Pride of Duty (Men of the Squadron Book 2)

by Andrea K. Stein

That pleasant discovery, however, did not stop her shout of frustration. "Why did you help me? I was getting the better of those scoundrels when you showed up, and, and now—" She refused to cry, but moisture leaked from the corners of her eyes which she imagined were a reddened fright by now. "Not only is my sleeve torn, but my reputation is probably ruined as well, and I've lost the final lines of my—"

  She stopped short of finishing her wailed lament. Her predicament was none of this young officer’s fault. He could not help she had been born a bastard, and he had nothing to do with the ton’s attitude toward a young woman who’d spent time in a gypsy-like home with her profligate poet father.

  Bereft of its handy hatpin, Sophie's tippy, over-embellished bonnet leaned precariously to the side before toppling to the pavement. Her long, dark curls tumbled free.

  "What have you lost?" the stranger asked and pulled her to her feet, guiding her toward a nearby tea room. Lydia scooped up Sophie’s lost bonnet and followed.

  "My last two lines," Sophie said, and batted at his hands. “Please, leave us.”

  “You’ve no reason to fear me,” he insisted. “I’m Captain Arnaud Bellingham. My mother lives near here, on Hanover Square. Now please tell me where your carriage waits.”

  Lydia moved closer. "Thomas said they would keep rounding the park until we were finished. The carriage is all black, with a team of grays.” She leaned even closer. “I fear this is not completely proper, but under the circumstances you should at least know our names. I’m Lady Lydia Howick, and this is my friend, Miss Sophia Brancelli."

  Captain Bellingham made a small nod of acknowledgement. “I regret the circumstances, but I am pleased to make your acquaintances, and to be of service.”

  Although Lydia gave him a silly, flirtatious smile, Sophie could not meet his gaze. She knew she should show her appreciation for his brave intervention, but all she could do was pretend to study her boots. She’d been unsettled at his unexpected kindness and valor. Sophie was not used to being the center of attention. She’d learned to take care of herself out of necessity and was uncomfortable with the acceptance of assistance of any sort.

  The owner of the millinery shop, roused from the commotion at her front door, hurried to Captain Bellingham’s side. “What has happened?”

  “The ladies were accosted outside your shop by ruffians who tried to spirit Miss Brancelli away in a hired carriage.”

  “Please let me help,” the small woman pleaded. She shook her head so hard, her tight curls bounced. “I have never had anything so terrible occur at my doorstep. I will arrange for a tea tray at my neighbor’s shop.”

  Once Lydia and the captain helped her to a chair in the small shop, Sophie began to shake and was grateful to be able to sit in a comfortable, cushioned chair and have others cosset her with a steaming cup of tea and sweet tart provided by the milliner who had returned to her shop. Thankfully, there were only one or two customers at a table near the front of the shop.

  Captain Bellingham bent low over their table and spoke to Lydia. "She appears to be in shock. Wait here. I will find your carriage and have your man, Thomas, come for you.” He headed toward the door, but turned at the last minute. "What did she lose? What does it look like? I'll try to find her lost 'lines' if I can."

  "Her poetry," Lydia said. "She's been trying to finish her latest poem. It was on a worn piece of foolscap she must have been holding when they tried to grab her."

  He nodded thanks to Lydia before heading out into the street.

  Captain Arnaud Bellingham returned to his friend, Dr. Cullen MacCloud, who still paced up and down Bond Street outside the tea shop, making sure the men who tried to abduct Miss Brancelli did not return. "Thank God we happened by when we did," Arnaud said, and let out a whoosh of breath. "Those footpads meant that poor woman harm."

  “Harm?” Cullen said with a sputter. “They wanted more than just her reticule. Those bullies meant to rip her from the very street.”

  Arnaud shook his head. He’d acted out of instinct and could only imagine how terrified Miss Brancelli had been. Hell, he was still shaking and almost light-headed at the memory of the terror in her dark eyes. He checked himself at the forbidden line his mind had taken. He was back in London for only a month or so until his ship was refurbished for his next assignment off the coast of Africa, his first posting under his own command. He could not afford an entanglement with a young woman like Miss Brancelli. He’d already made up his mind on his life’s path.

  As if reading his thoughts, his ship’s surgeon added, “And such a fine lass. I can tell she turned your head.”

  "No," Arnaud said with emphasis. "This is not what you think. She's an innocent. I did what you or any of us would have done." He did a quick, surreptitious look at the walkers along the street to make sure no one could overhear their conversation.

  "Yes, of course," Cullen said, with a quirk of a smile. "Was she injured?" he asked, his teasing tone gone. "Should I see to her?"

  "No," Arnaud said, his voice hard. "She's just badly shaken. Could you walk to my mother's townhouse and get that beast, Achamé, out of the mews? Since the young woman seems uncomfortable in my presence, I'll ride behind the carriage to see them safely home."

  "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 m
edals 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 about 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 t
urned 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.