The Captain's Lady (Regency House Party: Havencrest Book 4)

by Sara Cardon

  Lucy began walking and Captain Sharpe matched his stride to hers. “By the bye,” she said, “I have made arrangements for her travels to Portsmouth. I can deliver the news, unless you would like to?”

  “I am stopping by this afternoon with a few provisions. I can share the news so she can prepare.”

  Without effort, they settled into an easy rhythm. “Very well. This time when you visit her, try not to look so severe.”

  He blinked. “I suppose I was rather grave.”

  “You have every reason to be. It is a sad business. But remember to at least smile this time. Otherwise I fear you will come across as intimidating.”

  His eyebrows lifted and a predatory gleam lit his eyes.

  “Not a smile like that.” She couldn’t help teasing him. “You are still as intimidating as Wellington’s army.”

  “I am a navy man.” He scoffed.

  She tilted her head. “Then, as daunting as cannons aimed broadside?”

  His answering smile was full of mirth. It was irresistible.

  “Much better.” She nodded, trying to hide how he affected her. In truth, he was much too alluring.

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Garvey dined at home that evening. Lucy enjoyed the man’s company and the food served in abundance when he was present. He had a charisma that invited merriment and laughter—from everyone except his wife. Her gypsy-like eyes regarded her husband with cool assessment as if portending his future.

  “Ladies, let us leave these men and adjourn to the drawing room.” Mrs. Garvey stood and adjusted her turban while glaring at her husband. “I hope you do not encourage imbibing too freely. My elderberry wine is such a health restorative.”

  “My dear, your thrift and concern for my health do you credit.” Mr. Garvey stood with the men and bowed to her with a jovial smile.

  Mrs. Garvey muttered under her breath.

  Lucy would rather stay and join the men. As she exited, her shawl slipped from one shoulder and dragged on the floor.

  Captain Sharpe handed her the edge, his callous fingers snagging on the fabric. “Your train, my lady.”

  She scrunched her nose and smiled. “Thank you.” She tucked the shawl around her shoulders and draped it through her arm.

  Mr. Garvey’s butler brought the port—no elderberry wine in sight—and the men gathered close, including Admiral Cartwright, the First Lord of the Admiralty.

  Jack had been seeking a private audience with the admiral, but no opportunities had presented themselves. His stomach churned. More than anyone else, Admiral Cartwright’s influence could swing the trial’s outcome.

  Smoke hung in the air above the dining table as the men conversed. Jack watched Admiral Cartwright, waiting for a moment when he was not engaged in conversation.

  “I commissioned Mr. Garvey to discover whether Miss Brook is courting anyone,” Ludlow said. “Though he assures me single women attend these events expressly to make a fine match.”

  Jack scowled. He was not from a gentleman’s background like Ludlow and therefore not the best match for a lady like Miss Brook.

  “Mr. Garvey further informed me Miss Brook is not another fortune hunter. She is an heiress of substantial means.”

  “That is a relief.” He needn’t worry she had a hidden motive for spending time with him. Miss Brook was unlike any woman he had met, and he had met his fair share. “Still, a woman of fortune will be looking for a title. Or at least a man from her own social class.”

  “You do yourself too low, Jack.

  “I am not like you, Ludlow. I’m not from a genteel family with good connections.”

  Among the set of lords and ladies Mr. Garvey had assembled, he was at a distinct disadvantage. His accent alone announced his less than genteel status. But when Jack had advanced in his career to a point where he needed to order his social superiors about, he’d had to overcome his qualms. Despite his rank as a ship’s captain, though, he held little sway in the Royal Navy, never being admitted to Nelson’s Band of Brothers or any other such renowned group, due to his lack of pedigree and patronage. It was the reason he needed someone else to rally for his fellow men.

  Jack tapped a finger on the table. The admiral spoke with Lord Grayson, a fine gentleman whom Jack had mistaken for a navy man, much to his embarrassment.

  “Pay her a compliment. Women can’t resist flattery,” Ludlow chided.

  “Bandying about words is your gift, not mine.”

  “You are blessed with intelligence and a hardy constitution. It is too bad you are as ugly as a dog.”

  The ribbing pulled a smile from him.

  “Come now, you are a lion of a man, and she a lamb. If the parable holds true, you should be able to catch her.”

  Jack huffed. “It is not a parable. And I believe you have your ‘lion and the lamb’ scripture mixed up. It sounds predatory.”

  Ludlow smiled wickedly. “That’s right. The lion lies down with the lamb.”

  Heat crept up Jack’s neck. “I think we’re a ways away from seeing that happen.”

  Ludlow chuckled low. “I would say your chances are favorable.”

  Women occasionally threw themselves at him, but he had no interest in something fleeting. He wanted more than the physical, he needed to belong fully to a committed and strong woman.

  “I was talking about the scripture, you fool. She would never marry someone like me.” Though he couldn’t help but wonder at his chances. Would Miss Brook consider marriage to a salt of the earth man like him? He hadn’t experienced this level of interest in a woman in a long time.

  Down the table, Lord Grayson stood, leaving the chair beside Admiral Cartwright free.

  “Your moment has come at last,” Ludlow said, nodding.

  Jack’s throat tightened. He tugged at his cravat, but his discomfort was nothing compared to the men who would hang from the foreyard arm if he didn’t try.

  Jack stood. Mr. Garvey handed him a glass filled to the brim, which Jack took with a nod, then he strode towards the admiral.

  Admiral Cartwright raised his glass of amber liquid. “Captain Sharpe, this is a pleasant evening.”

  “It is indeed. With fine company. May I have a moment of your time, Admiral Cartwright?”

  “Please, call me Sir Richard. We’re among friends.” He indicated the chair beside him.

  Jack lowered himself into the chair, knowing he would be incapable of showing anything but the utmost deference to a man of higher rank.

  “I take it this is a naval matter?”

  “Yes, sir. Are you familiar with the mutiny aboard the Fleetwood a week agone?” He pushed the glass from him.

  “I haven’t heard of it. But my attention has been on other pressing matters. Who is the captain of the Fleetwood now you command an eighty-four gun ship?”

  “Captain Duncan McCrea.”

  Admiral Cartwright’s face remained impassive, not giving away if he’d pieced together Jack’s familial connection to the man or Jack’s recommendation to his post. “Go on.”

  “I know the sailors being tried, and they’re fine hands. Most of them were part of my crew on the Fleetwood before my advancement to a ship of the line. Blocking a captain from coming aboard his own ship is mutiny, and I don’t condone their actions. But I’ve spoken with Lieutenant Churchill and some of the crew. I’ve discovered the act was provoked by Captain McCrea’s misconduct.” Shame burned in his stomach like acid for his part in advancing McCrea’s career. “I want the men to have a lighter sentence based on the facts, sir.”

  The admiral tucked a hand into his waistcoat and leaned back. “You of all people understand the necessity of discipline. Discipline is government. And government ensures survival while at sea. The war’s success depended on it. If men revolt, they must be punished as a deterrent to others.”

  “Discipline is vital to order, I agree, sir.” Jack paced himself. “Yet, Captain McCrea’s discipline was unchecked and erratic. The last man down from the rigging was flogg
ed, sir. A man fell to his death because of it, and his body tossed overboard.” Jack’s muscles clenched for a fight. “The crew revolted because his actions bordered on atrocious, even to hardened men used to war and discipline.”

  “That is a bad business.” The admiral bowed his head. “After such a disgraceful mutiny, Captain McCrea will never have command of another ship. His career is over, and he will do no more harm. A fitting consequence, I should say.” He met Jack’s stare. “Does that settle your mind, captain?”

  Jack leaned forward. “Those men will hang. If someone with influence, such as yourself, took an interest in the sailors’ side, the captains and admirals at the court-martial might choose a more lenient punishment. Deportation. Flogging round the fleet.” Anything other than death.

  “I hardly think a common sailor warrants my particular interest.”

  Jack’s face heated and his heart beat a fast rhythm. “I am a tarpaulin officer.” Rising through the ranks as a common sailor was nothing to be ashamed of. “These common men are my men. A regular British Tar deserves a fair hearing as much as any gentleman who serves in His Majesty’s Navy.”

  The admiral’s face went blank for a moment, then rearranged once again into a polite expression. “Yes, I forget you are a Jack Tar, as they say.”

  He stood and Jack followed his lead, his heart sinking to the ground like a millstone.

  “I will think on what you have shared and perhaps write some letters.”

  Jack doubted the man would send any letters, but he held out hope. Speaking to a man who held such power was dizzying. But Jack took a measure of comfort that his petition to him was done.

  The admiral extended his hand and Jack took it in a steady grip. “If nothing else,” Admiral Cartwright continued, “a system could be put in place for the regulation of discipline. Perhaps someday, when other matters of king and country are not so pressing.”

  Jack nodded, seeing the wisdom in the admiral’s suggestion. “I thank you, Admiral Cartwright.” What the admiral chose to do with the information Jack had shared was his burden before God. Jack had done his duty to those sailors, at least in part.

  “Let us go join the ladies,” Admiral Cartwright said good-naturedly as he left the smoke-laden room.

  Jack frowned. Just the thought of seeing Miss Brook eased the sting of his disappointment. But she shouldn’t be in his thoughts. He had more to accomplish than merrymaking. What was it about her that lifted his spirits? Perhaps it was her fresh enthusiasm, her humor, or her bossiness. She could knock a man out of the doldrums. Jack eyed his port, choosing to leave it untouched.

  Chapter 10

  In the drawing room, Lucy settled beside Charlotte on a settee to endure the other women’s tittering about stuff and nonsense.

  When Lady Anslowe seated herself beside her, Lucy’s spirits lifted with anticipation. The recently married young woman was around her age and was interesting and vibrant.

  Lady Anslowe leaned in close, her big brown eyes holding a smile. “I’ve decided Mr. Garvey brings life to this party. I only wish he would be at home more often.”

  Lucy nodded her agreement but sealed her lips and winked when Mrs. Garvey took her customary chair directly across from them.

  Mrs. Garvey picked up her tatting needles to continue working on a section of lace. Lucy briefly wondered what Mrs. Garvey did with the lace since her gowns appeared antiquated.

  The young widow, Mrs. Thorne, spoke with their hostess in an easy familiarity about the paths she used to walk when she grew up on an estate to the west. Mrs. Thorne was likely younger than Lucy, and her features might be considered plain, but she made up for it with the mischievous gleam in her eyes, as if amused constantly by the thoughts in her head.

  Mrs. Garvey set her needles in her lap and turned her attention to Charlotte, her mouth turned down. “While at dinner, Mrs. Hardy, I couldn’t help but overhear you speaking to Miss Brook about making a match. I have nothing against the institution in general, but I’ve been at a loss to understand why Miss Brook should wish to marry.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte turned to Lucy, her eyebrows raised. Lucy bit back a smile.

  Mrs. Thorne shook her head at her friend. “Why would she not wish to make a match? I’m surprised at you even suggesting it,” she said dryly.

  “Miss Brook is in an enviable situation. Her inheritance is not tied to a dowry and is safely in the hands of trustees. She need not rely upon anyone. She can live in great comfort, manage her household without interference, and enjoy a life of solitude.”

  Lucy imagined her life stretching out before her, her days filled with loneliness. Her chest prickled with dread. The last time she’d endured solitude she had been ill. She didn’t wish for a husband to interfere with her bank, but she also didn’t want to be alone.

  “Men are changeable,” Mrs. Garvey continued. “Disinterested in your day-to-day affairs until they descend upon your household with guests in tow, even inviting the Prince Regent on occasion. Do you know how vexing it is to be in a constant state of anxiety over cost and company?”

  Mrs. Thorne tilted her head. “Ah, so that is the issue you have, then. Your husband’s propensity to disrupt your quiet country life and his lack of economy.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Mrs. Garvey sniffed. “That loose screw Garvey,” she muttered under her breath.

  Mrs. Thorne patted their hostess’ hand. “You are allowed to vent. Your husband is hale and hearty and far too impish. A widow, such as myself, mustn’t speak ill of the dead. So my departed has become a saint. But make no mistake, I remember how trying a husband can be.”

  Charlotte glanced between the two women, a frown marring her face. “Matrimony may bring challenges, but Lucy should still wed. My husband stays far too busy. I do wish he would stop to enjoy the walk to church or watch the sunset with me. But I cherish the time we have together. And I have handsome children I value more than my life.”

  “I admire the way Mr. Hardy looks after your health,” Mrs. Garvey nodded in firm approval to Charlotte. “Just this evening he fetched your shawl when you were chilled. We must guard our health. And he understands the value of savings.”

  “I believe he would do anything for you,” Lucy agreed. She often glimpsed moments of Reuben’s tender concern for her sister. They truly loved each other. Lucy’s heart squeezed with longing to know someone so intimately.

  “I adore him, as imperfect as he may be.” Charlotte leaned forward to include Lady Anslowe, who had been silent on the subject. “Lady Anslowe, you are newly married. Wouldn’t you encourage Lucy to find a comfortable match?”

  Lady Anslowe shifted in her seat. “I am not used to offering advice on the matter. My own mother always advised me to accept an offer from any man who would have me.” A blush crept into her cheeks.

  Charlotte pulled back slightly, taking her measure.

  “And you married a fine man.” Lucy hurried to fill the silence. Lord Anslowe seemed entirely respectable.

  “Tell Lucy what she has to look forward to, Lady Anslowe. Are you not blissfully in love with your handsome husband?” Charlotte prodded.

  Lady Anslowe’s gaze flitted about. “I am more than content.” Her response lacked conviction.

  Lucy tried not to gawk. She could have sworn the couple were perfectly suited to one another.

  Mrs. Garvey plucked a piece of lint from her skirt. “You are in a situation not unlike my own. Your husband lives in Town and you in the country, am I correct?”

  Lady Anslowe shook her head, whether in denial of their similar circumstances or of Lord Anslowe living in London, Lucy couldn’t be sure. “His duties in the House of Lords keep him in London during the season. He has so many responsibilities. He is on two committees, the Naval Appropriations Committee and the Lord’s Code of Conduct. I enjoy living in the country. Chelten House is a beautiful estate and I find fulfillment in caring for it.”

  Lucy wondered at Lady Anslowe’s situation. The couple seem
ed to complement each other in temperament, but one could never tell what happened in private. Had they not married out of affection as she had supposed?

  Lady Anslowe’s gaze seemed fixed far away, and she worried her bottom lip. Mrs. Garvey picked up her tatting once again, detailing the responsibilities of managing Havencrest to Mrs. Thorne. Charlotte stood to check the progress of Miss Honeyfield’s beautiful embroidery project.

  With the others carrying on new conversations, Lucy leaned close to Lady Anslowe. “I hope this is not too impertinent to ask, but I’m curious to know. Did you marry for love or more practical reasons?”

  Lady Anslowe brushed aside her dark brown hair, revealing round eyes. “I wish I could have married for love,” she whispered. “But Lord Anslowe married me for one reason—my dowry.”

  Lucy reached out in alarm, her hand clasping Lady Anslowe’s. This sweet-natured woman was denied love and belonging? “That cannot be. I have observed the two of you together. The way he looks at you . . .” But what did Lucy know of such things? “Surely Lord Anslowe has come to care for you.”

  “But how could I ever truly know?” Lady Anslowe’s eyes held enough vulnerability to make Lucy wish to throw her arms around her.

  “I am not certain. But I believe it is a possibility he may come to care for you deeply.” If Lucy did marry, at least she was free to do so for love.

  Lady Anslowe squeezed Lucy’s hand.

  The men entered the drawing room, and Captain Sharpe looked her way. His steel-blue eyes sought hers and Lucy’s stomach flipped. His intense gaze made her feel like the most interesting woman at the party. He was not a man who would be disengaged or indifferent as a husband. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Why should she be thinking of matrimony? And to Captain Sharpe? He was a client and her interest in him confined to matters of business.

  “Who would join me in a game of whist?” Mr. Garvey asked, his eyes sparkling.

  Lucy stood, turning her back to Captain Sharpe. “I should like to play.”