The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy.

by Catherine Lloyd

  Bronwyn could not help herself. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if my mistress displeases you, why did you ask for her hand in marriage?” She disguised her voice but she was pressing her luck in being so bold as to offer any opinion at all.

  “What?” he said distractedly.

  Dear God, he was only half-paying attention! “I’m sorry, sir. It is not my place to speak.”

  “No, it isn’t but I’ll answer you anyway just in case you are a spy for your mistress. Cecily Knowlton is the least objectionable daughter of my father’s acquaintance. I am expected to marry, so marry I must.”

  “You do not want to marry?”

  “I did once but that was another lifetime ago.” There was a short silence while Jon seemed to be collecting himself. “It is rough sailing in December in any case. I’m well out of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  BRONWYN RESTED her hand on her knees and took in a steadying breath. She would not feel sorry for him. There had been dark days of loneliness since he left her and nights when she would have to imagine he was holding her in his arms in order to fall sleep.

  “It appears that fire is going well. Don’t you have other tasks to attend to before your mistress returns?”

  She straightened, keeping her back to him. He was absorbed in the view outside the window.

  Bronwyn opened her mouth to speak but the words would not come. What was there to say? He was going to be married and she could not do anything to risk being discovered by General Gage. As much as it wounded her to walk away, the past must be left in the past. What they had once felt for each other belonged to two different people. Jon was no longer a pirate but a lord with responsibilities and she was no longer a lady, but a maid dependent on the good will of her employer.

  She sidled to the pitcher and basin, dropped a quick curtsey and turned to the door. Carrying the porcelain pitcher in her arms, Bronwyn hurried down the hall, her heart hammering in her chest. She would absolutely not fall to pieces just because Jon Stag was about to marry Cecily Knowlton. It was winter and the streets of New York were no place for a little boy and his half-witted sister.

  “I am not a half-wit,” she muttered as she neared the darkened corridor to the kitchen. “I am only a fool who fell in love with a buccaneer when she ought to have known better.”

  Presented in that light, Bronwyn could see that the romance she shared with Captain Stag was not a great love affair, only a passionate liaison that was destined to end. She would not suffer heartache if only she could be sensible about what the pirate meant to her.

  Unfortunately, Bronwyn had never known herself to be sensible about anything.

  Her body quivered, shot through with pinpricks of excitement. He was under this very roof! Bronwyn forced her feet to keep moving to the kitchen, resisting the urge to run back to him and throw herself into his arms.

  Would she throw herself at a man who did not love her? Is that how far she had sunk in self-respect?

  Let him be forgotten by me, she prayed. Let him leave my mind and my heart and my soul. I can bear losing him but I cannot bear thinking about him every blessed minute of the day!

  §

  CECILY KNOWLTON was indeed in a foul temper when she returned from the theatre with the party. Bronwyn looked surreptitiously over the group stomping into the grand foyer, laughing and shaking off their cloaks to be taken by the footmen. Jon Stag was not among them.

  She bobbed a curtsy and took her mistress’s hand-warmers, handkerchief and evening bag. Miss Knowlton’s gown was exquisite. She wore her powdered wig piled alarmingly high. Jon’s hair was powdered too, Bronwyn recollected. Six months had wrought great changes in the pirate lord. The crew of the Black would hardly recognize their old captain.

  “Who the devil are you?” Cecily Knowlton demanded.

  Bronwyn had held out her hands to receive the accessories and abruptly caught Cecily’s notice. “I am your maid, Miss Knowlton. Mrs. Langley has given me instructions.”

  “There you see, dearest girl? I told you it would be all right. Langley knows her business. She’s found you a new maid to help you with your toilette this evening.”

  The speaker was another fine lady, older but very striking in a ruby gown and dazzling emeralds. Her wig was dyed to match her emeralds, a soft wash of green. “What is your name, girl?” she asked in a blunt tone of voice. She must be the lady of the house, Bronwyn thought, and wondered how much Mrs. Gage knew about the imposter brought in by Captain Treacher.

  “Barlow, madam.” She held her breath but the lady appeared oblivious.

  “Oh dear.” Cecily rolled her eyes. “Have you come fresh off the boat or do you have an inkling of what to do? Is there hot water in my room?”

  “There is, Miss Knowlton. And I have lit the fire.”

  Cecily turned to her hostess with a mocking laugh. “Well, that is a good start! She had the presence of mind to light the fire in December. I suppose she ought to be congratulated. My dear, Lady Gage this war cannot end soon enough so that properly trained servants can be brought over from England. And I pray it happens before my wedding. We shall see how long this one lasts.”

  She gave Bronwyn a withering look.

  Bronwyn took no notice. It was almost impossible to upset her these days. Keeping body and soul together had blessed her with nerves of steel and the hide of an elephant. The lady was spoiled, but what of that? She had seen many spoiled ladies in Boston and before that, in London. Bronwyn could handle the jibes, the insults and the constant criticism.

  Jon’s fiancée was certainly beautiful and accomplished. She carried herself gracefully up the stairs, as regal as a countess—which she could very well be for all Bronwyn knew. Jon had said his father the Viscount had wanted the match.

  She pondered the mystery of Jon Stag’s engagement until Cecily barked at her. “Look at the state of me! Set those things down and get to work repairing the damage done to my wig! Oh dear God! There is snow melting in the top of it! I shall smell like a wet dog in a minute if you do not make haste.”

  “I’m sorry, miss.” Bronwyn snatched up a towel that was hanging from the washstand and gently daubed at the worst of it. Cecily was not exaggerating. The wig did smell like a wet dog and what’s more, there was no way to repair the damage done to the curls.

  “I shall have to remove it, Miss Knowlton, and have it redressed. I am surprised you did not have a hood on your cloak to protect your coiffure.”

  “I have a hood, thank you. It was inadequate to the task, as so many things are of late,” she grumbled. “Besides, it was not snowing when we left for the theatre and only began on the wait for the carriage.”

  Bronwyn gingerly removed the headpiece and set it on the wooden bust to be dried, combed out and redressed. Cecily looked like a shorn chick. Baby soft hair of gold had been pinned flat to her head.

  She scowled at her reflection. “Now what do you suggest? The ball is tomorrow. I simply must have the wig by then—but I cannot sit down to dinner tonight looking like this!”

  “I’ll send the wig out for redressing first thing in the morning and if you like, I can fix your hair rather becomingly for dinner.”

  “That will never do. You will have to find me another wig.”

  Bronwyn bit the inside of her mouth. “There is not enough time before the dinner bell is rung. Please, allow me. I have done this before and you have such lovely hair to work with.”

  Despite her personal heartache, Bronwyn would not send Jon’s fiancée into society looking anything but her best. Cecily’s blonde curls sprang from the pins like ribbons of butter. The hair was fine and there was not a lot of it but Bronwyn’s arrangement was flatteringly natural. Cecily looked quite pretty when she was finished.

  Bronwyn stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  Miss Knowlton’s rouged mouth twisted. “I suppose it will have to do. I shall tell everyone I am breaking in a new maid; that should suffice for an excuse. Jon has promised we will move t
o England when this war is ended. I shall be residing at Huntington Hall; apparently the Viscount’s servants have been with him for years and years. It will be a relief to be waited upon by someone who actually knows what she is doing.”

  “I wish you every joy, Miss Knowlton.” Bronwyn’s curiosity got the better of her sense of self-preservation. “You will be moving to England, you said. That is a great distance. Do you have family there?”

  “I was born in America.” She sounded bored. “My father earned his fortune in shipbuilding in Newport, but money and a fine house is not enough for acceptance into the best social circles. Mama is ecstatic that I am marrying into royalty. Soon I shall be Lady Stagholt and the invitations to the best homes in New York will come in a flood. Thank God, I shall not have to endure their pandering for long. Stagholt means to whisk me away to Europe soon after the wedding. I cannot wait to leave this provincial backwater.”

  Cecily set her looking glass down and rose to her feet. She moved with grace to the window, fanning her skirts out behind her. The sleeves of her gown were tight to the elbow, ending in a length of lace trim. “Fetch me my cape, will you? The purple silk one in the wardrobe. If you prove to be trainable, Barlow, I will consider taking you with me. Would you like that?”

  Bronwyn knew there was only one answer even if it was not the true one. “Yes, miss.”

  “I can make no promises. So much depends on the outcome of this war. I shall never forgive General Gage for starting this whole business. But I must not be churlish for if he had not, Jon and I might never have met. We were only introduced after our fathers joined forces to protect their interests.”

  “That was fortunate, miss,” Bronwyn murmured. She fixed a gossamer silk cape to Cecily’s shoulders, recalling that if it were not for Captain Stag’s theft of the payroll gold, the war might already have ended in victory for the British. “Will the wedding be held here, miss?”

  “Oh yes. Jon insists. He says he will not sail to England with an unmarried woman again for the rest of his life if he could help it. A cryptic remark don’t you think? I could not get the whole story out of him. He said something about a curate’s daughter and a pirate ship. All very mysterious but he absolutely refuses to say more.”

  The dinner bell sounded below. Cecily took one last approving look at her reflection, dabbing at her new coiffure. “It is just so … so plain, Barlow. Try to do better next time.”

  And she sailed out of the door.

  Bronwyn sank to the chair, her heart pounding and her legs weak.

  §

  BRONWYN CARRIED the wig to the kitchen below stairs in the great house. It was bustling with activity and hot from the blazing cook fire on the hearth. Mrs. Langley’s large household staff was preparing the evening meal on long wooden trestle tables and the lady herself looked harassed by the many details that commanded her attention.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Miss Knowlton’s wig, madam. I have to take it to the wigmaker and have it redressed before tomorrow night.”

  “Leave it for the footman, he will take it in the morning. There is someone here to see you. He has been waiting an hour or more for you. Do not make this a habit, Barlow. I will not have strange men lurking about in the alley at all hours.”

  Bronwyn opened the shutter to peer outside. “I don’t know anyone in New York. What name did he give, ma’am?”

  “Goodness gracious, I didn’t speak to him! I don’t have time to turn around much less answer the door. Jenny answered his knock. She is the scullery maid. You may ask her yourself if you were not expecting anyone. She is in the washhouse scouring the pots. Do not keep her from her work.”

  “I won’t. Thank you, Mrs. Langley.”

  Bronwyn found Jenny elbow deep in dirty cast iron skillets. Her pretty face was flushed and tendrils of red hair curled about her forehead. When she saw Bronwyn at the door, she wiped her hands on a towel and hurried over.

  “What have you told Langley?” she whispered.

  “Told her? I’ve told her nothing. I only came to find out who is here to see me. What is his name?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Miss Barlow, not without hearing the password first. I’d cut out my tongue first. Though I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  BRONWYN GREW impatient. “For the love of heaven, I don’t know the password and I have no desire to cut out your tongue. Who is waiting to speak to me and what does he want?”

  “Are you a patriot or a loyalist?” Jenny drew back, suspicious.

  “I am neither. If this man is trying to solicit my support, you will have to send him away.”

  “He is come for a man named Jon Stag. He says you know him and can get a message to him. That is all I know. If you decide to turn me into the General, he will get as little out of me.”

  “Why would I turn you into the General? I told you I am not on anyone’s side but my own. This conflict has nothing to do with me.”

  Jenny turned back to the wooden sink and plunged her arms up to the elbows in the steaming water. “This country is at war,” she said as she scrubbed the dirty pots. “The time is coming when everyone will have to choose a side. Have you ever been persecuted in your own country, living in fear of your neighbors because you pray differently than they do? I see you have not,” Jenny said shortly. “The colonialists must prevail, Miss Barlow. The world needs a place where men can live and worship and thrive. I don’t know Jon Stag, but you do and if you can assist the cause, I beg of you to consider it. If you are unwilling, then I beg of you to hold your tongue about everything you have heard here.”

  Bronwyn promised not to say anything and returned to the kitchen, thinking over Jenny’s words. The time may be coming when she would have to choose a side, but she would not be rushed into it when she had Roddy’s safety to consider. She yanked open the kitchen door and stepped boldly into the alley to speak to the man. “What do you want?”

  An older gentleman stepped out of the shadows. He carried a tricorner hat and wore a plain homespun jacket over a white shirt. His simple attire was that of every colonial man she had seen in this country. He could be a member of the militia or he could be a merchant; Bronwyn sensed he had intelligence and courage.

  Hezekial Garnett introduced himself as a printer from Pigeon Cove. “I need you to get a message to Jon Stag.”

  For all his respectable, even honorable bearing, Bronwyn was not convinced. It was better to be suspicious of everyone than to be hung for a traitor to either side. “Who might he be, sir?”

  Garnett smiled at her caution. He was not a tall man but he was stocky with a shining forehead, bushy brows and an intelligent look about him. He wore his hair tied back in a simple tail. “Jon Stag is the man who went to great pains to liberate you from the gallows. Do you mean to say you have forgotten him already? It has only been six months.”

  “Who are you?” Her pulse pounded.

  “I run a printing press and I am a friend of Jon’s. None of us can get near him to give him the message. King George has issued a royal proclamation closing the American colonies to all commerce and trade to take effect in March. Our cause will not survive such a blow. Even now the Continental Army is marching on Quebec. We are stretched to the limit. We need privateers in the North Atlantic to thwart the British Navy. We have a ship anchored nearby, ready and waiting for a captain—the Marguerite—a light merchant ship fitted for battle. A launch is waiting at the Governor’s jetty to row him out tonight. There is no time for delay.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Garnett. You will have to find another to give the message. I have no influence over Jon Stag. He is engaged to be married and not likely to listen to anything I say.”

  “Engaged? Jesus, he’s trapped like a rat in that life. Look, Miss Barlow, let’s not beat about the bush. I know who Captain Stag really is—Lord Stagholt. It is a title he hates and I know what drove him to accept it.” Garnett leaned in menacingly. “He was given a
n ultimatum. The prodigal son had to return home, assume the title and everything that went with it or Miss Bronwyn Barlow would hang. There was nothing more to it than that. They had you bang to rights and giving up his freedom was the only way to save you. A life filled with adventure and freedom to do as a man pleased—he gave all that up for you.”

  Bronwyn felt dizzy. She rested her hand against the wall to keep from falling. “I thought he had used his name to get me out of prison and bring me to the hospital—that was all. My brother was there. I was grateful for everything he’d done—”

  “But you thought it was his decision to return to the aristocracy and become engaged?”

  “Yes, of course! Jon Stag can’t be bullied into doing anything he does not want to do.”

  “Not bullied, no. But a man in love will go to great lengths for the woman he loves.”

  Tears sparked and her cheeks burned. “He doesn’t love me. You are mistaken.”

  “If that were true, would I have risked discovery to approach you? I have a contact inside the governor’s mansion; she could’ve slipped him a note tonight, but it will take more than a note to persuade Jon to put you at risk. His father will have you arrested if Jon Stag relinquishes his title and runs off to sea.”

  “There must be another way,” she said weakly. “You are asking me to persuade him to return to battle and I can’t do that. He has a fiancée. I won’t use what little affection he has for me to coax him to leave her and possibly be killed! You have come to the wrong shop for that sort of treachery, sir.”

  Garnett jammed his hat on his head and moved to leave. “We need Jon Stag, Miss Barlow. Men are deserting, morale is low and we are a hair away from losing this damn war. Yes, I am asking you to persuade him. Nay, I am demanding it. Give Jon my message. Convince him to meet the launch tonight by any means you can.”