The Caress of a Commander [retail]

by Linda Rae Sande

  The solicitor regarded him for a moment, sketching a simple map. “You may be able to navigate, my lord, but I cannot unless I have the particulars before me,” Barton said with a smirk. He continued to draw a crude map showing the position of a cottage, the village of Broadwell and the road leading to it from a bridge over the River Isis. “That’s Tadpole Bridge,” Barton said as he pointed to the drawing. Will nodded his understanding. He could use the same map to find his sister’s home.

  When Will Slater took his leave of the solicitor’s office, he knew exactly where he could find the cottage in which Lady Barbara had been sequestered since she had left London.

  Now he had to hope she could still be found there.

  Chapter 8

  A Stepmother Explains a Few Things

  Meanwhile, in Bond Street

  “Mr. Garth mentioned his wife is a Grandby,” Stephen said as a way of introducing what he hoped would be a simple conversation with Lady Devonville about marriages involving members of the ton and those on the fringes of Society.

  Cherice’s eyes widened as she tore her attention away from the town coach window and put it squarely on Stephen. “Did he now?” she replied, straightening in the squabs. After an hour of standing on a box at Madame Suzanne’s surrounded by three seamstresses, she winced at the pain she felt at the sudden movement.

  “Are you ill, my lady?” Stephen asked in alarm as he leaned forward to take one of her gloved hands. Although he had expected they would visit several shops besides the modiste’s where he had found her dressed in an elaborate ballgown, Cherice claimed she was finished with her shopping and wished to go home. Rather relieved he wouldn’t be expected to spend the entire afternoon shopping with the marchioness, Stephen had simply nodded and taken a seat in a comfortable chair obviously provided for the benefit of men such as he—those who acted as escorts for ladies intent on shopping until they dropped.

  Lady Devonville had definitely dropped.

  “I’ll be fine. I had forgotten how difficult it is to stand still for so long in dance slippers,” she said as she indicated the pasteboard box positioned next to her on the squabs.

  “Did Madame Suzanne finish your ball gown?” he asked, realizing just then he hadn’t been asked to carry more than the box of slippers. His own boxes from the tailor’s shop were larger and heavier than hers.

  Cherice shook her head. “The hem will take a day, perhaps two,” she replied. “But she claims it will be done and delivered in time for Lord Weatherstone’s ball.”

  Stephen nodded, wondering how he could steer the conversation back to the tailor and his wife. “Mrs. Garth probably never has to leave her home to be fitted for a gown,” he hedged, pretending to be interested in the shops they passed.

  “Just what is it you wish to know about Rebecca Garth?” Cherice asked then, her manner perhaps a bit more sober than usual given her discomfort. Goodness! If she was this sore after just one hour of standing on a box, how would she feel at the end of tonight’s soirée? She couldn’t spend the entire evening in the ladies’ retiring room!

  Angling his head to one side, Stephen realized he wasn’t as comfortable discussing his situation as he had been with the tailor. “How is it she came to love a tailor? Enough to... want to marry him given her station in life?”

  Cherice suppressed the gasp she nearly allowed, stunned by Stephen’s forthright question. “Well,” she replied, readjusting her position in the squabs. “Mr. Garth was certainly chattier than usual, it seems.”

  Stephen shook his head. “I may have encouraged him to speak more than he would have,” he said in the man’s defense. “It’s just...” He paused and took a breath. “We are similar in our positions with respect to Society—”

  “Hardly,” Cherice interrupted, her head shaking from side to side. “Your father has recognized you as his own. You’re free to move about in polite Society as you wish. Mr. Garth...” Here, Cherice paused before shaking her head. “Mr. Garth is a tailor. Even a marriage to an earl’s daughter cannot elevate him.”

  “But it’s certainly affected her,” Stephen countered.

  His stepmother turned her attention to the window again, her lips pursed as if she had bit into a lemon. “Yes, it has. But Rebecca Grandby was never going to be a proper lady,” she murmured.

  “Why ever not?”

  Cherice finally turned her attention back to Stephen, realizing the young man would begin asking others about her friend if she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. The last thing she wanted was for Rebecca to suffer from renewed gossip about her proclivities. “She was never a demure, proper young lady, that Rebecca,” she said with a shake of her head. “Which is why some of us liked her so much and others found her behavior... intolerable.” When Stephen still regarded her with an arched eyebrow, Cherice lowered her voice. “She enjoyed certain activities she shouldn’t have had any knowledge of before she was married. Or even after, probably. With... men who were willing to be...” Here she stopped and swallowed. “Mr. Garth was the first man to... meet her demands and make his own. He sees to it she is happy. He worships her as much or more as she does him. And he makes her beautiful clothes, some she can even wear in public.”

  Stephen blinked, trying to imagine the tailor with a strong-willed woman, a domineering woman, a woman intent on causing as much pleasure as she did pain. He wondered if Jeffrey Garth had seen something in the woman no one else had—a tigress looking to be tamed, a tigress he knew he would have to occasionally allow out of her cage to scratch and claw. A tigress he would have to recapture in his net so that he might remind her of the power he held over her.

  Although he had heard tales of women who wielded riding crops in their bedchambers, Stephen had never shared a bed with one, nor did he wish to now. “I shall be sure to look to marry a young lady who is demure,” he murmured.

  Cherice allowed a huff as she regarded him with a shake of her head. “If you wish to be happy in your marriage, you may want to seek a woman who is not so very demure,” she replied with an arched eyebrow. “Else you may find yourself a frequent visitor at Mrs. Gibbons’ establishment.”

  Stephen frowned at his stepmother’s comment, not exactly sure who Mrs. Gibbons was but pretty sure he understood the nature of her establishment. “Do you have a recommendation?” he asked then, thinking perhaps Lady Devonville had someone in mind to be his wife.

  Shaking her head, Cherice sighed. “You must choose. But do so only after you’ve courted her enough to know her character. And her mother’s. To know if you two will suit.”

  His eyes darting to one side, Stephen wondered if she meant he should suit the daughter or if she meant the mother.

  “Both,” she said in a hoarse whisper, as if she could read his mind. “There’s nothing worse than an overbearing mother to cast a poor light on a daughter of marriageable age.”

  Nodding, Stephen wondered if perhaps Cherice Dubois’ mother had been just such a mother. He doubted his own would behave that way if she’d had a daughter. “Anything else I should consider? Anything else I should do?” he asked, figuring he may as well hear everything Lady Devonville had to offer.

  Cherice arched an eyebrow as she considered his question. “For God’s sake, be sure to kiss her at least twice before you ask for her hand.” At Stephen’s suddenly widened eyes—Cherice was quite sure she had shocked the poor man—she added, “There are those who claim it is the most intimate act you can do with a woman, but at least you will know if you’ll be welcome in her bed.”

  Nodding, Stephen considered her words. “I’ll remember,” he replied, rather glad when he realized they had just pulled into the half-circle drive in front of Devonville House. Another minute in Cherice Dubois Slater’s company, and he would be forced to pay a call at Mrs. Gibbons’ establishment that very afternoon.

  Chapter 9

  The First Soirée

  Later that night at the Duke of Huntington’s townhouse

  Will Slater, Earl of
Bellingham, stood on the landing at the top of the stairs leading down to the ballroom in Lord Huntington’s impressive townhouse, his heart racing. Jesus, it wasn’t as if he had never attended a soirée before, but for some reason, he suddenly felt entirely out of his element. Entirely foreign to the festivities that had apparently already begun below. Entirely ill at ease.

  “Are you all right?” Stephen wondered from where he stood a few feet away on the landing. “You look as if you’re about to be sick.” Even during the worst storms at sea, Stephen had never seen his brother looks so green around the gills.

  Will glanced over at his half-brother, startled to find him looking more confident and far more excited about that evening’s soirée than any bastard son had any right to. “You look as if you’re happy to be here,” he accused, tugging on his topcoat for at least the tenth time that night. Everything felt smaller, tighter, more oppressive than his naval uniform. At least he was wearing a scarlet waistcoat, although now that he could see what the other men in attendance were wearing, he realized he should have chosen a more embellished option featuring more embroidery, or more metallic threads, or more... more.

  Or he could have simply worn his uniform. He was allowed, of course, although since he had already resigned from the British Navy, he didn’t think it appropriate to wear the uniform.

  Now he wished he had.

  He glanced over at Stephen’s ensemble, frowning when he realized the man was wearing the very waistcoat he should have been wearing. One with a good deal of embroidery worked with metallic thread. One that fit him as if it were made by Weston. Even his dance shoes were more appropriate. Black, with silver buckles.

  Will was about to suggest they trade waistcoats when the butler suddenly announced them from where he stood off to the side. “William Slater the Third, Earl of Bellingham, and Mister Stephen Slater.”

  Too late, he realized. Will nodded to the room below, as did Stephen, and they began their descent. He was aware of a number of lorgnettes being lifted to noses, of the slight pause in conversation, of eyes rising to regard them as they made their way down the stairs.

  “Trade with me.”

  The words were out of this mouth before Will could think of the repercussions.

  “What did you say?” Stephen replied, his eyes occasionally darting to the steps below his feet. Goodness! How many were there?

  “Be the Earl of Bellingham,” Will replied quickly, his face kept impassive as he continued his descent.

  Stephen blinked and resisted the urge to halt his descent. “And who will you be?” Stephen countered, daring a quick glance at his brother.

  “You,” Will answered. They reached the ballroom floor in another three steps. Realizing Stephen was staring in his direction, Will responded to a comment made to him by David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, before waving a hand in Stephen’s direction. He made his first introduction to the Carlingtons. “Lady Morganfield. Lord Morganfield. So very good meet you. I am Stephen Slater,” Will said as he bowed before the Marquess and Marchioness of Morganfield.

  Stephen stared at his brother in horror. What the hell? His brother hadn’t been joking when he made the suggestion they trade places! He turned to find a bevy of young ladies rushing up with their mothers to meet him, and suddenly, all he could think about was how easy it was to say he was ‘Bellingham.’

  Too easy.

  He dared another quick glance in his brother’s direction along with an arched eyebrow. “You owe me,” he said in a hoarse whisper when Will was close enough to hear him.

  “By the end of the night, you may feel otherwise, my lord.”

  Stephen blinked and regarded his brother with a hesitant grin before moving to the next woman in line to meet him.

  Chapter 10

  A Father and Son Discuss a Woman

  The next day

  The Marquess of Devonville regarded his oldest son as Will stood in front of the desk in the study, his hands clasped behind his back and looking as if he were the newest member of a ship’s crew. “You look as if you’re the bearer of very bad news,” William stated with a hint of worry. He turned in his leather chair and pulled a bottle of scotch and two tumblers onto the desktop. He nodded toward the chair facing the desk. “Take a seat before you fall down, son,” he said as he poured the liquor.

  Will did as he was told, his hands moving to rest on his knees, then his thighs, then back to his knees. When his father placed the tumbler of scotch at the edge of the desk, he resisted the urge to simply down the entire contents in a single gulp. “I find I am in need of some advice,” Will finally said, lifting the glass to match his father’s move.

  William Slater arched a graying eyebrow, trying but failing to hide a hint of amusement. “Is this about Lady Barbara, perchance?”

  Nodding, Will sighed. “Yes, of course.”

  The marquess blinked and leaned forward in his chair, his forearms settling onto the blotter. “You still haven’t found Greenley’s daughter?” he asked, his expression giving away his sudden concern.

  “No. I... I wondered if you might have asked any of your associates where she is living these days? During the soirée,” Will half-asked, hoping his father would have some insights as to why Barbara had left London.

  William shook his head. “Truth be told, I haven’t spoken with anyone about Lady Barbara. I wasn’t sure you wanted me to,” he amended suddenly. “Do I need to make some inquiries? If I do—”

  His son shook his head. “The night before I left, we made promises to one another. We exchanged letters for a time, and then.... I heard nothing from her. After a visit with the butler at Pendleton House yesterday, I have reason to believe my letters were never forwarded to her ladyship.”

  William frowned. “And why not?” he prodded.

  Will shook his head. “The butler could only say that Lady Barbara and her father were estranged, that she had moved out of Pendleton House years ago. If you know anything, anything at all about what happened, pray tell me now,” Will begged.

  Straightening in his chair, the marquess regarded Will for a time before shaking his head. “As I said, I’ve heard nothing. I can’t imagine she just left London unless she married or...” At the sight of Will’s wince, his father paused. “Did you... ruin her?” he asked, sotto voce.

  His eyes on the carpet beneath his boots, Will nodded. “I did. That last night before I left London—”

  “Jesus,” the marquess whispered. “How could you?” he asked hoarsely.

  “She came to me. To my apartments. Wanted to ensure she was the last thing I thought of as I left, I suppose. I often wondered if she thought to change my mind about serving on a ship.”

  “You could have been assigned at Whitehall,” William interrupted. “As an heir, it would have been the more responsible thing to do,” he added with a huff.

  “You and I both know I wasn’t going to do my duty behind a desk,” Will retorted, ducking his head when he realized arguing now was pointless. He had already served far longer than he originally intended—he had thought to be gone no longer than five years—and he had already proven himself to those at the War Office who might have thought it wrong for the heir to a marquessate to serve in the military. But without a younger brother—a spare heir—Will figured it fell on him to do his duty to King and Country by serving in the Navy. Had the yearning to marry and start a family not come upon him during his last year on the Greenwich, he might have followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and stayed in the Navy far longer. He might have one day been an admiral like his grandfather.

  But thoughts of Barbara had haunted his dreams. Thoughts of Barbara carrying his child had consumed his waking hours. Thoughts of their children playing on the back lawns of Devonville House had him yearning for a life in London, a life with his family in the country during the summer months.

  The marquess stayed silent while he watched his son ruminate on whatever had him seeking his advice. He had heard the rumors of Gr
eenley’s insolvency. Heard the earl might end up in debtor’s prison as a result of excessive gambling debts. The man had already lost his countess—she had died after childbirth, although some claimed she died of a broken heart when the baby was stillborn. “You mentioned you paid a call at Pendleton House?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  Will nodded. “Yesterday. After we spoke. The butler suggested I see the solicitor, Mr. Barton in Oxford Street, which I did. He... His news was not good,” Will said quietly.

  “Is she married?” his father asked, deciding learning Barbara was married would be the worst news. That she had died would be the absolute worst.

  “Not that anyone knows,” Will replied with a shake of his head. “Mr. Barton suggested she was living in a cottage in Oxfordshire.”

  At this, the marquess raised his head and angled it to one side. “Oxfordshire. Where abouts? Perhaps your brother-in-law knows something,” he murmured. “Not that he knows everything that happens in Oxfordshire, of course, but it’s worth a letter. Or perhaps a trip, I should think,” he added when he noticed Will’s anxious expression.

  At the suggestion of a trip, Will straightened in his chair. “I hoped you might agree. I have the basic directions on how to reach the cottage in which she was last known to reside,” he said quickly. “With your permission, I’ll take a horse and ride there...”

  The marquess nodded his head. “Of course. But what of your brother? Do you intend to take him along? You two seemed to have formed quite a bond—”

  “I need him to remain here. To act in my stead—”

  “To pretend he is you?” William interrupted, one eyebrow arching nearly into his hairline.

  Will’s shoulders slumped. “You know about that?” he questioned a bit sheepishly.