Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  “She was a doctor’s daughter; she knew what she was getting into when she married me,” Peter replied dryly. “Besides, Sarah had heard me speak of you often and was anxious to meet you. Though not, perhaps, in this particular way. It’s a miracle I recognized you under all the blood and bandages. After all, it had been … what—a dozen years?—since we had seen each other.”

  As soon as he had recognized his old friend, Peter whisked him away to his own Spanish-style villa, where the captain would have the best possible nursing. Had the winds of fate not brought the Harringtons to Gibraltar, Alex might have died, and would certainly have been crippled had he survived. Instead, he exhibited remarkable powers of recuperation—within a month he was beating Peter at cards, teaching bawdy sailor songs to the three-year-old son of the house, and patting the appreciative backsides of every female in the household save Sarah Harrington herself. He ended that discrimination after Sarah complained of neglect. From the cook to the spaniel, everyone in the house adored him.

  Alex swung his long legs off the bed and reached for the cane he still needed. The whole left side of his body had been ripped by metal fragments when a cannonball shattered on the quarterdeck where he was directing the fight against a French ship of the line. He had stayed in command until the battle was won, the French ship secured, and his own frigate, Antagonist, on course to nearby Gibraltar with her prize. Only then did he collapse.

  Even during the years of peace after the American Revolution, Alex had always found employment on shipboard when many of his fellow officers cooled their heels on shore at half-pay. Since hostilities had resumed, he had risen rapidly to a command of his own. While it was assumed that his aristocratic lineage had aided his advancement, even his most grudging critics could not deny his brilliance, courage, and luck.

  Tightening the sash of his blue robe around his lean waist, Alex crossed the room to the window and back with hardly any resort to the cane. “See?” he said triumphantly as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “It should be obvious even to a fusty old medical man like yourself that I am as good as new. When are you going to let me go back to my ship? She’s almost refitted, and so am I.”

  “You’ve been practicing,” Peter said judiciously, then paused, his mouth a little dry. He had avoided this moment for weeks but could no longer. Looking his old friend in the eye, he said quietly, “You’re not going back to the Antagonist. Not right now, and perhaps not ever.”

  “Why not? Am I up for court-martial?” Alex said. His words were flippant but his eyes were very still.

  Peter followed his friend’s cue and kept his tone light. “You remember how long I had to operate, picking pieces of your precious ship out of your hide?”

  Alex grimaced. “Remember? Every day of that operation is graven on my liver.”

  Peter chuckled. “I suppose it felt like days, but after all the brandy you put away before and during the operation, I’m surprised you remember anything. I’m sure the head you had next day had more to do with your brandy than my knife.”

  He paused, then said gravely, “I did my best, but I’m positive there is at least one large shell fragment left in your chest. That’s why you still feel so much pain.” At Alex’s instinctive movement of negation he said acidly, “Don’t bother trying to lie to me. I noticed it was your right arm you used most in that pillow fight.”

  Alex shrugged. “So what does it matter? Half the old salts in the Navy have a musketball in them somewhere; helps ’em predict weather.”

  Pete sighed. He had known Alex wouldn’t make this easy. “The difference is the location. I couldn’t risk any more probing around in the area; you would have died on the table.” He stopped a moment, then continued, “You know that musketballs and shell fragments can migrate away from their original location?”

  At Alex’s nod, he continued, “There is a good likelihood that the fragment may settle down and stay where it is for the next fifty years, just giving you twinges. Or it may move outward to where it can be removed surgically, or even work its own way out. It isn’t as if a body wants that kind of thing inside.” He stopped once more, then said baldly, “Or it may migrate inward until it hits an organ or a major blood vessel.”

  Alex looked at him levelly. “In which case I die.”

  Peter held his eye and nodded. “Exactly so.”

  Alex shifted his gaze out the window to the Rock that dominated the colony. After a minute he said, “I’ll admit it would hardly be fair to my crew to drop dead suddenly. Bad for morale; sailors are a superstitious lot.”

  Peter broke the silence after another few moments had passed. “I’m sorry. I know how much you love the Navy. A year from now if your condition is stable you can take a new command. But for the moment I can’t in good conscience release you to active duty.”

  Alex swung his head back, a devilish light in his eyes. “You must be joking! A man would have to be mad to love the Navy! Weevily biscuits, endless boring patrols, living packed together closer than rats in Seven Dials, no women for months on end … and ships aren’t built for men my height—I still seem to bang my head at least once a day.” He inspected his scarred left forearm, then said quietly, “The Navy doesn’t own the sea; no one can take that away from me.”

  “I suppose you’ll be going back to England?”

  “It looks like I can’t avoid it.” The note in Alex’s voice was so odd that Peter glanced at him sharply. Still looking down, his friend said, “Remember the letter that was delivered yesterday—the one that had been following me all over the Mediterranean for months?” He looked up to see Peter’s nod, then said flatly, “My mother is dead.”

  Peter exhaled sharply. Lady Serena Kingsley had been one of the most notorious women of her generation, a legendary beauty whose amorality was exceeded only by her cold-blooded selfishness. She had made the Kingsley household a hell for her family and servants, while her husband, Arthur, withdrew from the unpleasantness as much as possible, leaving his children to her vicious moods.

  Alex said dryly, “You needn’t bother to grope for condolences. Her demise has been greeted with near-universal relief, particularly by those of her lovers who feared she might pen her memoirs someday. And don’t look so crushingly sympathetic—I accepted what she was years ago.”

  He knit his fingers together and looked down at them broodingly. “I’m a coward, Peter.” He looked up at his friend’s small exclamation with a lopsided smile. “Oh, not in the usual way. It isn’t all that hard to face death; after all, life is invariably a fatal condition. But when it comes to people, I’ve been a coward all my life. I’m sure you know that a major reason I entered the Navy at fourteen was to get away from home.”

  He accepted Peter’s nod, then continued, “I ran then, and I would keep on running if you hadn’t just closed the door. I’ve scarcely spent three months in London over the last fifteen years. My brother and sister are near-strangers. They have every right to hate me.”

  “Why should they do that?” Peter asked quietly.

  “Because I left them alone with that … that”—he searched for a term—“black widow spider. And I never did a damned thing to help them.”

  Peter’s voice was gentle. “You’re too hard on yourself. Lady Serena was the most … difficult woman I have ever known. You were a boy then—what could you do about her? It was your father’s job to control his wife, not yours.”

  Alex refused the comfort. “I could have done more. And I certainly ought to have gone home two years ago when my father died. Annabelle and Jonathan are my responsibility, and I have failed them.”

  “Your service in the Navy has been of value to the country.”

  Alex shrugged. “There is no shortage of eager lieutenants panting for their own commands. Any of them could do what I have done.”

  “You underrate your own achievements, and your brother and sister’s good sense. Remember what a sweet little thing Annabelle was? How she used to follow us around and you wo
uld take her up with you on your horse?” Alex started to smile reminiscently, but Peter made the mistake of adding, “How could she possibly hate you? I doubt anyone has ever hated you in your life.”

  Alex stood again and crossed to the window, leaning heavily on the cane this time. “Wrong. My mother did. Used to tell me that my birth ruined her figure.” He settled himself on the window seat and smiled ironically at his friend. “Although half the men in London appeared to find nothing wrong with her figure. Did you know my father kept me back from the Navy until he was sure that Jonathan must be a true Kingsley? So that when I got killed the title would still go to a son of his own blood. Sentimental man, my father.”

  Peter was silenced. Alex had been such a cheerful, hey-go-mad boy; two years younger than his friend, Alex was the natural leader whose imaginative antics often led them into trouble, while it was left to the quieter, more studious Peter to get them out. As close as they had been then, as many letters as they had exchanged over the years, only now did Peter understand how unhappy his friend must have been.

  Alex folded his hands on the brass head of the cane in front of him and his smile softened to a real one. “You shouldn’t have gotten me talking about that. Don’t look so sad, Peter. That is all history now. We are as much a product of our problems as our triumphs. I am reasonably happy with myself, except for how I’ve neglected my brother and sister. I may be skittish, but now I will have the chance to make amends for that.”

  He laughed suddenly. “But you must bear the responsibility for sending me back into deadly danger.”

  “Deadly danger?” Peter said in confusion. Alex’s lively mental shifts often left him behind.

  “The ladies, Peter.” Alex rolled his eyes in comic horror. “They terrify me! All those fluttering fans and sly, catlike eyes—I never know what to say to fashionable women. They make these purring remarks and bare their sharp little teeth and I don’t know whether they are flirting or insulting me or attempting to compromise my virtue.” His deep voice took on a mournful note. “It’s a hard prospect for a simple sailor.”

  Peter burst out laughing, glad the familiar Alex was back. “A simple sailor, indeed! I have yet to see you show the slightest sign of shyness around any woman in this house.”

  “It’s not women I have problems with,” Alex said. “It’s ladies.”

  “So avoid the fashionable world,” Peter said promptly. “You’re a peer of the realm—no one can force you into polite society.”

  Alex stood and stretched luxuriously. “I’m afraid it can’t be avoided entirely. Poor Belle is twenty and hasn’t even been presented yet because she has spent the last two years in mourning. I shall have to rescue her from my appalling Aunt Agatha and open up Kingsley House again. The least I can do is give her a ball that will be remembered for years. Just remember,” he added with a baleful glare, “if I become a casualty of the social wars, it will be your fault for not letting me go back to the Navy.”

  Peter chuckled and stood up. “You can sit and bemoan your cruel future, but I am ready to eat. Care to join Sarah and me?”

  Alex stood up and limped across the floor. “If there is one thing I’ve learned in the Navy, it is to take advantage of a good meal. Lead on!” As he came up to Peter he briefly put one hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed, grateful for his quiet understanding. He wished he could take the Harringtons back to England with him, but he knew that coming to terms with his past was one battle he must fight alone.

  Chapter Two

  RADCLIFFE HALL

  MARCH 17, 1795

  Ordinarily Christa started the day with a cup of chocolate and a bread roll in her bedchamber, declaring that the British custom of devouring animal flesh in the morning was too much to be borne. On this day, however, she rang for her maid, Annie, early so she could dress in time to meet Lord Radcliffe at his breakfast. After wearing black for a year, it was a pleasure to slip into a white muslin gown with embroidered sprigs of roses. She had made it from a new pattern book and it was daringly fashionable. Annie nodded approvingly as she laced the high-waisted dress tightly around her mistress’s curves. “High time you put off your mourning, Lady Christa,” she said with a vigorous nod. She was a plump, pretty girl, brown as a wren. “You’ll never catch a husband if you stay hidden here in the country.”

  “It has turned out well, no?” Christa gave a half-turn, admiring the simple flowing lines of the gown. She approved of the new fashions based on the styles of ancient Greece and Rome; they were one of the most positive results of the French Revolution. She had always loved clothes and in this last quiet year she had spent much time designing and sewing. While it was an odd occupation for a lady of quality, she found it soothing, and she was as skilled as a professional seamstress.

  Annie threaded a matching rose velvet ribbon through Christa’s glossy black curls, cut short à la Titus, then handed her mistress a fine cashmere shawl for protection against the great house’s drafty corridors.

  It was a very large house, built in the ponderous style known as English Baroque, and by the time Christa reached the breakfast parlor she had worked up an appetite. “Pray do not disturb yourself, Uncle Lewis,” she said gaily to the man who started to rise at her entrance. “My papa always told me never to come between a man and his breakfast.”

  “Good morning, Marie-Christine. You are looking very well.” Lewis Radleigh, the Earl of Radcliffe, nodded approval of her bright dress, then seated himself while Christa poured hot chocolate and recklessly helped herself to a coddled egg and two pieces of fruitcake. After all, she was opening a new chapter of her life.

  Silence reigned for the next few minutes as both concentrated on their food. Swallowing the last bite of egg and finishing her chocolate, Christa covertly studied her companion. Portraits showed that the Radleigh men had always been a magnificent lot—tall, broad-shouldered, as blond and confident as lions. Lewis Radleigh was the younger brother of Charles’s father and he had the family height and looks; his blond hair was barely touched with silver and his impassive features could be judged handsome. But the blood ran thin in him—he was a repressed, colorless shadow of his magnificent relatives. Lewis and Charles’s mother, Marie-Claire, had become joint guardians of the infant earl after Charles’s father died in a carriage accident, with Lewis managing the Radcliffe properties during his nephew’s minority. After Charles’s death, he inherited the title in his own right, executing his duties conscientiously but with no obvious signs of pleasure.

  Observing that he had finished his ham, Christa said, “Uncle Lewis, I should like to speak with you today. Now that I am out of mourning it is time I planned my future.”

  Lord Radcliffe regarded her thoughtfully, then said, “Quite right. I fear I must spend the morning with my agent, but I shall be free this afternoon. Would it be convenient for you to come to my study at two o’clock?”

  Christa nodded, then pushed away from the table and stood. “Très bien. I shall see you then.” As she left the room she thought with amusement how it was typical of him to make a formal appointment to meet someone he had lived with for the last year. Christa knew Charles had been fond of his uncle and relied heavily on his business judgment, but she herself scarcely knew the man even though they had first met when she was in leading strings. Perhaps Lewis felt passion for the mathematical articles he published in learned journals—he showed none of that quality in daily life.

  For all his stuffiness, he had responded admirably when Captain Brown summoned him to Ramsgate. Christa had arrived in England dangerously ill from fever and shock and had little memory of her first weeks in the country. One image that remained burned on her brain was Lewis’ agonized face when he learned what had happened; after all, he had been very nearly a father to Charles. Rigidly controlling his personal grief, he had summoned a London doctor to treat her and waited in Ramsgate until she could be moved. By the time she was fully aware of her surroundings she was safe in Radcliffe Hall.

 
She was grateful that Uncle Lewis left her alone to mourn in her own fashion. Anything she wished had been ordered for her, and he had let her ride and walk about the estate alone. They generally dined together, but conversation was always sparse and superficial; wrapped in their separate grief, they were like two ghosts that coexisted without touching. She doubted he would miss her when she went to London.

  The inlaid hall clock was striking two when she entered Lord Radcliffe’s study. He rose behind his desk and made a slight, formal bow. “Please have a seat. I am glad to see you have put off your mourning.” He studied the lively face with its healthy color and sparkling gray eyes, then added, “You are looking very like your mother.”

  “Alas, I will never be so beautiful as she,” Christa said regretfully as she chose one of the leather wing chairs in front of his desk.

  “That is true,” Lewis said ponderously.

  Christa shot him a glance that blended amusement with irritation. Protocol demanded he assure her that she was equally beautiful. It wouldn’t have been true, of course, but most gentlemen would have lied gallantly. No wonder he was in his forties and had never married! One of the maids had gossiped that a widow in a nearby town look care of his “masculine needs,” but he seemed too cold a man to really love a woman. As she now studied his closed face, so like Charles’s but without the vital charm, she wondered what he really felt. Was he happy to be an earl? Did he miss his nephew? Was he capable of missing anyone?

  Lord Radcliffe sat down again, then stared across the polished walnut desk and said, “What did you wish to discuss?”

  “I have been a year now in Berkshire, Uncle Lewis,” Christa began. “Since I am out of mourning, it is time I went to London and entered society. Your cousin Clarissa has written and invited me to stay with her. She is worried because I am twenty-three; almost too old to find a husband.” She smiled at him teasingly, but his answer was grave.