His words were drowned out by a loud clatter as a uniformed captain and several of the crew raced down the yacht's gangplank and surrounded the duke.
"Your Grace!" The man's voice was awash in relief as he sketched a low bow. "Thank Heavens! We thought... we feared..." He ceased fumbling with the brass buttons on his navy coat long enough to take a deep breath. "Good Heavens, sir, let us escort you to your stateroom, where we can see to laying out hot water, a razor, fresh linen, a proper meal..."
Prestwick, feeling as if there were still a storm-tossed deck beneath his feet, let himself be carried along on the tide of his captain's concerns.
* * *
"Come along, boys," said Zara, glad to note that her voice sounded a good bit steadier than she actually felt. "We have more important things to do than stand gawking at a gentleman's fancy toy."
"That's it? He's gone?" asked Perry, staring rather forlornly at the deserted deck of the yacht.
"What did you expect?" she replied, then instantly regretted her acid tone on seeing the crumpling of his expression.
"I—I don't know." The words were barely a whisper. "He seemed... different, that's all."
"Well, he's not." She took the bag from his unresisting grip and slung it firmly over her shoulder. Turning quickly, so that neither of them could see the disappointment etched on her own face, she surveyed the narrow street.
The sight did nothing to buoy her spirits.
There was no sign of a coaching inn—not that they had the blunt to pay for even an outside passage. But usually such an establishment was busy enough that there was some sort of menial work to be had. A few coins would at least get them started. And after that? Her hand fingers tightened on the drawstrings and she took a step forward, refusing to think that far ahead.
"Lassie."
Zara looked around.
"Are you going south, then?" asked McTavish.
She nodded.
"Best head to Mulltyre for a coach. It's three miles that way. " A wave indicated the direction to the right.
She nodded again.
"Happens I be going there. If you like, you and the laddies can ride atop the barrels of my Bruichladdich."
A wry smile tugged at her mouth. "I haven't got the fare."
He scratched at his beard, then allowed a tiny twitch of his lips. "Auch, I know. But you are a hard worker, lassie. I reckon I got the best part of the bargain yesterday, so we'll just call it even, shall we."
"Thank you."
"It will be near an hour before I'll be leaving." Another waggle of his palm was directed at a small tavern at the end of the street. "Tell auld Campbell I sent you and he'll see that his missus gives you and the laddies some tea and a bite o' scones." He cocked his head. "You gonna be alright on your own, lassie? Tis a long way to the border and beyond."
Her chin came up a notch. "It is kind of you to be concerned, but we are quite able to look after ourselves."
After all, she added to herself, it wasn't as if there was anyone else to turn to.
* * *
The crisp linen felt wonderfully smooth against the line of his freshly shaved jaw. Prestwick drew in a deep breath, savoring the subtle scent of his own special blend of bay rum cologne that had replaced the stale reek of seaweed and sheep.
It came out in a slow whoosh, sounding suspiciously like a sigh.
"I wonder how them Greeleys mean to go on," murmured Stump, as he rummaged around in the dressing table for the duke's pocketwatch. Finding the oval of crested gold, he slammed the teak drawer shut with a tad more force than was necessary. "I mean, seeing as they ain't got a feather to fly with on account of their boat being wrecked on the rocks."
"You are about as subtle as a sledgehammer," growled the duke. He made a final adjustment to the folds of his starched cravat, then reached for the freshly brushed bottle-green coat that was laid out on his berth. "Did you really think I was going to leave them high and dry?"
His valet hid a sigh of relief with an aggrieved snort. "Didn't rightly know. After all, you have been in a mighty odd frame of mind lately."
Odd did not begin to describe his frame of mind!
"Perhaps," he retorted, "it has something to do with the mighty odd physical tortures my body has been subjected to lately."
"Now don't go exaggerating—"
"Hmmph! You call being nearly drowned, nearly starved, nearly crippled and nearly worked to the bone exaggerating?"
Stump scratched at his chin to hide a grin. "Aw, it wasn't quite that bad."
"No, it was worse." Prestwick checked his pocket to make sure the leather purse was safely stowed. "Now, if you will straighten up in here, I mean to go make some inquiries about whether it might be possible to hire a room and a proper bath tub for an hour while Sullerton gets Nereid ready to sail."
"A proper bath? That all you can think of after our adventure?" murmured Stump, his greying brows drawing together in a slight frown. "Hmmph. I guess you really didn't like getting your hands dirty after all."
"I told you as much," replied Prestwick curtly, brushing a mote of dust from his shiny new boots. Turning on his heel, he left his valet staring quizzically at the unwrinkled back of his superfine coat.
Once he had descended to the cobbled harborfront, he looked around for any sign of his erstwhile companions. The street, however, was deserted, save for McTavish and another man who were wrestling the barrels of whisky up from the boat and into a dray cart.
The Scot looked up at the duke's approach, his expression remaining unchanged at the sight of the elegant set of new clothes and highly polished Hessians.
"Did you perchance see in what direction Miss Greeley and her brothers went?"
The long pause that followed as the man chewed on his pipe was enough to make Prestwick want to dig it out of the bushy beard and fling it into the sea. Finally, with a last chomp and a spit, McTavish cleared his throat. "And what business is it of yours, laddie?"
The duke clenched the purse in his pocket. "My business with the Greeleys is none of your concern, you flinty old pirate," he snapped, his frayed temper causing his voice to rise to a near shout. "Unlike you, who have exacted your pound of flesh, I merely want to give them a... parting gift."
"Money? You're going to offer the lassie your money?"
"Don't think you will be seeing any of it," muttered Prestwick.
"Auch, I dunna want your money, laddie." He scratched at his cap. "Dunna think the lassie does either."
"Thank you for the advice," he replied with scathing politeness. "No doubt it is the only thing you offer for free."
The Scot actually chuckled. "Suit yourself." The pipe stem came out of his mouth long enough to point to low, half-timbered building at the far end of the harbor. "They are having a bite at Campbell's."
Prestwick managed a curt nod of thanks before stalking off. The impertinence of the old goat to imply the young lady would not welcome a purse full of gold, he fumed as he hurried toward the inn. After all, she had been quite vocal on the fact that the loss of their boat had left the family destitute. After a few hurried steps, however, his pace ground to a halt.
Hell's Bells. On second thought, perhaps the man's gruff comment had a groat or two of truth to it. Miss Greeley, for all her appearance of having thrown the rules of Society to the wind, was still a gently bred young lady, and what he intended was well outside the strictures of propriety.
His mouth gave a rueful quirk. A good deal of what had gone on between them would be viewed as highly improper, from the quarrels to the curses to spending the night together in a shocking state of undress. What he meant to do, while not exactly proper, was merely a gesture of... friendship. Being pragmatic as well as proper, Miss Greeley could surely have no objection to that.
Thus reassured, Prestwick continued on.
As he approached the tavern, he saw that Nonny had taken a seat on the low stone wall facing the sea and was busy scribbling in a small notebook. The lad looked up from th
e frayed covers at the sound of footsteps and his eyes widened.
"S—sir," he stammered, the pencil going slack in his fingers. Unlike McTavish, he was clearly impressed by the change in the duke's appearance. "You weren't bamming us—you really are a duke?"
"Well, yes. I—" Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the sketch on the creased page and leaned a bit closer. "Why, that is Nereid."
"Yes, sir," said Nonny shyly. "The set of her rigging is patterned after the new vessels being built in Baltimore. It is the very latest development in nautical design, and I wished to make a copy of it." He swallowed a sigh. "I imagine she handles like a dream. And in the right conditions, she must fly like the wind."
"I'm afraid I'm not much of an expert on such things, however I am sure Captain Sullerton could explain the fine points, if you would care to come aboard and have a closer look."
"Oh! I would like that very much, sir." His face then fell. "However, we must leave very shortly, as Mr. McTavish has offered us a ride to Mulltyre, where there is a chance to find passage heading south... " His voice trailed off.
Seeing his opportunity to broach the subject, Prestwick cleared his throat. "But you have no funds."
The lad essayed a game smile. "We always manage. Zara says there is nothing shameful in earning one's way through an honest day's work, no matter if it means getting our hands dirty."
"Indeed there is not," he replied quietly. "However, I should like to ensure that for the rest of your journey, wherever it is you are going, you are not forced into any more hard labor."
Nonny's brow furrowed. "I don't think Zara would allow such a favor, sir. She says a lady does not accept money from a gentleman who is not related to her."
The duke felt a twinge of guilt, knowing the truth of it. "But—"
There was a creak of the iron hinges and Prestwick turned to find Zara staring at the purse in his outstretched hand.
"Nonny, take Perry and see if Mr. McTavish needs a hand with the last of the barrels."
Her brother looked as if he wished to argue, but on seeing her expression, he tucked away his notebook without a word, and picked up his bag.
As soon as the two lads had moved out of earshot, she turned back to the duke, clenched fists set firmly on her hips.
Had her glare been any steelier, he decided, it would have sliced out his liver.
"What," she asked with great deliberateness, "was that all about?"
"I wished to offer you and your family a token of my gratitude—"
Before he could go on any further, she cut him off with a sharp intake of breath. "I didn't fish you out of the sea for money!"
"I meant no insult, Miss Greeley." Somehow finding himself once again on the defensive with the young lady caused his voice to take on an unintentional haughtiness. "I simply wanted to make amends for any offense I may have given you."
A fiery hue tinged her cheeks as her voice turned equally hot. "Why, you conceited coxcomb!" she cried out. "There may be a good many things you and gentlemen of your ilk can buy with your purses. But my good will, and that of my family, is not one of them."
Exasperated, he found himself yelling back. "Hell and damnation! I was simply trying to be... nice."
"Well, don't!" Her features had become as stony as the surrounding crags of wind-carved granite. "Unlike your finely tailored coats and richly embroidered waistcoats, it does not suit you."
She made to brush past him, but for a moment he stood his ground. "Be assured that it matters not a farthing to me whether you like me or not." He shifted the gold coins from one hand to another. "You have shown you possess a modicum of common sense to go along with your hellacious temper, Miss Greeley. So do not let foolish pride sink an opportunity to see your brothers back to England in some comfort and safety."
The purse made a dull chink as it dropped onto the stone wall.
"Good bye, Miss Greeley." Prestwick turned toward his yacht. "With any luck, we will not be tossed together again. After all, lightning rarely strikes in the same place twice."
Chapter 6
"Prestwick! It is about time you showed up. I vow, I thought you would never arrive!"
"There were moments, Aunt Hermione, when I felt the same way," murmured the duke as he bent to kiss his great aunt's cheek.
The dry irony of his words sailed right over her head. "You can afford to dawdle, luxuriating in the pleasures of London without a thought to the troubles others may be facing," she groused. "Hmmph! With all your well-tended estates and well-filled coffers, you need never worry, while some of us must face the prospect of being turned out of hearth and home." She gave a shake of her bejeweled lorgnette. "Really, I would have expected you to show a bit more concern about the fate of your family!"
An angry winking of emeralds and rubies nearly blinded him, clear evidence that the dowager Viscountess Farrington was hardly in danger of having to till the fields for her supper.
He gave an inward sigh, tempted to point out to her that as the manor house in which she now sat had never been hers in the first place, she could hardly complain of being in danger of losing hearth and home. However, after a moment's consideration, he discarded the notion as a waste of breath. Reason was a foreign concept to his late mother's aunt by marriage—as was the idea that her ducal relative was not personally responsible for any inconvenience that popped up in her life. Between the brisk efficiency of his man of affairs and the occasional draft from his bankers, he usually managed to deflect her more outrageous demands with a minimum of disruption to his own life.
Unfortunately, in this particular case, the involvement had been unavoidable.
This time, the sigh was an audible one. Much as the duke had been fond of his feckless Uncle Aubrey, he rued the day he had agreed to become involved in his convoluted personal affairs. Indeed, he did not even recall having done so! No doubt he had been preoccupied with his music, and had simply signed whatever paper had been waved under his nose.
That should teach him to pay more attention to practical matters, he thought wryly. Beginning with wills and travel plans.
"Prestwick!" Another loud greeting, this one a good deal more jovial than the first, interrupted the duke's reverie. "Knew you would turn up to put an end to this unpleasantness!"
As he had done on more than several occasions in Town when his cousin, the honorable Harold Greeley had gotten himself into some tawdry scrape.
The young man fancied himself quite a dashing young blade, with a flair for style and wit. He was sadly mistaken on both counts, thought Prestwick with a twinge of annoyance. Indeed, the duke went out of his way to see that their paths rarely crossed in Town.
"You see, Grandmama, I told you there was nothing to worry about," continued the baronet, giving another hearty pump of Prestwick's hand. "I say, Twick, is that a new variation of the Mathematical that you have devised?" He leaned in closer to inspect the snowy twist of linen. "Do promise me you'll teach me the knack of it, eh? My friends will be green with envy if I show up sporting the latest style devised by the Distinguished Duke."
Finding his cousin's compliments as oily as the Macassar dressing that anointed his carefully combed curls, the duke recoiled slightly and disengaged his fingers from the young man's grasp. "Harold," he murmured in curt greeting. "I am here, but I really have no idea what I am expected to do regarding the problem. I could make little sense of the letter from Uncle Aubrey's lawyer, other than to understand there is some question as to the inheritance."
"Fool!"
Prestwick wondered whether the epithet was meant as much for him as his uncle's longtime advisor.
"There should be no question at all," went on Lady Farrington. "Harold is quite clearly the next in line, while this other... person is nothing but an adventurer, come out of nowhere to present a patently false set of marriage lines in hopes of stealing away what is rightfully ours."
"Well, then, it sounds very forthright," replied the duke. "Things should be resolved
in trice."
As he turned to pour himself a glass of sherry, he noted that Lady Farrington shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Hmmph! You know the dratted legal profession. Those odious men are always wont to make things a good deal more complicated than they should be. You must do something, Prestwick."
His brow shot up. "And what is it I am supposed to do, Aunt Hermione, that a phalanx of trained legal experts cannot be counted on to accomplish?"
She gave an impatient wave of her hand. "Use your influence."
By that, he assumed she meant money.
"After all, a duke wields a great deal of power."
"Not the power to change the laws of the land," he said quietly. "If there is a legitimate challenge, it will have to be settled in the courts."
"But that is just it! The scoundrel is not legitimate! He is naught else but the by-blow of Henry's younger son."
"That should be easy enough to prove," replied the duke. He took a sip of the sherry, savoring both the nuttiness of the amber spirits and his great aunt's growing discomfiture. Although the names and nuances of her branch of the family tree were unfamiliar to him, he knew enough of her meddling ways to sense there was something havey-cavey at the root of this discussion. "Shouldn't it?"
Her cheeks turned a mottled red, but at a warning cough from her grandson, she fell silent with a moue of displeasure.
"Actually, Prestwick, what Grandmama means is, we were hoping you might help settle this private family matter quietly, without going through a long ordeal in the courts." He smiled. "I'm sure neither of us wants to get his hands dirty with the sordid details."
"Yes," snapped Lady Farrington. "We were counting on you to make them go away."
"Go away?" murmured the duke, feeling a trifle confused.
She held up the piece of paper that had been resting in her lap and shook it in the air. "That is what I have been trying to tell you, Prestwick! They are coming here!"
A Stroke of Luck Page 7
