"Not at all. Had I known I could spend evenings debating political reform and philosophy with you I might have focused less on your quite attractive bosom. Unlikely, but one never knows. Continue, please. You haven't gotten yet to the good part, the part where you no longer have this man in your life and you're in the islands, and how Thomas Wilson enters into it."
Lydia shrugged her shoulders. "What does it matter, Captain? You know now that once I ran off I threw away whatever chance I had at respectability here in England, and as so many others have done, I want to make a new life for myself elsewhere. I still do."
"Where people don't know you. Yes, I understand, but there is the issue of that man who was not your husband."
She looked down at her hands. It still pained her, when she thought about it. Did she regret what she'd done? Sometimes, but in her heart she still believed it was the only choice she could make.
"One day, my uncle showed up in London. Word had reached him of where I was, and what I was doing. He's a wealthy man, Uncle Frederick, and he approached Edwin when I was at market."
Lydia could never forget that day. When she returned Edwin was gone from their lodgings, along with his few possessions. Her dour uncle waited for her there. He explained how Edwin took the money offered him to leave her. Uncle Frederick would take Lydia home, and if she lived a repentant life, in time people might overlook her sins and her shame.
"I refused his offer. I was so angry. Angry at Edwin, at my uncle, at the world, at my parents for dying and leaving me alone, but most of all, I was angry at the thought of losing my freedom again."
"You did not stay in touch with Carstairs?"
"No. I heard from someone in London that Edwin died of illness when he was sent to America toward the end of the war. It saddened me that he was dead, but to be honest, I was not interested in hearing anything more from him after he took money to abandon me."
"Brava, Lydia."
She looked up at the pirate. There was no amusement on his face at her missteps and bad decisions. Instead the glow in his eyes was tender. He understood. Of all the people she'd met over her life, she knew that whether he'd kill her or keep her, Robert understood her choices.
"After my rejection of his offer, Uncle Frederick said if that was my choice, there would be no more communication among us. He would tell people I'd died--it would be better for his family."
"What?"
She nodded. "My uncle is--well, he's a man of consequence and rigid morals. I had to think about my cousins, I was told, what my disgraceful ways would mean to them, how it could hurt their chances at finding husbands."
He swore under his breath. "You must have been terrified, once you realized you were on your own."
"Yes. It was frightening, of course, and while I had our new friends around me, I also knew that I needed to find a way to support myself."
She stopped talking and looked down again, her lips clamped together because she really, truly did not want to say more. Robert leaned forward, his fingers under her chin as he eased her face up so he could look into her eyes.
"Whatever you have to say, I can hear it. You need not fear telling me," he said in a gentle voice.
She swallowed. "It's not what you're thinking."
He raised his brows at that. "Then enlighten me, Miss Burke."
Oh, he'd be enlightened all right. Lydia sucked in a deep breath and stood, walking to the window. She looked over her shoulder at him. He'd stood when she did, and leaned over with his hands on the chair back, watching her.
She stared at the window, her dark reflection looking back at her, the shadow of her inquisitor behind her. There was no moon tonight, a good night for doing things one didn't wish to have revealed. She touched the glass, but didn't turn around.
"I am being blackmailed. As long as I stayed away from England, I was out of reach of my enemy. Now that I'm here, word will get to him and everything I've worked so hard to build in the past few years could be snatched away from me."
"Blackmailed?"
At his tone she turned back to him.
"Why are you smiling?"
"Generally, one is blackmailed over acts illegal or immoral. Neither of those things would especially bother me, but it makes your story so much more interesting than the usual story of a young woman's ruination. What could you have done that is so terrible?"
She wanted to tell him without looking at him, but she fancied herself braver than that. She took a breath, and turned.
"Some of that reckless girl's new friends were publishers of pamphlets, political pamphlets. I mentioned the Spenceans and other radicals with whom she consorted. She began to earn coin writing for them."
"Writing radical pamphlets?"
"Sometimes," she prevaricated, "but that wasn't all she wrote."
"Lydia, getting information from you is like trying to pry pearls from oysters. Who was the publisher of this seditious trash?"
She glared at him. Who was a pirate to call what she wrote trash?
"The publisher was William Drysdale of Drysdale Press."
His brow furrowed as he thought. "Drysdale Press...that name is familiar," he paused, then a delighted grin crept over his expressive mouth, curling it up the corners. His face lit like a boy who'd just been handed a piece of warm gingerbread.
"My dear Miss Burke! My darling Miss Burke!" He wagged a finger at her like a scolding nursemaid. "You have been a naughty, naughty girl, haven't you, Lydia!"
"I have no idea what you are referring to," she muttered, looking past him at the blank wall.
"There are only two types of publications that emerge from Drysdale Press. I know this because I like to read one of the two. Drysdale Press publishes treasonous tripe" --he paused dramatically, then waved his hand with a flourish-- "and entertainment for lonely gentlemen!"
"Are you quite finished being amused at my expense?"
"Finished? I've hardly begun, my dear, dear governess!"
He capered over and putting his hand on the window frame leaned in. His mercurial disposition, one moment threatening, the next gleeful, nearly caused nausea with the rocking of his back-and-forth moods.
"Tell me your entire story, I must insist," he said in a low voice. "You interested me before, but now you fascinate me."
She felt heat rising in her face, though she stoutly told herself she had no need to apologize to the likes of Captain Robert St. Armand or Lord Robert Huntley or anyone else.
"I needed to pay the landlord and it was what the publisher was buying."
He stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back. "Rather like my trade, wouldn't you say? I needed money and there were all these ships on the water, just begging to be raided."
"My writing entertaining stories is nothing like robbing people, Captain St. Armand!"
"Entertaining stories? Is that what the Society for the Suppression of Vice is calling it these days? I know I would have remembered stories written by Miss Lydia Burke, so what was your nom de plume?"
She mumbled something and he cocked his head at her.
"Louder, please, I didn't quite catch that."
She sighed. "I wrote under the name Randy Scribe. Not very original, but it made a point."
Now his smile threatened to split his face. "You wrote the book about the gardener, the vicar, Lady Buxom, and what the milkmaids saw?"
"You read that?"
"Read it? It was my favorite! If there hadn't been a war on and ships to pillage I would not have left my berth for a week!" He bounced on his toes, all thoughts of murdering her gone. She hoped. Perhaps like Scheherazade, her storytelling abilities would keep her alive for now. However, there were still other issues to deal with, so she returned to her chair and sat, resigned, as he enjoyed the moment at her expense.
"Wait! There were drawings! Did you illustrate your own stories?"
"No, I have no artistic talent of that sort. Others supplied the illustrations."
"Pity." He sighed. "I liked loo
king at the pictures."
"Are you quite done enjoying my discomfort? If you recall, you threatened to kill me and I would like to know if we have moved beyond that."
"Never assume someone's not going to kill you, you'll live longer. I'm ready to hear the rest of your story, Miss Burke--or should I say, Randy?"
"If you do, I'm liable to throw that cup of rum at you, Captain."
He just grinned again. "Wasn't Randy Scribe the author of Birching the Barrister? I'm sure someone with such a fertile imagination can find a better way to punish me than by throwing things. How did you gain the skills to become a writer of such renown?"
"Our little group of malcontents enjoyed sharing books frowned upon by the church and Crown--The Memoirs of A Woman of Pleasure, The Frisky Songster, tracts on the philosophy of birch discipline, that sort of thing. After reading these salacious works I knew I could write them as well as most of the people being published, if not better. The combination of morality, political philosophy, the rights of women, and entertainment intrigued me. Most importantly, it was what the publisher was buying. The more I wrote, the more I could pay the rent and purchase food."
"A very practical attitude. I approve."
"You may laugh, but it was my association with Drysdale and his publications which forced me to flee England. There was an underling at the publishing house, an odious little man. Thomas Wilson. He was popular with the writers and hangers-on because he was willing to buy them drink in the tavern where we'd congregate."
"The tavern where you talked radicalism."
"Exactly. He was a government plant, brought in to keep notes on the Spencean Society and others in our group. Wilson's value to his masters increased with our supposed illegal activities, so the more they drank and talked treason, the more he had to offer. Since he worked for Drysdale, he naturally knew about my writing. Wilson felt my status as Edwin's paramour and my writing gave him license to take liberties with me."
"Did he assault you?"
The question was asked softly, but with an undercurrent that chilled her. "Not successfully. He did corner me in the offices, but I'd learned a trick or two from the women in the marketplace. He did not take rejection well."
Lydia leaned forward. "Wilson used his connections at the Home Office to discover my background. He threatened to publish articles highlighting my salacious career, my involvement with radicals, my living with Edwin without benefit of clergy. There was also the issue of my companions. He could make a case to his superiors I was involved in seditious activities. Now that I'm returned--remember, Peterloo is still much on peoples' minds, and the government is watching to see who stirs up trouble, or is perceived as stirring up trouble. Arrest and exposure of my activities would bring attention to my family, the family that told everyone I was dead. I'd made my choice to reject them, they do not need to suffer further because of my actions. I understand that and I accept it, even if I do not like it."
"Bollocks."
She raised an eyebrow at the obscenity.
"I will not apologize. If your family cared about you, they would stand behind you."
"Actions have consequences, Captain. Isn't that what we're teaching Mathilde? If one acts in such a fashion as to being shame on one's family, there is a consequence. I will not do that to them, not to make my own life more comfortable."
"Do you think I could ever abandon Mattie? Even when I was looking for someone to care for her in St. Martin, it was because I wanted to do the right thing for her. Your having to run and hide from this worm is not a consequence you should be forced to bear alone. We prodigals must stick together because who else will stand by us?"
"I seem to recall the Bible story having a different outcome and message."
He waved away that point. "You understand what I am trying to say. You, me, Mattie, we are all of us frowned upon by society for our behavior, or simply for what we are. We're outcasts. When the enemy is preparing a broadside you have only your own cunning and your shipmates beside you. Knowing those other outcasts stand with you gives you the courage to fight, and win gold and booty."
Lydia looked at the man standing before her who combined some of the best and worst of human nature. He loved his daughter and was a good commander, but he was also a pirate and a reprobate. His deeds were not written on his face, it glowed with good health, showing none of the signs of his riotous life--yet--but she knew him. If he continued on his life's path it would only be a matter of time before disease or disaster caught up with Robert.
She'd never believed a good woman could change a bad man, but a flawed man could change himself into a person a flawed woman could stand beside. It was a fragile candle flame of hope inside her chest after the emotional turmoil of finally telling him her whole story, but he'd been correct about one thing. It was time he knew it all. Whether that made a positive difference in her future remained to be seen.
"Your philosophy of life and mine are not aligned. I hope for more than a good fight and ill-gotten gains."
"Then I think you've put your finger on exactly what your problem is, Miss Burke."
"No. My goal is to be a better person than I was in my youth. I am an adult now, I have put away childish things. And you, Robert, you like to paint yourself as only a pirate, but you are much more than that. You were not the prodigal son. You did not take your patrimony and spend it wastefully until you had nothing. You built your own fortune. Granted, it was a fortune built on piracy, but it was your own hard work, nonetheless--I cannot believe I am saying this," she muttered. "Regardless, your ship is not aptly named. Yes, your crew may be free spending with their booty, but... I cannot believe I am defending all of you!"
"All of us, don't you mean?"
"Yes, me also, because I too threw away my life of safety and security to live passionately, if not profligately."
"There is nothing wrong with living life passionately, Lydia. It is the only life we have, so why not take advantage of fine fabrics, furs, good food and drink? Leave the righteous crusts and thin broth of sanctity to those who will nibble on such fare and judge themselves, and others, in their gray, colorless manner."
He began to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back. His focus had shifted from her as a threat to him onto a different plane. "Now that I'm home, I could become that prodigal son, Lydia. I could spend down the remaining monies in this estate, ruining it even further. Huntley's almost there already, thanks to my brother and my cousin. With just a slight push it could all topple into dust. That is what I intended with this return."
"Then what?"
"How do you mean?"
"So you ruin the estate further, throwing even more people out of employment, not bringing your custom to the local merchants, not holding up your end of your ancestors' bargain. For that's what it was initially, was it not? The baron protected the people and in return they supported him. That is your patrimony. Not the beatings and ill-feeling of your father and brother, but the agreement between lord and land, your responsibility to your people. You are Huntley. Not your father, not your brother, not your cousin. You."
"And what of you in this plan, Lydia?"
She took a deep breath. "I agreed to see you to your home, and care for Mathilde. I have done so. But my problems remain, Captain, and I still must leave so you can move on with reclaiming your legacy."
"Do you want to leave?"
"You know I do not, especially now. But you and I both know that part of your responsibility is to marry and father your own children, because otherwise your cousin will inherit the estate."
"I could easily eliminate him..."
"Not a good solution, Captain."
"I don't know why you say that when accidents are so common. I could see a fool like Lionel accidentally falling on a knife."
She felt that twinge behind her eye signaling a headache if she didn't steer the conversation in a different direction.
She stood, and her feet moved her toward his bed, where she c
ould grasp hold of the post at the end. She looked down on the old bed, carved long in the past, and she'd wager it had been slept in by Lords Huntley going back generations. Robert had replaced the bedding, but kept the furniture. Was that a conscious decision on his part? A link to the men whose name he bore, whether or not he believed himself the heir by blood? She knew what she had to do if he was going to truly take on the baron's role.
"I would embarrass you if I stayed."
He laughed aloud at this, and she turned and looked over her shoulder. He was close behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders.
"My darling Lydia, I am a pirate--or so people say--and you think you would be an embarrassment to me?"
She turned to look in his eyes. "You're handsome, titled, rich, from a good family, sometimes you display a modicum of wit--hostesses will poison each other for the opportunity to invite you to their soirees, and mothers of marriageable daughters will find ways to thrust their offspring into your path. You must marry, and marry well. Your past will be overcome by your obvious assets, not nearly the barrier you would think. To be fully accepted into society though, your wife must be above reproach."
She smiled, but she knew it was a fractured smile because it reflected the truth, as unpleasant as it was.
"It's different for a woman. I did spend my currency prodigally, my currency being that of other young women--my reputation."
His hand rose and cupped her cheek, and her eyelashes fluttered down at the tenderness of his touch. It was something she craved, something she'd tasted during those brief moments when he held her to comfort her, and when he loved her in his bed.
"If you marry me, you will be Lady Huntley. That is all anyone needs to know," he said softly.
"Please, Robert, do not do this to me--not tonight. There is too much happening."
He sighed and stepped away, and she gripped the post for support until she was sure she would not weep, or collapse onto his bed, a far too tempting option. Instead, she returned to her chair and sat while he replenished their rum.
The Pirate's Secret Baby Page 26
