Free The Rogue’s Prize by Katherine Bone

cabin wall.
    A section, cordoned with glass cabinets,
    held liquor, showcasing one of Frink’s
    many vices.
    Stepping over to the cabinet, Percy
    touched the fine-etched glass. The
    artistry was quite good. How had Frink
    financed the skilled laborers?
    Whoever had been backing the man
    had to have been someone of great
    importance. For no other could have
    sponsored such opulence. The liquor in
    the cabinet stared back at him with
    invitation. Sating his thirst proved quite
    appealing since he couldn’t act upon his
    hunger for the lady herself. Percy opened
    the cut-glass doors and stared at two
    bottles of port, a bottle of brandy and a
    jug of rum, each tethered against the wall
    to keep them from breaking in choppy
    seas. An additional pair of low
    bottomed glasses stowed nearby proved
    Frink unbelievably civilized.
    The bed shifted. Percy glanced
    over his shoulder, half-afraid he’d have
    to deal with a startled woman before
    getting the stiff drink he needed to warm
    his bones. What he saw made him even
    more adamant to get that drink.
    Constance lay on her side, the coverlet
    gathered over her breasts. The sight of
    her dipping waist and mounding hips
    stirred his soul. He licked his dry lips,
    closed the liquor door, and frowned.
    Liquor would not ease what ailed him.
    He strode over to the built-in
    bookcase and stopped to scan literary
    works neatly stacked inside. Twelfth
    Night by William Shakespeare, Edmund
    Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution
    in France , and The Marriage of Heaven
    and Hell by William Blake lined the
    shelves. Percy frowned. Who would’ve
    guessed Frink had any sort of taste in
    literature? A deep-rooted suspicion
    began to take root within him. He had
    not been toying with a simpleton, but a
    man of complexities.
    Percy settled his gaze upon the
    large mahogany desk jutting out of the
    inlaid floor like coral on a reef. Built
    with a tall wooden lip around the edges
    to prevent content spillage and complete
    with garish designs carved upon the
    legs, the monstrosity owned the room.
    The surface, unbeknownst to him until
    now, displayed rolled parchments and
    maps, which had been tossed across the
    top of the desk as if they’d been
    discarded in a hurry. Percy eyed the
    papers curiously, scanning the myriad
    paperwork until he spied a map
    weighted down by a quadrant and
    compass. Leaning closer, he examined
    the nautical measurements, and then used
    them to calculate the distance off of
    England’s coastline, a directional chart
    flow that led to an unnamed port off the
    coast. The location had been circled,
    however, and dated three months prior.
    Intrigued, he traced back over the route
    with his fingertip. His brow arched
    when his fingertip came to rest at
    Talland Bay just beyond the tiny town of
    Polperro along the Cornish coast.
    His hopes immediately lifted as he
    recollected that he’d returned home
    briefly to tend to his ailing father during
    that time, making him suspiciously
    absent at the recorded meeting place.
    Determined to find out what had
    transpired there, Percy flipped through
    the hastily assorted piles, eager for
    another clue. Two names appeared —
    Zephaniah Job and Josiah Cane —
    beside which the word fox had been
    scrawled.
    Josiah Cane. Fox. Percy lifted his
    hand and nearly slammed it hard upon
    the desk, but stopped mid-air as a
    movement out of the corner of his eye
    reminded him he was not alone. He held
    his breath and waited to see if his
    actions had awakened the lady. When
    she failed to move, he redirected his
    attention to the maps.
    Simon had once informed him that
    Zephaniah Job commanded a smuggling
    ring near Polperro. But who was Josiah
    Cane? Who was this fox? Frink had
    never mentioned anyone other than
    someone known as Whistler, the one
    who’d keyed them in to the Octavia ’s
    whereabouts. Until now, Simon hadn’t
    believed Whistler existed. Recently
    intercepted messages proved Whistler
    did, however, mastermind the Octavia