Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  “Yes, but I did not mean—oh, never mind. I can see that you are merely teasing me.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. He admired the delicious way her lips quivered as she tried not to return his smile. Her eyes met his, and suddenly, everything felt right. Right in a way they had not for a very, very long time. Perhaps ever.

  He wondered if perhaps, in accepting the title, he might not find many more such moments—with a woman such as this.

  “I wonder…” She regarded him steadily, her head tilted to one side. “What exactly do you have to—” She colored suddenly. “I’m sorry. It is none of my concern.”

  No it wasn’t. Still…Tristan watched her from beneath his lashes. Mrs. Thistlewaite may not be titled, but her every movement bespoke breeding and elegance. She seemed out of place in the simplicity of his library. She moved like a countess, he decided. And since he was now an earl—

  Good God, where had that thought come from? He needed to focus on the funds, not daydream about such wasted silliness.

  Yes, he told himself. Think of the funds. Never again would an injured sailor go hungry or without wages. The house could be enlarged. Perhaps some berths added in a wing that would keep him from turning away the newly arrived. He was at capacity as it was now.

  To win the funds, he’d have to pass muster with the trustees, and something in Reeves’s expression had led Tristan to think that that might not be an easy task. What if he couldn’t do it?

  He suddenly became aware of Prudence standing before him. She gave a sharp curtsy and said, “I really must go. I’ve errands to run this afternoon, though I’ve yet to complete the task I set out to do in coming here.”

  “Ah, yes. My sheep.”

  “The next time one finds itself in my garden, I shall make soup of it.”

  He raised his brows. “You can cook? Had I known that I should have sent you a more tender ewe.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her full lips pursed in an accusing scowl.

  Tristan threw up his hand, laughing. “Hold fire, woman! I am teasing you! I vow on my mother’s grave I did not know my sheep had climbed your gate yet again. I am as mystified as ever as to how that keeps occurring.”

  Her shoulders straightened, though some of the suspicion left her eyes. “However that may be, they are still your sheep. It is time you took responsibility for them.”

  “I’m a sailor, not a shepherd. But for you…” Tristan eyed his neighbor from the top of her glossy brown curls to the tantalizing glimpse of her slippered toes before saying in a voice heavily laced with appreciation, “for you, I could be.”

  Her face flushed a delightful pink and she made a hurried curtsy. “Th-thank you. I—I—You—you—you—” She grimaced. “Oh blast it! Just keep your blasted sheep on your own property!” and with that ringing announcement, she spun and almost ran from the room.

  Chapter 8

  It is a delicate thing, to always be right. An intelligent butler will know how to make this difficult fact palatable. At least, for the moment it counts.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  Tristan leaned his hand on the frame above his head and looked out of the terrace window. The wind stirred the greenery, waves of hedgerow brushing the quickly darkening sky over the cliff beyond. At the corner of the view, the edge of the barn was just visible.

  The barn…

  Tristan scowled at it. If he had any magic to him at all, the bloody edifice would disappear from sight and with it, the dilemma he now faced. He wanted those damn funds. The more he thought of what he could do with them, the more impossible it seemed to walk away from the “opportunity” offered.

  How like his wondrous father to make life so miserably unfair. The man must even now be laughing in his grave.

  The thought simmered in his stomach like molten lead. “Damn his bones.” Tristan turned on his heel, away from the window. “I’d rather shovel coal than kowtow to a bunch of mealy-mouthed members of the blue-blood set.” They were of the same ilk as the old earl, who had not helped Mother so many years ago, and left her to die of the ague in a chilled, damp prison. He remembered discovering his mother’s fate almost two years after the fact, the wound still fresh, the pain still real.

  Anger surged through him. He’d lost so much over the years. His brother. Then his mother. And now, the father he’d never had.

  Tristan curled his hand into a fist against the glass and rested his forehead on it. Damn the earl to hell. Tristan would spend no more time thinking about him. There were more weighty issues at hand; like Christian. Tristan had looked for his brother for so many years. Now, he had the opportunity to find him. All he needed was Reeves’s information and some time.

  He rubbed a hand along his jaw, the scratch of his overgrown whiskers sounding loud to his own ears. As the haughty Prudence had left, he’d glimpsed a bit of redness to her chin that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with his whiskers. He’d have to shave more often if the tempting lady was to be about.

  Prudence. Despite the weight on his chest, he smiled. The name suited her well. The memory of the kiss lingered, his bottom lip tingling as if he could still feel it. She’d been quite troubled by that embrace. Very troubled. He had to admit he rather enjoyed seeing the little wren flustered.

  She looked far more appealing when she was mussed by his kisses. Appealing and…he pursed his lips, considering how she’d appeared when he’d finally allowed her to regain her feet. She’d looked rather wanton, truth be told. There was fire in that woman’s heart. Fire and a sensual nature that was fighting for release.

  It was a pity she was what she was—the type of woman one married. Had she been a more free-and-willing type, he might have made an effort to establish himself in her good graces. Or at least in her bed.

  Prudence was lovely, spirited, intelligent and honest. In a word, exactly the sort of woman he avoided like the plague. The thought of settling was unpalatable. He was a wandering man now, a man of the sea. The thought of staying in one place was a hardship, the thing that made his injury so desperately unbearable.

  The very thought of being chained to a house—a home—was painful for him, which was why he didn’t mind the men invading his cottage. He might have purchased the blasted place, but it was no more his home than any other place he’d slept since he’d first taken to the sea.

  That was why a relationship with a woman like Prudence could lead to nothing but heartache. She was a woman who made her home wherever she went. She would not be satisfied wandering from continent to continent, which Tristan fully intended on doing once the men were more secure. She would want a house with curtains and a garden, and a husband who enjoyed sitting by the fire night after night.

  He was not the last interested in being nailed to the parson’s cross. Not in this lifetime, anyway. He had too much to do as it was, his crew to care for, his brother to find. Besides, he’d been alone almost his whole life and it was not such a bad fate. He really hadn’t had anyone to call his own since…Christian.

  An odd ache twisted Tristan’s heart. How was his brother? Had the years been kind? Or not? These were the questions that had plagued him until, tortured by the lack of answers, he’d stopped asking them. Stopped wondering. Stopped hoping.

  Until Reeves.

  Tristan looked down and realized he was clutching the cane knob so tightly that his fingers ached. It was difficult, thinking about this.

  But here lay a new challenge. A new sea to navigate, as it were. And navigate it, he would. He would find Christian. He would also win the funds from the trustees for his men. Life sometimes demanded compromises that were difficult and demanding.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the desk. The will sat there, silently mocking him. He’d read it all, every blasted word, and still could not believe what it said. Nor how much wealth the old earl had left, not just to him, but to Christian.

  “Bloo
dy hell, where is Reeves?” Tristan looked back out the window. He needed the butler. Needed him to find Christian, and also to help find a way to appease the trustees.

  Unlike other naval figures, Tristan had eschewed public life. He hated the falseness of it all, the silks and velvets that covered black hearts and selfish souls. Knowing his father, he could almost guess at the cut of the cloth of these “trustees.” Tristan would have bet the Victory that they were all soft, overblown, pretentious arses, the lot of them.

  Tristan looked at the barn, noting the warm-looking beams of light shining through the cracks in the door and spilling across the quickly darkening yard. It was tempting to cross the short distance and see which of the men had decided to join Reeves’s troupe for dinner. Certainly Toggle would still be there; the man was led by his stomach. And perhaps one or two of the others. Tristan supposed he couldn’t blame them; it wasn’t often they were met with such succulent fare.

  The rations were getting more meager, the living quarters more cramped. Like a ship at sea with no land in sight, they were running short on supplies. Even now, piled neatly on the corner of Tristan’s desk, was a stack of bills that would soon be pressing. His funds had been stretched to their limits and yet there always seemed to be another lost sailor in need of a home.

  Tristan shook his head. He’d think about that another time. For now, he’d try to remember the name of the sauce that had so caught the bo’sun’s mate’s fancy. That was something worth remembering, he decided as his stomach rumbled. He glanced at the clock on the mantel.

  Bloody hell, it was almost six bells. Where was his dinner, dammit? Usually Cook had rations on the table well before now.

  Tristan limped to the door and opened it. “Stevens!” A strange emptiness echoed without. To Tristan’s ears, it sounded as if he was alone in the house.

  That was odd. In the last year, he could not count upon one hand the number of times that had happened. Tristan walked down the hallway, the eerie silence growing. Were all of the men in the barn? Surely not every last one of them. What of his supper?

  Growling to himself, he grabbed his coat off the hook and pulled it on before making his way outside. Within moments, he was at the barn, amidst the loud din of voices.

  Tristan opened the wide door, halting stock still at the scene. If the place had seemed different before, now it was positively transformed. The entire barn was spotless, the long narrow table down the center covered with crisp white linens and set with sparkling silver and china. Large silver candelabra decorated the centers, carefully placed tureens set here and there.

  What astounded him beyond the magnificence of the place settings was that every last one of Tristan’s men was present. Even Stevens, who sat at the head of the table looking almost kingly, a beatific expression on his face as he contemplated the food before him.

  Bloody hell. His entire crew had jumped ship. The sight sent a pang through him.

  “My lord?”

  The quietly spoken words came from behind Tristan. He turned to find Reeves standing a short distance away, a smallish man at his side sporting a very large, very black moustache.

  Reeves bowed. “My lord, allow me to introduce you to the chef, Signore Pietra.”

  “Pietra? That’s Italian.”

  “Indeed, my lord. Your father—”

  “I have asked you not to call him that.”

  Reeves hesitated. “As you wish, my lord. As I was saying, the late earl brought a French chef into his house years ago. Soon everyone was following suit. So, last year, he imported Pietra. The man is a genius.”

  The diminutive chef looked amazingly like a frog in a white hat. He bulged with pleasure. “Ah, thank you, Signore Reeves! My lord, Reeves is a genius. When I first come, I say I cannot cook in the barn! It is unheard of. But Reeves, he brings out his cart and there it is, a cookstove like no cookstove I have ever seen! Tables where I need them! And all of my favorite pans! So, it was not so hard, after all.”

  Reeves looked pleased. He glanced at Tristan and said in an undertone, “It is a new Gunner and Albertson cookstove. One of the latest.”

  “I see,” Tristan said, though he plainly did not.

  The chef nodded. “I will cook for you, my lord!” He turned on his heel and yelled, “Nico! Set another plate for his lordship.”

  Tristan reached out to stop the man, but it was too late. Already two liveried servants scurried to the table carrying glassware.

  Reeves smiled gently. “The hand of God cannot be stilled.”

  “I am not trying to still God’s hand. Just yours. Speaking of which,” Tristan eyed the butler severely, “you were to give me all of the information you’d collected on my brother.”

  Reeves’s expression sobered instantly. “Indeed I was. However, Mr. Dunstead suggested I wait. Just this afternoon he received some information that may well lead him directly to your brother. The solicitor left this afternoon to pursue it. He thinks to return within a day or two.”

  Tristan’s heart leapt. “Two days? Then my brother is nearby?”

  “It is possible, my lord. I do not know what Dunstead heard exactly, but he was quite adamant it was necessary to pursue it forthwith. And so he did.”

  Tristan didn’t know what to say. He just looked blankly at the butler, struggling against an onslaught of emotion.

  Reeves cleared his throat and discreetly looked away. “I think you will be pleased with the meal. Already the duke of Cumberland and the duchess of Berkley have announced their intentions of garnering the services of your chef. There is no greater compliment than having that which others covet.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Tristan took a deep breath, the rich scents making his mouth water. Certainly he’d never seen his men so quietly intent. He looked at them more closely. There was something different…and it was more than their actions, though they were unaccountably quieter. “My men…”

  “Yes?”

  Tristan straightened. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes; every one of his men was wearing a new coat. Even Stevens, who sat lording it over the others at the head of the long table, was resplendent in a black coat with red and gold braid.

  Reeves beamed. “Not knowing the full capacity of your household staff and realizing there was little time to have uniforms made, I brought an odd assortment of old liveries. I informed your men that in order for them to be served, they had to choose a coat from the selection.”

  “Bloody hell.” It was all Tristan could think to say. He could not help but notice the quiet good cheer that permeated the men gathered before him. Despite his misgivings, he had to smile a little himself. The men knew so little happiness of late. It was yet another reason for him to pursue and win the funds from his inheritance.

  Tristan crossed his arms over his chest, knowing what he had to say, yet the words stuck in his throat as thick as a morning fog. “Reeves?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I have reconsidered my position on my inheritance. A matter has arisen that requires funds. If I do this thing—manage to convince the trustees that I’m worthy of the title—then I’ll have access to all those funds, will I not?”

  “Yes.”

  Tristan looked out at his men, a spontaneous rumble of laughter making him more resolute. “Then I shall do it.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “I had no idea that sorry bastard was so wealthy. I knew he was well set, but the amounts put forth in the will—I was astounded. You’d think he could have spared a pence or two when asked for assistance.” Like when Tristan’s own mother had languished in gaol.

  Understanding flickered across Reeves’s face. “Your father—I’m sorry, my lord. The late earl. He was many things, oddly generous with those who worked for him and yet quite closed to those within his own family.”

  “He was a selfish bastard.”

  “Yes. He was. He also lived to regret that he was not able to come to your assistance when requested.”

&nb
sp; “Not able?”

  “He was out of the country and thus did not receive notification of your mother’s plight until it was too late. The earl was quite saddened by events.”

  Tristan’s jaw tightened. “I will not tell you what I suffered because of what transpired with my mother, nor do I fully know what Christian suffered, but none of it had to happen.” Tristan hated the bitterness in his voice, but he could not help it any more than he could stop breathing. “My father paid no heed to either of us. Had he done so, he would have known when something went awry.”

  Fortunately, Reeves didn’t try to convince him that he felt otherwise. The butler merely nodded, understanding on his face.

  “I shall not let that interfere with my pursuit of the funds,” Tristan said finally. He clasped his hand tighter about his cane, leaning against it a bit as a twinge ran up his leg. He was standing far too much and he would pay dearly for it tomorrow. “Where do we begin? What exactly do I need to do to garner the favor of the fops my father put in place as trustees?”

  A reluctant smile touched the butler’s mouth. “How do you know they are fops?”

  Tristan leveled a gaze at Reeves. “From what little I do know about my father, he thought fashion far more important than anything else.”

  “I can see why you would think that and, indeed, you are correct; they are not men of superior intelligence. They will be concerned with comportment rather than character.”

  “Just as I thought.”

  The butler pursed his lips. “Perhaps you might see your way to taking a few lessons in comportment, and then a new wardrobe. The usual things a man might need when setting up a fashionable establishment.”

  What an ill-gotten waste of time. “It’s a pity I can’t enroll in that damn academy Mrs. Thistlewaite wishes to begin. I daresay she knows all that sort of nonsense.”

  Reeves’s brows slowly rose. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “I said it was a pity I couldn’t enroll in—” Tristan caught the gleam in the butler’s eyes. “No, do not even think it. I was merely funning.”