Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Baret restrained his anger. “I can see that during my absence from England he’s managed to win your trust at my expense.”

  “Then come home where you belong.”

  “I cannot. Not yet.”

  His grandfather paced. “The lion’s share of the family inheritance would have gone to your father. Now the one grandson I had the highest hopes for has affronted the Admiralty with insolent privateering on the high seas! The threat of war with Holland and France thunders ominously on the horizon. And what country’s ship do you attack? Peaceful Spain! Don’t you realize you have given the Peace Party ammunition to call for your reprisal before the king?”

  “It is Spain who is the foremost enemy of England and all Protestant Europe. The Buckington name you worry about being tainted with piracy may one day be on the list of heretics.” Baret’s eyes pled for understanding. “If Spain can be defeated as a world power, it will be here! In the West Indies! And not by the Royal English Navy but by buccaneers! It is the scorned privateers and pirates alike who keep treasure from arriving at Madrid to feed Spain’s army.”

  His grandfather’s eyes flashed. “You need not sail as a pirate to serve England’s cause. You might have commanded a ship for the king. Now that honor has been given to your cousin Grayford.”

  Baret was surprised. Grayford was not the experienced seaman that he was. He tried to hide his disappointment, but his grandfather must have seen it.

  “Losing the king’s appointment was your own fault. I warned you not to take to privateering, yet like Royce you pursue your convictions with stubborn abandon. Is it any wonder Felix advised the king to give the command to Grayford?”

  “None at all,” said Baret flatly, thinking of his uncle’s ambitions. “Grayford’s his son, is he not?”

  Yet his disappointment was acute. He had trained far longer in the Naval Academy and with more success than had Grayford. And his long and ofttimes dreary education at Cambridge had not been without pain. He had earned his degree with highest honors in order to hold a high position in the king’s navy. Instead it had been given to his cousin.

  “You may blame your father for the ruin of your plans, not Felix,” said the earl wearily. “You were advised to distance yourself from Royce’s reputation, but you would not listen.”

  Baret had known the risk of contesting the accusations heaped upon his father. It had been painful to hear the piracy charges read against him, which stripped Royce of his past naval honors under Cromwell. Now Baret too had his future forfeited.

  “Whatever Grayford feels called to, let him pursue. I wish him only well. The sinking of an enemy ship knows the same result from my cannon as Grayford’s—even if he wears the uniform and I the garb of a buccaneer.”

  “Then the fact I shall disinherit you is of no consequence?”

  It was, of course, but Baret refused to be intimidated.

  “My father’s private journal may prove he was under the lawful commission of Cromwell, rather than acting alone in the Caribbean.”

  The earl was alert. “What journal?”

  Baret hesitated, for if his grandfather was determined to see no wrong in Felix, accusing him of having the journal would make matters worse.

  “Father always kept a journal,” he said simply. “If I had it, the secrets surrounding his mission in the West Indies for Cromwell might be brought to light and validate his innocence.” He met his grandfather’s gaze. “I did not come tonight to plead for either my father’s title or inheritance. If necessary I can live without both. But I do want the journal.”

  His grandfather looked at him sharply, yet curiously. “I have no such journal, nor does the Admiralty.”

  “What of Felix?”

  His grandfather’s expression hardened. “I doubt very much if there is a journal.” He walked away. “As for your future, Baret, you know I am not a man to change my mind easily once I’ve decided to cut you off.” He looked across the chamber at him, his face grave. “Unless you become what your birth and title demand of you, you will become a family outcast.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “And you are willing to take that risk?”

  “Where my father is concerned I have no choice.”

  “Unless you return to England, I shall disinherit you in favor of Grayford.”

  Baret turned in anger to leave the room, but his grandfather hurled his cane against the door. “You’ll not leave until I give you permission. Walk out now, and I vow you will live to regret it!”

  “Your son and my father is alive. And I will find him whatever the personal cost to me.”

  For a moment the silence was like thunder. The earl stared at him, a perceptible paleness about his mouth.

  Baret said swiftly, more gently, walking toward him, “I made contact with two men who sailed aboard the Revenge with my father. There is only one man left alive now—Maynerd was hanged.”

  “What are you saying?” the earl breathed.

  “The one remaining witness I seek is a man named Lucca. He served Father as the Revenge’s chaplain. Lucca can swear to his innocence and to the fact that he was not killed in a duel in Port Royal.”

  His grandfather’s sharp eyes searched his, his hand grasping his shoulder. “Lucca? A chaplain you say? Do you know where this man is?”

  Baret masked his despair. “I will find him.”

  The earl’s hand dropped to his side, and a perceptible sag showed in his shoulders. Then he recovered and sank back into a chair.

  “I cannot blame you for entertaining dreams, but I’ll not allow my emotions to be caught in this web of self-destruction. You do yourself harm, Baret. Where will it all lead in the end?”

  “I can prove otherwise, but I need time.”

  Baret came to the side of his chair and knelt on one knee, placing a strong hand on his grandfather’s arm.

  “I vow to serve His Majesty in the war with the Dutch, and if it’s honor you want for the Buckington name, I shall fight for England! For King Charles! And in the process I shall prove my father was not a pirate but a God-fearing ambassador of England. And when I return to London I’ll bring evidence of his innocence—and if God wills, I shall bring my father home as well.”

  His grandfather studied him with sober gaze. “Then proceed. For war will surely come. Win deeds of valor for His Majesty as a privateer. But to make certain you do not fail to keep your vow, I will turn to Grayford to carry on the family name.”

  What did he mean—“carry on the family name”? Baret wondered.

  “Even though you are more at home at Port Royal with its buccaneers than you are in company of His Majesty—I shall go a step further and grant you a small inheritance.”

  Baret could read nothing but challenge in his eyes.

  “I shall leave you a portion of Foxemoore,” said the earl with a thin smile.

  “Foxemoore!” Baret stood to his feet, almost impatiently. “I’ve no interest in sugar.”

  “Then develop a taste for it. To keep Felix and Geneva on their toes, I shall give you a double share. Any decisions on the estate will also need your cooperation to implement in the future.”

  Sugar!

  But if his grandfather was impressed by his disinterest, he ignored it. He was smiling now with a hint of victory.

  “Make something of your share in the estate, fight for King Charles in the war with the Dutch—and I may reconsider your position in my will. In the meantime I shall show favor to Grayford. He’s here in Port Royal by the way, commanding the king’s vessel.”

  He rose from the chair and walked to the window, then looked back at Baret. “I shall see which grandson is more fitted for the Buckington name and title.”

  Against his will, Baret smirked. “For all your condemnation of the reported ‘duel,’ what you do now in forcing Grayford and me to contend is little better.”

  “Perhaps using Grayford to goad you back on the right path will be effective.”

  “I see you are
not above tactics that smell of bribery.”

  “Oh, come now, it is a matter of family survival. The Buckington name must be preserved in London, and if it means choosing between the two strongest heirs—then so be it.”

  “I am sure Uncle Felix will have something to say about the outcome. He would also have had something to do with Grayford’s getting command of a king’s vessel.”

  The earl’s eyes glinted. “Ah, you are jealous of your cousin.”

  Baret stood, hands on hips, and his dark brows lifted. “Grayford may have a command in the Royal Navy if he so wishes. I shall be pleased enough with the Regale—and my freedom to come and go on the sea as I wish. But Felix will not be pleased. You may do as you will with me,” he stated tonelessly. “Yet the child Jette should not be held accountable for our father’s actions.”

  “Jette? Of course not! I’m bringing Jette to London where he belongs. No more Jamaica and no more of the Harwicks, even if Felix intends to marry Geneva. I want Jette with me. He’s the last Buckington I have who might live up to his name.”

  The earl grew thoughtful and stared out the window. “It may be,” he said unexpectedly, “that I’ll not leave my inheritance to Felix but to Jette, regardless of the woman who bore him.”

  Baret gave him a measured look. “The child is my brother, regardless of his mother. I’ll not turn him over to the wiles of Felix—especially if you’ve let it be known you’re considering making him your heir.”

  He turned his head sharply. “What are you saying?”

  “I think you know,” said Baret quietly. “And if you take Jette to Buckington House, I wish to name his governess. I won’t have Felix choosing for him.”

  “Sir Cecil has already written to me. He wishes to be Jette’s tutor.”

  Baret was surprised Cecil had kept that from him, but he was not displeased. He could trust Jette to Cecil without concern.

  He wondered what his grandfather would say if he told him he believed Felix was behind the attempt to kill him at the Bailey. He said nothing of that, knowing it would only give his grandfather more reason to doubt his convictions.

  “I can think of only one reason why Felix suddenly wishes to marry Geneva,” Baret said.

  “There is no cause for wonder. After her two-year stay in Lyon, Geneva came to London for a year. They took to each other,” said the earl, sounding pleased. “It’s true she owns a large portion of the sugar. Since she was an only child, she inherits a double portion of the Jamaican estate. But are you not being cold-blooded to accuse him of marrying her for that reason alone?”

  “Yes,” said Baret dryly. “And if Geneva marries him, I will place Jette in Cambridge before Felix has jurisdiction.”

  “Don’t you think I’ll have anything to say about what Jette’s future may hold? If anyone has that right, it is his grandfather. And,” he said, scanning him, “I shall make certain he doesn’t follow in the buccaneering steps of his older brother.”

  Baret smiled. “On that we agree.”

  His grandfather gazed out the window for a moment in silence. “There is something else. And you won’t be pleased.” He turned his head and looked at Baret, who came alert.

  “I have said you and Grayford can each prove who is best fit to carry on the family name. What I haven’t told you until this moment is that I intend to see Lavender marry your cousin. Unless of course,” he said smoothly, “you change your mind and return with me and Jette to London. Lavender will voyage with us.”

  Baret stared at him, his expression unreadable, but his heart raced with anger.

  “Lavender will not marry Grayford!”

  “You best think on it. Good night, Baret.”

  Baret stood, refusing to show his dismay. It was like his grandfather to wait to the very end to unleash his strongest weapon!

  The earl smiled slightly, and Baret’s jaw set. He turned and went out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Never. He would not lose Lavender to Grayford. She was in love with him and as determined to have him as he was to marry her. She would not be clay in his grandfather’s hands. Lavender was spirited, and she knew what she wanted.

  Between them, he decided, they could thwart the earl.

  16

  OMENS FOR A WEDDING

  Emerald overslept and awoke to sunshine and the screech of parrots. She’d forgotten to lower the hemp shade over her window before retiring, and her room was already airless and hot. Apprehension over the day’s events and the requirements placed upon her came flooding into her soul, bringing a queasy sensation to her stomach. Her pulse quickened as she thought of the socially important people she must mingle with.

  I can’t, she told herself. What if the family openly shuns me? What if I’m left alone at the supper and ball? What if the important guests watch me, and the girls gather to whisper? Father God, I don’t think I can endure more shame.

  As if in answer to the fear and insecurity she felt, Great-uncle Mathias came to mind. What had he told her so often? “You are a child of the heavenly King. You stand robed in the garments of royalty. If God is for you, who can be against you?”

  Repeating these words for the courage they brought her, Emerald dressed hurriedly and went down the steps to the back of the house, where she expected to be greeted by the pleasant business of breakfast. Minette was not there, nor was Drummond, Jette, or the twin boys and hound.

  The silence of the house seemed almost ominous as it closed in around her.

  Sight of the as-yet-unwashed breakfast dishes stacked on the wood table eased her concerns. Of course, she told herself, she had overslept, and everyone had gone on about his business. She remembered her own orders to Drummond to make certain he take Minette and Jette up to the Great House, where Geneva would be expecting the child to meet Lord Felix on his arrival.

  Thinking of the Buckingtons inevitably brought the viscount to mind. Her heart fluttered anxiously. Baret Buckington. The unwanted dilemma she was in now was all his fault!

  Emerald poured lukewarm coffee into one of the china cups her father had brought home from a voyage years earlier and swallowed a mouthful. The brew tasted like bitter molasses and seemed to stick in her throat. She couldn’t drink it and set down the cup with a clatter, opting instead for a dry roll and smearing it with breadfruit jam.

  Her thoughts left the day’s events to focus on Jamie Bradford. Had he managed to elude capture during the night? She had awakened on several occasions thinking she could hear the barking of the hounds sniffing out his fleeing trail.

  The bread too stuck in her throat. Her eyes narrowed. Mr. Pitt. That callous man would enjoy hanging Jamie! The idea that one so vicious was in charge of Foxemoore in place of her father was more than she could comprehend.

  How could a family such as the Harwicks, with nobility in their bloodline and a nominal reverence for God, turn the running of the slaves over to him? How was it that otherwise decent people such as Great-aunt Sophie could be so misguided as to trust him? Mr. Pitt was rough in manner and speech, and so obviously—at least to Emerald—ruthless.

  The likely reason that the family had accepted him was not pleasant to contemplate. They were far removed from the ugly reality of the life of the slaves. Unlike the gracious I AM who told Moses that He heard the groaning of the Israelites in Egypt, the owners of the Africans did not wish to hear of their misery. Deliberately they removed their hearts from hearing, their eyes from seeing. Slaves were mere tools to accomplish the planters’ goals, and they did not wish to think that the sin and brutality of their culture existed—not when that culture must be protected to produce large Jamaican plantations.

  It was far easier to live removed from reality in the Great House and leave the wretched business of runaway slaves and misconduct of indentured servants to men such as Mr. Pitt.

  Emerald recalled the words of Cousin Lavender: “So there lies the difference between us. I wish for nothing more than to leave Jamaica and return to England. I have one p
urpose. To marry Baret and sup with the king.”

  Emerald went up to her room to prepare herself for the lawn supper and ball. What would the viscount say to her about her misguided venture aboard his ship? Did he suppose she had stolen jewels? If only she could convince him that she was far from being the “feisty wench” he had met on the Regale. If only he would think of her as a girl of noble cause, a daughter of the King.

  She paused in the midst of her outward adornment, however important it was. If the viscount were ever to see her as she wished to be, then much more was needed than finery and manners alone. Baret must see her faith in Christ. He must come to understand her commitment to the spiritual good of the downtrodden slaves and the growing hope she was placing in Mathias’s Singing School.

  It was not likely that Baret Buckington would ever truly see her in that wholesome light, Emerald thought wearily. She sighed. She would always be the brat granddaughter of a French pirate on Tortuga.

  She struggled to reject a new flood of despair. But my heavenly Father does not see me that way.

  “Lord, You are the Shepherd of my faltering feet. Guide me now and do not let me stray from Your purpose for me.”

  Lady Geneva’s ostentatious wedding ring flashed with momentary luster in the noonday sun as Lord Felix Buckington handed his new bride down from the coach onto the carriageway. A long line of coaches followed closely behind, returning from the ceremony held at St. Paul’s Church in Port Royal.

  Outside the Great House, prominent officials from the Government House were met by serving attendants clothed in black satin livery. Wealthy planters, including Sir Jasper, arrived on horseback, showing off their fine-blooded animals and accompanied by personal slaves.

  As grooms led the horses around to the back of the Great House, more guests continued to arrive. The wives and daughters of officials carried crimson-and-gold-fringed silk parasols as they strolled across the green lawn to the reception area, while their young African girl slaves followed behind, bringing large boxes containing even more elaborate gowns for the evening’s ball.