Wicked at Heart Read Online Free Page A

dry.
    "One must
wonder why she doesn't attack the civilian convict hulks, instead . . ."
the marquess mused, his low, silky voice doing little to banish Foyle's
uneasiness.
    "I don't
know, sir.  Her husband, the late Lord Simms, had a passion for naval affairs;
perhaps that has something to do with it?"
    "Doubtless."
    Foyle's
nervousness ran away with him, and he began to babble.  "Still, my lord,
one must wonder why the Transport Board has granted Lady Simms permission to
come aboard.  You know how they usually are, unwilling to let anyone visit the
hulks because they're so afraid someone will think that conditions are much
worse than they really are.  It would be easy to draw the wrong conclusions,
and declare that the prisoners are being abused, maltreated, neglected, when we know, of course, that such is not the case.  Surely she must have got
permission from her brother-in-law, the new Lord Simms — I mean, he is highly placed in the Transport Office —"
    "Mr. Foyle
. . ."
    "Well, it's
true, sir, how else would she be able —"
    "Mr. Foyle ."
    The midshipman's
jaw snapped shut and paling, he took a wary step backward.
    Morninghall
glared at him, then turned to lean against the bulkhead, his hand absently
splaying over his chest, his thick lashes drifting shut over intense, coldly
dispassionate eyes.  His dark hair was swept elegantly off his forehead, and
Foyle noted that, against it, his face looked suddenly pale and drawn.  He also
noted the tightened lips, the fingers curled around the back of one chair, the light
film of perspiration that gleamed on that noble, aristocratic brow.
    "My lord,
are you well?"
    "Of course
I'm well," the marquess snapped, firing another glare at his hapless
insubordinate.  He closed his eyes once more.  "Just . . . never
mind."
    "I could
fetch the ship's doctor, if you wish —"
    "I believe
the chaplain might serve me better, as I am beyond the help of that butcher who
calls himself a surgeon.  But don't bother, Foyle."  He pulled out a
handkerchief and dabbed at his brow, then regarded the midshipman with angry
impatience.  "Just . . . leave me alone.  I don't wish for company at the
moment."
    "And the,
er, visitor, sir?"
    "Ah, yes.  She
who seeks to make my life hell.  Champion of orphan and pensioner alike, widow
of the most nauseatingly eloquent bastard ever to sit in the House of Lords,
defender of the oppressed, and now training her guns on my command as
her goddamned Cause of the Month."  The marquess straightened up and again
turned to look out the window.  "Tell the old bat she may come aboard at
eight bells."
    "Er . . .
she's waiting on the pier now, sir, and requests permission to come aboard
immediately."
    "She will
come aboard when I say so, and not a moment before."
    "But —"
    "I said ,
Foyle, make her wait ." Damon said coldly, leveling his hard stare
on the youth.  "Do I make myself clear?"
    Foyle nodded.  "Yes,
sir.  I . . . shall make her do just that."
    "Good.  And
mind that you close the door after you this time.  I'm in no mood to suffer the
stench coming up from below."
     
    ~~~~
     
    Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms sat primly in the boat, trying in vain to keep her skirts free of
the puddle that sloshed at her feet and wrinkling her nose at the horrendous
smells drifting toward them from the prison ship.  HMS Surrey had once
been a fierce warrior of the sea, but looking at her now, it was hard to
believe she had once ruled the waves under a great cloud of sail, hard to
believe she had ever been anything but the disgraceful atrocity she had
become.  Shed-like structures enclosed what had been her forecastle and waist,
and clotheslines, their garments billowing in the wind, were strung between
masts that were now nothing but mere stubs.  The hulk lay atop the harbor like
a black, cancerous sore, and Gwyneth had no trouble envisioning the living hell
she must be for the hapless prisoners of war contained within her.  Eyes
watering, she pulled out a