I don’t prance, Aunt Leah, and I am not spoiled. But Sophie swallowed the useless denials. She said with a smile, “You don’t think I, your niece, deserve to be adored like you, Aunt Leah?”
It left Leah with her mouth open, so frustrated she wanted to slap Sophie. She got herself back together and attacked. “You don’t really want Julian, though, do you? Oh, yes, it’s Devlin you want, the future duke, not the paltry second son. Oh, yes, now I see clearly. Well, my girl, that is shooting for the stars, now, isn’t it? If anything, Devlin Monroe will dally with you until you bore him, then he’ll move on to his next conquest. Your only chance to get yourself a husband is to return to London and try to snag some unsuspecting baron’s son. Maybe he will adore you.”
“That is a lovely thought, Aunt Leah. Thank you for making everything so very clear. What should also be clear to you is that Roxanne told you the truth. Richard Langworth sought you out purposefully so he could get himself close to Julian. If you do not see that, you are a dolt.”
“Roxanne has been jealous of me all her life. What I had, she wanted. Does she want Richard? Come, now, Sophie, think. How could he even know to purposefully seek me out? He was in York on business for his father, he told me. He did not know I was related to you. He had no reason to suspect you, of all girls, would be sent to London to try to attach Julian Monroe.”
Sophie said, “He found out about all of us from his father, who was undoubtedly told the particulars by the duchess. She had no reason not to confide in Baron Purley, since she had known him all her adult life. You have been taken in, Leah. Richard Langworth does not care about you; you are merely a means to an end.”
“You little bitch!” Leah slapped Sophie hard.
She heard a noise and whirled around to see Roxanne standing behind her. “You, too, Roxanne. That I should have to be related to the two of you. It quite turns my stomach!”
Roxanne and Sophie stood side by side, Sophie rubbing her cheek, watching Leah race down the long corridor away from them.
“Did she really bring Richard Langworth into her bedchamber last night, Roxanne?”
Roxanne nodded. “I knew what would happen if I warned her, I knew, yet some perverse devil inside me told me it was my duty to tell her. I wish you had not been close by, Sophie.”
Sophie shrugged. “She hates both of us, what does it matter? Did she also hate my mother? What is wrong with her, Roxanne?”
“When we were children, Leah and I made a pact to cut each other’s hair. I snipped off one of her small golden curls that was sticking out. She cut off all my hair, stood back, and laughed. She said now I wouldn’t look so common. She was only nine years old. You were right, she has a mean mouth. But I don’t think she hates any of us, your mother included.”
“You’re wrong. I wonder if Richard Langworth will come to realize that whatever revenge he is planning is not worth the misery once he gets to know her. Once she turns her mean mouth on him. Once she’s netted him. Do you really think she will marry him?”
“Maybe they deserve each other. Sophie, am I a prude?”
“You? Oh, indeed, you are so prudish I fear you will attend Methodist meetings and wear only black to your throat. I fear you will denounce all those who dance the waltz.”
Sophie laughed at Roxanne, patted her cheek, and danced away. She called out over her shoulder, still laughing, “A prude!”
Leah slowly straightened and made her way down the wide staircase. What did those two twits know about anything? Her palm still tingled from the slap she’d given Sophie. It was about time someone disciplined the chit.
Richard was using her? If only they knew.
44
Julian pulled Cannon up in front of the Brazen Crow, handed the reins to Homer, an ancient stump of a man. “Prince,” Homer said, and tried a sketchy bow. “Ah, dear old Cannon. Ye come wit’ me and I’ll stuff yer gullet with nice big carrots, fresh picked from Mrs. Casper’s garden.”
Julian pressed coins in Homer’s hand and asked, “Is the earl here, Homer?”
“Yes, the lad is drinking Mr. McGurdy’s cider, hard enough to make ’is liver shout and sing.”
Julian was still grinning when he saw Devlin seated in the taproom, one leg draped over a chair arm, laughing at something the barmaid, Briggie, was telling him. She was bending low as she spoke, her lovely eighteen-year-old breasts nearly spilling onto Devlin’s chest. Odd, Devlin wasn’t eyeing those breasts of hers, he was looking directly into her face. He would have normally, wouldn’t he? He’d bedded Briggie before, Julian knew. What was different now?
Julian said, “Hello, Briggie. May I have some of Mr. McGurdy’s cider?”
“Aye, Prince, I’ll fetch ye an even newer batch than ’is vampireship ’ere.”
Julian watched Briggie walk out of the room, along with another half-dozen local men. He turned to Devlin, a black eyebrow arched. “His vampireship?”
Devlin took a drink of Mr. McGurdy’s cider, wiped his hand over his mouth, and grinned up at Julian. “Briggie is a clever girl, don’t you think? Vampireship—it has a lovely terrifying ring to it.”
“I wonder what my half-brother, your esteemed father, would think of it?”
“My father would laugh his head off,” Devlin said. “It is mother who would hiss and crab and want to skewer Briggie for her gross impertinence.”
“You scarce noticed Briggie.”
“Yes, well, now that you point it out, I suppose I must agree. It is not what I’m used to, is it?”
“Whatever that means,” Julian said, as he sat down across from Devlin at the small scarred table.
Devlin began swinging his leg. “I keep forgetting to call you Prince.”
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now, and maybe I will be after I’m home for a while. When I was a lad, I thought myself quite important—a prince, that’s what I was—the most important boy in the land. But now?” Julian shuddered. “What could my father have been thinking?”
“Since he quickly bred a male child in his advanced years, I think he was so pleased with himself, so proud, he couldn’t help himself. He believed himself a king, so what else could you be?”
Julian laughed, couldn’t help himself. “How many glasses of Mr. McGurdy’s cider have you poured down your throat?”
Devlin gave him a beatific smile. “Only two. It fair to makes my throat sing.”
“You rarely drink, Devlin. Come, what is the matter?”
Devlin brooded for a moment, swirling the incredible Cornish cider around in his glass. “I kissed Roxanne’s hair in the corridor in the middle of the night. It is beautiful stuff, Julian. I wanted to wrap it around my hands and pull her closer and closer, until I felt it rippling over my face, you know?”
Julian looked up as Briggie set his own glass in front of him. “Is there aught else ye wish, Prince?”
He shook his head. “Thank you, Briggie.” He took a drink, then said to Devlin, “No, I don’t know.”
“Well, there was nothing more to it than that, really. Other than the fact I wanted desperately to yank up that bedrobe of hers and take her right there, holding her against the wall.” He took a drink, then looked up at his uncle. “Do you know, what near to knocked me on my heels was that she wasn’t at all averse to the wall idea.”
Julian laughed. “Well, my lad, this leaves me blank-brained. Roxanne? I trust you know what you’re doing.”
“I haven’t a clue,” Devlin said. “She is a virgin. She is twenty-seven years old, and she is a virgin. That would be an awesome responsibility, Julian. I heard you telling Pouffer you were off to Plymouth, that it was time you looked over the Blue Star. You’ve already had assurances from your captain that all is well, that your goods are on their way to your warehouses in London. Why, Julian, why travel there now?”
“I wish to question all my men, see if there was a new man among them on this voyage, get his name and direction. Richard Langworth tried to sabotage the ship, and I intend to fi
nd proof of it. Would you like to come with me? Mayhap all the ladies would like to come as well? We could be there in three hours. There are some fine sights in Plymouth. What do you think?”
“What will you do with Richard and Leah?”
Julian shrugged. “They can leave or remain, I really don’t care.”
“Richard and Leah slept together last night. I heard them. Roxanne knows as well. Knowing her, she will try to warn her sister.”
“That will not have a good ending. Leah will blight her.”
“Very probably.” Devlin raised his glass. “She seems to have made a hobby of it all her life—especially Roxanne. Drink up, Uncle. We have an offer to make the ladies. You’re going also to arrange for a final shipment, aren’t you?”
How did Devlin find these things out? Well, since Sophie was now going to be part of the endeavor, why not Devlin? “Yes. I checked the cave twice. It will do nicely. Sophie followed me. She wishes to be a part of it all. An adventure, she says. I am thinking I should tie her up. Actually, I am thinking of tying you both up.”
“And Roxanne, for she knows, as well. Forget tying Sophie up, Julian; she would retaliate, probably something quite fierce. Nothing will happen, in any case. I hear there are no excisemen around these parts in the past decade. There will be no danger. For any of us.”
After lunch, the three ladies were settled into the Ravenscar carriage, along with Tansy, who’d had tears in her eyes at the joyous thought of visiting Plymouth, Julian and Devlin riding beside them, leaving their respective valets to kick up their heels at Ravenscar and try to avoid Richard and Leah.
45
Plymouth Docks
Julian stood on the deck of the Blue Star, a sturdy brigantine he’d purchased five years before from Thomas Malcombe, the Earl of Lancaster, a man he admired and trusted. It was indeed a small world, he thought, what with Meggie, Malcombe’s countess, being a Sherbrooke, and that surely made him shake his head. He remembered well the dinner in the Malcombes’ lovely pink stucco house in Genoa, Meggie telling him about racing cats. Thomas told him how his own racer, Keevil, a black tube of a cat with a chewed-up ear, was the current champion, and did that ever burn his wife to her heels. He thought of James and Corrie Sherbrooke, Meggie Malcombe’s cousins. Sometimes the world really was too small, dishing up so many lives that overlapped. He wondered if Keevil was still the racing-cat champion of all Ireland.
The Blue Star captain, Cowan Cleaves, ruddy-faced from a lifetime spent on the sea, not a humorous bone in his big body, and steady as a rock, raced along the dock, up the gangplank, out of breath. “My lord, you are here, thank the heavens. I sent you a messenger.”
“What happened, Cowan?”
“Everything is all right, but it was close, my lord. A man I hired on at Gibraltar—his name is Orvald Manners—he set a fire in the cargo hold as we were docking. My cabin boy, Ira, managed to put out the fire before there was any damage, but Manners was gone. None have seen him. I’ve sent out my first mate, Abel Rowe, to try to locate him. You know Abel, if he finds him, he’ll break his head.”
The first thing Julian did was to go into the cargo hold. The timbers were charred but cooling. Ira had come to smoke a pipe, Cowan told him, something he was forbidden to do, and saw Manners set the fire. Ira was a smart boy; he waited until Manners had left the hold, then put out the fire.
“Give the lad a sovereign, Cowan.”
“Perhaps, my lord, I won’t tan his hide for trying to smoke, the little blighter.”
Julian had to laugh, easy now that his ship was safe and the valuable goods safe as well.
“Tell me about this Orvald Manners.”
“Abel hired him on as a new man at Gibraltar because one of our sailors simply disappeared. I think now Manners is responsible.”
“Oh, yes,” Julian said.
“Manners didn’t have any friends, not really, kept to himself. According to Abel, though, he was always willing to do whatever was needed, always had a nice word for the galley cook, Old Tubbs. Still, it was as plain as a pikestaff the fellow didn’t have much experience.”
Julian knew to his bones none of the sailors would know anything about Manners, particularly where he’d hared off to. He got Manners’s description. His name—Orvald Manners—mayhap that was the key to tracking him down. But, of course, it was likely a fiction as surely as Manners had signed on the Blue Star in good faith.
Manners couldn’t have conjured up the storm, and that must have frightened the man to death, Julian thought. But he’d tried to burn the Blue Star right here at the dock, in Plymouth. How much had Richard paid him?
He set a half-dozen sailors to the task of finding Manners, but he had little hope. The man had failed. There wasn’t any way he would stay around. No, he would go report his failure to Richard.
Julian wanted to join the sailors in the search, but first he toured his ship, saw the repairs to the damage caused by the storm were nearly complete. Within a sennight, thank the good Lord, Indian tea, materials of all kinds made in Manchester mills, farm equipment, and myriad household items gathered by Harlan and warehoused over the past three months in Plymouth would be loaded aboard the Blue Star, and she would make her way to Boston. Without storms. Without sabotage in Boston Harbor. The return trip would bring dozens of barrels of whale oil.
When he was finished checking the repairs, Julian shook Captain Cleaves’s hand and wandered around the dock area, stopping various men, giving them Manners’s description. He had no luck. He paid out coin for information on Manners. He wanted him badly. He was his only connection to Richard Langworth.
When he saw Devlin standing in front of a milliner’s shop on High Street, Parisian Feathers, all three ladies clustered around him, Julian grinned. He’d been so intent on sabotage and mayhem, finding Manners, and kicking both him and Richard into the channel. But now here was Devlin, his hat brim pulled down to protect him from the bright sun overhead, laughing, quite enjoying himself, looking at bonnets.
“That one,” Julian heard him say, and saw him point to a high-brimmed straw bonnet with at least a dozen pieces of fruit decorating its high poke, nests of ribbons holding them, and a thick, long red ribbon to tie beneath a lady’s chin. “Roxanne, you would look a treat with those peaches all over your head. If I ever was hungry, I could simply pluck one off. You would be my private orchard.”
Roxanne poked him in the belly. “All those peaches, that bonnet must weigh a stone, Devlin. I would have a bowed back by the end of morning wearing that bushel of fruit.” As for the bonnet Roxanne was wearing, Devlin found it very charming, only two small finches perched beside the crown, the bonnet as wide-brimmed as Devlin’s black hat. Should he offer to provide her birdseed?
“Ah, dearest, there you are,” Julian’s mother called to him. “Do come here, I require your opinion. Devlin simply will not be serious. Tell me what you think of these bonnets. They are newly arrived from Paris, and I am in need.”
Julian obligingly looked more closely and surveyed the bonnets in the window, each of them decorated with bows, ribbons, and flowers, and occasional fauna. “That one,” he said, pointing to a pink straw that was in the corner of the window. “That one would look splendid on you, Mother.”
“Do you not think it very plain?”
“Not at all. It is perfect for you.”
A half-hour later, they all emerged from Parisian Feathers, the pale pink leghorn hat, with a line of braided darker pink ribbons encircling the crown, set atop her grace’s head, tied rakishly beneath her chin.
Roxanne said, “Do you know, Devlin, even with your hat, your nose is becoming red. I think it best we go into the Golden Goose Inn and plant you in a dim corner.”
He quickly pulled his hat down farther over his eyes. He looked at her closely, lightly touched his fingertips to her nose. “I believe I see some freckles coming out to march over your lovely white self.”
Julian, still on the lookout for Manners, realized he was st
riding a good distance in front of their group, eyeing every man he saw. He slowed his step and placed his mother’s hand on one arm and Sophie’s on the other. His mother was speaking of the fine weather and her new bonnet. Sophie, however, was quiet. Sophie was never quiet, she was always laughing, talking, always doing something. He leaned close when his mother stopped to look into a shop window. “What is this? You’re mute as a tree. Did Leah blight you that badly?”
“What? Oh, yes, I suppose she did. Leah is a master blighter. She is going to marry Richard Langworth, Julian, and that really makes me wonder what he could possibly be up to.”
It made him wonder as well. Their attention was diverted by a young boy who came running up to Julian, saying he “knowed the name of the sot wot set the fire on the Blue Star.”
The sod turned out to be Orvald Manners, but he was gone.
46
That evening’s dinner was served in the small private dining room, where lavish gold curtains were drawn over the windows. Mr. Knatter, owner of the Plymouth Heights Inn, served them Mrs. Knatter’s special deviled whitebait. “The secret be in the hot oil, my missus tells me; it’s gots to be hot enough to burn the hair off a man’s tongue,” he whispered to her grace. “And here be the Norfolk dumplings; ’tis the quality of the castor sugar, that’s the key, says my missus.”
Sophie was quiet again. Julian imagined she was thinking about all the trouble, so why not share it? He ordered a bottle of Mr. Knatter’s best champagne.
That perked her right up.
“Now, Sophie,” he said, toasting his champagne glass toward her, “tell us more about Leah and Richard’s upcoming nuptials.”
That drew everyone’s attention.
“Well, as I said, Roxanne told her Richard had attached her purposefully to get to you. Leah told Roxanne and me we were idiots, that there was simply no way Richard could have even known about our connection to you. That’s when she hurled her bolt—and announced she was going to marry him.”
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