An Improper Proposal

by Patricia Cabot

  Tito rose hastily, and fumbled at his keys. He was clearly hungover from last night’s carouse, and had been feeling quite sorry for himself all day. What he needed, Payton had decided, was a little hair of the dog, and she’d already resolved to secure him another bottle, if only because tonight, she fully intended to liberate him of all his keys, and make her getaway with Drake.

  As Tito hastened to unlock the door to the brig, more footsteps sounded above their heads, and soon Becky Whitby was tripping down the steps, her high heels clacking.

  “Papa,” she was saying, in a wheedling sort of voice. “It wasn’t Lucien’s fault. You know how jealous he gets. Really, if anyone is to blame, it’s you. How could you have been so stupid as to show up at Daring Park that morning? Of course you were recognized!”

  Payton, watching from the shadows, thought, Papa? But Sir Marcus doesn’t have any children. Sir Marcus, to her certain knowledge, had never even been married. She imagined he was going to have something to say about Becky Whitby claiming him as her kin. She’d once seen Sir Marcus wave a pistol in the face of a man simply because he refused to move out of his way. How was he going to react to this lunatic woman calling him papa?

  Sir Marcus Tyler was not an old man, like Payton’s father. He was probably only in his late forties, and was still quite handsome, tall and well-built, with only the slightest bit of gray at his temples. The rest of his hair was very dark and thick, and curled over the edge of his high shirt collar with deceptively casual elegance. In his own way, he appeared to be as fashion-conscious as Lucien La Fond.

  What he was not, however, was a very even-tempered man. He turned to bellow at Miss Whitby, “Don’t you dare accuse me of bungling this! If anyone here is a bungler, it’s that thickheaded fool you keep defending. ‘It’s not his fault.’” Sir Marcus imitated Miss Whitby cruelly. “’It’s not his fault.’ Of course it’s his fault! If he’d only bided his time, and not attacked so soon, you’d be Lady Drake now!”

  Good Lord! He hadn’t denied it! Becky Whitby was Marcus Tyler’s daughter!

  No wonder Marcus Tyler had Lucien La Fond, the fiercest pirate in the South Seas, in his pocket: he was his daughter’s paramour!

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Becky trotted down the steep steps, rather nimbly, Payton thought, for a woman in her condition. Her father’s rage, while it clearly frightened her, was not going to sway her from her purpose. “I was never going to be Lady Drake, Papa. I’m telling you, he sussed it out. I don’t know how, but he’d figured it out, even before the Dixon bitch said anything about seeing you—”

  Sir Marcus was ignoring his daughter. “Open that door,” he bellowed at the unfortunate Tito.

  “I’m tryin’, sir,” Tito whimpered, in a surprisingly small voice for so large a man. “I’m tryin’!”

  “I was never going to be Lady Drake,” Miss Whitby insisted, striding up to her father. Payton, used to the meek, easily frightened Miss Whitby who’d once come to her bedroom and begged her to kill a spider she’d found in her chamber pot, could hardly believe the two were one and the same. This Miss Whitby seemed quite fearless. “Do you hear? Drake knew, I don’t know how, but he knew there was something … not right about me and Richard. Don’t blame Lucien. It was your fault, not his.”

  To Payton’s great astonishment, Sir Marcus wheeled around and backhanded his daughter across the face. Becky let out a cry and fell to the floor, her thick red curls tumbling over her face. Without thinking, Payton stepped forward, intending to come to the older girl’s aid. A hand on her arm stopped her. Looking back, she saw Jonesy’s quick head shake. Apparently, he’d witnessed these father–daughter scuffles before. Even a blockhead like Jonesy knew enough to know it was a bad idea to get involved.

  A second later, Becky was on her feet again. Except for the bright red spot on her cheek, one would never have known she’d just been struck with enough force to set her teeth rattling. Could this blazing-eyed beauty be the same girl whom Payton’s brothers had stumbled over themselves in an effort to rescue a few months earlier? She looked as if she needed rescuing about as much as … well, as Payton did.

  “I tell you,” Becky shouted, “it isn’t Lucien’s fault!”

  Tito had Drake’s cell door open by that time. Sir Marcus, with one last disgusted look at his daughter, turned and disappeared into the brig. Becky, after glaring at his back for a few seconds, whirled around and stormed up the steep steps to the deck, shouting “Lucien!” at the top of her lungs. As she passed over their heads, Payton noticed Jonesy had craned his neck to look up at the furious girl. Following his gaze, she saw that it was possible to see straight up the woman’s skirts through the open spaces between the steps. Jonesy was staring, open-mouthed, at the tantalizing glimpses of thigh Becky revealed with each angry footfall.

  A second later, the boy was hopping up and down, clutching his arm in pain from Payton’s pinch. “Ow!” he cried. “What‘ud ye go an’ do that fer?”

  Payton narrowed her eyes at him. “It isn’t polite to stare,” she said.

  Jonesy glared at her. “I swear, ’Ill,” he declared. “Sometimes I fink you’re nofink but a bloody girl.”

  She glared right back. “Really? Then I don’t suppose you’ll mind cleaning up this lot by yourself, and let me enjoy my leisure, like a lady.”

  She thrust her mop at him and stalked away, leaving Jonesy to mutter darkly behind her. She didn’t pay him any mind. All of her concentration was centered on what was going on inside the brig, beyond that half-open door.

  And she wasn’t the only one interested, either. Tito, who in spite of his hangover was still grateful to her for the bottle she’d given him the day before, moved some of his bulk in order to allow her nearer the crack in the door, through which he was peering with almost as much interest as she was.

  Only she rather doubted that, as he peered, Tito was uttering the same silent prayer that she was.

  Please, God, she prayed. Don’t let Drake die today. Please. I’m begging you. If you have to take someone, take me, instead.

  Then she had a better idea.

  Or better yet, take Miss Whitby!

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When Sir Marcus Tyler, ducking his head in order to avoid striking it on the low door frame, came striding into Drake’s cell, the prisoner greeted him with a laconic, “Ah, Sir Marcus, at last. How nice. I’ve been expecting you, you know.”

  If Sir Marcus was taken aback by this genial greeting, he was further astounded by the prisoner’s casual comment. “I’d offer you a chair, sir, but as you can see, there isn’t one. I have found that this floor, however, is not as uncomfortable as it looks. Feel free to join me upon it, if you like.”

  Sir Marcus had been grinning when he’d entered the cell. That grin had faded somewhat upon Drake’s nonchalant greeting. How a man chained to a wall—particularly a man like Connor Drake, who had spent so much of his life in the open air—could be so calm, Sir Marcus couldn’t fathom. It angered him; Drake’s calm, as much as his daughter and her lover’s foolishness had angered him. He brought back a foot and kicked one of the legs sprawled out before him, and none too gently, either.

  “Get up,” Sir Marcus hissed. “Stand up, Drake. You might think this nothing but a great joke, but I assure you, it is serious. Deadly serious.”

  Drake did not, at first, look inclined to stand. But then, after a moment’s consideration, he climbed to his bare feet. And it was then that Sir Marcus realized his error. He ought to have let the prisoner lounge upon the floor. Because that was the only position in which he would have the advantage. Connor Drake, even without his boots, stood taller than the older man by a good inch or two.

  Sir Marcus chose to ignore this, however, and concentrate on being pleased that his command had been obeyed.

  “Captain Drake,” he said, rolling the syllables over his tongue with obvious relish. “The great Captain Drake. Oh, I am sorry. That isn’t your proper title anymore, is it? No, not since the unfo
rtunate death of your brother. Do you prefer to be called Sir Connor?”

  “You can call me whatever you like,” Drake said with a shrug. “I’m at a slight disadvantage to stop you.” He lifted his chains pointedly.

  “Yes, unfortunate, that.” Sir Marcus made a tut-tutting noise with his tongue. “But necessary, I’m afraid. We couldn’t run the risk, you see, of the great Captain Drake choosing to abandon our hospitality before we’d had a chance to get to know him properly. You’ve acquired quite the reputation for narrow escapes, you know. Why, you even managed to slip through the marriage knot. I must say I’m all astonishment to find you a bachelor still. I thought your wedding quite a certain thing.”

  Drake nodded. “You were not alone in thinking so. But in the end, I’m afraid, there were some objections against the lady.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that.” Tyler actually sounded sorry, too. “Might I ask what it was about the young lady that so offended you?”

  “The fact that she seemed to have ties to you was part of it,” Drake replied, affably enough.

  “Ah.” Sir Marcus looked a little glum. “Do you despise me so, then, Captain, that the thought of aligning yourself with one of my kin—even one as lovely as my Rebecca—is repugnant?”

  If Drake had not known before that moment that Rebecca Whitby was Marcus Tyler’s daughter, he dissembled nicely. “Certainly, sir,” he said politely. “Considering that any offspring of yours must necessarily be devil’s spawn.”

  Sir Marcus laughed as if delighted by the insult. “If you can claim to have spotted a resemblance of any sort between Rebecca and me, then I congratulate you. You’re a shrewder man than I. I swear, it took me a while before I saw any hint of Tyler in her. You see, it was only a few years ago that a woman of somewhat … er, questionable virtue with whom I’d dallied in my youth presented me with a scrawny redheaded thing that she insisted—rather stridently—was my daughter. I wouldn’t have even considered the fact that this girl—whom the woman rather vulgarly called Becky—might have sprung from my loins if it weren’t for the fact that, well, as you so baldly put it, Drake, our minds seemed to be of quite a similar turn. Frighteningly so, at times. You see, it was Rebecca who put together the fact that her mother had once dallied with the Marcus Tyler of Tyler and Tyler Shipping. It was Rebecca who thought that I might be applied to for a bit of conscience money. I paid, rather skeptically at first. After all, I’m a businessman. I don’t need any negative publicity, especially with that bastion of all that is upstanding, Sir Henry Dixon, as my primary competitor. But eventually, Rebecca and I became friendly, and I began to see the advantages in having a beautiful young woman about to help with my more … delicate plots. She had no objections, of course. Rebecca, like most women, is extremely fond of money. There’s little she won’t do for it.”

  “And you wonder,” Drake said slowly, “at my objections against marrying the lady?”

  “Oh, yes, I see.” Sir Marcus, laughing, shook his head. “Yes. A blackmailer, and even worse, one related to me. Weighty offenses, indeed. Ah, Drake. I shall almost be sorry when you are gone. I do so enjoy your company. You are one of the few men in my acquaintance who will tell me exactly what he thinks of me. Most other men are much too frightened, you know. I wield a certain power, particularly around these parts.”

  “It’s not you they’re afraid of,” Drake growled. “It’s La Fond.”

  Tyler looked perplexed. “La Fond? Oh, well, yes, I suppose I could see it. He can be a fearful fellow—if you don’t know him too well, that is. I, unfortunately, have a more than passing acquaintance with him, so I am not quite so impressed.” He sighed. “I ought to have known, of course, that a man as resourceful and shrewd as the intrepid Captain Drake would see through my humble little scheme. Not one of my better ones, perhaps.” Then he added, as if as an afterthought, “But your brother fell for it so readily, you know. You could see how, after that, I might be led to hope—”

  “Hope?”

  “Well, certainly. That the new baronet would be just as … oh, how should I put it? Besotted by the lady?”

  “I’ve rather begun to suspect,” Drake replied stiffly, “that my brother’s attraction to your daughter was what ended up getting him killed.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, of course, that’s correct. It grieves me to say it, but it is the truth. Your brother’s death was ultimately necessary, you see, in my effort to secure your interests in my competitors’ business.”

  Drake nodded. “Of course,” he said tonelessly. “You needed me to marry Rebecca so that, upon my death, she would inherit my share in Dixon and Sons Shipping.”

  But Sir Marcus only laughed. “Not at all. Good Lord, Drake, I may be many things, but clairvoyant is not one of them. I hadn’t any way of knowing that my old friend Henry—that soft-hearted fool—would be idiot enough to offer you a share in the family business, let alone a share equal to that of his own sons.”

  Drake, considering, said thoughtfully, “That’s right. They only made that offer the night before the wedding. So what did you hope to gain from my marrying Becky? Not Daring Park, surely. You must have been after more than that, or you wouldn’t have killed Richard before the two of them had had a chance to wed.”

  “I never had much interest in Daring Park,” Sir Marcus replied. “Though I’ll admit, Becky grew quite fond of it. I understand you put it up for sale just before you set sail. Unfortunate, that. She had such plans for settling there, with the child.”

  “Ah, yes,” Drake said. “Whom she’d doubtlessly raise to be the next baronet. I could see how a woman of her pecuniary nature would find such a plan appealing. But that wasn’t your plan. You wanted something else. What was it? The map?”

  Sir Marcus grinned. “I must say, I’ve always admired you your acuity, Drake. It’s a shame, really, that you aren’t my son-in-law. I might almost be proud to call someone with your perspicacity son, instead of that great foppish Frenchman with whom my daughter had the ill judgment to align herself. Yes, my lord, it was all about that map of yours. Who’d have thought a map you made as a lark would cause so much grief and sorrow? But there it is. As your widow, Rebecca would, of course, inherit all the rights to it, as well as whatever copies you’ve had made. She would be free to do with them whatever she chose. And she would, naturally, choose to give them to her papa for safekeeping.”

  “Of course,” Drake said. “The existence of that map must be making a number of your employees uneasy. If a copy of it fell into the wrong hands—the hands of the authorities, say—there’d be no more safe harbors, no place to hide, for those felons and thieves you keep on your payroll …”

  “Ah.” Sir Marcus smiled. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Drake. You don’t hedge. You head straight to the heart of a matter, without flinching—”

  “It still doesn’t explain,” Drake interrupted, in a hard voice, “why you felt it necessary to murder my brother. Wouldn’t it have been easier for you simply to send her to my bed, rather than his?”

  “Of course. I suppose Becky could have lured you into some Cuban brothel or another, and claimed to have gotten with child by you then. But were you going to marry a girl you’d bedded in a Cuban brothel? Not likely. You’d have thrown some money at her, and gone about your way. But a good girl … a chaste girl … now that kind of girl you’d have felt honor-bound to wed. But when were you ever in port long enough to meet a girl like that? Never. You were always at sea. We hadn’t any choice, you see, but to use your brother in your stead, knowing that a man like Connor Drake would feel honor-bound to do right by his brother’s intended.”

  You were always at sea. Drake had gone to sea to escape his family. He had hoped to lose them—and his painful memories of them—in the great blue deep. But it now appeared that because of his decision, at least one member of that family was dead. Because he’d always been at sea.

  “Who did it?” Drake asked, his voice deadly calm.<
br />
  “Who did what, pray, young man?”

  “Who killed Richard? Not you, I would imagine.”

  “Lord, no. I don’t like killing. Far too messy. No, La Fond did that. Enjoyed it, too, I’m sorry to say. Well, he would, of course. He wasn’t at all pleased with the fact that poor Becky had to—well, you know—with your brother, in order for our little scheme to work.”

  “When I get out of here,” Drake said woodenly, “I’m going to kill him.”

  Sir Marcus threw back his head and laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and it filled the small cell, where laughter had previously been a stranger. “Are you, now?” he asked, when he’d regained his composure. “Pardon me, Sir Connor, but I think not. In fact, I feel obligated to warn you that the complete opposite is going to happen. I am going to kill you.”

  Drake laughed at that. “You won’t. You’re too much of a coward.”

  “Well, not me personally, of course, but believe me, you will die. The only reason you’ve been kept alive this long is that La Fond is a complete fool. His cronies weren’t supposed to attack the Constant until after you and Rebecca had signed the appropriate documents, making her your legal wife. Since the ceremony was, I understand, interrupted before that could happen, La Fond panicked, and stowed you down here. I don’t know why he simply didn’t kill you straightaway. He doesn’t like you, you know. I don’t know which offended him more: your cutting off his mustache, or your heading off for a honeymoon with his woman. I suppose he kept you alive because he thought that there was some chance that when I arrived, I might be able to force you to go along with our plan, and marry Rebecca, after all. He wants that map, you know, almost as much as I do.”

  Drake shrugged. “We all want things we can’t have.”

  “Ah, but you see, in this one matter, my daughter’s feebleminded beau was correct. You see, I’m glad he didn’t kill you. I’m convinced you and I can still work something out. You aren’t an intractable man, I know. That’s what makes you so admired as a leader. You’ve a reputation for being quite willing to compromise, and to acknowledge when you’ve been wrong. While I admit it will look a bit odd if the ceremony is performed at sea—and by a skipper in Tyler employ—it will still be legal. The Dixons will no doubt question it, but, after all, you did leave England saying you’d wed the girl when you reached the Bahamas, and since we’re here—”