Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1

by Stein, Andrea K.

  "Of course, I'll fetch him,” Cullen said, and headed out at a trot, northeast toward Hanover Square.

  After Cullen disappeared, Arnaud thought over the fast-moving series of events as if looking through the wrong end of a spy glass. Everything seemed off, small and faraway instead of up close and precise.

  He and his ship’s surgeon had walked to Bond Street from the Admiralty where they’d received orders for their next ship. They’d planned on being fitted for new shirts at a tailor’s shop before they parted ways, Arnaud to his mother’s townhouse, and Cullen to his father’s house on Savile Street.

  From the time the two villains had jumped out of a hack and grabbed the young woman, to when he and his friend had rushed across the street, he hadn't paid much attention to what she looked like.

  She had a bit of an unusual accent, perhaps French or Italian. Arnaud cursed the direction of his thoughts. All he wanted was to see her safely home. After that, he would forget the depths of her dark brown eyes, move on with the refit of his ship, and return to his squadron.

  After her attackers escaped, she’d turned on him, probably assuming he was one of them. His hand still ached, and blood dribbled from the stab of her hatpin. She'd put up a hell of a fight. He smiled at the memory of her wild pummeling of her attackers, and him.

  Two street urchins approached with brooms and one asked, "Save your boots, sir? Let us sweep a path across for you."

  Arnaud knelt down to their level. "I have a better idea," he said, and spun a coin between his fingers. "Were you two here when those fellows tried to grab the young lady?"

  The small boys gave each other a look and then seemed to come to a decision. One reached for the coin and said, "Mebbe."

  "There's another one in it for you if you can describe them and say which way they went. If you lie, I'll know, and we'll be back," Arnaud added, rising to his full height.

  “Cor,” one of the boys finally mumbled. “There be three of them. The one, short and dark, waited at the hack. ‘Ad a mustache, ‘e did. ‘E stayed with the carriage while the other two coves ‘ad a go at the ladies. Oh, and one of them limped, like ‘e was in the wars, or summat.”

  Arnaud flipped them an extra coin. "If you see that lot again, get word to Captain Bellingham at Number Nine Hanover Square.”

  As an afterthought, Arnaud turned back toward the boys and balanced a third coin between his left thumb and forefinger. “One of the ladies lost an important bit of foolscap with some poetry. There's another reward if you can find it." He turned away and headed toward a lone horseman trotting from the direction of Hanover Square.

  Lydia stirred another lump of sugar into her tea. "What do you suppose Captain Bellingham does in the Royal Navy? There was a great deal of braid and polished medals and buttons on his jacket. Perhaps he's a hero, or something."

  Sophie pressed her fingers against her throbbing head. If only Lydia would stop asking so many questions. The ornate tea room table where they sat seemed to shimmer as if about to spin, and she couldn’t stop her mind from re-playing the horrible events outside the milliner’s shop.

  Sophie placed her hand over Lydia’s. "Please, your imagination is making my head and stomach do strange turns. In any event, it barely matters. We shall never see him again."

  "Oooh," Lydia babbled on. “Of course we will. Did he not say he was off in search of our carriage? Did you not notice how beautiful he is? All that dark, curly hair, and fine eyes? I'm sure he'll attend some of the better balls, or maybe even the theater, if he's in town for long.” Lydia finally sucked in a breath. "Or maybe we could ask Teddy if he knows him."

  "Leave Teddy out of this,” Sophie said. “You don't even know the man’s name. And besides, he's probably forgotten us already."

  "He did tell us his name. Don't you remember?" Lydia said. "He's Captain Arnaud Bellingham. His mother has a townhouse on Hanover Square. Honestly, Sophie. Did you hit your head when they grabbed you?"

  No more had she spoken than the dark stranger re-appeared inside the tea shop.

  Sophie stared a few seconds too long, and their eyes met.

  He walked straightaway to their table and said, "Your carriage is outside. Your coachman and footman have been warned of the danger and will see you home. I’ll ride along behind to assure you're not harmed."

  "We live near St. James Park," Lydia blurted out.

  "Sir, I am sorry," Sophie interrupted, "but we do not know you that well.” She moved her hand toward her friend's mouth to forestall any further outbursts.

  He gave her a strained smile. "Captain Bellingham, at your service.” He gestured to his friend, also in uniform, who had followed him through the door. "This officer, my ship’s surgeon, Dr. Cullen MacCloud, will vouch for me and my family."

  “Ladies," Dr. MacCloud said, "I promise no harm will come to you from association with this man. I would trust him with my life." Then the surgeon gifted them with a smile so warm, even the dark corners of the tea shop seemed to glow. "He has in fact had my life in his hands many times," he added.

  "Now your carriage awaits. Let me see you safely home.” Captain Bellingham ushered them out to their waiting footman.

  Sophie leaned back into the comfortable squabs of Lady Howick’s carriage and stared forward, past Lydia’s concerned face. She picked at one of the buttery tearoom biscuits stashed in her reticule just before the strange captain hurried them out the door. When she tried to swallow, a small piece caught in her throat, bringing on a coughing fit.

  "Here," Lydia said. "Suck on this lozenge and calm yourself, or I'll have to knock for Thomas to stop and find you something to drink."

  Sophie popped the peppermint into her mouth and her throat soothed immediately. If only she could calm her heart as easily. The poor thing pounded as if in time to a military tattoo. She couldn't decide which unsettled her more, the surly men who'd tried to snatch her off the street, or the naval captain and his friend who'd come to her rescue.

  Much worse, however, was the black terror of waiting for the next disaster to fall. What if a highly placed gossip had seen her struggle with the kidnappers? The rumors might make it impossible to fulfill the terms of her grandmother's will.

  The will stipulated her marriage to a gentleman of the ton, but her heart rebelled. Why could Grandmama not have trusted Sophie to live life on her own terms, with her books and her poetry?

  Unfortunately, she knew the answer: her irresponsible father. Sophie had no choice but to live with him after her grandmother's death two years earlier. The duchess had feared his influence would corrupt Sophie and send her into an unsuitable alliance when she came into her inheritance.

  Sophie had never considered what an "unsuitable alliance" would entail, but she suspected the wickedly handsome captain trotting behind the carriage might be what her grandmother had feared.

  Both her mother and her grandmother had lived unconventional lives. Her mother had abandoned the protected life of a duke's daughter to run off with Sophie's Venetian poet father. Her grandmother had written romantic novels, successful across the continent, under an assumed name. But then she had been a duchess.

  Lydia interrupted Sophie's tortured thoughts. "Why are you frowning and still sucking on that peppermint? You've been sitting like that for so long, you're going to give yourself permanent wrinkles."

  Sophie flashed her friend a sudden smile and giggled at the thought of wrinkles. If only minor facial imperfections were the worst of her worries.

  Arnaud rode Achamé` behind the ladies’ carriage and worried. When two workmen stepped into the street, he gave an involuntary jerk on the horse’s reins. Would there be another attempt to seize Miss Brancelli? He relaxed when the men darted behind the carriage to the other side of the thoroughfare.

  They passed a small park where two boys rolled hoops along a path before disappearing among the trees. The sun peeked cautiously through a hole in the clouds, making him feel foolish for his dark thoughts.

  He worried abo
ut the consequences of the dark-eyed beauty’s misadventures. He worried about the hazards of interjecting himself into her life. He couldn't intercede on her behalf without making her situation worse.

  Even more, he worried about himself. The memory of her lilting voice prowled his thoughts. Tonight, he vowed, he would tell his mother about his plans to marry the widow.

  But surely it wouldn't hurt to ask his mother to call on the young ladies’ guardian in the morning. She could express his concern for their well-being and find out if Miss Brancelli had recovered from the incident. He was merely concerned, nothing more.

  Honore Bellingham sanded off the last note and added it to the pile of thank-you’s for patrons of her school for orphans of merchant sailors.

  She stretched her arms above her head and turned at a sound from one of the carved, wooden doors on the bookcase behind her. One side creaked and opened slightly outward.

  She stood and crept toward the opening. This time she had him. She jerked open the door and pounced on the culprit.

  "I have you now, you old runabout," she said, and wheeled back from the dark opening, clasping the guilty party by the nape of the neck.

  "Bad boy," she mouthed, and lugged the struggling cat across her comfortable morning room to a miniature, overstuffed couch piled with plump pillows.

  Honore knelt in front of the huge tom now ensconced on his throne and waggled a finger in his direction, taking care to avoid his waving, clawed paws. "Where have you been?"

  He answered with a long, bored yowl.

  "I'll have to turn you over to Cook," she threatened and rose to pull the bell for the footman.

  When the young man arrived, he gave a disparaging look at the unrepentant cat, now lying flat on his back on the cushions, all four six-toed paws splayed in feline insouciance.

  "He's back," Honore said, with a weary sigh.

  "The usual, madame?"

  "Yes, of course. Supper by the fire...and perhaps take a cloth to those paws. God knows where he's been."

  The tall footman nodded, walked to the couch, and slung the cat beneath one of his arms.

  Young Charles was the only one in the household who could manage the bully. She suspected the two might be kindred spirits.

  Vagabond did not complain but instead rumbled with purrs while they headed back into the corridor and down the winding steps toward the kitchen. Cook would scold the creature, followed by an inordinate amount of cosseting, including hand-fed bits of the day's find from the fish market.

  The difficult cat was the latest generation descended from her original, beloved Epi. Also six-toed, Epi had been the gift of a sea captain friend of Honore’s father when she was a child.

  She shook her head at how spoiled this descendant had become and turned back to her notes. She took the top sheet from a large stack of stationery, dipped her pen into ink, and began the long task of writing an address on each one.

  Another tap sounded at her door and she looked up with a frown. "Enter," she said, and her housekeeper leaned through the doorway, her pale face flushed with excitement.

  "Captain Bellingham," she announced, and backed awkwardly into the hall. Arnaud walked in, picked up his petite mother, and whirled her around. "I've missed you, Maman."

  "I've missed you too," she said, and gave him a light kiss on each cheek. When she drew back, she asked, "How long this time?" half-dreading the answer.

  Chapter Two

  Arnaud's very French mother, Honore, seemed tinier each time he returned from duty, but even now in her sixties, she still had the glow and light step of a much younger woman.

  With his father missing at sea for many years and his grandfather, the Earl of Middleton, having disowned them, this diminutive woman was the only close family he had. And she ruled his absent father's shipping empire with an iron fist wrapped in silk.

  He didn't relish telling her he would be turning around and heading back to sea as soon as his newly assigned ship's repairs were complete.

  Instead, he said, "I have good news."

  “Please sit, tell me everything.” She settled onto a cushioned window bench, and Arnaud sat with care on one of her delicate, chintz-covered chairs.

  "You're leaving the Royal Navy?" she asked, a teasing light in her dark eyes.

  "No, Maman. You know this is the life I've chosen, and it's been a very good one. I've been a commander in the squadron for a number of years, but now..." He held out his news a while longer.

  "Now?" She encouraged him with a hopeful smile.

  "I'm to be the captain of my own ship!"

  In spite of what he knew to be her misgivings about his dedication to naval life, she jumped up and clapped. "Huzzah! What ship? When?"

  "We seized her off Sierra Leone, with eighty-six slaves aboard," he said. “A great prize. We’ll re-launch her and leave as soon as her new mainmast is cured and rigged. My crew and I brought her back to Portsmouth after we resettled the captives."

  “Why is the ship being repaired in Portsmouth instead of back in Africa?”

  “The main mast took a direct hit during the battle with the slavers. The only wood the Admiralty wanted to use is at the yard at Portsmouth - good Baltic pine.

  “How long will the repairs take?" His mother frowned.

  "A month, maybe longer.”

  "Wonderful. We'll have some dinner parties for your friends, and..."

  "I'm afraid I'll be very involved in refitting my ship and affairs at the Admiralty.” He stopped his mother's tendency to blanket him in her world with a wry grin. "And then there is another serious matter which will take up much of my time, I'm afraid."

  "And that is?" She turned her piercing gaze on him.

  "I have decided to turn my life in the direction of domesticity."

  His mother's brows rose as if taking wing.

  "I'm going to ask the widow, Frances, Viscountess Fairfield, to marry me."

  "Who?"

  "She resides in Fairfield House on Pall Mall with her young son."

  "When will you propose?" Air whooshed out of Honore as if she'd been holding her breath.

  "Tonight, perhaps, and I hope I can expect your blessing."

  "Why?"

  "Why do I want your blessing?" he asked, his voice sharp.

  "No. Why are you marrying a woman you barely know?"

  Heat spread from Arnaud's stubbled cheeks down to his neck. "I know her very well, Maman."

  The look she gave him could have melted the polished buttons on his jacket. He squirmed and loosened the top one.

  "Pah," she said. "I'm sure you've known a great many women 'very well.' But do you love this Frances woman?"

  The heat in the room ratcheted up a notch, or maybe his own boiling point had risen.

  "It has been made clear to me I should consider leaving the bachelor life if I'm to be considered serious enough for further promotion within the Admiralty."

  Honore cocked her head and gave him an odd look. "Who told you such nonsense?"

  "Admiral Longthorpe."

  "Have you told him who you plan to marry?"

  "Not yet, Mother."

  "I'm sure you will not listen, but I'm going to tell you something whether you want to hear me or not." Honore leaned forward and placed her palms on the top of her silk-clad knees. "Your father and I married for love. And he was an Englishman, born and bred. He was not ashamed of his French wife. Marriage to a proper English widow will not secure your position in the ton. Security is an illusion. You are who you are, Arnaud."

  Before he could protest, she rose and paced to the dainty table she used for correspondence. Honore pressed a hidden lever, and a tiny drawer popped open. She pulled an old miniature from the hiding place and handed it to him.

  Arnaud placed the hand-painted ivory oval in his palm and stared down at a likeness of himself.

  When he gave her a questioning look, she said, "You are the very image of my father, Jean Blanchard. He was a smuggler and blackguard before he met yo
ur grandmother. The power of love changed him. He became a force for good on our island and the patriarch of our family business. All because he loved my mother. If you do not choose a wife because you love her, how will you ever know what love might have made of you?"

  The question hung heavy in the air between them, like a fishing skein bulging with eels. Her passionate speech left him angry, but without an argument against the accusation.

  Honore's youngest son had long been an enigma. She'd known from the time he was a boy he resented his French ancestry. He had been teased and bullied during his years at the school his father had attended before him, and his career in the Royal Navy had been a tenacious, bloody climb.

  He'd volunteered for the African Squadron, a dangerous, treacherous assignment, because he'd seen the small contingent as an opportunity to prove himself away from the regular ships within the Royal Navy. And he had, earning commendations for bravery as well as gaining wealth through slaver ships taken as prizes.

  But now, marrying for convenience was the final blow. She had to make him see sense.

  "If you met with someone at the Admiralty this afternoon, why has it taken you so long to arrive here?" she asked, and sat back down in the chair opposite her son, smoothing her silk skirts.

  His ruddy face darkened. "There is a tale I have to tell about the delay. I had to intervene to thwart a kidnapping."

  Honore leaned forward, concern on her face. "Was anyone hurt? Were you hurt?"

  "No, no. Nothing like that. It was a near thing, though. Two bullies were trying to drag a young woman into their carriage. Cullen and I ended their dark plans.

  "Who is she? Do I know her parents?" Honore asked.

  Arnaud ignored her probing. "I followed her carriage to a house on St. James Square, but did not go inside.”

  Honore tapped her lips with a finger. “The Dowager Marchioness, Lady Jane Howick, has a granddaughter who stays with her. Good lord, did someone make an attempt on her life?"