Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. “I must be going.”
“You would do
better to stay here and rest,” Mistress Beekins cautioned as she pulled the bandage tight around his chest and around his waist before gathering the ends to tie it into place. “I cannot be sure, but I suspect the ball cracked one of your ribs.” Mistress Beekins concentrated on fastening the ends of the bandage into a secure knot. “You’ll do best not to lift your arm for a few days or you’ll ruin my needlework.”
Daniel nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of her words before stubbornly reaching for his shirt.
“Not that one.” Mistress Beekins removed Daniel’s torn and bloody shirt from the foot of the bed. “I didn’t spend all that time cleaning the wound so you could put a filthy shirt back over it.” She pulled a sea chest from beneath the bed and opened the lid, then took out a clean white shirt and dropped it over Daniel’s head. “It’s not nearly as fine as yours, but it’s clean.”
“Thank you,” Daniel said softly. “For the shirt and for your tender care.”
“See that you don’t spoil the shirt by tearing open your wound and bleeding all over it,” she fussed. “And see that you don’t waste my tender care by dying on the way back to London.”
Daniel managed a slight smile as she buttoned his shirt for him and helped him into a plain black waistcoat and jacket that belonged to her son. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll be needing these.” She handed him his heavy leather purse and watch, then thrust a pewter flask into his hand.
Daniel arched an eyebrow in query at the flask.
“It’s whisky. For the pain. And I suggest you drink all of it.”
“And if you need more, ask Micah,” Beekins added. “He’ll be going along with you to watch your back.”
Daniel struggled off the bed and onto his feet. He faltered when his knees buckled beneath his weight, but forced his body to do his bidding. Offering his hand to Billy Beekins, Daniel said, “Thank you again.” He looked from Beekins to his wife and son, then reached into his purse, removed three gold guineas, and presented them to the boatswain’s wife. “For you, madam. For my care and the loan of the clothes.”
“There’s no need—” she began.
“Please,” Daniel urged, “accept it as a token of my thanks and my esteem.”
“Thank you, sir.” She bobbed a curtsey.
“And you, Beekins,” Daniel said. “Is there anything you would like? Anything I can do? Anything I can bring you from London?” Although Daniel had paid the crew a princely sum before the mission, he wanted to do more, for Billy Beekins had proven himself more than trustworthy and capable; he had proven himself a true friend and ally.
Beekins grinned. “There is one thing, sir.”
“Anything,” Daniel replied.
“Call it curiosity.” Beekins looked down at the tops of his shoes, then back at the duke. “But I’m itching to know what sort of social engagement is so important you’re willing to risk your life in order to attend. Will you be meeting the Prime Minister or dining with the Prince Regent?”
“No.” Daniel shook his head, then immediately regretted it. “Someone far more important and far less forgiving. The Duchess of Sussex is hosting her annual gala this evening.” And the Marchioness of St. Germaine would be there waiting for him.
Beekins frowned. “But, sir, that’s your mother.”
“Indeed, she is,” Daniel admitted. “And she would never forgive my absence, or rest until she uncovered the reason for it.” And neither would Miranda. He met Beekins’s gaze. “So word of my midnight activities must never reach her ears …”
Chapter Two
“Do not bite at the bait of pleasure,
till you know there is no hook beneath it.”
—Thomas Jefferson, 1743–1826
LATER THAT EVENING
Sussex House, London
“Good evening, Miranda.” Daniel pushed away from the marble column he’d been leaning against and gave the Marchioness of St. Germaine an awkward little bow as she left the dance floor, then spared a nod for Lord Hollister, her dancing partner and escort. “Hollister. Fancy meeting you here.”