"So those are the choices," states Mr. Peel. "Should either of you refuse to comply, you, Mr. Fletcher, will be assigned as a low-ranking officer on an Arctic expedition about to set sail to seek a Northwest Passage around the North Pole. And I would like to point out that the last two such expeditions never returned, so I would also suggest that you invest heavily in foul-weather gear. And as for Miss Faber, should she refuse this present assignment, she will be given over to the Treasury people, who will joyfully receive her into their solicitous care. She will be thrown into Newgate Prison, eventually taken to court, charged with Theft of the King's Property, put up in the dock, given a speedy trial, and then condemned to hang by the neck until dead. She will be returned to Newgate to await her turn, and she will fester there until the day when she will be taken out into the square, to mount the gallows. The rope will be put around her neck, the trap will be sprung, and after a few minutes of struggle, that will be it for her. Well?" inquires Peel of us. "You may speak."
"It is not much of a choice," growls Jaimy through clenched teeth.
"I am afraid it is the only option you have, Mr. Fletcher."
"Why can't we be married and still do all you ask of us?" I say, ever the eager, if not very hopeful, bride-to-be.
"Because we have no use for a pregnant agent, and especially this agent," says the First Lord, then sniffs. "And in that regard, you must both swear on your honor that you will not have any sexual congress with each other." Here he looks at me. "And in your case, Miss, anyone else, for that matter, until the mission is over and done."
A flush comes to my face and I look down. Am I really that bad?
Jaimy speaks up, addressing Mr. Peel, "I cannot imagine why this girl is of such interest to you and your kind."
"Why, my dear sir, there are any number of reasons. This girl is fluent in French, has some Spanish, is not loath to use disguises—some of them male—has led soldiers and sailors in battle, is a thoroughgoing seaman and expert in both small arms and large, has killed by her own hand a certain number of men, is a passable forger and lock pick, has been in difficult circumstances many times yet managed to get herself out of them, and has contrived to get herself into Napoleon Bonaparte's very presence. You may be sure, Sir, that no other operative in this service has managed to do that!"
The usually very calm and collected Mr. Peel has worked himself up into quite a lather. Jaimy doesn't reply but merely glowers, and Peel continues.
"You may also wonder why we should hold such a person valuable, in spite of her frequent lapses in judgment. Well, I must say we do—and the fact that she owes King George at least forty thousand pounds and several very sincere apologies, all the better!"
"All right, enough," says Lord Grenville. "You both know the terms of the agreement. Do you so swear to those terms, Miss Faber?"
I take a breath—thinking how much this scene is so like, in a twisted way, the marriage ceremony I was so cruelly denied—and finally say, "I do."
He turns to Jaimy. "And do you, Mr. Fletcher, so swear?"
Jaimy looks down at me, and I nod. There's no way out, Jaimy...
"I do," he manages to choke out.
I now pronounce you the world's most star-crossed lovers, I think to myself, all forlorn.
"Very well," says Mr. Peel. "I think it would be best if Mr. Fletcher left now, to report to the Dolphin. She lies down at Bournemouth. Messrs. Carr and Boyd will accompany you to pick up your gear at your home and then escort you to your ship. Once boarded, I suggest you stay there. Good day, Mr. Fletcher."
I speak up then.
"You have had your way with us, Sirs, and now I wish to say goodbye to Mr. Fletcher," I say, and try to rise, but Bliffil's hands hold me fast.
"Oh no, you don't," says Bliffil.
"Oh yes, I do," says I, pulling the hatpin that holds Higgins's flower to my breast. The orchid falls into my lap, but I put the five-inch needle into the back of Blif-fil's hand.
"YEEEEEOOOOW!" he screeches, lurching backward and away from me, clawing at his hand.
"Do not worry, gentlemen. I will harm no one else," I say to the astounded others, and go to stand in front of Jaimy. "Nor will I try to escape. After all, I have given my word."
I look up into Jaimy's face. "Goodbye, Jaimy. I will see you on the other side, and we will talk about ... the things that were said about me. Just know that I'm still your lass, Jaimy, body and soul, if you still want me."
He tries to respond, but I put my fingertips to his lips. "Not now, Jaimy. Later."
He puts his hands on my shoulders, draws me to him, and kisses me—and I kiss him back. When we come apart, I pat him on the chest, and with tears once again on my cheeks, I say, "Go now, love. Fare thee well."
Carr and Boyd come up on either side of him. He bows stiffly to the First Lord, takes my hand, and bows over it. "We have been sorely tested, but we will someday come together for good and ever, Jacky. I know that. Till such time as we meet again, farewell."
With that, he kisses the back of my hand, turns on his heel, and leaves the room.
After a few moments of quiet weeping, I return to stand yet again in front of the First Lord's desk. Flashby keeps a careful eye on me, while in a corner Bliffil curses over his hurt hand.
"All right, my Lord. Let us get on with this. I hope you do not think that I am stupid enough to believe that I, accompanied by a fully manned Royal Navy frigate, am being sent on this errand to pick up what little scraps of information I might gather from drunken Spanish sailors in dismal bars in the Caribbean."
Mr. Peel smiles. "We think you are anything but stupid, Miss Faber. And no, we are not sending you on this mission because of your abilities as a spy, which are admittedly meager."
"Why, then?" I demand.
"It is because, Miss Faber," says Mr. Peel, smiling one of his very rare smiles. "It is because you can swim."
What?
Chapter 7
Swim?
"Yes, swim. And swim very well, by all accounts."
Mr. Peel pulls out yet another piece of paper. "Ahem. In 1803, teaches self to swim while marooned on the coast of South America. In 1804, dives off main yard of HMS Excaliber in Boston Harbor, to consternation of crew, who believe her drowned. Later that same year, leaps off side of HMS Wolverine to escape impressment, swimming a good quarter mile before being recaptured, and, in the process, dives underwater to save life of drowning seaman. In 1806, after destruction of the slaver Bloodhound, swims to lifeboat with severe wound in leg. And finally," he says, putting the paper back down on the desk, "in August of this year, is spotted diving over side of HMS Mercury and swimming underwater, back to her schooner."
Is there no part of my poor life that has gone unreported?
"It would seem, Miss," observes First Lord Grenville, "that you are not shy about getting wet."
"From that report, Sir, it would seem that I am seldom dry," I retort. "But still, I do not see what that has to do with anything."
"Mr. Peel will now tell you what it has to do with, but first, Mr. Bliffil, you are excused. Best get something on that hand."
"Yes, you'd best, Bliffil," says I, "as I believe the tropical orchid that the pin held to my dress is of the poisonous variety." I wish it were.
Bliffil glares at me and heads to the door. As he goes out, John Higgins comes in.
"Ah, Mr. Higgins. Come in, come in," says the First Lord heartily.
I do not move to embrace Higgins on his arrival, nor do I greet him. No, I only slide my eyes over to peer at him with some suspicion.
Mr. Peel, noticing my look, says, "Ah, are you wondering if Mr. Higgins knew how and when we were going to take you back into the fold, as it were? Well, no, he did not. We did not want to test his loyalty in that way, knowing full well that he is, for some reason, totally devoted to you. And while we have found Mr. Higgins to be a superb analyst of intelligence information, he is not privy to everything."
"Of that I am glad," I murmur, putting my hand on Higgins's arm.
"Your report on today's events, Mr. Higgins, if you would," demands Peel.
"As you please, Sir," answers Higgins. "I was standing by the altar at Saint Paul's, when there was a commotion and Mrs. Mairead McConnaughey, one of Miss Faber's bridesmaids, burst in shouting, 'She's been kidnapped!' While she related to the shocked bridal party what had happened, I guessed that the bride had been taken by this agency. Seeking to spread oil upon these troubled waters, I advised all there not to say a word about this to the newspapers or anyone else, in the interest of Miss Faber's safety. I assured them all that I would make inquiries and keep them informed as much as I could. All seemed to agree to this plan and went home—much dejected, I might add."
"Well done, Higgins," says Lord Grenville, who seems to have taken a real shine to our Higgins, I note through all my continuing confusion. "Well done!"
"I might further add that the bridesmaid's nose was bleeding quite profusely when she entered the church."
I turn to Flashby, furious. "Did you have to hit her, you bastard? Did you?"
Flashby shrugs. "She wouldn't shut up. And I had my orders."
"Now, now," says the First Lord, "let us get back to the matter at hand, shall we? Mr. Peel?"
Mr. Peel puts his fingertips together and begins to recite as if he were giving a historical lecture. "In 1733, a Spanish fleet, whose ships were filled with gold and silver looted from their colonies located in that part of the world, set sail from South America, bound for Spain. It never got there. It ran into a storm and the ships were wrecked off the Florida Keys." He pauses to clear his throat and then continues. "The ships that sank in shallow water were, of course, stripped of their cargoes in no time, but those that sank farther out, were not, as men could not dive down that far. One ship in particular, the Santa Magdalena, which was the largest of the fleet and carried the most gold, was never found. We think we know about where she lies"—here he pauses to let that sink in—"and you, Miss Faber, are going to be the one who is going to find and recover the treasure of the Santa Magdalena."
My jaw drops open and I sit back down in the chair.
"The gold could be worth in the range of a million pounds sterling. This war with Napoleon is costing a lot of money and His Majesty's Treasury is growing thin. If you were instrumental in getting that Spanish treasure into the King's coffers, it would go a long way toward getting you back in his good graces again. A pardon is possible and..."
Mr. Peel rattles on, but I don't hear him—what I hear is Little Mary Faber of the Rooster Charlie Gang, that greedy little imp who is never far from the surface of my mind, sneaking up and whispering in my ear, Treasure, Jacky, treasure...
I shake my head to get her out of it. Begone, you! Mr. Peel is still droning on. "...a Spanish sailor, a survivor of the wreck of the Santa Magdalena, noted some rough coordinates on where she went down, and those notes have come down through the years, through family records, to us and we—"