Free Swept Away by Marsha Canham Page A

will no doubt confirm.”
    Anna glanced at the marquis with renewed astonishment. “You know this man, the one they are looking for?”
    “I have never met him personally, but I have run across his name a time or two through my dealings with the foreign office. As a privateer--which is a roundabout way of saying he was a mercenary--he was apparently recruited some years ago to provide information about the movements of the French navy. In light of the charges that have been brought against him in recent months, one can only presume the French offered him more money to turn his coat and work for them instead.”
    “For the five hundred pounds being offered for his capture, I would turn my coat,” Florence stated flatly, drawing focus back to the reward. “It is an astounding sum of money in and of itself. One that will be bound to draw the worms out of the woodwork.”
    “We have had several false sightings already,” Ramsey admitted. “One from a fisherman who claims he saw someone who resembled Althorpe floating toward shore on a piece of driftwood.”
    “In that case, please do tell my niece what the scoundrel looks like that she might be on her guard next time she is walking by the beach.”
    “This was several days ago and well south of here, but we are taking no chances and have printed up a likeness we are in the process of posting in all public areas.”
    Ramsey reached out awkwardly with his stiff arm and snapped his fingers at one of the redcoats who in turn produced several sheets of paper out of a leather dispatch case. He handed one to Florence first, then to Anthony. Barrimore barely glanced at it before waving it away with a small frown, at which time it was passed to Anna. She took the sheet and braced herself before looking down, and considering it was only a rough sketch in smeared black ink, it bore a startling likeness to the man lying upstairs. The hair was wilder, embellished by the kind of braids depicted in stories about pirates. The eyes were close-set and mean, and more licence had been taken etching the scar in his eyebrow; far from being the slim nick it was in reality, the artist suggested it dragged across his brow and distorted the entire temple.
    But it was him. It was Emory Althorpe, and the huge blocked letters beneath his picture declared he was wanted for Treason! Sedition! Piracy! Murder!
    Anna glanced at Florence, who was studying the sketch as if was of no more importance than the evening menu.
    “Have you seen anyone like that in the vicinity, Miss?” Ramsey asked. “Privates Dilberry and Ward may be able to help with additional information, as they were familiar with the rogue in his youth.”
    One of the soldiers touched a forelock. “Aye. I know’d ‘im, Miss. Big man, ‘ee is. Stands near seven feet tall, wi’ a scrint eye, all scarred-like, an’ shoulders this wide.” His comrade nudged him on the arm and he amended the distance between his hands, increasing it beyond Broom’s impressive bulk. “Aye, more like this wide.”
    “In absolute honesty, sir,” she said, addressing Ramsey, “I have not seen anyone who would match that description.”
    “Nor is she likely to,” Lord Barrimore said dryly, “since there is some doubt as to whether he is even still alive. A report received in the foreign office stated there was some trouble in the harbor at Rochefort shortly after Bonaparte’s surrender and he was killed by one of the general’s own men.”
    Colonel Ramsey shook his head, obviously not convinced. “He has been reported dead before only to appear like a bad dream some months later. I have heard nothing that would convince me this time is any different and until I see an actual body, I will not believe it.”
    “You sound as if you have been looking for him longer than a few short weeks,” Florence said.
    “I have had a personal interest in following his career these past three years or more,” Ramsey admitted. “The man is as elusive as smoke