Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  Not that it mattered. There would be no welcome for the earl in Tristan’s life. Not now. Not anymore.

  He was through with wishing. The time to believe in knights in shining armor and happily ever after had died years ago when Tristan had been forced aboard that damned ship. It was the one home truth life had taught him—if he wanted something good in his life, it was up to him and no one else to make it happen.

  His gaze drifted to the terrace doors that lined one wall. He loved this room, had had it built to look as much like his cabin aboard the Victory as possible. It held the same furnishings with the exception of his bunk. At night, when he could sleep, he occupied the large corner room upstairs, the only chamber not filled to overflowing with his past shipmates.

  He sighed, looking into his glass. When he’d been injured and had finally realized that he was no more for the sea, he’d come here to hide. To lick his wounds and wait for death. He’d had no greater purpose than that.

  But something had happened. After he’d arrived, Stevens had come. The first mate had been wounded at Trafalgar as well. Given a tiny pension and set on land, he’d had nowhere to go.

  So, Stevens had gone to his former captain. He’d sent no word of his imminent arrival, and indeed, Tristan, sunk in a three-month drunk, had been vaguely surprised, but also relieved. At least he wouldn’t die alone.

  Stevens was but the first arrival at the cottage by the sea. One by one, the wounded came to visit…and then stay. Now, almost every room in the cottage housed three or four, and sometimes more, men. Stevens ran it all like a ship, even setting rotating dinner bells so the galley wasn’t overrun at any time.

  For Tristan, the nearness of his former shipmates was a blessing. They gave him a purpose. The only problem was, his rather meager pension was not enough to put food on the table and pay the doctor’s bills. He’d been fortunate in his service and had put away some small amounts for investments. Those had paid and paid well. But with the constant drain, Tristan knew it was only a matter of time before he had to close the doors of his little house.

  His sprightly neighbor would certainly like that. Especially if he took his sheep with him. Tristan almost chuckled at the memory of the lady’s outraged expression when he’d smoked his pipe in front of her. She was hot at hand, that one. Sparkling and fiery, like tinder to a match. He’d rather enjoyed this morning’s little exercise. It had momentarily chased away the cobwebs of his existence. He wondered what she’d do if he removed her cloak the next time she visited.

  A sharp rap sounded and Stevens stuck his head into the room. “Cap’n?”

  Tristan, deprived of such a pleasant daydream as his neighbor unfurling her charms, cast a surly eye toward his first mate. “Aye?”

  Stevens entered the room, his cap clasped between his hands. “Sorry t’bother ye, but do ye remember that coach and t’other carts we saw humpin’ up the cliff road?”

  The coach. He’d allowed himself to forget it, but all of his earlier thoughts returned. Tristan’s heart chilled, and every last vestige of brandy evaporated from his mind, leaving him with crystalline clarity. “They’ve arrived.”

  “Aye. There’s a crew of them, but only two come to the door. A tall, slender fellow and a short, dumpy one. ’Tis the tall one as gives me the shivers.” Stevens glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice to say, “He’s a mite bossy.”

  “Tell him to go the hell away,” Tristan said harshly.

  Stevens kneaded his cap. “I would, Cap’n. In fact, I done tol’ them ye were not here, but the one man looked down his nose at me and…well…” The cap was so twisted that Tristan wondered if it could ever be used again. “I hates to say this,” Stevens finally burst out, “perhaps ye should see this bloke.”

  “No.”

  Stevens didn’t look very convinced. “But—”

  “I know these men. They work for the earl of Rochester, don’t they?”

  “Well, yes. In a manner of speakin’, they do. But—”

  “I want nothing to do with them.”

  “But—”

  “That is an order, Stevens. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir.” The first mate sighed heavily. “I tol’ them ye’d not see them, I did.”

  “Then tell them again.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” With a shake of his head, Stevens left.

  Tristan was afforded an entire two minutes of peace before a knock once again sounded at the door. It opened, only this time it was not Stevens but a stranger who walked in.

  Tall and thin, with a patrician face and dark hair touched with white, the man carried himself like a peer to the realm. His blue eyes surveyed Tristan from head to toe.

  Tristan scowled, refusing to rise. “Who the hell are you?”

  Another man peered around the first one, this one short and squat with wrinkled clothing and clutching a satchel as if afraid someone might attack him and remove it from his arms by force.

  The thin man bowed. “My lord, allow me to introduce myself. I am Reeves. The butler for—”

  “Let me save you some trouble; I want nothing to do with Rochester. To me, the earl is dead.”

  The plump man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but—my lord, I am Mr. Dunstead, the solicitor, and—”

  “I am not a lord.”

  “Ah,” the man called Reeves interjected smoothly. “But you are. I am indeed the butler for the late earl of Rochester. My lord, I regret to inform you that your father is dead.”

  Tristan’s heart froze. The earl. Dead. Gone forever.

  He found his gaze fixed on the tumbler in his hand, noting in a detached manner how the fire flickered through the heavy cut glass. He’d always known that this day would come, had always imagined the relief he’d feel when it finally arrived. He’d told himself that he was looking forward to it, that with his father’s death, he would find some of the peace that had been denied him, the life that had been stolen from him. Perhaps even the brother he’d lost.

  The thought of Christian made his hand tighten painfully about the glass. He forced himself to loosen his grip. Don’t think about it.

  Instead, he’d think about the loss of the man he’d never known. The man who’d left him without recourse. Some emotion sifted deep within him. It took him a moment to recognize it—it was grief. A deep, inalienable sadness. Not for the man himself, of course; Tristan had barely known him. But a sense of loss for what would never, ever be. It was as if some small part of him was still the child in that tavern room, waiting for his father to come. Waiting for some sign he was loved.

  “My lord?” The words were spoken low, with respect. “We are very sorry.”

  Tristan looked up to find both men regarding him with something akin to pity on their faces. Tristan slammed the glass down on the table by his elbow. “Do not look at me like that! Why did you come to tell me such a worthless piece of information? I cannot be the new earl. The bastard did not so much as acknowledge me. How could I have inherited the title?”

  The little man, Dunstead, blinked behind his spectacles. “Because…oh dear. This is quite complicated, but your father—”

  “Do not call that arrogant ass my father. He was not before, nor will he ever be.”

  Reeves cleared his throat. “My lord, I understand why you are upset. But you should know that I was with his lordship at the end. He was adamant you were to be the next earl.”

  “Why? Because he had no other sons?”

  A pained look crossed Reeves’s face. “That is neither here nor there. You are the earl. He went to quite a bit of trouble to make certain you would be.”

  Tristan sat back in his chair. “You don’t seem to understand. My brother and I were born on the wrong side of the blanket. Much as I loved my mother, she was sometimes too generous in her trust. She thought he would marry her, but he did not. So…I cannot become the new earl.”

  “Ah, but apparently the earl had an epiphany on his deathbed. He suddenly remembered that he h
ad, in fact, married your mother. He even has a member of the church willing to testify to that fact.”

  Tristan’s smile was mirthless. “He did not go to all of this trouble because he loved me so much. If he wanted an heir so badly, why didn’t he just marry and have his bloody heir?”

  “He tried to,” Reeves said. “He and the duchess had no children.”

  Dunstead nodded briskly. “You are his eldest child. It is only right that you take your father’s place.”

  A bitter laugh broke from Tristan’s throat. “My father’s place—that is too amusing for words.”

  The butler and the solicitor exchanged glances. Mr. Dunstead set his satchel on the desk. “Perhaps if you saw the will yourself. I am supposed to read it to you but if you’d like—”

  “Leave it there.”

  “My lord?”

  “Put it on the desk and then leave,” Tristan said, reaching for his cane and gaining his feet. “I don’t want you here.”

  “B—but, my lord! I must explain the stipulations.”

  “Stipulations?”

  “Yes. You have inherited the title. However, to gain the fortune, the trustees must approve you as…” The solicitor glanced helplessly at Reeves.

  The butler met Tristan’s gaze. “The late earl wished to make certain that the next occupant of Rochester House should be worthy of the name.”

  Worthy? That bloody bastard never once bothered to own up to Tristan’s birthright, and then, on his deathbed, he had the gall to demand that Tristan be worthy? “I don’t want the bloody fortune. Nor the damned title. And he can take his damned house to hell with him, too.”

  Reeves sighed. “He would have, my lord, had he been able. Trust me on that.”

  “I won’t take a pence from that empty, shriveled old man.”

  Mr. Dunstead blinked, his eyes hideously large behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “Don’t—My lord! Do you realize—Do you know—It would be unheard of to—”

  “What Mr. Dunstead is saying,” Reeves interjected smoothly, “is that it would be quite foolhardy to turn your back on twenty thousand pounds per annum.”

  Tristan turned his head. “Did you say twenty?”

  “Thousand.” Reeves raised his brows. “And Rochester House as well as the Rochester Townhouse in London, both of which are masterful edifices and fully furnished in a most elegant style.’’

  Dunstead nodded. “They come with trained staff, too. All you’d need to do is”—he made a sweeping gesture with his arm—“move in. Once, of course, you’ve garnered the approval of the trustees.”

  Twenty thousand pounds. The things he could do with that sum. He could move away from the cottage—or better yet, build a number of them for the men. He could also hire a doctor just to stay here, and minister to them all. Then, when that was done, he could perhaps…What would he do? There were so many possibilities, so many things he had always wanted to accomplish that his mind would not settle on one.

  Of course, that was if he gained the “approval” of the trustees. He glanced at the solicitor. “Who are these trustees?”

  “Contemporaries of your father’s. Well versed in comportment, manners, dress—everything a gentleman should know.”

  “Bloody hell, I am to become a popinjay and then let a group of warbling fools judge me?”

  Dunstead pushed his glasses up on his nose, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Ah. Well. I suppose if you wish to look at it that way—”

  “I will not do it!” It was inconceivable. Even from the grave, his father was trying to make Tristan feel like less. His jaw tightened. “No. I won’t have it. None of it. Now be gone, both of you.”

  Dunstead huffed his astonishment and then began to collect his papers, but Reeves did not move. He merely sighed. “How sad. I suppose we shall just have to find Lord Westerville then.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Your brother, Christian.”

  Tristan paused, his gaze riveted on the butler. “Christian?”

  “If you fail to meet the criteria for the fortune, it goes to your brother, Viscount Westerville.”

  Dunstead locked his satchel. “The will is on your desk, should you decide to read it.”

  “You cannot find my brother,” Tristan said, ignoring the solicitor all together. “I’ve tried for years and have been unable to discover even a trace of him.”

  “Perhaps you did not look in the right location.”

  Tristan took a hasty step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Do you know where he is?”

  Reeves smiled. “We found you, did we not?”

  Dunstead pushed his spectacles back in place. “We must leave, Mr. Reeves. It’s getting dark and we have a long way to go.”

  Reeves glanced at the terrace doors. “It’s already too late to take the coaches and wagons down that treacherous road. Besides, the horses are spent, and—” He looked at Tristan. “I wonder…My lord, would you allow us to stay for a day or two? We’ve traveled far and are a bit weary. Our horses need rest, especially after pulling so much weight up that horrid road.”

  If Reeves knew how to locate his brother, then Tristan would be foolish to let the man out of his sight. “Stay. I am afraid I don’t have much room—”

  “We will make do in the stables,” Reeves said, as if anticipating just such a suggestion.

  “The stables?” Mr. Dunstead blinked. “But…how—”

  “We will do very well,” Reeves said smoothly. He bowed to Tristan. “Thank you for your consideration. Once the horses are rested, we will, of course, be on our way.”

  “But—” Dunstead said.

  Reeves took the solicitor by the shoulders and turned him toward the door. “Lord Rochester, thank you! I hope to speak to you again soon, once you’ve had time to digest the new things in your life.” With that, the butler steered the solicitor into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him.

  Tristan stood staring at the closed door for the longest time, scattered thoughts raging through him. His father, dead. His brother, perhaps found. A fortune to be won. And a title, all his. Lord Tristan Llevanth, Earl of Rochester.

  What a horrible, horrible joke.

  If he was to digest all of that, it would take an entire bottle of brandy. Or ten. Shaking his head, he sank back into his chair, reclaimed his glass and took a long gulp. He was an earl. For some reason, he wondered what his starched-skirted neighbor would think of that. Would she be impressed? Or merely demand yet again that he keep his sheep out of her garden?

  Lifting his glass in her general direction, he silently toasted her. Not only was she delectable, but she was brimming with good sense—he could almost smell it on her. That was the kind of woman one avoided at all costs; the marrying kind.

  Sighing, he laid his head against the back of the chair. Truthfully, he’d trade his earldom for one night in the lady’s bed. One long, passion-filled night, filled with scented skin, and the silk of her hair…

  The thought made him shift uneasily in his chair. Damnation. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He was an earl. A bloody earl. An earl with a bad leg and a cottage filled with broken sailors. What good was the title without the funds?

  Even from the grave, his father still had the power to irk him. Teeth clenched, Tristan tried to focus on Christian. On hope. Thoughts swirled round and round as Tristan drank his way through the bottle, the hours slowly passing. The sun would be breaking over the horizon before he managed to calm his thoughts enough to stumble to bed. But even then, one distinct image lingered behind his alcohol-fogged eyelids; that of his lovely neighbor, curtsying low, displaying her bosom for his earl-like approval.

  It left him with one thought before he sank into a deep sleep…Maybe being an earl wouldn’t be such a hardship, after all.

  Chapter 5

  A proper butler never, ever interferes with his master’s Personal Matters. Unless, of course, his efforts will make his master’s life better in some measure. For so
me, this can justify a large amount of interference, indeed.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  “You, sir, will remove your sheep from my garden,” Prudence demanded, her voice a bit shivery, as if she was cold. She found that odd, to be cold AND dreaming.

  The captain turned, apparently unaware that he was but a figment of Prudence’s slumber. He was standing on the bluff, as he’d been the other day, the wind whipping his cloak about him, his broad chest displayed by a thin white shirt open at the neck, his black breeches tight about his thick, muscled legs.

  Prudence had to fight for breath. This was the best dream she’d ever had. His open shirt was scandalous enough, but the tight cut of his breeches was quite distracting. Very distracting. So distracting that—

  He was suddenly before her, his warm hands on her shoulders. He looked deeply into her eyes. “I will do anything you desire, my sweet. So long as you give me one kiss.”

  “A kiss? I could not—” Well, she could, she supposed. When dreaming, one was allowed to do things one might not in Real Life. “Very well. One kiss. But only one, so—”

  He clasped his arms about her, bent her back, and captured her mouth with his. Even in her dream, he was impatient, masculine, and forward. Prudence shuddered and shivered, moaning with the heat that blossomed at his touch, at the feel of his warm mouth on hers, at the sensual shiver of his tongue slipping past her lips.

  How could she experience such feelings in a simple dream? How could she truly feel the texture of his skin, smell the freshness of his linen, taste the tang of salt on his lips? How was it that she—

  A harsh knock broke through her muddled slumber. Prudence scrunched her eyes more tightly closed and pulled her pillow closer, desperately hanging on to the image of the captain, his handsome face bent over hers, his mouth just inches from her own—