Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

“Only half a man, actually,” Jonathan corrected. “And that doesn’t change the fact that his presence here is unwanted.”

“You were right to hire a team of oxen,” the leader of the workmen said. “Moving him while he’s trussed up like that is going to take some doing. A team of oxen is the only thing that could move him.”

“I’m not suggesting you move him while he’s trussed up like a Christmas goose,” Jonathan told them. “You’re welcome to turn him over and loosen his ties.”

The leader of the workmen frowned. “Begging your pardon for asking, sir, but how long has he been trussed up like that?”

“Since shortly before midnight,” Jonathan replied.

The workman winced. “He’ll be in agony if we loosen his bindings now after spending the night on the floor like that.”

“Exactly.” Jonathan grinned.

The workman doffed his cap and grinned back at Jonathan. “You’ve a wicked, mean streak in you, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Not at all,” Jonathan replied. “And for future reference, my wicked, mean streak is generally reserved for men who try their damnedest to kill me. And fail.”

“Like this mound of Turkish rubbish, sir?”

“Exactly.”

“Then we’ll be sure to loosen his ties afore we drag him out.”

Mustafa screamed in high-pitched agony as Jonathan and the three workmen rolled him onto his side. The blood rushed into his numb limbs as the circulation was partially restored, and Mustafa alternately screamed, cried, and cursed. Jonathan loosened the red silk cord and the brocade sash binding Mustafa’s feet and hands to each other, and retied them. He bound Mustafa’s hands in front of him this time and retied his feet tightly enough to restrict him but loosely enough to allow the blood to flow.

“Ignore him,” India advised as Mustafa continued to curse the workmen in general and Jonathan in particular.

“I don’t speak Turkish,” Jonathan reminded her, “and his French is barely intelligible at the moment. What’s he saying?”

“He’s cursing you,” India replied cheerfully from her ringside seat in the gig, “and all your future generations. Mine, too.”

One of the workmen crossed himself, but Jonathan looked Mustafa in the eye and replied in French. “At least we’ll have future generations, which is more than I can say about you, you mound of sheep dung.”

It took them three-quarters of an hour to maneuver Mustafa through the doorway, out into the yard, and onto the dray, but they finally loaded him onto the dray.

Jonathan left the men in the yard and went inside the cottage to write a letter of explanation to the captain of whichever of Lord Davies’s ships the men managed to the consign the eunuch, along with a letter of safe passage for the men delivering the cargo, and a special letter he composed using a simple version of Bonaparte’s cipher. He returned with the sealed letter and a long silk scarf he’d found in Mustafa’s room. He tossed the scarf to the leader of the workmen. “Here, Mr. Copley, I suggest you use this to gag him and keep him quiet. And I suggest you use that sail canvas we brought along to cover him—at least until you get him onto one of Lord Davies’s ships.”

“Aye, sir,” Mr. Copley answered.

“I’ve written a letter of explanation for the ship’s captain and signed and sealed it with a mark they’ll recognize. And I’ve written a letter of passage for you and your men to deliver this cargo to the port in Dover. I trust you’ll use great caution, for it would be much better for all of us if no one questions the cargo or your right to deliver it.”

“That goes without saying, sir.”

“Quite right.” Jonathan nodded.

“And seeing as how this mound of Turkish rubbish was found inside Lord Davies’s cottage, I doubt even the magistrate would question your right to remove it, seeing as how you’re acting in Lord Davies’s stead.”

Jonathan nodded, then retrieved his coat and handed Copley a leather coin purse filled with money he kept for emergencies—like this one. “This should cover any expenses, ” he said.

Copley understood he was to use the coin for expenses and bribes for port authorities, if necessary. “Where do you want the cargo to go?”

“Istanbul,” Jonathan answered, “on the longest possible route. And he’s to remain confined for the entire voyage and fed like a common sailor.”

Copley winced. “Like I said, sir, you’ve a real wicked mean streak in you.”

“Glad to know it’s appreciated,” Jonathan replied.

“Aye, sir, it is that,” Copley replied in an admiring tone of voice.