скачать книгу бесплатно
The Trouble With Misbehaving
Victoria Hanlen
Love, Betrayal and RedemptionCalista ‘CC’ Collins is used to being the talk of the town. With her scandalous past she’s learnt the hard way that a woman needs to be strong to get what she wants in a man’s world. And what she wants is the infamous Captain Beauford Tollier—roguish son of an earl, notorious blockade-runner and all-round knave of the seas.However, Captain Beau is not one to be cajoled—he is done with the dangerous sea life and ready to follow the life of the straight and narrow. But with many powerful forces circling around him, Beau doesn’t stand a chance…PRAISE FOR THE TROUBLE WITH MISBEHAVING‘This story has romance, action, bad and good men, surprises, and a lot more.’ – Cathy Geha (NetGalley)‘this one didn't disappoint’ – Avephoenix (Goodreads)‘I’ve read hundreds of historical romances, yet rarely encounter such a wily heroine–one who was not only loyal and brave, but cunning and able to turn her own scandal into fortune…’ – Jamie Beck (Goodreads)‘This story has adventure and will take you along for a wonderful ride if you let it.’ – Jennifer Perkins (Goodreads)
Love, Betrayal and Redemption
Calista ‘CC’ Collins is used to being the talk of the town. With her scandalous past she’s learnt the hard way that a woman needs to be strong to get what she wants in a man’s world. And what she wants is the infamous Captain Beauford Tollier—roguish son of an earl, notorious blockade-runner and all-round knave of the seas.
However, Captain Beau is not one to be cajoled—he is done with the dangerous sea life and ready to follow the life of the straight and narrow. But with many powerful forces circling around him, Beau doesn’t stand a chance…
The Trouble with Misbehaving
Victoria Hanlen
www.CarinaUK.com (http://www.CarinaUK.com)
VICTORIA HANLEN
When Victoria won her first writing honor at age ten, a D.A.R. award for Excellence in History, it never occurred to her she’d grow up to write historical romance. She went on to tread the boards of stage and professional opera. There she absorbed the basics of story telling and learned to inhabit characters while costumed in wigs, hats and flowing gowns. Now as an author, instead of singing in the shower she takes notes, her characters inhabit her, and they get to wear the great clothes. Victoria lives in rural New England with her husband and a host of wildlife. She loves to hear from her readers. For more, please visit her at victoriahanlen.com (http://www.victoriahanlen.com)
Writing this book has been an adventure and a labor of love, and I have many people to thank. Immense gratitude goes to my fabulous editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her patient guidance and for taking a chance on a new author. I very much appreciate the talented Carina UK team for their brilliant work in launching C.C.’s and Beau’s story out into the world.
To my awesome critiquers Ann Clement, Julia Gabriel, Anna James, Jael Wye, and Jessica Trapp—thanks for the honesty, laughter and enthusiasm. It’s meant the world to me. Thanks also to Ann Messecar, Bob Bonitz, and Jamie Beck, your input was invaluable. And a big thank you goes out to the Connecticut Romance Writers for your encouragement, camaraderie and commitment to seeing us all in print.
I enjoyed talking with the historians at Fort Anderson, Fort Fisher and the Wilmington, North Carolina Railroad Museum. Thank you for your time and generosity in pointing me to such great research resources and acquainting me with a myriad of Civil War details. Any mistakes are on me.
To my family, the loves of my life, you are my moorings and inspiration.
And lastly, thank you dear reader for choosing to spend a few hours getting to know C.C. and Beau. I hope they’ve managed to entertain you with their misbehaving.
To my wonderful, supportive husband who has accompanied me on this journey, patiently seeing to my computer problems and traveling with me to do research in the U.S., the Bahamas and the U.K. You are my hero.
Contents
Cover (#ufb0ce2cf-69e9-5553-98d9-c4411890b24c)
Blurb (#u77377af3-e8fa-5dea-b736-8c407b0ff496)
Title Page (#u6009ac3f-05b0-5425-8246-e638dab3f382)
Author Bio (#u0d6d978b-5933-5de6-96a9-fa77ed681b13)
Acknowledgement (#u2c375871-36d9-5395-afbf-2d9b88bc7f3d)
Dedication (#ud361621f-d848-5e08-90cf-44b54e3e2774)
Chapter 1 (#uc1b865b1-f8d3-5322-81b1-c880d3cbde24)
Chapter 2 (#u116e509c-b61d-53b8-a9a5-3529294ba34c)
Chapter 3 (#u93a703ba-7ff1-509e-8b1f-202fb0eff824)
Chapter 4 (#u522bd179-9868-5582-9aea-1647b4a42494)
Chapter 5 (#u3b5a561d-feeb-5edd-8bce-27f5807929e1)
Chapter 6 (#ue07a6a3b-fa93-5edf-aecf-37ef443d4639)
Chapter 7 (#u1cf2d4dc-9b6a-5b76-9239-b9a4a1d0ffec)
Chapter 8 (#uca2703d4-1bb2-54c2-a222-6bbd2e313586)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_be45112e-fbed-528a-8222-cf6c6d6281e2)
London, England, 1864
Captain Beauford Tollier knew the glue-like qualities of trouble. The stuff collected on him like burrs on wool socks. Over the years he’d devised a somewhat reliable rule—trouble avoided was trouble contained.
Hence, when the first two letters arrived, he prudently tossed them into the fire. With the third, however, he let the note linger in his fingers a moment too long. Long enough for the vanilla and honeysuckle perfume to seep into his senses. Long enough for him to notice the elegant, swirling penmanship. And long enough to read the large purple letters emblazoned across the back:
“PROMISING THE HIGHEST REWARDS AND BENEFITS.”
Trouble.
Yet here he stood at the designated fountain in London’s Cremorne Pleasure Gardens. In front of him, horns trumpeted a polka in the tall Chinese bandstand. Below, hundreds of colorful lamps shimmered over the dance platform where seemingly half of London bobbed and weaved.
Beau leaned against a flagpole and opened his pocket watch—eleven p.m.—the appointed time. Where was the mysterious letter writer signed only as C.C.?
Bells suddenly jangled in a nearby arcade. Tension riveted his spine. Spies often set traps with enticing words. But the letter’s mystery and its author’s persistence had tweaked his infernal curiosity.
Tapping his foot, he peered about the swarms of festive patrons milling around him. He shouldn’t be here. His return to England was to be a new start. He’d made a vow—if he survived the Yankee prison he would reunite with his brothers and change his life. Still, anticipation buzzed through his veins.
He flicked open his program, scanned it and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Families still left at dusk. Now only roistering men and women remained. Save for a novel act or two, a dozen years hadn’t altered the variety of amusements and death-defying feats. Hot air balloons, operettas, circuses and tightrope walkers still entertained. He yawned—child’s play, really. Little could rival the excitement of blockade-running.
In the distance, a steam calliope whistled a merry tune. Aromas of coffee and hot grog tugged his attention to the outdoor café where flashy women ringed dainty tables. He brushed his hand over his jacket pocket and felt the note crinkle under his fingertips. Could one of those women be the mysterious letter writer?
“Dawdling won’t get you tuppence here. If you want one o’ ’em, ask her for a dance. Then negotiate.”
Beau flinched at the strange voice. With all the noise and commotion surrounding him, he hadn’t noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen step to his side. He narrowed his eyes on them.
The mustachioed fellow rattled on, “Got to exert yourself. That’s the way of it here at these pleasure gardens.” He motioned toward the crowded dance platform where a sea of hats and bonnets and every kind of suit and gown imaginable bounced about in something resembling more of a bacchanal than a polka.
“The tarts here do not solicit acquaintance. Got to be asked,” his friend said and adjusted his bowler hat.
Rockets burst overhead and exploded through the mist into flowering streams of silver. Beau’s sinews seized. Ghostly images of flying shrapnel and live shell fell all around him. “Take cover!” gurgled in his throat. He clutched the flagpole, gasped for air, pulled at his cravat and fought the panic rioting inside.
The man with the mustache stared, eyes bulging. “N-not that one o’ ’em wouldn’t be thrilled to accommodate a f-fine bloke such as yourself. Not to worry. London’s trollops are a friendly sort. That’s just how it’s done here at Cremorne.”
Beau dragged in desperate breaths. Even with the cool fall air floating in off the Thames, the boom of fireworks made him break into a sweat. Frustration boiled in his gullet. He’d come here to find out what ‘Rewards and Benefits’ meant, not fend off his lingering battle demons.
After nearly fifty runs through the blockade he’d lost his nerve, quite effectively ending his blockade-running career. Fortunately, he’d saved a tidy sum, but the money wouldn’t last. Even an earl’s third son needed to keep up appearances. With any luck, the letter writer would offer generous pay for legitimate, peaceful work. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?
Heart still pounding, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket. “Blast!” He yanked it out again. The paper cut him! He knew better than to allow an infernal letter to tempt his curiosity. A more superstitious mariner would take it as a sign. He should leave.
Vacillating, he rubbed his stinging finger and studied the men. They didn’t seem dodgy enough to have sent the letter, but they were too friendly. He didn’t like friendly. And what made them think he didn’t know London? Was it his tan? He needed to get rid of them. “Perhaps you could show me how one procures…a tart.”
The bowler-hatted man gave him a crooked smile. “All right. It’s not so difficult. Remember, they got to make a living. Pick out one you fancy, be polite and ask.” He tipped his hat toward several women sitting at a nearby table. One smiled back. He soon disappeared with the woman into the mass whirling around the bandstand.
His friend twiddled his mustache and grinned. “Good on him. See? Easy. That’s how it’s done.”
Beau checked his pocket watch…six minutes past eleven. The letter writer was late. Patience had never been his virtue, but tardiness nearly gave him fits. The last time someone kept him waiting he’d been forced to confess to a lie to save his crew and was nearly hanged.
A ticklish skitter climbed his torso. Another grazed his face. He slowly peered around. Union spies had trailed him before. He’d been shocked by the amount of intelligence his nemesis, Union Navy Commander Rives, presented at his trial. Rives promised a bullet to the brain if he ever saw him again. Enough. Time to leave.
“Captain Tollier?”
The soft American accent pinched a raw nerve. He lurched around toward the woman’s voice. Dear God in Heaven. Fireworks exploded overhead in the grand finale. All Beau heard was a distant ringing.
Diamond lights sparkled in the large, dark-lashed eyes gazing up at him. Tight sable ringlets framed creamy skin. High cheekbones lent strength to a comely heart-shaped face. A thin, straight little nose tipped up with just a trace of determination. And her lips, oh, her full, soft lips were made to bedevil a man’s imagination.
At first he thought her a delicate maiden. In the next instant, she pursed those lovely lips ever so slightly to reveal an edge and maturity that hinted older. And with closer examination, her charming womanly curves suggested older as well. Surely this spectacular creature couldn’t be the C.C.
Stunned, he couldn’t respond, only watch her study his face and give him a smile—a very pretty smile—white teeth, a dimple on her soft left cheek. The glamour of it spurred stirrings he’d not felt in nearly a year.
“Oh dear, I must have been mistaken. Terribly sorry.” She turned to walk away.
An elbow dug into his side. The mustachioed man shot him a look of disbelief and gave a quick nod in her direction.
Rubbing his rib, Beau’s mind finally snapped into gear. “May I help you, miss?”
She turned back. “If you aren’t Captain Tollier, then no. I’m very sorry to bother you.”
Curiosity wrestled with uncertainty. She couldn’t have written the letter, could she? Stunning women made very beguiling spies, yet something about her didn’t quite fit the part. Sweeping his hat from his head he smiled, “And if I were he?”
“Then you’d know who you were. Do you know who you are?”
He couldn’t decide if her tone held a joke or condescension.
American women. They spoke the same language, for the most part, but if he wasn’t mistaken, this one’s cheekiness included a subtle challenge.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustached fellow angle his arm for another shot to his ribs.
Beau quickly stepped to the side. “If I should happen to make his acquaintance, who might I say is enquiring?” He flashed her his dazzling smile. The one that usually brought blushes to even the most hardened old harridans.
A graceful brow rose.
