The Pirate Hunter's Lady

by Jennifer Ashley

  James’s drawl rang in her ears, his voice soft and irritated. Viscount Stoke is a grinning idiot called Grayson Finley. Once upon a time, he was my partner and friend. Then we became great rivals, and finally, enemies.

  Diana found her fingers engulfed by a huge hand that was hard and calloused, just like James’s. So like James’s that Diana’s eyes grew momentarily moist.

  The viscount wore a dark, well-tailored suit with trousers rather than breeches, but Diana couldn’t help thinking that the clothes didn’t suit him. He’d be far more at home in leather breeches, open shirt, and tall boots. His tanned skin and raw muscles came from climbing rigging and fighting hand to hand, not the gentlemanly pursuits of riding and boxing.

  Lord Stoke released her hand then he looked down at Isabeau and lowered his eyelid in briefest wink. Isabeau grinned back at him.

  He was a pirate, Diana remembered James saying. One of the best. I hunted him for a long time. Caught him a few times, but Finley always managed to slip the noose.

  Former pirate Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke, was now walking about the Admiralty like he owned it and speaking good-naturedly with admirals who’d have been more than happy to slap him in chains a few years ago. Impudent rogue.

  Diana’s father introduced the viscount to Lieutenant Jack. “He is brother to the Duke of Carlisle, in truth. But he goes by Jack.”

  The viscount shook his hand. “We’ve met.”

  “Have we?” Jack answered vaguely. He hated this, Diana saw. People knowing and remembering things about him when he could remember nothing. Small wonder Jack put off going home to his wife. If he did not remember her, that would be the cruelest blow of all.

  The viscount nodded. “At some do of my wife’s last year. She enjoys her do’s.”

  Jack tried to smile, as though it was perfectly natural that he’d forgotten meeting the viscount at one of the innumerable parties of the London season. The viscount was kind to try to put Jack at his ease.

  “And Isabeau,” the admiral continued. “My granddaughter.”

  The viscount took Isabeau’s small, and somewhat sticky, hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Hello, Miss Worthing.”

  Isabeau let out a muffled squeal. The viscount looked puzzled, and his face became blandly polite.

  “She is deaf,” Diana said. “And she cannot speak.”

  The viscount squeezed Isabeau’s hand again, then reached out and tugged gently her braid. Isabeau laughed. The look the viscount turned on Diana held pure compassion.

  “I was about to mention, Lockwood,” Admiral Pembroke said. “I summoned Lord Stoke here, because he might be able to help you in your inquiries.” He lowered his voice. “He used to know Captain Ardmore.”

  The viscount’s smile died, and for one moment, Diana saw in the blue eyes the ruthlessness and raw intelligence that had enabled him to elude James, the best pirate hunter in the world, for years.

  “Why are you inquiring about him?” the viscount asked.

  “He washed up on my island,” Diana’s father said pleasantly. “He was then taken prisoner on an British ship, but he escaped and has disappeared. Naturally we are curious as to what has become of him.”

  This viscount glanced at Diana. “If he disappeared, then let him go. Likely you’ll not see him again.”

  Lieutenant Jack said, “There have been no reports of his death. Or that he escaped to America.”

  “There won’t be any reports. Ardmore comes and goes as he pleases. I suggest you don’t waste your time, Admiral, or you, Lieutenant.”

  “I owe him my life,” Lieutenant Jack said, somewhat coolly. “Several times over. I cannot simply dismiss him, or his deeds.”

  Viscount Stoke shrugged. “If Ardmore wants thanks, he’ll turn up to receive it. Otherwise, I doubt you’ll find him.” He bowed, his affable look returning. “Good afternoon, Admirals, Lieutenant, Lady Worthing. I am off to pack again. I’m being sent to the Channel Islands for some reason known only to God and the Admiralty. You’d think they’d be finished with me after that month in Prussia. Bloody admirals adore keeping me from my wife and children.”

  The viscount completed this gripe with a twinkle in his blue eyes, then he turned away and strolled on up the stairs.

  “Odd chap,” Admiral Pembroke said, watching him go. “But damned useful. He’s turned up amazing intelligence on the French and their allies. He’s had a dubious past, but the powers that be have decided to overlook it in return for his services.” Pembroke shook his head. “One day, though, his lordship will chuck it all and hie back to his estate in Cornwall. He adores his wife and hates being parted from her.”

  So speaking, Admiral Pembroke led her father and Lieutenant Jack down the stairs.

  *** *** ***

  “Post has come, madam.”

  Admiral Lockwood’s stiff-jointed housekeeper deposited Diana’s letters in front of her plate two mornings later.

  The admiral had gone to breakfast with another of his acquaintance, and so Diana and Isabeau were alone at the table. Diana leafed through the post, planning to spend the morning catching up on correspondence.

  She’d been toying with the idea of writing to James’s sister, Honoria. She should tell Honoria about James’s capture and disappearance, but she could not for the life of her think how to begin such a letter. She also did not want it being intercepted by the Admiralty.

  Or perhaps James was already safely in Charleston with his sister, and it would not matter. Diana sighed as she sorted her letters from her father’s. She’d have no idea where to direct a missive to Honoria in any case. James had not exactly given her his address.

  Her heart beat faster when she found a heavy letter on cream-colored paper that had been directed to her from Cornwall, bearing the seal of Viscount Stoke. The note she unfolded was short and succinct, and at the bottom was a signature, Yours most humbly, Alexandra Stoke.

  Diana pushed aside her plate, lifted her gaze to the first line, and read the letter again.

  It is with hesitation I direct this bold missive to you, Lady Worthing, but my husband wrote me of your meeting at the Admiralty, and several things that had puzzled me greatly suddenly made sense. Therefore, I resolved myself to approach you. I became acquainted with you three years ago at a gathering at Lady Featherstone’s, where you were introduced to me by Admiral Hawes. You knew me as Mrs. Alastair, and I have since then become Lady Stoke. That explained, I believe I might have information you seek on a mutual acquaintance. If such a thing means anything to you, I would be delighted to have your company at the Stoke house, near Newquay, in Cornwall, as soon as it can be arranged.

  Diana read the short missive yet again. Mutual acquaintance. Underlined. Twice.

  She reflected briefly over the fact that Lady Stoke had wasted two sentences of the important letter assuring Diana that they had been introduced, and so writing to her was not a breach of etiquette. Good Lord, she thought, tossing down the letter and springing from her chair. As though that mattered compared to what else the letter implied.

  Diana hurried to her father’s study, Isabeau trailing her curiously. Diana pulled out maps, spreading them across the desk. She studied southern England and Cornwall. Newquay. There it was, on the coast, facing the Atlantic, about fifty miles or so straight across land from Plymouth. Much longer if one went around by ship. The entire area was rife with smugglers.

  Let’s just say they and I share a dislike of prowling English frigates, James had said.

  Diana stood up quickly. Isabeau was looking interestedly at the map of Cornwall, but Diana took it from her and returned all the maps to their shelves. She wrote out a brief letter for her father, blotted it, and placed it under his pen tray. Then she quickly packed belongings for herself and Isabeau, and hired a chaise to take them to Cornwall.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lady Stoke, formerly Alexandra Alastair, thumped her son down on the couch beside her and studied his face, which was covered in some sticky subs
tance.

  “What have you been eating, Alex?” she said in good-humored exasperation. Dirt had gotten into the stickiness, and her son grinned at her through this mask. His twin sister Charlotte was still outside with her stepdaughter Maggie. No doubt Charlotte looked worse.

  Alex and Charlotte had just celebrated their first birthday, both toddling about with alacrity and great speed. It took the combined effort of Alexandra, Maggie, a nurse, the housekeeper, and two footmen to keep up with them. Grayson insisted that little Alex could already say Papa, but even Alexandra, the most indulgent of mothers, could not make words from the stream of sounds emitting from either twin’s mouth.

  Alexandra settled Alex back on her knee, dimly wondering what was all over his little shirt, and pondered whether she’d been right to send for Lady Worthing. She wondered also if she’d been right to not inform Grayson right away. But when the green-eyed man had climbed into Alexandra’s carriage at the lonely turning of the road and collapsed at her feet, he’d told her plainly that if she wrote to her husband, he’d not stay.

  She had known at once what he’d meant. I need help, but I will not take it from Grayson Finley.

  James had burned with fever, his back had been raw with oozing cuts, and he’d had a knife wound in his side, just above his hip. Alexandra had gotten him home and into bed with the help of her footmen and housekeeper and had sworn the household to secrecy.

  For many days James had lain in her best upstairs guest chamber, sweating and shaking, moving in and out of fever. Some days he’d be lucid, questioning her in his slow drawl about what the Admiralty was up to now, smiling sarcastically when Alexandra refused to answer.

  Then he’d drift back into raving. He’d speak rapidly, eyes fever bright or his eyes closed altogether.

  Whatever James had been through, he wouldn’t explain, even when he could speak. His back had been laid open by a whip, almost to the bone, but he refused to say a word about it.

  His wounds had sickened, settling the fever deep. The footmen kept him bathed and forced food and drink into his mouth, and Alexandra and her housekeeper nursed him the best they could. They’d had to cut off his filthy breeches, his only garment. Any nightshirt they put on him he flung off in the fever’s heat, so he lay naked, tangled in the sheets, sometimes throwing off the covers altogether.

  Alexandra sighed. With any other man, she would only feel pity for the poor wretch, but Captain Ardmore was different. He had been her husband’s greatest enemy, and she’d been caught firmly between them in their battle with each other two years ago. James had told her things he’d never told Grayson, and she thought that perhaps she understood James better than Grayson ever had.

  Which was why she’d decided to write to Lady Worthing.

  Maggie hurried inside from the garden. She carried little Charlotte, who was, as Alexandra had suspected, even more filthy than her brother. Charlotte was adventurous, and unfortunately knew no fear.

  Maggie was Grayson’s daughter by a Polynesian woman called Sara, whom Grayson had met and married on the island of Tahiti. Maggie had inherited Sara’s looks — black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, round cheekbones, full red lips. She had much of Grayson in her wide grin, the sparkle in her eye, and in her impetuous nature.

  Alexandra had come to love Maggie very much. At fourteen, Maggie was growing into a beautiful young woman. The young men of Newquay had begun to notice this fact, as well.

  “Mama Alexandra,” Maggie said now, brown eyes shining. “I think she’s here.”

  *** *** ***

  Diana pried open her exhausted eyes as the carriage slowed and turned. She peered from the window as the hired carriage swept along the half-mile drive and over a three-arched bridge, at last halting in front of a porticoed house that stretched wings like arms across the grounds. It was late evening, but the June sun still shone brightly on the pristine park.

  Diana ached in every bone, and her mouth was dry as dust. Four times today, the coachman had had to halt so that Diana could climb down and be sick. The sway of the coach had only aggravated her already weakened stomach. She needed a bath, cool water, and a bed.

  Four footmen emerged from the house, but Diana’s hired coachman climbed down and opened the carriage door before any of the four could. A footman with a cushioned stool shot an annoyed glance at the coachman, shouldered him out of the way, and planted the stool just as Diana’s foot came down.

  “Stoke ’ouse, me lady,” the coachman said in a thick Cockney. The footman gave him a frosty look.

  Diana lifted Isabeau down, took her hand, and made her way past the stiff line of footmen to the open front door. Isabeau put out her hand and tugged the coattails of the last footman. He looked down, trying to remain primly correct, and Isabeau gave him her friendliest grin. The footman, who looked to be about eighteen, couldn’t stop his answering grin.

  Footsteps echoed in the cavernous hall, and a woman emerged into the sunshine. Diana became suddenly conscious that she’d been traveling for twelve hours, that her hair was a mess, and that her dress, a cotton day gown, was creased beyond repair.

  The lady who faced her wore elegant blue cashmere embroidered with pink roses and a thin necklace of garnets about her throat. Her brown-red hair was smooth and sleek, every strand neatly in place.

  Behind her stood an extraordinarily lovely girl. She had black, tumbled curls, exotic brown eyes, and skin the color of milky coffee. She held by each hand two small children with red-blond hair and the same blue eyes that had regarded Diana on the staircase at the Admiralty several days before.

  Lady Stoke held out slim hands and clasped Diana’s warmly. “Lady Worthing, please come in. You must be tired and hungry. I have prepared a supper for you, and a bed. You came a long way very quickly. You ought to have rested, my dear . . .”

  So speaking, Lady Stoke drew Diana into the cool, shadowed hall. The footmen clattered in behind them, shut the great door, and scattered to go about their duties. Isabeau strolled over to the children, put her hands behind her back, and examined them as she would new specimens of shells.

  Diana pulled her hands from Lady Stoke’s. “Where is he?”

  Lady Stoke looked understanding. “Upstairs. I must warn you, Lady Worthing, that he is quite ill.”

  The black-haired girl broke in. “He seemed a bit better this morning. But he still did not know us.”

  Diana’s heart turned over. Her eyes burned, and her neck ached from holding up her head. “Please take me to him.”

  She knew she was being appallingly rude, but politeness seemed not to matter. Lady Whitney-Jones knew every rule of politeness, and she was an empty-headed fool.

  Lady Stoke slipped her hand under Diana’s arm and led her up a wide marble staircase. On the first floor, they moved around a grand gallery decorated with a garishly painted ceiling. A door halfway down this gallery was flung open, and a tall, gray-haired woman emerged with a basin of water and dripping towels.

  “We’ve tried to settle him, my lady,” the woman said. “But he’s restless. If this fever don’t break soon, I’m afraid . . .”

  Diana did not hear the rest of the sentence. She pushed past the maid and ran into the room.

  James lay in the middle of a huge bed, a brocade canopy shading him from the late sunshine pouring through the windows. He’d obviously been tucked into the bed at one time, but he’d pulled the sheets from his body. Now he was sprawled on his side, his back to the door, his right thigh and half his backside exposed.

  Across his back, nearly covering it, were broken, angry stripes, some scarring over, some still red and raw. His damp black hair brushed bruised and scarred shoulders.

  A cry escaped Diana’s lips. She was around the bed, kneeling on the chair beside it before she realized she’d moved. She reached to brush the hair from James’s wan face and found his skin burning hot.

  Lady Stoke came to the bed and gently adjusted the sheet to cover him. James’s eyes shot open, the green burning fev
er-bright. He growled something and swung his fist around at Lady Stoke.

  Diana sprang up and caught his hand just in time. “James!” she said sharply.

  She hoped that the sound of her voice would pull him awake, perhaps goad him to saying something James-like — such as, of course Diana would come in time to look at his naked backside.

  James only gave an irritated grunt and fell swiftly back into stupefied slumber.

  Tears blurred Diana’s eyes. Lady Stoke straightened the sheet again, patient, and this time, James did not move.

  Pattering feet approached. Diana wiped her eyes as Isabeau halted in the doorway and gazed at the form on the bed.

  “Joo!” Isabeau gave a shout of joy. She dashed around the bed and climbed up on the chair with Diana. “Maa!” she cried breathily. “Joo!”

  Isabeau reached for him, but Diana caught her around the waist and held her back. James was ill, perhaps dying, he was but still very strong. She could not risk him striking out again, catching Isabeau with his fist.

  Isabeau signed frantically. What is the matter with James, Mama? Is he ill?

  “He is very ill, darling,” Diana told her.

  We should tell Grandfather and Mrs. Pringle. Mrs. Pringle will make him better again. We must get a ship and take him back to Haven.

  “We will, love. Soon.”

  Diana reached out and smoothed James’s scorching brow. Then she leaned forward, heedless of danger, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

  James never moved.

  *** *** ***

  “I suppose I’ve given myself away, rather,” Diana said.

  Lady Stoke regarded her over the rim of her teacup. “He has been calling for you.”

  The two ladies sat alone in Lady Stoke’s private sitting room. Maggie had taken Isabeau to the nursery for tea with the other children, Isabeau taking an instant liking to the older girl. Diana had removed her jacket and smoothed her hair the best she could with hands that shook, but Lady Stoke insisted she have cakes and tea before changing her clothes and unpacking.