Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  Once their “cargo” had been safely delivered and other “liberated” spoils divided, each man was told he was free to leave with an additional twenty percent bounty and a written recommendation if they wished. Every time, without exception, they would take the pen and make their mark on the payroll – then make a fresh mark in the crew register.

  Kit fell in the warm, brown eyes of the woman in front of him while they chatted about nothing of consequence. He acknowledged he was wrong to prolong her discomfiture, but he couldn’t help himself. Now, she had made the mistake of taking him at his word.

  He had no intention of ignoring their first meeting. It was, by far, the highlight of the deadly dull affair he attended under sufferance because he and Elias had been invited by one of their most important customers.

  There was more to the events of that night and more to this particular band of players. For some reason, he wanted to know the end of the tale and now he had one of the performers before him. A little more Madeira wine and a few probing questions, he would have all her secrets by the second bell of the first watch.

  At least the gown she wore tonight fit better than the shapeless sack she wore to the ball, he noted. Judging by its ornamentation, however, it was likely to be Laura Cappleman’s cast-off. Only she could get away with wearing such a bland color. On Sophia, it was lifeless. Bold colors of Turkey red, emerald and Mazarine blue would suit her better.

  While she spoke to him of ancient Greece, he imagined dressing her in the style of a Spanish maja. One painting, La maja vestida by Francisco de Goya, came to mind – Sophia had the same coloring. That thought was immediately followed by the recollection of the painting’s companion – La maja desnuda.

  Kit mentally shook his head. What the hell was he doing? Sophia Green wasn’t his type.

  His type transacted sex as dispassionately as he traded silks and spices. He took no interest in the ladies’ names and they took no interest in his. They just called him generoso– the generous one. His ego liked to think it was the size of his endowment, but he knew it had more to do with the amount of coin he left afterwards. It was better that way. God forbid, he started to actually feel something in that long-dead heart of his.

  That would never do.

  Elias, pretending to listen to Miss Laura prattling on, caught his eye. Kit saw his warning look. Little escaped that man’s notice. Kit acknowledged him with a slight nod. He found it nearly impossible to know where to draw the line sometimes. Thank God for Elias to come to the rescue. His first officer offered Miss Sophia a generous smile to catch her attention, leaving Kit to engage Miss Laura in conversation for the first time this evening. He sincerely wished he hadn’t.

  *

  The last of four bells pealed over the sound of the wind and waves, announcing the midpoint of the first watch. Sophia closed the porthole against the stiffening breeze and went back to methodically brush Laura’s soft, light brown hair.

  She would sleep well tonight, gently rocked to sleep by Neptune, or was it Poseidon… oh, they were the same god, one Roman, the other Greek – how could she have confused them? Lethargy brought about by months of tension and excitement about the trip made her limbs heavy. Equally, it could have been the hour of dancing on deck after dinner, which added to her fatigue.

  She smiled. Captain Hardacre seemed a man of his word. He agreed to say nothing about their unfortunate first meeting and had been all charm and wit during the evening. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

  She did worry about Laura, however. Sophia took Samuel’s words to heart. Of course, she would look after Laura – she was the closest thing to a sister Sophia would ever have. Sophia put the brush down.

  “Have you forgiven me?”

  Laura raised her head and frowned at her cousin’s reflection.

  “For taking you away from England for a few months.”

  The girl sighed. Sophia resumed brushing the long, glossy locks.

  “If he truly loves you, he’ll wait.”

  “What do you know about love? You grew up in a convent.”

  The words hurt. Sophia breathed out slowly to ease their sting.

  “I know what love should be – kind, forbearing, forgiving… does your Mr. Havers have these qualities? I wonder…”

  Laura’s shoulders shuddered. Sophia looked into the mirror and waited for the girl to raise her eyes. When they did, her eyes shone with tears.

  “I miss him so much!”

  “I know you do, my lamb, but love doesn’t go away just because you’re parted. I don’t think you’re so much angry with me but with Mr. Havers. What did he say when you told him you were leaving on this trip?”

  Startled, Laura looked at her with those big, shining, blue eyes, so much like Samuel’s.

  “I know you saw him out riding in Hyde Park. You thought you had slipped away from the groom, but he recognized Havers riding away when he found you checking your horse’s shoe.”

  Laura let out a resigned sigh.

  “Did he tell you not to go? Did he suggest you run off to Gretna Green together? What did he say when you refused?”

  Laura straightened in her seat. “How did—”

  Sophia ignored the interruption.

  “Did he take back his declaration of love? Did he tell you other women would be glad to have his attentions if you did not do as he wanted? I might not have had a beau of my own, but I do know how men and women ought to treat one another.”

  Sophia smoothed down Laura’s hair with her hand before kissing the crown.

  “You are family,” she whispered, “no matter how tenuous our blood ties. I only want the very best for you… and Samuel.”

  Laura rose from the dressing table and hugged Sophia, squeezing her tightly for just a brief moment.

  “When did you know you were in love with Samuel?” asked Laura.

  Sophia’s hand, which had been stroking Laura’s back, stilled.

  “Samuel?”

  Laura giggled. “You don’t think anyone notices the way you look at him? I know, our society knows, I’m sure even the servants know.”

  Sophia’s mouth dried. She thought she had been so circumspect about her feelings. She had never told anyone about what was in her innermost heart. Now, it seemed she didn’t need to. It had been written on her face all along. A light shudder went up her spine. What must Samuel think of her?

  As though privy to her thoughts, Laura answered. “In fact, I think the only one who doesn’t know is Samuel. I don’t say this to be cruel, but I don’t think he actually notices you.”

  Her heart tumbled a few beats.

  “Would it be so awful if he did?” Sophia whispered.

  Laura pulled back, frowning. “Don’t be silly! You’re our cousin. You might think me a foolish girl, but I know my role is to find a noble husband to elevate the Cappleman name. Samuel’s expectation is the same – find a titled lady whose father will overlook Samuel’s pedigree in favor of his money.”

  Laura stared at Sophia for a moment before continuing. “You know we will always love you, but you ought to be realistic about your prospects. Have you thought about Jonas? I know we all call him uncle, but he’s not related by blood to any of us. He’s a respectable widower, and you like his antiquities and whatnot. I think you’re doing the smart thing by making yourself indispensible to him, doing whatever he does digging in the dirt.”

  Sophia’s shocked face must have shown itself plainly to Laura. Professor Fenton was like a grandfather to her. Surely he didn’t… but how would she know? Laura regarded her steadily. Knowingly.

  “It would secure your future and add a little more respectability to your interest in his work if you were his wife.” There was an edge to her voice Sophia hadn’t heard previously.

  “We women have to be practical about such things, you know.”

  Chapter Five

  Sophia watched the sun rise. There was no land in sight, just the briny smell of the Atlantic where it met
the horizon, and the sound of the sea drawing past the hull as the Calliope cut through small, white-tipped waves catching the pre-dawn light. Around her, ropes and timbers creaked as sails were trimmed to make the most of the fair wind.

  She had slept well, as she expected to, and only woke when a ship’s mate called out, “Eight bells and all’s well!” to mark the end of the mid-watch. Laura remained soundly asleep, leaving Sophia awake and alone with her thoughts. They turned to Samuel as they so frequently did. The cabin became stifling, so Sophia had dressed and gone up on deck. Before her eyes, the sky changed from cold grey and warmed to a rosy hue.

  Was her tendre for Samuel so obvious?

  The moment she laid eyes on him when she first arrived at Brentwood House, Sophia knew there could be no one else in her heart. And yet, over the past few months, there were times he had been less than perfect.

  A disappointment.

  Sophia swallowed the word back down. Raising her eyes heavenwards, she watched the stars one by one make their bows and leave, ready for the diva of the day to take the stage. The sun’s arrival was heralded by a trail of gold, her train spilling across the waves towards them, her mantle of clouds a heady mix of reds, purples and lilacs. Sophia had never seen colors so unexpected in the sky.

  Fanciful imaginings.

  Sophia shook her head to be free of them. Behind her, the Calliope’s crew went about their business with a briskness born of familiarity, not just with their tasks but with one another. Last night showed they were as close as a family. There was no distinction between seaman and officer on this ship. With the exception of those on watch, all the men had emerged on deck after dinner and, by the light of the full moon, they danced to tunes played on tin whistle, concertina and violin.

  And no one threw himself more enthusiastically into the entertainment than the Calliope’s captain who danced with her, with Laura, and with his own men with equal vigor. Only Uncle Jonas demurred, content to watch from a chair.

  She couldn’t help but envy them.

  Sophia wasn’t sure if she had ever truly belonged. Her memories of her parents were dim. Even now, they faded as the night faded into the dawn. Before long, she feared she would no longer recall what they looked like, the English man and his Spanish wife. Sophia had been told she looked very much like her mother. In quiet moments, she stared at her reflection in the looking glass, wondering how true that was, and what her father had seen in a Spanish peasant girl. In the end, she decided the resemblance couldn’t be that close, for she saw nothing in her own looks to cause a wealthy young Englishman to give up everything to be with her.

  “Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning,” she whispered to herself.

  “That refers to the sky in the west.”

  Sophia looked up to find Captain—call me Kit—Hardacre leaning against the rail beside her. He turned his back to the sunrise and nodded across the deck to the clear but rosy sky to the west.

  “Most of the storms come in from the west, that’s the red you have to watch out for. We’ll have smooth sailing from here to Corsica.”

  “Oh.”

  The rising sun hurt her eyes, so she faced the deck. Familiar features took shape– the capstan, the masts standing like mighty trees, even the cannons secured amidships. Golden sunlight glinted off the prisms of glass set into the deck, illumining the decks below. Sophia caught glimpses of the ocean beyond through the scuppers, which drained any water on deck back to the sea where it belonged.

  “Tell me what you were thinking, Miss Bluestocking. Dreaming of Aegean Seas and the ruins in stark white marble of civilizations gone by?”

  The slightly mocking tone and his teasing name for her rankled. She was proud of her academic accomplishments. Uncle Jonas had told her more than once she was the equal of many of his pupils at Cambridge. Sophia knew full well she had no advantages to offer – no looks, no wealth. Her only advantage was her education and a healthy measure of good sense, and she wasn’t going to waste it on a man who refused to take her seriously.

  Yet, when Sophia looked into his eyes, she found no condescension, just an open expression that became naked curiosity. What did it matter if she confided in him? In a week, they would be strangers to each other once more.

  “I was thinking of my parents. I can barely remember what they looked like.”

  Hardacre’s jaw firmed and the friendly air disappeared as his hazel eyes held on to hers. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Emotion – raw and angry – rose close to the surface. What a horrible thing to say!

  He either ignored or was unaware of her ire because he continued, “Do you have a special memory of them, a lullaby perhaps?”

  Sophia’s vision blurred and tears welled for a moment as the feeling ebbed. She found a linen square pressed into her hand. He stepped closer and she felt the warmth of his body, shielding her from the breeze.

  “As long as you can feel them, they are never lost to you.”

  She held the white square to her eyes, letting the moisture absorb into the fabric.

  “It sounds like you speak from experience,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

  “I wish that were true. I stopped feeling years ago.”

  Sophia would have probed further, but he pushed himself forward off the deck rail and yelled up to a man up in the mainmast on top of one of the crosstrees.

  “How go we?”

  “Just fine, Captain.”

  The rest of their exchange was snatched by the wind. But she remained where she stood to watch Hardacre climb agilely up the rope ladder to one of the spars and approach the sailor.

  Kit Hardacre was bright, charming, moody and infuriating – as mercurial as the legendary seas on which they travelled.

  “What a strange man,” she muttered.

  *

  Kit sat on a spar high above the deck splicing a length of rope. He could easily have ordered one of his men to do it, but with Elias and Jonathan in charge of the helm, the Calliope was in safe hands. He looked down while he worked; he had no fear of heights. This was second nature to him – something he had done since the age of nine when he had signed on as a cabin boy.

  On deck, his crew worked while his guests enjoyed the voyage. Where the sun slanted in under the canvas awning, he could see a table and the cotton sleeve of Sophia’s dress, the rest of her body in shade, as she wrote in a ledger of some kind while Professor Fenton paced from one side of the shelter to the other.

  I was thinking of my parents. I can’t remember what they looked like.

  He should have kept his mouth shut.

  As far as he was concerned, Kit Hardacre did not exist until ten years ago when he finally escaped that hellhole in Konstantiniyye.

  What they looked like? He couldn’t even remember the names of his mother or father. Hell, Hardacre may not even be his real name. He no longer knew. It was the name he answered to now, and that was good enough. There were no happy memories of life before he was indentured to the Pendragon and very few after his shipmates were slaughtered. His opium-induced dreams, nightmarish as they often were, could not be worse than the real memories of being made to perform for men twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years older than himself.

  Kit meant what he told her – he no longer felt anything on the inside.

  The Calliope changed direction. It would hardly be noticed by those on deck but, forty feet in the air, the pitch was precipitous. Kit held on to the spar with both hands while the ship rode through an increasing swell.

  He felt like one of trees he’d seen in a forest in the mountains around Naples – big and impressive, broad limbs reaching high into the sky with dark, glossy leaves dancing in the breeze. But when you walked around the back of the broad trunk, it was damaged, hollow right through to the core, kept alive only by the outer rings just a few inches thick.

  But his facade was only skin deep. And that was the only place he felt. The wind in his face, the hair on his arms standing on end when they
sailed through the middle of an electrical storm, the torrential rain pounding on his back while the muscles in his arms and legs strained against the pull of the ropes as he and his men trimmed the sails…

  The only time he felt alive was when they raided the pirate ships of the Barbary Coast and rescued their captives.

  The sound of eight bells marking the end of the forenoon watch made its way up to him. It was also time to eat, as his stomach just so kindly reminded him. He clambered down the rigging and headed toward the fore hatch to avoid the helm and walking past Miss Bluestocking. For some reason, he couldn’t face her. She didn’t know it, but their conversation had opened old wounds this morning.

  Kit walked through the galley and told the cook on duty to send lunch to his cabin. He needed to be alone. No one would question his absence from deck – especially since he had put himself on first watch tonight.

  The door to the young women’s empty cabin was slightly ajar as he passed. The seductive mix of their perfume – lavender, jasmine and rose – touched him and raised something visceral he could recognize instantly. Not lust, but a strange sort of yearning which lodged in his chest, a reminder of something lost. A memory, perhaps?

  He closed his cabin door and, by rote, did all the things he usually did to prepare for a late watch. He opened a small window to let in air to his well-lit quarters, unlaced his boots, pulled out the knife he kept sheathed there, and toed off the footwear, placing them where he could step straight into them should he be called urgently.

  From habit, he looked around the room. The knife, he placed between the mattress and the side of his bed – within easy reach. A pistol lay in the drawer beneath his bed, a cutlass between the bed and the nightstand. For years, he prepared himself thus – even before he had his own command.

  He sat on the bed with a sigh, lowered himself onto his back, and closed his eyes. He groped under his pillow for a satin mask to keep the light out of his eyes while he slept.

  No longer would he be caught unawares. Yet, a few unguarded words spoken to Miss Bluestocking dredged up things long forgotten. The weapons at his hand were no defense against that woman’s words getting under his skin.