Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  “Perhaps I do, though that is not important. My lord, we should practice your dinner conversation a bit more. The trustees will expect to be invited for that, as well.”

  The earl crossed his arms. “Not until you explain what you meant.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake! I just—” She sighed. “You are no longer a lowly sea captain, as you put it, but an earl. A handsome, wealthy earl. Any duchess in London or elsewhere would be thrilled to be seen with you.” The words did little to make Prudence feel better for she suddenly realized they were true. Quite true. With or without polish, the earl’s startling good looks, piercing green gaze and seductive charm would have the female half of the ton falling right into his lap—literally.

  Tristan saw the flash of a thousand thoughts flicker over Prudence’s face. Her face was so quick to respond to her thoughts, yet he did not know her well enough to understand all of her expressions. “If I am so highly placed, then I suppose that means you are beneath me, then.” He grinned. “I rather like you there.”

  She did not smile.

  Tristan’s own humor faded. “Prudence, I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of you. I just…I am not fond of the way society lines people up, worthy to unworthy, all at the whim of a few.”

  “Why are you so bitter toward society? Several times now, I’ve seen a look in your eyes.”

  A little of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders, though her hands were pressed into fists. “You do not want to hear my story.”

  “Try me.”

  Her gaze met his, questioning, seeking. Whatever she saw must have reassured her, for she said, “Very well. I will tell you why I do not trust society.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “My late husband was very good at investing. He made our fortune and established us well. Phillip had a gift for making money. He gained notice for both that and his generosity. I don’t remember him ever refusing to help anyone.”

  “That could be a gift, or a curse.”

  “So I have learned. He began to manage the money of others, as well. Eventually, his services were in demand by various members of the ton. He made thousands of pounds for some very important people.”

  “He must have been very talented.”

  “He was. Phillip was a very personable and handsome man; he loved people and always thought the best of everyone. And people naturally liked him. We were soon invited everywhere.”

  “That must have been a heady experience.”

  She flashed him a painful smile. “You have no idea. I was enthralled. Me, Prudence Crumpton Thistlewaite, sitting down to dinner with two duchesses, an earl and his countess, a viscount and two of the patronesses for Almack’s. They were so nice to me.” Her lips quivered, then she pressed them into a straight line. “Or so I thought.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of Phillip’s largest investments didn’t come through. Then another. Finally, a third. He’d had failures before, but nothing like this, and never three in a row. In the space of three months, he lost all of the money entrusted to him. He thought things would come about if he could convince the investors to wait a while, ride out the downturn. But they would not. They wanted their money back right away. Phillip did what he could, giving away most of our fortune in the process and desperately trying to talk the investors into believing in him just a bit longer.” She paused, closing her eyes as if to ward off a horrible apparition. “They would not.”

  “Patience is not one of the better qualities of the ton.”

  She managed a wan smile. “No, it is not. Between the investments turning and the demands of the men Phillip had been attempting to help, we lost everything we owned as well as, according to the Morning Post, the fortunes of several highly positioned men. But it was not enough that he was also ruined; the menwanted revenge. Whenever they spoke of what happened, they made it sound as if Phillip had cheated them in some way. The papers repeated their comments and rumors began to look like facts.”

  “Damn them!”

  “I cannot stand to even see one now.” She looked down at her hands and uncurled them. “They said he’d broken the law, but he hadn’t. He was just unfortunate. Our own fortune was lost as well. An inquiry was called and it went on for a year. Phillip was cleared, but the weight of it devastated him, especially when I became the object of gossip.”

  Tristan noted that her back was ramrod straight. He captured her hand and lifted it to his lips, then kissed each of her fingers. “People can be complete nod cocks. Do not allow the dross of human experience make you feel poorly.”

  A grateful look flashed across her brown eyes. “I try not to, but it is difficult.”

  Tristan made certain she could not see where his right hand was clenched about his cane. “If you do not mind telling me, what was said about you?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Ugly things. That I had enticed men to invest in Phillip’s projects. That I had—” She sent a glance his way, then shook her head. “It is not worth repeating. We were completely ruined, financially and socially. We lost our house, our horses, all of it, and our new ‘friends’ abandoned us. I think perhaps that hurt the most.”

  “Prudence, I am sorry.” He knew what it was to be left behind. Alone. And without. “I wish I could change things for you.”

  That was all he said. But it was enough. She looked at him, her heart in her amazing brown eyes. He could see the hurt, the pain. And the flash of warmth at his words.

  She lifted a hand to his cheek. “Thank you.”

  He caught her hand and turned it so that he could place a kiss in her palm. “Thank you,” he said simply.

  Color high, she smiled, then pulled her hand free. “The ton is an odd and cruel world, but it is what we have to deal with now.” She smoothed her skirts, visibly gathering herself. “This is not helping your cause at all.”

  “No? I was just thinking of a compliment about your eyes, how lovely they are. Surely that sort of neat phrase twist is worth something.”

  “I’m here to tutor you in the art of graces, not the art of flirtation. We really must distinguish one from the other.” She flashed him a smile and he had the distinct impression her confidences were now at an end.

  He didn’t want to continue with their foray into “correct” behavior. He wanted to hear more about her, more about who she was and why. But he knew if he protested, she might leave and he was unwilling to risk losing her attention, even for one day.

  So to amuse himself and to keep her within arm’s reach, he resumed his place on the settee and said with a falsely solemn air, “I shall do my best to distinguish between flirtation and ‘graces’ as you call them, if you will attempt to smile more. It soothes the savage beast in me.”

  She laughed, the pure sound sending a heated vibration all the way to his toes. “Lord Rochester, nothing can soothe the savage beast in you. Perhaps that is a good thing, too.”

  Tristan looked at Prudence for a moment, admiring the silky curve of her cheeks. She was a beautiful woman. Not startlingly so, but quietly, with a certain amount of elegance. “I think I know what we should do. Let us cease this pretending. We’ll just be who we are. You will be Prudence Thistlewaite, a lovely widow from an obviously genteel family while I am who I am, a bastard earl sadly inept at social interaction.”

  Her eyes met his. There was a faint hesitation, then she smiled. “That would be lovely.”

  “I think so, too.”

  For a long moment, they looked at one another, only the crackling of the fire rising between them. Then Prudence ducked her head in a nod, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Where should we begin?”

  “I will do my best not to embarrass you and you will do your best to correct me without making me puff up with irritated pride.”

  Humor shimmered in her eyes. “You do puff up.”

  “So Reeves has been at pains to inform me. It’s annoying how he can couch an obvious insult in such a way that yo
u find yourself agreeing as if he’d just given you the grandest of compliments.”

  “Do you think it’s an insult to correct someone?”

  “Only when it is done to me,” he replied dryly, rewarded for this piece of deprecating honesty when she bubbled with laughter.

  He grinned in return, feeling absurdly relaxed and at ease. “Shall we return to our discussion of the weather, Mrs. Thistlewaite? I have thought of no less than three perfectly acceptable comments I could make.”

  Her smile was almost blinding. “My lord, it would be my pleasure.”

  Chapter 12

  It is widely believed by many members of the ton that, for servants, the greatest rewards in our honored profession come from praise. That is a very noble concept, though a blatant falsehood. Whether servant or master, saint or supplicant, nothing motivates more thoroughly than the sight of a freshly minted gold coin.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  Some ten miles east, on a particularly rocky stretch of coast, sat the New Inn. A solid stone structure with glass windows so thick as to make peering through them nigh impossible, the building squatted on a narrow line of beachhead, facing the sea.

  The inn and its adjacent stables were locked from the mainland for two hours during each high tide. That, and the charms of its two buxom serving maids, made the tavern immensely popular with the men from the village. Providing that their screeching, fuming wives did not arrive to fetch them home before high tide, the inn afforded the perfect excuse to stay an extra few hours.

  Tonight, just as the waters of high tide receded enough to make crossing the sandy bridge possible, a lone rider trotted his horse into the inn yard and dismounted. The link boy, Lukie, knew right away this was no ordinary cove, not only by the quality of horse, but by the shiny shilling that was pressed into his hand. Copper pennies were what the boy usually saw, except when Gentleman Jack was about.

  Then the riches flowed, not just to Lukie, but to his sister, who was one of the serving maids, and his aunt, who cooked meat pies and thick stews for the patrons. In Lukie’s world, only highwaymen could afford such largesse. One day, the world willing, Lukie planned to take to the high toby himself.

  Lukie stole a look at the gent. Oddly, the man didn’t appear to be a highwayman; he was too soberly attired. Lukie wondered if the gent was a servant, or perhaps a vicar. It had to be one or t’other.

  Smiling at the thought, Lukie pocketed the shilling and led the horse to a nearby trough so it could drink its fill.

  The gent took off his gloves and tucked them away. “Pardon me, but I am looking for a certain gentleman.”

  Lukie’s smile almost slipped, but he managed to keep it in place. “Oh? An’ who might thet be?”

  “A man. He’s quite tall, six feet and perhaps a bit more, slender build but athletic, black hair, and eyes of a very unusual shade of green.” The gent’s blue eyes seemed to see through Lukie. “Do you know him?”

  Heart pounding in his ears, Lukie’s gaze flew to the door of the inn and then back. “No, guv’nor! I ain’t never heard of a man like ye’re describin’.”

  “Hmmm.” A faint smile touched the gent’s face as he, too, looked at the door. “I see. Well, thank you all the same.” With that, he turned and walked toward the inn, pausing outside the door to reach inside his coat for a moment.

  In the light from the lantern hanging by the door, Lukie could just make out the curve of a pistol tucked securely into the man’s waistband.

  Eyes wide, he watched the man straighten his coat and then enter the inn. The need to call a warning grew in Lukie, but somehow, he knew such a commotion would not be welcome. No, it was better to sit quietly and be ready in case he was needed.

  Besides, Gentleman Jack could handle the man, if need be. No one was bigger, faster, or more daring. And no one had a way with a sword like Jack. Reassured, Lukie led the gent’s horse into the stables.

  Reeves, meanwhile, took a step through the doorway of the tavern. Had he any hope for a quiet entry, it was quite dashed. The boisterous inhabitants stopped their conversations to regard him with far from friendly glances.

  Reeves slipped his hand beneath his coat, the cold metal of his pistol reassuring. He was not a man given to violence, but it never paid to be less than prepared. “Pardon me,” he said quietly. “I am Reeves and I am looking for a gentleman.”

  One of the bar wenches chuckled. “Ye’ve come to the wrong place then, luv, fer we’ve no gents here.”

  This caused a general burst of laughter and one or two good-humored protests. Reeves let it all pass, taking advantage of the mayhem to get his bearings.

  The New Inn was not new at all, but rather an ancient establishment several centuries old. The ceilings were low with large wooden beams smudged with more nights of smoke than any living creature had seen. Smooth rocks taken from the shoreline surrounded the huge fireplace where a stack of logs burned merrily. The floor showed the most wear, dipping in a rut along the bar where countless feet had marched on their way to fetch refreshment. To one side, over the serving area, a single narrow staircase disappeared upstairs.

  The occupants of the inn looked to be a mixture of farmer and laborer, with a few unsavory elements mixed in. Reeves waited for the laughter to die down before he amended his request. “I am looking for a particular man, one Christian Llevanth.”

  There was no answer to this, just blank stares and shrugs. Two men by the door—one a small, slender fellow with an oddly round face and small, narrow eyes, the other a huge redheaded giant of a man with a fierce expression—seemed especially resentful of his presence.

  Reeves cleared his throat. “If Christian Llevanth is not here, could I perhaps inquire after Gentleman Jack?”

  Silence, cold and tense, filled the taproom.

  A thick-necked man with brown hair glared at Reeves. “Not a constable, are ye?”

  “No. I wish him no harm.”

  The man chuckled, though there was no smile in his eyes. “So they all say.”

  His companion, a black-haired man with a patch over one eye, snarled a smile. “I’d be careful who I’d be askin’ about. There are some as might take offense at ye suggestin’ they’re consortin’ with a known highwayman.”

  “I mean no disrespect, but I bring news of the gentleman’s father.”

  That caused a fresh set of murmurs. The red-haired giant lumbered to his feet and immediately silence reigned again. “I think ye’d best be leavin’. We don’t want no strangers here.”

  “I must find Christian Llevanth. If you happen to see him, would you please tell him that I bring word of his father?”

  “No,” the giant said with a tenacious tilt of his chin. “I won’t tell him nothin’ fer ye, ye bas—”

  “Willie!” came a low, masculine voice from the stairs. “Shut it!”

  Reeves turned as a gentleman made his way down the stairs. As tall as his brother, Christian did not have the sheer size, but was built on leaner, more elegant lines. His clothing was notable for the quality. His cloak had the sheen of the finest wool. His breeches fit perfectly, the crisp lay of his shirt bespoke the finest Spanish linen, and the tight line of his coat was unmistakably French in design. But every piece, even his cravat, was as unrelentingly black as his hair. The only color was the sparkle of a ruby at his cravat and the flash of silver from an elaborately hilted rapier.

  He looked exactly like what he was—a thief, though a stylish one. Christian crossed the room toward Reeves, moving with a fluid grace.

  The giant eyed Reeves up and down. “He looks like a bloody steepler to me.”

  “Steepler?” Reeves asked.

  The giant snorted in disgust. “Ye know, a nambler. A torcher.”

  “My friend Willie thinks you look like a constable.” Christian smiled, curiosity burning in his bright green gaze as he sauntered toward them. “I believe Willie has the right of it.”


  “I am not a member of the constabulary.”

  Willie considered him again, then smirked. “Aye. Ye don’t have the nellies fer it.”

  “What Willie means,” said Christian, taking a chair at an empty table by the fire, “is that he doesn’t believe you have the—”

  “I gathered what Mr. William meant, my lord.”

  “My lord?” Christian’s smile broadened, his teeth white in the dim tavern. “You are sadly out there, my friend, whoever you are.”

  “I am not mistaken at all,” Reeves said softly. “I have some news. Some rather distressing news, I am afraid.”

  Christian froze. The giant opened his mouth but Christian raised a hand.

  The giant shifted uneasily. “Jack?” he asked. “Whot’s toward?”

  Christian turned a face carved of stone toward his companion. “My father.”

  “This gent is your father?”

  “No. My father was an earl. And now, it appears he is dead.” He looked toward Reeves for verification, his face pale in the smoky light.

  Reeves nodded. “I am afraid so, my lord.”

  Christian shook his head as if to clear it. “It is so odd. For some reason I had it in my head he would live forever. Why would I have thought that?” He was silent a moment, staring into the fire as if searching among the flames for something.

  Suddenly, he roused himself and sent a quick glance at Reeves. “I am sorry. I forget myself. Won’t you have a seat?” He winked at the serving wench, who giggled and brought two ales to the table. Christian tossed a coin in her direction, watching absently when she tucked the gold piece in the low top of her corset in a suggestive manner.

  “You are quite well known here,” Reeves said politely, taking his seat across from Christian.

  Christian turned an empty chair his way and placed his booted feet on the seat. “It is good policy to be friendly with the locals.”

  Willie sent a warning glare at Reeves. “Sam and I will be right here, by the door.”