by Merry Farmer
From his perspective in the line, Blake was able to keep an eye on Dorchester, who was just a few men down the line from him.
When his partner was within hearing range, he asked, “Which one is your lady’s maid?” The comment about her lady’s maid hadn’t seemed odd when she first mentioned it—the maid was no doubt acting as her chaperone—but now that he had noticed all those on the dance floor were young, he had his doubts.
“Third one down on the right,” Barbara replied. “Dancing with the tall gentleman,” she added, obviously admiring the man Blake knew to be Lord Dorchester. “I wouldn’t have invited her to attend with me, but it is a masked ball, and who would know she’s a maid?” she commented.
Blake was about to admit he wasn’t a member of the peerage, but thought better of it. The name ‘Wycliff’ had just made its way to his addled brain. “I should think the daughter of Sir Peter Wycliff would be allowed any companion she wished for this ball,” he replied, hoping he had guessed correctly.
Barbara’s eyes widened behind the mask. “So you won’t tell anyone? About my lady’s maid, I mean?”
Blake blinked behind his own mask. “I’m a pirate. I shan’t tell a soul.”
She grinned and was on to the next partner before she could respond. When they were once again paired, she asked, “Where do you live, Mr. Blake?”
He was tempted to mention Picadilly—he kept an apartment there for the periods of leave he was in London—but instead he said, “On my ship. The Molly.”
She giggled again, the musical sound causing an unusual reaction in his nether region.
What was it about Miss Barbara Wycliff that had his body behaving as if she were some doxy he had hired for the night? She was a lady! A miss, really, since her father wasn’t a member of Parliament. He was only a commoner, as was she.
But he was wealthy.
“You think I’m jesting?” he teased. “Where do you live?”
Barbara had to delay her response when she was sent whirling from his hold to the man next to him. When they finally rejoined in the dance, she said, “Mayfair. Here in Park Lane.”
Blake nodded his understanding. She was the daughter of a baronet. Entirely out of his league. Which he would have been glad to accept, except...
He wasn’t.
When the dance came to an end, and she was once again facing him, he leaned down. His lips covered hers in a quick kiss before they moved lower and kissed the back of her silk-gloved hand.
Entirely inappropriate. Very scandalous. Unforgivable.
Except no one seemed to notice but her.
She was staring up at him with the oddest expression before she was whisked away by another gentleman for the next dance.
Blake stood staring at where she’d been standing for several seconds, his attempt to get his body under control failing miserably.
What the hell had just happened?
He glanced around, sure Sir Peter was about to pummel him into the dance floor. He’d just kissed the baronet’s daughter in front of everyone at a ton ball.
But no one seemed to have noticed.
Couples were lining up for the next dance, though, acting as if he wasn’t even there.
Blake wandered in a daze until he was in the area where the wallflowers were gathered. A few dared glances in his direction, as if they hoped he might honor them with a dance.
He was just about to oblige one of them when he remembered the reason he was there.
Dorchester.
He cursed under his breath, and his gaze scanned the dance floor. When he didn’t spot Dorchester among those performing the spirited Scottish reel, he headed out the nearest ballroom door and hurried through the wide halls, glancing left and right in the event the baron might have ducked into a nearby room.
When Blake didn’t find him in the library or the study—he had to apologize profusely for having interrupted a liaison between the Marquess and Marchioness of Morganfield—he returned to the ballroom.
Thinking perhaps Dorchester might be in the gardens, he made his way to the back of the ballroom and out the French doors. From the flags leading to the famous Weatherstone gardens, Blake searched for the baron. Given the number of couples engaged in all manner of naughty behavior—and the number of alcoves in the hedges in which they could engage in naughty behavior—it took him some time to determine that Lord Dorchester was not among them.
He felt relief when he realized Little Bo Peep wasn’t, either.
Back in the ballroom, he heaved a sigh of relief at finding Little Bo Beep dancing.
He groaned when he saw it was with Lord Dorchester.
How had he lost track of them?
Watching from the sidelines, he wondered at his reaction. What was it about Miss Barbara Wycliff that had him feeling so possessive? As if he had been the first one to find her, so he thought only he should be entitled to dance with her? To covet her? To expect that he would be the only one allowed to kiss her?
“Thank the gods a waltz is next,” a gentleman to his right said, although not necessarily to Blake.
“Followed by a trip to the supper room,” a man wearing a jester’s hat and mask said to his left. “Lord Weatherstone’s spreads are always the best.”
“Agreed. In fact, I may skip the waltz and go eat,” the first man said.
Blake blinked as both men left his company and headed for the supper room.
When the dance set ended and Bo Beep bowed to Lord Dorchester, Blake moved in and lifted her hand to his arm.
“Blake!” she said with a huge smile.
The baron’s brows furrowed, but he made no complaint and instead stepped back. “I will come for you at two o’clock in the afternoon, my lady,” he said before bowing and then giving Blake a dagger-filled look.
Blake ignored the baron’s expression and turned his attention on Barbara. “Will you waltz with me?”
Her eyes widened behind the mask. “I’ve never danced a waltz,” she said with a shake of her head.
Determined to have her company for the next half-hour, Blake allowed a shrug. “It’s an easy dance to learn. I will teach you,” he said, just as the opening strains of the dance began. “Follow my lead.”
Barbara gave him an uncertain glance but did as she was told, placing a white-gloved hand on his shoulder and allowing him to support her other with his upraised hand. A few steps into the dance, and she was soon performing the simple routine.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” he said as he led them into the circle of other dancers.
“Only because you’re such a strong lead,” she argued.
“Your costume is perfection. Even without the sheep.”
“I almost brought my sheepdog, but I didn’t think he would do well in such a crush,” she replied. “Lord Weatherstone might have banished him to the gardens.”
Blake grinned. “He would have us all herded onto the dance floor.” He glanced around, realizing nearly everyone was dancing. “Much like this waltz seems to have done.” Upon his next turn, though, he noticed Dorchester glaring at him from where he stood against a wall. “How well do you know Lord Dorchester?”
Barbara seemed to have difficulty with her next few steps before she recovered. “I do not. At least, I had not met him before this evening,” she amended.
Frowning, Blake dared another glance in the baron’s direction. “And yet he is coming for you at two o’clock?” he countered.
“For a ride in the park, yes,” Barbara acknowledged. “I receive so few offers, I feel as if I really must accept every one that comes my way.”
Blake nearly lost his place in the dance. “Surely you jest,” he countered. “And if you do not—”
“I do not.”
“—Then please reconsider his invitation. He is under investigation by the very highest of authorities here in England,” Blake said in a hoarse whisper. “Your virtue could be at risk.”
He watched as her eyes widened behind the mask, almost as if
she wanted her virtue to be at risk.
Damnation!
“Surely he cannot be all bad,” she replied, her manner suggesting she thought Blake was teasing her.
Blake dared another glance in Lord Dorchester’s direction. “Perhaps not all,” he agreed, noting how the wallflowers had begun fluttering their fans in the baron’s direction. Dorchester looked miserable.
Finding he couldn’t feel the least bit sorry for Dorchester, though, Blake turned his attention back on his dance partner. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
She nodded. “I am, thanks to you,” she replied as her gaze settled on her lady’s maid. The young woman was engaged in a rather spirited conversation with Lord Dorchester, almost as if she were scolding the baron. “And you?”
Blake allowed a huge smile. “Likewise. Perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to the supper when this dance has ended?”
Barbara’s face seemed to fall. “I have already told Lord Dorchester he may have that honor,” she said in a most apologetic tone. “Perhaps at the next ball?”
Trying hard to hide his disappointment, Blake finally gave a shake of his head. “I must depart for the Channel in the morning,” he replied. “A matter of national security.”
Her eyes once again widening behind the mask, Barbara was about to ask for more information when the music ended and Lord Dorchester appeared at her elbow.
“My lady?” he said before he whisked her off in the direction of the supper room, not giving Blake a chance to even bow to Little Bo Peep.
Blake bristled at losing his grip on the baronet’s daughter. She had been so easy to speak with. So easy to dance with. He had already decided she probably wasn’t easy on the eyes—otherwise, why would she have worn a mask that nearly covered her entire face?—but her delectable body and engaging company more than made up for any deficiencies she might have in appearance.
Watching as Lord Dorchester led the lust of his life into the supper room, Blake took up a position just outside the arched doorway, determined to intercept Bo Peep when she moved to leave. Perhaps he could secure permission to send a letter whilst on his next mission.
Permission to pay a call on her when he returned to London.
Whenever the Molly returned to Wapping, which wouldn’t be until his crew had located and arrested the French privateer who was apparently flooding Suffolk with illegal brandy wine.
Blake hung around the refreshment table for a time, his gaze trained on the entrance to the supper room. He spotted a number of familiar aristocrats helping themselves to the aspic and Yorkshire pudding, to the strawberries and sliced beef. Although his stomach grumbled, he resisted the urge to join them lest he miss Barbara taking her leave of the supper room.
When the orchestra played the opening strains of the next dance, several couples emerged from the supper room followed by a tidal wave of aristocrats.
At no point did he see Barbara. Nor did he see Lord Dorchester or even Barbara’s lady’s maid leave the supper room.
Sure the room was nearly empty, Blake made his way in and searched in vain. No Barbara. No Dorchester. No lady’s maid.
He frowned, noting there were two other exits out of the supper room, although both led to the same hallway. He glanced up and down the hall, a hint of panic gripping him when he didn’t spy his prey strolling the Aubusson carpet lining the hall.
Thinking Little Bo Peep might have gone to the gardens for air, he went back out and discovered a similar situation to what he had seen earlier—but no Barbara. No Dorchester.
Back in the ballroom, his gaze scanned the crowd.
His search for Barbara Wycliff proved futile.
Even her lady’s maid was no longer in the ballroom.
The retiring room, perhaps?
Daring a glance in and hearing only gasps of protest, he quickly closed the door and heaved a sigh of frustration.
Even Dorchester seemed to have gone missing.
Disgusted by his failure to keep tabs on his Bo Peep and Lord Dorchester, Blake took his leave of Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.
Just in time to see Lord Dorchester’s coach pull away from the curb and head out at a rather unsafe speed. A second later, and Sir Peter Wycliff’s town coach followed.
What the hell?
Hailing a hackney proved easier than he expected, but given the other coaches’ head starts, Blake’s driver was unable to determine the direction they might have taken once they had reached Oxford Street.
Angry at himself for having lost his prey—and Little Bo Peep—Blake had the driver take him to Wapping and the wharf closest to where his ship was docked.
He had a letter to write to Lord Chamberlain.
An Unexpected Assignment
The following morning
“Did you wear the cutlass to the ball last night?” Nelson asked as he gave the captain a cursory glance. From the moment Blake Russell had told him he was attending a costume ball, the first mate thought to tease him. “Surprised the butler would have let you into his mansion.”
Blake lifted the curved sword to one side, pretending he intended to bring it down on Nelson’s green skull-capped head. “Not only did I wear it, but I’m glad I did. A young lady dressed as Little Bo Beep agreed to dance wth me.”
Nelson’s bushy eyebrows waggled. “What did she do with her sheep while she danced with you?”
“Left ’em in the gardens,” Blake replied, playing along with his first mate’s teasing. He sobered and struck a pose meant to strike fear in the hearts of anyone who dare board his ship—or take command of it.
The first mate cocked an eyebrow. “Ye certainly look like a swarthy pirate. Are you thinking to behead someone?”
Blake gave Nelson a quelling glance. Given his dark hair, broad chest, beefy hands, and the permanent tan he had acquired whilst at sea, Blake had the ‘swarthy’ in spades. And the seadog had over two decades of experience as a crewman. “I was hoping to strike a bit of fear into the miscreant who thinks to take command of my ship,” he replied. “I cannot believe Fitz challenged me last night when I boarded.” He pulled on his black leather vest, and then considered donning the gold rings and chains that helped to complete his ensemble as the captain of a pirate ship. They had certainly worked well at the Weatherstone ball.
Nelson rolled his own eyes. “Fitz was three sheets to the wind, I tell you. He won’t even remember he challenged you. And just why the hell would you attend a costume ball?”
Blake rolled his eyes. “It was an assignment, which did not go well. Although...” He paused a moment, remembering that he did enjoy some of the evening. “I could get used to attending balls featuring a free supper. The lobster patties were especially good,” he added, deciding not to mention that they were the only food he’d had a chance to sample. “Tell me, what got Fitz’ knickers in a bunch?”
His first mate shook his head. “You weren’t on board ’afore ten. Said you missed curfew and were therefore ‘unfit to command,’ I believe were his words.”
Furrowing a brow, Blake thought the sailing master might have had a point. He had missed curfew—ten o’clock on the nights before they were due to sail—by over three hours.
“Nothing will come of the challenge,” Nelson continued. “Besides, none of the crew will vote for him.” Having just learned the week before that Blake neither owned the Molly nor had been—or ever would be—a pirate, Nelson was still feeling a bit bamboozled.
How had he not known?
“They had better not,” Blake groused. This particular crew was made up almost entirely of men of his choosing, and although some had worked on ships owned by pirates in their past—and most of them for the prior captain of the Molly—all knew that the Molly was more of a ship of opportunity than an usurper of other ships’ bounties.
Unless those bounties were illegal. Then they were fair game.
Nelson gave a shrug. He had served on the Molly for several years under the prior captain, Jack Crawley, and had never s
uspected Jack was anything other than what he appeared to be.
A man of opportunity.
One whose opportunities resulted in generous pay and shared spoils for those under his command. Nelson had purchased a seaside cottage in Yorkshire with what he earned on just two long tours with the former captain. Someday, when he was done sailing, he would retire to the cottage. In the meantime, it provided a home for his widowed sister and two nephews.
As for the former captain, Crawley had worn the black costume of a pirate ship’s captain with ease. Adorned with gold chains and sporting a gold-capped tooth, Crawley really did strike fear in the hearts of those whose ships they boarded. Smugglers and competing pirates knew to steer clear of the Molly, lest their cargo be seized.
Smugglers were arrested. Liquors were confiscated. Pirates were put out of business.
And then, a most unfortunate incident occurred.
While on a mission to locate a missing duke in the Cyclades, Captain Jack Crawley met a young woman and fell in love.
Not unfortunate for Nelson, of course. Crawley’s retirement allowed for advancement. Nelson was now the first mate.
Nor was it unfortunate for the duke, who was found and returned—unharmed—to British shores. But for the crew of the Molly, it meant saying their farewells to a man whom they had grown to like and respect over the years he had commanded the ship.
Blake Russell, the first mate at the time, had taken command at the insistence of Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain, the head of the Foreign Office. Meanwhile, the crew had been led to believe Blake had purchased the Molly from Jack.
No one suspected the ship was really the property of the British Navy.
Blake had also taken command because he was the only other crewman who worked for the Foreign Service. Nelson also knew that Jack Crawley now went by a completely different moniker when on English soil.
