The Trouble With Misbehaving
Victoria Hanlen
Love, Betrayal and RedemptionCalista ‘CC’ Collins is used to being the talk of the town. With her scandalous past she’s learnt the hard way that a woman needs to be strong to get what she wants in a man’s world. And what she wants is the infamous Captain Beauford Tollier—roguish son of an earl, notorious blockade-runner and all-round knave of the seas.However, Captain Beau is not one to be cajoled—he is done with the dangerous sea life and ready to follow the life of the straight and narrow. But with many powerful forces circling around him, Beau doesn’t stand a chance…PRAISE FOR THE TROUBLE WITH MISBEHAVING‘This story has romance, action, bad and good men, surprises, and a lot more.’ – Cathy Geha (NetGalley)‘this one didn't disappoint’ – Avephoenix (Goodreads)‘I’ve read hundreds of historical romances, yet rarely encounter such a wily heroine–one who was not only loyal and brave, but cunning and able to turn her own scandal into fortune…’ – Jamie Beck (Goodreads)‘This story has adventure and will take you along for a wonderful ride if you let it.’ – Jennifer Perkins (Goodreads)
Love, Betrayal and Redemption
Calista ‘CC’ Collins is used to being the talk of the town. With her scandalous past she’s learnt the hard way that a woman needs to be strong to get what she wants in a man’s world. And what she wants is the infamous Captain Beauford Tollier—roguish son of an earl, notorious blockade-runner and all-round knave of the seas.
However, Captain Beau is not one to be cajoled—he is done with the dangerous sea life and ready to follow the life of the straight and narrow. But with many powerful forces circling around him, Beau doesn’t stand a chance…
The Trouble with Misbehaving
Victoria Hanlen
www.CarinaUK.com (http://www.CarinaUK.com)
VICTORIA HANLEN
When Victoria won her first writing honor at age ten, a D.A.R. award for Excellence in History, it never occurred to her she’d grow up to write historical romance. She went on to tread the boards of stage and professional opera. There she absorbed the basics of story telling and learned to inhabit characters while costumed in wigs, hats and flowing gowns. Now as an author, instead of singing in the shower she takes notes, her characters inhabit her, and they get to wear the great clothes. Victoria lives in rural New England with her husband and a host of wildlife. She loves to hear from her readers. For more, please visit her at victoriahanlen.com (http://www.victoriahanlen.com)
Writing this book has been an adventure and a labor of love, and I have many people to thank. Immense gratitude goes to my fabulous editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her patient guidance and for taking a chance on a new author. I very much appreciate the talented Carina UK team for their brilliant work in launching C.C.’s and Beau’s story out into the world.
To my awesome critiquers Ann Clement, Julia Gabriel, Anna James, Jael Wye, and Jessica Trapp—thanks for the honesty, laughter and enthusiasm. It’s meant the world to me. Thanks also to Ann Messecar, Bob Bonitz, and Jamie Beck, your input was invaluable. And a big thank you goes out to the Connecticut Romance Writers for your encouragement, camaraderie and commitment to seeing us all in print.
I enjoyed talking with the historians at Fort Anderson, Fort Fisher and the Wilmington, North Carolina Railroad Museum. Thank you for your time and generosity in pointing me to such great research resources and acquainting me with a myriad of Civil War details. Any mistakes are on me.
To my family, the loves of my life, you are my moorings and inspiration.
And lastly, thank you dear reader for choosing to spend a few hours getting to know C.C. and Beau. I hope they’ve managed to entertain you with their misbehaving.
To my wonderful, supportive husband who has accompanied me on this journey, patiently seeing to my computer problems and traveling with me to do research in the U.S., the Bahamas and the U.K. You are my hero.
Contents
Cover (#ufb0ce2cf-69e9-5553-98d9-c4411890b24c)
Blurb (#u77377af3-e8fa-5dea-b736-8c407b0ff496)
Title Page (#u6009ac3f-05b0-5425-8246-e638dab3f382)
Author Bio (#u0d6d978b-5933-5de6-96a9-fa77ed681b13)
Acknowledgement (#u2c375871-36d9-5395-afbf-2d9b88bc7f3d)
Dedication (#ud361621f-d848-5e08-90cf-44b54e3e2774)
Chapter 1 (#uc1b865b1-f8d3-5322-81b1-c880d3cbde24)
Chapter 2 (#u116e509c-b61d-53b8-a9a5-3529294ba34c)
Chapter 3 (#u93a703ba-7ff1-509e-8b1f-202fb0eff824)
Chapter 4 (#u522bd179-9868-5582-9aea-1647b4a42494)
Chapter 5 (#u3b5a561d-feeb-5edd-8bce-27f5807929e1)
Chapter 6 (#ue07a6a3b-fa93-5edf-aecf-37ef443d4639)
Chapter 7 (#u1cf2d4dc-9b6a-5b76-9239-b9a4a1d0ffec)
Chapter 8 (#uca2703d4-1bb2-54c2-a222-6bbd2e313586)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_be45112e-fbed-528a-8222-cf6c6d6281e2)
London, England, 1864
Captain Beauford Tollier knew the glue-like qualities of trouble. The stuff collected on him like burrs on wool socks. Over the years he’d devised a somewhat reliable rule—trouble avoided was trouble contained.
Hence, when the first two letters arrived, he prudently tossed them into the fire. With the third, however, he let the note linger in his fingers a moment too long. Long enough for the vanilla and honeysuckle perfume to seep into his senses. Long enough for him to notice the elegant, swirling penmanship. And long enough to read the large purple letters emblazoned across the back:
“PROMISING THE HIGHEST REWARDS AND BENEFITS.”
Trouble.
Yet here he stood at the designated fountain in London’s Cremorne Pleasure Gardens. In front of him, horns trumpeted a polka in the tall Chinese bandstand. Below, hundreds of colorful lamps shimmered over the dance platform where seemingly half of London bobbed and weaved.
Beau leaned against a flagpole and opened his pocket watch—eleven p.m.—the appointed time. Where was the mysterious letter writer signed only as C.C.?
Bells suddenly jangled in a nearby arcade. Tension riveted his spine. Spies often set traps with enticing words. But the letter’s mystery and its author’s persistence had tweaked his infernal curiosity.
Tapping his foot, he peered about the swarms of festive patrons milling around him. He shouldn’t be here. His return to England was to be a new start. He’d made a vow—if he survived the Yankee prison he would reunite with his brothers and change his life. Still, anticipation buzzed through his veins.
He flicked open his program, scanned it and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Families still left at dusk. Now only roistering men and women remained. Save for a novel act or two, a dozen years hadn’t altered the variety of amusements and death-defying feats. Hot air balloons, operettas, circuses and tightrope walkers still entertained. He yawned—child’s play, really. Little could rival the excitement of blockade-running.
In the distance, a steam calliope whistled a merry tune. Aromas of coffee and hot grog tugged his attention to the outdoor café where flashy women ringed dainty tables. He brushed his hand over his jacket pocket and felt the note crinkle under his fingertips. Could one of those women be the mysterious letter writer?
“Dawdling won’t get you tuppence here. If you want one o’ ’em, ask her for a dance. Then negotiate.”
Beau flinched at the strange voice. With all the noise and commotion surrounding him, he hadn’t noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen step to his side. He narrowed his eyes on them.
The mustachioed fellow rattled on, “Got to exert yourself. That’s the way of it here at these pleasure gardens.” He motioned toward the crowded dance platform where a sea of hats and bonnets and every kind of suit and gown imaginable bounced about in something resembling more of a bacchanal than a polka.
“The tarts here do not solicit acquaintance. Got to be asked,” his friend said and adjusted his bowler hat.
Rockets burst overhead and exploded through the mist into flowering streams of silver. Beau’s sinews seized. Ghostly images of flying shrapnel and live shell fell all around him. “Take cover!” gurgled in his throat. He clutched the flagpole, gasped for air, pulled at his cravat and fought the panic rioting inside.
The man with the mustache stared, eyes bulging. “N-not that one o’ ’em wouldn’t be thrilled to accommodate a f-fine bloke such as yourself. Not to worry. London’s trollops are a friendly sort. That’s just how it’s done here at Cremorne.”
Beau dragged in desperate breaths. Even with the cool fall air floating in off the Thames, the boom of fireworks made him break into a sweat. Frustration boiled in his gullet. He’d come here to find out what ‘Rewards and Benefits’ meant, not fend off his lingering battle demons.
After nearly fifty runs through the blockade he’d lost his nerve, quite effectively ending his blockade-running career. Fortunately, he’d saved a tidy sum, but the money wouldn’t last. Even an earl’s third son needed to keep up appearances. With any luck, the letter writer would offer generous pay for legitimate, peaceful work. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?
Heart still pounding, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket. “Blast!” He yanked it out again. The paper cut him! He knew better than to allow an infernal letter to tempt his curiosity. A more superstitious mariner would take it as a sign. He should leave.
Vacillating, he rubbed his stinging finger and studied the men. They didn’t seem dodgy enough to have sent the letter, but they were too friendly. He didn’t like friendly. And what made them think he didn’t know London? Was it his tan? He needed to get rid of them. “Perhaps you could show me how one procures…a tart.”
The bowler-hatted man gave him a crooked smile. “All right. It’s not so difficult. Remember, they got to make a living. Pick out one you fancy, be polite and ask.” He tipped his hat toward several women sitting at a nearby table. One smiled back. He soon disappeared with the woman into the mass whirling around the bandstand.
His friend twiddled his mustache and grinned. “Good on him. See? Easy. That’s how it’s done.”
Beau checked his pocket watch…six minutes past eleven. The letter writer was late. Patience had never been his virtue, but tardiness nearly gave him fits. The last time someone kept him waiting he’d been forced to confess to a lie to save his crew and was nearly hanged.
A ticklish skitter climbed his torso. Another grazed his face. He slowly peered around. Union spies had trailed him before. He’d been shocked by the amount of intelligence his nemesis, Union Navy Commander Rives, presented at his trial. Rives promised a bullet to the brain if he ever saw him again. Enough. Time to leave.
“Captain Tollier?”
The soft American accent pinched a raw nerve. He lurched around toward the woman’s voice. Dear God in Heaven. Fireworks exploded overhead in the grand finale. All Beau heard was a distant ringing.
Diamond lights sparkled in the large, dark-lashed eyes gazing up at him. Tight sable ringlets framed creamy skin. High cheekbones lent strength to a comely heart-shaped face. A thin, straight little nose tipped up with just a trace of determination. And her lips, oh, her full, soft lips were made to bedevil a man’s imagination.
At first he thought her a delicate maiden. In the next instant, she pursed those lovely lips ever so slightly to reveal an edge and maturity that hinted older. And with closer examination, her charming womanly curves suggested older as well. Surely this spectacular creature couldn’t be the C.C.
Stunned, he couldn’t respond, only watch her study his face and give him a smile—a very pretty smile—white teeth, a dimple on her soft left cheek. The glamour of it spurred stirrings he’d not felt in nearly a year.
“Oh dear, I must have been mistaken. Terribly sorry.” She turned to walk away.
An elbow dug into his side. The mustachioed man shot him a look of disbelief and gave a quick nod in her direction.
Rubbing his rib, Beau’s mind finally snapped into gear. “May I help you, miss?”
She turned back. “If you aren’t Captain Tollier, then no. I’m very sorry to bother you.”
Curiosity wrestled with uncertainty. She couldn’t have written the letter, could she? Stunning women made very beguiling spies, yet something about her didn’t quite fit the part. Sweeping his hat from his head he smiled, “And if I were he?”
“Then you’d know who you were. Do you know who you are?”
He couldn’t decide if her tone held a joke or condescension.
American women. They spoke the same language, for the most part, but if he wasn’t mistaken, this one’s cheekiness included a subtle challenge.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustached fellow angle his arm for another shot to his ribs.
Beau quickly stepped to the side. “If I should happen to make his acquaintance, who might I say is enquiring?” He flashed her his dazzling smile. The one that usually brought blushes to even the most hardened old harridans.
A graceful brow rose.
The intensity of her gaze sharpened as she openly assessed his new black top hat; took careful note of his face; measured the breadth of his shoulders; inspected his new suit, cravat, starched shirt, waistcoat and burnished boots; slowly drew her gaze upward to his lips and then directly into his eyes.
Beau found himself straightening to attention. For a man of the world and a former Royal Navy officer, he’d never experienced a more unabashed, thorough inspection. His voice came out a little too tight and stern. “Do I pass muster, madam?”
Humor flashed in her eyes, hitting him like an electric jolt. His gaze flew to her delectable mouth. More curiosity stirred.
The music swelled into another rollicking polka.
Peripherally, he saw ‘mustache’ nodding his head toward the bandstand.
Nothing about this supposed business meeting had been typical, but life and freedom were meant to be enjoyed. Why not dance with a pretty woman? Beau could ask questions with her in his arms as well as anywhere else. “Shall we take a turn about the dance floor?”
She turned to him in surprise. “You know this new polka, Captain?”
Her response gave him pause. Women had often complimented him on his dancing. How hard could it be? He glanced at the dancers’ antics while positioning his hat on his head. “We’ll soon find out.”
***
C.C. placed her gloved hand on his arm and let him lead the way toward the packed dance platform. Could this truly be Captain Tollier? Having not met him until now, she’d counted on his portrait, painted a dozen years before, to at least somewhat resemble him.
Above, the orchestra increased its tempo. Couples spun faster, skipped and twirled in wild gyrations, barely missing one another. She gazed about the roiling mass of bodies.
Discussions would be difficult on the rowdy dance floor, and the stakes were too high to risk misinterpretation. Though C.C. grew up in New York, after her father’s death, her mother moved back to be with her family in North Carolina. Now they were in desperate need of her help. It was imperative she persuade Captain Tollier to take her through the Union blockade.
“We must discuss my proposal. The gardens are quieter,” she shouted over the music and pulled on his arm to guide him toward the path around the platform.
His brow rose and a glint sparked in his deep-set aqua-blue eyes. Magnetism hit her like a gale-force wind. Her pulse began to pound in her ears. Laws, what had she been thinking? Dealings of this sort should take place in a dignified business setting with no prying ears.
When the captain didn’t answer her first two proper meeting requests, she’d reckoned he might respond better to something rather improper. It had worked, but now she wondered at the wisdom of that bright idea.
As they moved through the throng, the sweet smell of cinnamon apple tarts eddied on the breeze. Deafening cheers erupted from the game booths. Suddenly, the crowd surged. A large man nearly knocked her off her feet.
The captain circled a muscular arm around her shoulder, steadying her. “I know a shortcut. Let me lead the way,” he announced, his deep voice full of command. The side of her body locked against his tingled, even as his assumption of control began to annoy.
She needed to keep charge of the situation. This whole endeavor depended on her ability to work with this man. He’d a reputation for being wily and unpredictable and clever as a fox. No doubt he’d an impressive stubborn streak as well. But then, he was a captain.
As he forged a path through the chaotic revelers, she slyly studied him. Pleasant features could hide all sorts of unpleasantness. Of this she was well aware. His younger, callow portrait had resembled a blond Adonis, and accounts of his bravery and adventures had kept her spellbound.
Now up close, she could see his face had become leaner, more honed. Years at sea had weathered his skin, transformed the handsome face of a youth into that of a formidable man. Strength and resolve now etched his striking features, carved distinction into the shrewd line of his jaw and made his lips all the more sensuous with an added cynical curve.
Heavens! Desist! She sounded like a starry-eyed girl. She tore her gaze from him as they entered the shadowy gardens’ main walkway. Scents of vegetation wove through the air. Fog had rolled in off the Thames, cloaking the elms’ and poplars’ branches in a murky haze. Goddess-shaped lampposts stood on the long path like sentries guarding the well-tended flowerbeds. Their gauzy areoles of light marched into the distance.
“I take it you are familiar with Cremorne?” the captain drawled.
Were her ears playing tricks on her, or did that certain note in his voice refer to the garden’s ribald reputation after dusk? Surely he didn’t think this meeting included something a little more ribald, did he?
C.C. cut him a quick glance and tried to smile. “Oh yes, it is most enjoyable. I bring the children here when they’re good. We especially like the games. The darling poppets and toy prizes make nice rewards.”
“Poppets? Toys?” He sounded confused. “Something must be amiss. The letter said highest rewards and benefits?” He quickly cut her a glance and said in astonishment, “You have children?”
“They’re not mine, exactly. They live at the Freesdale Orphanage.”
“You keep looking around. Is your husband aware of this meeting?”
“Husband. Dear me, that is funny.” She attempted a laugh. “I’m looking for an empty bench where we can sit and talk.” She gazed down the long line of couples strolling the pathways. “So many people are here tonight.”
His white teeth flashed mischievously. “We probably could find someplace more secluded if you like.”
Her pulse launched into an uneven skip. Oh he was a rascal. This meeting at Cremorne was beginning to look more and more misguided. For goodness’ sake, she’d taken such care with everything, including her no-nonsense business attire: a worn shopkeeper’s gown, hair in a plain style and a brush of coal dust. All to avoid recognition by acquaintances and hopefully ensure Captain Tollier took her seriously.
She drew herself up primly. “Since you didn’t answer either of my first two letters, I assume something in them didn’t meet with your liking.” Tonight she was determined to discover what those things were. “If we can find a calm, quiet place to discuss my proposal, I feel confident we can come to an amicable agreement.”
***
Beau extended his arm to point. “Look, there in the fog, I think I see a bench.” As they made their way toward it, they passed under a lamp allowing him a closer examination. Nothing about this mysterious woman added up. Not a bauble or jewel adorned her person. Her coarse shawl and worn, dark-purple, high-necked gown might indicate any number of occupations.
What was she? A shopgirl? A governess? A Union spy? A tart? He studied her entrancing lips. A kiss might identify one vocation. Yet the way she carried herself shouted prim, proper and upper crust. If he were to needle her in the right manner, he’d not be surprised to find the airs and graces of a ‘papa’s little princess.’
Enough. He needed some answers. He pulled her to a stop. Taking her hand, he kissed a gloved knuckle. Her enticing vanilla and honeysuckle perfume blossomed through his senses—the same fragrance as on the letter. Lord, she smelled good. How long had it been since he’d even noticed a woman’s perfume?
Clearing his throat, he said, “Now then. Would I be correct if I said your initials are C.C.?”
“Yes, they are,” she said with an air of self-possession.
He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he never would have imagined a woman like her. “Why have you asked me to meet you here tonight?”
She waited for a couple to walk past before leaning in to whisper, “Did you not read the letters?”
He pulled the note from his jacket pocket and held it up. “I read this one.”
Her features tightened. “You should have received two more. Did you read them?”
Rather than deny he’d gotten the letters, he merely said, “No.”
Two elegant brows drew into a frown. She lifted her chin. “Why not?”
He almost laughed at her presumptuousness. Who was she to take him to task for not reading her letters? She reminded him of an autocratic Greek tutor he’d once had, although he found her much more interesting. “Madam, before a few minutes ago, you were a total stranger. When I receive unsolicited letters from unknown addressees, alas, they go into the fire.”
“Into the fire!” She rocked on her feet and glared up at him, her ringlets bouncing to and fro. “If you’d bothered to read them, you would have found that my man of business set forth the whole proposal in detail!”
Well, well now wasn’t she a feisty one…so direct and so…different. “Perhaps you could give me the short version,” he drawled, unable to keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Ordinarily he might take offense at her plain speaking. Instead, her uninhibited boldness made him want to laugh. He could almost see sparks sputtering around her tight hair coils and rather enjoyed ruffling her.
She glanced about them again, waited for another couple to pass and said in a quiet clipped tone, “The short version is that I am in desperate need of your help and expertise.”
“To do what?” He grinned.
Cannon blasts pummeled the air and shook the ground. The percussion slammed him in the chest and knocked him back a step. All the air disappeared. He clutched his arms to his sides, gasped for air and hoped to God this very attractive woman couldn’t see how his nerves were fraying.
In the distance, a stentorian voice announced the reenactment of a battle. Even though his mind knew the cannon fire was only an exhibition, his body couldn’t be so easily convinced.
Concern etched C.C.’s countenance. “Are you all right?” She gently placed a gloved hand against his cheek, tipping his head down.
He had the oddest sensation of falling into fathomless eyes filled with compassion, calm strength and a steely will—a mooring of sorts.
Rifle volleys sent sharp waves screaming through him. He clenched again, and struggled to mirror her slow inhale and exhale. Gradually, his rigid sinews began to loosen.
“Do you have difficulties with London’s air, too, Captain?”
“How did you do that?” he gasped.
“Kipp, a little boy at the orphanage, has weak lungs. His brother showed me how to help him when he has an attack.”
Beau had never experienced anything like it. In those silent, breathless moments he’d sensed a connection form between them. But was it an illusion? Another trick from a lady of the evening or a spy?
The cursed prickles began treading up his spine again. Cringing, he slowly peered over his shoulder. If C.C. was standing in front of him, who was spying on him from behind?
Several couples strolled toward them out of the fog.
Clutching her elbow, he led her across the manicured lawn into a copse of trees.
“What are you do—”
He swung them behind a tree and peered out. Whatever she wanted to talk about suddenly lost importance. The villains following him were the more immediate problem.
“Tell me—”
“Shhhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips.
Two men in top hats stepped off the gravel path and picked their way across the lawn.
Beau marched C.C. deeper into the grove around trees and shrubs. Then through an archway of fragrant vines to a fountain struggling to reflect hazy moonlight. They needed to stay quiet and hidden.
“Before you drag me any further into the bushes—”
Didn’t the woman know the meaning of shhhh? She would give away their hiding place if he didn’t do something quick. He pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his. Mint and vanilla filled his senses.
Her sweet, almost maidenly response surprised him. No, she probably wasn’t a tart. Just a hasty stolen kiss, yet he couldn’t help appreciate the tantalizing fit of her supple lips under his and how her body softened against him. His heart stammered and launched into a faster beat. Lifting his head, he gazed about her bewildered, upturned countenance, breathlessly poised for a man’s kisses. Hmm, not entirely a maiden either.
Perhaps another quick kiss would clarify matters?
Alarms blared through his mind, but the evening’s stresses muted their warning. Months of wondering if each day would be his last had his inner voice insisting: live life when it’s handed to you…it could end in a heartbeat.
He lowered his head and softly brushed her lips.
Though clearly not experienced, she returned his caress with such tenderness he couldn’t describe why it felt so thrilling, so right. They’d just met, yet she kissed him as if she was…as if they were…well, something more than strangers.
She circled her arms around his neck and leaned into him. This spurred him further. He angled his head for a better fit; she moved to accommodate. Warmth trickled into the damaged, hollow place in his heart. For the first time in a very long while he allowed himself the comfort of human contact, and he couldn’t keep his starved longing from entering his caress. Lifting her off her feet, he held her tight in his arms.
C.C. responded with a sigh and melted into him, sending shocks through his torso. A sensual fog clouded his mind. His heart thumped wildly and another part grew uncomfortably insistent. The woman wasn’t joking when she promised the Highest Rewards and Benefits.
Hazy thoughts struggled through overloaded senses.
No. This was too convenient. He still didn’t know why she’d sent him the notes. Two men were trailing him. Was she really a spy? He set her down. “Madam, this better not be a trap.”
At his words, she pushed out of his arms. Her confused expression sharpened. “If you’d responded to the first two letters we wouldn’t be tromping around a darkened pleasure garden at nearly midnight.”
“Quiet,” he breathed, as he peered around for their pursuers. “Four words, madam. What’s this about?”
“The Roundabout…the blockade.” Her voice quavered between gasps.
The Roundabout? How did this woman know about his ship? “I don’t understand.”
“I need your help. You have the experience and knowledge to help my family—”
Footsteps crackled through the leaves and grass only a few feet away. A deep, gravelly voice rasped through the gloom, “It was her, I tell you. She went into this grove with some bloke. Keep looking.”
She went into this grove with some bloke? They were chasing C.C. and not him? Beau’s protective nature marched to the fore. He pushed her behind him and peered out from the side of the bower. Two large figures clomped toward them. A breeze carried the stench of stale sandalwood and sweat. One of the men coughed so badly he bent over double.
C.C. gasped behind him and he could only make out a few of her muttered words: “Not again…that insufferable termite.” Before he could stop her, she scurried out the back of the bower and disappeared into the fog.
***
Miss Calista Collins dashed from hedge to tree on quivering legs. Indecision dogged her wobbly retreat. After three and a half years the War Between the States had slowly dismantled the South. Now her family in North Carolina desperately needed her help, and Captain Tollier was the only man she would trust to take her through the Union blockade.
Laws, he’d actually kissed her…and she’d kissed him back! She fingered her lips and drew in a ragged breath. Should she try to find him again, or leave Cremorne? She couldn’t decide. His kisses had scrambled her wits. And drat him, the captain didn’t even know the extent of her business proposal because he’d thrown her letters into the fire!
Now those two scoundrels had ruined everything. Did they suspect her real reason for being here?
A branch snapped behind her. She turned. All she could see was swirling fog. It could be Captain Tollier, or it might be the coughing villain who’d been loitering on her street corner.
Nothing had gone as planned. After all her work and forethought she’d not been prepared for any of it…the captain’s dazzling charm or his lusty manner or…the sun-kissed lights in his honeyed hair.
Another branch crackled, sending her scampering into a nearby vine-covered arbor.
“Oh!” a woman yelped.
“Christ!” growled her partner.
The couple’s odd silhouette quite shocked C.C. “Oh, my, I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” Gasping, she quickly backed out and skittered to another hedge. This evening’s events had stretched her nerves to a frazzle, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The air was indeed dense tonight. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her wheezes, only to be reminded of the captain’s kisses.
Kissing had never much appealed to her. Only a handful of men had made the attempt. Anything more than a quick peck made her feel slobbered on—like her aunt’s Basset hound’s kiss. But when the captain pulled her into his arms and sealed his soft, full lips over hers the unexpected pleasure stunned her.
Now annoyance struggled with unwanted desire. How had he enticed her into doing things totally contrary to her character and certainly not on her agenda? It had been years since she’d found a man irresistible. And that had ended in disaster.
She didn’t like how the captain’s kisses alternately bewildered and sent thrills through her, or that her treacherous body melted so comfortably into his.
She’d too much to do and no time for confusion. Why did she have to find Captain Tollier so compelling?
She inhaled. Laws, his exotic citrus cologne still lingered on her cheek. Tingles raced over her skin. No one told her his voice had such a deep, rich timbre or that he possessed such roguish charm.
A deep voice murmured in the distance.
Her pulse leapt. She almost called out before stopping herself. It might be one of those scoundrels instead. Hadn’t everything been spoiled anyway? Could she even have a reasonable conversation with the captain now?
It was getting late. The pleasure gardens would soon close. Should she wait for him, try to find him or leave? This whole endeavor had been assembled with Captain Tollier in mind.
Her family in North Carolina needed her help. If she didn’t make haste things could get a lot worse. This also might be her last chance to discover answers to a decade-old mystery.
A hand bell rang through the fog followed by a booming voice, “Cremorne Pleasure Gardens will close in ten minutes. Please proceed to the exits.”
C.C. ground her teeth. Captain Tollier obviously hadn’t followed. No doubt, he’d slithered away into the mist. Drat it all, now she’d have to hunt him down again.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_80a15834-e64f-5dbb-8a12-eb52b3452957)
Beau slumped against dusty seat cushions as the hired coach rocked and bumped along, jarring his every muscle. Two days had passed since the bungled meeting at Cremorne, and he’d come no closer to sorting it out or getting C.C. off his mind.
What an astounding woman. Delving into her steady gaze and finding the strength of will to defeat his battle demons still filled him with awe. And every time he thought about her tender response to his stolen kisses, his pulse jumped. But the rest of it—villains on her tail and a havey-cavey business proposition—made him certain his first instincts had been correct. Had he stuck to his rule, the whole bizarre, confusing escapade could have been avoided.
Besides, there were other things he’d vowed to do. The losses he’d recently endured made him long to reunite with his family and return to the peace and quiet of his childhood home.
The reunion made him a little uneasy, however. After little communication for more than a decade, he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. With all he’d been through—an officer in the Royal Navy, the informal, wild revelry in the Bahamas, a blockade-runner, and a prisoner of war—conforming to the confines of English aristocracy might be a challenge. And heaven help him should there be any sudden noises like at Cremorne.
As the coach pulled through the heavy iron gates, Beau lowered the window for a better view. Morning mist veiled rows of terraces in the distance. Rising above the clouds like a castle of old stood his family’s ancient crenellated and multi-spired country home.
When the horses finally halted at the manor’s front entrance, Beau swung open the door. He climbed out, stretched his stiff back and took a deep breath. The fragrance of ancient yew trees and old oaks surrounding the mansion mixed with the unique combination of damp earth, rock and antiquated mortar—the scent of Grancliffe Hall.
Home.
Once, he’d considered the country mansion’s quiet to be stifling, its tranquility boring, and the fortress’ solid security a jail. After enduring the real-life miseries of a Union prison, he drank in the sight of the old place almost with reverence. The experience had altered his perspective. Now he saw a mythical castle filled with one hundred and two rooms of blessed, hushed peace.
On the west lawn a man and four children played croquet. Nostalgia hit him like a heavy gust. He’d spent many a boyhood hour romping over that lawn with his sire and siblings. The man rushed toward him, waving a croquet stick. A big smile covered his face.
Beau rubbed his tired eyes. It couldn’t be Father. He was long dead. As the man neared, he realized he was his eldest brother, Thomas, now the Earl of Grancliffe. Thomas had grown into an exact likeness of their patriarch—a tall, formidable, strong-featured man with dark eyes and thick, wavy dark hair—another identical copy of their marauding ancestors.
Grinning broadly, his brother marched up, grabbed him in a strong embrace and then held him out by the shoulders. “I knew it was you, Beau. You haven’t changed a bit, well, maybe more weathered, a little more fur on your face.”
Beau scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Aye. Haven’t had a meal or shave in two days.”
“You don’t look like you’ve had much sleep either.” Thomas winked.
“None to speak of. When the first train broke down its replacement took hours to collect us. I missed the next two because of the first. I apologize for my untidiness and tardy arrival.”
“No need for apologies.” Thomas pulled out his pocket watch, flicked it open with his thumb, frowned at the time and arched a brow at him. “It’s only been a dozen years, what’s a few more hours?”
Beau’s eyes widened. So his brother had become a time stickler like their father?
Thomas threw his arm around Beau’s neck and pounded him on the chest. The same kind of rough hug he’d given him as a boy. “I’m teasing, little brother. Get me full of ale and I can reprise more of Father’s memorable quirks. I’m glad you’re finally home.” He pounded him again fondly. “We should have warned you. Trains in these parts are reliably unreliable. Many forgo the frustration and take a coach.”
Thomas’s joking calmed some of Beau’s unease. He’d always idolized his eldest brother and couldn’t help a surge of affection. Thomas had intelligence, good looks, a good nature, and strength of character—everything an admirable earl needed. And he never stepped wrong. Not one foot out of place.
Stepping wrong had been Beau’s lot in life.
But no more—he’d vowed to change. If his brother could be respectable, so could he. He was done playing the family’s scoundrel.
Three boys, all miniature versions of his brother, romped over. A little girl dragging a croquet stick soon followed and latched onto her father’s knee.
“I’d like you to meet Alistair,” Thomas said. “He’s nine, Royce is seven, Ernest is six and Daisy here is three. Children, this is your sea captain Uncle Beauford come home at last.”
The boys stepped forward like little men, stuck out their hands and gave his a shake. The little girl stuck her thumb in her mouth.
Beau lowered himself to Daisy’s eye level. Her sweet little face and dark eyes and hair squeezed the damaged, hollow place in his heart he dared not think about.
He spoke quietly, smiling. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Daisy.” She popped her thumb out of her mouth, gave him a shy smile and bashfully hid her face in her father’s pant leg.
By now a footman had unloaded his luggage.
“A minute, please.” Beau strode over and opened his trunk. “I have presents!” He pulled out four American frontier coonskin hats and handed one to each child.
“Thank you Uncle Beauford,” they chorused.
“A fine family you have here, Thomas.” He smiled. “It’s good to be home.” He’d longed for a quiet, peaceful rest and a chance to get to know his family. His sister-in-law’s invitation had said a small birthday party for his brother.
“Has Wills arrived for your party? Beau hadn’t seen his second eldest brother, six years his senior, since their father’s funeral.
“He and his wife may be greeting their new babe as we speak. He sent their regrets, and hopes he may introduce you to his family in the near future.” Thomas curled his arm around Beau’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “My lady wife is eager to make your acquaintance. I don’t know if you were told, but Amelia thought my birthday party the perfect opportunity to show off the new renovations. Once you get settled you can meet all the guests.”
***
The last thing Beau wanted to do after such an arduous trip was sit at a long dinner table with thirty-plus guests and make polite conversation. Yet here he sat, five from the end.
After a bath and an abbreviated nap he’d arrived just in time to take his place at table. Stifling a yawn, he surreptitiously glanced left and right. On either side of him sat two nearly identical, shy young women. Both possessed even features, blue eyes, pale skin, blonde hair and similar white gowns—ideal flowers of English womanhood.
His sister-in-law obviously took matchmaking seriously. The two lasses were daughters of landed gentry and probably considered a reasonable match for a questionably suitable, questionably solvent and questionably steadfast third son of an earl.
Beau sat uncomfortably in his new formal black suit. He slid a finger between his neck and collar and tugged.
Down the far end, at the head of the table, sat his brother Thomas. He now wore a splendid tailored dark suit, stiff white shirt, white waistcoat and a perfectly tied white cravat. Somehow his eldest brother had always looked impressive, yet comfortable, in clothes that would chafe Beau’s hide.
Clearly his sister in law, the new Lady Grancliffe, was having fun restoring grandeur to the earldom and the old hall. Lavish new gold candelabra, sparkling silver and abundant flower arrangements decorated the white tablecloth.
Beau turned to the young woman on his right. “Did you grow up in these parts, Miss Winfield?”
She nodded, giggling, and reached toward her ear to twist a hair curl around a finger.
He turned to his left. “And how about you, Miss Trundel?”
She gave a quick cough he interpreted as a yes. Then she became engrossed in—if he wasn’t mistaken—a silver question mark dangling from her charm bracelet.
He tried again with Miss Winfield. “Have you known Lady Grancliffe long?”
She blushed and shook her head, making her gold and pearl earrings twirl in circles.
He turned back to Miss Trundel. “Is this your first visit to Grancliffe Hall?”
Her rouge-brightened lips puckered. “No.” She twiddled the next charm resembling a canoe—or was it a slipper?
The footmen placed dishes in front of them and filled their wineglasses. Evidently the young women were as relieved as Beau with the interruption, for they made a production of cutting their poached pheasant and savoring their dry rosé in silence.
Far down the table on his side, a glass tipped over. The sound of breaking crystal cut through the hum of conversation. A strange hooting cackle seemed to come from the vicinity of the breakage.
A female voice announced loudly, “No apologies necessary, sir. I’m quite all right. However, I must make an observation. If you’re unable to refrain from spilling your wine, it seems doubtful you could possibly keep any woman happy.”
Beau’s lips quivered. He knew that voice, though it sounded more strident than he remembered. Her insinuation wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in most dockside taverns he’d frequented, but such words brayed at an earl’s table were nothing less than shocking. Excitement surged through him. And he couldn’t decide if it was from the memory of holding C.C. in his arms, or his prison camp paranoia leaping back to life, screaming trap.
He hadn’t noticed her when he entered the room. What was she doing here? He looked down the table for a woman resembling the coal-smudged shopkeeper he’d kissed at Cremorne. Then he looked again. Only one woman met her basic description, but she couldn’t be her. Everything about her screamed ‘elegant lady.’
A jingling sound drew his attention back to Miss Trundel as she sawed industriously at her pheasant. “My, what a lovely bracelet.” He smiled. “Do the charms have special meaning?”
By now she’d warmed to him, a little, and she smiled shyly. “Yes.”
“That charm, the one that looks like a canoe, what’s its significance?”
Miss Trundel curled her hand to her mouth and whispered, “It’s a banana.”
He gazed at the small charm. “So i’tis. I take it you’re fond of bananas?”
She giggled and leaned to exchange speaking glances with Miss Winfield.
Beau turned to Miss Winfield. She’d obviously been staring at him. Her eyes went wide and her pale skin brightened to crimson.
He worked to give her a smile and took a gulp of wine. This was getting painful. Struggling to extract dull small talk from proper young women barely out of the schoolroom was giving him a headache. He’d much rather talk to a certain cheeky shopgirl.
During the next course, a grating giggle rose above the conversation. It went on and on until finally ending with several porcine-like snorts. “Dear me,” she said, “Yankee Doll? A man of your advanced years and you still have a tendre for dolls?”
Beau stifled a laugh. The table grew quieter. He stretched forward to see around the other guests and found himself staring. No. She couldn’t be C.C. The woman at the end of the table was resplendent, almost…ethereal.
A low-cut, exquisite lavender gown emphasized her long neck and soft, creamy bosom. Amethysts draped her cleavage. Flower buds adorned an elaborate profusion of sable curls. Her features were more pronounced, lovelier, as if a master artist had applied a regal finish.
He looked closer.
Good God, it was her. What a transformation. And what an enchantress!
Heat rushed through his body as he recalled their kisses. He willed her to make eye contact. As if hearing his request, she turned, raised her thick dark lashes and locked gazes.
Nothing. No reaction. Her eyes could have been marble for all the response they showed. She turned away to speak to another guest.
Beau casually shifted his gaze. Either she was tragically purblind, or she didn’t wish to know him—most likely the latter. She’d sent him three letters, and had been so eager to meet with him she’d chastised him for burning the first two. Now she mysteriously appeared at his family’s country home and didn’t acknowledge him? What was she up to?
The gentleman on the other side of Miss Winfield leaned around her and groused, “I don’t know why they continue to invite that crazy woman. She is positively off her nut, insulting Viscount Falgate that way.” The man shook his head and wrinkled his nose distastefully. “The stories I could tell you about her.”
“Why is she here?” Beau responded.
“I don’t know. Ask your brother. It’s his party.”
Beau eased back into his chair. Fascinating. At the pleasure gardens C.C. had looked like a trade woman or possibly a governess. Her note asked him to meet her at a time when a proper, respectable woman would have long since departed. Now she looked like a goddess and sat disparaging a viscount at an earl’s dinner table.
Was she a Union spy as he’d suspected? And what about her business opportunity? Had it been truthful or was she ‘off her nut,’ like the fellow said? For certain, the woman was unsettling. But dear God, what a beauty, and by the way she tempted his reckless side, a lot could be forgiven.
At the conclusion of dinner, he waited for her in the hallway. When she exited, he stepped in front of her and bowed. “Hello again, madam.”
She quickly looked behind her. Lord Falgate lingered in the doorway talking to another guest. “Not now,” she muttered under her breath. “Excuse me sir,” she announced louder and held her frothy bell-shaped skirt to edge around Beau.
Her curt dismissal only tweaked his curiosity more. Could it be she didn’t want Lord Falgate or someone else to know she and Beau were acquainted? Was she married after all? He almost followed her down the hallway, but her strange behavior made him reconsider. It might be wise to first get the lay of the land. He turned the opposite direction and made his way to the billiard room.
While several men racked up balls and began a game, Beau savored two glasses of his brother’s fine brandy and walked around admiring the room’s redecorating. Any hopes of turning in early for a long night’s rest would have to wait.
He stopped at a side table to gaze at a familiar bottle. As a boy he’d spent untold hours studying its contents. Oh, what dreams that miniature East India tea clipper had conjured. How carefully he’d measured, drawn and redrawn the vessel inside. It had been the genesis of his ship designs.
Two small paintings of his father and mother hung on the wall behind. Both had dark eyes and hair. He’d never known his mother. The answer to who he really was died at his birth.
Thomas approached, slapped him on the back and offered him a cigar from the box he carried. “Thank you for these excellent Havanas, little brother. I do so enjoy a good cigar.”
“You’re very welcome,” Beau replied. “And happy birthday.”
His brother set the cigar box on the table while a diligent footman refilled both their brandy glasses and lit their cigars.
Beau took several satisfying puffs and gazed at his father’s picture. He could almost hear the old man growl, “When it comes to mischief, you’ve not lived a life of missed opportunities.” Now his motto, he’d spent his life challenging the words ‘no’ and ‘forbidden.’ Though the rewards had filled his pockets with gold, the risks had finally taken their toll.
“I wonder how many of my little hellions will take after the old man?” Thomas mused.
Glancing at his brother and then at his father’s picture on the wall, Beau responded, “If memory serves, eleven generations in the portrait gallery would say they’d all resemble him.”
His brother took a long puff and blew smoke out between his teeth, grinning. “We haven’t announced it officially, but it appears we’ll be adding to the nursery in another six months or so.”
A cloud of grief threatened to engulf Beau.
He arranged a smile on his face and concentrated on deploying proper vowels and consonants. “Congratulations. I never would have thought domesticity would suit you, but I see you flourish in it.”
“Thank you. If I should be so bold, you might discover advantages in the situation as well. Thomas lowered his voice and leaned in. “Money is important, of course. I was fortunate to find a woman I couldn’t live without who brought a pot of money to the earldom. But more importantly, finding the right woman and settling down to make a family has many hidden benefits. I dare say it’s what life is all about.”
A familiar ache tormented his heart. I’m sorry, Millie…my darling Freddie.
Beau had once considered such a life. His irresponsible, unreliable streak made it impossible. If a woman wanted someone steadfast, she’d best look elsewhere. Still, he could play along and worked to keep his smile in place. “I did take note Lady Grancliffe is on a mission to help me with that very thing.”
“Ah, my lovely wife. As soon as she realized you were thirty she evaluated her friends and acquaintances and came up with a ‘must introduce’ list.”
“Is the lovely young woman in the elegant lavender gown on the list?”
His brother looked confused. Then he winced. “Do you mean our Auntie Cali?”
“Is that her name?”
“That’s what the children call their favorite relative. I suspect some replace the Auntie with a less flattering title,” he muttered and then cleared his throat. “Her name is Miss Calista Caroline Collins.”
“She’s quite possibly the most exquisite woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe you or your lady wife could introduce us.”
Thomas frowned and puffed on his cigar. “No, not Miss Collins.”
Beau blinked, surprised. “Since you call her ‘Miss,’ she’s unmarried? Is she attached?”
His brother pursed his lips and motioned to the footman for an ashtray. Both tapped off their ash and waited for the footman to leave.
Thomas gave Beau a pointed look. “You’d best steer clear of her, dear brother. She’s one of Lady Grancliffe’s relatives from New York City—first cousin, don’t you know.” He puffed on his cigar and then studied it as he seemed to consider his words. “Miss Collins created some kind of unforgivable scandal in New York City. Her parents were all too eager to park her somewhere. Poor girl had a tough time of it. Kept to her bed for months.”
“Was she ill?”
“Doctors said severe melancholia. One even thought her a lost cause, urged us to commit her to a French institution. My wife and Mrs. Arnold, my mother-in-law, wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. A. determined diversion the best medicine and took her on a tour of the continent. Miss Collins eventually got better. But she’s fragile—some say she’s touched in the head.”
Beau blew smoke rings around his cigar as he considered his brother’s story versus the compassion and strength of will he’d seen in C.C. at Cremorne. So his wife’s wealthy family was clothing and sheltering a poor, cast-off relation? “It’s very generous of you and your wife’s family to take her in. I would think with your status and position you could find her someone.”
His brother bit down on his cigar and growled, “She’s not the kind of relative one readily acknowledges. The newspapers are filled with reports on England’s plague of insanity. We don’t want it put about we imported one.”
“I would think with her beauty she would have offers, even if she is a fragile, penniless woman.”
Thomas pulled his cigar from his mouth and frowned. “On the contrary, our Miss Collins is heiress to an enormous fortune.”
Heiress? Beau hacked out cigar smoke. Bloody hell! She’d enticed him—a total stranger—to a pleasure garden after dark and was chased by two villains. She could get herself kidnapped or worse! “A beautiful, rich, young woman should be buried in offers.”
“She’s managed to maintain a youthful appearance, but she’s almost thirty.” Thomas took a long draw on his cigar and tipped his head back to blow smoke toward the carved rafters. “No, I’m afraid she’s quite on the shelf.”
“Truly? We’re nearly the same age, and I’m in the prime of my life.” Any woman who returned his kisses the way she had definitely was not on the shelf either.
“Did you hear her outbursts toward Lord Falgate at dinner? Quite off color. She has strange spells too.” Thomas shook his head and muttered, “Unpredictable woman.” After subtly checking about them, his brother leaned in, frowning, and said sotto voce, “Falgate has a dubious reputation, rumored to be in hock up to his wrinkled cravat. His wife supposedly fell off a bridge. Her body was never found.
Beau’s brows went up. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“Long story. Our wives were friends since childhood.” Thomas leaned to his other foot as he quickly peered about them and whispered, “It’s rumored he’s consorts with a bad lot, blackguards all. But he still has powerful connections, can be extremely ruthless when his ire’s up, and is a crack shot when he’s sober. It’s prudent to stay in his good books.”
Taking another puff on his cigar, Beau considered what his brother said. “How did Falgate end up seated next to Miss Collins?”
“He insisted Lady Grancliffe place him there. Evidently, he hoped to gain leverage with Miss Collins for the friendship she also had with his wife. Or perhaps, he hoped he could impress her with his title and status in the House of Lords. Who knows?” Thomas darted a look to the far corner where Lord Falgate slouched in a large armchair. His snores carried across the room.
“Surely she can do better.” Even in repose the man looked dangerous. Beau had known men like him in prison. Darkness seemed to swirl about them. Some had the uncanny ability to sleep with one eye open. “Clearly the fellow is in need of a new money purse. Don’t you have a ‘must introduce’ list for Miss Collins too?”
“Shot through it long ago. Falgate knows the story. You see, Miss Collins’s mama gave her specific marching orders. She must land herself a titled husband before she will be welcomed back into New York society.”
His brother placed his empty glass on a side table and turned back to Beau. Through puffs on his cigar he spoke in a confidential tone, “For the first year, or so, Miss Collins dedicated herself to the task like a general laying siege to a keep. One or two indigent titles showed interest and were willing to overlook her problems and past. Eventually her true colors came through. Even the most determined sought greener, saner pastures. Word got around, don’t you know.”
“Maybe she just needs proper instruction. We shouldn’t hold it against her if she grew up with the mongrel hoards in New York City.”
“Dear brother, it’s more than cultural differences! She’s been here a decade. We’ve talked ourselves hoarse trying to convince her she only reinforces the rumors of instability with outbursts like those at dinner. She truly acts chastened and then does it again. I’ve a mind, deep down, our Miss Collins hates men.”
Beau slowly rolled his cigar in his mouth remembering how her soft, full lips moved so delightfully under his and how her lush body melted against him. He jerked the cigar from his mouth. “There must be some mistake.”
His brother’s expression grew reflective. “Had a mare like her once. Refused every stud we presented. Nearly gelded one or two we had mount—”
Mount. Dear God. “Well I—” Beau coughed as he struggled to keep a provocative image of he and C.C. from his mind. Fatigue, too much brandy and now this added bit of mischief made his head pound. Pinching his eyes together, he blinked and grasped for some topic to erase the image. “Does she have outbursts with women?”
“Never seen one. Can’t say she’s ever spoken to me in any way but cordial either. Odd woman, our Auntie Cali. The insanity must come from her American mother’s side.”
Thomas turned and slapped Beau on the back. “I’ve a wonderful wife and must occasionally brush up against some of her crazy relatives. You, on the other hand, are free to keep whatever company suits you. Miss Collins is a pretty package but believe me, you can do better.”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_7c89e033-bc22-5baf-bb0e-0f85dbb054b1)
C.C. wrapped her arms around her middle as she paced back and forth across her bedchamber’s plush carpet. If she had to wait much longer her shoulders would soon ride her hairline. Out of the stillness, footsteps quietly shuffled down the outside hallway. A door lock clicked. She walked to the fireplace and gazed at the Ormolu clock. One a.m.
Grasping her wineglass off the mantel, she took a gulp to calm her frustration. Would people never go to bed and stay there?
No doubt, Lord Falgate was lurking somewhere nearby. What was that villain up to? When she’d met him ten years before he’d been involved in some kind of shady dockyard warehousing. She’d no difficulty seeing past his good looks and contrived charm to a hidden agenda.
Poor naïve Sarah fell ears over toes for him and brought a sizable income to their marriage. When she died mysteriously, everything pointed to Falgate, yet he never faced charges. Selfish lords could murder their wives with impunity. Yet mere innuendo could ruin a woman’s life. C.C. curled her lips in disgust. The man needed a comeuppance, or at the very least, a good shot of guilt. Sarah deserved some kind of justice.
She gazed around her room. Amelia, her cousin, now Lady Grancliffe, had given C.C. this chamber ten years before when she’d first arrived from New York. During those bleak days she’d passed her time naming things. The roses growing beneath her window had received special attention. She’d labeled the big red ones, Crimson Mortification; the small whites, Hoary Humiliation and the yellows, Cowardly Disgrace.
Since then her cousin had redecorated. Now the walls and upholstery also blossomed in reds, whites and yellows. The room was lovely, but the ghosts of self-condemnation and shame didn’t easily submit to bright paint, new furniture or patched plaster. Such heavy emotions had probably long since fused to the very spine of the room. C.C. knew when she curled into a tight ball of loneliness and pain that only purple had the strength to endure the darkness.
The night was ticking by. Clasping her mother’s tattered letter between her hands, she listened for sounds of servants or guests. I’m sorry I’m not there yet, Mama. But with Captain Tollier’s help, I will be soon. Her heart fluttered at the thought of him…and his kisses. Drat the man. He’d taken her by surprise at Cremorne. She was tired and a little tipsy, but one way or another, tonight she would get his agreement.
Her lady’s maid had helped her change into her night rail. Over that, she donned a floor-length velvet cloak, preparing to leave. When finally satisfied everyone was abed and asleep, she placed the letter on the stand near her bed and slowly opened her door. Carrying a small lamp, she crept through long corridors to the almost unoccupied east wing. The blue apartments, she’d been told.
C.C. stopped outside the suite’s door and tried to compose herself. Even though visiting Captain Tollier’s room was highly improper, at least it should be private. She didn’t want Falgate or anyone else interrupting this time.
A faint squeak of metal echoed in the vast marble corridor. Quickly extinguishing the lamp, she glanced about the shadowed darkness. Icy rivulets raced down her spine. No one could know of this visit. She certainly didn’t want to cause a scandal under her cousin’s roof.
Carefully turning the handle, she entered and closed the door behind her. A thin strip of light shined from under the bedroom door at the far end of the sitting room.
She crept through the dark room and pressed her ear to the door. Silence. After wiping a sweaty palm on her cloak, she turned the knob. The heavy paneled door swung open.
Bright moonlight streamed through the windows. Gaslight slanted through the doorway of the adjoining dressing room to a huge four-poster bed where Captain Tollier sprawled supine.
She tiptoed closer. One half of a well-shaped leg dangled off the side. A single sheet covered the other leg and barely reached his lean waist. From there honey-blond hairs scattered in a ‘V’ all the way up to the ridges of muscle lining his chest.
C.C. had never seen a man in such a state of undress. While she admired his raw beauty, something wicked and forbidden tingled inside.
Slumber softened the vibrant charisma and shrewdness that animated his face. With his sun-kissed hair tousled all over his head he looked almost as young as his portrait. And she now realized his expressive brows were at least three shades darker—drawing two long, dramatic lines tapering practically to his hairline.
She found herself taking short breaths as her gaze traveled his entire length. Of all men, why did she find him so fascinating? Was he worth a king’s ransom?
When she’d lived here before, her strolls often ended in the long gallery where she’d find herself gazing at a painting of a younger version of Captain Tollier, standing on a cliff with ships sailing in the background.
He looked fearless, an adventurer traveling the world, experiencing life at its fullest. How she’d yearned for such a life and admired him all the more for his courage and ability to go after it.
She needed to stop staring and wake him. The sooner she got his agreement, the sooner she could help her family. After placing her lamp on his bedside table, she couldn’t resist brushing a lock of hair off his forehead.
His generous lips drew into a lazy smile. Thick lashes fluttered, drowsy and dreamy. He appeared to be enjoying a pleasant dream.
She stepped a little closer to give him a shake.
Quick as a bullfrog catching a fly, he coiled an arm about her and pulled her on top of him. The sensation of his body’s provocative maleness registered first. Next were his soft, deft lips covering hers, stifling her yelp.
In an instant the pleasure of his kiss stole her reason. Mercy! Her objective seemed to float off…somewhere. With great effort, she raised her head and tried to say, “I need—”
He placed a hand at her nape and gently pulled her back, slurring, “I need you too, my beautiful dream maiden.”
In one smooth roll he had her under him, pinned to the bed. “I knew you’d come to me,” he mumbled while raking his lips down her neck.
Gasping with surprise, her senses filled with his heady fragrance. Laws, he smelleddelicious—a combination of his exotic citrus cologne, his own masculine scent, brandy and the aroma of fine Cuban cigars—the kind she liked to smoke herself.
No, this shouldn’t be happening. She didn’t need a tour of his wicked expertise. It was his seamanship she needed. He must stop immediately! “Don’t,” barely came out a whisper.
“You’re the most ruh-ruh-ravishing woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He circled the shell of her ear with his tongue and dipped inside, tickling it with his warm breath. Shrills streamed down her spine, finally spurring her mind back into action.
“No. Oh, no! This is not why I came here.” She tried to wriggle out from under him.
“Easy, luv, easy now. It’s only a dream,” he slurred.
“No!” She bucked, frenzied. “This is NOT a dream. Please STOP!”
He raised his head, wheeling it from side to side, as if seeing things for the first time. A noise between a growl and a groan resonated in his throat. He rolled off onto his back and flung an arm over his brow while dragging in ragged breaths.
“I, I didn’t come here for that,” she stuttered.
His heavy-lidded gaze rolled around her face. “Madam, you acted as if that was exactly why you came here.”
“No, no. You wouldn’t let me explain. I came here to talk business. I need your help,” she said, sitting up.
Tugging the tangled sheet over himself, his retort came in hisses, his sentences truncated as he made adjustments. “When a beautiful woman comes…to a man’s bed, the business…requires little discussion. I’m in no condition to discuss—”
“But this is of utmost importance. You must hear me out.”
“You tempt me beyond reason, woman.” His eyelids fluttered closed, then sprang open. “If you remain, there’s every likelihood we’ll—” He waved his arm toward the door. “Out! Now! Before I lose what self-control I’ve left.”
***
C.C. came down a little later than usual to break her fast. The breakfast parlor was empty save for a footman. After filling her plate at the sideboard, she sat at the far end of the table and sipped her special blend of coffee. This morning she needed its extra jolt.
Somewhere during her self-flagellation over last night’s fiasco, her teetotaling naïveté finally grasped the fact that the captain had been deep in his cups.
She’d known he was a rogue, but this was getting absurd. Twice she’d tried to talk to him and twice he’d derailed her with seduction. Ordinarily, such actions would bristle her sensibilities. She pressed her fingers to her swollen lips to keep them from stretching into an idiotic grin.
He’d nearly bedded her, and she’d almost let him! Heat warmed her cheeks. Her actions may have lacked propriety and good sense, but a small, wicked part of her wondered—what would it be like to surrender to a man she admired so immensely?
For goodness’ sake. What was the matter with her? She must keep her eyes open and head clear. Memories of her disastrous scandal made her cringe. Acid churned in her stomach at the thought of their names…Captain Sterling…Jacob Rives.
She mashed her fork into her plate of eggs. Any dreams of being a wife and mother ended long ago. Her scandal closed that path and sent her down another. Now, as an expatriate oddity, she had special empathy for society’s castoffs. It brought her immense joy to help those whom fate had dealt a harsh hand. Her independent mind and purse made it possible. After a decade of self-sufficiency she was loath to let English marriage laws take away her autonomy.
Something twinged in her chest. A part of her suspected Captain Tollier might provoke the most disastrous emotional consequences and threaten that independence.
Still, the fact remained: she needed his help. He was the only one even remotely qualified and available. She would sit right here until Captain Tollier came down for breakfast.
A man cleared his throat.
She looked up from her plate and nearly uttered an indecency.
In the doorway stood Lord Falgate.
What her dear friend Sarah saw in him, she would never know.
He instructed the footman to fill his plate and then walked the entire length of the empty table. There he motioned for the footman to seat him in the chair right next to hers.
As Falgate chewed on his crumpet, he thoroughly looked her over. His wide mouth and bloodshot eyes held the makings of a cruel smile combined with equal parts malice and oily charm.
A frozen rictus of a grin drew at the muscles of her face.
He didn’t appear to notice her expression or the marmalade leaking down his chin as he lingered overly long contemplating her breasts. Then he leaned too close for a better view of the rest of her, giving her the sensation that he could see straight through her unmentionables.
So his lordship wished to dole out a bit of intimidation. She let her voice rise to a girl’s pitch with a touch of a lisp. “And how are you this lovely morning, Lord Falgate?”
“Good, Miss Collins,” he harrumphed, “and you?”
She laughed a high, piercing giggle and brayed, “Wonderful! Just wonderful!” While she cut her broiled kidneys, she laughed some more to herself, to the footman, to the walls, and then laughed at her plate as she shook her head to make her coif of ringlets bounce in all directions.
“I must say, my lord, you did make an impression at yesterday’s dinner.”
“Did I?” Thick ebony brows pulled together.
She studied the blade of her knife and laughed as if it had delivered a hilarious joke. Then jerked her attention to Lord Falgate.
Infusing her expression with fevered brilliance, she narrowed her gaze on his receding hairline. “One of your comments intrigued me,” she tittered, while twirling her knife next to her ear. “After your words spun around this little head, something sprang to mind.”
Her laughter echoed off the walls as her gaze flew to her plate where she found something hilarious about her eggs, and then abruptly stopped. Eyes losing focus, she could feel the emergence of the lifeless, flat stare of a dead fish.
She turned her head to Falgate, not really seeing him since her eyes were frozen in place. As if imparting a solemn confidence, she said in a little girl’s stage whisper, “Do you know there’s a shop in London that specializes in life-size dolls? Given your preoccupation with such aids I thought I’d write a friend of mine to send you their address and possibly a catalog.”
A loud clatter echoed through the breakfast room. Serving utensils bounced off the sideboard and onto the marble floor. She looked up to see the footman quickly step over to help Captain Tollier mop up the mess.
***
Beau’s stomach didn’t feel at all the thing this morning. He’d drank too much brandy last night and ended up with a splitting headache. To relieve the pain he’d taken a little laudanum. That had been a mistake as well.
Now dizziness, another headache and a muddled, hung-over misery refused to allow reality and unreality to mesh. After seeing C.C. at yesterday’s dinner table, he couldn’t get her off his mind. The combination of discussing C.C. with his brother, no sleep for two days, then the brandy and laudanum must have produced the delicious carnal dream about her.
After that, things got murky.
Upon entering the breakfast parlor this morning he’d found a very different C.C. cackling like a deranged lunatic. She’d said the most degenerate things to Lord Falgate in a voice as unsettling as her laughter.
The breakfast parlor scene made his head pound anew. He’d taken some toast and a stiff cup of coffee back to his room and now sat on his bed.
As he slowly chewed his dry toast, he sifted through his memories. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? He chewed and breathed and chewed and breathed. My, but her perfume made a very pleasant memory. Vanilla and honeysuckle, was it? Such a lovely fragrance.
He swallowed his toast, breathed in again and…cursed extravagantly. His tray nearly fell off the bed in his rush to reach the window. Throwing it open, he dragged in the fresh morning air. Surely the bed’s flowery fragrance must be some kind of special laundry soap.
The cool air only increased the throbbing in his head. He stumbled back to his bed, moved his tray of food and took a careful sniff. Thin eddies of honeysuckle and vanilla floated off the pillow.
Alarm rang through his body. He threw back the covers. Three long, curly strands of dark hair lay on the sheets. “No, no, NO!” he moaned. The hairs on his neck stood on end, followed by his loins.
For God’s sake, he’d not even been home twenty-four hours. After years abroad, he’d hoped to shed his scoundrel image, present an upstanding captain worthy of respect, and show one and all a chastened, grown man who’d left his awkward youth and impetuous blunders behind. He’d wanted to start over and be more like Thomas.
C.C.’s perfume was distinctive. How could he convince anyone he’d changed if a maid discovered C.C. had been in his bed? The staff would be atwitter and spread the news far and wide. Grasping the three hairs, he hurried to the window and threw them out. Then he tottered over to his trunk and fished out his expensive bottle of cologne.
After splashing a liberal amount into his hands, he ran his fingers over his sheets and pillow. He gave it a test sniff, coughed, then sneezed. The room now reeked of a masculine blend of lime and incense. Hopefully it covered the woman’s fragrance.
Much as he’d like to flatter himself, women in their right mind did not appear unannounced and uninvited in his room. Surely he hadn’t bedded her. He fetched his tray again and mulled it over with another bite of dry toast.
Good God, what a horrid thought.
Even in his wilder youth, when he’d excelled at foolishness, he’d not done anything so witless. Certainly he’d been taught a gentleman’s rules of behavior—which he frequently chose to disregard. But no matter how beautiful or alluring or rich she might be, he did not bed crazy women.
Dear Lord, if they’d been discovered, he shuddered to think of the scandal. They’d say he’d sunk to a new low bedding a woman known to be unstable. He couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to his brother and family, especially after he’d been warned. His days of being a blot on the family escutcheon were over.
For some reason Miss C.C. Collins had decided to torment him—new blood, perhaps? Women as beautiful as she knew their power over men. He’d be damned if he’d let her thwart his shot at a new life. A wise man would make every effort to steer clear of C.C. And that was exactly what he intended to do.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_9c64c5c6-0a65-505f-8a3d-9c8b97546e59)
An hour later, Beau slowly made his way down the south wing’s grand staircase to reacquaint himself with the old hall. Signs of his sister-in-law’s renovations were everywhere. Scents of the fresh yellow paint and new red carpet pervaded the cool air. The windows had been replaced and cleared of the heavy drapery. Sunshine now poured in on all sides. He shaded his eyes with one hand.
Music drifted up from below. Someone was playing the pianoforte in the music room. As a boy he’d not been allowed to attend his father’s receptions. Back then his nurse let him sit on the top steps to listen. He recognized the tune—Chopin—one of his favorites. He stopped on a stair. Such a beautiful melody, so filled with emotion and depth. Oh, the memories that lived in this grand foyer.
An odd chord sprang out, then the rubato hit a few bumps, and finally all expression fled in a frantic hammering of keys. On a final dissonant note, Beau sighed and clutched his sore head as he descended the last few steps.
A footman pulled open the music room’s door for Beau. Rows of guests sat in a semicircle around the pianoforte. They began to clap when the cherubic-faced older woman rose from the instrument, gave an unsteady smile and bowed. On the piano bench next to her sat her page-turner, C.C.
She looked up.
Her gaze locked onto Beau’s.
Pivoting in a quick about-face, he muttered to the footman, “No thank you, I need someplace quieter.” He would not allow her to toy with him again.
Beau strode down the corridor and turned into the grand library. Tall mullioned windows reflected the gothic interior of ancient stone, carved wood paneling, ornate gas lamps and plush furniture. He climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the second floor. Thick walls and fully stocked bookcases made for heavy silence—a perfect place to lay low, nurse his throbbing head, and begin the process of making plans for his new life.
As a boy he’d discovered a nook in one corner of the room between two walls of shelves. From that vantage point, he could see most of the library while remaining fully concealed. He dragged a comfortable chair to the spot, snatched a book off a shelf and sat.
Seconds later he heard the swish of the door and a soft patter of silk slippers. He peered down at a crown of dark curls and lavender gown.
C.C. stepped quickly around the ground floor, gazing about as if searching for something.
Even though he knew he couldn’t be seen, Beau drew back when her gaze flitted up to the second floor. Blast! Had she seen him enter the library?
“Where is he?” she muttered.
He ducked lower. Didn’t this beat all? He’d dodged Yankee blockaders for years, yet one demented Yankee heiress managed to stay on his trail as if he wore a beacon.
Heavy footsteps stomped down the outside hallway.
C.C. stilled, turning her head toward the sound. She dashed to a shelf, ran her finger over the spines of several books and pulled one out. Flipping it open, she buried her nose in the pages as if deeply absorbed.
The door swung open. Viscount Falgate stood in the doorway in a crisp black suit, white shirt and red cravat.
An overpowering scent of stale sandalwood seeded the air all the way up to Beau’s little corner. Holding his nose and aching head, he sat motionless hoping they would quickly find their books and leave. All he wanted was some peace. Quiet would be good too.
Falgate tramped into the room with an unsteady gait. “Miss Collins,” he rumbled.
She turned toward him. They stood for a long moment, gazing at one another, neither speaking.
Beau wasn’t sure what to make of it. Assignations often began as such. So, she’d been searching for Lord Falgate and not him? By her outlandish remarks toward the man at dinner and again in the breakfast parlor, it didn’t seem possible. Could it be another sign of her instability, or had she been trying to throw everyone off their sordid little affair?
“We appear to enjoy the same entertainments,” Falgate cooed and stepped closer. Too close.
Instead of taking a step back, C.C. drew herself up and stood her ground. “My lord, I get the distinct impression you are following me.”
Her expression appeared haughty, but the tone of her voice almost sounded teasing.
“Miss Collins,” Falgate admonished and grinned while he waved his pointer finger from side to side. “You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
She smiled and said with almost a girl’s intonation. “I do not know what you mean.”
Beau inched forward in his seat. Their dialogue almost sounded like a playful prelude to something more degenerate. Was this the opening gambit to more wanton games? Even though he’d vowed to avoid C.C., seeing Falgate make advances on her tweaked his ire.
The viscount’s voice emerged a low grumble. “I think you do. You know we English must display at least an appearance of neutrality when it comes to that fracas across the pond. If I was able to discover what you’ve been up to, others could as well. Of course, if you were to grant me a certain favor, I’d do you one in return and make sure tongues would rest.”
Was he propositioning her?
“I highly doubt that’s possible, my lord.” She sniffed. “My name has provided such a steady diet of toothsome tidbits it would be difficult for tongues to give up the taste now.”
“It would be a shame for new scandal to besmirch your dear cousin and family. Are they aware of your penchant for meeting men in darkened pleasure gardens?”
Good God, now Beau recognized that nauseating cologne. Falgate was one of the villains who’d followed them into the trees. Had C.C. met other men at Cremorne? Falgate was threatening to spread malicious gossip that would not only hurt C.C, but Lady Grancliffe and Beau’s brother as well. And under Thomas’s own roof!
She stood perfectly still. Only a slight flaring of her nostrils and a thinning of her lips indicated she’d even heard the viscount’s accusation.
Beau fisted his hands. He wanted to pound some manners into that blackguard. But if he showed himself with C.C, Falgate would surely put the two of them together and have proof of her peregrinations. Was that why C.C. wouldn’t acknowledge Beau at dinner?
“What say you, Miss Collins? One small favor?” Falgate purred.
Although close to forty, his lordship still had what might be considered dark good looks and a tall, sturdy build. So far, he’d made veiled threats, but C.C. appeared unbothered by them. Perhaps she found his games exciting?
While part of Beau wanted to charge down and send the viscount packing, another more analytical part advised further assessment.
Her three dark hairs in his bed proved she’d visited Beau last night. Now she was engaged in a provocative conversation with another man. Beau didn’t know why he should care, but for some reason her answer to Falgate’s question mattered. He leaned in. Yes, what say you, Miss Collins?
Footsteps shuffled down the outside hallway.
Falgate turned his head toward the sound.
C.C. suddenly flew into a rage, slapped him and screamed. “You despicable cretin!”
By the look on Falgate’s face, he hadn’t expected this sudden violence any more than Beau. Was this what Thomas had meant by unpredictable? Beau had heard of such erratic behavior in the insane. One minute they were fine, the next they’d plunged a fork into your throat.
The library door swung open. Three more male guests tentatively entered, mouths agape, all staring between C.C. and Falgate.
“Do you truly presume threats and favors will woo me to your dark designs?” Her words hissed through an incredulous smile. “Sarah may have found you charming, but look where that got her!” C.C.’s lovely features wrinkled into an expression of outrage and disgust as if she were close to slapping him again. Instead, she spun around and marched out the door.
Beau shook his head. The beautiful hellcat who left the library bore little resemblance to the charming shopgirl he’d met in the pleasure gardens. There she’d been caring, rational and full of purpose. So different from the erratic woman she’d become at Grancliffe Hall. His brother’s warnings were beginning to make sense. Perhaps she was unstable.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_00179c50-2769-5067-acab-720d7f7f36ee)
The next morning, Lady Grancliffe announced the day’s games would require a partner of the opposite gender. Beau immediately saw the necessity to find a good hiding place and burrow in. Fortunately, he knew plenty of hidey-holes in his childhood home.
Over the centuries, different ancestors had added on, restored, redecorated and redesigned portions of the one hundred and two rooms. Ignored for generations, the gloomy north wing rarely drew visitors. Guests generally kept to the more hospitable parts of the mansion.
Ambling down the north wing’s corridors, he saw his memories had remained fairly accurate. The old place was still drafty, still cold, and still unwelcoming. Phantoms of days gone by reappeared at the sight of a painting, the position of a sconce, or the squeak of a door hinge.
He turned into the long gallery. Very little about the room had changed since his boyhood. The faint musty smell of ancient oak paneling still pervaded the cave-like air. Sunlight struggled through mullioned windows casting shadows around the marble floor. Long vines of gilt curled across the walls and adorned the high cast-plaster ceiling.
Beau’s boots clipped on the marble and echoed around the long room as he slowly examined each painting. Every one of his stern-faced ancestors scowled down at him with dark hair and eyes. Eleven generations wore the same imperious disdain. He stopped to study his own portrait halfway down the room.
“A fine painting of you,” a disembodied voice announced nearby.
Beau jumped and bit back a curse as he spun around.
C.C. sat nearly engulfed in one of the enormous wing-backed chairs facing his portrait.
Alarmed at how he’d once again been caught with this mysterious, forward woman, he bowed. “Sorry to disturb you.” Wheeling around, he made for a hasty exit.
“If I’m not mistaken, you appear to be avoiding me.”
He stopped but didn’t turn toward her. “Indeed. I’d hoped to quietly go our separate ways with no one the wiser.”
“Did you now? Since you burned my letters we still have much to discuss.”
He squared his shoulders. “I think not. Our brief association is at an end. I do not wish to be a part of your mad games. After the night before last—”
“After the night before last?”
“It seems best to allow you your distance.”
He heard a quick intake of breath and a rustle of silk. Her voice seemed to rise in pitch, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone what you almost did with crazy ol’ Miss Collins. But then you have lots of secrets, do you not, Captain Tollier? What’s one more?”
“I don’t know what you mean, nor do I care.” He started walking again.
“Looking at all these…lovely portraits, I can see why people whisper you’re the family’s cuckoo.”
Lurching around, he clenched his fists in an effort to control his temper. Not only did the insult shock, it cut into one of his earliest, deepest insecurities. He lowered his voice to a dangerous calm. “You are fortunate to be a woman, madam. Were you a man, such an insult might force me to call you out.”
She stood and gave him a look so sultry it almost begged him to teach her lessons of a different sort.
“Ah yes, call me out. And what should I call you?”
He turned to leave, hoping to prevent saying or doing something he’d regret. Before he’d taken two steps, C.C. said in a voice full of authority, “Mr. Wainwright. Perhaps Captain Scott? Or would it be Cornelius Dolan?”
The hairs on his neck stood straight out. Where did she hear those names? He’d been very careful using aliases. Some of the names still had a price on their head.
Making a slow, controlled turn, he assumed the tall, rigid military stance he’d mastered years before: the bearing of strength and authority. He strode to within a foot of her and glowered down with his most intimidating captain’s stare. The well-practiced glare never failed to shut an insolent sailor’s yap.
She continued. “All your relatives are dark, many harsh-featured with an undercurrent of anger.” Her gaze traveled across the portraits as if he were not standing right in front of her. “Yet you have blue-green eyes, blond hair and features designed to break hearts. You look full of life and joy in your portrait, ready to spin the world on its ear, and you did, didn’t you?”
“What is it you’re about, madam?”
Only now did he notice her violet, exceedingly expensive bell-shaped gown—another fashionable masterpiece. The skirt’s gauzy valances reminded him of a cloud or perhaps…meringue? He took his time assessing her. Besides having remarkable taste, he’d never seen a more perfectly groomed, comely woman—not a hair or thread out of place. So different from the woman at the pleasure gardens, but one he knew fit his body as if it were the other half.
She locked gazes and said significantly, “My mother and relatives in North Carolina are in desperate circumstances. They must be rescued.”
He leaned in, scowling. “Then you’d best find yourself a good captain and a fast ship. London and Liverpool have many in need of work. I could provide names if you like.”
“I’ve already found a captain and have it on the best authority he knows his way to North Carolina.” She didn’t move, returning stare for stare. Challenging him again.
An uncomfortable ache pulsed his loins. “Then you should hire him, straight away. There’s a war on, in case you haven’t heard. No one in their right mind would sail those waters now.”
She smiled at him for the first time since he’d come to Grancliffe Hall…a knowing smile…with a quirked eyebrow.
He maintained his stern expression, refusing to respond to her humor. Even through his anger and suspicion she roused something in him he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“If I’m not mistaken, this captain made regular runs in and out of Nassau and Wilmington on the St. Charles, the Tropic Flyer and the Annie Milford, to name a few.”
He shoved his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep from showing his shock. How did she know those names? A week ago, he didn’t even know this strange, beautiful woman existed. He’d been first mate on the commerce raider, the St. Charles. Powerful Yankee noses were still bent out of shape over those involved in commerce raiding. “I’ve decided to swallow the anchor and seek a different livelihood.”
She took a step toward his portrait and then turned back to him. “I was very sorry to hear about Millie and little Freddie. Typhus is such a treacherous disease.”
Rage ripped through him so quickly he could barely control his temper. In a strained, soft voice, his men knew better than provoke, he said, “No one outside of a few trusted friends knew about Millie and our little boy.”
Fury, hurt and longing clawed at him. Millie and Freddie had been his most cherished secret—the tenderest part of his heart. In the world where he came from, the son of an earl did not marry his mistress. Millie had been a lovely blend of several races. When her mother passed, she’d been virtually enslaved by her madam.
He’d rescued her from that way of life and built them a home on a secluded Caribbean island. There, Millie and sweet little Freddie were safe from stupid comments and vile gossip. Safe from people like C.C.—the spoiled, lazy, self-centered society women who messed up their own lives and then went to work on others for entertainment.
Swallowing against the lump in his throat, and the threat of falling into the black hole of grief, he concealed his pain with a mask of anger.
She looked down at her hands, her face falling.
Was that remorse in her expression? Did the woman even possess such a thing?
Rubbing her temple, she sighed, “I’m terribly sorry for bringing up such a devastating loss. Please forgive me for my insensitive bluntness.”
He clenched his fists to keep a hold on his temper. If there were anything that could humble him, cut right to the most vulnerable part of his being, it was the pain and guilt he felt over Millie and Freddie’s deaths. He now knew why people called C.C. unbalanced. She trampled convention. The woman was everything unnerving, even frightening.
Suddenly all business, she said again, “My mother, uncle and his children are all I have left on my mother’s side of the family in America. They’ll die if something isn’t done. I wish to hire you to command a ship going to Wilmington, North Carolina.”
“I said I’m retired.”
“You have a reputation for the most experience and success of any captain to have run the Union blockade. To hire the best, I’m prepared to offer more than twice the going rate. A certain acquaintance of mine is a shipbuilder in Liverpool. His latest vessel is on its way to the Azores. Investors have a similar desire to bring urgently needed cargo through the blockade.”
Beau only partially heard the rest. A conversation he’d overheard in London came back to him. Pay had gone up since he’d been in prison. Captains running the blockade now made five thousand dollars a round trip. The zeros on the doubled amount seemed to float like champagne bubbles before his eyes. Good God, he could make a fortune.
An impossible thought took root in his mind and churned out quick calculations. Added to the amount he already had, he could start the shipbuilding company he’d always dreamed of but thought beyond his reach.
Skepticism cooled his excitement. He gripped his hands behind his back, strode to the gallery’s mullioned windows and gazed out. Five thousand was a lot of money, and she was doubling it to ten?
What hadn’t she told him? Something too good to be true usually isn’t. The vertical molding between the glass panes seemed to grow more pronounced, reminding him of prison bars. He shivered, pivoted and marched back in her direction.
Her expectant gaze fixed on his. The intensity of it sent him whirling back toward the windows again. Gazing at her made thinking impossible. Could he even trust her offer?
Women didn’t assemble dangerous voyages into war zones and make rich bargains. This had to be another cracked ruse to toy with him, make him twist on her string. Still, her vehemence and chilling knowledge about him made it crazy enough to be real.
He glowered at her over his shoulder. In the dim light she almost looked like a beautiful angel—an angel who tempted him with a devil’s pact. Getting caught running the blockade this time could mean his end. If he had the bad fortune to cross paths with Rives, the bastard guaranteed it. But if Beau made it safely, he’d have enough to design ships or not work another day of his life.
Turning, he strode up to her and studied her expression. All he could discern was earnest resolve. He clenched his jaw, thinking, weighing the alternatives. “I’ll only do it if I’m paid in gold, half in advance and half on completion. And I’ll be allotted plenty of space for my own cargo.”
“It’s done then. I’m prepared to leave for London within the hour. You’ll accompany me to my man of business for your six thousand and further instructions for our voyage.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not double the going rate—”
“Six is half of twelve. I’m offering seven thousand over market. Do we have a deal?”
Beau rocked back on his heels, amazed by the richness of her offer. Gold gleamed in his mind’s eye, muting the warnings screaming in his ear. “Yes, but…you’re coming too?”
“Do not mistake me, Captain Tollier. This is business and time is lives. Gather your things, the clock is ticking.”
Chapter 6 (#ulink_22370142-4588-5cf3-b4ac-585203eb7f53)
In less than an hour, Beau made his apologies to his brother and sister-in-law and descended the front steps of Grancliffe Hall. A gleaming midnight purple carriage awaited. In front of it stood four sleek black coach horses with purple plumes and silver-mounted harnesses. Two drivers dressed in black, silver and purple livery attended them. This was how C.C. traveled? Good Lord, royalty couldn’t boast finer cattle or equipage.
Force of habit had him counting items as footmen loaded trunks and valises onto a heavier, more utilitarian carriage behind.
Grudgingly, Beau found himself impressed. He’d not seen any woman pull herself together in barely an hour, much less with two carriages, eight horses, four drivers, eleven valises, seven hatboxes, nine trunks of varying sizes, three female servants and two footmen. Yet everything had been loaded in a matter of minutes with exacting precision.
If he could get past the way she’d pressured him into this journey, he might even admire her single-minded determination. Not only had she compelled him to do her bidding, she’d gotten all of her people, horses and possessions on the road faster than any commander he knew—and she’d managed to change clothes.
She now wore a severe yet handsome chin-to-toe purple traveling ensemble. Three bold feathers sprouted upward giving balance to a purple hat that clung jauntily to the side of her head. Everything matched…everything. “Let me guess,” he said. “Your favorite color is purple?”
One side of her lips quivered. “You are most observant, Captain.”
Yes, indeed. Miss Collins had an impressive logistical capability. Clearly she could manage without a man. Yet her kisses in the pleasure garden were not the stuff of a coldhearted spinster. The teasing, erratic woman in the library was very different from the hard-nosed negotiator in the long gallery.
He’d witnessed her scene with Falgate, listened to the warnings about her instability and knew he needed to get to the bottom of it. She’d offered him a lot of money to do something he’d sworn never to do again. If she was as unstable as they said, her ship may be a lunatic’s dream and her family in North Carolina now ghosts calling to her from their graves.
In any event, he considered himself a fairly good judge of character. He should have her sorted out by the time they reached London.
A footman helped C.C. into the carriage along with her lady’s maid. Beau followed and sat in the seat across from them. Last aboard were the three little dogs.
The first dog handed in wiggled and squirmed out of the footman’s arms and bounded onto Beau’s lap, wagging her tail furiously. “Oh, hallo! Whose pretty little girl are you?” he cooed to the toy poodle.
“Her name is Jossette,” C.C. said.
The dog put her paws on his chest. Her little tongue flicked out to beg for a kiss.
“Are you a coquette, Jossette?” He sank his fingers into the dog’s soft fur and gave her a scratch.
C.C. smiled. “You seem to have found a friend.”
“French women always like me.” Beau gave C.C. a roguish grin and raised the little poodle to let her lick his face. “Yes, I can tell you and I will be good friends.” He placed the dog on his lap, and allowed her to get comfortable.
Expecting the other two dogs to be as friendly, the second dog handed in surprised him by growling the moment he saw him.
C.C. picked up the cantankerous little beast and settled him on her lap.
The third dog scrambled onto the maid’s knee, refused to sit and watched Beau with bright, beady little eyes.
When Beau moved his hat on the seat next to him, C.C.’s little hound began barking.
“Hush, Plutarch.” C.C. gave the dog a scratch. “Don’t mind him, Captain, he’s a little blind in his left eye. Probably mistook your hat for a strange animal.”
Plutarch? Interesting. Quite a bluestocking name for a little yapper. The dog continued to growl while Beau looked him over. “How old is he?”
“Ten.”
“I haven’t seen an animal like him since Canton. An ancient breed, I was told. The Chinese are loath to let those dogs leave their country.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “Very good, Captain. No one seems to know what to make of him. Are you acquainted with Canton?”
“I spent a few years in the South China Sea with the Royal Navy.” Was it possible she didn’t know that about him? She seemed to know everything else. He couldn’t resist asking. “How does a Chinese Lion Dog end up named after a Greek philosopher?”
She regarded him for a moment before quietly answering, “At the time I was reading Plutarch’s Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores.”
Now that put a different light on things. So she was a bluestocking. If she read Latin well enough to understand Greek philosophers, it indicated a certain studiousness and level of education he would not have expected.
Maybe it was because his first impression persisted of her as a lovely, ardent shopgirl. He gazed at her soft lips and idly scratched Jossette’s ears. The memory of how C.C.’s mouth felt under his made him long for another taste.
He cleared his throat and smiled. “Latin? I used to be quite good at Latin. Let me see if I can remember how to translate.” He took a moment to get the words straight in his mind. “Which are Worse: Diseases of the Soul or of the Body? Did you come to any conclusion on such a weighty subject?”
C.C. pursed her lips as she studied his face. “Yes. I learned…we are an imperfect lot and sometimes good friends are the best cure. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she seemed to withdraw into herself.
Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t sit well. He was used to giving the orders and having his questions answered.
If she read the book ten years ago, that was about the time of her scandal and deep depression. “Sooo, did these good friends help with the melancholy?”
C.C.’s head jerked up. With a quick twitch of her eyes she shot a wary glance toward her maid and then back to him.
Ah, she didn’t want to talk in front of her maid. “And how about your friend—Sarah, was it? Could she also read Plutarch?”
She gave him a steady, questioning stare as she slowly scratched Plutarch’s ears. “Sarah did not read Latin. If she had, she might have avoided—” C.C.’s shoulders sagged and her gaze turned inward. A sheen of moisture added bleakness to her eyes. “She didn’t deserve what Falgate did.” Her words came out a whisper, and she quickly glanced out the window, as if something caught her attention.
Clearly, she grieved for Sarah. Thomas had said they were good friends and that Falgate had been implicated in Sarah’s death. It seemed a stretch to imagine C.C. had led the viscount on, but perhaps she saw an opportunity when he pursued her into the library, and exacted a measure of revenge.
“And what is this one?” Beau leaned toward dog number three on the maid’s knee and extended his hand for the dog to sniff.
The cur shot forward and bit him.
“Blast!” Beau yanked his hand away.
“Fosco! Down!” both C.C. and the maid chided together.
While the maid grabbed the snarling little bugger and held him tighter in her lap, C.C. continued her scold. “Fosco, you bad, bad boy! We do not bite our guests! I’m very sorry, Captain.” Her gaze dropped to the hand he was rubbing. “Oh, dear. Did he break the skin?” She set Plutarch on the seat next to her and scooted forward. May I see where he bit you?” She extended an ungloved hand over the legroom between the seats.
Beau eyed the dogs. He doubted either fur ball could jump that far for another bite. Still, he took his time before he laid his hand in her palm.
She closed her fingers around his.
He hissed in air through his teeth, as if it pained him.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Captain.” Concern filled her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch so gentle. No wonder her little hounds quieted right down when she ran her fingers through their fur. She slowly turned his hand over.
He made another little hissing sound.
Her gaze shot to his, and this time he allowed himself to fall into her beautiful, dark eyes.
“Did he bite you here?” She pointed to a slight redness on the top of his hand—the scrape caused by his trunk latch.
The dog had only nipped his finger, but Beau liked how her soft fingers smoothed over his skin. The sensation of her gentle prodding sent a tingle up his arm. His pulse jumped as well. He was enjoying this too much to give her any reason to stop.
“The top of your hand is a little red. It doesn’t look like he broke the skin,” she said, turning his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m so sorry for his bad behavior.”
Beau gazed about her face as she continued to gently rub her thumb over his hand. “Fosco would need sharper teeth to get through my tough hide.” He could see when it registered in her mind that the dog hadn’t really done any damage.
A nostril flared. “You are a scoundrel, Captain.” She dropped his hand, sat back rigidly against the seat, plopped Plutarch back on her lap and gazed out the window.
She obviously knew he’d taken advantage of the situation, but Beau was just getting warmed up. He glared at the cantankerous little mongrel on the maid’s lap.
The dog growled back.
“I say, he rather looks like a Lion Dog mix. How did that happen?”
C.C. gazed coolly at Beau. “He’s Plutarch’s moment of indiscretion with Lady Whiting’s saucy terrier.” Turning Plutarch around, she smoothed the fur out of his large black eyes and whispered, “You were a bad, bad boy, weren’t you? Lady Whiting no longer receives us because of you.”
“A clandestine mating? It is said dogs often resemble their owners.”
Her eyes widened, and made another twitch toward the maid.
He’d not intended to hint at her visit to his bed at Grancliffe, but sometimes his tongue worked things out on its own, surprising even him.
C.C.’s lips thinned. “My dogs are not like me!”
“I beg to differ.” He pointed to each dog in turn. “Kiss. Growl. Bite.”
A rush of pink colored her cheeks. “Really, Captain,” she huffed. “That is absurd!”
“Will we be taking the train back to London?” Beau asked cheerily, enjoying irritating her. She’d made him plenty uncomfortable with their bargain, and he was going to feel even worse if he found out she truly was a nutter.
“No, Captain,” she snipped. “Dogs aren’t welcome with passengers on the train, and I can’t bear the thought of them being caged in some stuffy cargo car.”
Ferrying her mongrels back and forth had to cost a small fortune. Obviously, money didn’t concern her, or she cared a great deal for her dogs. “Will you be bringing your lap warmers to North Carolina?”
She didn’t answer immediately while she fished around in her reticule. Withdrawing a small hand mirror, she tweaked one or two hair coils around her face and checked the stability of her hat. “I’ll miss them terribly, but I’m afraid it would be too arduous for them. We’ll drop everyone off in London to stay at Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse, Amelia’s…I mean, Lady Grancliffe’s mother.”
“And you don’t think it will be too arduous for you?” He frowned as he gazed about her exquisite carriage, beautiful traveling ensemble, and flawless coiffure. “War is being waged where we’re headed. Do you have any concept of what that means: the dangers you’ll face—the lack of conveniences? Things are not like they are here.”
Mirror still poised in the air, she shrugged and said simply, “I know.”
Well, he doubted she had any idea what she’d be up against, but far be it from him to tell her. He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, what’s on the itinerary?”
“If all goes well, we should be in London by tomorrow evening.”
Tomorrow evening. Beau settled back into the plush squabs and gazed about the carriage. It was so new he could smell the conditioning oils in the seat and door leather. Flecks of silver sparkled in the dark purple upholstery lining the ceiling and walls. Silver fringe adorned the windows. It was magnificent if one liked purple, violet or lavender.
The springs were so well balanced they floated over bumps in the road. At least the trip back to London should be more comfortable than the train. He might even take a nap. Hopefully the compensations of traveling with a wealthy woman would outweigh the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his gut.
Not more than a quarter hour later they passed the entrance to Rockford lands. He’d done quite well forgetting unwanted memories, but some remained as sharp and vibrant as if they’d happened yesterday.
Beau’s lips turn down in disgust. Never had there been a more besotted young fool. At fifteen he’d fancied himself a man in love and had been as randy as a rabbit. That summer Lady Rockford, four years his senior and married to a man twice her age, had made several very specific and beguiling overtures. Her invitation started with a picnic and ended in the master’s chambers.
At the time, Beau considered Lady R. the most comely of young women. He’d felt deep sympathy for her story that Lord Rockford only married her to keep up appearances. She’d been left to ‘rot’ at his elegant country home for a year while he attended the House of Lords in London.
She and Beau were twined together in the huge four-poster bed when Lord Rockford arrived home.
On seeing them, the incensed lord put all his weight into beating him. “You filthy little bastard. You’re no better than your mother. I’ll have you in jail for your efforts!”
Then he began shouting obscenities at Lady R., grabbed and slapped her.
“You hypocrite!” she screamed. “You claimed you loved me, but you have two mistresses in London! I’ve had you investigated. You keep them in fine style while you leave me on this desolate old farm. If you forsake me for another…two others, then I shall do the same!”
“The devil you will!” Rockford roared.
Belatedly, Beau realized he’d been the instrument to exact revenge on her husband.
Lord Rockford marched over, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the bedroom door and threw him from the room, naked as a newborn.
The next day, on a break from his studies at Grancliffe Hall, Beau happened to gaze out the window to see Lord Rockford stomping down the front steps. Shortly thereafter, he was summoned to the library. On the corner of his father’s desk sat Beau’s neatly folded clothes. The very ones he’d shed in Lord Rockford’s bedroom.
His father glowered at him and wordlessly stabbed a finger toward the pile of clothes. Profound disapproval wrinkled his face. Something flickered in his eyes that even then Beau recognized as the last straw. More disturbing still was the resignation on his face.
All summer Beau had been studying with Greek and Latin tutors to prepare him for Divinity studies. Several weeks later, he found himself a midshipman in the Royal Navy.
“Are you quite all right, Captain?” C.C. asked. “You look as though you’ve a touch of motion sickness.”
“I’d forgotten why it’s taken me so long to return to the family pile. It finally occurred to me—individuals continue to coerce me into leaving before I’d planned.”
Plutarch, the grouchy little cur, now sprawled on the seat between her and her maid. A small leather-bound journal lay in C.C.’s lap. Jewels sparkled on her purple fountain pen. She returned to jotting down words and numbers in purple ink.
Without looking up, she added, “We can stop, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air, if it would make you more comfortable.”
“I’ll be all right,” he growled. “I’ve suffered worse at sea.” He watched her long, slender fingers grasp the pen. Something didn’t look right.
“You’re a left-hander?”
Her writing arm jerked like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. Pink flared on her cheeks. She carefully capped her pen and slid it into her reticule. “My parents were not remiss in attempting to cure me of my disorder. I am proficient with both hands. Sitting as we are, it’s easier to write with my left.”
Cure her disorder? He’d heard some parents considered it such. Left-handedness, he’d been told, was inborn like blue-green eyes and blond hair. Clearly it still shamed her.
Beau shifted his gaze to the maid. C.C. had appeared concerned about discussing certain topics in front of her. Did she only keep information from this woman or was C.C. reserved with everyone? Like a ship’s captain, she certainly seemed to have command over her servants.
The memory of their expert loading of the carriages surfaced. Understanding finally struck. Somewhat a veteran of quick getaways himself, he realized their rapid departure couldn’t have been accomplished had C.C.’s attendants not already been packed and ready to go.
Dear God, the truth finally sank in. They’d all been waiting for her to corral him and strike a bargain. He’d been her objective all along. A chill crawled through him. While he’d been mesmerized by her beauty, seductive teasing and questions as to her sanity, she’d used more grit and audacity than a cold-eyed Caribbean pirate.
Their departure from Grancliffe Hall had been so rapid, he’d not had time to think or even ask questions. His stomach began to roll with tension. She’d said this was a mission to rescue her family. With the effective way in which she’d coerced an agreement from him, he doubted she’d reveal this voyage’s true purpose. Rich payoffs often included ulterior motives. And something about this journey didn’t smell right.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_19e5b0f9-2ef0-5817-9f38-1270de60555a)
C.C. breathed in the clean fragrance of beeswax and inwardly sighed as the innkeeper led them to their rooms. They’d finally made it halfway to London. She rubbed her aching temple. Sharing her new, well-appointed coach with the wily captain had been anything but comfortable.
The crafty-tongued rascal had presented a fine show of nonchalance, but clearly he felt threatened. All day he treaded the edges of propriety, alternately making her laugh and irritating her. Initially, she’d been embarrassed by her dog’s bad behavior. After the day she’d endured, she was now glad Fosco had the sense to bite him.
This could not go on. Somehow she had to find a middle ground. They’d a long journey ahead, and she suspected his annoying insinuations would escalate until he’d worked off some of his vexation.
“Will you join me for dinner, perhaps in half an hour?” she asked, right before the proprietor showed the captain to his room.
“Of course,” Beau said blandly.
She almost asked if he’d prefer a tray sent up. But they needed to build some sort of esprit de corps. It tired her to even think about parrying his sly verbal swordplay all the way to North Carolina.
Within half an hour she’d arranged for her servant’s meals, scraps for the dogs, a hasty cleanup and now sat at a quiet table in the corner of the dining room. Dark wood paneling, small vases of flowers and candlelight gave the room an ambiance made for intimate liaisons.
Even with the room’s warmth, a cold draft seemed to thread around her ankles. She’d never had an intimate meal with a man and certainly not at an inn. She peered around the half-filled room. Thank goodness no one looked familiar. A supper alone here with Captain Tollier would certainly set tongues wagging.
She clasped her hands in front of her, prayer-like. Perhaps a prayer or two might help. A possibility still existed that he might refuse to take her through the blockade. Hopefully, a supper alone would allow them more freedom to talk. Given his sly remarks today, the very thought of a private conversation with him sent butterflies flitting around her growling stomach.
By the time he entered the dining room her knuckles had turned white. He’d changed his shirt and raked his hair into place with what appeared to be fingers and water. Her jaw went slack. Few men could wear disheveled with so much appeal.
“Good evening, Captain,” she finally managed. “Please join me. I trust you found everything you needed in your room.”
“Yes, thank you.” He made an abbreviated bow and sat.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Since they’d arrived at the inn his mood had made a radical change from banter and barbs to taciturn contemplation.
After ordering, C.C. searched for an innocuous subject of conversation. The butterflies now seemed to have grown mallets for wings. “Did you ride much as a child?” She picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it into her glass of water, then tasted the mixture.
The captain’s long brows drew into mismatched furrows. He sipped his ale, slowly washed it around his mouth and licked the foam from his lips. Without preamble, he drawled, “What did you do that was so unforgivable they exiled you from New York City?”
Water caught in her throat and she nearly choked. “You don’t shy away from sensitive subjects, do you, Captain?” She coughed.
“I am merely following your lead of this morning. It’s been on the tip of my tongue all day. I gathered you might not want your maid overhearing. Since you seem to know so much about me, it would only be fair I know something of you.”
Pulling her kerchief from the wrist of her sleeve, she dabbed her lips. “And you go straight to the most disagreeable, darkest part. Must we start with such uncivil questions?”
“My apologies,” he said, although he didn’t look or sound all that apologetic. He ran his finger around the rim of his tankard. “I presume you did something more than dash down Broadway at high noon in nothing but your bonnet.”
Before she could jam her kerchief to her lips, a startled squeak escaped. She quickly glanced around the room. “I’m not proud of my actions at that time and never discuss them.”
One side of his mouth quirked; an evil twinkle flashed. “Never?”
She clenched her teeth to keep from laughing. The man’s shocking, devilish way of asking questions tickled when it should have stung.
He leaned forward, his voice ironic. “Do you think I’m in any position to judge you?”
She drew in an uneasy breath. He spoke the truth. As painful and embarrassing as her mistakes had been, from what she knew of Captain Tollier and his lengthy résumé of misconduct, her list of folly might not give him even a twitch of discomfort.
He leaned back placidly, awaiting her answer.
For ten years she’d kept those secrets locked away. She didn’t need to tell him. It probably wasn’t even wise. Staying in her old room at Grancliffe reminded her how long it had been. One-third of her life had passed since. But if revealing one or two misdeeds would establish some common ground with him and help her family, then so be it.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Clearly her mind and body disagreed. “Let’s discuss something else. It’s old history and not pertinent to the voyage ahead of us.”
He leaned in, his jaw hardening. “I disagree. It is highly relevant to our journey.” His voice took on a tone of implacable determination, and his bright aqua-blue eyes intensified like they had in the long gallery. She had no doubt he’d used similar intimidation on stubborn crewmembers to great effect.
Though he’d not said it aloud, the implication was clear. If she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he might not take her through the blockade. Time was running out. If he backed out now she didn’t know what she’d do.
Her butterflies flew into a hammering frenzy.
She took a big gulp of water, gazed at her kerchief and began working it into knots. “At nineteen I was one of the most sought-after debutantes in New York City. She cut a quick glance his direction. “I was also a very spoiled, privileged only child, and extremely sheltered from the ways of the world. Back then I had an unrealistic optimism and naïveté that I could have anything I wanted. My blunders ruined my reputation and that of my parents.”
The knotted kerchief bit into her hand. Untying it, she checked his expression. The captain had eased back into his chair, but his jaw hadn’t softened. The slight pursing of his lips and intense gaze indicated he was waiting for her to continue.
She took another big gulp of water. “In those days I was the perfect hostess and lady. My mother was a stickler for propriety and respectability, you see. When gentlemen called, I made polite conversation, tried to put them at ease, patiently listened to them, and always took great pains to gently send them on their way. There were plenty of gold diggers to be sure, but my parents were a little surprised when I stubbornly refused to consider any of the decent, eligible, constant young men who begged my attention.”
The captain shifted in his seat and raised the tankard to eye her over its rim. His gaze became an even more intense blue, compelling her to explain, “Making a spectacular match is the goal of any well brought up young lady.”
“Of course.”
“It may sound boastful, but back then I could have had first pick of any one of the best young men. Instead, I became embroiled in a very public…love triangle.” Her disgust at the memory and what she’d admitted made her want to crawl under the table.
“Did the gentlemen kill each other?” he asked blandly.
Her stays bit into her sides as she squelched a laugh. “Nooo,” she whispered. “He chose the other woman.” Her tense throat muscles strained against attempts to pull in air. When finally able to breathe again, she searched the captain’s face. His expression had turned to polite, courteous indifference, tending toward boredom.
“Did you kill her?” he asked, deadpan.
The question so surprised her, a high titter escaped before she could clap a hand over her mouth. While she struggled to curb her laughter, he studied her.
“You killed him?”
His question, delivered with such casualness, brought forth an even louder peal. Such ridiculousness seemed to pry open a small door. Years of pent-up secrets and lonely regrets bubbled toward the exit and fought her attempts to curb her amusement. The sudden loss of control nearly sent her off her chair into a heap of hysterics on the dining room floor. She hugged her middle with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. Even so, with each forward rock, mirth escaped through her nose.
A few diners in the nearly empty room looked up from their meals and began to stare.
Captain Tollier tipped his tankard to his mouth and gazed at her with dispassionate calm.
She took another big gulp of water to squelch the giggles. “No, Captain, I did not kill him either.”
He looked skeptical, but a gleam formed in his eye. “There was blood, though, lots of blood?”
She bit a knuckle.
Tsking, he whispered, “No blood at all?”
“I did not say that.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Now tell me the particulars.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did you use your fists, a knife or a gun?”
She shook her head. The inner wounds had healed, but as she’d suspected, discussing how they got there threatened their reopening. “Have you ever been in a raging hurricane, and the only thing you could do was find a way to outlast it. More than anything, I now regret how my naïve, ignorant actions harmed more than myself.”
His aqua-blue gaze deepened to cobalt. “Are you still in love with him?”
She stifled a groan. “Dear me. It’s been ten years. I’ve no idea what’s become of him. By now he’s probably fat and bald, with a chronic case of gout and a passel of brats.”
The captain sat in silence, appearing to mull things over. His teeth worked back and forth over one side of his lower lip. “I’m of a mind we can’t choose the ones we love. As cruel as it feels, I think they are put in our path to lay raw the parts of ourselves that could not be changed or understood any other way.”
“Why, Captain Tollier, I did not realize you were such a sanguine philosopher.”
A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “You seem surprised. If things had gone as otherwise planned, you might have been sitting here confessing to a man of the cloth. Fortunately, I was forced down a path more suited to my…talents.”
***
Once they’d finished their meal, Beau followed C.C. up the staircase, still thinking about her admission. Doubtless, she’d struggled through the condensed version of a much longer story. Her difficulty discussing her scandal said pain and remorse had buried the details deep. Secrets locked inside for so long tended to rust in place. Sometimes they had to be chipped away bit by bit. Still, her description of events, though scandalous, didn’t sound as bad as he might have expected, and they hardly justified exile. There had to be more to the tale. What wasn’t she telling him?
He fully believed she’d been the leading debutante in New York and could have chosen any of the best young men. Even acting a nutter, men continued to pursue her. So why did she waste her time in a love triangle with another woman over the same man?
For her lapse in judgment, she not only didn’t get the man she wanted, she’d also been shipped off to rusticate in another country. Such drastic measures often came with an untimely pregnancy. While his brother advised him against getting mixed up with C.C., he’d not even hinted she’d been with child. Could this have been another delicate situation his family concealed?
When they reached the second floor, the words slipped out. “Did he get you with child?”
C.C. gasped and quickly peered around the empty corridor. “Of course not!” she hissed. “That is the most brazen question anyone has ever asked!”
“Maybe so, but somehow you know of my mistress, my son…and their deaths. Shouldn’t I be equally well informed about you?”
“So you retaliate with insult, Captain?”
“More along the lines of establishing a baseline of knowledge about one another.” C.C. probably didn’t know how lucky she’d been. Her lover’s lack of fecundity prevented even more despair. Clearly the scandal still hurt and humiliated. But admitting she regretted deeds that devastated her life and that of others had moved him. It took real courage to own up to one’s mistakes. He knew well that familiar territory.
No wonder she kept most men at a distance. He’d be willing to bet the man in her love triangle had pursued her until she’d finally weakened. Beau had known men who’d made sport of making certain unattainable women fall in love with them.
They used them badly and then boasted of their conquest while tossing them aside. For some reason, knowing of her internal scars gave her external perfection more dimension. Life’s knocks had forged a hard center, and he was curious to know how many more layers lay between.
Tenderness wound through his heart. Admiration for C.C. had taken root in the oddest of places. Places he’d never considered romantic or even desirable between a man and woman. Yet at this moment, he felt a kinship. Like him, she’d endured disastrous, life-changing blunders and mustered the strength to admit her remorse.
Upon reaching her door, Beau leaned in for a kiss.
C.C. straightened abruptly. “Good night, Captain.” The curt note in her voice and unyielding body language reined in his amorous advance.
Somewhat crestfallen, he made a slight bow. “Good night, madam.”
While unlocking his door, an unmistakable chill strafed Beau’s shoulders. Peering behind him, a rather nondescript fellow climbed the stairs. It was the man from the supper room who’d been scribbling in a journal over dinner. On reaching the top step, the bloke abruptly turned the opposite direction down the hall.
Though the man had given him no real reason, years of keeping track of his surroundings stamped his visage into Beau’s memory. There was something very Pinkerton about the fellow. The Union hired such men to spy on the Confederacy. Known Yankee sympathizers had set up shop in Liverpool with a goal to stop shipments flowing into the south.
The idea of someone trailing him to this outside of nowhere seemed ludicrous. But prison had taught him spies were very real and quite like dung on a shoe. Even though you thought you’d scraped them off, their stench continued to follow you around.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_0f4e4a06-d9f3-55e1-b867-a6c96ca11d0d)
They arrived late the next evening at C.C.’s aunt’s London townhome. By now, Beau couldn’t wait to make enquiries. Their bargain was either a windfall or a disaster and he was determined to discover which.
The following morning, he went directly to a popular coffee house frequented by mariners. Scanning the room, he saw a familiar face. The long wall mirror reflected a tall top hat, dark hair and beard. At the other end of the bar sat his old friend, Captain Glyncarn, reading a paper.
Beau ordered coffee and strolled over. Sliding onto the stool next to his friend, he muttered, “I might have pictured you many places, but not in a London coffee house.”
Glyncarn set down his paper. “Now this is a pleasant surprise!” He grabbed Beau’s hand and shook it soundly. “How are you, me boy!” A black patch covered one eye. His other dark eye crinkled into a smile.
Beau blew on his hot coffee and grinned. “Still up to no good. How long will you be in London?”
Glyncarn’s laughter rumbled deep and jolly. “I’m taking each day as it comes. And you?”
“I might be here another day or two. I see you’re still reading the Index. Anything in it I should know?”
“Same old Confederate propaganda. The queen has declared the United Kingdom neutral in the war across the pond, but I’m with the folks here, the South has my sympathies. Unlike those rabble-rousers in the North, the South’s way of life is more genteel, like England’s. Plus, our upper and middle classes have family and business ties over there. But enough of that. What are you up to?”
“I’ve an opportunity to command a ship to one of my favorite spots.”
Glyncarn stroked his beard, his expression thoughtful. “Your little vacation at Old Capitol Prison didn’t spoil your appetite for playing fox?”
“You heard?”
“Aye. Rough patch of luck, that. Thought you might have swallowed the anchor and found another game.”
“The money they’re offering should make it more palatable.”
“It’s good to see someone’s got their spirit back.” Glyncarn grinned.
“Are you looking for a command?” Beau asked.
“Might be. If the money’s right.”
Beau lowered his voice. “What kind of money would make it right for Nassau to Wilmington?”
Glyncarn gave the hairs under his chin a vigorous scratch before responding. “Last I heard, a run there and back could make a captain five thousand in gold. But I’m through with that business.”
So C.C. was offering Beau more than the going rate to command a ship into Wilmington. Still, he’d vowed in prison to find a safer way to make a living. “You know of something better?”
“Ain’t nothin’ better, if it’s only money we’re speakin’ of,” Glyncarn growled. “Now, if it’s life and liberty, there are better places to ply your trade. Had a brush with the Yankee lads sitting off the Carolinas myself. Right surly bunch, they were. The thieves made my ship their prize. They took the cargo, ship, personal belongings, everything—claimed we were aiding the enemy. Held me for a couple of weeks until they decided my English citizenship papers were real.
“Captain Mclean and his ship weren’t so lucky. As he made for New Inlet, the Union gunboat Stampede cornered him. Fired solid shot and shrapnel. Killed Mclean where he stood. Some of it pierced the hull and set the engine and cargo afire. The inferno sent Mclean’s ship and a quarter of its crew to a watery grave.”
Glyncarn shook his head. Loathing sparked in his eye. “I don’t have the stomach for those kinds of games anymore. Too old. No amount of money would get me back in those waters.”
Beau could hardly believe the story. Not Mclean. He’d been a good friend, one of the best. No captain was more skilled or fearless. They’d both been officers in the Royal Navy and served together on the commerce raider, the St. Charles. Eventually they’d obtained commands on blockade-runners.
As he sipped his coffee, a vivid memory of the Roundabout’s capture came rushing back. Hate boiled in his gullet. He knew the Stampede well. Never would he forget the feel of cold steel jammed into his ear when Commander Rives hissed, “Swear you gave the command to fire on my vessel and your men will go free.” Twisted glee glinted in his eyes as he stood nearly nose-to-nose, his neatly trimmed beard and strangely prepossessing features pulled into a jackal’s grin.
The guards wrenched Beau’s arms up his back for the appropriate response, but he’d managed to wheeze, “We did not fire on your ship. Your shell hit part of our cargo and blew it back onto your vessel.”
Rives nodded to his guards who then beat Beau until he was nearly senseless. Afterwards, the commander shoved the gun into Beau’s mouth and cocked the hammer. His aquiline nose flared as he sneered and spewed spittle into Beau’s face. “You are a coward, a criminal and too arrogant to comprehend your incompetence. Swear or I’ll pull this trigger and hang your crew for piracy!”
So Beau confessed to Rives’s lie and saved his men.
Prison had been a series of dark and darker hells. When they finally released him, he’d a bagful of plaguey battle demons. Now when a memory of any of it crept in, he’d flex his fingers and imagine them locked around Rives’s throat.
Drawn back by Glyncarn slurping his coffee, Beau peered around the coffee house. “Is it my imagination, or is London crawling with spies?”
Glyncarn turned his head to follow his gaze.
At a small table in the corner, a fellow sat scribbling in a journal while pretending to read a paper. Even though the lighting had been dim at the inn, Beau recognized his face.
“No imagination, my friend,” Glyncarn said. “Plenty of Confederate sympathizers this side of the pond, lots of Union eyes too. Investors clamor to make money on both sides of the war.”
Beau slid off his stool. As he walked through the coffee house, he veered toward the man, strolled up to his little table, and looked him square in the face. “Weren’t you at the King’s Inn, night before last?”
The man squirmed and feigned confusion. “I don’t think—”
“I see you’re reading the London Parliamentary Review.” Beau reached down and slid the paper to the side revealing the London American, a pro-Yankee journal the man had hidden underneath. “Ah yes, keeping up with your fellow Yanks.” He tipped his hat. “Say hello to them for me, will you?”
As Beau turned to walk back to Glyncarn he heard the man mutter, “Swaggering villain.”
***
Beau strode into Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse under full steam. His little trip to the coffee house had answered more than a few questions and had helped make up his mind. “Jenkins, be a good man. Please arrange for a carriage. I’ll need it in fifteen minutes.”
“With pleasure, Captain,” the butler sniffed.
Beau marched up the stairs to his room and started throwing clothes into his trunk. Enough of this tomfoolery. The man he’d been had died when Rives forced him to surrender the Roundabout. It was a miracle he’d survived and still had all his limbs intact. Though tempting, the money C.C. offered would never be enough. Glyncarn spoke the truth. Life and freedom were far more valuable.
Death had stalked Beau too many times. His near miss with the gallows convinced him he’d used up all his good luck. Captain Mclean had been a better man than he—a man in his prime. His death made a sobering, cautionary tale.
For a short time Beau had the warmth and love of a family of his own. Millie and Freddie had given him so much joy. He’d been in prison when they needed him most. That guilt would haunt him till the end of his days.
Events over the last year had sated his urge for adventure, made him reconsider his life. There were safer, more stable ways to make a living. It was high time he stopped taking for granted the privileged world he’d been born into and the good family he still had.
Thomas had gotten him out of prison, hadn’t he? He should be with them right now, not charging back into a war across the pond. He didn’t need C.C.’s money. If he required more capital to build ships, he’d find his own investors.
Beau locked the trunk’s lid into place, fastened the straps, heaved it over his shoulder and quickly descended the stairs.
Jenkins stood in the vestibule at the ready.
“Please give Miss Collins my regrets.”
“You can give them to her yourself, Captain.” Her sultry voice echoed down the hallway.
C.C.’s vanilla and honeysuckle scent wafted over him, igniting memories of her coming to his bed in Grancliffe Hall. He dragged in the fragrance and turned. “I thank you for your hospitality, madam, but I’ve changed my mind and have a train to catch.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/victoria-hanlen/the-trouble-with-misbehaving/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.