The Lady's Command
Stephanie Laurens
How does marriage work? If convention is set aside and is no longer there to guide…what then?Stephanie Laurens, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the beloved Cynster novels, brings you THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET, a riveting blend of Regency-era high seas adventure, a mystery shrouded in the heat of tropical jungles, and the passionate romances of four couples and their unexpected journeys into love.The instant Captain Declan Frobisher laid eyes on Lady Edwina Delbraith, he knew she was the lady he wanted as his wife. The scion of a seafaring dynasty accustomed to success, he discovered that wooing Edwina was surprisingly straightforward—not least because she made it plain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.Declan’s vision of marriage was of a gently-reared wife to grace his arm, to manage his household, and to bear his children. He assumed that household, children, and wife would remain safely in England while he continued his life as an explorer sailing the high seas.Declan got his wish—up to a point. He and Edwina were wed. As for the rest—his vision of marriage…Aunt of the young Duke of Ridgware and sister of the mysterious man known as Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king, even before the knot was tied Edwina shattered the illusion that her character is as delicate, ethereal, and fragile as her appearance suggests. Far from adhering to orthodox mores, she and her ducal family are even more unconventional than the Frobishers.Beneath her fairy-princess exterior, Edwina possesses a spine of steel—one that might bend, but will never break. Born to the purple—born to rule—she’s determined to rule her life. With Declan’s ring on her finger, that means forging a marriage that meets her needs as well as his.But bare weeks into their honeymoon, Declan is required to sail to West Africa. Edwina decides she must accompany him.A secret mission with unknown villains flings unexpected dangers into their path as Declan and Edwina discover that meeting the challenge of making an unconventional marriage work requires something they both possess—bold and adventurous hearts.The first voyage is one of exploration, the second one of discovery. The third journey brings maturity, while the fourth is a voyage of second chances.Start the journey here and follow the adventure, the mystery, and the romances to the cataclysmic end.Praise for the works of Stephanie Laurens“Stephanie Laurens’ heroines are marvelous tributes to Georgette Heyer: feisty and strong.” Cathy Kelly“Stephanie Laurens never fails to entertain and charm her readers with vibrant plots, snappy dialogue, and unforgettable characters.” Historical Romance Reviews.“Stephanie Laurens plays into readers’ fantasies like a master and claims their hearts time and again.” Romantic Times Magazine
INTERIOR ARTWORK
IS LOCATED
BETWEEN CHAPTER 5 AND CHAPTER 6
and also can be accessed via the TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Lady’s Command
The Adventurers Quartet: Volume 1
Stephanie Laurens
ISBN: 978-1-474-03708-2
THE LADY’S COMMAND (THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET: VOLUME 1)
© 2015 Stephanie Laurens
Published in Great Britain 2015
by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Cover design by Savdek Management Pty. Ltd.
Cover and inside front couple photography and photographic composition © 2015 Period Images
Image of galleon stairs: photographic credit to Aleksandrs Tihonovs
The name Stephanie Laurens is a registered trademark of Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd.
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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How does marriage work? If convention is set aside and is no longer there to guide…what then?
#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens brings you THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET, a riveting blend of Regency-era high seas adventure, a mystery shrouded in the heat of tropical jungles, and the passionate romances of four couples and their unexpected journeys into love.
The instant Captain Declan Frobisher laid eyes on Lady Edwina Delbraith, he knew she was the lady he wanted as his wife. The scion of a seafaring dynasty accustomed to success, he discovered that wooing Edwina was surprisingly straightforward—not least because she made it plain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Declan’s vision of marriage was of a gently-reared wife to grace his arm, to manage his household, and to bear his children. He assumed that household, children, and wife would remain safely in England while he continued his life as an explorer sailing the high seas.
Declan got his wish—up to a point. He and Edwina were wed. As for the rest—his vision of marriage…
Aunt of the young Duke of Ridgware and sister of the mysterious man known as Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king, even before the knot was tied Edwina shattered the illusion that her character is as delicate, ethereal, and fragile as her appearance suggests. Far from adhering to orthodox mores, she and her ducal family are even more unconventional than the Frobishers.
Beneath her fairy-princess exterior, Edwina possesses a spine of steel—one that might bend, but will never break. Born to the purple—born to rule—she’s determined to rule her life. With Declan’s ring on her finger, that means forging a marriage that meets her needs as well as his.
But bare weeks into their honeymoon, Declan is required to sail to West Africa. Edwina decides she must accompany him.
A secret mission with unknown villains flings unexpected dangers into their path as Declan and Edwina discover that meeting the challenge of making an unconventional marriage work requires something they both possess—bold and adventurous hearts.
The first voyage is one of exploration, the second one of discovery. The third journey brings maturity, while the fourth is a voyage of second chances.
Start the journey here and follow the adventure, the mystery, and the romances to the cataclysmic end.
Praise for the works of Stephanie Laurens (#litres_trial_promo)
“Stephanie Laurens’ heroines are marvelous tributes to Georgette Heyer: feisty and strong.” Cathy Kelly
“Stephanie Laurens never fails to entertain and charm her readers with vibrant plots, snappy dialogue, and unforgettable characters.” Historical Romance Reviews
“Stephanie Laurens plays into readers’ fantasies like a master and claims their hearts time and again.” Romantic Times Magazine
The Lady’s
Command
Stephanie Laurens
CAST OF CHARACTERS (#litres_trial_promo)
Principal Characters:
Frobisher, Declan – Hero Frobisher, Lady Edwina – Heroine
In London:
Staff:
Humphrey – butler King, Mrs. – housekeeper Cook – cook Wilmot – lady’s maid
Family:
Delbraith, Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Ridgware – Edwina’s mother Delbraith, Lord Julian, aka Neville Roscoe – Edwina’s older brother and London’s gambling king Delbraith, Lady, Miranda – Julian’s wife Catervale, Lady Millicent – Edwina’s oldest sister Catervale, Lord – Millicent’s husband Elsbury, Lady Cassandra – Edwina’s sister Elsbury, Lord – Cassandra’s husband Crawford, Anthea – Lucasta’s companion, a distant cousin
Society:
Montgomery, Lady – ton hostess Mitchell, Lady Cerise – ton lady Fitzwilliam, Mr. – gentleman of the ton Holland, Lady – major ton hostess Marchmain, Lady – ton grande dame Minchingham, Lady – ton hostess Forsythe, Lady – ton hostess Comerford, Lady – ton hostess
Government:
Wolverstone, Duke of, aka Dalziel – ex-commander of British secret operatives outside England Wolverstone, Duchess of, Minerva – Wolverstone’s wife Melville, Viscount – First Lord of the Admiralty
In Aberdeen:
Frobisher, Fergus – Declan’s father Frobisher, Elaine – Declan’s mother Frobisher, Royd (Murgatroyd) – eldest Frobisher brother
At sea:
Frobisher, Robert – second oldest Frobisher brother Frobisher, Caleb – youngest of four Frobisher brothers Frobisher, Catrina (Kit) – female cousin Frobisher, Lachlan – male cousin
In Freetown:
Dixon, Captain – army engineer, missing Hopkins, Lieutenant – navy, West Africa Squadron, missing Fanshawe, Lieutenant – navy, West Africa Squadron, missing Hillsythe – ex-Wolverstone agent, governor’s aide, missing Holbrook, Governor – Governor-in-Chief of British West Africa Holbrook, Lady, Letitia – Governor’s wife Satterly, Mr. – Governor’s principal aide Eldridge, Major – Commander, Fort Thornton Decker, Vice-Admiral – Commander, West Africa Squadron, currently at sea Richards, Captain – army, Fort Thornton Wallace – house agent in Freetown Hardwicke, Mrs. Mona – minister’s wife Hardwicke, Mr. – Anglican minister Sherbrook, Mrs. – local lady Quinn, Mrs. – local lady Robey, Mrs. – local lady Hitchcock, Mrs. – local lady Winton, Major – Commissar of Fort Thornton Winton, Mrs. – wife of Major Winton Babington, Charles – partner, Macauley & Babington Trading Company Macauley, Mr. – senior partner, Macauley & Babington Trading Company Macauley, Mrs. Genevieve – wife of Macauley Undoto, Obo – local priest Sampson – old sailor Lashoria – vodun priestess
On board The Cormorant:
Caldwell, Mr. Joshua – First Mate Johnson, Mr. – Master Grimsby – Bosun Elliot – Quartermaster Henry, Mr. – Steward Dench – experienced sailor Carruthers – experienced sailor Billings – experienced sailor Higgins – sailor Upshaw – sailor Martin – sailor Ginger – cabin boy Cam – cabin boy
CHAPTER 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
April 1824
London
Marrying the lady of his dreams had proved surprisingly easy. Forging the marriage of his dreams… That, apparently, was an entirely different challenge.
Declan Fergus Frobisher stood alongside Lady Edwina Frobisher née Delbraith—his new wife—and let the cacophony generated by the tonnish crowd gathered in Lady Montgomery’s drawing room wash over him. The chattering was incessant, like a flock of seagulls squawking, yet such exchanges were the sole purpose of a soirée. In a many-hued kaleidoscope of fine silks and satins, of darker-hued superfines and black evening coats, the crème de la crème of the haut ton drifted and shifted from one circle to the next in a constantly rearranging tapestry. The large room was illuminated by several chandeliers; light glinted on artfully twisted curls and pomaded locks and in the facets of myriad jewels adorning the throats, earlobes, and wrists of the many ladies attending.
One heavily burdened lady swept up in a dazzle of diamonds. “Edwina, my dear!” The lady pressed fingers and touched cheeks with Declan’s beloved, who greeted the newcomer with her customary sunny charm, yet the lady’s gaze had already shifted to him, traveling down and then up his long length. Then she directed a smile—a distinctly predatory smile—at him. “You must—simply must—introduce me to your husband.” The lady’s tone had lowered to a feminine purr.
Declan glanced at Edwina; he wondered how she would react to the lady’s transparent intent.
His wife didn’t disappoint; she smiled delightedly—the very picture of a cat who had savored an entire bowlful of cream and expected to indulge further shortly. Her expression radiated supreme confidence; the sight made him inwardly grin. As if sensing his amusement, she cast him a glance from her fine blue eyes and with an airy wave stated, “Lady Cerise Mitchell, my husband, Declan Frobisher.”
Hearing the subtle yet distinctly possessive emphasis she had placed on the words “my husband,” with his lips curving in a polite smile, he took the hand Lady Cerise extended and bowed. She murmured a seductive “Enchanté,” but he’d already lost interest in her. Although he devoted a small part of his mind and his awareness to the parade of people who came up to converse, to answering their questions and deflecting any he considered too prying, interacting with them wasn’t why he was there.
On Edwina’s other side stood her mother, Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Ridgware, a handsome, haughty lady of arrogantly noble mien. Beyond the dowager stood Edwina’s sister, Lady Cassandra Elsbury, a pleasant young matron a few years older than Edwina. The rest of their circle was comprised of several bright-eyed ladies and intrigued gentlemen, all eager to claim acquaintance with the ducal ladies and, even more importantly, to learn more of the unknown-to-them gentleman who had captured the hand of one of the haut ton’s prizes. Declan did his best to meet their expectations by cultivating a mysterious air.
In reality, there was little mystery as to who he was. His family was ancient—the Frobishers had fought alongside Raleigh in Elizabeth’s time. They were well-born, with an unassailable entrée to the highest echelons based on their venerable lineage alone, yet from centuries past, the Frobishers had elected to follow their own esoteric, not to say eccentric, path, habitually eschewing even the fringes of the ton. While Raleigh had fought for personal glory first, Crown second, the Frobishers entered battles reluctantly and only at the Crown’s command. They were a seafaring dynasty, and battles cost lives and ships; they fought only when they needed to, which was only when they were needed.
They’d been at Trafalgar, but not under Nelson’s command. Instead, the Frobisher fleet had ensured none of the French fled north to regroup. Declan’s father and his uncles had used their swift ships to good effect, crippling and capturing many French frigates.
Consequently, among the ton, the Frobisher name was well known, easily placed. The mystery, such as it was, had always lain in who the current family members were and in what the family actually did. The manner in which they derived their fortune and the size of that fortune. The Frobishers had never had much interest in land, and what acres they held lay far to the north, close by Aberdeen—a very long way from London. The family’s assets were largely floating, which, for the ton, raised the conundrum of whether the otherwise acceptable family had descended into trade. The ton lauded those who lived off their acres, but had difficulty equating acres with ships.
In addition, many of those present had heard whispers, if not outright rumors, about the family’s more recent exploits. Most of those rumors—of explorations into the wilds and hugely profitable deals concerned with shipping—had their genesis in truth. If anything, the truth was even more outlandish than any tonnish speculation.
Of course, in society, unsubstantiated rumors only generated more interest. That interest—that barely veiled curiosity—shone brightly in the eyes of many of Lady Montgomery’s guests.
“I say, Frobisher,” a Mr. Fitzwilliam drawled. “I heard that one of your family recently talked the American colonists into accepting some new trade treaty. What was that about, heh? Was that you?”
That had been Robert, one of Declan’s two older brothers and the most diplomatically inclined. The treaty Robert had sailed from Georgia with would make the family even more wealthy and also contribute significantly to the Crown’s coffers.
But Declan only smiled and said, “That wasn’t me.” When Fitzwilliam showed signs of persevering, he added, “I haven’t heard that rumor.”
Why would he listen to rumors when he knew the facts?
He had no intention of gratifying anyone by explaining his family’s business. His entire interest in the evening—the sole reason he was there—was encompassed by the lady standing, scintillating and effervescent, by his side.
She affected his senses like a lodestone, gleaming like a diamond, sparkling and alluring—intrinsically fascinating. From the topmost golden curl to the tips of her dainty feet, she commanded and captivated his awareness. In part, that was a physical response—what red-blooded man could resist the appeal inherent in a tumble of pale blond ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, in bright blue eyes, large and well set beneath finely arched brown brows and lushly fringed by long brown lashes, in a peaches-and-cream complexion unmarred by any blemish beyond a row of freckles dusted across the bridge of her small nose, and in lips full and rosy that just begged to be kissed? Yet on top of that, those lips were mobile, usually upturned in a smile, her expression fluid, reflecting her moods, her thoughts, her interest, while her brilliantly alive, vibrantly blue eyes were a gateway to a keenly intelligent mind.
Add to that a petite figure that was the epitome of the notion of a pocket Venus, and it was hardly surprising that no other being could so easily fix his attention. She was a prize worth coveting; from his very first sight of her, she’d called to him—to the acquisitive adventurer at the core of his soul.
They’d been married for just over three weeks. A year before, having sailed from New York into London and having a month to wait before his next voyage, he’d surrendered to ennui and the entreaty of old friends and had accompanied the latter to a ton ball. Throughout the round-trip to New York, he’d been conscious of a needling, pricking restlessness of a sort he hadn’t previously experienced; entirely unexpectedly, his thoughts had turned to the comfort of home and hearth, to family.
To marriage.
To a wife.
The instant he’d laid eyes on Edwina at that very first ball last year, he’d known who his wife would be. With typical single-mindedness, he’d set about securing her, the sometimes-haughty daughter of a ducal house; at twenty-two, having been out for three years, she’d already gained a reputation for being no man’s easy mark.
They’d struck sparks from the first touch of their fingers, from the first moment their gazes collided. Wooing Edwina had been blessedly easy. Several months later, he’d applied for her hand and been accepted.
In his mind, all had been progressing smoothly toward the comfortable, conventional marriage he had—in those few minutes he’d spent thinking of it—assumed their union would be.
Then, three months before the wedding, Lucasta and Edwina had braved the winter snows to visit his family at their manor house outside Banchory-Devenick. When he’d learned the purpose of that visit, he’d initially assumed it had been Lucasta’s idea. Later, he’d discovered it was Edwina who had insisted that the Frobishers needed to be informed before the wedding, rather than after, of the secret her family had been hiding for more than a decade.
Utterly intrigued, he, his parents, and his three brothers had sat in the comfort of the large family parlor and listened as Lucasta had explained. Learning that her elder son, the eighth duke, had taken his own life because of mountainous debts, and that her second son, Lord Julian Delbraith, wasn’t missing, presumed dead, as all of society assumed, but instead was masquerading in plain sight as Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king, had definitely been a surprise.
Not, as Edwina had clearly anticipated, a shocking surprise, but an infinitely intriguing and attractive one.
The possibilities every one of the Frobishers had immediately seen in the prospect of being connected with a man of Roscoe’s caliber—his power, authority, and assets—had elevated their estimation of Declan’s marriage from very good to unbelievably excellent.
Later, in private, his father, Fergus, had clapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Gads, boy—you couldn’t have done better! A personal link to Neville Roscoe… Well, no one knew such a thing was there to be had! Such a connection will only make this family all the stronger.”
Fergus, Declan’s mother, Elaine, and his brothers had welcomed the match from the first, but that wholly unanticipated ramification had been the crowning glory.
In the days following the wedding, a large event held at the local church on the ducal estate in Staffordshire—days he, Edwina, and his family had spent at Ridgware with her immediate family—he, his father, and his brothers had had a chance to meet with the elusive Lord Julian Delbraith, known to the world as Neville Roscoe. Apparently, Roscoe’s recent marriage to Miranda, now Lady Delbraith, had forced him to overturn his long-held intention never to reappear under his true name. Julian and Miranda had attended the wedding, although they’d remained carefully screened and out of sight of all the other guests.
Edwina had been thrilled over her brother’s presence, and Declan had been pleased on that account alone. The subsequent private meeting between the Frobishers, Roscoe, and his right-hand man, Jordan Draper, had all but literally been the icing on the wedding cake. As a group, they’d explored all manner of potential interactions; it had quickly become clear that Roscoe viewed the match every bit as favorably as the Frobishers. All in all, that meeting had been a coming together of like minds.
That had been the immediate outcome of learning the truth about the Delbraiths, but like a stone dropped into a pool, subsequent ripples continued to appear.
Later, Declan and Edwina had followed his family north to spend a few weeks in Banchory-Devenick; several days after their arrival, Fergus had asked Declan to accompany him on one of his walks.
Once they were away from the house, his eyes on the ground before him, Fergus had stated, “It occurs to me, boy-o, that there’s a great deal we could learn from your Edwina’s family. I’m not talking about Roscoe, but the others—especially the ladies.”
Unsure just what his father meant, Declan had remained silent.
After several paces, Fergus had continued, “It’s been a long time since any Frobisher moved among the ton. It was never our battlefield, so to speak. But I look at the old duchess—the dowager—and her daughters, and the daughter-in-law, too, and I think about what they’ve managed to achieve over the last decade. Given what they had to hide, being capable of…not exactly hoodwinking the ton, but veiling the truth, and all so subtly and elegantly done… That takes talent of a sort we, as a family, lack.”
Fergus’s sharp, agate-y gaze had shifted to pin Declan. “You said you intend taking Edwina to town—that you’ve hired a house there and that Edwina and the dowager think the pair of you need to appear in society to establish yourselves, whatever that means. I’m thinking that might provide a useful opportunity for you to watch and see what you can learn of how they manage things.”
“Manage things.” After a moment, he’d said, “You want me to learn how they manipulate the ton into seeing what they want the ton to see.”
“Exactly!” Fergus had faced forward. “The Delbraiths might be a family led by women, the duke being so young, but none of those females are fools. They all know how to operate in the ton, how to bend ton perceptions to their advantage. They have skills we could use, m’boy. We might eschew the ton, deeming it irrelevant to us, but you can’t duck the weight of a birthright, and who knows what the future will bring?”
That conversation rang in Declan’s mind as he smiled and complimented a young lady on her beautifully carved oriental fan. He’d long ago learned to trust his father’s insights; Fergus Frobisher was widely respected as a canny old Scot. So as they had planned, he and Edwina had come to London and taken up residence in a rented town house in Stanhope Street. Lucasta had joined them in town, but she was staying with her eldest daughter, Lady Millicent Catervale, in Mount Street. Declan appreciated his mother-in-law’s sensitivity in giving him and Edwina their privacy.
Subsequently, Edwina and Lucasta, aided by Millie and Cassie, had put their heads together and come up with a list of events Edwina had declared she had to attend. She’d excused him from all the daytime entertainments, but had requested his presence at the evening events, a request to which he’d readily agreed.
They’d attended several balls, dinners, soirées, and routs over the past week. And tonight, as at those previous events, he was there to observe, to watch and learn how his wife and the females of her family “managed” the ton.
He’d initially studied Lucasta, reasoning that she had to have been the principal instigator in promulgating the non-shocking, acceptable-to-the-ton versions of her older son’s demise and of her younger son’s disappearance; only because he’d been watching closely had he noticed the difference between Lucasta in private and Lucasta in society. It was like a screen, a veil of sorts, but not something anyone observing her could pierce; even knowing it was there, he couldn’t see past it, not while she had it deployed. Lucasta’s screen made her appear more rigid, definitely colder, and more arrogantly aloof. It was an emotional screen that held others at a distance and allowed only the reactions Lucasta wished to display to show through.
Edwina’s veil was even harder to discern. Only because he’d known it had to be there had he managed to even glimpse it. Because her true nature was so very bright and glittery, her shield was almost like a mirror—something that reflected what others assumed they would see, not necessarily what truly lay behind the screen.
He’d studied Millie and Cassie, too; their veils were effective, yet less definite, softer and more amorphous—again, a reflection of their characters. While Lucasta undoubtedly possessed an iron will and a spine of steel—how else had she coped with the vicissitudes of fate over all these years?—of her three daughters, Edwina was the most alike, possessing a similar, pliable yet invincible, feminine strength.
That truth had dawned on him two nights before—and brought with it another ripple.
When he’d set his sights on Edwina, he’d assumed the Delbraiths, a ducal family, would be conventional, conservative, if anything rather stuffy. Instead, he’d discovered they were hiding a secret, one so outrageous and potentially socially catastrophic that it was crystal clear that in terms of being unconventional, the Delbraiths could give the Frobishers a run for their money.
Lucasta was a very far cry from the tradition-obsessed dowager he’d taken her for. As for Edwina…
His view of a predictable, ordinary, orthodox marriage had evaporated.
The lady he had married had an entirely different character from the lady he’d assumed he would take to wife.
Her small hand rested on his sleeve; he could feel the light pressure as if a bird perched there. Yet her presence held him so securely, captivated him so thoroughly, that he barely heard the comments of others enough to respond with the appropriate remarks. He wasn’t interested in those who gathered around them; he was interested only in her.
She’d explained that it was necessary for them to appear in society to “establish themselves.” He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, but clearly she had some goal in mind. Being as inexperienced as she was experienced in this sphere, he hadn’t yet figured out precisely what her ultimate goal was, yet he understood and accepted that she had one…
And that said something all by itself.
It was a reflection of that ripple he’d only recently recognized: His delicate, fairylike wife had a decisive and definite mind of her own.
She formulated goals and planned campaigns—then executed them. She spoke of what amounted to strategy and tactics.
He was now fairly certain she would also harbor a definite view of how their marriage would work, but he’d yet to gain any insight whatsoever into what her view of that critical issue was. Were her putative rules of engagement ones he could smile at, accept, and fall in with? Or…?
As of that moment, he had no idea what their future on that front would bring. Yet he’d married her, and he wouldn’t change that for all the gold in the world. Having her as his wife had been his principal goal, and now she was his.
He glanced at her and saw her eyes sparkle, her face lighting with animation as she charmingly accepted congratulations on their marriage from some other couple.
All in all, he was beyond pleased over having her as his wife. The part he had yet to define was what it was going to take to be her husband.
Edwina stood by Declan’s side with her smile in place and her eyes firmly fixed on her prize. She, her mother, and her sisters had agreed it was vital that she and Declan present themselves to the ton in exactly the right light. How the ton viewed them, now and in the future, would depend entirely on the image they projected over these critical first weeks. That tonight, more or less from the moment they’d arrived, they’d remained fixed in the center of the room with a constant stream of intrigued guests jockeying to join their circle testified as to just how highly the ton now ranked them as acceptable acquaintances.
A sense of triumph rose within her; her first goal as a married lady was all but attained.
When Lady Holland stopped to chat and, when introduced to Declan, deigned to smile approvingly, Edwina had to work to keep her delight from too openly showing and her relief from showing at all. The ton could be a highly censorious sphere, but the blessing of such an august hostess was the ultimate seal of tonnish approval; they had, in ton terms, arrived.
Of course, Lady Holland had always had a soft spot for charming and handsome gentlemen.
Slanting a glance at Declan, Edwina allowed her gaze to dwell on his chiseled features—the distinctly aristocratic line of his brow, the long planes of his lean cheeks below high cheekbones, the firmness of his mobile lips, and the definitely masculine cast of his chin. The crinkling around his sky-blue eyes, set beneath angled slashes of brown brows, and his perennially tanned complexion spoke of long months at sea. His light brown, sun-kissed hair completed the image, appearing fashionably windblown with the bright streaks and tips burnished by the sun highlighting the effect.
The combination of his height and his broad-shouldered stance, the very way he held his long frame, both upright and yet fluid, always perfectly balanced and ineffably confident and assured, set him apart from well-nigh every other gentleman in the room.
As Lady Holland moved on, Lucasta touched Edwina’s sleeve, drawing her attention. “My dear, I see Lady Marchmain holding court by the wall. I believe it would be wise for me to join her and ensure she comprehends all the pertinent facts.”
Edwina followed her mother’s gaze to a coterie of older ladies gathered around a chaise. She nodded. “Thank you, Mama. We’ll come and find you when we’re ready to leave.”
Lady Marchmain was one of her mother’s bosom-bows and also one of the most active ladies in the ton; if one had a message to deliver to the upper echelons of society at large, then Lady Marchmain was an excellent courier.
Returning her attention to the gratifying number of ladies and gentlemen eager to make Declan’s acquaintance, Edwina wondered how much longer they needed to stay. Neither she nor her mother had made any estimation of how many evenings it might take to establish her new position as a married lady and, more critically, establish Declan as a member of recognized society, but their assumption had been that it would take considerably more days and nights—more at-homes, morning and afternoon teas, luncheons, balls, and soirées—to achieve their aim. They’d arrived in town only a week ago; they’d been waging their campaign for a mere six days. They hadn’t expected to succeed so soon.
Regardless, she was exceedingly glad that matters had gone as well as they had. Spending her evenings standing beside Declan—handsome, attentive, and suavely engaging as he’d been—had proved far less of a trial than she’d expected. She had thought she would have to rescue him from social traps, yet that hadn’t been the case; he’d seen the snares and sidestepped adroitly all by himself. For someone who had rarely moved within the ton, he’d handled it well.
While she continued to exchange comments and the usual social banter with those gathered about them, as with every word the reality of their social success was confirmed and sank in, she was increasingly aware of rising impatience. Given they’d succeeded on this front, it was time to advance to the next stage in forging their marriage into the union she wished it to be. And for that, she and Declan needed to be elsewhere—anywhere but in the middle of the ton.
* * *
Declan was quite happy to depart Montgomery House. At Edwina’s suggestion, together with Cassie, they crossed to where Lucasta was conversing with several older ladies. The dowager rose and introduced him to her friends. Once the inevitable exchanges were complete, the dowager settled her shawl, and together their party took leave of their hostess, then made their way downstairs. Somewhat to Declan’s relief, Cassie offered to take Lucasta up in her carriage, leaving him and Edwina to their own company as they traveled the short distance to Stanhope Street.
The instant the carriage door was shut upon them, Edwina’s social veil vanished. During the drive, she chattered, animated and intense, reviewing the comments made by several of those they’d met, explaining the significance of this observation or that connection. Her insights proved illuminating; he was struck by how familiar the moment seemed. As they rattled over the cobbles, he realized it was very like a debriefing after one of his covert missions.
The more he thought of it, the more apt the analogy seemed.
Edwina capped her comments with the statement “It appears that Mama had the right of it.” Through the shadows, she met his eyes. “She was quite sure that, when it came to our marriage, the ton would take its cue from me—from how I, and Mama, and Millie and Cassie and their husbands, too, reacted. Mama was convinced that all I had to do was to keep you beside me and openly show my delight in being your wife, and all would be well.” She sighed happily. Facing forward, she settled back beside him. “As usual, Mama was correct.”
He debated several questions, then voiced what to him was the most pertinent. “And are you truly delighted?”
Her small white teeth flashed in an ebullient smile. Through the enfolding shadows, she glanced at him. “You know I am.” She slipped one small hand into his and lightly squeezed. “I couldn’t be more happy over being your wife.”
Confident sincerity resonated in the words; he drank it in and couldn’t help a satisfied smile of his own.
The carriage rolled around a corner, tipping her against him.
She glanced up as he lowered his head.
Their eyes met; their gazes held.
He raised one fingertip and gently, slowly, traced the lush fullness of her lower lip.
Her lids lowered, screening her eyes as she tipped up her face, and he leaned closer.
The carriage slowed, then halted.
Her eyes opened wide. From a distance of mere inches, she studied his, then beneath the pad of his finger, her lip curved.
He heard the footman drop down from the rear of the carriage, and with a sigh, he straightened. “I believe, my lady, that we’ve reached our home.”
“Indeed.” Even through the dimness, he saw desire gleam in her eyes. As the footman opened the door, she murmured, “I suggest, dear husband, that we go inside.”
Anticipation flared between them, tangible and hot. With one last wanton look, she turned to the door. He rose and descended to the pavement, then handed her down.
Retaining his hold on her fingers, he escorted her up the town house steps.
The door opened before they reached it. Humphrey, their new butler, bowed them inside. “Welcome home, my lady. Sir.”
“Thank you, Humphrey.” Edwina slipped her fingers from Declan’s clasp and headed straight for the stairs.
He prowled in her wake.
Humphrey closed the door. “Will there be anything else, sir? Ma’am?”
“I think not.” Declan didn’t shift his gaze from his wife’s curvaceous hips, sleekly cloaked in pale blue satin. “You may lock up. Her ladyship and I are retiring.”
Without glancing back from her steady ascent, Edwina said, “Oh, and please tell Wilmot I won’t need her tonight.”
Wilmot was her lady’s maid. Declan smiled.
Edwina reached the door to the bedroom they had elected to share, opened it, and sailed through. On her heels, he crossed the threshold, paused to shut the door, then, his gaze locked on his prize, continued his pursuit.
Before she reached the foot of their bed—a large four-poster draped in blue silks—she abruptly swung around. One step from her, one stride from him, and they met.
Her head barely reached his shoulder; coming up on her toes, she wound her arms about his neck, pressed close as his hands fastened about her tiny waist, and raised her lips as he bent his head.
Their lips touched, brushed, then settled.
The kiss deepened, their lips effortlessly melding. She parted hers in wanton invitation, and he sent his tongue questing. Conquering and commanding.
She’d been a virgin on their wedding night, yet she’d been anything but reticent; she’d plunged into the whirlpool generated by their avid, greedy, too-long-denied senses with an eager enthusiasm that had stunned him. Her open and ardent desire to learn everything about passion had claimed him. Her utterly fearless adventurousness in this sphere continued to captivate him.
Comprehensively enslaving him.
He didn’t mind, not in the least. As he steered her back toward the bed, the sole remaining thought in his head was how to most effectively enjoy the fruits of his surrender.
Edwina felt awash on a sea of triumph. She wanted to celebrate what ranked as a minor victory—successfully establishing their union as entirely acceptable and, more, as distinctly desirable in the eyes of the ton.
Joy and delight bubbled and fizzed inside her. Effervescent excitement gripped her as she felt the bed at her back, then Declan’s fingers found her laces, and she sent her own hands seeking, nimble fingers deftly dealing with the large buttons of his waistcoat. He paused only to shrug off both coat and waistcoat, letting them fall where they would, and she eagerly set her fingers to the small, flat buttons closing his shirt.
This was one arena within their marriage in which she’d felt utterly confident from the first, and she knew she had his passion, his understanding, his honesty, and his expertise to thank for that. His own inner confidence in his manly attributes, too. He’d been so focused on her, so openly desirous, and so unwaveringly intent on claiming her—so committed and caught up in the moment—that he’d shown her all.
All he felt for her.
All she meant to him.
She’d sailed into passion with a questing heart, buoyed by confidence in her own desirability.
No woman could have asked for more on her wedding night.
And from that night on, they’d embarked on a joint exploration of what engagements such as this could bring them.
She’d devoted herself to learning all he would teach her and all she might of her own volition learn. And every night, although the destination remained blessedly the same, the journey was different, the road subtly altered, the revelations along it fresh and absorbing.
His lips supped from hers, his tongue teasing hers. She responded, using all she’d learned to tempt and lure. She hauled his shirt from his waistband and freed the last button closing it. Anchored in the kiss, in the heat and the passion that rose so strongly—with such reassuring hunger—between them, she blessed him for his innate elegance, which ensured he used a neat, simple knot in his cravat. The instant she unraveled it, she drew the long strip of linen free. With gay abandon, she flung it away.
Finally clear of obstacles, she pulled his shirt wide, set her hands to the sculpted planes of his chest and joyfully—greedily—claimed, then she pushed the garment up and over his shoulders. He refused to release her lips but broke from the embrace enough to shrug off his coat and waistcoat. Then he opened the shirt’s cuffs, stripped the garment off, and let it fall to the floor, and she fell on him, fell into his embrace, and gave herself up, heart and soul, to learning what tonight would bring.
Shivery sensation. Heat.
Knowing touches that claimed and incited, that excited and lured and drew them both along tonight’s path.
The whisper of silk. The rustle of the bedclothes.
Fingertips trailing over excruciatingly sensitive skin.
Muscles bunching and rippling, then turning as hard as steel.
Incoherent murmuring.
Naked skin to naked skin, body to body, they merged and, together, fingers linked and gripping, lips brushing, heated breaths mingling, followed the path on.
Journeyed on through the enthrallments of desire, through passion’s licking flames, faster and faster they rode and plunged, then surged toward the glorious end.
To where a cataclysm of feeling ripped through reality and sensation consumed them.
Then ecstasy erupted and fractured them, flinging them into oblivion’s void…
Until, at the last, spent, hearts racing, blinded by glory, they sank back to earth, to the pleasure of each other’s embrace, to the wonder of their discovery.
When her wits finally re-engaged and she could again think, she found she was still too buoyed on triumph—on multiple counts—to, as she usually did, slide into pleasured slumber. She wasn’t sure Declan was sleeping, either; wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, she couldn’t see his face—couldn’t be sure if he was sleeping or not without lifting her head and disturbing them both.
In that moment, she was at peace, sated and safe, and felt no need to converse. And, it seemed, neither did he; the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek soothed and reassured.
Her mind wandered, instinctively cataloguing—where they now were, where she wished them to go.
The path she wanted them to follow—the marriage she was determined they would have.
Her assumption that it was up to her, her responsibility to steer them in the right direction, wasn’t one she questioned. She had her parents’ marriage and that of her late brother as vivid examples of how terribly wrong things could go if a lady didn’t institute and insist on the correct framework. And putting that correct framework in place was much easier if one acted from the first, before any unhelpful habits became ingrained.
She knew what she wanted; she had several shining examples to guide her—her sisters’ marriages, Julian and Miranda’s marriage, and, more recently, what she’d seen of the relationship between Declan’s parents, Fergus and Elaine.
That from his earliest years Declan had been exposed to such a marriage, one that was founded on a working personal partnership—that he would have absorbed the concept, seen its inherent strengths, and, she hoped, would now expect to find the same support in his own marriage—was infinitely encouraging.
Throughout their teens, she and her sisters had spent hours in their parlor at Ridgware discussing the elements of an acceptable-in-their-eyes marriage. Both Millie and Cassie, each in their own way, had set out to achieve that ideal in their marriages and had succeeded. Both Catervale and Elsbury openly doted on their wives, were strong and engaged fathers to their children, and shared everything; they included their wives in all areas of their lives.
Edwina was determined to have nothing less. Indeed, with Declan, she suspected she wanted more. Compared to Millie and Cassie, she was more outgoing, more curious and eager to engage with life and actively explore the full gamut of its possibilities.
She wanted their marriage to be a joint venture on all levels, first to last.
With their position within the ton now established and their physical union so vibrantly assured, she could now turn her mind and energies to all the other aspects that contributed to a modern marriage.
On the domestic front, she had all in hand. Together, she and Declan had chosen this house to rent for the Season, and perhaps longer, but he’d ceded the tiller entirely to her with respect to selecting and hiring their staff. She’d been lucky to find Humphrey, and Mrs. King, their housekeeper, and the new cook were settling in nicely. The small staff met their needs more than adequately; other than deciding menus, she needed to do little to keep everything running smoothly in that sphere.
Which left her with one outstanding issue, that of how to merge the rest of their lives—how to align their interests, activities, and energies when they weren’t in the bedroom, or at home, or socializing within the ton.
All the rest.
Thinking the words brought home just how little she knew of the details of Declan’s business—how he occupied himself, what role he played within his family’s shipping empire, or any particular causes he espoused. He’d told her he didn’t expect to sail again until July, or perhaps later; that left her with plenty of time to question and discover all she needed to learn so that she could work out the details of how he and she were going to work together. How she could and would contribute to his career.
A working partnership such as his parents had was what she wanted, one where she contributed as she could, where appropriate—a partnership that allowed her to understand the demands made on him and the pressures those brought to bear. Despite her predilection for active engagement, such a partnership didn’t necessarily require her to be actively involved in each and every facet, but rather to always be in a position to understand what was going on. She was immutably convinced that such an arrangement was critical to them having the marriage she was determined they would have.
Sleep drew nearer; her already relaxed muscles lost what little tension they’d regained.
Even as she surrendered to slumber’s insistent tug, she sensed a nascent swell of eagerness, optimism, and determination. She was free to start her campaign to create the marriage they needed first thing tomorrow morning.
Declan didn’t succeed in summoning his wits—in being able to think worth a damn—until Edwina finally fell asleep. Until then, caught between worlds, he knew only the tumultuous emotion that welled and swelled within him. It had flared to life on their wedding night; he had assumed it would fade with time, that exercised daily—nightly—it would gradually lose its power. Instead, it had burgeoned and grown.
But, at last, the soft huff of Edwina’s breathing deepened, and she sank more definitely against him, and his senses finally ceased their fascination, withdrew from their complete and abject focus on her, and allowed his wits to resurface.
And that overwhelming emotion subsided, but the effects lingered, leaving him unsettlingly aware of just how much she now meant to him. He dwelled on that reality for a moment, then buried the understanding deep. The only consequence he needed to consciously grasp was that, now, putting her—or allowing her to put herself—in any danger whatsoever was simply not on the cards.
For several moments, the potential conflict between that consideration and her as-yet-undefined unconventionality—underscored by their recent activities—and how that might impinge on the way their marriage would work cycled through his mind. His only clear conclusion was that establishing the practical logistics of their marriage was shaping up to be significantly more complicated than he’d assumed. He would need to establish boundaries to keep Edwina separate from the other side of his life, to keep her safely screened from it.
He tried to imagine how he might achieve that, especially given the understanding that niggled deep in his brain—that given his own character, it was her adventurous soul that had from the first drawn him.
Yet adventuring of any sort invariably led to danger. How was he to suppress that aspect of her personality while simultaneously preserving it?
He fell asleep before even a whisper of a suggestion of a plan bloomed in his mind.
CHAPTER 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
The following morning, her marital challenge in the forefront of her mind, Edwina swept into the breakfast parlor to find her handsome husband frowning over a letter. She halted. “What is it?”
He glanced up. His gaze rested on her for a second, then he shook his head. He folded the letter and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Just a note calling me to a meeting. Company business.”
The tip of Edwina’s tongue burned with the urge to press him for more; for a second, she flirted with the idea of offering to accompany him just to see how he would react. But… It was too early for that. Frontal assaults rarely worked with men like Declan; they instinctively resisted any pressure, which later made convincing them to change their stance all the harder. She needed to pave her way.
She turned to the sideboard, sent a smiling nod Humphrey’s way, and accepted the plate he handed her. As she sampled the various delicacies in the chafing dishes, then went to the table and slipped into the chair Humphrey held for her, she reflected on her glaring lack of knowledge of her husband’s business. While she might not yet be in a position to demand to know the details of an upcoming meeting, there were other questions it was patently time she started asking.
She reached for the teapot, poured herself a cup, then lifted it and sipped. Looking over the rim, she studied Declan; he appeared absorbed with making inroads into a mound of scrambled eggs. “I know you captain one of your family’s vessels, but I don’t know what you actually do.” When he looked up, she caught his eyes and arched her brows. “For what reasons do you sail? What tasks do you accomplish for Frobisher and Sons?”
Declan regarded her. He was happy enough to answer that query, if only to distract her from those facts he didn’t wish to share. Rapidly, he canvassed his options to most effectively—engagingly and distractingly—satisfy her. “In order to do that, I have to explain something of the structure of the family’s fleet.”
When she opened her eyes wide, indicating her interest and that he should continue, he smiled and complied. “The fleet has two principal arms. The first is comprised of traditional cargo vessels. They’re larger—wider, deeper, and heavier—and therefore slower ships that carry all manner of cargo around the globe, although these days, we concentrate on Atlantic routes. At present, our farthest port on routes to the east is Cape Town.”
He paused to fork up the last bite of his scrambled eggs, seizing the seconds to consider his next words. She took the chance to slather jam on her usual piece of toast, then lifted the slice to her lips and took a neat bite. The crunch focused his gaze on her mouth; he watched the tip of her tongue sweep the lush ripeness of her lower lip, leaving it glistening…
Quietly, he cleared his throat and forced his wayward mind back to the issue at hand. After remarshaling his thoughts, he offered, “It’s the other arm of the family business in which my brothers and I are actively engaged. We each captain our own ship, and it would be accurate to say that we still carry cargo. But our ships are by design faster and also, again by design, newer and better able to withstand adverse conditions.”
With a soft snort, he set down his knife and fork and reached for his coffee mug. “You might have noticed that Royd is somewhat obsessed with our ships’ attributes and performances.” Royd—Murgatroyd, although no one bar their parents ever dared call him that—was his eldest brother and, these days, more or less in charge. “He’s constantly redesigning and updating. That’s why The Cormorant has been out of commission over these past weeks. She’s been in dry dock in the shipyards at Aberdeen while Royd fiddles, implementing his latest ideas, which I’ll eventually get to test.”
Declan paused to sip, then wryly acknowledged, “I have to admit that the rest of us are usually very grateful for his improvements.” Often those improvements had tipped the scales between life and death, between freedom and captivity.
“When you say ‘the rest of us’”—Edwina brushed crumbs from her fingers—“who precisely do you mean?”
“The four of us—Royd, Robert, me, and Caleb—and several of our cousins. Still other cousins captain several of our merchantmen, but there’s a group of family captains, about eight all told, who sail for the other side of the business.”
“Last night, some gentleman mentioned a treaty your family had assisted with. Was that an undertaking you were involved with?”
“No. That was Robert. He tends to specialize in meeting the more diplomatic requests.”
She frowned slightly. “What is the nature of this other side of the business? What sort of requests, diplomatic or otherwise, do you undertake?”
Declan considered for a moment, then offered, “There are different sorts of cargoes.”
She arched her brows. “Such as?”
Fleetingly, he grinned. “People. Documents. Items of special value. And, most valuable of all, information.” He paused, aware that it would not be wise to paint their endeavors in too-intriguing colors. “It’s a relatively straightforward engagement. We undertake to transport items of that nature quickly, safely, and discreetly from port to port.”
“Ah.” After a moment of consideration, she said, “I take it that’s the motivation behind Royd’s obsession.”
He set down his coffee cup. He hadn’t consciously made the connection before, but… “I suppose you could say that the fruits of Royd’s obsession significantly contribute to Frobisher and Sons being arguably the best specialized shipping service in the world.”
She smiled. “Specialized shipping. I see. At least now I know how to describe what you do.”
And that, he thought, was as much as she or anyone else needed to know.
Before he could redirect the conversation, she went on, “You said that you only sail for about half the year. Do you sail at any time, or are your voyages always over the same months each year?”
“Generally, our side of the business operates over the summer and into the autumn months, when the seas are most accommodating.”
“But you don’t expect to set out on The Cormorant before July or thereabouts?”
He nodded. “There was no”—mission—“request falling between now and then that I, specifically, needed to handle. The others took it upon themselves to cover for me.” He grinned and met her eyes. “I believe they thought of it as a wedding gift.”
“For which I am duly grateful.” She set down her empty teacup.
Before she could formulate her next question, he swiveled to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace at the end of the room. As he had hoped, she followed his gaze.
When she saw the time, her eyes widened. “Great heavens! I have to get ready for Lady Minchingham’s at-home.”
He rose and drew out her chair. “I’ve this meeting to attend, then I think I’ll call in at our office, purely to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world of shipping.” The Frobisher and Sons office was located with many other shipping companies’ offices near the Pool of London.
Distracted now, she merely nodded and led the way from the room. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”
She stepped into the hall, then paused. “I had planned for us to attend Lady Forsythe’s rout, but I rather feel we’ve moved beyond the need.” She glanced at him and smiled, one of her subtly appraising—and frankly suggestive—looks. “Perhaps a quiet evening at home, just the two of us, might be a better use of our time.”
He saw nothing in that suggestion with which he wished to argue. Halting on the parlor’s threshold, he smiled into her wide blue eyes. “A quiet evening spent with you would definitely be my preference.”
Her smile blossomed with open delight. She stretched up on her toes, and when he dutifully bent his head, she touched her lips to his.
He locked his hands behind his back to rein in the impulse to catch her to him and prolong the caress; aside from all else, both Humphrey and the footman were within sight.
If the commiserating quality of her smile as she drew back was any guide, she’d nevertheless sensed his response; while the look in her eyes suggested she shared the temptation, her expression also stated that she approved of his control. She lightly patted his chest, then turned away. With an insouciant wave, she headed for the stairs.
He remained where he was and watched her go up. Once she’d passed out of the gallery in the direction of their room, he reached into his pocket and drew out the folded note that had been burning a hole there. His smile faded as he reread the simple lines of the summons. They told him little more than that he was expected at the Ripley Building as soon as he could get there.
Glancing up, he saw Humphrey waiting by the side of the hall. “My hat and coat, Humphrey.”
“At once, sir.”
As Humphrey helped him into his greatcoat, Declan reflected that his summoner wasn’t a man it was wise to keep waiting. Seconds later, his hat on his head, he walked out and down the steps. Lengthening his stride, he headed for Whitehall.
* * *
From Whitehall, Declan turned into the Ripley Building. When he presented himself to the sergeant on duty, he wasn’t surprised to be directed into Admiralty House. He was, however, surprised to be directed not downward to some undistinguished office on the lower level but upstairs to the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Then again, the war was long over, and as far as Declan knew, the gentleman who had summoned him was no longer actively engaged in managing their country’s defenses; presumably, he no longer maintained an official office to which to summon his minions.
A harried-looking secretary asked Declan’s name; on being supplied with it, the man immediately escorted him to an ornate door. The secretary tapped, then opened the door, looked in, and murmured something; he listened, then speaking more loudly, he announced Declan, stepped back, and waved him through.
Very much wondering into what he was strolling, Declan walked into the room.
As the door closed silently behind him, he scanned the chamber. Two men waited for him.
The Duke of Wolverstone—Declan’s summoner—had been standing by the window looking out over the parade grounds. He’d acceded to the title of duke shortly after the war, but Declan still thought of him as Dalziel, the name he’d used throughout the years he’d managed the Crown’s covert operatives on foreign soil—and on the high seas. As Declan walked forward, Wolverstone turned and came to greet him.
If becoming the duke, marrying, and having several children had in any way blunted Dalziel’s—Wolverstone’s—lethal edge, Declan couldn’t see it. The man still moved with the same predatory grace, and the power of his personality had abated not one jot.
Declan glanced at the only other occupant of the large room—Viscount Melville, current First Lord. Declan recognized him, but they hadn’t previously met. A heavy-boned, slightly rotund gentleman with a round face, a florid complexion, and the dyspeptic mien of a man who liked order but who was forced to deal with the generally disordered, Melville remained seated behind his desk, fussily gathering the papers on which he’d been working and piling them to one side of his blotter.
Literally clearing his desk.
The sight, indicating as it did Melville’s interest in meeting with him, did not fill Declan with joy. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon. His brothers and cousins had worked to clear his schedule.
Unfortunately, it appeared that the Crown had other ideas.
“Frobisher.” Wolverstone held out his hand. When Declan grasped it, Wolverstone said, “I—we—apologize for dragging you away from your new wife’s side. However, the need is urgent. So urgent that we cannot wait for any other of your family to reach London and take this mission.” Wolverstone released Declan’s hand and waved him to one of the pair of chairs angled before Melville’s desk. “Sit, and his lordship and I will explain.”
Although Declan had been too young to captain a ship during the late wars, through the closing years of the conflict he’d sailed as lieutenant to his father or one of his uncles, and had experienced firsthand, as had his brothers and cousins—those currently engaged in the other side of the business—the workings of the largely unwritten contract that existed between the Crown and the Frobishers. Alongside straightforward shipping, their ancestors had been privateers; in reality, those sailing for the other arm of the company still operated as privateers—the company’s Letters of Marque were active and had never been rescinded. In return for the company continuing, on request, to provide certain specialized and usually secret services to the Crown, Frobisher and Sons enjoyed the cachet of being the preferred company for the lucrative shipping contracts the government controlled.
The symbiotic link between the Frobishers and the Crown had existed for centuries. Whatever the request Wolverstone had summoned Declan to Melville’s office to hear, there was not the slightest question that Frobisher and Sons would, in one way or another, oblige.
Exactly how they responded, however, was up to them—and, it seemed, in this instance, the decision was in Declan’s hands.
He subsided into one chair. Wolverstone sat in the other.
“Thank you for answering our call, Mr. Frobisher.” Melville exchanged nods with Declan, then looked at Wolverstone. “I haven’t previously had reason to invoke the Crown’s privilege and call on your family for assistance. However, Wolverstone here assures me that, in this matter, asking Frobisher and Sons for help is our best way forward.” Melville’s brown eyes returned to Declan’s face. “As His Grace is more experienced than I in relating the facts of such matters, I will ask him to explain.”
Declan looked at Wolverstone and faintly arched a brow.
Wolverstone met his eyes. “I was at home in Northumberland when word of this problem reached me.” Declan was aware that Wolverstone’s principal seat lay just south of the Scottish border. Wolverstone continued, “I immediately sent word to Aberdeen. Royd replied, reluctantly naming you as the only Frobisher available. He wrote that he was dispatching your ship, The Cormorant, with a full complement of crew south at the same time as he sent his reply. Your ship should be waiting for you at the company berth in Southampton by the time you’re ready to leave.” Wolverstone paused, then said, “Again, let me offer our—and your family’s—regrets over disrupting your honeymoon. Royd, I believe, would have answered our call himself, but your father and mother have left on a trip to Dublin and are not available to take the company’s helm.”
Declan recalled his mother mentioning the trip.
“Robert, meanwhile, has recently set sail for New York and is not expected back for some weeks—and, as mentioned, our matter is urgent. Likewise, none of the others are immediately available”—Wolverstone’s lips twisted wryly—“while courtesy of your honeymoon, you are already here, on our doorstep in London.”
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Declan inclined his head.
“Royd also wrote that, as the mission involves our West African settlements, you are unquestionably the best man for the job.”
Declan widened his eyes. “West Africa?”
Wolverstone nodded. “I gather you’re familiar with the ports along that coast and have also gone inland in several locations.”
Declan held Wolverstone’s gaze. Royd might have mentioned Declan’s knowledge of the region, but his eldest brother wouldn’t have revealed any details, and Declan saw no reason to regale Wolverstone, of all men, with such facts. “Indeed.” In order to avoid further probing, he added, “Royd’s right. Assuming you want something or someone found in that area, I’m your best hope.”
Wolverstone’s lips curved slightly—he was far too perceptive for Declan’s peace of mind—but he obliged and moved on. “In this case, it’s information we need you to find.”
Leaning over his desk, Melville earnestly interjected, “Find—and bring back to us.”
Wolverstone flicked the First Lord a faintly chiding glance, then returned his dark gaze to Declan’s face. He imperturbably continued, “The situation is this. As you no doubt know, while Freetown is presently the base for the navy’s West Africa Squadron, we also have a sizeable detachment of army personnel stationed at Fort Thornton, in support of the governor-in-chief of the region, who is quartered there.”
“The governor’s currently Holbrook.” Melville caught Declan’s eye. “Do you know him?”
“Not well. I’ve met him once, but not recently.”
“As it happens, that’s advantageous.” Wolverstone went on, “An army engineer from the corps at Fort Thornton disappeared four months ago. As far as we’ve been able to learn, Captain Dixon simply vanished—he was there one day and not the next. Apparently, none of his colleagues have any idea of where he might have gone or that he’d been planning any excursion. Although relatively young, Dixon was an experienced engineer and well regarded. He was also from a family with connections in the navy. At those connections’ request, Melville authorized a lieutenant from the West Africa Squadron to investigate.”
Wolverstone paused; his gaze held Declan’s. “The lieutenant disappeared—simply vanished—too.”
“Bally nonsense,” Melville growled. “I know Hopkins—he wouldn’t have gone absent without leave.”
“Indeed.” Wolverstone inclined his head. “From what I know of the Hopkins family, I would agree. Subsequently, Melville sent in another lieutenant, Fanshawe, a man with more experience of investigations and the local region. He, too, vanished without trace.”
“At that point,” Melville stated rather glumly, “I asked for Wolverstone’s advice.”
Without reaction, Wolverstone continued, “I suggested a gentleman by the name of Hillsythe be sent to Freetown as an attaché to the governor’s office. Hillsythe is in his late twenties and had worked for me previously in covert operations. His experience is sound. He knew what he had to do, and, once there, he would have known how to go about it.” Wolverstone paused, then, his voice quieter, said, “Hillsythe has disappeared, too. As far as we can judge, about a week after he’d arrived in the settlement.”
Declan absorbed what it said of the situation that one of Wolverstone’s own had vanished. Imagining what might be going on, he frowned. “What does the governor—Holbrook—have to say about this? And the commander at Thornton, as well. Who is that, incidentally?”
“A Major Eldridge is the commanding officer at Thornton. With respect to Dixon, he’s as baffled as we are. As for Holbrook…” Wolverstone exchanged a glance with Melville. “Holbrook appears to believe the, for want of a better term, local scuttlebutt—that people who vanish in that manner have, and I quote, ‘gone into the jungle to seek their fortune.’” Wolverstone’s gaze locked on Declan’s face. “As you are someone who, if I’m reading between Royd’s lines correctly, has walked into those same jungles in search of fortunes, I’m curious as to what your opinion of Holbrook’s assessment might be.”
Declan returned Wolverstone’s steady regard while he considered how best to reply. Given he would be contradicting the stated opinion of a governor, he chose his words with care. “As you say, I’ve been into those jungles. No man in his right mind would simply walk into them. The roads are mere tracks at best and are often overgrown. Villages are primitive and few and far between. The terrain is difficult, and the jungles are dense and, in many places, impenetrable. While water is, in general, plentiful, it may not be potable. It’s entirely possible, if not likely, that you will meet hostile natives.” He paused, then concluded, “In short, any European venturing beyond the fringes of a settlement would need to gather a small company, with significant supplies as well as the right sort of equipment, and assembling all that isn’t something that can be done without people noticing.”
Melville humphed. “You’ve just confirmed what Wolverstone’s been telling me. That we—meaning the Crown—can’t trust Holbrook, which means we can’t trust anyone presently on the ground in Freetown.” Melville paused, then grimaced and looked at Wolverstone. “We probably shouldn’t trust anyone in the fleet, either.”
Wolverstone inclined his head. “I believe it would be wise not to do so.”
“Which,” Melville said, returning his gaze to Declan, “is why we have such urgent need of you, sir. We need someone we can trust to go out to Freetown and learn what the devil’s going on.”
Wolverstone stirred, reclaiming Declan’s attention. “We should clarify that, in part, our urgency is fueled by wider considerations.” Wolverstone caught Declan’s gaze. “I’m sure you’ll recall the case of the Black Cobra, which ended with a public hanging just a year ago.” When Declan nodded—who hadn’t heard of that episode?—Wolverstone continued, “The Black Cobra cult, controlled by a trio of English subjects, caused significant harm to our colonial peoples. That the cult was able to spread so widely, and act for as long as it did, was an indictment on the British government’s ability to manage its colonies.” Wolverstone’s lips thinned. “The government—the Crown—does not need another similar incident raising further questions about our ability to rule our empire.”
Declan didn’t need further explanation. He now fully understood that the pressure on Melville to find out exactly what was going on in Freetown, to resolve the matter and re-establish appropriate order, was coming from a great deal higher up the political pole. “Very well.” He glanced at Wolverstone. “Do you know when The Cormorant is due to reach Southampton?”
“Royd said it sailed…it would be the day before yesterday.”
Declan nodded. “They most likely left late, so the earliest into Southampton would be tomorrow morning, but allowing for the winds and the tides, it’ll probably be later. The crew will need a day to fully provision the ship from our stores there. I’ll use the next two days to see what information about doings in Freetown I can glean from the London docks, then I’ll leave for Southampton the following day and sail on the evening tide.”
“How long do you think it’ll take you to reach Freetown?” Melville asked.
“With favorable winds, The Cormorant can make it in fourteen days.”
“There’s one thing both Melville and I wish to stress. Indeed,” Wolverstone said, “you can consider it a part of your orders—an instruction not to be ignored.”
Declan arched his brows.
“The instant you learn anything—any fact at all—we want you to return and bring that fact back to us.” Wolverstone’s voice had assumed the rigid tones of absolute command. “We cannot afford to lose more men while continuing to have no idea what is taking place down there. We need you to go in, winkle out a first lead—but we don’t, specifically do not, want you to follow it.”
“We need you to come back and tell us,” Melville reiterated.
Declan didn’t have to think too hard to understand that the political pressure for some answers, any answers, would be mounting by the day.
Wolverstone’s tone was dry as he remarked, “I realize that, as a gentleman-adventurer, you would prefer not to operate under such a restriction. That is, however, what is needed in this case. The instant you learn anything—and especially if, subsequently, you sense any opposing reaction—you are to leave immediately and bring that information home.” He paused, then, in a quieter tone, added, “We’ve lost too many capable men already, and for nothing. That cannot go on.”
Although he hadn’t personally received orders directly from Wolverstone before, Declan knew enough of the man’s history to know that last stipulation was a very un-Dalziel-like stance. The man had been renowned for giving his operatives objectives as orders, allowing said operatives to execute their missions largely as they saw fit. Dalziel had always shown an appreciation for flexibility in the field. And an expectation of complete success.
Which, more often than not, had been met.
That he was being so very cautious—indeed, insisting on such rigid caution—Declan suspected was more a reflection of the seriousness of the situation rather than any indication that the leopard had changed his spots.
He didn’t like the caveat, the restriction, but… “Very well.” If all he was required to do was learn one fact, that would probably take him no more than a day. In effect, his unusual orders would reduce his time away from Edwina; he decided it behooved him to be grateful rather than disgruntled. He glanced at Melville, then looked at Wolverstone. “If there’s nothing else…?”
“I’ve penned a letter giving you the authority to call on the West Africa Squadron for any assistance you might need,” Melville said. “It’s with my secretary—you can pick it up as you leave.”
As Declan rose, Wolverstone, too, came to his feet. “Short of a compelling need, however, I would suggest you keep that letter to yourself. Use it only as a last resort.” He met Declan’s eyes. “Were I you, I would trust no one. Not with the details of your mission. Not with anything they do not need to know.”
The cool incisiveness in Wolverstone’s words told Declan very clearly that neither Wolverstone nor Melville trusted Governor Holbrook or Major Eldridge, or Vice-Admiral Decker, presently in command of the West Africa Squadron. And if they didn’t trust them, they didn’t trust anyone.
There was something rotten in Freetown, and it had spread and sunk its roots deep.
Declan exchanged a nod with Melville.
Wolverstone extended his hand, and Declan gripped it and shook.
“We’ll expect to see you in a month or so.” Wolverstone paused, then, releasing Declan’s hand, murmured, “And if you’re not back inside six weeks, I’ll send Royd after you.”
Declan grinned at the threat, which was no real threat at all; he and his big brother might butt heads all too frequently, but he couldn’t think of any man he would rather have at his back. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
With a salute, Declan made for the door, already thinking of the preparations to be made—and the news he now had to break to his wife.
CHAPTER 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Knowing that Edwina would already have left the house for her morning’s engagements, Declan went on to the Frobisher and Sons office, located off Burr Street between St. Katherine’s Docks and the London Docks. There, he set in train various inquiries, dispatching several of the company’s retired sailors to quietly ask questions in the inns and taverns scattered about the area. He doubted they would hear anything specifically relating to his mission, but if there was some wider scheme afoot that might impinge on it, he would prefer to know of any potential complication before he set sail from England’s green shores.
The rest of his day went in gathering all the information he could about the current state of commerce and industry in the West African colonies from those in the office, as well as from his peers and contacts in the nearby offices of other shipping companies.
He was an adventurer at heart. As he was going to West Africa anyway, he might as well be alert and aware of any emerging possibilities.
He returned to Stanhope Street in the late afternoon. Taking refuge in the small library, he waited for Edwina to return. He spent the minutes pacing before the fireplace, rehearsing the words and phrases with which to excuse and explain his sudden and impending departure.
When he heard Humphrey’s heavy tread cross the front hall, then Edwina’s voice greeting the butler as she swept into the house, Declan drew in a deep breath and walked to the door. He opened it and looked out.
Edwina saw him and halted.
Going forward, he reached for her hand. “If you have a moment, my dear, I have some news.”
She surrendered her hand. Her eyes searched his face. Whatever she saw there sobered her. “Yes, of course.” She handed her bonnet to Humphrey and allowed Declan to usher her into the library.
After shutting the door behind them, he led her to the space before the fireplace. Unable to resist, he drew her to him and bent his head for a kiss. Stretching up, she met him in her usual eager fashion. She tasted of honey-cakes…
Before the engagement could spin out of hand, he broke the caress, then released her and waved her to the small sofa facing the hearth.
She glanced at his face, then, in a rustle of silk skirts, complied. He remained standing to one side of the hearth—instinctively assuming the stance of a captain addressing his crew. He was conscious of the nuance, but as the stance gave him confidence that he knew what he was doing and would accomplish the task before him, he pushed the question of its appropriateness from his mind.
She sank onto the sofa and locked her gaze on his face. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”
He’d debated how to phrase his news and had decided that brevity would serve them best. “I’ve been called on to do a short run to the capital of the West African settlements. It won’t take long—I’ll only be away for a few weeks—but for business reasons, the voyage has to be made immediately. None of my brothers or cousins is available. They’re at sea and not due back in time or, in Royd’s case, unable to set sail due to other commitments.”
For several silent seconds, she stared up at him. Then in a perfectly equable tone, she asked, “How dangerous is this voyage likely to be?”
“Not dangerous at all—or, at most, only minimally so.” Given his orders to cut and run the instant he learned anything, he couldn’t imagine he would face any real danger. He didn’t want her worrying. He summoned a reassuring smile. “I’ll be home safe and sound before you know it.”
“On that route, is the weather favorable at this time of year?”
“Generally speaking, yes. I don’t expect to run into any storms.”
Again, she stared at him as several seconds ticked by. Finally, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on his face, she stated, “In that case, I should like to accompany you.”
His mind seized. His wits froze. Blindsided—knocked entirely out of kilter—he simply stared down at her.
Apparently not noticing his stunned state, she blithely rattled on, “Given we’ve accomplished the most important goal we came to London to achieve, and as all else here is running smoothly, there’s really no reason I need to remain in town over the next weeks.” Her eyes warmed and her lips curved with eager enthusiasm. “And I would so like to sail with you—to see the world by your side.”
He finally managed to find his tongue. “No.”
She blinked, then clouds gathered in her sunny blue eyes and a frown drew down her brows. “Why not? Is there some reason you haven’t yet told me that makes it inadmissible for me to travel with you?”
Yes. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He couldn’t tell her any details. She moved in circles that might easily include connections of the Holbrooks, Decker, or Eldridge; one loose word and she might unwittingly place him and his crew in danger—a danger they would not otherwise face. He couldn’t tell her about his mission, and he certainly couldn’t take her with him. Lord above! He’d only just recognized how incredibly precious to him she now was, how central to his future life, to his future happiness, and she wanted to accompany him on a flying visit to one of the roughest settlements in the empire?
“No—or rather, yes.” He resisted the urge to rake his fingers through his hair. “There are any number of reasons that make it impossible for you to sail with me.” His tone made the declaration unequivocal. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t explain. It’s entirely untenable for you to travel with me in this instance.” Probably in any instance; he rarely traveled but for business, and his business was rarely without some risk.
Indeed, sailing on the high seas was never devoid of risk. Ships wrecked. He might survive, but she was so small and weak, he doubted she would.
Edwina’s heart sank, but she told herself that this obstacle had always been lurking somewhere along their path. She’d already decided that it was time to move forward, time to focus on establishing the daily ins and outs of how their marriage would work. Here was her first challenge. They would have come to this at some point; there would always have been a first time for her to convince him to take her sailing with him.
That said, she hadn’t expected this particular hurdle to appear quite so soon. Clasping her hands in her lap, she fixed her gaze on his face. “Declan, I realize we haven’t specifically discussed this, but I knew you spent at least half the year on your ship when I accepted your proposal. I married you in the full expectation that however many months you spent on the waves, I would be able to spend, if not all of those months, then at least the majority of them by your side, on the deck of your ship.”
She couldn’t be sure but she thought his eyes widened; it seemed her revelation had come as a surprise. Yet surely he hadn’t imagined that she was the type of lady to remain snug and safe at home by the fire, oblivious to whatever dangers or threats he might be facing halfway around the world?
She fought to stifle a snort.
Studying his expression, she frowned more definitely. “You cannot possibly be surprised by that. By the notion that I want to be a part of your life—all of it—rather than being relegated only to the land-based part.” Leaning forward, she made her eyes, her whole expression, as beseeching as she could. “Please, Declan. I would so like to go on your ship and sail the seas with you.”
For a moment, he held her gaze, then his chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath. For one instant, she hoped… But then his chin firmed; she saw his jaw harden.
“I have to admit that I did not quite appreciate your interest in sailing. If you like, I’ll take you on The Cormorant, perhaps to Amsterdam, and then down the coast of France and Spain and into the Mediterranean when I return from this trip.”
She considered the offer—clearly an olive branch of sorts—for half a minute before firming her own chin. “I would enjoy such a trip, but it fails to address the issue before us, which is that I wish to, and expect to, share all of your life and not just some of it.”
He held her gaze; the sky blue of his eyes seemed somehow flatter, less alive—less open, his emotions screened. “I cannot, and will not, take you on this particular voyage.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So I am to be allowed to share some of your life—the parts you deem appropriate—but I am to be excluded from those business ventures, those adventures, you wish to keep private, to yourself.”
She paused to give him a chance to respond, but although his nostrils pinched as he drew in a long breath, he refused the unstated invitation to correct her.
Taking that as a sign—a negative one—she evenly continued, “I have already stated that such boundaries are not what I expected in our marriage—one I wish to be based firmly on the concept of shared enterprise. As I understand your mother has always sailed with your father, I had not realized that you might think I would be happy being left at home.”
His lips thinned. “My mother’s case is different.”
She arched her brows. “How so?”
“She—” He stopped. His eyes remained locked with hers as his expression turned openly exasperated. “My mother is not you,” he eventually stated, his tone clipped and hard. “She’s my father’s responsibility, and you are mine.”
She returned a terse nod. “Indeed. Our marriage is as much your responsibility as mine. And I will go further and definitively state that I am not prepared to accept the restriction of not sailing with you, short of there being sound reasons and a compelling argument against it. I am not prepared to acquiesce to such a limitation being put on our sharing—on our marriage.”
She’d concluded on a belligerent note. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, and she was as certain as she could possibly be that—granite-headed though he clearly was—he, too, would gain enormously from a sharing union. The entire point was to support each other through no longer being alone. By no longer having to face life and its challenges, threats, and dangers alone.
That meant they had to share their lives.
He could argue until he was blue in the face, but she was not going to back down.
Declan looked into her face, saw the stalwart determination infusing her features, and understood that, entirely unexpectedly, he stood on very thin ice.
He wished it was otherwise—wished he’d comprehended her vision of their marriage before they’d reached this pass, so that he might have known which way to tack to better avoid cutting across her bow. He wished he could convince himself that this was a temporary whim of hers, that she couldn’t possibly be truly serious, that her statements of direction and intent were not rooted in sincere belief…but he couldn’t. She was the least whimsical female he’d ever met. And while he hadn’t foreseen her direction regarding their marriage, he had unshakeable faith in her honesty, especially when it came to what lay between them.
That was why wooing her had been so damned easy. She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, and she hadn’t been backward about letting him know.
While such emotional honesty—such emotional clarity—had been a boon earlier, it made what he had to do now very much harder.
He hauled in an unsettlingly tight breath, held her gaze, and quietly, evenly, said, “I regret, my dear, that in this instance, I cannot take you with me. I would if I could—I would lay the sun, the moon, and the stars at your feet if that was what you wished and it lay within my ability. While not fraught with danger, this journey is not one I can allow you to share.”
He paused, then—deciding that he might as well be hung for a wolf as a lamb—he added, “There will always be some voyages like this. With others…perhaps we can reach some agreement when I get back. However, for now, my decision stands. I am the captain of The Cormorant, and I have absolute authority over who boards my ship. I cannot, and will not, take you with me.”
He expected her to erupt, although, truth be told, he’d never yet seen her lose her temper. He’d seen her annoyed, irritated, but never truly furious. But he now comprehended that this issue meant a great deal to her, and he knew she was stubborn, someone who would fight for what she believed… Instinctively, he braced for her anger.
It never came.
Instead, she studied him through narrowed eyes, glinting an unusually hard, bright blue from beneath her fine lashes. Gradually, her expression grew pensive.
After several moments of fraught silence—of him waiting for some high-flown denunciation—in a relatively normal tone, she asked, “Is that because, despite you saying there’ll be no real danger for you, you fear exposing me to even that low level of danger?”
He blinked. “Freetown—the capital of Sierra Leone—is no Bombay, or Calcutta, or Cape Town. It’s basic in every sense of the word and definitely no place for a duke’s daughter.”
“And that’s where you’re going?” When he nodded, she said, “I see. So your decision is driven by wanting to protect me.”
“Yes.” Exactly. He didn’t say the word but was quite sure she read his exasperation in his eyes. Why else would he deny her?
She studied him for a moment more, then—to his complete surprise—she gave a little nod, more to herself than him, and rose. “All right. That I can accept.”
Suddenly, he felt oddly unsure, as if some unexpected wind had blown up and was steadily pushing him off course. He tried to study her face, but she was looking down and shaking her skirts straight. “Just so I have this issue clear, as long as my intention is to protect you, then you’ll accept whatever decisions I make?”
She raised her head, met his eyes, and smiled—gently, reassuringly. Then she stepped closer, came up on her toes, and lightly touched her lips to his. Drawing back, her hand on his chest, she stated, “I accept that, in seeking to protect me, you will make such decisions.”
Sinking back to her heels, she watched him for a second, then her smile deepened. “Now.” She turned and walked toward the door. “As we discussed last night, we’re having dinner here, just the two of us, and then spending a quiet evening in the drawing room.”
He followed as if drawn by invisible threads.
At the door, she turned and, smiling, arched her brows. “Unless you would prefer to attend more events?”
“No, no.” He quelled a shudder. Reaching past her, he opened the door. “I’m looking forward to spending a whole evening in which I don’t have to share you with anyone else.”
Belatedly, he realized what he’d said—which word he’d used—but she only smiled sweetly and led the way out.
Feeling very much as if he’d avoided a cannonball to his mainmast, yet having no clear idea how he’d accomplished the feat, he followed at her heels. They’d got over that stumbling block and peace and harmony had—somehow—been maintained. He told himself to be grateful.
* * *
The evening following Edwina’s discussion with Declan in their library, she stood by the side of Lady Comerford’s ballroom and pretended to pay attention to the various gentlemen surrounding her. A few ladies were scattered among the ranks, but to Edwina’s dismay, for some ungodly reason, a sizeable cohort of gentlemen seemed intent on vying for her attention.
Even though the group included several she’d heard spoken of in hushed whispers by the racier of her peers—the young matrons of the ton—and even though she recognized the attraction several of those gentlemen possessed, she had no attention to spare even for such potent distractions.
Declan had informed her that he would be departing London sometime the next day; he had begged off accompanying her to this ball on the grounds of having to deal with last-minute preparations. Given she’d already declared their purpose in appearing together at such major ton events achieved, she’d had to accept his decision with a gracious smile. She’d hidden her welling consternation; she had yet to decide how best to respond to his decision to leave her safely in London.
She understood his motives, but equally, she knew that they would have to start somewhere—that at some point, she would have to press her case to accompany him on his business trips. In the circumstances, it was difficult to find a reason not to commence as she intended to go on. If she bowed to his fear for her now, if she gave it credence on what he’d assured her was an as-near-as-made-no-odds dangerless voyage, his attitude would only grow more entrenched, making her ultimate battle to change his mind that much harder.
On them both.
As she was beyond determined that, ultimately, she would prevail and would routinely accompany him on his voyages, then letting his decision stand, even this once, seemed an unwise path to take.
Outwardly gay, she attempted to respond to the banter and comments directed her way sufficiently well to camouflage her distraction. Meanwhile, the better part of her brain revisited the options she’d identified over the past twenty-four hours. She wasn’t the sort to fret and fume, to argue and shout; over the years, she’d found that the most effective way of overcoming hurdles was to ignore them and act as she believed she should. However, this situation was complex and complicated, affecting not just her but Declan, and also impacting and potentially shaping the foundation of their marriage.
She’d thought about seeking advice, but there were precious few whom she might ask, and even fewer with what she deemed the requisite experience and understanding to whom she might consider listening. There were few ladies in the ton whose husbands were adventurers. The closest comparison she could think of was her brother, Julian, and with respect to his marriage, it had, indeed, been Miranda who had acted to make their marriage happen; if she hadn’t taken a decisive step against Julian’s clear direction, the joyful marriage she and Julian shared would simply not have been.
Impulse, observation, and contemplation all urged Edwina to act. If she truly believed—as she did—that her accompanying Declan on this voyage was critical for their marriage to succeed, then it behooved her to make that happen for their joint greater good.
That was a nice, clear, unequivocal conclusion. All she needed to do was convince herself that it was, indeed, the right one.
She was still mentally debating, still absentmindedly fending off subtly worded advances when, across the ballroom, a gilded head of light brown hair caught her eye. She was too short to see the face beneath, but that color, that recklessly windblown style…
Seconds later, the crowd thinned, and she glimpsed Declan moving purposefully in her direction. Her pulse sped up; she ignored all those about her—she had eyes only for him.
It appeared he felt the same way about her; although several ladies attempted to intercept him, and although he cloaked his responses in superficial civility, his gaze barely diverted from her.
And then he was there, smoothly taking her hand and raising it to his lips while his gaze held hers. “My dear, I apologize for my tardiness. Matters took longer than I’d anticipated.” Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he raised his gaze and allowed it to travel over the group of over-attentive gentlemen.
Declan smiled, coldly, on the group of, at least to him, unwelcome admirers who had had the temerity to gather about his wife. He didn’t like the looks of any of them. An unsettling thought rose in his mind—that with him absent on the Crown’s business, she would have no one to send them packing. “Do introduce me to your”—cicisbeos—“friends, my dear.”
Several of said friends all but deflated.
He managed not to bare his teeth and managed to respond with passable civility to the introductions Edwina was quick to make.
This was the first night he hadn’t accompanied her into the ton, and he was going to be away for at least a fortnight, possibly longer…
He squelched the impulse that rose within him; this was not a venue in which snarling was acceptable.
The introductions were barely complete when the small orchestra at the end of the room put bow to string, and the introduction to a waltz rose above the chatter. He fell on the opening. Closing his hand over hers, he smiled into the widening eyes she turned his way. “I do hope you’ve saved this waltz for me.”
She blinked several times, then somewhat carefully said, “Yes—that is, I believe I might chance it.”
He gave her a quizzical look, but he wasn’t about to argue; she’d accepted and given him the opportunity to remove her from the horde surrounding her. He flashed a smile he fought not to allow to be too overtly possessive around the group, made their excuses, and drew her away.
The open space of the dance floor was only two paces distant; as he turned her into his arms and stepped out, he arched a brow at her. “What was that all about?”
She sighed. “I claimed to have a twisted ankle so I could avoid all their invitations to waltz.”
Happiness bloomed. He grinned. “Clever girl.”
She pulled a face at him. “I feel I should point out that you’ve just shown me to be a liar.”
He arched his brows, considering, then offered, “Most of them probably knew you were lying.”
She snorted. After two brisk revolutions, she admitted, “Most likely.”
That was the last word they exchanged about her court of would-be admirers. Declan set himself to entertain her and not-too-subtly monopolize her time. He saw her mother, her sisters, and several of the older ladies noticing and commenting, but he’d be damned if he was going to leave anyone, gentleman or lady, in any doubt that Edwina was his—and that he intended her to remain so.
As the evening wore on, he took a leaf out of the Delbraith ladies’ book; working on the principle that the most effective way of discouraging any would-be lovers was to demonstrate just how happy he and Edwina were in each other’s company, how steeped in each other they had already become, he did something he’d never imagined he would do and openly wore his heart on his sleeve—and encouraged her to do the same.
What followed was the most enjoyable evening they had spent in the ton since their wedding. He kept his attention locked on her, and hers remained locked on him; the rest of the guests were merely a colorful backdrop for their play.
Gradually, his possessively protective tension faded, soothed by her laugh, her smile, and the openly loving light in her eyes. Earlier in the day, he’d taken time from his search for information to hunt up Catervale and Elsbury and alert them to his impending absence. Both Edwina’s brothers-in-law had readily agreed to do what they could to shield her from any unwanted advances. Of course, it went without saying that both would have to rely on her sisters to alert them to any need for action.
Foreseeing the weakness in that plan, Declan had hailed a hackney, traveled to the house overlooking Dolphin Square, and spoken to her brother. Julian and his wife might not circulate within the ton, but as Neville Roscoe, he had eyes and ears everywhere. Once Julian had shaken off his surprise that Edwina had agreed to remain in London, he’d undertaken to watch over her while Declan was at sea.
Declan had taken every precaution he could. Given that Edwina wasn’t a silly female prone to taking unnecessary risks, when they finally departed Comerford House and settled in the shadows of their carriage to rattle over the cobbles to Stanhope Street, he felt more settled than he had since he’d learned of his mission. Assured that while he was away, all would be well with her, and relieved he’d managed to navigate his way through the marital shoals caused by his unexpected voyage.
Having her seated beside him with one small hand tucked into one of his and her soft shoulder pressing against his arm set the seal on his peace.
As the carriage turned a corner, she glanced at his face. “Do you know at what hour you’ll be leaving the house?”
Her tone was even, the question simply that.
“As soon as I receive the reports I’m expecting, but I suspect it’ll be after midday. Regardless, I’ll have to leave before midafternoon in order to make Southampton before the evening tide.”
“So your ship will sail on the evening tide?”
He nodded. “If we don’t get out then, we’ll have to wait until the next day, and time is of the essence.”
“I see.” A moment ticked by, then she said, “I once went sailing on a yacht in the Solent and saw some of the larger ships pass by. Is it possible for a ship like yours to sail out into the Solent and then wait for people to be ferried from the port before going further?”
“If we weren’t in a hurry, yes. But we need to catch the tide to get out of the Solent itself, and once we’re in the Channel, there’s no turning back—not until the tide turns again.”
She fell silent as if digesting that, then she leaned closer, her head resting against his shoulder, and gently squeezed his hand. “Tell me about your ship. Does Frobisher and Sons have a particular wharf at Southampton? You have that in London, don’t you?”
He returned the pressure of her fingers. “We have two wharves in London—one in St. Katherine’s Docks, the other in London Docks. The office is more or less between them. But in Southampton, all our ships come into one section of the main wharf.”
“What about The Cormorant itself? Describe it.”
He did. As they rattled along the night-shrouded streets, he painted a picture drawn from fond memories, his words colored by emotion, by the joy he always felt on the waves, with the creak of the sails, ropes, and spars above his head, the slap and shush of the waves caressing the hull, and the pitch and roll of the deck beneath his feet. He opened his heart and shared it all with her.
When the carriage drew up outside their town house and he helped her from the carriage and escorted her up the steps, he realized he wanted this evening—this last night they would have together for weeks—to be perfect. For the pleasure they’d rediscovered in each other to remain unmarred by any discord, by any jarring note.
She seemed to have the same agenda. They climbed the stairs to their bedroom, closed the door on the world, and gave themselves up to each other.
Somewhat to his surprise, she took the lead—demanded it. He ceded the reins readily, intrigued as to what she had in mind, only to discover that she’d decided that he should remember this night…vividly.
Her small hands were everywhere, stroking his skin, caressing, then clutching, nails sinking in evocatively when he struck back and ravaged her mouth. But she drew breath and came back at him; with lips and tongue, with her curves clothed in silken, heated skin, with her breathing ragged and her lids at half mast, she seized the tiller of their passions and orchestrated a wave of need, greed, and delirious wanting that all but overwhelmed him.
Then she took him into her mouth and drove him to madness. Her tongue artfully stroked, then she suckled, and he thought he would lose his mind.
Blue eyes bright beneath passion-weighted lids, she played, joyous and bold—more confidently assured in this sphere than he’d ever seen her. Than he’d ever imagined she might be; the sight sent a lustful wave of sheer, prideful possessiveness surging through him.
That she was his had never been in question—not here, like this, with them naked and writhing in their bed. But tonight, she went a step further. Tonight, she lavished a devotion to his pleasure upon him—a commitment so intense, so deep and absolute, it left him giddy.
Giddy and glorying that he had found her, that she had accepted him and consented to be his.
When she finally rose above him and took him into her body, that appreciation, that bone-deep thankfulness thudded in his blood.
Joined, their senses fused, their fingers linking, they set off on their journey, on the long, rocking ride up and over the pinnacle of their desire, straight into the molten heat of their passion.
They raced on through the flames, gasped and clung and shuddered through the intensity, then as one, they surrendered to the final conflagration that cindered their senses and propelled them headlong into ecstasy.
Up, through, and on, ultimately to fall into the oblivion beyond.
Wrapped together, their hearts thudding in unison, they sank back to reality, back to the earthy pleasure of each other’s naked embrace, back to the tangled sheets of their bed, the quiet rasp of their breathing, and the shadows of the night.
She had collapsed on top of him. When she finally stirred and rolled to his side, he drew her closer, tucking her against him. Blindly, he searched, found the sheets, wrestled, and drew the silk over their cooling bodies.
Then he lay back, surrendered, and let satiation have him.
Despite his looming departure, all was well between them. He was, he felt, an extremely lucky man. And if she’d intended to bind him to her with her unrestrained passion, she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. For this, for her, he would walk through fire. No sea, no storm, no danger on earth would keep him from returning to her side.
Tucked against her husband’s solid heat, somewhat to her surprise, Edwina discovered her mind crystal clear and her decision made—definitive, final, and resolute. The events of the evening had only underscored the value of what they already had, what they already shared. Contrary to her assumption on embarking on their lovemaking, she hadn’t been driven by the thought of fresh insights and new explorations; instead, her actions had been a recommitment—something that had welled from deep inside her, an instinctive and powerful response to their current situation.
To their current need.
She’d recommitted to protecting what they already had and to moving ahead and securing the marriage she wanted them to have—the marriage that would best benefit them both.
She now knew what she had to do—the essential elements were clear in her mind. Courtesy of the past day, she had a vague notion of how she might accomplish the crucial first step.
Tomorrow, she would act. Tomorrow, she would take the first step in forging the marriage she—and he—needed to have.
Regardless of all else the evening had wrought, she sensed—felt, could all but touch—a solid certainty that now dwelled at her core. She was not giving up—she never would give up—on her dreams.
CHAPTER 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Declan dallied at the breakfast table the next morning until Edwina breezed into the parlor.
They exchanged comfortable, knowing, richly private smiles, then she turned to the sideboard. He seized the moments while she filled her plate to drink in the sight of her, her trim figure displayed in a day gown of blue-and-white-striped cambric. Her pale golden hair was drawn up into a knot at the top of her head, from where it cascaded in a glory of bouncing curls that framed her face and brushed her nape.
Then she turned, and he rose and drew out the chair to the right of his. Once she’d sat, he resumed his seat at the table’s head.
Her gaze had gone to the various letters and notes piled beside his plate. “Have you had news?”
“Yes.” He flicked a finger at the missives. “Most of the reports I was waiting for have come in. I’ll need to go to the office for the last of them, but other than that…” He caught her gaze. “It appears I’ll be leaving immediately after luncheon.”
She stared at him blankly for half a minute, then she grimaced. “Damn.” She threw him an apologetic glance. “I have a luncheon, followed by an event, and I simply cannot cry off from either.” Her expression turned downhearted. “I’m so sorry. I had wanted to be here to wave you away, but…” She gestured, signifying resignation, then she shrugged and returned her attention to her plate, to the slice of toast she was slathering with jam. “Still, given the urgency of your trip, you must leave, and that’s that. I can’t even be sure exactly when I’ll get back—the event is on the outskirts of town. In Essex.”
Essex. On the other side of the capital from the road to Southampton; he couldn’t even arrange to turn aside and meet her… “So this is the last time we’ll see each other until I get back.”
She nodded. “Sadly, yes. I have an at-home this morning, and after that I’ll go on with my sisters to the luncheon.”
Declan told himself that the disappointment he felt, its oppressive weight, was entirely uncalled for. She was behaving exactly as a lady of her ilk should when faced with the situation he’d foisted on her; she wasn’t railing at him, crying, or enacting any scenes. He should be grateful for her attitude.
He had no grounds on which to feel that it lacked a certain something.
He squashed the sense of dissatisfaction deep, but the feeling didn’t leave him.
He dallied over his coffee until she’d finished her toast and tea. Then he rose, slipped his missives into his pocket, and drew out her chair. Together, they strolled into the front hall.
“Well, then.” Facing him, she donned a bright—patently superficial—smile. “It seems this is farewell.” She gripped his arm, stretched up, and placed a peck on his cheek. “Adieu, my darling. I’ll be here when you return.”
Before he could respond, she whirled and strode briskly to the stairs.
In something close to disbelief, he watched her ascend… That was it? His grand farewell wasn’t even a proper kiss?
He stared after her until she disappeared around the gallery, then he shook himself—and called his errant thoughts, and his uncalled-for emotions, to order. What had he expected? He was leaving her to live her life here in London and heading off on a voyage, and if he was honest, he would admit the unknown, the potential for danger, for adventure, called to him.
Edwina was adventurous, too.
“True. But she’s a woman.” A vision of his cousin Catrina—Kit—who captained her own ship in their fleet, swam across his mind, and he amended, “A lady. A noble lady.”
And she was his and now meant far too much to him for him to even contemplate putting her at risk—not of any sort or of any degree.
He had to go and sail and investigate, and she had to remain safely here.
That was all there was to it.
Feeling the weight of the missives in his pocket, he considered, then waved at Humphrey to fetch his coat.
A minute later, his expression set, he strode down the front steps and headed toward the Frobisher and Sons office and whatever last dregs of information his searchers had gleaned from the ships currently bobbing in the Pool of London. The more information he had before he sailed, the less time he would need to spend on the ground in Freetown—and the sooner he could return to re-engage with his wife and, in light of the separation, re-examine how their marriage should work.
He hadn’t in the least expected it, but deep down in his gut, he wasn’t at all satisfied with leaving her behind.
* * *
Edwina stood at the window of their bedroom and watched Declan stride away from the house. The instant he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight, she swung around and beckoned to her maid, Wilmot, who’d been packing the last of the clothes Edwina had selected into a small portmanteau. “Quickly—help me out of this gown.”
Wilmot hurried to Edwina’s side. As she set deft fingers to Edwina’s laces, the severely garbed middle-aged maid anxiously murmured, “Are you sure about this, my lady?”
“Absolutely definitely.” Shrugging out of the loosened gown and letting it fall, Edwina added, “You needn’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe.” Wilmot had been with her since her come-out; she was an excellent maid, but rather timid.
“If you say so, my lady.” Wilmot clearly remained unconvinced, but she held her tongue as she helped Edwina into a dun-colored carriage dress.
As soon as all the tiny black buttons at the back of the dress were secured, Edwina waved Wilmot to the last of the packing and headed for her dressing table. In short order, she stowed her brushes, combs, and a handful of hairpins into a large traveling satchel. From a drawer, she drew out a wad of banknotes. She tucked some into a small purse that she placed in a black traveling reticule, then secreted the rest of the notes in a pocket sewn into the lining of the satchel. When she turned, Wilmot was securing the straps of the portmanteau.
Edwina slipped the reticule’s ribbon over her wrist, settled the satchel’s strap on her shoulder, picked up the bonnet Wilmot had left ready, then waved the maid to the door. “Remember what I told you. Go down the back stairs, and you’ll be able to slip out of the house while I’m talking to Humphrey in the front hall. I’ll see you in just a few minutes.”
Still looking worried, Wilmot hefted the portmanteau, bobbed a curtsy, then hurried out of the door.
After one last glance around the room, Edwina followed, closing the door behind her.
She descended the main stairs. When Humphrey joined her in the front hall, she smiled brightly at him. “I require a hackney, Humphrey. Please summon one for me.”
“Of course, my lady.” Humphrey hesitated, then somewhat diffidently said, “If you’re sure the carriage will not suit?”
“Sadly, it won’t.” Tugging on her gloves, she went on, “For this particular excursion, a hackney is what I need.”
Humphrey bowed. “I’ll summon one immediately, ma’am.”
Edwina waited in the front hall while Humphrey opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She heard a shrill whistle; half a minute later, the clop of hooves informed her that her carriage had arrived. Calmly, she walked out onto the porch and down the steps. Humphrey held open the hackney’s door; he gave her his hand to help her into the carriage.
After settling on the thankfully clean seat, she nodded to Humphrey. “Thank you, Humphrey. I’ll see you anon.”
The jarvey said something, then Humphrey looked at her. “The direction, ma’am?”
“Oh—Eaton Square.”
Humphrey shut the carriage door and conveyed her instruction to the jarvey. A second later, the carriage jerked into motion.
Edwina felt her eyes grow round, felt excitement tempered by apprehension grip her. “I’m off on my journey,” she murmured to herself.
She waited until the carriage slowed at the corner, then stood and rapped sharply on the trapdoor set into the hackney’s ceiling. When it opened and the jarvey said “Yar?” she called up, “When you turn the corner, you’ll see a woman in a black gown holding a portmanteau. Please pull up beside her.”
The jarvey paused, then said, “’Ere—this isn’t one of them scandalous elopements, is it?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Huh. Pity.” The jarvey flicked his reins, and his horse stepped out. “I always wanted to drive someone setting out on one of those.”
Edwina shut the trapdoor and sank back onto the seat, a very large smile spreading over her face. She wasn’t escaping to marry some unsuitable man—she was escaping to be with the entirely suitable gentleman she’d married.
She was still grinning when the jarvey drew up alongside the pavement where, as she’d arranged, Wilmot stood waiting with the portmanteau. Even as Edwina opened the carriage door and took the portmanteau, Wilmot was darting anxious glances in every direction.
“Don’t worry,” Edwina reiterated. “Now, don’t forget to give Humphrey those letters I left with you. They’re important, and it’s also important you don’t hand them over until six o’clock this evening.”
She’d written letters to her mother, her sisters, her brother, and to Humphrey and Mrs. King, explaining where she’d gone and how long she expected to be away. Given her destination, she couldn’t see that they would worry; she’d be just as safe as she would be in London. Possibly safer, given Declan would be with her.
“I won’t forget, my lady.” Wilmot bobbed a last curtsy. “I don’t know how you’ll manage with your hair, but I pray that you’ll take care.”
Edwina smiled. For all her nerves, Wilmot was a dear. “I will. And we’ll be home before you know it. Now hurry back before you’re missed.”
Wilmot bobbed again, whirled, and plunged into the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the houses in Stanhope Street.
Edwina shut the carriage door, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. She’d managed to leave the house, luggage and all, without anyone but loyal Wilmot knowing.
The trapdoor opened, and the jarvey asked, “So are we still headed to Eaton Square, mum?”
Edwina shook herself to attention. “No. I wish to go to Mr. Higgins and Sons’ establishment in Long Acre.”
“Right you are.” The trapdoor fell closed. An instant later, the carriage rocked into motion.
“And now,” she murmured, “I really am off—off on a true adventure.”
* * *
Declan strode up The Cormorant’s gangplank as sunset was streaking the sky.
He’d been held up at the London office when one of his searchers was late getting back. Subsequently, he’d delayed at Stanhope Street as long as he could, hoping that Edwina might return before he absolutely had to leave, but she hadn’t. Then on reaching the office here, he’d found more men waiting with verbal reports on the current conditions in Freetown.
He’d hoped that somewhere amid all the information, he might have found some glimmer of a clue as to why four men—Captain Dixon, Lieutenant Hopkins, Lieutenant Fanshawe, and Hillsythe—had vanished, but no. Instead, the news from Freetown was entirely benign, with not even a hint of disturbance among the natives.
On gaining The Cormorant’s railing, he paused to look across the harbor at the forest of masts set against the bright orange and scarlet hues in the palette the westering sun had flung up. Such sights never failed to steal his breath; there was beauty in the sky and in the promise of the ships bobbing at anchor, of the journeys they would make and the far-flung places they would visit before they returned to this port.
His gaze moved on to the billowing sails of the ships sliding majestically out of the harbor and into the Solent beyond. Soon The Cormorant would be joining the line.
His sailing master, the principal navigator, was waiting, smiling, at the head of the gangplank. As he stepped down to the deck, Declan acknowledged the master’s crisp salute with a nod and a matching smile—one of anticipation. “Mr. Johnson. How is she?”
“Shipshape and ready to sail, Captain.”
“Excellent.” With a nod, Declan acknowledged the salute of his quartermaster—Elliot, a burly Scotsman who was waiting by the wheel—then stepped aside to allow a pair of sailors to bring in the gangplank.
Grimsby, the bosun, bowlegged and barrel-chested, supervised the stowing of the gangplank. He grinned at Declan and saluted. “Good to have you aboard again, Capt’n.”
After replying to that and other greetings from his crew, all of whom had sailed with him before, Declan made a quick circuit of the deck, instinctively noting the ropes and sails, the set of the spars, and checking for anything not precisely as it should be. But everything appeared in perfect order; his ship stood ready to get under way.
Finally, he climbed to the poop deck, located over the stern, and joined his lieutenant, Joshua Caldwell, by the wheel. “Right, Mr. Caldwell. Shall we get under way?”
“Aye, Captain—ready and waiting at your command.”
Declan grinned; he and Caldwell had sailed the world for years, and those words had become a habit between them. “It’s good to be on the waves again.”
“I can imagine.” Caldwell raised his voice and called for a jib to be set. “There’s enough wind, I think, to get us out with just that.”
Declan nodded in agreement. He waited while the ropes were cast off and the ship slowly slid away from the wharf; under Caldwell’s careful steering, The Cormorant’s bow came around, and the ship eased into the channel leading out of the harbor basin. “So what did Royd do this time?”
His older brother was constantly tinkering with this and that, trying one thing, then another, to improve the performance of the Frobisher fleet. His favorite test subjects were his own ship, The Corsair, Robert’s ship, The Trident, and The Cormorant. Whenever any of those vessels docked at Aberdeen, the chances were good that Royd would have them out of the water.
“He had the hull refinished in some new varnish—he claims it has less resistance, so the ship should cleave through the water more cleanly and therefore go faster. He also changed the set of the rudder, so be warned. It feels different—reacts a little differently.”
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