The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy.

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Little point? I thought I had lost both my children. I was without heirs. Alone in my old age!” he thundered.

  “I was alone in my young age, so that makes us square.”

  “Is that how you talk now? The language of a pirate. Square.” Stagholt snorted his contempt and picked up the snifter of brandy. “Thomas tells me you have come to him for the release of a prisoner. A woman,” his father added sourly. “I assume she is some sort of pet female on board that beastly ship of yours.”

  Jon would not rise to the bait. Some things would never change, he thought. It was this same tone of contempt that Stagholt had used to force Jon to ask Lady Francine Gauvreau to marry him.

  “Miss Bronwyn Barlow is innocent of the charge brought against her. I offered my testimony to clear her name and General Gage accepted my account. He has granted a stay of execution until the case can be heard before the court and the charges dropped. I have every confidence they will be.”

  “Of course you do. Gage is your godfather. He would do anything for you, though you have done little enough to earn his favor. This business of the payroll gold for instance.” His father eyed him craftily. “What does he make of that?”

  Jon moved to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. “That is where you come in, Father. The gold is gone. It cannot be recovered.”

  “Did you steal it?”

  “Let’s say I liberated it for a worthy cause. I have been working as a double agent. Licensed by the Crown as a privateer to overtake enemy vessels and I also work for the colonials seeking independence.”

  His father’s complexion became the color of ash. The viscount sank to a hard chair near the fire. “Good God. You are the traitor everyone has been after. We’ve all been living under a cloud of suspicion, looking sideways at our neighbors, leaping to conclusions—and it was you all along who has been sabotaging your countrymen for personal gain!”

  “My countrymen? They are not mine, Father. My country is the Black and to her I swear my allegiance. She has yet to abandon me,” Jon added in a quiet bitter undertone. “The theft was not for personal gain; it was a deliberate act of sabotage. I want the patriots succeed if only to have a land where men can live free from the oppression of men like you.”

  The viscount sneered. “As you do on the Black Adder, I wager. Freedom you call it. You damn fool, you’ll hang if they find out,” his father hissed. “You are all I have left. Did you think about that? You’ll die and the name and title will die with you.”

  Jon took a long swallow of brandy. “I have thought about it, Father, and I found I don’t give a damn about the title or the name. If I get caught, I’ll hang. I haven’t so far.”

  “That is because you are here as my son and not a blasted pirate. How have you explained your prolonged absence from England? Where do you say you’ve been for the past nine years?”

  “You’ll appreciate the irony. I told Gage I was in a seminary about to receive my orders when I was called home.”

  “Treacher has described Jon Stag to the authorities. His description fits you exactly.”

  “The man Captain Treacher saw was me, but I was on board the Black to save souls. Miss Barlow and her brother were stowaways, nothing more—as I have said in my written statement.”

  “It does not fill me with pride that my youngest son has turned out to be a scalawag skilled in lying. Do not expect me to pat you on the back, Jonathon. Captain Stag’s reputation is the worst of the lot of you bloody privateers but I excused you, thinking that at least you limited your activities to attacking the enemy. I never imagined you would betray your own country.”

  “Cheer up,” Jon said coldly. “It was not just English ships I plundered, but French and Spanish as well. As I said, I have no country.”

  “Who is this girl? She must mean something to you to draw you out and force your feet to the fire.”

  “She is exactly who she claims to be—a curate’s daughter who posed as Lady Gage to recover her brother.”

  “Which doesn’t answer my question. What does she mean to you specifically?”

  “Nothing. She is just a girl.” Jon moved to the window and parted the white lace curtains to look at the sea and sky beyond. The two were joined at the horizon like indigo blue velvet, the color of her dress when she first came to him. He wondered idly what became of that dress.

  The sky was pierced with stars and sea rolled in moonlit caps of glowing white. He flung open the window and breathed in the smell of salt and heard the swish and sigh of the tide. The wind was pulling south … good sailing weather…

  Bronwyn … Bronwyn….

  “Did you hear what I just said? Come away from there, damn it, and answer the question. Does this girl know who you really are?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, if she means to blackmail you later. You never know with these little guttersnipes.”

  “If you insult Miss Barlow again, Father, I’ll knock you down and leave you, and this time I’ll never come back. If you want an heir to the estate and title, you will hold your tongue on the subject of Miss Barlow. She knows who I am but when she had the opportunity to expose me and save her own neck, she didn’t do it. I am still a pirate and I live by the code. Loyalty is valued above all else. Touch her or speak to her in a manner disrespectful and this is the last you will see of me.”

  “I have no intention of touching her and I certainly do not want to speak to her. You are my only concern, Jon. For all our differences, you are still my son and I love you. I will not do anything to risk losing you again to the Black—or to the blasted hangman! I only want to protect you now that you are here to stay. You are here to stay, are you not?”

  Jon closed his eyes and released a tight stream of breath he realized he’d been holding. This was the moment he’d been dreading. It was set in motion the instant he contacted Gage and Jon knew it was coming before the words were out of his father’s mouth. It was the aristocracy’s chain of command—Gage would contact his father and his father would make his demands.

  It was a simple mathematical principle in his father’s mind. The girl was expendable. Jon was not. Well, not anymore. Lord Stagholt would not let his only living son hang for the crimes he committed at sea when there was a sacrificial lamb already on the spit.

  Assume the title or the girl hangs for a spy. Basic quid pro quo among the nobility.

  “I’ll speak to Gage,” the viscount said to seal the deal. “I’ll make sure Miss Barlow is completely exonerated and the papers are notarized in court. She will be a free woman. I only ask one thing in return.”

  “What is that?” As if he didn’t know.

  “Come with me to New York. Let me introduce you back into society. Depending on the outcome of this war, we’ll either return home to England or to Virginia.”

  “Lord of the manor,” Jon said bitterly.

  “It is your birthright, son.” His father squeezed his shoulder emotionally. “I am so glad to have you back. More than you know. I thought this was the end and it had all been for nothing. My ancestors spilled blood for Huntington Hall; I could not endure losing it after four centuries. But you are back and oh my life—I feel like a young man again! Oh, my son! My son!”

  Jon allowed his father to embrace him. The older man squeezed him with surprising strength, arms tight as steel bands held him fast. This was not an embrace of affection. The message was clear: Jon would never get away.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  December 1775 ~ the British held colony of New York

  RODDY SCAMPERED on ahead, cheering on the falling snow. Bronwyn did not know where he got his energy. His blue jacket was miles too small for him now. He’d had a growth spurt whereas she seemed to have shrunk. The plain homespun she’d worn in England was loose in the bodice and shoulders.

  It was very kind of Doctor Blakely to bring their belongings from the Black before they set sail. He’d brought the blue velvet gown in the leather valise that also contained he
r bible and the pistol. Hawkins had dropped the firearm when he was clapped in irons. Blakely had told her the fate of Jon’s first mate and she shuddered. Some nights, she would wake in a cold sweat, the sailor’s cold grinning face appearing in her dreams. Blakely said Jon Stag’s hard reputation was carved in legend after he forced his old friend, Billy Hawkins to walk the plank.

  “Why can we not return to the Black Adder, Winnie? Doctor Blakely said we could come back anytime we liked. Captain Stag said I made a fine sailor. I don’t understand why we do not go back.”

  “You’ve asked this question at least once a day for the past six months,” Bronwyn replied. “There is no Black Adder to return to. Captain Stag has taken up another life and the Black is likely in Tahiti or some other tropical locale. We wish her Godspeed and all who sail on her, and that’s the end of it. We’ve had our adventure, now we must find shelter and work before winter sets in.”

  The pistol she kept; the blue velvet gown was sold it for a crown as soon as Bronwyn left the hospital. The money Jon had supplied was eaten up in bandages, medication and wholesome food for the entire ward. Matron said she was sorry to do it but she could not watch two patients grow fat and healthy while women and children were dying all around them. Bronwyn agreed; consequently there was no surplus when they were discharged.

  Their meals had not been regular since the battle of Bunker Hill and they were forced to flee Boston. She had been asked to choose a side on more than one occasion, sometimes under duress, but her answer was always the same: she was on the side of employment and regular meals. Since neither the redcoats nor the militia could offer her that, Bronwyn remained neutral.

  Fence-sitting had served her well up to this point. The tide of war had changed inexplicably against the well-trained, well-armed and well-fed British army and the war of independence was gaining ground. Jon Stag’s theft of the payroll gold had delivered a devastating blow. There were rumors the British would pull out of Boston by spring.

  New York was very nearly the last hold-out in the northern states, and the last place she could hope to find work. Still, it was sheer lunacy to approach the Governor’s mansion. But where else was there? Bronwyn had applied at every establishment. The hotels wanted references and the smaller houses did not want to take a boy as well as his sister. The Governor’s mansion looked large enough to get lost in. She was certain she could avoid running into General Gage. In any case, Bronwyn decided to take the risk. The worst that could happen was dismissal.

  Roddy trotted to rear entrance to enquire of the housekeeper as she had instructed him to do.

  “Yes?”

  The snow was falling gently, turning the alley into a fairy land.

  “Is there any employment to be had, missus? I am a hard worker and my sister here has experience as a housemaid. My name is Roddy Barlow and this is Bronwyn. Our father was a curate and we are honest and clean.”

  Roddy had an appealing nature that housekeepers and cooks could seldom resist. The door had never been shut in his face as it had been in hers.

  “The Governor is hosting a party tonight.” She peered at Bronwyn. “Are you trained at all as a lady’s maid? We have one lady, a houseguest, who requires assistance but did not bring her own maid and I cannot spare one of the girls from the kitchen.”

  “I can take care of her, ma’am. I’ve served as lady’s maid in Boston and England, ma’am.”

  The housekeeper was impressed by the reference to the Mother Land and bade Bronwyn enter. Roddy was sent to the stables to assist in tending to the horses.

  “We’ll see how you get on tonight and if all goes well, you may be offered a position. I cannot promise. With Washington on the march we could all be sent packing before the week is out. There will be no ma’am and milady in this house. You will call me Mrs. Langley and when I need you I shall use your surname. Barlow, was it?” The woman bustled into the kitchen, talking non-stop. “I wager you don’t have a proper uniform tucked into that case? Well, never mind. I keep a spare in the airing cupboard for just such occasions. We make do with what we can in this godforsaken country—though New York is a far sight better than some places. No pavement and too much mud, but there is society and gay dinners to cheer one up. The lady of the house brought me with her from Montreal when the children were small and I was glad to come. The weather in Canada!” She shuddered dramatically. “But with this continual fighting, I can’t say which is worse.”

  Bronwyn caught the plain dove-gray maid’s dress Mrs. Langley had tossed at her, followed by a white muslin cap, shawl and apron made of the same material. Bronwyn had kept the leather boots she had stolen in the summer and was glad she did when the weather turned cold in autumn, but they were not suitable for a lady’s maid.

  “What shall I do about my footwear, Mrs. Langley? Will these do? I have no others.”

  Mrs. Langley gave her feet a quick glance. “You look to be Mary’s size. She’s off sick with the baby. You can wear hers for tonight but mind you leave them where you found them. Put those filthy things you have on in the laundry to be washed and your boots can be cleaned as well. The mistress is greatly affected by a slovenly appearance. She expects those in her employ to be clean and presentable at all times, and in all manner of weather.” The lady rolled her eyes, doubtless thinking of the muddy streets as Bronwyn was. She pushed open the door to the upstairs and Bronwyn followed her.

  “The lady’s chamber is at the end of the hall and to your right. She is not there now. They are all at the theater and arriving back here for dinner at ten o’clock sharp. I want you waiting on Miss Knowlton as soon as she arrives. Introduce yourself and so forth. She’ll want to retire to her room to freshen up. You will assist her. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Mrs. Langley.”

  The housekeeper left her alone in the room, presumably to change out of her homespun and get into the maid’s uniform. She was concerned about the mud she would track in on the beautiful blue and yellow carpet. Bronwyn pried her boots off first and then her stockings. She was in the guest chambers, she surmised from the lack of personality. The furnishings were exquisite. Colonial, but very well-made and the fabrics chosen for the upholstery complemented the paper on the walls.

  A four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room. The fire had nearly gone out on the hearth and the water in the pitcher had gone cold. No one had emptied Miss Knowlton’s basin. There was plenty to occupy her before the guests returned. Bronwyn hurried to dress, fixing her hair under the cap and tying on the apron.

  She was bending over the fire, trying to get the kindling to light when she heard the door open behind her. She bobbed her head but continued on with her work. “Good evening, miss.”

  “Not a ‘miss’ but good evening to you too.”

  Bronwyn froze but did not turn around. She had not heard his voice in six months but she had never forgotten the effect he had on her.

  Jon Stag.

  “I’ve only come in for Miss Knowlton’s gloves. She seems to have forgotten them. Are you her new maid? Mrs. Langley said she would try to find another. It was too bad about the last one. She seemed sturdy enough to handle my fiancée’s moods. I hope you have a thick skin.”

  “Yes sir.” Her stomach was doing terrible things. It felt cold and twisted into a ball. So, he was engaged. She’d only heard rumors about him in the past six months after he had left her in the hospital and she was exonerated. It was as if a cloak of silence had fallen over the subject of Captain Jon Stag. It was as if he never existed.

  Bronwyn began to believe he must have been arrested, tried for treason and executed despite his family name. There was no report in the news or in the kitchen gossip in the houses in which she had found employment. He might have signed up for either army and if so, he could have died in battle. This was a possibility she could not bring herself to accept but it gnawed at her at night when she missed him the most.

  It was a heavy blow to discover that all along he’d been alive and we
ll in New York. Not seeking her out. Not writing her or asking after her—but falling in love with a lady of his class and asking her to marry him. Forgetting the bedmate he had lustily enjoyed on the Black—oh no! Jon Stag was much too preoccupied in finding a lady to preside over his household and bear his children to give her a second thought!

  Bronwyn flung the taper down in temper. The kindling was not cooperating; it refused to catch.

  She heard the sound of the wardrobe opening and then the nightstand, and then God only knew what he was doing. Her hands were coated in soot. She couldn’t very well offer her assistance, even though she knew he was expecting it.

  “Have you seen the blasted things? What is it with women and their gloves? I knew a lady once who was always forgetting hers.”

  She heard him pause. Her heart pounded.

  “No, that is not true,” he muttered. “She wasn’t forgetting them. She didn’t have any.”

  “Pity,” Bronwyn managed to reply. She dared not say more for fear of losing her temper. She needed this job and her indignation was misplaced. Jon Stag had fulfilled his obligation to her by saving Roddy. He did not owe her his heart as well. Nevertheless, it took some effort to bite back a stream of abuse that she longed to heap on his miserable head.

  “Right, here they are under the bed. Where else would they be,” he sighed. Like most gentlemen of his class, Stag was barely conscious of the servants and said whatever he liked in front of them. Discretion was the one unwavering attribute a female must have for respectable employment. The ability to keep secrets was more precious than knowing how to dress a lady’s hair becomingly.

  The fire at last began to burn but Jon showed no sign of intending to leave the room. He stood at the window, looking out to sea. The governor’s mansion was a colonial design with Grecian columns and porticos. A set of French doors opened to a stone balcony that faced the Hudson River.

  “It is snowing again. She’ll be unhappy about that. The weather makes her surly. There will be no living with her this winter.”