He frowned. “I do not follow?”
“The sea, Simon,” he replied, with a snort of laughter. “Let us hope you do not anger her whilst we are sailing upon her voluptuous waves, otherwise the rest of our voyage will be somewhat unpleasant.”
Simon chuckled. “I will do my best to keep them apart, for all of our sakes. Then again, they have already taken to one another rather well, so perhaps we will have no conflict at all, from here to Cape Verde.”
“I should like to raise a toast to that.” James lifted his glass, a warm smile upon his face.
Simon lifted his own glass. “A toast to what?”
“To plain sailing, and peaceful affairs.”
“It is not an affair, James,” Simon replied sharply.
“Very well, then. To plain sailing and newfound love.” He flashed his friend a mischievous grin.
Simon laughed. “To plain sailing and newfound love.”
As he sipped his drink, he tried to ignore the possibility in James’ words. The ocean could be a treacherous place, and they still had a long voyage ahead of them. In his time, he had seen waves taller than mountains, and other ships dashed to matchsticks by the sheer force of a sudden tempest.
He had sworn to protect Jemima, but how could he promise to protect her from the unknown?
Chapter 28
With the weeks passing by, Peter’s patience began to wear thin once more. He had heard nothing for at least a fortnight, though he supposed that was to be expected. The letters he had sent had a long way to go, and the return journey would take even longer. But still, he refused to be deterred.
Stepping out of the inn where he had taken rooms, in order to wait for the replies he so desperately sought, he took a morning stroll towards the Dock Office, in the hopes that H had sent him more news of the Evening Star. It irked him that he could not speak more directly to his co-conspirator, for there was every chance that Lady Jemima was aboard that very vessel. Or, at the very least, that someone had seen her here, at the port, and could tell him which ship she had stepped onto.
To make matters worse, the Duke of Cowden was applying a great deal of pressure to Peter’s pursuit of Lady Jemima. Peter could understand her father’s concern, but what did he expect him to do? Swim his way across the oceans, and check every ship he encountered, in case she was somehow hidden away within?
Foolish man.
Peter grumbled under his breath as he stalked along in the unseasonably chilly breeze, pulling his coat tighter about himself as he did so. In all honesty, this endeavor had entirely lost its shine. There were other young ladies out there, who were far less trouble, and would be grateful to stand at his side, as his Marchioness. They would not be nearly as exciting, but he was starting to think that the thrill of the chase was somewhat overrated.
Reaching the grand, white building of the Dock Office, he made his way to Jonathan Brake’s desk. The fellow eyed him warily as he approached, for Peter had taken this same journey every other day for the past fortnight-and-a-half, in the hopes of receiving some sort of news.
“Lord Beaurgant, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Jonathan said tightly.
Peter smiled sourly. “Do you have any correspondence for me?”
“As a matter of fact, there is a letter. It arrived this morning on one of the ships. I thought to seek you out, but then I reasoned you would undoubtedly come back in due time.”
Peter’s face twisted into a grimace. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He felt furious that this ingrate had not bothered to call upon him, even though he was a short distance up the wharf. Surely, given the frequency of his visits, this fellow knew how important any letters addressed to him were? After all, as far as he was concerned, he still presumed that Peter’s nephew was missing.
Jonathan took out a letter and slid it across the desk. Peter snatched it up and strode away without another word, heading for the same side room where he had written his letters of hope. The room was mostly empty, with a couple of weary-faced individuals toiling away at their desks. Peter sat down at a bureau nearby, far away from the other people who were attending to their work.
There, he unfolded the letter and began to read:
Dear Lord Beaurgant,
I’m writing to you from our latest port of call and have sent this letter on with a ship that is returning to England. I’ve been given confirmation of our cargo in Cape Verde and will collect it upon our arrival there. It will be brought back without detection, and I will see to it that it reaches you without delay.
All is quiet on board the Evening Star. I am able to investigate and make arrangements without trouble, as His Lordship and his guard-dog are distracted with inventories and other such matters that don’t interest me. I managed to resolve the issue that took place on our last voyage, and nothing has been mentioned of it since, so all is well. The men still seem to trust me, even after that indiscretion. I will send word again when we reach Cape Verde, though I don’t know if it’ll reach you before I return.
I just thought I should write, to let you know that everything is in place.
Yours Sincerely,
H.
Peter smiled as he reread the letter. Even though he felt as though he was failing miserably in his task of retrieving Lady Jemima, at least he had this to comfort him. As soon as he had heard where the Evening Star was destined, through the steady intelligence of H, he had known precisely what he wanted. And, soon enough, he would have it within his grasp. Discovering Lady Jemima alongside it would simply be the cherry atop the cake.
The only thing that thwarted his enthusiasm was the knowledge that he might have to sail, himself, to one of those far-off lands, in order to drag Lady Jemima back to England. Having had more time to think about it, he began to realize that not all gentlemen were morally honest. There was every chance that he could receive a response, revealing that Lady Jemima had indeed been aboard their ship, but with no effort to send her back.
I do so hate the water. He shuddered at the prospect of having to undertake such a voyage, crossing that vast and treacherous expanse to an unknown world. If it came to that, he did not know that he would be able to make that step.
A long time ago, now, he had lost someone to the sea, in a boating accident off the coast of Cornwall. He had never confessed his love to her, though he had felt it keenly. Indeed, she might have been the only young lady capable of making him truly happy, but she was gone now. Her life had been swallowed up by the churning waves, though it might have been saved if one person had acted more swiftly. The man in charge of the Evening Star.
The ship had been named in honor of that young lady, whose nickname had always been ‘Star.’ It derived from her surname, Starling, and had stuck for the rest of her too-short days. Georgiana Starling, I think of you, even now. Whenever he heard the name of that vessel, it brought all those memories flooding back in a painful torrent.
A large contingent of them had been holidaying at the estate of Peter’s friend, Lord Linton. Several families had been present, and the youngest of them, then between fourteen and sixteen, had thought it a marvelous idea to take out a boat on the afternoon tide. Even then, Peter had been afraid of the sea, and so he had not partaken in their revels. Instead, he had watched from the cliffs, keeping them forever in his sight. For that boat had held the most precious cargo.
All but one of them had been inexperienced in the ways of the sea, and when a sudden squall had taken them too far out, where the waves were much too large, the boat had capsized. Peter had watched it all in horror, unable to do a single thing to help. All he could do was look upon the tragedy, as that wretched fellow had ducked and dived beneath the surface of the water, saving everyone but Georgiana. Even now, he could not bring himself to say that gentleman’s name.
Forced to give up, Georgiana had not been found. Peter had never lost hope that she might have managed to swim to shore, but everyone else had resigned themselves to her terrible fate. It was not until some hours
later that she washed up on the beach, looking like a mythological legend, pale and peaceful, with her dark hair framing her angelic face. He had been the one to discover her, lying out on the sand, unmoving.
He remembered the way she had felt in his arms as he had cradled her to him, her skin so very cold, her lips tinged with blue, whilst her beautiful skin had taken on a waxy sheen. She had reminded him of a doll, and he spent a long time trying to feed his own warmth into her, in the vain possibility that he could urge her back to life.
She had been buried a few days later, and Peter still visited her grave from time to time, if only to feel closer to her. For as long as he lived, he would not forget her face, or her voice, or her demeanor. No one would ever match her in grace and beauty. He supposed that was why he treated ladies the way he did, for he wanted to punish them for not being her. He wanted to destroy them, because they were living, and she was dead.
Lady Jemima was no exception. However, there was more to it than that. He had searched endlessly, looking for a young lady who reminded him of his lost love—spirited, intelligent, fierce, and beautiful. The moment he had set eyes on Lady Jemima, he had known that he had found her. And he had known he had to claim her for himself, if only to hold onto that fragment of what he’d lost. She even had the same, unusual blue eyes.
The trouble was, where Georgiana had shown him affection, Lady Jemima showed him nothing but disdain. It wounded him and would not go unpunished. Once she was returned to him, Peter would mold her into obedience, crushing her until she no longer fought back. He had to, because she would be his wife, and Georgiana would not. And an echo was not the same as the original, but it could be made to match more precisely.
And, in doing so, he would feel alive again. He would channel every ounce of his torment into her, one way or another. He would resurrect the memory of Georgiana, in Lady Jemima’s image, and he would be happy at last. For that was all he had ever wanted—some semblance of Georgiana by his side.
And when Lady Jemima learned that she would not be able to escape, he wondered if she might come to love him. Like a horse, broken in, she would obey and respect him. He knew that could sometimes turn to affection. It had done so with his own mother and father, so why not with himself and Lady Jemima? Perhaps, in that, he would be able to find a sense of his own peace, with all of his pain dispersed and taken upon her shoulders instead.
Then, maybe, at long last, he would be able to put the memory of Georgiana Starling to bed, once and for all.
Chapter 29
Perspiring in the furious heat of the Moroccan sun, Jemima walked through the port of Mogador with Simon at her side. A fortnight had passed upon the water, and they had reached Morocco without incident. The weather had been on their side, the winds filling the sails, leading them here in peace and harmony.
Of all the places they had visited, Jemima loved this town the most. It looked truly ancient, with sandstone structures that reminded her of bygone days, and lessons of history that she had read in childhood. She half-expected to hear the clash of swords, and the cries of cavalry as they strove to defend the fortifications that surrounded the port. Most of the inhabitants wore loose clothing, their faces half covered by cloth—the gentlemen and the ladies alike.
It made her own constrictive trousers and shirt feel woefully inferior, for whilst she baked uncomfortably, they seemed to wander about in cool satisfaction. Their skin was far darker than the individuals she had seen in Spain and Portugal, but no less beautiful. Indeed, she rather envied that rich mahogany, against the pallid complexion of her own skin. She only wore her woolen cap to keep the bright sun out of her eyes, though her face was prone to faint freckles whenever it caught the sun’s glow.
“It is so very pretty,” she said, watching the palms swaying in the arid breeze, whilst she could see the stretching, terracotta landscape of scorched earth in the distance. The streets were labyrinthine, with colorful tapestries draped from the sandstone and whitewashed walls. Wherever they walked, they were greeted with smiles and welcomes. And, by the harbor, she had even witnessed a gentleman with a monkey—a creature she had never seen, except in books.
“It is.” Simon smiled at her. “And the town is rather pretty, too.”
Jemima chuckled and nudged him in the arm. “You tease me, Simon.”
“I assure you, I would never tease about such a thing.” He paused in a shaded alley, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It had grown somewhat in their month at sea, and Simon had urged her not to cut it. As such, she had taken to tucking it into her cap, and letting a few short tufts stick out.
Glancing around, to make sure nobody was watching, Simon leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. She kissed him back, though they kept it brief and fleeting, lest anyone catch them. After all, to the outward eye, it would appear as though two gentlemen were standing in the alleyway, kissing one another. And that would likely be grounds for some sort of trouble.
“You cannot know how glad it makes me, to see you enjoying these places so readily,” he said, as they returned to their walk.
She smiled. “Why should I not? These countries have a rich beauty. I am only sad that we cannot explore them further, for I should love to travel to small villages and secret places, to discover more of what these lands have to offer. There is such history here. You can feel it, brimming in the air. It is quite remarkable.”
“No, my dear, you are quite remarkable.”
“You are making me blush.” She giggled happily, as they rounded the corner of another street, and entered a wide square. Market stalls of all kinds had been set up, selling their wares, with merchants shouting their prices. Simon had come here to speak with the market traders, in the hopes of acquiring large quantities of their goods. And Jemima was only too happy to accompany him, for there was a thrill to be found in the noise, and the intoxicating scents of unknown spices, and the unusual goings-on that surrounded her.
They paused for a moment beside another gentleman with a monkey, with Jemima squealing in delight as it hopped onto her shoulder and began to pick at the wool of her cap. It chattered away as it did so, its adorable face tilting as it took a closer look at her. Lifting her hand, she stroked the downy fur of its body, chuckling as it grasped her finger and licked it gently.
Moving further along, Simon began to attend to his business. He spoke in a language she did not recognize, the sound of it making her focus solely upon him. There was something extraordinarily intriguing about a gentleman who could speak different languages, especially one she did not know.
I am falling helplessly in love with you…
She wanted to take him back into one of those secluded streets and tell him, but he was too engrossed in his work, and she did not wish to disturb him. After all, if he allowed her to remain, indefinitely, then she would have all the time in the world to tell him of her feelings. And, perhaps, in one of these towns, one day, they would find a church and bind themselves together before God.
She could not believe that a few weeks ago, she had been planning to escape to a foreign land, such as this, where she would disembark and remain forever. For, now, that seemed impossible. Wherever Simon went, she wanted to follow, as she knew that she could not be without him. He had come into her life for a reason—a gift, given in reward for her pursuit of true love. And she would never doubt her decision to run, ever again.
* * *
Having loaded the Moroccan cargo onto the Evening Star, Simon gave the order for them to leave Mogador, and head for their final destination of Cape Verde. There, he would collect goods that had been brought from the Americas, without having to make that extensive final stretch to the New World. Relations were still fractured between Britain and America, and he preferred to avoid that land altogether, whenever he could.
“We should arrive within a fortnight,” James said, checking off the last of their inventories, as they stood together at the top of the gangway. Preparations were underway for their departure,
and the rest of the sailors were darting about around them, making sure everything was in order.
Simon nodded. “Very good.”
“Tell me, how is Barton faring?” James flashed him an irreverent smile. “They seemed to enjoy Mogador very much. I heard them chattering away about it to Brockmire earlier.”
“Barton is faring well, thank you.” Simon’s voice held a warning, but James ignored it.
“What are your intentions towards them, if I may be so bold? I am not one to argue against living in sin, but they do not seem the sort of person to accept such circumstances. Indeed, they have been speaking very highly of you.”
That warmed Simon’s heart. “They have?”
“Oh yes, they talk about you almost as much as they talk about Mogador. It would seem they are quite entranced by you, and, I confess, I have become fond of them myself. That is why I worry.”
“Why would you worry?” Simon frowned.
A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 20
