cell, Jess fought the tears. Hearing those names, imagining every man and picturing his family, literally broke her heart. Ah, quelle horreur! She had always known the smugglers were ruthless, known deep down that there were others suffering worse than she was, but personalising it made those dark, shadowy, distant thoughts starkly real. She hated Lord Flint for holding the mirror up to her face and forcing her to acknowledge the gravity of it all. For the last year she had loathed herself. Hated what she was forced to do and hated that she continued to bend to Saint-Aubin’s will because she was weak. For the whole time she had plotted and schemed and tried to fight back, only to cave in when the blind terror overtook her and she begged for mercy.
Of course, Lord Flint would see her eventual acquiescence as guilt. To him, she supposed her involvement made her a traitor—and perhaps now she knew the full extent of what she had unwittingly been involved in, perhaps she was. There was blood on her hands. She hadn’t known that before.
It didn’t matter that every message she had written had been done under extreme duress or that she had been oblivious to the full extent of her mother’s treachery until it was too late to flee. Or that Saint-Aubin had specific and horrific punishments which had broken her resolve to resist. She should have been braver. Stronger. Resolute despite the brutal punishment he was prone to dish out. Whether she had or hadn’t committed outright treason—and she still desperately wanted to believe she hadn’t—those tragic names would haunt her for the rest of her days. Days which frankly would be significantly numbered unless she could escape this boat and the hateful Lord Flint who had just broken her heart.
Sitting here, feeling sorry for herself, wasn’t going to make that happen. Nor was it going to change the past or bring those poor men back. To learn she had been unwittingly responsible for murder was a terrible burden she would have to carry for ever. It added to the deep well of self-loathing that festered within. She could weep for them every night once she had her freedom. Search out their families and send them money—not that she had any—but she would earn it and she would share it with them. Make amends as best she could. Right now she could not indulge her sadness or her guilt. Right now she had to plan, because if Saint-Aubin caught her then his revenge didn’t bear thinking about—and she knew without a doubt she couldn’t bear it again. Because despite all the talk, all the bravado and all the defiance, she wasn’t strong enough—and he knew it. Jess ruthlessly set aside the spectre of that retribution and forced her mind to focus.
When the guards had first come to fetch her earlier, Jess had purposely sauntered to Lord Flint’s cabin. She had gazed at the clear blue sky, sniffed the sea breeze and trailed her fingers lazily along the wooden railings. In part it had been purposeful dawdling—her rebellious nature wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her jump to attention—but she was also taking careful stock. The size of the deck, the number of sailors, the position of the openings used for the gangplanks. When she had been brought on board bound, kicking and screaming, it had been dark. The frantic scan she’d made then had been superficial and she didn’t trust it to save her skin when the time came to run—or swim. Jess needed to be prepared for every eventuality should an opportunity to escape present itself.
Several seamen, shirtless and dressed in only the striped breeches from their uniforms in deference to the glorious spring sunshine, paused in their work to watch her. Jess memorised every interested face as she purposely undulated past, maintaining eye contact with the boldest with the knowing half-smile she had often seen her ridiculously beautiful mother deploy to great effect. Jess wasn’t averse to flirting her way to freedom, not when it had proved to be an invaluable tool already. She might have little in common with the woman who had birthed her, then selfishly ripped her from her life and plunged her into a new world of war and danger, but if everyone who had known her then and commented upon it was to be believed, Jess was the spitting image.
Before her polite interrogation had begun, she had also memorised the layout of his cabin. It was spacious and bright and airy. Two large windows flooded the space with light. Windows which had hinges and latches and opened on to the ocean. Windows she could just about fit through. All she needed to do was think of a way to be alone with one of those windows before the ship reached its destination.
That created a whole new problem.
Jess had been denied knowledge of the port they were headed to now they had finally left Cherbourg, so had no idea how long the crossing would take. She also had no way of correctly knowing the time without asking the guards. After her indulgent long bath and painful visit with the emotionless Mr Flint, all she could estimate with some certainty was that several hours had passed since they had set sail.
From what she recalled of the journey all those years ago when she had been dragged to France, it had taken for ever. But a child’s concept of time was very different from an adult’s. She knew Saint-Aubin’s ships made the crossing easily overnight, leaving in the early evening, unloading in the small hours when it was less likely they would be seen and blithely returning home during the morning. If one bore that in mind, she was now probably closer to English waters than French. She needed a plan immediately.
Half
