No, this was a different sort of grief, a different sort of emptiness altogether. He had never considered that the celebration over an evil man’s demise might be tempered by mourning for an innocent boy. He had not expected to feel guilt—for leaving, for returning, for everything in between. He had neglected to consider that success might leave a gaping void in his soul, one made worse by the fact that the storm had denied him the chance to deal the final blow to his enemy. Something new would have to be found to dwell in the space once occupied by the quest for vengeance.
Had he sought out Tempest’s arms, her soft lips, her welcoming body, hoping she might somehow fill that emptiness? Not consciously—but he could not deny that for a moment, at least, she had. For a moment, he had allowed himself to imagine her filling it far longer than one night. But in the clearer light of day he had recognized the danger. They were not for one another, and the hole a man like him would rip in her life would prove the more devastating wound.
So. Someone else, then. Something else. If the sea no longer lured him as it once had, no doubt the landlocked future that had loomed before him at seventeen was still out there, waiting to be taken up. But as he scanned the shoreline pressing in from either side, he wondered: Could such a life ever hold sufficient appeal for him?
A hollow homecoming, to be sure.
He glanced around at the faces of his crew: the distant longing in Bewick’s eyes, as he stood with Geoffrey Beals’s hand on his shoulder. Fleming, red-faced in the wind and beaming from ear to ear. Ford’s jaw set, his fists clenched, his expression determined. He couldn’t imagine what sort of reception awaited any of them, but they were nonetheless eager to land.
Only Tempest seemed to share his reservation. She sat with her back to the panorama unfolding behind her, trying to coax the dog into her lap—for the added warmth, if he had to guess.
Before he could put a name to her expression, he felt a tug on his coat sleeve. He looked down into Caesar’s newly plump face. “Beg pardon, Cap’n”—the boy spoke through chattering teeth—“but I did wonder—”
“What was going to become of you?” Andrew finished for him. Caesar nodded, a little uncertainly, and Andrew smiled to reassure him. “You must decide whether you prefer life on land or life at sea, young man, and choose accordingly.”
“I wish to stay wit’ you, sir. An’ the Colleen.”
“The Colleen will be in port for quite some time.”
“You’ll captain ’nother ship, then?”
“I, well—” God, what a question. “The truth is, Caesar, I don’t know. But I’ll need a personal servant, wherever I go. Would that suit you?”
“Yes, sir!”
Andrew suspected Caesar had little idea of what such a job would entail. Neither did Andrew, precisely, but under that guise he could pay the boy well and see that he learned some skills he could use to make his own way at a later date. Most important, he could keep him from being stolen back into a world of slavery. “You may begin by going to my cabin and seeing that all my things are packed and ready to be taken off the ship.” Caesar set off eagerly, but Andrew called him back. “Include anything of Miss Holderin’s that you find as well.”
After that, all was a flurry of activity that afforded him no time for watching faces or studying the scenery. Only when the ship was at last docked, and most of the crew dismissed, did he have leisure to look around him again.
Remarkably, Tempest had not moved from the spot where he had left her. At some point, Caesar had come to sit beside her and slept there now, leaning heavily against her shoulder. Caliban was still curled in her lap.
“Come,” he said, striding toward her. The word roused the dog, and Andrew bent to lift the drowsy boy into his arms, allowing Tempest to rise.
“Where are you taking him?”
Andrew hesitated. The most likely destination was also the one he was most reluctant to visit. “The same place I am taking you,” he said.
At least it would be only temporary. As soon as arrangements could be made, he would complete the journey he had begun six weeks ago and take her to Sir Barton Harper as he had agreed to do.
If he allowed himself to recall what Tempest had said of her grandfather, doubt about the plan began to creep in, but he was going to have to overcome his reservations. For a short time longer, at least, such a trip would keep her under his watchful eye. And if nothing else, there was Cary’s promise of a great deal more money when the job was done.
“In that, sir, you are mistaken.” Tempest crossed her arms over her chest. “I see no need for me to travel any farther than the next ship. Surely I can find one nearby that’s bound for the West Indies.”
He ought to have expected such an answer. Still, he felt his heart rate tick upward in a mixture of anger and alarm. He knew better than to think she wouldn’t do it. “Look about, Tempest.” The river was filled with ships of every size, their masts rising from the sluggish water like so many needles in a pincushion. “Which of them ought you to choose?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Come now. Which are honest merchants’ ships? Which have more nefarious voyages in mind? Which of them have men aboard ordered to shoot anyone who comes near?”
“I think I have sense enough not to go sneaking aboard some dangerous ship,” she snapped. Andrew raised one brow and she darted her eyes away. “Surely there is a place where one may bespeak a passage on a suitable vessel?” she said, more quietly.
“Shipping offices galore,” he replied, waving his hand in the direction of a row of buildings along the riverbank. “To say nothing of the pubs and other dens of iniquity where sailors congregate. And I daresay you’ll find more than one captain who’s willing to take on a likely looking lad such as yourself.”
Tempest glanced down at her clothing as if surprised to find herself dressed as a boy.
“Really, the only question is whether he’ll be glad or disappointed to find there’s a lass underneath those clothes.”
“What could he do to me that you’ve not already done?” she retorted with a sniff and a toss of her head.
“A great deal, my dear,” he said, his voice low and rougher than he had intended. “And you ought not to expect a proposal of marriage afterward.”
Those words succeeded at last in cowing her. Good, he thought savagely as he turned to leave and felt her following in his shadow.
Onshore, the mighty heart of the city seemed to throb with the shouts of men and the rattle of carriages. Farther off, one determined ray of afternoon sun pierced the fog and set the golden dome of St Paul’s afire.
Andrew signaled for a hack. “Where to, guv?” the cabby called down. When he heard the direction, the driver’s eyes widened a bit, but he readily nodded his agreement; it would mean a substantial fare.
Once Andrew had handed Tempest in, the dog scrambled up after her. Andrew laid a sleepy Caesar on the bench opposite Tempest. Reluctantly, she shooed Caliban onto the floor of the carriage and slid over to make room for Andrew to sit beside her. As the hack jostled its way through the streets, the occasional brush of his leg against hers was impossible to avoid. At first she stiffened and drew back at every touch, but after a while, she seemed to decide that ignoring him was a more suitable punishment. He tried not to relish the feel of the curve of her thigh where it rested alongside his.
If she were still curious about their destination, she asked nothing more. Instead, she sat with her head leaning drowsily against the window, still huddled under the ratty old blanket. But even in the coach’s dim interior, he could see that her eyes were open, taking in everything they passed. He wondered what about the unfamiliar scene most caught her attention—the press of carriages, the soot-stained architecture?
“I have never in my life seen so many white faces together in one place,” she whispered to him at last, then her brow wrinkled in fascination as she watched the words puff from her body in little clouds of steam.
Without waiting for a reply
, she returned to the glass.
When the carriage rolled to a stop, he roused the boy before descending himself. As he handed Tempest to the curb, her eyes scanned the house in front of them. “What is this place?” she asked as her gaze rose up the terraced brownstone façade.
“The home of the Honorable Mr. Daniel Beauchamp, younger son of Viscount Renfrew,” he said, for those were the credentials that mattered most in this part of town.
“Daniel Beauchamp,” she echoed, as if she could not have heard correctly. “The shipping magnate?”
“Aye,” said Andrew, leading her up the steps. “That, too.”
When the door swung open, he could see that very little had changed since he had seen the house last. The entryway still gleamed with cold marble, and Williams, the butler, still ruled over it with stiff disapproval.
“Is the family at home?” Andrew asked, almost grateful not to be recognized.
Williams frowned and began to deny them, when they all heard lighter footsteps hurrying down the stairs. Before the butler could speak or Andrew could react, a woman had enveloped him, pulling him into the light of the hall. “Andrew! Is it really you? At last!”
It was as if some otherworldly sense had alerted her to his arrival. Or perhaps she had been keeping watch all this time. As she sobbed in his arms, he looked down at her and saw that her once-chestnut hair was now liberally streaked with gray. After a moment, she composed herself enough to take his hands in hers and draw him over to the stairway. Stepping onto the second stair, so that they stood almost on a level, she studied him thoroughly with hazel eyes that still sparkled with unshed tears.
“Thank God,” she whispered, then freed one hand and dealt him a cracking slap across the face.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tempest’s hand fly up to cover her mouth. He half-suspected her of hiding a grin. Even his own lips lifted at one corner, although his cheek stung mightily.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he acknowledged, stepping back and gesturing toward Tempest. “Now, may I introduce Miss Holderin? Mrs. Emily Beauchamp. My mother.”
Neither woman seemed to know what to do with the introduction. While his mother took in Tempest’s appearance, Tempest stared at Andrew and stammered, “Y-your m—?” then stumbled through a curtsy that might better have been a bow, given her clothes. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Beauchamp,” she said once she had composed herself.
“Goodness, child,” his mother effused in a voice that had never been expected to temper its Irishness, “thank you. And it’s very welcome you are to it. But ’tisn’t really mine,” she insisted with a little shake of her head as she glanced back at him. “It’s Andrew’s.”
It would have been difficult to say whose shock was greater, for Tempest’s jaw actually dropped open, while Andrew could feel his own expression turn to stone. “Mine?”
“Why, yes, dear. I would have written to tell you, if I’d known where to send a letter,” she scolded gently as she smoothed a hand down her dove-gray skirts. “Daniel has been gone for almost two years now. In his will, he left everything to you.”
Chapter 12
When she felt Emily Beauchamp take her arm in her own and begin to lead her up the stately, curving staircase of polished mahogany, Tempest knew she must have missed the rest of the conversation between Andrew and his mother. But she was still trying to make sense of the portion she had heard.
Andrew Corrvan, the man she had lately been thinking of as a money-hungry pirate, was, in fact, heir to a fortune that must nearly match her own.
Not, of course, that the two identities were mutually exclusive. She rather imagined, given what she knew of Beauchamp Shipping Company, that Andrew’s stepfather had had a bit of piracy in him as well. She had heard both her father and Edward mention the name of Beauchamp with a certain amount of awe, if not precisely approval. The company’s private fleet rivaled His Majesty’s, and there were few harbors in the world into which those ships had not sailed.
In the apartments to which Mrs. Beauchamp conducted her, lavish gold and green bed hangings replaced the mosquito netting to which Tempest was more accustomed, and heavy velvet curtains framed unshuttered windows, admitting a pale, wintry light.
“I’ll ring for a hot bath, my dear,” Mrs. Beauchamp said. “And then you’ll join Andrew and me for dinner.”
“No,” Tempest demurred. “I cannot stay.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Beauchamp said as she strode to the bellpull. “Wherever would you go?”
“I must find a way to return to Antigua. As soon as possible.”
“You’ll not go back to the docks tonight, to be sure.”
For the first time in her life, Tempest did not bristle at the tone of command. Perhaps because it was softened by a woman’s touch. Or perhaps because the way back to the shipyard was far from clear to her. They had traveled a great distance across the city, a journey that had lasted almost as long as a trip across the entire island of Antigua.
Mostly, though, she could not quite shake the sense of alarm that had come over her at Andrew’s last warning aboard the ship, try as she might. It could not have been more clear that she was no longer in English Harbour—and that had been a dangerous enough place for a woman alone. She had grown accustomed to thinking of Lord Nathaniel as the greatest threat she faced; he might be gone now, but she ought not to forget she was still, regrettably, vulnerable.
She was used to dismissing fear as an irrational, emotional response. Sometimes, however, there might be reason in it, too. It would be foolish to risk her life unnecessarily. What good could she do in Antigua if she were dead?
But was the alternative to stay here until she could arrange her passage home? After all that had happened between them, Andrew was the very last person she ought to be trusting to keep her safe.
“And you certainly can’t travel dressed as you are,” Mrs. Beauchamp added, her hazel eyes darting over what had once been poor Timmy’s best clothes. “I suppose such garments were practical at sea. But you’ll wish to wait for your own things to arrive from the ship, I’ll be bound.”
“I haven’t—that is, there isn’t much . . .” Tempest’s words trailed off, interrupted by the arrival of a parade of footmen carrying steaming ewers of water to fill a hip bath that had been placed near the fire, which a maid was assiduously lighting. Without meaning to, Tempest wandered toward the copper tub and trailed the fingertips of one hand in the water, shivering at the welcome heat.
Once the footmen were gone, Mrs. Beauchamp stepped forward and pried the old blanket from her grasp. Tempest watched, slightly horrified, as a cloud of dog hair surrounded them, some of it clinging to Mrs. Beauchamp’s simple but elegant dress, while the rest drifted down to the carpet. “I’m certain I can find something better for you to wear while you wait.” In another moment, she had deposited the blanket and Timmy’s clothes in the arms of the rather alarmed-looking maid. “Go on, dear,” she prompted Tempest, nodding toward the tub.
Tempest sank into the bath, feeling rather as if she had drunk another mug of Greaves’s special tea and her actions were not quite her own. Whatever it was, she did not feel equal to arguing against being warm and clean once again.
“Antigua,” Mrs. Beauchamp said when she was settled in the water. “That’s quite a journey for a young woman, all alone.”
“I never meant to come to London, Mrs. Beauchamp. There was a—a misunderstanding between me and . . . your son.”
“A misunderstanding.” Mrs. Beauchamp looked thoughtful. “I see.”
“Not that I—that he—I would not wish to give the impression that we—” The sudden flush on her cheeks had nothing to do with the temperature of the bath. Unable to push the lie past her teeth, Tempest wished the water were deep enough for her to slide entirely beneath its surface instead.
With a shake of her head, Mrs. Beauchamp held up a staying hand. “Not another word, child. You cannot say anything about Andrew worse than has al
ready been said—occasionally by me. He’s always been a bit of a scoundrel.” But on her lips, and with that twinkle in her eyes, the word was not entirely a criticism.
Strangely, Tempest felt she understood Mrs. Beauchamp’s equivocation. The woman had been waiting for her son for years. Her husband had evidently expected he would return to take up the reins of the family business. In abandoning his responsibility to them, Andrew had behaved unconscionably, but was not that behavior at least somewhat tempered by the commitment he had shown to his father’s memory? In the end, she could not fault his mother for greeting her long-absent son with both an embrace and a resounding slap across the face.
If only Tempest had given in to the desire to slap him, instead of embracing him, she might still be free.
She longed to press for more details about Andrew’s past, but before she could frame an innocent-sounding question, Mrs. Beauchamp had bustled toward the door. “I’ll send Hannah back to help you dress and show you down to supper,” she called over her shoulder, leaving Tempest no wiser than she had been before.
* * *
In a house as flush with servants as this one, what could possibly be the delay in bringing up his trunk or fetching hot water for a wash and a shave? Restless, Andrew paced across the room that had been his when he was a young man. Very little had changed about the spacious, ostentatious chamber; its dark, heavy furnishings and draperies seemed to suck the fading light from the room, making him wish he had called for a lamp as well.
At a knock, he went to the door and found himself facing the petite but undeniably formidable figure of his mother, who stood at the threshold, arms crossed and brows knit together in a frown.
“Andrew!”
Although he towered over her, the force of her glare set him back on his heels and made his cheek tingle afresh. “Come in, Mama,” he said, bowing his head slightly to shield himself from a repetition of the greeting he had received earlier. Caliban, who had accompanied her up the stairs, edged past her and set about inspecting the room. “I suppose I can guess why you’re here.”
To Tempt an Heiress Page 14
