by Delle Jacobs
But he still felt her presence, tingling like the stroke of a feather. He couldn't keep his eyes from searching her out. Every gesture she made impressed itself in his mind and brought new twists to a magically unfolding story. Like ice on a hot day, the obstacle in his plot melted away, leaving a solution so obvious he had trouble understanding why he'd never seen it before. The very story that he had rewritten over and over, that had fallen flat no matter what he did, sprang suddenly and brilliantly to life.
Remove Scovill. Replace him with—what would he call her? Circe. Siren of the sea, the tantalizing lure of danger no man could resist. True, the original Circe had an annoying tendency to turn men to swine, but he could work around that. Circe Wolverton. Not replacing Scovill—masquerading as Scovill.
Exhilaration almost overflowing, Reggie cast one last glance at his Circe, and as she turned, his gaze caught hers. In the flash of a moment, the mask of feminine decorum slipped, revealing the woman beneath and her carefully concealed secret self. Boldness. Courage. Behind the veneer of a biddable, milk-and-water miss lurked a secret adventuress, a woman who dared, who challenged life and reached out to the stars.
That, he hadn't made up. She really was his Circe.
He watched as she crossed the terrace with graceful steps, while his mind raged with visions of Circe dashing across the quarterdeck in a rising storm, walking the yard, furling the mizzen sail, fierce wind lashing heavy rain, her golden hair in sodden ringlets. His story burst into flaming glory, as if it had been merely poised, waiting for her to step in and set it afire. She would be magnificent!
A little chest-binding would be necessary, considering her attributes. Imagine the hero's consternation when he discovers...
And that meant he was going to have to completely re-write Chapter Fourteen.
From that moment, Reggie hardly heard another voice as he waited in excruciating anticipation for the first reasonable moment when he could depart. Forcibly, he slowed his rush down the stone steps to the road, and all but shouted aloud as he jumped into his curricle.
At last. The perfect story. The perfect heroine. The Adventuress, by Reginald Beauhampton. The story of a woman who lived by her wits.
Of course, he'd not put his own name to it. His father's tongue would flay him like a cat'o'nine tails, and the Duke of Marmount would see to it Reggie never published another line as long as he drew breath.
Reggie was having enough trouble getting that first line published. But the book would sell this time, and he'd be out from under his father's thumb at last, and at last put a period to the duke's demand that he marry his sour cousin Portia.
Reggie sat up so abruptly he almost dropped the ribbons. That was only half the solution. Miss Englefield would save him altogether. She had a substantial portion that could keep them both in pleasant circumstances until Reggie established himself as a writer, or persuaded his father to release the inheritance that should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday.
That part would be tricky. Once his father learned his son was slipping the collar, he might find a way to withhold it entirely. Or, knowing his father, worse. But if Reggie worked it right, he would not only confound his father's consuming passion for control, but have the necessary blunt to pursue the occupation he loved more than sailing. Writing.
* * *
"Oh, my." Aunt Daphne's golden eyebrows arched high. Delight sparkled in her eyes.
Chloe pursed her lips to keep her exhilaration from leaking out. In a world of jaded fops and dandies, only Lord Reginald Beauhampton radiated vitality. It was in his wonderful blue eyes, in his very being. Something inside her suddenly felt like bouncing about with joy in the same exuberant way.
That would not do. She was not at home, where no one cared if she hared about like a hoyden or polished brass like a housemaid. Her circumstances were much too desperate to run that risk.
Lady Creston, who was standing beside her, sniffed and flared her nostrils. "Impertinent pup. I should think the duke would do something."
"I rather like him the way he is." Lady Mythe's wide mouth spread into one of her endearing smiles.
Chloe clasped her hands together around her closed ivory lace fan and locked her lips closed as tightly, deeming discretion to be the better part of valor. She had far too much at stake to risk entangling herself in this controversy.
"Indeed," said Lady Lavington. "One must admire such vitality. So few men possess it."
Lady Mythe leveled a glare at her husband's cousin.
Lady Creston stiffened. "The boy has no sense of the proper way to go on. One does not bob about life as if it were a country dance."
Chloe studied the patterns in the carpet at her feet to hide her thoughts. He did rather remind her of a country dance.
"That is just our Lord Reginald," Lady Mythe said with her pleasant smile, but Chloe saw the fire of a mother dragon flame in the lady's eyes.
"And that boat. One would think he would take up the more mature and civilized pursuits of his peers."
"Something more genteel? Gaming hells and cock fights, I suppose? No, I quite prefer him the way he is."
"As do I," agreed Lady Lavington. The lady's hips shifted slightly in a motion Chloe would never consider imitating.
Lady Creston sneered. "But of course you do."
Chloe choked down her laugh until the urge faded, daring not even open her mouth to join in the young man's defense for fear of a giggle.
He was a delight. Although several young men were now paying court to her, not one other gentleman she had met in her entire month in town had raised her interest. Yet how nice it would be if she might marry a man for affection as well as means.
And how very unlikely.
"You would do well to keep your niece away from a harewit like Lord Reginald, Miss Hawarth," said Lady Creston, and her fan pointed accusingly toward the door through which the young man had departed. "I suppose I need not concern myself, as he is but a second son. A small competence from his grandfather is all."
Chloe stopped herself from biting on her lip. A duke's son might do very well despite a limited competence. Yet at the same time, something almost frightening thrummed inside her. She attempted a smile as Lady Creston left.
Only Lady Mythe still stood with Chloe and her aunt, and her wide mouth stretched into a long, thin line. "Lord Reginald is a dear," she said, "and I believe you will find, very well-liked, not at all like his father. There are a few who cannot respect his finer qualities, but they are the ones who rarely appreciate the finer qualities in anyone who dares to enjoy life."
"I recall the duke," said Aunt Daphne with a studied frown. "Lud, he was a handsome man. But aloof, dour. Her Grace was a lovely woman. They are estranged, I believe, and she retired to the country."
"Handsome as his son?" Chloe asked, and instantly felt a flush to her cheeks.
Lady Mythe's broad mouth wiggled at its corners.
Daphne smiled. "Oh, quite. Darker, I recall, but the same intense blue eyes. Her Grace had the light hair."
"Lord Reginald is not badly fixed for a second son," Lady Mythe added. "His inheritance through his grandfather on his mother's side includes the Featherstone estates, and some substantial investments. East India, I believe. One could do far worse."
Heat burned Chloe's cheeks. She could never quite get used to the open way such things were discussed, as if they were dealing in horses. Yet it mirrored her thoughts exactly.
As they departed, she found it hard to concentrate on a graceful leave-taking. Her smile seemed wobbly, and the words from her mouth unsteady as they descended the steps to their coach.
"I allow he is taken with you, my dear," Aunt Daphne said, settling back into the squabs of their hired coach. "But I cannot think a second son will meet your qualifications."
Chloe watched the coach's elongated shadow ripple over Piccadilly's and stone facades. Was he taken with her? Or was he just being kind? In any case, how could she compete with what the scand
alous Lady Lavington so obviously offered?
Guilt stuck like a lump in her throat. She had nothing to offer in return but deception. But he had no choice, for she had to find a husband, soon. "If he owns a sailing ship, his competence cannot be paltry," she said.
"But he has no power to speak of," Aunt Daphne replied. "And you specifically mentioned that. And although he is second in line, his older brother is certain to wed, and of course produce his own heirs. Nor does that take into account the duke's vigorous health. The young man will not inherit, my dear."
"All the better, Aunt. He is not above my touch as he would be if he were the duke's heir apparent, yet he might call upon his father's influence without having power of his own. Men of power can be terribly disconcerting, don't you think?"
Aunt Daphne searched her face warily.
Chloe drew in her lower lip. "A man may do as he wills with a woman and her property. Uncle Bernard would surely have spent my last farthing while I watched helplessly, if he had not cocked up his toes. I do not to find myself in such a situation again."
Aunt Daphne pursed her lips but made no comment. She would know Chloe was not free to follow her aunt's example and remain single. Not if she meant to free her half-sisters, and that was a task she must accomplish. She needed a very influential man would be able to persuade their guardian to relinquish them, and how better to do that than to have a duke as a father-in-law?
"One must be sensible about such things," Chloe said, cramming her interlaced fingers together to push her gloves into a better fit. "It is bad enough that one must marry."
"Then, my dear, it would be better to choose a suitable companion, since all men have power and women do not."
As she thought of the young man and his boat, excitement rippled through her. Yet she had seen what had happened to her mother. She knew better than to marry a man who could engage her heart. "Do you not think Lord Reginald would be companionable? He has the added advantage of interests to keep him engaged elsewhere. He at least would not be in my hair all the time."
"In my limited experience with men, that rarely is the problem. One might wonder instead, when they might come home."
"That would not concern me. Although Lord Reginald does have a certain charm." Too much charm. If he had any flaw, it was that.
The coach rattled onto Little Swallow Street, its suspension creaking. Excitement threaded through her veins. She had a lot to do. She'd have to go to the mews tonight and find that noise, for it wouldn't do to go about town squeaking like a mouse. She'd put too much work into dressing the coach's shabby interior and touching up the black enamel where it was rubbed or cracked, to let her efforts go to waste.
As the coach stopped at the door, her overworked footman hopped down and handed down both ladies. Chloe avoided looking at Cargill, knowing how difficult it was going to be to meet his wages. That was one thing she was not willing to forego. Shopkeepers expected to extend credit, but servants could ill afford to do so, and Cargill had the extra burden of an ailing mother to support, back home in Kent.
Cargill rushed inside and took on an entirely different personality as he stiffened his back. His face became solemn and even his voice darkened as he took bonnets and lifted pelisses from the ladies' shoulders.
"Will there be anything else, Miss Englefield?" he asked, having already transformed himself into the perfect butler.
"Thank you, Cargill. That will be all."
The man seemed almost disappointed. He should have trod the boards, not become man of all work in her strange household.
"I'll just find that squeak for you then, ma'am."
Chloe nodded, glad to have one problem off her shoulders. She glanced about the foyer, looking for flaws that might give her scheme away. She must do something about the draperies, which were faded where the sunlight touched them. Could she perhaps mix up some dye and dab it on the worst places?
A spot in the dark woodwork needed a bit of touching up. She must do that tonight, too, before Lord Reginald had an opportunity to call.
Chloe started up the stairs, and her mind shifted to the blue ball gown she wanted to finish by tomorrow night. Yes, Lord Reginald would most definitely suit. If she moved fast enough, he might not discover her lack until it was too late.
* * *
Inspiration racing through him, Reggie dashed up the three steps, sped past the doorman to the staircase, and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. Puckett startled as Reggie bounded into the sitting room.
"Paper, Puckett," he called, almost shouting. "Did you get the paper?"
"Yes, My Lord, and ink. I've trimmed your quills."
Good old Puckett. He always thought ahead. Reggie stripped off his jacket and shirt, and exchanged them for the ink-blotched country smock.
"I shall require coffee tonight, Puckett. Send to MacDevie to ready the Xanthe for guests tomorrow afternoon, both ladies and gentlemen. And I'll need you to send a posy for me. Something enticing." Reggie slid his chair up to his writing desk and scribbled out Miss Englefield's direction, then reached for his manuscript.
"Inspiration has struck, then, My Lord?"
"With the swiftness and power of a bolt of lightning. A great deal of work, but not so much as a new story. It will have to be entirely recopied, of course."
"Yes, My Lord. That will be fine." Puckett's eyes sparked with Reggie's own enthusiasm. He was the only person privy to Reggie's secret, and he loved it almost as much as Reggie did, taking delight in copying the manuscripts in his unusually fine hand, and in dressing in a gentleman's finery to represent the anonymous author.
Reggie gathered up his energy and tackled the thick stack of paper, scanning rapidly for the first mention of Scovill.
A fever built in him as he pushed on to the next point, and the next, making notes in margins, inserting new sheets, rewriting paragraph after paragraph. The candles burnt low, and Puckett trimmed the wicks. Coffee appeared on the little table beside the writing desk, and grew cold when he forgot it. Puckett trimmed his quills, refilled the inkwell, blotted the pages. New blotches grew on the smock like mold on bread. Ink smeared on the side of his hand, and he rubbed the spots with a slice of lemon he kept handy to lighten the blue-black marks. As the first light of dawn streaked white and yellow, Puckett dozed in the wing-back chair. Reggie blinked, realizing he had once again spent the entire night engrossed in the magic of his own making. With one glance at the bed, exhaustion sneaked up and wrapped around him like a warm and beckoning blanket. He shook Puckett's shoulder to send the man off to his own bed, and Reggie collapsed, pulling blankets over himself. Morning became a vague thought that dissolved into nothingness.
He jerked awake. Bright sunlight glared through the window. Reggie leapt to the floor and rushed to the washstand, swiping up his pocket watch as he ran. "Nine o' the clock! Devil it, Puckett, why did you let me sleep so late?"
"You didn't say to wake you, My Lord. Mrs. Monroe has had a bit of coffee sent up."
Reggie rubbed his eyes and dashed water onto his face.
"Morning calls, sir?" Puckett asked, already waiting for Reggie's shave.
"No time. I must get to the Xanthe." Reggie plopped into the chair and leaned back for the lathering, willing calmness upon himself, for if he fidgeted, Puckett would merely stop and stand aside, waiting for his employer to settle down.
He composed himself. It would not do to wiggle about like a worm on a hook. Hardly a way to court a lady. The afternoon would not arrive any faster for it, nor the night, when he could once again scratch his creation onto paper. Reggie relaxed and let Puckett do his job.
He couldn't wait to see her again. He needed to see so many things. Just as he had with his ungentlemanly energy, his new heroine would have to learn to cover up the mannerisms she had spent a lifetime learning, to take on the coarse behavior of a sea salt. And do it all without giving herself away.
Why?
"Uh oh."
"My Lord?" Puckett straightene
d, lifting the razor away from Reggie's half-shaven beard.
"Puckett, why would a lady masquerade as a seaman?"
"I'm sure I do not know, My Lord."
Reggie studied Puckett's face. "Come now, think, man. Surely it is not beyond imagining."
Puckett loved this part. The ridge between his brows furrowed like a plowed field behind a drunken mule. "Surely she must be terribly adventurous to do such a thing, My Lord. Or terribly desperate."
Puckett leaned forward with the blade once again, but withdrew and paused, waiting for Reggie to relax. Reggie marveled at the man's patience.
"Yes, of course she is adventurous. She—" Reggie laughed out loud. "Desperate. Yes. But why? About what could a lady be so desperate?"
"My Lord, if you will only be still a moment longer so I can finish. Perhaps we can talk more as we dress you."
Reggie tried not to grumble. He interlocked his fingers in his lap, but it was like an eternity of seconds to be calm when his mind raced ahead of him as it was doing now.
At last he was allowed to stand again, and don the clothing Puckett had chosen. When the Cheval glass reflected the perfectly tied cravat, snowy white against the stunning blue of the coat, Reggie smiled. The only time he ever noticed his own eyes were blue was when he wore this coat.
"Very good, Puckett. You are a marvel. You may send for the curricle."
Reggie dashed down two flights of stairs and out the door.
"Desperation. Desperation," he sang to himself as he leapt to the seat. What would it take for a delicate lady to abandon a safe life and pursue a dangerous life of riding the waves? He had to figure that out or his entire premise would fail.
Reggie cracked the ribbons and sped off for the docks.
Chapter Two
"Try not to tap your fan, dear."
