PROLOGUE
Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas
August 1813
A harmless necessary cat.
—SHAKESPEARE
Rafael felt rage, then fear in equal measure. To die alone in the West Indies, so far away from home, from Cornwall, all because of his own stupidity, all because he’d trusted the wrong man.
He fought the fear, the fear that engendered the paralyzing helplessness, and tried to stir the rage to full flame. The man whose life he’d saved eight months before in Montego Bay had betrayed him. The man, Dock Whittaker, was a French spy.
And now Whittaker was going to kill the English merchant captain who had spent the past five years of his life beleaguering the French at sea, slipping through their lines in Portugal, infiltrating their ranks in Naples.
Dock Whittaker had two other men with him, both of them wharf scum, men who would murder for a mug of rum. All had cutlasses, the blades silver-bright and deadly. All were silent, simply moving toward him in a three-quarter circle, making him retreat into filthy Stoner’s Alley away from the waterfront of St. Thomas harbor. The night was black, the street quiet, even the drunks asleep; the only sounds coming to his ears were the steady breaths of the three men coming inexorably toward him.
To kill him. He didn’t want to die. He strove for contempt to control the deadening fear.
“You’re scum, Whittaker, lying bastard scum. This is how you repay the man who saves your damned hide? Or was that all of a piece to lure me in? Listen, both of you”—he spoke to the other two now, his eyes following their slow, determined movements—“Whittaker can’t be trusted. Do you want knives in your backs in some dark alley because of this bastard?”
“Captain,” Whittaker said very quietly, “I am sorry about, well, this ending, shall we say? But I am loyal to Napoleon, to no one else. And when one is loyal to one master, one must sometimes pretend loyalty to another. Surely you of all people know that. You are just the same as I, after all.”
“The day I am the same as you is the day I’ll take up residence in hell. What is your real name, Whittaker, Pierre or François Something?”
That struck, and Whittaker jerked his head back. “My real name, Captain, is François Desmoulins. Bulbus, Cork, watch him closely . . . I’ve seen him fight. He’s fast and deadly. Now, Captain, you have hurt my cause quite enough. Henri Bouchard, a brilliant man, and trusted by Napoleon himself, wanted me to be certain you were really the ruthless, hell-bent privateer in the employ of his majesty. And the Black Angel, I believe my compatriots named you in Portugal. You have interfered mightily, Captain, but it’s over now. I have no more doubts. I followed you, Captain, to see Mr. Benjamin Tucker. I couldn’t hear much, but I saw you give him papers. Yes, it’s over now.”
Three more feet and his back would be pressed against the wall of the Three Cats brothel. He looked up for a brief instant, picturing several of the girls leaping from the upper windows to his aid, wearing the flimsiest of negligees. It almost made him smile. In reality, and this was reality, he had about three steps to live. He could taste the fear in his mouth—metallic, cold.
“I will take two of you with me,” he said easily now. “You, Bulbus, you trust this French scum? You’re not French. I’ll pay—”
“Shut up, Captain,” Whittaker said sharply. “Ah, there is something else. That English earl—Lord Saint Leven—I will have to kill him and his wife, of course. I cannot be certain that you didn’t involve him or indeed, that he wasn’t already involved long before he boarded the Seawitch.”
The fear left him; rage flooded him. Kill Lyon and Diana? Oh, no, that wouldn’t happen, he wouldn’t let it.
He judged the distance, his chances of taking Bulbus before Cork gutted him or Whittaker sliced his cutlass through his chest. There was no chance. He would go down, but he would take two of them with him. One of them would be Whittaker. It was his only way to save Lyon and Diana.
Suddenly fate made a perverse turn and Rafael’s savior appeared. It was a mangy black tom with a long ragged tail, a bush of whiskers, and a torn ear. Rafael acted.
The cat was meowing loudly, and he was between Rafael and his three attackers. Rafael dropped suddenly to the ground, rolled and grabbed the cat as he came up to his knees and threw the yowling, furious tom into Whittaker’s face. The tom, enraged, clawed furiously, and dug in.
Rafael was on Bulbus, his fist going hard and low into the man’s groin. He saw the silver arc of the cutlass, and elbowed Cork in his fat belly. He heard the cutlass clatter to the cobblestones at the entrance to the alley.
Whittaker was screaming and the mangy tom, bless him, was shredding his face.
Bulbus was breathing hard, and his pocked face was flushed with pain and anger. “You bastard,” he grunted, but Rafael took a quick dashing leap to his left and smashed his fist into Bulbus’ mouth. He dragged the man’s sword arm, twisting until he heard the bone snap. It was a sickening sound and Bulbus groaned. He heard Cork behind him, going after his fallen cutlass. There was nothing he could do about Cork, at least not yet.
He heard Whittaker cursing in French, saw the tom go flying off his chest and land lightly against a pile of trash at the end of the alley. His tail was full and wiry and he was hissing. Rafael wished he could command the tom to leap again on Whittaker’s chest.
Whittaker drew a pistol. He was beyond caring if anyone heard. He was ready to kill and damn the cutlasses.
Rafael grabbed the cutlass and sent it smoothly into the air. Whittaker was pointing the pistol at him. Both men were frozen in place. Rafael saw the finger squeezing at the trigger. He saw himself falling, not feeling any pain, simply falling and falling.
He heard a sharp thud. He saw Whittaker’s face . . . bewilderment, confusion. He saw the cutlass sticking out of his
chest.
“You’re dead, Whittaker,” he said.
Whittaker just looked at him.
“You’re too stupid to know it.”
Whittaker opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Slowly he fell forward. He never loosed his hold on the pistol. When he landed on his face on the alley ground, the pistol exploded, its loud report muffled by Whittaker’s body. Rafael felt a moment’s pity for the man who would turn Whittaker over.
Bulbus was lying on his side, moaning and holding his broken arm. Cork was standing, half-crouched in the alley entrance, the cutlass now in his hand, staring at Whittaker, then at Rafael.
“Don’t,” Rafael said. “Don’t do it. Did Whittaker pay you? No, I didn’t think so. He’s dead. It’s over. Go away.”
Cork nodded slowly, cast a disgusted look at Bulbus, stuck the cutlass back through his belt, and melted into the shadows.
Rafael slowly turned and looked toward the back of the alley. He began whistling for that tomcat.
Montego Bay, Jamaica
August 1813
It was infernally hot, as always. The room was stifling, for Morgan had a fear of drafts, just like the Prince Regent, Rafael was thinking as he pulled his shirt free of his sweaty back for a moment. He faced the man whose career it was to direct his movements in the Caribbean. Morgan looked insignificant with his receding chin, his bald spot just like a monk’s tonsure, his faded eyes, his round shoulders. Nonetheless he was a master strategist and Rafael held him in great respect. But at this moment he was feeling only frustration and anger at Morgan’s intransigence.
“Damnation, Morgan, it was an uncomplicated attack, nothing more. Whittaker is dead. The scum he hired didn’t even know who he was or who I am, for that matter. He didn’t—”
Morgan held up a hand and Rafael fell silent.
“Enough, Rafael. You know as well as I that it is over now. Whittaker’s attack was the crowning touch, if you will. Your identity is now known and your, er, usefulness is over.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Do not forget the French attack on the Seawitch. LaPorte was instructed to see you to the bottom of the sea. I thank God he is as incompetent a captain as his brother is an arms merchant.”