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At the time, Beau considered Lady R. the most comely of young women. He’d felt deep sympathy for her story that Lord Rockford only married her to keep up appearances. She’d been left to ‘rot’ at his elegant country home for a year while he attended the House of Lords in London.
She and Beau were twined together in the huge four-poster bed when Lord Rockford arrived home.
On seeing them, the incensed lord put all his weight into beating him. “You filthy little bastard. You’re no better than your mother. I’ll have you in jail for your efforts!”
Then he began shouting obscenities at Lady R., grabbed and slapped her.
“You hypocrite!” she screamed. “You claimed you loved me, but you have two mistresses in London! I’ve had you investigated. You keep them in fine style while you leave me on this desolate old farm. If you forsake me for another…two others, then I shall do the same!”
“The devil you will!” Rockford roared.
Belatedly, Beau realized he’d been the instrument to exact revenge on her husband.
Lord Rockford marched over, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the bedroom door and threw him from the room, naked as a newborn.
The next day, on a break from his studies at Grancliffe Hall, Beau happened to gaze out the window to see Lord Rockford stomping down the front steps. Shortly thereafter, he was summoned to the library. On the corner of his father’s desk sat Beau’s neatly folded clothes. The very ones he’d shed in Lord Rockford’s bedroom.
His father glowered at him and wordlessly stabbed a finger toward the pile of clothes. Profound disapproval wrinkled his face. Something flickered in his eyes that even then Beau recognized as the last straw. More disturbing still was the resignation on his face.
All summer Beau had been studying with Greek and Latin tutors to prepare him for Divinity studies. Several weeks later, he found himself a midshipman in the Royal Navy.
“Are you quite all right, Captain?” C.C. asked. “You look as though you’ve a touch of motion sickness.”
“I’d forgotten why it’s taken me so long to return to the family pile. It finally occurred to me—individuals continue to coerce me into leaving before I’d planned.”
Plutarch, the grouchy little cur, now sprawled on the seat between her and her maid. A small leather-bound journal lay in C.C.’s lap. Jewels sparkled on her purple fountain pen. She returned to jotting down words and numbers in purple ink.
Without looking up, she added, “We can stop, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air, if it would make you more comfortable.”
“I’ll be all right,” he growled. “I’ve suffered worse at sea.” He watched her long, slender fingers grasp the pen. Something didn’t look right.
“You’re a left-hander?”
Her writing arm jerked like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. Pink flared on her cheeks. She carefully capped her pen and slid it into her reticule. “My parents were not remiss in attempting to cure me of my disorder. I am proficient with both hands. Sitting as we are, it’s easier to write with my left.”
Cure her disorder? He’d heard some parents considered it such. Left-handedness, he’d been told, was inborn like blue-green eyes and blond hair. Clearly it still shamed her.
Beau shifted his gaze to the maid. C.C. had appeared concerned about discussing certain topics in front of her. Did she only keep information from this woman or was C.C. reserved with everyone? Like a ship’s captain, she certainly seemed to have command over her servants.
The memory of their expert loading of the carriages surfaced. Understanding finally struck. Somewhat a veteran of quick getaways himself, he realized their rapid departure couldn’t have been accomplished had C.C.’s attendants not already been packed and ready to go.
Dear God, the truth finally sank in. They’d all been waiting for her to corral him and strike a bargain. He’d been her objective all along. A chill crawled through him. While he’d been mesmerized by her beauty, seductive teasing and questions as to her sanity, she’d used more grit and audacity than a cold-eyed Caribbean pirate.
Their departure from Grancliffe Hall had been so rapid, he’d not had time to think or even ask questions. His stomach began to roll with tension. She’d said this was a mission to rescue her family. With the effective way in which she’d coerced an agreement from him, he doubted she’d reveal this voyage’s true purpose. Rich payoffs often included ulterior motives. And something about this journey didn’t smell right.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_19e5b0f9-2ef0-5817-9f38-1270de60555a)
C.C. breathed in the clean fragrance of beeswax and inwardly sighed as the innkeeper led them to their rooms. They’d finally made it halfway to London. She rubbed her aching temple. Sharing her new, well-appointed coach with the wily captain had been anything but comfortable.
The crafty-tongued rascal had presented a fine show of nonchalance, but clearly he felt threatened. All day he treaded the edges of propriety, alternately making her laugh and irritating her. Initially, she’d been embarrassed by her dog’s bad behavior. After the day she’d endured, she was now glad Fosco had the sense to bite him.
This could not go on. Somehow she had to find a middle ground. They’d a long journey ahead, and she suspected his annoying insinuations would escalate until he’d worked off some of his vexation.
“Will you join me for dinner, perhaps in half an hour?” she asked, right before the proprietor showed the captain to his room.
“Of course,” Beau said blandly.
She almost asked if he’d prefer a tray sent up. But they needed to build some sort of esprit de corps. It tired her to even think about parrying his sly verbal swordplay all the way to North Carolina.
Within half an hour she’d arranged for her servant’s meals, scraps for the dogs, a hasty cleanup and now sat at a quiet table in the corner of the dining room. Dark wood paneling, small vases of flowers and candlelight gave the room an ambiance made for intimate liaisons.
Even with the room’s warmth, a cold draft seemed to thread around her ankles. She’d never had an intimate meal with a man and certainly not at an inn. She peered around the half-filled room. Thank goodness no one looked familiar. A supper alone here with Captain Tollier would certainly set tongues wagging.
She clasped her hands in front of her, prayer-like. Perhaps a prayer or two might help. A possibility still existed that he might refuse to take her through the blockade. Hopefully, a supper alone would allow them more freedom to talk. Given his sly remarks today, the very thought of a private conversation with him sent butterflies flitting around her growling stomach.
By the time he entered the dining room her knuckles had turned white. He’d changed his shirt and raked his hair into place with what appeared to be fingers and water. Her jaw went slack. Few men could wear disheveled with so much appeal.
“Good evening, Captain,” she finally managed. “Please join me. I trust you found everything you needed in your room.”
“Yes, thank you.” He made an abbreviated bow and sat.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Since they’d arrived at the inn his mood had made a radical change from banter and barbs to taciturn contemplation.
After ordering, C.C. searched for an innocuous subject of conversation. The butterflies now seemed to have grown mallets for wings. “Did you ride much as a child?” She picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it into her glass of water, then tasted the mixture.
The captain’s long brows drew into mismatched furrows. He sipped his ale, slowly washed it around his mouth and licked the foam from his lips. Without preamble, he drawled, “What did you do that was so unforgivable they exiled you from New York City?”
Water caught in her throat and she nearly choked. “You don’t shy away from sensitive subjects, do you, Captain?” She coughed.
“I am merely following your lead of this morning. It’s been on the tip of my tongue all day. I gathered you might not want your maid overhearing. Since you seem to know so much about me, it would only be fair I know something of you.”
Pulling her kerchief from the wrist of her sleeve, she dabbed her lips. “And you go straight to the most disagreeable, darkest part. Must we start with such uncivil questions?”
“My apologies,” he said, although he didn’t look or sound all that apologetic. He ran his finger around the rim of his tankard. “I presume you did something more than dash down Broadway at high noon in nothing but your bonnet.”
Before she could jam her kerchief to her lips, a startled squeak escaped. She quickly glanced around the room. “I’m not proud of my actions at that time and never discuss them.”
One side of his mouth quirked; an evil twinkle flashed. “Never?”
She clenched her teeth to keep from laughing. The man’s shocking, devilish way of asking questions tickled when it should have stung.
He leaned forward, his voice ironic. “Do you think I’m in any position to judge you?”
She drew in an uneasy breath. He spoke the truth. As painful and embarrassing as her mistakes had been, from what she knew of Captain Tollier and his lengthy résumé of misconduct, her list of folly might not give him even a twitch of discomfort.
He leaned back placidly, awaiting her answer.
For ten years she’d kept those secrets locked away. She didn’t need to tell him. It probably wasn’t even wise. Staying in her old room at Grancliffe reminded her how long it had been. One-third of her life had passed since. But if revealing one or two misdeeds would establish some common ground with him and help her family, then so be it.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Clearly her mind and body disagreed. “Let’s discuss something else. It’s old history and not pertinent to the voyage ahead of us.”
He leaned in, his jaw hardening. “I disagree. It is highly relevant to our journey.” His voice took on a tone of implacable determination, and his bright aqua-blue eyes intensified like they had in the long gallery. She had no doubt he’d used similar intimidation on stubborn crewmembers to great effect.
Though he’d not said it aloud, the implication was clear. If she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he might not take her through the blockade. Time was running out. If he backed out now she didn’t know what she’d do.
Her butterflies flew into a hammering frenzy.
She took a big gulp of water, gazed at her kerchief and began working it into knots. “At nineteen I was one of the most sought-after debutantes in New York City. She cut a quick glance his direction. “I was also a very spoiled, privileged only child, and extremely sheltered from the ways of the world. Back then I had an unrealistic optimism and naïveté that I could have anything I wanted. My blunders ruined my reputation and that of my parents.”
The knotted kerchief bit into her hand. Untying it, she checked his expression. The captain had eased back into his chair, but his jaw hadn’t softened. The slight pursing of his lips and intense gaze indicated he was waiting for her to continue.
She took another big gulp of water. “In those days I was the perfect hostess and lady. My mother was a stickler for propriety and respectability, you see. When gentlemen called, I made polite conversation, tried to put them at ease, patiently listened to them, and always took great pains to gently send them on their way. There were plenty of gold diggers to be sure, but my parents were a little surprised when I stubbornly refused to consider any of the decent, eligible, constant young men who begged my attention.”
The captain shifted in his seat and raised the tankard to eye her over its rim. His gaze became an even more intense blue, compelling her to explain, “Making a spectacular match is the goal of any well brought up young lady.”
“Of course.”
“It may sound boastful, but back then I could have had first pick of any one of the best young men. Instead, I became embroiled in a very public…love triangle.” Her disgust at the memory and what she’d admitted made her want to crawl under the table.
“Did the gentlemen kill each other?” he asked blandly.
Her stays bit into her sides as she squelched a laugh. “Nooo,” she whispered. “He chose the other woman.” Her tense throat muscles strained against attempts to pull in air. When finally able to breathe again, she searched the captain’s face. His expression had turned to polite, courteous indifference, tending toward boredom.
“Did you kill her?” he asked, deadpan.
The question so surprised her, a high titter escaped before she could clap a hand over her mouth. While she struggled to curb her laughter, he studied her.
“You killed him?”
His question, delivered with such casualness, brought forth an even louder peal. Such ridiculousness seemed to pry open a small door. Years of pent-up secrets and lonely regrets bubbled toward the exit and fought her attempts to curb her amusement. The sudden loss of control nearly sent her off her chair into a heap of hysterics on the dining room floor. She hugged her middle with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. Even so, with each forward rock, mirth escaped through her nose.
A few diners in the nearly empty room looked up from their meals and began to stare.
Captain Tollier tipped his tankard to his mouth and gazed at her with dispassionate calm.
She took another big gulp of water to squelch the giggles. “No, Captain, I did not kill him either.”
He looked skeptical, but a gleam formed in his eye. “There was blood, though, lots of blood?”
She bit a knuckle.
Tsking, he whispered, “No blood at all?”
“I did not say that.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Now tell me the particulars.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did you use your fists, a knife or a gun?”
She shook her head. The inner wounds had healed, but as she’d suspected, discussing how they got there threatened their reopening. “Have you ever been in a raging hurricane, and the only thing you could do was find a way to outlast it. More than anything, I now regret how my naïve, ignorant actions harmed more than myself.”
His aqua-blue gaze deepened to cobalt. “Are you still in love with him?”
She stifled a groan. “Dear me. It’s been ten years. I’ve no idea what’s become of him. By now he’s probably fat and bald, with a chronic case of gout and a passel of brats.”
The captain sat in silence, appearing to mull things over. His teeth worked back and forth over one side of his lower lip. “I’m of a mind we can’t choose the ones we love. As cruel as it feels, I think they are put in our path to lay raw the parts of ourselves that could not be changed or understood any other way.”
“Why, Captain Tollier, I did not realize you were such a sanguine philosopher.”
A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “You seem surprised. If things had gone as otherwise planned, you might have been sitting here confessing to a man of the cloth. Fortunately, I was forced down a path more suited to my…talents.”
***
Once they’d finished their meal, Beau followed C.C. up the staircase, still thinking about her admission. Doubtless, she’d struggled through the condensed version of a much longer story. Her difficulty discussing her scandal said pain and remorse had buried the details deep. Secrets locked inside for so long tended to rust in place. Sometimes they had to be chipped away bit by bit. Still, her description of events, though scandalous, didn’t sound as bad as he might have expected, and they hardly justified exile. There had to be more to the tale. What wasn’t she telling him?
He fully believed she’d been the leading debutante in New York and could have chosen any of the best young men. Even acting a nutter, men continued to pursue her. So why did she waste her time in a love triangle with another woman over the same man?
For her lapse in judgment, she not only didn’t get the man she wanted, she’d also been shipped off to rusticate in another country. Such drastic measures often came with an untimely pregnancy. While his brother advised him against getting mixed up with C.C., he’d not even hinted she’d been with child. Could this have been another delicate situation his family concealed?
When they reached the second floor, the words slipped out. “Did he get you with child?”
C.C. gasped and quickly peered around the empty corridor. “Of course not!” she hissed. “That is the most brazen question anyone has ever asked!”
“Maybe so, but somehow you know of my mistress, my son…and their deaths. Shouldn’t I be equally well informed about you?”
“So you retaliate with insult, Captain?”
“More along the lines of establishing a baseline of knowledge about one another.” C.C. probably didn’t know how lucky she’d been. Her lover’s lack of fecundity prevented even more despair. Clearly the scandal still hurt and humiliated. But admitting she regretted deeds that devastated her life and that of others had moved him. It took real courage to own up to one’s mistakes. He knew well that familiar territory.
No wonder she kept most men at a distance. He’d be willing to bet the man in her love triangle had pursued her until she’d finally weakened. Beau had known men who’d made sport of making certain unattainable women fall in love with them.
They used them badly and then boasted of their conquest while tossing them aside. For some reason, knowing of her internal scars gave her external perfection more dimension. Life’s knocks had forged a hard center, and he was curious to know how many more layers lay between.
Tenderness wound through his heart. Admiration for C.C. had taken root in the oddest of places. Places he’d never considered romantic or even desirable between a man and woman. Yet at this moment, he felt a kinship. Like him, she’d endured disastrous, life-changing blunders and mustered the strength to admit her remorse.
Upon reaching her door, Beau leaned in for a kiss.
C.C. straightened abruptly. “Good night, Captain.” The curt note in her voice and unyielding body language reined in his amorous advance.
Somewhat crestfallen, he made a slight bow. “Good night, madam.”
While unlocking his door, an unmistakable chill strafed Beau’s shoulders. Peering behind him, a rather nondescript fellow climbed the stairs. It was the man from the supper room who’d been scribbling in a journal over dinner. On reaching the top step, the bloke abruptly turned the opposite direction down the hall.
Though the man had given him no real reason, years of keeping track of his surroundings stamped his visage into Beau’s memory. There was something very Pinkerton about the fellow. The Union hired such men to spy on the Confederacy. Known Yankee sympathizers had set up shop in Liverpool with a goal to stop shipments flowing into the south.
The idea of someone trailing him to this outside of nowhere seemed ludicrous. But prison had taught him spies were very real and quite like dung on a shoe. Even though you thought you’d scraped them off, their stench continued to follow you around.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_0f4e4a06-d9f3-55e1-b867-a6c96ca11d0d)
They arrived late the next evening at C.C.’s aunt’s London townhome. By now, Beau couldn’t wait to make enquiries. Their bargain was either a windfall or a disaster and he was determined to discover which.
