Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

Christian nodded absently. He waited until his servant was out of earshot before he asked, “Who are you?”

  “Your father’s butler.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I assumed, as did everyone else, that upon escaping being pressed like your brother, you would go to London to be close to your mother.”

  “She died before I arrived. I knew she was sick, but I didn’t realize how serious it was.”

  “It must have been a shock.”

  Christian took a drink from his tankard. “You have no idea.”

  “No, my lord. When we first began our search, we inspected the records of every orphanage, every dockside industry, and every inn along the quay. Then it dawned on me that perhaps we were looking too low.”

  Christian’s lips quivered. “I was the son of an earl. And not just any earl, either.”

  “Exactly, my lord. Your father’s very attitude. Once I realized that, it didn’t take long to find a trace. First one here, then one there.” Reeves met Christian’s gaze. “You kept using variations of your father’s name and titles. In Bainbridge you were Viscount Westerville. In Bath, you were Lord Rochester Stuart.”

  “A common device. When assuming an identity, one should always use a name one can remember when under duress.”

  “A very good piece of advice, my lord. I shall endeavor to remember it. Mr. Dunstead, the old earl’s solicitor, found a positive physical description of you in London.”

  “London?”

  “Yes, my lord. From the daughter of the French ambassador. He says you stole his daughter’s heart, although he seems more upset over the loss of her jewelry.”

  A dreamy smile crossed Christian’s face. “Michelle was—” He kissed his fingers to the air. “Magnifique.”

  Reeves allowed himself a small smile. “I am glad to hear it. Gentleman Jack seems to be doing quite well.”

  “The benefits far outweigh the dangers.” Christian took another drink. “So my father died, hm. I cannot be sorry.”

  “He left you the title of Viscount Westerville while your brother, Tristan, inherited the earldom.”

  Christian froze. “Tristan?”

  “Yes. He is alive and well. Though I rather think you know that.”

  A shuttered look entered Christian’s eyes. “Perhaps. It is rather easy to follow a war hero.”

  “You were watching him longer than that. When your father’s solicitor made inquiries at the shipyards in London during the search to locate your brother, someone had been there before him.”

  Christian took a drink, his long lashes hiding his expression. “Perhaps. Tell me, Reeves, how did my father leave us with his titles? Our mother never wed Rochester.”

  “Your father set everything to rights before he died.”

  “How?”

  A faint smile touched Reeves’s mouth. “Does that matter?”

  “I suppose not.” Christian shook his head. “I still cannot believe this. Where is Tristan now? I know he has been injured. I went to London to look for him, but he’d already left by the time I arrived.”

  “Oddly enough, he settled not far from here.”

  Christian gave a short laugh. “Here? You cannot be telling the truth.”

  Reeves smiled. “You were destined to meet, whether I arrived or not, only it might have been under less felicitous circumstances.” Reeves tilted his head to one side. “You may look like your mother, but your air of fashion is definitely your father’s.”

  Christian gave a bitter smile, lifting his tankard. “Here’s to my father’s air. May it hold me in good stead.”

  Reeves lifted his tankard and toasted before taking a tentative sip.

  “Welcome to my world, Reeves. Plump, willing wenches and bitter ale, all warmed by the excitement of the road.”

  “Excitement…and danger. Master Christian, I he sitate to suggest this, but I believe the time has come for you to find another profession.”

  Christian gave a twisted smile. “A war hero earl has no need of a highwayman for a brother.”

  “I don’t believe the earl would agree with you.”

  “He always was pigheaded.” Christian flicked a serious glance at Reeves. “He is well, otherwise?”

  “I believe so. He still has a limp, you know, from his wounds. I do not think that will ever leave him. But his men are still with him; they drive him to distraction.”

  “His men? Then he still sails.”

  “No,” Reeves said. “They came to him. He has a house on the cliff in Devon.”

  “He lives there with his crew?”

  “The ones who can no longer sail. They dote on him.”

  A faint smile touched Christian’s mouth. “They are his family. When you have no family, you adopt the lost souls who wander through your life.”

  Reeves glanced at Willie, who stood by the door, glowering at the entire room.

  Christian’s gaze followed Reeves’s. “Yes, he is one.” The fire flickered a little as a gust of wind chased down the flue, puffing smoke into the room.

  “I believe your father regretted his inactivity in your life.

  “And I regret not having slit his gullet with my rapier.”

  “I am surprised you did not.”

  “I had no right to deprive Tristan of his father.” Christian shrugged. “Besides, I have been busy.”

  “Yes, my lord. Being a highwayman must be an enormous drain on one’s free time.”

  Humor flickered in Christian’s green eyes. “I am not just a highwayman. I am also a gentleman farmer. I have lands, you know. Quite a respectable holding, in fact.”

  “I am not surprised, my lord. You are very resourceful. As was your father.” The butler paused. “He was a wise manager of his funds and a good master. Unfortunately, he was also rather free with his affections. A wide pond, but not very deep.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at Christian’s mouth. “The old man was a reprobate on every level.”

  “Yes, my lord. Though he most certainly had a way with his cravats.”

  “I’m sure God is impressed. Tell me of Tristan. Does he enjoy being the earl? Has he purchased half of London with the funds?”

  “He does not yet have the funds. The trustees will be arriving in four short weeks to ascertain his worthiness for the title. If he gains their approval, then a very large sum will pass into his hands. If he does not, then the funds will be added to the rather generous amount the late earl named for you. Providing, of course, that you meet the trustees’ approval at that time.”

  “An earl without money. My father’s sense of humor did not change, even upon the deathbed.” Christian found his hand curling tightly about his tankard. He loosened it and said in a flat voice, “So I am now Viscount Westerville in reality.”

  “Your father left you the title of Viscount Westerville and ten thousand pounds per annum.”

  Christian whistled.

  “Will you accept it?”

  “Are you mad? Of course I will take it, and gladly!”

  Reeves sighed. “Finally, a sane one.”

  Christian laughed. “I take it Tristan has not been so accommodating?”

  “He says he would rather…how did he word it? It had something to do with his nether regions being burned off.”

  “That is Tristan for you. He sees things in black and white. All pride, that one. I, however, will enjoy spending the late earl’s funds whilst he is merrily burning in the pits of hell.”

  “I am glad to see you are not bitter,” Reeves said dryly.

  Christian’s expression hardened as quickly as he’d grinned before. “Do you know what he did to my mother? How he left her to rot in prison? Accused of a treason she did not commit?”

  “My lord, perhaps he had a reason—”

  Christian slammed down his mug, ignoring the startled glance of those around. “My mother died in a damp prison, accused of a crime she did not commit, alone and afraid. He knew it and did nothing to he
lp her.”

  “My lord—”

  “Don’t. Not another word. I made it my business to discover what I could of her circumstances. I cannot change her fate now, but one day, I will find who caused her such pain.”

  Reeves looked into Christian’s burning green eyes. “I am sorry.” It was all he could say.

  “My father was a bastard, through and through. A gentleman by birth, but not by heart.” Christian finished his tankard and replaced it on the table, nodding to the hovering barmaid that he wished for another. “I am a viscount.” He smiled bitterly. “How amusing.”

  “I am certain your brother will be glad to share his thoughts with you on the vagaries of holding a title.”

  Christian took the new tankard from the maid, winking at her as she sashayed away. After she left, he turned his attention back to Reeves. “Do not tell my brother you have found me.”

  “But, my lord! Why?”

  “There are things I must do if I wish to re-introduce myself into his life. From the sound of things, he does not need more problems than he has now.” Christian pushed his tankard aside. “Give me a week. Perhaps a little more. I will contact you then.”

  Reeves sighed. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “In the meantime, if you or my brother have need of me, leave word for me here.”

  “Very well. One day, we must speak more about your father, though now is obviously not the time.” Reeves stood and bowed. “I am pleased to have finally found you. I promised the late earl I would do so.”

  “You are very loyal to a man who did not deserve such consideration.”

  Reeves smiled. “Certainly his behavior to you warrants no feelings at all. But his behavior to me was not the same. I owe him. And I am a man who always pays his debts.” Reeves drew on his muffler and gloves. “I shall leave you, my lord. But hopefully, not for long.”

  “I will not wear that.”

  Reeves looked at the waistcoat. “May I ask why not?”

  Tristan grimaced. “I don’t like waistcoats, and I especially don’t like that one.”

  “My lord, it will be easier for us to convince the trustees you are worthy of the fortune if you look the part as well as act it. Mrs. Thistlewaite seems to believe you’ve made great improvement this last week, so the addition of some new clothing is essential at this juncture.”

  “I don’t mind looking a gentleman. But I do mind wearing a blasted pink waistcoat.”

  “It isn’t pink. It’s puce.”

  Tristan took the waistcoat to the window and held back the curtain. He stared hard at the material. “No. It is pink.”

  “It is puce,” Reeves said in a voice of utmost patience, “however, I don’t suppose it’s a shade you’ve often seen. I daresay they do not make sails this color.”

  “You’d bloody well better believe they don’t.”

  Reeves cleared his throat.

  Tristan sighed. “I’m sorry. I meant to say, ‘You’d better believe they don’t.’ The ‘bloody’ part just slipped in there.”

  “You are doing much better, my lord. But I know it will take time.”

  If there was one thing Tristan wasn’t sure he had, it was time. Although he’d spent most of every day of this past week with the delectable Prudence and had learned far more about the manners of the ton than he ever wished, the creep of the days weighed on him with a heavy certainty. Worse, his financial situation seemed to be getting more difficult. Just this morning he’d had to call the doctor in to look at Old John Marley’s bad leg. The news was not good; it would take weeks, perhaps months of recovery, and a good bit of medicine as well.

  Tristan sighed. He needed the fortune. Now.

  To that end, he’d tried to be a willing and apt pupil when Prudence came to visit. Even that event was difficult. He could not seem to keep from crossing the boundaries of propriety whenever she was in the room. He was learning a good deal from her, and knew what he could and could not do. But with her, the rules just seemed so…wasted. Irrelevant.

  Their lessons had become a sort of sweet torture. The air between them grew thicker every day. But what was more significant was that he thought of her all of the time and was beginning to suspect he might miss her once their time was over.

  Perhaps he’d hire her to continue serving as his tutor anyway, only this time he’d insist she not wear quite so many clothes. He imagined her expression should he mention such a notion. The thought made him chuckle.

  Reeves’s voice broke in on Tristan’s reverie. “My lord, what are you smiling about?”

  “Nothing. I was just remembering something Prudence said.”

  Reeves pursed his lips. “You mean Mrs. Thistlewaite?”

  “I mean Prudence.”

  “It would be more correct—”

  “I may wear your bloody waistcoat, but I’ll be damned if I will call Prudence anything other than her given name.”

  Reeves bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Good,” Tristan said, feeling like a heel for yelling at the butler. Truly life had improved with Reeves about. Not only was the food better, but every morning the most winsome of companions came to dine with him.

  Tristan fingered the waistcoat. “If I wore this at sea, I’d be laughed off my own ship.”

  “By other, equally fashion-conscious sailors, no doubt.” Reeves cocked a challenging eyebrow. “Since you do not favor puce—”

  “Pink.”

  “—puce, then perhaps I can find another that might suit.” Reeves carefully placed the waistcoat over his arm and returned to the trunk at the foot of the bed. He folded the garment, wrapped it back in its paper and gently laid it in the trunk. Then he began to shuffle through the clothing that was still packed, pausing to cast a rather caustic glance at Tristan. “Before I begin, is there any other color you won’t wear besides pink? Blue? Violet?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Why won’t you wear yellow?”

  Tristan grinned. “It makes my skin look sallow.”

  For an instant, a hint of a smile flickered over Reeves’s mouth, but he managed to repress it. “I shall endeavor to remember that, my lord.” He bent back into the trunk, emerging a moment or so later with yet another waistcoat.

  Tristan took a step back. “Good God!”

  Reeves blinked down at the waistcoat. “What?”

  “It shines.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. It’s a silver etched waistcoat trimmed with blue lacing and black edgework. Quite the thing, actually. It came all the way from France and—”

  “Bloody hell, I’ll look like a walking coin in that thing. Or some woman’s necklace.”

  “It is only for evening wear, my lord. Quite unsuitable for day. I didn’t hold it up to suggest you wear it right this moment, but merely to see if it was more to your liking.”

  “I’d look like a fish marching about on land.” Tristan shook his head. “That’s what you get for allowing the French to determine fashion.”

  Reeves carefully refolded the waistcoat and replaced it in the trunk. He then emerged with another, far simpler one. This one was red, with narrow black trim.

  Tristan took the waistcoat and eyed it with disgust. “What happened to plain black for a waistcoat?”

  “They went out of style in 1763, my lord, and are now only worn by obsequious country squires, arrogant highwaymen, and other Notorious Persons.”

  “I don’t know about country squires, but you are right about highwaymen. They do wear a lot of black.”

  Reeves’s blue eyes suddenly fixed on Tristan. “May I ask how you would know that, my lord?”

  Tristan turned to the mirror and began putting on the waistcoat. “I was held up on the road to Bath not a year ago. The man was dressed in black head to toe, which made it damnably difficult to pin him.”

  “Pin, my lord?”

  “Shoot.”

  Reeves paused. “You shot at him?”

  “I tried, but he managed to run away. I didn’t find an
y blood, so I must assume I missed, which was a damned shame.”

  Reeves gave a strained smile. “Of course, my lord. Here. Let me help you with your coat.”

  Tristan slid his arms into the sleeves. It felt odd, wearing such a tight-fitting garment. Indeed, all of the clothing Reeves had had made for Tristan were unusually close, from the knitted breeches to the cravat, he felt like a sail tangled in rigging.

  He took up his cane. “I am now trussed like a goose. If you don’t mind, I wish to take my morning walk.”

  “You should have a half hour before Mrs. Thistlewaite arrives. Just be careful of the puddles.” Reeves nodded toward Tristan’s glossy boots.

  “What good are boots if you cannot get them muddy?”

  Reeves opened his mouth to reply when the door flew open and Stevens stuck his head in, his eyes widening when he saw Tristan. “Coo’ee, Cap’n—I mean, yer lordship! If ye don’t look like a gent now, I don’t know who would!”

  “Master Stevens,” Reeves said calmly, “it is customary to knock before entering a room.”

  “Ye don’t say. Well then, here.” Stevens turned and knocked on the door behind him before smiling at Reeves. “How was that?”

  “Excellent except that you should wait outside the door, knock, and then wait to be bidden to enter.”

  “Lord, what a long time that would take! Cap’n—yer lordship, did ye ever hear the like? Knockin’ and then waitin’ to be tol’ to come in?”

  “Rules, Stevens. I am strangled by them. Before the month is out we won’t recognize ourselves.”

  “Master Stevens,” Reeves said. “Did you bring the shears as I requested?”

  Stevens nodded, reaching inside his voluminous coat to remove a wicked pair of shears from his waistband.

  Tristan eyed them uneasily. “What’s that for? Cutting up that pink waistcoat to make a set of sails?”

  Stevens snickered. “Cap’n, surely ye know! The shears are for yer hair.”

  “What?” Tristan took a step back, looking aghast at the shears. “Reeves, you are not cutting my hair.”

  Reeves sent a stern glare at Stevens. “That was not the way I wished the earl to learn of my suggestion.”

  Tristan scowled. “That does not look like a suggestion.”