A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  “Aye, I had the midnight duty. Would’ve been here about ten days ago, if I ain’t mistaken.”

  “Do you remember any passengers from that night?”

  The driver nodded. “Aye, there was but one.”

  Peter’s heart lurched with excitement. “Can you tell me what they looked like? Only, my nephew has gone missing, and we are frantic with worry.”

  “Would’ve been a young lad, maybe ten-and-six. Skinny lad, with clothes that didn’t fit proper. Had a cap on his head, so I couldn’t make much of his face, but I know he looked young. Would that be your nephew?”

  “Yes, yes I do believe it is!” Peter practically shrieked the words at the driver. “Do you remember how far you took him?”

  “To Westport, Sir. He stepped off at the harbor. ‘Tis our last stop, so I remembered him right enough. Still didn’t see too much of his face, mind.”

  Peter smiled. “Thank you, Sir. You cannot know how grateful I am to you for this information.”

  The driver shrugged. “Glad I could help. Do you want me to take you there?”

  “No, no, I will make my own way, but I will remember you for this.”

  “Well then, I hope you find him soon enough.”

  Peter nodded. “Oh, I am certain that I will.”

  The driver glanced down at him with curious eyes. “Although, if he were hopping off at Westport, chances are he’s already boarded some ship, away from England. Why else would a lad be stopping at a harbor? I didn’t linger too long, so I didn’t see where he went, but I’d reckon he’s managed to garner passage to some far-off place. That’s what I’d do, if I were running from something.”

  Peter’s blood ran cold. Lady Jemima’s escape, in the disguise of a young man, had been outlandish enough…but this? Could she really have gone to such dangerous lengths? He had never so much as contemplated it. Indeed, he had been sure she would still be somewhere within Britain. Now, however, he was no longer certain.

  “You mind if I carry on?” the driver said. “If you ain’t going somewhere, there’s no need for me to wait.”

  Peter nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.”

  As he watched the stagecoach pull away, and head back into the darkness, he could not control the racing state of his mind. If the driver was right, then Peter was in far direr straits than he had anticipated, where Lady Jemima was concerned. If she had managed to board a ship, and was now sailing upon some unknown ocean, then how would he ever retrieve her, and bring her to heel?

  Surely, she would not? Had it been any other lady, he might have been able to convince himself, but Lady Jemima was not like ordinary young ladies. If she had gone so far as to dress herself up in gentlemen’s clothes, then why not set sail upon a vessel? After all, it was the most certain way of putting immeasurable distance between herself and Peter.

  His eyes narrowed with anger. He had known of her obvious distaste for a marriage between them, but he had never expected her to go to lengths such as these, in order to evade him. It infuriated him, taking the sheen off his excitement.

  Now it had become a matter of pride. She had dishonored and embarrassed him, as well as her family, and he would have his revenge on her.

  He had come this far. If he turned back now, then he would have failed. And if there was one thing that Peter refused to be, it was a failure. He would claim Lady Jemima as his own, one way or another. And she would not be able to outrun him forever. Nobody slipped out of Peter’s grasp. Nobody.

  He smiled secretly, his face twisting into a sour grimace. Fortunately for him, there was one gentleman he could speak with. The one person in this entire world who stood a chance of ensnaring her, on his behalf.

  I am coming for you, Lady Jemima. Over land, over sea, I will find you. And, when I do, you will regret ever running from me.

  Chapter 23

  Two days’ later, the Evening Star arrived in the port of Cádiz.

  Jemima had spent a pleasant voyage, flitting between the galley and the Captain’s quarters, where she had aided Lord Burhill in his daily tasks. He had not asked her to draw him a bath again, but they had enjoyed quiet evenings in one another’s company, conversing in front of the wood-burning stove.

  The more she got to know him, the more her feelings for him grew. She had never been on such casual terms with a gentleman before, not even her father. For her father had kept her at arm’s length, always putting up a wall of politeness instead of allowing her to speak her mind. Lord Burhill did no such thing, the two of them speaking however they pleased.

  In truth, in the last few days, he had become more of a friend to her than an employer. Whilst she toiled away in the galley, she found herself daydreaming about the evening to come, when she would sit opposite Lord Burhill and hear more of his life. More than that, she eagerly awaited the moments when she could gaze into his eyes without restraint, and hear that soft laugh of his, echoing across the room.

  However, that evening, before she made her way to the Captain’s quarters, she could not help but take a peek at the new town they had arrived in. She stared out at the pretty port, with its whitewashed architecture and flashes of brightly painted color. Other ships had come into port, one or two bearing the flag of the British Navy. That made her nervous, but she hoped she had become valuable enough to Lord Burhill that he would not place her upon one of them.

  A pristine, sandy beach curved around the cliffs, the waves lapping softly against the shore with a comforting susurration. She spied sailors walking along it, laughing and jesting amiably with one another. Meanwhile, the evening sun glanced downward, covering everything in a wash of golden light. The air tasted of salt, and felt warm upon her face, as it caressed her cheeks like a tender lover.

  “It is beautiful, is it not?”

  Jemima smiled as she turned to find Lord Burhill approaching. “Exceedingly so.” He looked even more handsome in the sunset glow, with the bronzed light turning his amber eyes to liquid gold.

  “I had a thought,” he went on.

  “Oh?” The last time he had said that, he had suggested she stay behind and join a different vessel.

  “I wondered if you might like to join me in Cádiz this evening? I usually wander alone, and then wish I had brought company. This way, I will not make that mistake again. And besides, you know how I loathe to dine alone.”

  Jemima beamed. “I should like that, My Lord.”

  “Superb. Then, would you care to depart now?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  Together, they crossed the upper deck of the Evening Star and headed down the gangway, entering the lively town. It felt different to Faro, for she had no terror in her heart, and she no longer had to walk by herself. Not only that, but it meant she would be gifted more time with Lord Burhill—just the two of them. Back in England, that would’ve been impossible, but her disguise gave her a delicious freedom that she did not want to relinquish.

  She kept close to him as they meandered through the evening crowds, who shouted and bellowed in a foreign tongue. It sounded musical and enthralling to Jemima’s ears, a smile fixed upon her face as she took in everything. Presently, they came to a small taverna, where the proprietor was grilling fish outside on hot coals. The scent was so tantalizing that Jemima’s mouth began to water.

  “Are you hungry?” Lord Burhill glanced at her.

  She nodded sheepishly. “I confess, I have not eaten a thing since breakfast.”

  “How does fresh fish sound?”

  “Delightful,” she replied, half forgetting that she was supposed to be Andrew Barton. For, when he looked at her with those soft, amber eyes, she felt entirely like a woman.

  Sitting outside in the warm evening, they dined upon grilled fish, that tasted rich with salt and garlic and olive oil. It was so tender and delicate that it almost melted in Jemima’s mouth, awakening every sense. There were crispy potatoes to accompany the fish, and tangy tomatoes that had been cooked in the juice of the salty, garlicked fish.
All of it washed down with several glasses of the most delicious red wine.

  “I imagine you were intellectual as a child,” Lord Burhill said, as he finished up the last of his fish. “Were you educated well?”

  Jemima nodded, as she sipped her wine to cut through the oil in her mouth. “I was, My Lord. I am proficient in Latin, Greek, French, and some German. I can play the piano forte and used to enjoy reading whenever I had the opportunity.”

  Lord Burhill chuckled. “Goodness, it sounds as though you were educated alongside the ladies of your household.”

  “My mother thought it prudent, so I could impress potential…uh, young ladies.” She took a larger gulp of her wine, realizing she had almost exposed some of her truth.

  “I envy you,” he replied. “I have not read something for leisure in a good, long while. I used to prefer poetry, personally, but I have had little time to entertain such exploits.”

  “You have some poetry books in my chamber. Do you not read those?”

  He shook his head. “I confess, I had forgotten they were there. Although, now that you have reminded me, perhaps I may indulge one of these days.”

  “You should, My Lord. Poetry is soothing for the soul.”

  He glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. “You speak so very prettily, Barton. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “They have, My Lord. I am afraid it is in my nature.”

  He nodded uncertainly. “Indeed, there is a great deal of femininity to you, Barton. I suppose many young ladies prefer it, for I imagine they deem you inoffensive. You are not imposing, and you have an amenable charm to you. They must be despairing of your absence.”

  Jemima chuckled. “I do not think so, My Lord. I used to be rather too independently minded for anyone to offer me much affection in that manner.”

  “Is that so?” He grinned, as he sipped his wine.

  “Yes, I was forever being called willful.”

  “There is surely nothing wrong with a willful gentleman?”

  Jemima held his gaze. “There is, if it causes upset to the family.” She steeled herself, using the courage of the wine to spur her on. “You see, I always hoped to marry for love. Foolish, perhaps, but that was my ideal. And so, when an engagement was forced upon me, to someone I deemed woefully inappropriate, I could not accept it. In that way, my willfulness caused me nothing but trouble.”

  Lord Burhill smiled sadly. “That is a tragedy, Barton. Although, it is rather pleasant to find a rebellious sort, much like myself. I do not believe anyone should marry without love, for otherwise you are destined for a life of mediocrity and misery. And life is much too short for that.”

  “I agree, My Lord.” She smiled at him openly, feeling warm from the food and the wine and the company. His words brought her joy, for she had spent her entire life searching for a gentleman who thought as she did. And yet, she felt a pang of sorrow alongside it, for she could never tell Lord Burhill who she was. And so, she could never reveal the depth of her affections for him.

  That wounded her, more than she could possibly say. It seemed like a cruel trick, played by the heavens, to punish her for running from her family. To grant her the gift of her perfect gentleman, and to forbid her from ever revealing her desires…that was cruelty, indeed.

  * * *

  Simon struggled in vain, as he walked along the wharf with Barton. All throughout dinner, he had been unable to take his eyes off the boy, admiring the sparkle of his dark blue eyes and the gentle way he laughed. At times, he had almost been able to convince himself that Barton was a young lady, for his mannerisms were remarkably effeminate. Even the way he spoke was elegant and refined, as pretty as any lady’s.

  I must be rid of him. Simon hated to admit it, but he could not go on like this, pretending that everything was fine. He enjoyed his evenings with Barton, more than he could possibly say, and that concerned him deeply.

  He was not a deviant. He did not find gentlemen attractive. And yet, when it came to Barton, he could not help but gaze upon the boy in the same way he might gaze upon a beautiful young lady.

  But first, he had to find a reason to be rid of Barton. He could not simply say that he no longer cared for his company, and he could not claim to be concerned for his welfare. He had already used the latter, and he had not been able to send the boy away. And so, he realized he was going to have to use far darker means. And he hated himself for what he was about to do.

  “We should return to the ship,” he said, fighting a battle between his brain and his heart, as he noted the plump red of Barton’s lips.

  “Of course, My Lord. I am rather tired.”

  Simon nodded. “Then, let us go back.”

  They turned around and walked the way they had come, taking their time as they made their way towards the Evening Star. Simon wanted to enjoy these last moments with Barton, before he had to force the boy to leave. It was the only way he could proceed. If he did not, he was quite certain he would either lose his mind or do something he would fervently regret.

  It is better for him, this way.

  “Good evening, then, My Lord.” Barton gazed up into his eyes with such intensity that he could have sworn his heart almost stopped. The boy had a rare beauty to him that seemed tragically wasted upon a gentleman, for Simon could not act upon it.

  Simon nodded. “Yes…good evening, Barton.”

  As soon as Barton had returned to the Captain’s quarters, Simon crossed the upper deck and headed down the stairs to the lower floor. He did not stop there. Taking the next set of stairs, he went all the way down into the belly of the ship and did not stop until he reached the brig.

  There, he found Harry hunched in the corner, slicked with grime, his hair matted. The stench of desperate humanity hit Simon’s nostrils like a savage blow, stinging the insides. Taking a moment to acclimatize, he pressed on towards the bars.

  “Harry?”

  The wretched sailor blinked in confusion, before creeping forwards. “My Lord? Have ye come to let me out?”

  “I have come to ask you a question. It may lessen your sentence upon our arrival at Cape Verde, though I can make no promises.”

  Harry’s eyes widened. “Anything, My Lord. Ask me anything.”

  “The night you assaulted Andrew Barton—I want to know why you attacked him in such a brutal manner?” Simon balled his hands into fists, loathing himself. “Were you provoked in any way? You must be honest if you wish to gain leniency for your actions.”

  Harry smirked. “Depends what ye mean by ‘provoked’?”

  “Did Mr. Barton give you any suggestion that he might wish to engage in such activities with you?”

  “No. But then, I like ‘em when they struggle.”

  Simon scowled. “Then why did you attack him?”

  “Ye don’t see it, do ye?”

  “See what?”

  He chuckled darkly. “I ain’t no deviant, My Lord. I don’t touch men.”

  “Then why did you assault Mr. Barton?” Simon could not fathom it.

  “She’s got yer all fooled. Devious witch. I knew as soon as I saw ‘er, what she was. But the rest of yer—clueless fools, believin’ every word she fed yer.” He leered at Simon. “So, aye, she provoked me. She provoked me, ‘cause I hadn’t seen a woman in a week, and I hadn’t tasted one in far longer. That’s why I wanted her, My Lord. I wanted what lay between ‘er legs, even if she didn’t.”

  Simon gaped at Harry in disbelief. “Have you taken leave of your senses? What on earth are you speaking of?”

  “Andrew Barton ain’t no lad, My Lord. She’s a woman, as sure as I’m a man.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  Harry shook his head, chuckling. “No, I ain’t. I felt them breasts with me own two hands. Tried to tear them bandages right off her, but they were knotted tight. I’d have done far more, if yer hadn’t come along to interrupt.” Evidently, he had given up on remorse, choosing to take pride in his despicable behavior instead.

  Fran
tic thoughts thundered through Simon’s mind, as he tried to piece together the things that Harry was saying. He thought of the curve of Barton’s neck, and the glitter in the boy’s eyes, and the way he had looked in that mirror, when he had drawn the cloth across Simon’s back. He thought of the boy’s sweet voice, and delicate way of speaking, and the effeminate demeanor of him.

  “Barton is a lady?” Simon choked out the words. If that was true, then he had put her in a most improper position. He felt nauseous at the idea that he had invited an innocent young lady to wash him, whilst she had been unable to refuse. After all, if she was masquerading as a young man, there had to be a reason. One that would have made it impossible for her to refuse, without giving herself away.