Page 85 of Project Duke

“It is almost over,” he said, softer. “We know where your brother was shipped to. We can now track him down.”

She nodded. “We know everything but who wanted Spencer press-ganged—and why. And that may be the most crucial piece of the puzzle.”

He looked back in the direction of Portside. Rawkins was their only connection to the man with the walking stick, who Nathaniel needed to find.

She leaned forward, placing her hands on the sides of the door. “What do you have in mind?”

“You’re right, Calliope. The person who ordered Spencer’s disappearance is the key. And until we find him, we cannot know if you’ll ever be safe. Rawkins is still in Portside, but who knows if he’ll be there next week. We must go back and find out something about that man with the walking stick. Maybe he can remember more about the man’s appearance.”

“You’re right,” Calliope said. “I’ll come with you.”

She had already risen from the seat, but Nathaniel put his arm before her like a barrier, helplessly knowing she’d still probably do whatever she wanted.

“No! I’ll ask Carl to drive around the corner. Please, if you care for me at all, for once in your life, do as I ask and wait in the carriage.”

He may have said it too loudly. Too angrily. But it had an effect.

Looking perplexed, she nodded. That melted his heart a little. Did she care for him, after all? Was he not just a husband to her, the man who had promised to give her freedom once she bore him a child?

A promise he didn’t know if he could keep the way that she needed him to.

He nodded and said softly, “Thank you. I’ll be very quick.”

He walked to Carl and told him, “Take the carriage around that corner and wait for me. I will be back in just a few minutes. Hold on to your pistol. At any sign of trouble, drive. Drive for your life. Save Her Grace.”

The man nodded somberly.

With his heart drumming hard against his rib cage, Nathaniel turned and walked through the empty street. He heard the shoes of the horses clicking and the rattle of the carriage wheels against the cobblestones, going into the distance. Good man, Carl. Then there was the sound of only his boots clicking softly against the road.

He had just turned the corner and could see Portside when he heard a drum of shoes behind him. He whirred around to see six navy officers storming towards him with sabers drawn.

He unsheathed his own saber with a metallic whisper, lantern light flashing off the blade. His body tensed, muscles strung taut, eyes narrowed on the men. The first officer lunged, a swift jab aimed at his midsection. Nathaniel sidestepped, his saber slicing the air where the officer had stood. A grunt echoed in the narrow alley as his weapon met resistance, grazing the officer’s arm. No time to relish the small victory.

The second officer closed in, a large man with a thick neck. He was strong but lacked technique. Nathaniel met him head-on. Steel clashed against steel, ear-piercing in the quiet night. The shock traveled up his arm, jarring his bones, but he pushed back with equal force, his teeth gritted.

Then three officers attacked all at once, their sabers a blur of deadly silver. Nathaniel ducked, rolled, then came up behind them. He split his focus, anticipating and calculating their attacks. His saber parried one strike, and he kicked another officer in the stomach with his boot. But the rest of them kept charging at him. He continued slicing, hitting, whirring. But he simply didn’t have the strength to fight all of them at once.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of metal. The saber came swinging down, handle first. He tried to evade, but his body didn’t respond in time. Pain exploded at the side of his head. The world tilted, and darkness encroached his vision.

He tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth. His knees hit the cobblestones hard. Then, the darkness swallowed him whole. His last thought was of Calliope, and the promise he’d made to keep her safe.

Nathaniel slowly blinked open his eyes through a skull-crushing pain that clamped around his temples in a viselike grip. It pulsed with every beat of his heart, each throb echoing like a heavy, distant drumbeat.

He was sitting somewhere, his arms tied behind his back. A slightly musky, briny scent permeated the air—tar, wet wood, and old canvas. Rough-hewn planks were beneath his boots. Dust particles danced in the sparse shafts of moonlight piercing the high, narrow, grime-covered windows, but the dim light didn’t do much against the darkness and many shadows.

Stacked high against the walls was an organized chaos of barrels, crates, and bundles. Rope, coils of tarred hemp, lay haphazardly beside bolts of sailcloth, their fibrous textures standing out in the muted light. Copper nails, destined for ship hulls, glittered dully in wooden bins.

He must be still in the docks.

Is Calliope here? Please, no!

Frantically, he looked around himself, but his gaze halted when he saw seven figures standing and watching him from the shadows.

Then a familiar figure stepped forward, sending a visceral shock through Nathaniel. It was like the ground beneath him cracked and gave way. Admiral Langden? A rush of memories—shared confidences, mutual support, and countless moments of camaraderie—flooded Nathaniel’s mind, making the present moment even more inconceivable. A cold, queasy sensation settled in the pit of his stomach, as if he’d swallowed a stone of betrayal. Every ounce of trust he had vested in the man, who had been more like a father than his own, now seemed a cruel joke, and the weight of the truth threatened to crush him.

The rest of his attackers also stepped forward from the shadows, making a semicircle around him.

Nathaniel looked at their faces, but he didn’t know any of them. They didn’t even look like real officers, just thugs wearing uniforms, with rough scars on their faces, untrimmed beards, tangled hair. The uniforms fit poorly, either too big or too small.