by Mia Marlowe
Her mother was a self-confessed pragmatist. Jacquelyn squared her shoulders. Isabella’s daughter could be practical as well.
Her mother lived in Charles Court, a block off the Strand. It wasn’t exactly Mayfair, the fashionable new neighborhood that was home to members of parliament and courtiers alike, but it was certainly several steps up from the sturdy tradesmen’s quarter of Cheapside. It had been years since Jacquelyn visited Isabella, well before she took the position at Dragon Caern. Jacquelyn was forced to ask directions more than once as she drove the gig down the crooked streets.
Unfortunately, she received different answers each time. Apparently there were several ways to reach her mother’s home. None of them direct.
When she heard the chimes of Westminster sound, she was able to orient herself. Daylight was waning. Link boys raced to light the way for well-heeled pedestrians and householders hung the required lanterns outside their doors. Jacquelyn turned the cart down a cobbled lane, lined with three-storey houses in the Palladian style. The red brick exteriors were brightened with white trim and twin chimneys smoked merrily from opposite ends of each rooftop, like a row of proper English gentlemen settling in for their evening pipes.
Jacquelyn reined her mare to a stop before a house with a green door and an intricate stained glass creation spreading fan-like above it. Because of the unique ornamentation, Isabella had christened her home ‘Peacock House’—also a sly reference to the string of dandies and gallants who came and went with astonishing regularity through that green door.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Jacquelyn, it is you, is it not?” Nanette, her mother’s French maid greeted her warmly at the tall front door. “So long it has been, cherie. Madame will be overjoyed to see you. Leave the gig. Jerome will see to your things. This way, s'il vous plaît.”
Clutching her satchel, Jacquelyn followed Nanette into her mother’s parlor. Isabella was seated at her writing desk, quill in hand, peering at the missive before her through a set of pince nez spectacles Jacquelyn had never seen her wear before.
Her mother’s bone deep beauty was still there, her cheekbones and delicate jaw sculpted by a Master, but her skin looked paler by the candlelight than Jacquelyn remembered, though she was sure her mother wore no rice powder. She sported no wig. Her own hair was pulled into a thin bun with tight ringlets laced with silver dangling by either of her lovely cheekbones. Obviously, no ball or opera this night. Isabella was dressed en dishabille for an evening in. Tiny blue veins could be seen through the thin skin at her temple. Her long neck, once the envy of feminine London, sported the tiniest hint of a wattle.
As if sensing eyes on her, Isabella looked up. Her vibrant smile erased any notion of advancing years.
“Jacquelyn, darling! What a delightful surprise!” Isabella stood and rushed to her, hands extended. She kissed the air beside each of Jacquelyn’s cheeks in the French manner and then drew back to look at her. “A bit road weary, I see, but my! How lovely you’ve grown.”
“Thank you, mother.”
“Oh, we can’t have that. What if someone overhears you and realizes that I’m old enough to have a daughter your age?” Isabella said with a twinkle in her violet eyes. “Call me Isabella, dearest.”
“As you wish, Isabella,” Jacquelyn said, feeling every bone-jarring league of the road she’d traveled. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a hot meal and a clean bed in that order, but the news that brought her to her mother’s door was not likely to improve with keeping. “Just think what people will say in a few months when they realize you’re old enough to be a grandmother as well.”
Isabella cocked her head, like a bright-eyed robin, and swept Jacquelyn’s form speculatively with her penetrating gaze. “I don’t suppose you’ve a husband stashed in that satchel, do you, darling?”
Jacquelyn shook her head. She was past tears. Her mother would not hurl recriminations at her, since Isabella was fond of saying that folk found it most easy to forgive those sins which strongly resembled their own. But that didn’t stop Jacquelyn from mentally flaying herself for allowing her passion to lead her to this predicament.
Isabella sighed and pulled her into a warm embrace. “In that case, lovie, perhaps you’d best call me mother.”
Chapter 28
A walk along the beach usually helped Gabriel put his thoughts in better order. The long roll of the breakers, the cries of gulls and kittiwakes, the sight of a sail disappearing over the horizon all soothed him, helped him see things in a new light. He preferred the fresh snap of a sea breeze, but it was steep climb down the cliffs from Dragon Caern to the rocky beach below and he’d already wasted enough time.
As he adjusted the saddle forward on his gelding’s withers, he decided the scent of warm horseflesh and old leather had much to commend it for settling a man’s spirit as well. But his mood was still three points west of foul. Mostly because he couldn’t get his last conversation with Lyn out of his head.
He’d settled on Millicent Harlowe for a number of sensible reasons, none of them to do with his personal comfort or wishes. But Lyn wanted him to marry Elisheba Thatcher. And he’d cut her off in a tone more surly than he intended. It had been due to more than tiredness. He couldn’t bear the thought of wedding anyone but Lyn, let alone someone pretty enough to give her additional pain.
Then when he roused in the morning, she was gone. Oh, she’d left the message with Timothy about shopping in Bath, but he should have known she didn’t mean to return. He shouldn’t have waited a day.
At least now he was finally doing something about it. No matter what anyone said, he wasn’t going to marry anyone but Lyn, and there was an end to it. He stooped to catch the girth under his horse’s belly and cinched it tight.
“Goin’ somewheres, are ye, Cap’n?”
Meri’s gravelly voice at the stable door startled him. He’d hoped to slip away unnoticed, but trust Meriwether to sense he was about to jump ship.
“To Bath,” Gabriel said, setting his jaw. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation for his actions. Not even his old shipmate.
“Are ye thinkin’ that’s the wisest course?”
“Mayhap not, but I can’t seem to steer clear of it, Meri,” Gabriel said, suddenly deeply absorbed by the need to adjust his horse’s bridle.
“Want company on the road?”
“I’d rather you stay here and look after things for me till I return.”
If I return, Gabriel amended silently. He was done with the whole charade, the endless parade of hopeful misses in his parlor. He could no longer step to the farce of this mating dance. Lyn would just have to listen to reason. And if she wouldn’t, well . . . he was still a pirate at heart. She’d look good slung bum to the sky over his saddle.
“No, Meri, it’s best you bide here,” Gabriel said. “Besides, the girls would miss you.”
“Aye, and I’d miss the wee heathens right back, come to that,” Meri admitted. “Cap’n, ye know I’d never try to tell ye where to drop anchor—“
“Then don’t,” Gabriel cut him off.
“I’m a simple sailing man. I know what I know and it’s generally not much. Ye take the lead and I’ll follow ye to Hell, singing all the way. Mutiny is not in me,” Meriwether said. “But I’ve got to ask ye have ye thought this through with something other than yer cock?”
Gabriel rounded on him and grabbed him by his greasy lapels.
“If you weren’t my friend, you’d be a dead man.”
“If I weren’t yer friend, I’d not bother to say it.” Meri screwed his face into a horrible scowl. “When ye were at the helm of the Revenge, ye never put yerself before the crew. Ye were ever the first into a melee, last to withdraw. Now ye run from yer duties. I can’t think Mistress Jacquelyn would approve of the change in your character.”
“Leave her out of this,” Gabriel growled.
“Can’t. Not when she’s at the heart of the trouble,” Meri said. “I never tho
ught to care much about these landlubbers, but the people here have wrapped their hands around me old heart. I wonder that ye now seem ready to desert the folk in this snug cove who depend upon ye.”
Gabriel released the older man and rummaged through his saddlebag. There was an empty water flask he needed to fill and even though food was the last thing on his mind, prudence dictated he should probably raid Mrs. Beadle’s larder before he left.
“Who said anything about deserting?”
“Ye’re the one saddling his horse,” Meri observed.
“I’ll be back,” Gabriel said, wondering if it would be true. “As soon as I find her.”
It was a measure of their friendship that Meri didn’t back down.
“Truth is, seems to me the lass has made the right choice,” Meriwether said. “Ye’re expected to wed, lad. Like it or not, it seems the one ye want won’t do for yer wife. I’m not sure what ye’re intending, but unless ye enjoy living in the center of an unending squall, ye’d best not have two women with a claim on ye under the same roof.”
“Since when did you become such an expert on women?”
“Never said that, Cap’n. But it don’t take much learning to see ye’re bound for mighty shallow shoals if ye keep to this heading. Mrs. B. says—”
“Mrs. B? Who else have you been talking with about this?” Gabriel demanded. “Is everyone in the Caern privy to my personal doings then?”
“The way you mooned about whenever the lass should chance to pass ye by? Only the ones with eyes,” Meriwether said. “Which might be a smaller number than ye might think, most folk being so interested in their own troubles they’ve not much time for anyone else’s.”
“I know it’s not in you nature, but if something should happen and I’m . . . delayed, I need to tell you something.” Gabriel checked the girth once more. Then he told his first mate about the treasure under the keep and how to find it. “If I don’t return, use it to protect my nieces. I’ll have your promise on it.”
“Och, Cap’n, ye don’t need to ask. I’ll guard the little mites like they was me own and ye know it.”
A carriage rattled past the open stable door. Gabriel recognized the Curtmantle crest embossed on its side, twin lions rampant—a bastardized version of the ancient Tudor coat of arms which Hugh claimed as his distant heritage.
Gabriel left his mount and walked to the doorway to watch the carriage make a sharp turn. Dust swirled in its wake as it came to a halt before the sturdy oak entrance to Dragon Caern. A lad dressed in threadbare livery leaped down from his perch on the back and opened the passenger door with a proper obeisance to the occupant.
Catherine Curtmantle stepped lightly from her equipage, her dainty shoes and more than a quick glimpse of her delicate ankles leading the way.
“No doubt you’re right, Meri. Most folk are more worried for their own troubles,” Gabriel said. “Then there are those who bring fresh trouble with them wherever they go.”
Good breeding warred with Gabriel’s wishes. More than anything, he wanted to mount his horse and ride, but his sense of duty won out. He strode toward the carriage. At the very least, he might cut this unwelcome visit short.
“Good morning, Lord Drake,” Catherine said, extending her gloved hand.
He ignored it. Good breeding will only goad a man so far. This woman had once ripped out his heart. He wouldn’t touch so much as her fingertip if he could help it. He gave her a curt nod. “Lady Curtmantle.”
Her plucked brows lifted. Miffed, she withdrew her hand. “I’m calling to see—“
“I regret I am unable to oblige you at present,” Gabriel said. “A pressing matter requires me to leave at once.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. She looked like a cat trying to decide whether to devour her wounded prey here or drag it back to her lair. “And might that pressing matter be taking you to Bath?”
“If it did, it’s hardly your concern, Madam.”
“You’re quite right,” Catherine said airily. “Why should I care if you waste your time?”
“It’s mine to waste,” he said, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Now if you will excuse me . . .”
“By all means, though you’ll not find what you seek in Bath.” She waved her hand airily. “I’m sure Mrs. Beadle can tell me enough to satisfy Mistress Wren of the children’s well being.”
She flounced through the tall front door, with Gabriel in her wake. When she turned aside into the solar, he grabbed her shoulders and spun her around.
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “You’ve heard from Jacquelyn?”
“I received a letter from Mistress Wren requesting I visit to ascertain if your nieces are well,” Catherine said. “I mean to do just that.”
“Let me see the letter,” he demanded.
“I burned it as she requested. Evidently, your chatelaine values her privacy.”
He remembered Lyn telling how she’d watched as the headmistress of her school burned her mother’s letters. She might have made such a request. Still, Lady Curtmantle seemed an odd choice for a confidant. “Why would she write you?”
“She and I have more in common than one might believe.” Catherine shot him a mirthless grin. “You, for one thing. What in the world do you think we talked about while you danced attendance on your fawning debutants?”
Gabriel frowned. He had noticed Lyn and Lady Curtmantle in earnest discussion more than once, but never considered that they might form an uneasy alliance. He should have asked Lyn about it. He’d always been too busy trying to figure out the quickest way to get Jacquelyn into his bed to waste time over trivialities. “Is she well?”
“You mean she hasn’t written to you? Oh dear, it is as I feared.” Lady Curtmantle popped open her fan and fluttered it vigorously before her deep décolletage. “She obviously doesn’t want you to know where she is.”
“Since you brought it up, if she’s not in Bath, then where is she?”
Catherine closed her fan and fingered its lace edge. She made ‘tsk’ noises with her teeth and tongue. “Why should I betray her trust?”
Gabriel scoffed. “Madam, when it comes to trust I fear you are out of your depth.”
“As are you. Will you hold my past sins against me forever?” She lowered her gaze. Her lips parted softly, the perfect penitent. “You can run off to play the pirate as it suits you and then return as lord of the manor with barely a break in your stride. How is it you can change, but no one else is allowed that luxury?”
“Catherine.” It was a mistake to speak her name. Boyishly stupid or not, he’d loved her once and the cold embers of remembered longing stirred briefly. Lady Curtmantle was still beautiful, but hers was a cold beauty. And she wasn’t his Lyn. “If ever you cared for me in the slightest, tell me where she is.”
“It’s not that simple—“
“Then let me simplify matters for you, Madam.” Gabriel pressed her against the stone wall. His hand closed over her white throat. “If Jacquelyn complains you betrayed her confidence, you may tell her you were forced to reveal her whereabouts. And you needn’t worry about being convincing because it will be true.”
“You wouldn’t hurt m—” Catherine’s mouth gaped as he cut off her wind.
“I’ve killed my share of men,” Gabriel admitted conversationally. “Not that I didn’t avoid it whenever possible, of course. We pirates follow the path of least resistance, you know. If we can make off with the goods without committing a mortal sin, we will. But sometimes murder and mayhem is inevitable when the person in question won’t acquiesce to our demands. Some folk just want killing, Meriwether always says.”
The whites showed all around Catherine’s pale blue eyes as she struggled to free herself. When his grip tightened, she stopped kicking and clawing, focusing all her energy on trying to squeeze a breath through the narrow passageway he left her.
“Never have killed a woman, though I suppose it’s not much different than dispatching a man,” he
said philosophically. “Probably easier in some ways, so long as the woman isn’t trying to kill me back.”
She blanched pale as parchment and he lessened his grip enough to give her a little air. She gasped like a trout flopping on a riverbank.
“You really came to see about my nieces?”
Her head moved in a barely discernable nod.
“You aren’t trying to do me or Jacquelyn any harm, are you, Catherine?”
Her lips moved in a silent ‘no.’
He eased his grip further. “Good. Now where is she?”
“London,” Catherine wheezed. “The letter came from London.”
Damnation. Of all the bolt holes Lyn might have made for, why did she have to choose that one? He was sure he’d never told her that he couldn’t set foot in the city without threat of hanging. Or had he let it slip and she was counting on him not following her there?
When Gabriel released Catherine, she sagged to her knees. “I know London well enough to know a person can disappear into its rabbit warrens and never be seen again. Where is she staying?”
“With her mother, I think. Where else would she go? Isabella Wren is not a person who shuns attention. She should not be too difficult to locate,” Catherine said, her voice wispy and crackling. She massaged the bruised skin of her throat.
Remorse coalesced into cold lump of guilt in his belly. He’d always despised men who brutalized women and now he’d become one. Meri was right. He wasn’t thinking clearly at all.
“I ask your pardon, Catherine,” he said softly as he reached down to raise her to her feet. “I should not have used you so.”
She swallowed hard and huffed out a sigh.
“You are forgiven, Gabriel,” she said as she smoothed her dress with both hands. “I know you’re a man of great feeling and such men are prone to rash action. After all, your love for me made you run away to the sea.”
“You think I went to sea pining for you?” He tipped her chin up to force her to meet his gaze. “I was a boy and I’d been hurt by two people I trusted implicitly. The thoughts of murder rampaging through my heart scared me spitless. I ran away to keep from killing Hugh, though in hindsight, that may have been a mistake.”
