A Warriner to Seduce Her

by Virginia Heath

  Just before the lights dimmed, she experienced the oddest sense someone was watching her and instinctively dropped her eyes to the stalls below where they locked with the intense blue gaze of Mr Jacob Warriner. There was a wry smile on his outrageously handsome face that did peculiar things to her insides. They heated. As did her flesh, while her tummy fizzed with unwanted bubbles of excitement which were surprisingly reminiscent of those in the heady champagne. Then the lights had faded, casting him in silhouette, and the odd yet special moment was gone.

  As much as she adored the second half of the opera, she was constantly aware of him. Every time she glanced down, he was gazing back at her in the darkness. Flirting with his eyes in a more tempting way than he had with his practised words two nights before. She made a half-hearted attempt at ignoring him when the performance ended, but that stare drew her like a moth to a flame. A secret smile played at the corners of his mouth when their gazes briefly met and, before she could turn away, he pressed a kiss on the tips of his fingers and then blew it towards her. Thank goodness nobody else appeared to witness it in the melee exiting the theatre, nor did anyone comment on the ferocious blush which decided to bloom on her cheeks in response to his scandalous lack of propriety in a crowded public place.

  After that, and to her great chagrin, Fliss had practically floated home. The carriage ride had been silent. Her aunts were softly snoring from the after-effects of all the champagne they had consumed and Uncle Crispin made no effort at engaging her in conversation, so she had stared out of the window up at the stars, trying and failing not to notice that they twinkled like Jacob Warriner’s eyes. Now she was lying on her bed, recalling every nuance of the evening, more awake than she had ever been in the small hours of the morning.

  Yet thinking about him was not constructive. Twinkling eyes aside, he was a rake through and through and Fliss was too savvy to be seduced by a handsome rogue. At Sister Ursuline’s, she had seen the consequences of seduction first-hand. Ruined reputations, scandal, broken hearts, divided families and, on more occasions than she cared to count, inconvenient pregnancies. A succession of wayward girls had spent their confinement hidden at the convent and then were forced to say heart-wrenching goodbyes to those innocent babes when the girls were dragged back into society by their parents. Sister Ursuline always found those cherubs good, loving homes, but Fliss still thought each incident a tragedy and one that could have been easily avoided if the young lady had the wherewithal to resist the scoundrel in the first place.

  While she knew that not all men were so inclined, regrettably all the male role models in her life were also scoundrels. Her father had been one through and through. He might have done the decent thing and married her mother when he had got her into trouble, but from the moment he had placed that ring on her finger he had abdicated all responsibility. Like all the men Fliss had encountered since, he was inherently untrustworthy and proved time and again to be an unreliable husband and father.

  Fliss had spent her formative years with her mother growing up in his crumbling house in the country, while he frittered away all the money in town. The only benefit to that situation was her mother was happy when there were a significant number of miles between her and her wastrel husband. Fliss rarely saw him and they conversed little when they did. Much like her fledgling relationship with Uncle Crispin.

  Perhaps one of these days she would meet a man who didn’t fit the mould? A selfless man whom she could truly depend upon in the same way she could always depend upon Sister Ursuline, and before that her mother. A man who would always be there for her. One who put his family above his own selfish needs. A man who absolutely adored her...

  And perhaps one day humans would fly. Both eventualities were as unlikely as the other. While she liked some men for their wit or their intelligence, found some interesting and wise, nothing would ever tempt her to want one all of her very own unless he measured up to the same exacting high standards of dependency Fliss set for herself. In most cases, experience had taught her the best you could hope for with a man was that he entertained you and had a back strong enough to lift heavy things. You didn’t need to marry them for either.

  Her uncle wasn’t proving her theory wrong. Already, after some serious thought, Fliss had come to the regrettable conclusion she didn’t like him at all. The only thing she had been able to truly ascertain was that he was dependably domineering and emotionless. She supposed the signs had been there all along, because she hadn’t heard hide nor hair of the man in years, but it still didn’t sit right to completely dislike the only blood relative she had in the world. Or half-blood at least. She had hoped to see bits of her mother in him, when in fact he behaved more like her uninterested and feckless father.

  After her mother had died, dear Papa had found having a grieving and ever-so-precocious ten-year-old daughter taxing, so had parcelled her off to Sister Ursuline’s School for Wayward Girls without so much as a backwards glance. She had never seen the man again.

  However, for years her childish heart had secretly hoped one day her uncle would come to rescue her and she had assumed for the longest time he was prevented from doing so because her father was still alive. Even after the demise of her sire, she continued to kindle the tiny flame of hope with regular missives to remind him she was still alive and still hoping. Still praying that he might miraculously become someone she could depend upon.

  It was only after she turned twenty-one that she stopped sending him an annual letter at Christmas, by which time she had embarked on her new life as a schoolmistress at the same school she had called home from eleven, and couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to feel anything other than mild disappointment any longer. Anything more for a virtual stranger was self-indulgent and Fliss much preferred to march onwards and upwards rather than wistfully glance behind.

  When his only letter finally came out of the blue, she had been surprised and dismissive. Something about it did not ring true and as she was well past the age of majority she was under no obligation to acquiesce to the odd request. She had been on the cusp of writing him a brief thank-you, but no-thank-you note when Sister Ursuline had intervened.

  A perpetual romantic soul at heart, Sister Ursuline was prone to see the good in all. Including feckless men—an odd trait for a woman who dealt with unwed and abandoned mothers, scandalously ruined young ladies and the most precocious and troublesome girls society had to offer. What if her mother had tasked her uncle with giving her a Season? And what if the poor man had been so financially embarrassed he could not do so until now? She deserved some adventure and it was only right and proper she met her only kin. While a dose of healthy scepticism was necessary in a young woman, Fliss was in danger of being an outright cynic. What was the harm of spending one month with her relative to find out which of them was right?

  It had only been a little over a week and she already had his measure. Uncle Crispin was detached, clearly didn’t give two figs about his only niece and seemingly only cared about what others thought of him. His fancy and no doubt expensive box at the opera had been purchased only so that others could be impressed. He had less interest in the actual opera than he did in Fliss. A decidedly good thing, else he might have seen Jacob Warriner’s scandalously blown kiss.

  Oh, for goodness sake! Stop thinking about that man! Now there was an untrustworthy, undependable libertine if ever there was one. Eminently likeable, yet as dangerous to a young lady’s virtue as it was possible to be. But it was too late. Her body was already misbehaving. The rapid heartbeat, the fluttering pulse, the overwhelming suffusion of heat...

  Good lord, she was hot.

  Fliss flung the covers off and threw out her arms and legs to cool them. After five minutes, during which time the unwelcome warmth did not subside, she flung her legs over the side of the mattress and padded over to her window. A bit of cold February air was exactly what she needed to banish all thoughts of the dark-haired, blue-eyed r
ake who had lodged himself in her mind and stalwartly refused to leave.

  She cracked open the window and stood directly in the draught. The icy breeze was delightful, as were the goosebumps which instantly prickled her limbs. Anything that brought down her erratic temperature had to be a good thing. The trouble with living in a convent was there was a distinct shortage of young men. Fliss collided with them infrequently—at the assemblies or parties Sister Ursuline insisted all the girls attended to help them cope better with social situations—but not on a day-to-day basis. Therefore, it was difficult to make oneself completely immune to their charms. Familiarity breeds contempt, yet the opposite sparks interest. Her traitorous body was interested in the dashing Mr Warriner. Too interested. And that simply wouldn’t do.

  Somewhere below, she heard a door creak open, closely followed by the sound of the gravel crunching as someone walked down the garden path. More curious than scared, because everything about her uncle’s house was still strange, Fliss hid her nightgown-clad body behind the heavy curtain and peeked out through the glass. There was a man walking around the edge of the lawn. It was difficult to make out much in the pitch-black darkness without her spectacles, but from his silhouette he appeared to be wearing what looked like shabby workmen’s clothes.

  ‘Wait—we’re not done.’ Her uncle appeared, probably from the same door, although she couldn’t be certain. From his tone, he seemed angry. ‘Next week is not good enough!’

  The shabby man stopped in his tracks and slowly turned. Fliss squinted, but still could not discern his face. ‘It’s next week or not at all.’ He had a London accent. A common one. His coarse diction matched his attire. ‘I’ve other buyers, Rowley, and if you can’t wait someone else will happily take your place.’ He turned, but as Uncle Crispin came level with the Londoner, he grabbed the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘Tell them I’ll pay them double the usual. I need the goods now!’

  ‘Double. Treble. Even if you quadruple it I doubt it’ll make much difference. Dead men can’t spend. And the boss won’t like it if his cargo gets seized. He’s lost enough already this month. There are many new eyes along the water. I told you, this is not the time for haste.’

  ‘But you’re in haste for my money! This costs me. It costs me dearly, damn it, every time a shipment is late.’

  The man pulled his arm free with such force her uncle took several steps back, his posture wary. It made no difference, as the other man closed that distance quickly, grabbed his lapels and loomed over him menacingly.

  ‘Don’t get all brave on me, Rowley! If you don’t like the boss’s terms, then we’ve got plenty of others who’ll happily step into your fancy shoes. If you’re not our man...’

  ‘I’m your man. You know I’m your man. I’m doing my best for you and the boss...just like you asked.’ His voice came out a few octaves higher than usual and pathetically desperate. ‘I didn’t mean to complain... But I’ve made promises. People are relying on me. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  ‘You wait.’ The Londoner slowly uncurled his fingers from her uncle’s coat and made a great show of rearranging the lapels before he patted his head roughly. ‘Like a good boy.’ His gravelly voice sent involuntary chills though Fliss, her every instinct warning her he was a dangerous man. ‘Be ready.’ With that he left, disappearing into the shadows behind the shrubbery and into the night.

  Her uncle watched him leave, the clenched fists at his side evidence his temper was barely controlled, then he stalked back towards the house and she heard the angry slam of the door in his wake.

  It had been an odd exchange. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been a bad one. Dangerous, even. If her relationship with her uncle had been better, she might have gone downstairs and asked what was happening, enquired if he was all right, but Fliss knew he wouldn’t deign to confide in her. At best, he ignored her. If they spoke, he was curt and dismissive, or downright aloof. When she had first met him just a few short days ago, she had thought him a cold fish and he had done nothing in the time since to alter that opinion. If he was in trouble, then it was doubtless of his own making and therefore nothing to do with her. In a few weeks she’d be gone.

  Besides, there was no point in allowing her vivid imagination to run away with itself. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Uncle Crispin had met with that man.

  In secret.

  In the dead of night.

  Perhaps this was the way things were done in town? Having little experience of the world outside her sleepy part of Cumbria, much of the ways of the capital baffled her. And she was tired. It had been a long day. Why, only five minutes ago her silly mind had been conjuring up images of kisses with an untrustworthy rake, so clearly she wasn’t thinking entirely logically. Sleep would put a different perspective on things. A problem was always best considered when the mind was at its sharpest and had one of her charges at the convent confessed to Fliss the same emotion Fliss was currently feeling, with no other proof than the peculiar disquiet she was experiencing, she knew she would scoff and be dismissive of unsubstantiated flights of fancy conjured during the witching hour. She would send the girl to bed, which was exactly what she should do herself. With an uneasy feeling, she silently closed the window and crept back under the covers, certain sleep was considerably further away now than it had been a few minutes ago.

  * * *

  ‘Rowley has recently bought shares in another small shipping company. The Excise Men have boarded every one of their boats in the last three weeks the moment they have docked in British ports and performed thorough searches. There is no contraband. The cargoes are all legitimate and all the taxes are paid.’ Flint was pacing back and forth as he spoke, his frustration evident in every step. ‘That’s three merchant fleets he’s directly involved in, yet all apparently clean.’

  ‘He’s bringing the stuff in somehow. Perhaps those ships are decoys? Perhaps he deliberately bought those shares to take us off the scent?’ Lord Fennimore’s reasoned tone did little to calm Flint’s temper. ‘There is a chance he is smuggling the goods in on other boats. The old way—in the dead of night and onto quiet beaches.’

  That didn’t make sense to Jake. This single band of smugglers had flooded the London market to such an extent they now dominated it. Both London and the entire south-east. ‘The volumes of brandy alone make that impossible. Even if he were using rowing boats, transporting that many barrels of illegal French spirits across the country to the capital would be problematic. They would be seen. We’ve had men watching all the roads into the town for months. He’s got to be bringing the stuff straight into London. By sea.’

  ‘The Excise Men assure me they have searched every nook and cranny of every ship linked to Rowley. They’ve had the cargoes apart the moment they’ve off-loaded and found nought that hasn’t been recorded on the ships’ manifest. Those vessels are clean.’

  ‘Too clean.’ These were the first words Leatham had said in the hour they had been sat in Lord Fennimore’s study. They all turned to look at him. He didn’t say much, but what he did was always worth waiting for. ‘In my experience, the best place to hide is in plain sight. I’ll wager he’s using those ships and bringing the goods right into London just as Jake said—right under the Excise Men’s noses. They won’t use the roads. Not when it makes sense to keep everything in the water. Quieter, darker and harder to stop.’

  He had Lord Fennimore’s attention. ‘You think he’s solely using the Thames?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘The river police patrol those waters like hawks. He’d be taking a risk.’

  Leatham shrugged. ‘Maybe they offload the big ships well shy of London. Transfer the stuff onto local coasters or barges. There are thousands of smaller vessels which run those waters every day and never get challenged—just as generation after generation of Thames watermen have done in the past. If they can foo
l the Excise Men with legitimate loads like fish, bricks or hay, then I doubt a paltry few river police will worry them and that’s assuming it stays on the Thames. There’s also the Fleet, the Lee. Or the canals. There are hundreds of miles of canals, remember. There aren’t enough river police to watch everywhere or to check every boat and everyone knows they focus on the big ships and the docks. The ones that cross the sea rather than the local waters.’

  Lord Fennimore nodded thoughtfully. ‘Smaller boats? There’d have to be a lot of them, a whole rotten network. Perfectly synchronised. But I suppose if they avoid the docks, once they are through the city they can move largely undetected and unchallenged throughout the country.’ His bushy eyebrows drew together and he nodded decisively. ‘Send some of your men to do some digging around the wharfs, Leatham, and see what you can find. Flint, see if Crispin Rowley, or any of his cronies, has any links in any canal companies or river hauliers. I’ll arrange for the Excise Men to pay close attention to the Essex and Kent stretches of the Thames Estuary. Get them to covertly follow a few of the regular wherrymen. It can’t hurt to explore the possibility further. Better safe than sorry, even if we are just shouting into the wind until we have credible intelligence on Rowley’s actual business dealings.’ At that, Fennimore’s head turned to Jake. ‘How are things going with the niece?’

  ‘We’ve met.’ That awkward introduction still grated.

  ‘Met? It’s been a week. Have you lost your touch, Warriner?’