Father's Day (The King's Rogues Book 2)

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  The absurdity of the whole situation did require a drink. A large one.

  He poured for himself and glanced at Olivia. He poured her choice, a small sweet sherry.

  “How do you feel about the idea of meeting my son?”

  “I… I feel… I hope… he will be a son to me as he is to you.”

  Adam pressed the glass into her hand.

  “I owe you everything,” he whispered. “If it had not been for you, I would not have known of Chr… Kit’s existence at all. You kept Constance’s memory alive when her father wanted to erase every trace of her.”

  At the sound of Olivia’s sob, he took the glass from her hand and put it down on the edge of the desk with his. He took her into his arms. “Because of you, Constance is remembered alongside her mother. Because of you, Kit Hardacre – if he wishes – will know more about his mother than I could ever have told him.”

  “Oh, darling,” said Olivia, her voice shaky. “For your love of Constance and my love for you, Kit and his wife will be made welcome. And, together with our daughters, we will welcome him home.”

  “What do we tell our daughters?” he whispered into Olivia’s ear.

  “The truth,” she replied, “but not until Kit is told.”

  Beautiful as well as wise. Adam closed his eyes. Thank God for my wife.

  How empty his life had been before they met. They hadn’t the most conventional of courtships – life as a spy did that – but the happy and peaceful years that passed since had more than made up for it.

  Adam prayed his nice, comfortable life wasn’t built on sand for an incoming tide to destroy.

  *

  Kit could sleep through tumultuous seas and room in close quarters with rough, unwashed sailors. But three days in a rolling, rocking coach – even one as luxuriously appointed as the one owned by the Ridgeways – would leave him only just this side of homicidal.

  Besides, he would rest much easier if he was no more than a day’s ride from his ship. So while the Ridgeways would make the journey by coach, he and Sophia would sail to Falmouth and be there three days ahead of their hosts.

  And that was not the only reason he decided to jump ship – so to speak. According to his maps, Falmouth was but a little over twelve miles from Truro. Ponsnowyth was only five miles away – less if he crossed the mouth of the river Fal.

  Kit watched the reduced crew who’d short sailed the ship from London, especially his new captain, bring the Calliope into an unfamiliar port. Acting Captain Stefano Andretti had been willing to break his shore leave to please the ship’s owner and the crew who’d abandoned their furlough had done so either because they had nowhere particular in England to spend Christmas or had already expended their money.

  Kit was well satisfied. All his new crew had settled in well. Another few months and he would feel comfortable enough to assign them to their own ship, the Clio, which Elias and Jonathan were readying back in Palermo. It had been Sophia who named the Calliope’s sister ship, and perfectly so – Clio, the Greek muse of history, as Sophia was his muse of history.

  Speaking of which, it was nine o’clock, and Sophia still hadn’t arisen from their bed. Despite her insistence otherwise, he knew there was something amiss. He determined to watch her carefully to make sure she ate and rested.

  Kit breathed in deep. He didn’t mind the cold as much here. Certainly his leg ached less. Two weeks in London and he’d already missed the sea.

  He thought again of Sophia. The last time he went below deck to the master cabin, she still slept, rugged up warmly beneath the blankets. She seemed more pale than she ought to be.

  Perhaps he worried too much.

  “You worry too much,” Sophia’s voice carried up to him. She accepted his hand to help her up the steps, though she didn’t need it.

  Captain Andretti, a man just a few years younger than Kit himself, approached. He greeted Sophia with a bow. Andretti, with black hair and hawk-like features, was dashing and charismatic, and he had a good instinct for managing men and the ship. He turned to his commanding officer.

  “Are you ready to go ashore, Captain Hardacre?”

  “We can go into Falmouth and hire a gig,” said Kit to Sophia.

  “Or we can walk from Flushing over to Ponsnowyth as we originally planned,” she countered.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was certain, but her look told him to hold his tongue, instead.

  “Tell the men to lower the boat.”

  Andretti nodded curtly, a sweep of his jet hair falling across his bow. He left, ordering in accented English for one of the small boats to be lowered.

  “Well then,” said Kit, turning to Sophia. “Let’s put together what we need to spend a day tracking down information about dear maman.”

  Sophia was true to her word. She kept pace with him effortlessly as they followed the path through the farmlands. They had only gone half a mile before the edge of the castellated, square Norman tower of the church came into view.

  The records would be there. He could find his mother’s family if they still lived. And what of his father? If Hardacre was, indeed, his name, what had happened to him?

  The wind at their backs pushed them forward, up the gentle incline.

  Shimmering in the mid-morning sun were the Carrick Roads. Another quarter of a mile ahead, the way forked, one disappearing down to the Carrick and the other snaking along past where the bluestone church sat in the lee of another hill.

  The church was not large, but a testament to its age was the fact it was an island, surrounded by a sea of headstones.

  It was quiet, which Kit supposed was to be expected on a Tuesday morning. Wind blew through the shin-high grass at the edges of the churchyard, making it hiss ominously.

  “Perhaps we should go straight to the village,” said Sophia. “It should be just around the hill, another quarter of a mile I should think.”

  “No, let’s start here first,” he replied. “We can at least find more about the Dentons before we bother the priest about looking at the parish records.”

  “Where do we start?”

  Good question.

  Kit pointed in a random direction.

  “There will do, I suppose,” he said, indicating a cluster of headstones without much enthusiasm. He skimmed the names, they meant nothing to him.

  He and Sophia approached an edifice not too weathered. The inscription caught his eye.

  Beaufort Denton

  Esq.

  9 September 1732 – 6 February 1804

  Late of Kenstec House

  husband of Caroline Denton

  father of Lydia Denton

  No mention of a Constance. Kit moved on to the one next to it which was much older and far less grand than the one belonging to the squire. He eased himself down on one knee to get a better look at the inscription.

  Tressa Denton (nee Keast)

  1754 – 1782

  loving wife of Beaufort Denton, Esq

  mother of Constance

  forever missed

  Kit traced Constance’s name over with his fingertips. His mother outlived her own by only two years.

  He closed his eyes a moment. After so many years of knowing nothing of his past – not even the names of his mother or father – Kit finally had some answers. His mother was the daughter of Squire Beaufort Denton and his first wife, Tressa.

  He barked out a bitter laugh. That was as goddamned close to aristocracy as he’d ever get. At this rate, dear papa could be a baronet!

  Kit got to his feet with the same unsettled feeling in his gut that once upon a time would have him reaching for opiates. He reached, unseeing, for Sophia. She was the only one who could ground him. Her hand squeezed his tight until the sharp pain running through his every nerve eased.

  “He’s here, Sophia, I know he is,” he said.

  “Who’s here? Kit, wait!” He heard Sophia, but already he was hurrying down rows looking for the Hardacre name. Even his leg no longer pain
ed him.

  His search ended in a small corner of the cemetery, where two modest headstones bore the name Hardacre. One of them seemed almost ancient and didn’t even bother with a Christian name or a date of birth or death. The other, not quite as weathered as the other, simply bore the names John and Mary. Conveniently, the dates of their births and deaths were there, barely legible against the roughened stone face.

  Clearly husband and wife, an older couple who passed away only within a year of each other twenty-five years ago. Did they have a son?

  Kit slapped the stone with the flat of his hand. Damn it! Damn it all!

  “Kit!”

  Sophia’s voice pulled him out of his sea of self-pity. He looked about the cemetery and could not see her.

  “Where are you?” he called.

  Kit found her waiting for him in the porch of the church, the door open.

  “You have to see this.”

  She led and he followed down the side aisle of the church. Between two windows was a small brass plaque, not brand new but polished and well cared for.

  To the memory of Constance Denton (1765 – 1784)

  and her son Christopher, lost at sea (1784 – 1794).

  He thanked the good Lord above that his legs held on long enough for him to sink into a pew.

  Someone knew him.

  Someone knew him and remembered.

  Chapter Five

  Adam shucked off his working clothes and dropped them over a chair. Standing stark naked by the fire, he washed quickly and thoroughly using the sandalwood-scented soap. He ran a hand over his face, and decided he could get away without shaving.

  He could hear the sound of Daniel and Abigail’s arrival downstairs already. They’d have to take him as he was – and, let’s face it, they’d seen him looking a whole lot worse over the years.

  His home was not grand – not like the country estate just outside of Truro owned by the Ridgeways – but it was more than he ever dreamed of owning as the son of a carpenter and a press-ganged young sailor.

  A little cottage by the sea was once the height of his ambition, but here he was with his family living in a very smart three-story townhouse. He even had servants, for crying out loud!

  He had been offered somewhere much more imposing – Kenstec House itself. But life as a country gentleman was not for him. Adam didn’t feel right unless he was doing manual labor of some kind. It was enough that his wife and children were comfortable and wanted for nothing.

  As he dressed, he wondered how long he could delay up here, to put off the inevitable discussion about meeting the man who may be his son. He wandered to the west-facing window that overlooked the river Fal and saw an unfamiliar vessel – a three-masted schooner that had not been there this morning.

  Captain Christopher Hardacre. Is that his ship?

  There was a light rap at the door. “Do you need assistance, Captain Hardacre?” a voice called.

  He shook his head at the symmetry of the titles. The voice was Saunders, his man servant – batman, butler, footman, valet, groom… whatever was needed, Saunders was very competent at it.

  The man also insisted on calling Adam by his honorary title – one awarded to him for his service to the king, rather than one he’d earned at sea. When he was in the Royal Navy, he didn’t have the family connections to rise beyond the rank of Petty Officer. One encounter with Ridgeway changed everything.

  “Tell Mrs. Hardacre I’ll be down in five minutes,” he instructed as he shrugged on a waistcoat.

  Adam took one more glance at the schooner, then went in search of his boots and slipped on a jacket. By the time he joined his wife and guests, he also managed to find a smile and a bit of his old self returned.

  Charlotte was playing with a doll he’d never seen before, one with a porcelain face and a scarlet velvet gown. Julia clutched a book in her lap.

  “I see Christmas has come early,” he announced. Ridgeway rose to his feet and Adam shook his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Adam turned his attention to Abigail. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She held out her arm with mock imperiousness. He duly bowed his head over it.

  “Am I forgiven?” she asked sweetly.

  A woman of her vintage should not be able to get away with playing the coquette – and yet, somehow, Abigail did successfully, Adam reflected.

  Before he could answer, Olivia instructed the girls to thank the Ridgeways for the gifts and to play upstairs. They did so without complaint. Adam was grateful his daughters took after their mother—and not their godmother who he regarded now with equanimity.

  “What’s done is done, isn’t it?” he said, keeping his voice level.

  Abigail’s face dropped a little, giving the smallest hint of her age. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam could see the reproving look Daniel offered his wife – one that said “I told you so”.

  “But now that it’s done,” Adam continued, “how are you going to break the news to this poor young man and his wife that they have a whole family to spend Christmas with? Spring the surprise on him as you did me? How do you know he’s even interested in finding his parents?”

  “Dear Adam,” Abigail said, her face brightening, “I thought you were going to ask something difficult! Captain Hardacre was already looking for his parents – I asked the superintendent at St. Thomas’ Hospital to let me know if he called in. As for the young man himself, I just gave him a nudge in the right direction. The fact that he’s here in Ponsnowyth means he’ll learn about you soon enough and he’s already accepted the invitation to spend Christmas with us. The fact he will meet you is our gift to him. Does that answer all your questions?”

  Adam shook his head and found Olivia watching him carefully. How was it he was left with the feeling he’d just been press-ganged once again?

  “Just one more,” he replied, and hesitated, taking a seat beside Olivia. She took his right hand and warmed it between hers.

  “You’ve met him, Abigail,” he said at last. “What is Christopher like?”

  *

  Kit had to admit that Ponsnowyth was a quaint, little village. The heart of it was a coaching inn and local tavern; across the way was a large hall, freshly whitewashed. The place was surprisingly busy for such a little hamlet. He hadn’t known why until he and Sophia rounded the corner and saw the crossroads closed for a market day.

  “Oh, Kit! Let’s stop,” said Sophia. “We might find a little gift for Laura and Morwena.”

  If Sophia was happy, then so was he. They strolled arm-in-arm, up and down the rows of stalls. Much of the goods were farm produce, but there were a few stalls with ribbons and beads. Not surprisingly, there were tin objects for sale – some practical household items, others inexpensive pieces of jewelry. Sophia unerringly gravitated toward a stall selling jewelry made from silver extracted from the mines of Cornwall.

  While she haggled over the price of two pairs of enamel-decorated earrings, Kit took time to observe the people around them. Some gave them distinct looks up and down – no doubt simply marking them as strangers. Others, he noticed, took a second glance as if something had caught their eyes.

  Did he look like a Hardacre from Ponsnowyth? Could the man who strolled past with his wife and children be Kit’s cousin? Or the little girl rolling an iron hoop with a stick – could she be his niece?

  Every time he made eye contact with one of the villagers, Kit waited for a spark of recognition, from someone, anyone, so he could ask.

  The sun retreated behind a cloud, taking whatever warmth the day possessed with it. They should have something to eat and be sure to set off back to Flushing while there was still plenty of daylight. Sophia tucked her arm through his.

  “You were miles away,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s strange,” he said, urging her away from the markets and toward the inn. “I’m searching for someone, and I don’t know his name or even what he looks like. Hell, I don’t know if he’s even stil
l alive.”

  Sophia nodded, understanding his half-articulated thoughts in a way no one else did or ever would.

  “The innkeeper would be the man to ask,” she said, nodding in the direction they walked. “He’d know every family in the district.”

  “Maybe I’d be better off not knowing. What if dear papa is a drunkard who beats his latest wife, or a thief, or a murderer?”

  “Or what if he is a perfectly nice man?” Sophia chimed in, her look of amusement a reminder to not lose himself in the darkest of his thoughts.

  He opened the door to the Angler’s Arms and ushered Sophia in before him. “A perfectly nice man who conveniently forgot he had a son?”

  “A perfectly nice man who didn’t know he had a son.”

  They gravitated toward the fireplace and found an empty table.

  “He must have known. Who else would have put the plaque in the church?”

  “We don’t know it was him,” Sophia answered. “Constance might have family or a devoted servant who loved her. All I know is if your father is half the man you are, he’s a good man, one to be proud of.”

  The warmth of her words thawed a little ice from around his heart as much as the roaring fire warmed his body.

  “Then what right do I have to upend a good man’s life?”

  Before Sophia could respond, a tavern maid arrived. She greeted them warmly and took their orders, but Kit wasn’t ignorant of the fact that she paused by the bar and spoke to the man behind it, glancing back at them, rather than going straight to the kitchen.

  Part of him wanted to slump in the corner, away from the gape of other people; another part of him, long inured to such things, indeed even inviting it, urged him to face the room, lift his chin, and make people stare at him.

  No one did. Not even when their meals and warm drinks came.

  It was just a little disappointing.

  What was encouraging was Sophia ate all of the hearty meal. Her stomach had been delicate for the past week, and she had gone to great lengths to hide it from him.

  When the maid came to clear the table, she did not come alone. The large innkeeper accompanied her. Kit straightened in his chair and watched the man, about his age, search for the right words and the right expression for his face.