“Whoever he is, he’s certainly well connected. How else could he know so much gossip? Unless—” A delicious possibility occurred to her. “Might he be a Bow Street runner?”
Mrs. Harris chuckled. “Leave it to you to imagine such a thing. No, I don’t think it’s anything as romantic as that. I rather suspect from his penmanship that he’s an elderly man. His writing is very shaky.”
“Perhaps he’s trying to disguise it,” Amelia speculated, but Mrs. Harris’s answering laugh didn’t lend credence to that either.
She and the other girls had spun many a fanciful tale about Mrs. Harris’s mysterious benefactor: a secret admirer, a lost love, a wealthy sultan who yearned for the pretty widow from afar.
A sudden knock at the front door made Amelia bolt upright. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
When the new footman, John, came down the hall to ask if they were home to a Major Lucas Winter, they exchanged startled glances.
“He’s come to call at this hour?” Mrs. Harris asked.
“Yes, madam. He says Lady Amelia agreed to give him lessons.”
Amelia groaned. “I forgot about that.” When Mrs. Harris shot her a quizzical look, she said, “I promised to help him learn how to behave in English society.”
“Shall I show the gentleman in, then?” John asked.
“By all means,” Mrs. Harris said with a smile. “Thisshould be interesting.”
Only after the footman had gone did Amelia remember that her travel journals were spread out everywhere. Hastily, she began to stack them up.
“What are you doing, my dear?” Mrs. Harris asked.
“Just tidying up.” She could hardly explain that her journals might reveal she had a brain. Mrs. Harris wouldn’t approve of her masquerade as a flibbertigibbet.
Mrs. Harris laughed. “He won’t notice if you’re untidy—he’s a man.”
Before Amelia could finish putting her journals away, John announced her caller, and the major entered.
As she turned from the table, and Mrs. Harris rose, Amelia’s heart lurched in her chest. Lord help her—men that attractive shouldn’t be allowed to roam society. It simply wasn’t fair.
“Good morning, Major.” Amelia moved to block his view of her writing table.
“Morning, ma’am.” He tipped his head toward her, then greeted Mrs. Harris. “You both look well.”
“So do you,” Amelia said.
More than well, curse him. The fierce corsair’s features that suited his uniform so well also suited his dark brown morning coat, doeskin riding breeches, and gleaming top boots. She knew, from having searched his wardrobe, that it was his finest clothing, apart from his uniform. She might be flattered…if it weren’t part of his strategy to get information out of her.
That made her snap, “And what brings you out at this ungodly hour, Major?”
Mrs. Harris looked startled by her rude remark, but returned to her seat at the breakfast table.
“What’s ungodly about it?” he drawled. “I’ve been up since dawn.”
“That may be so, but no one in London ever pays a call before noon.”
“I didn’t realize you English were such lie-abeds.”
“Mrs. Harris and I are both up, aren’t we? We’re simply unprepared for visitors. You should remember that next time.”
“I’ll surely try,” he said through gritted teeth. Clearly Lucas wasn’t used to being “instructed” in anything.
She hid a smile. She would make him rue the day he ever tangled with the daughter of the Earl of Tovey. Gesturing to his sheathed sword, she said, “I thought we agreed last night that you shouldn’t arm yourself for social affairs.”
He laid his hand on the hilt. “It’s the mameluke sword I offered to show you.”
A thrill shot through her, unbidden. All right, so the scoundrel had brought her the one thing guaranteed to spark her interest. That didn’t mean she should fall down at his feet in a swoon.
“How kind of you,” she said coolly, though she ruined the effect by hurrying over to clear a space for it on the end of the table opposite where Mrs. Harris continued to eat her breakfast. “Bring it over here so I can see it.”
He did as she asked, unsheathing the sword and laying it before her. With her heart in her throat, she examined it thoroughly, imagining him wielding it in battle. The curved hilt of gold-plated brass shone gem-bright, even in the foggy-morning light.
But the blade itself was what most interested her. “What are these?” She indicated the black, Eastern-looking symbols etched along the nearly three feet of tempered steel.
“I don’t know what they all mean, but this one is the Star of Damascus.” He pointed to a six-pointed star. “Damascus sword craftsmen use two triangles joined as a sign of their guild.”
“May I touch the symbols?” she asked.
“Be careful, my dear,” Mrs. Harris called from the other end of the table.
“Yes,” he said, “don’t cut yourself. This is a working sword.”
“A very hardworking sword, I’m sure.” Its numerous nicks and worn spots attested to that. Amelia fingered each one, wondering where it had been acquired. “Did you carry it at Derna?”
“No. My government only issued the mameluke to the rest of us after Hamet presented O’Bannon with his.”
“It’s astonishing.” She skimmed her fingers down the blade. “You keep your sword in excellent condition, Major Winter.”
“I do my best.” His voice sounded rather choked.
She glanced up to find him staring at her hand as she stroked down the blade, then up again. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t as if she could hurt the steel by touching it. From the way he stared, she’d have thought the sword was a living thing, for goodness sake.
Next we were instructed to caress that “sword” men carry between their thighs, first with our hands and then our mouths.
Surely he was not…he did not imagine that she…
She started to jerk her hand back, but something stopped her. The harem book had said that a man became uncomfortable when he was aroused. And Lord knew she wanted to make the major uncomfortable.
Deciding to test that possibility, she caressed the sword again, this time with a lingering, loving touch. “It’s truly magnificent,” she gushed.
He went rigid, a muscle working in his jaw. “Thank you.”
“I’ve never seen such a fine piece of work.” Delighted by the results of her experiment, she stroked the weapon up and down.
His hand shot out to halt hers. “You might hurt yourself. The blade is sharp.”
“It certainly is,” she said coyly. She moved her hand away…only to clasp the hilt.
His audible groan made her want to crow aloud.
She fondled the hilt. “Would you let me do a rubbing of it?”
His gaze shot to hers, and the heat in his eyes gave her pause. “A rubbing?” he said hoarsely. “Of my…er…sword?”
“Yes. I’d take care not to use too much pressure.” She smiled sweetly, though his smoldering gaze made it difficult for her to breathe. “But I doubt I could harm it, as hard as it is.”
“You have no idea.” Without warning, he sat down rather stiffly in a chair and pulled it up to the table.
“Major Winter,” Amelia admonished him, managing a frown, “it’s impolite to sit before all the ladies are seated.”
“You can’t blame the poor man, Amelia,” Mrs. Harris broke in. “You kept him standing too long after his ride over here.”
Her chaperone was watching her with one eyebrow raised, but Amelia was having too much fun to stop. “Nonsense, a short ride is nothing to a big, strapping fellow like him. Right, Major Winter?”
He opened his mouth to retort, but Mrs. Harris intervened again. “Show him your travel journals, dear. He might find them interesting.”
Amelia sighed. There was no way to hide them now. But she wasn’t ready to give up on this delightful game quite y
et.
Chapter Six
Dear Charlotte,
Alas, few men of character have sweet faces. Life’s trials show up first in a person’s features. But I shall see what I can discover about Major Winter, even if I must pry the information from his family’s closed lips.
Your obedient servant,
Michael
As if through a fog, Lucas heard Amelia say, “We should probably sheathe your sword. Will you do it, sir, or shall I?”
Sweat broke out on his forehead. God, yes. Give him a minute alone with the little tease, and he’d have his sword sheathed so quick and deep that—
“I’m sure the major can put it away later,” Mrs. Harris snapped.
Amelia cast a bright-eyed glance at her chaperone that he noticed even in his lust-induced fever. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the damned female was tormenting him on purpose. But how could a flighty virgin turn a discussion of a mameluke sword into sensual torture?
“If we’re not going to sheathe it,” she said in a suspiciously innocent voice, “then I could do the rubbing—”
“Didn’t you mention travel journals?” he ground out. If the lady said another word about rubbing or sheathing, he’d be panting at her feet like a hound. “I’d like to see those.”
Amelia turned a cool smile on him. “Oh, it’s just something silly I do. A big, strong marine like you would find it tedious.”
“I daresay being big and strong has naught to do with it,” Mrs. Harris put in. With a stern glance at her charge, the widow rose and went to the table Amelia seemed bent on shielding from his gaze. Picking up a stack of strange-looking books, she brought them over and set them in front of him.
While Amelia fidgeted, he opened the first, a collection of rough paper sheets bound with string between two thin boards. Each sheet held something different affixed with glue—a newspaper clipping, a theater ticket, a feather.
But along with the usual female things—pressed flowers and sketches of French gowns—she’d included maps, articles about battles, and sketches of unusual characters. Amazingly, the flighty lady had put in facts about every item. She’d even commented on the articles.
Then there was page after page of Barbary pirates—clippings about captures, accounts by captives, descriptions of their culture. Most of it concerned the naval battles, including the march on Derna. She’d even written down his own account.
She sure was a strange little female, wasn’t she?
He turned the page, and a sketch arrested him. “Where did you get this?”
“The Indian chief?” She smiled proudly. “My stepmother drew him.”
Lucas’s pulse quickened. “His fur-lined hide boots show him to be Maliseet.” Lucas stared at her hard. “And the Maliseet live in New Brunswick.”
Her smile faltered. “That can’t be. They don’t have Indians in Brunswick; the Germans would never allow it.”
“No, dear. He’s talking about Canada.” Mrs. Harris poured herself some tea.
“I’m sorry to correct you,” Lady Amelia said petulantly, “but Brunswick isn’t in Canada, wherever that is—it’s in Germany.”
“NewBrunswick is in Canada,” he said tersely, refusing to let her confuse the matter. And could any woman who’d put together journals like these really be as half-witted as Lady Amelia seemed? “From looking at this picture, I’d say that your stepmother has definitely been to Canada.”
“Do you think so? She probably just copied the picture from a book.”
“I don’t know, Amelia.” Mrs. Harris stared hard at her charge. “Your stepmother might very well have visited Canada. She’s quite the world traveler. I daresay that is why Lord Tovey became so enamored of her, that and her for—”
“Major Winter,” Amelia interrupted, “I’m so sorry, but we’re forgetting entirely about your lessons.”
“I reckon we’ll get to it eventually.” He wanted to know what Mrs. Harris had been about to say.
But Amelia was having none of it. “No, really, we wouldn’t want to waste your time. Besides, it’s too perfect a day to stand in here discussing my silly journals. Why don’t we take a turn about the garden? We can talk about the rules of society and enjoy the damask roses at the same time.”
He stared at her another long moment, but she merely looked at him with that inane smile he never knew how to read. “If that’s what you want.” He tipped his head to Mrs. Harris. “Pardon us, ma’am.”
“Certainly,” the widow said, though she gazed at her charge as if Lady Amelia had sprouted donkey ears.
He offered Amelia his arm, and they headed down the hall. He noticed the many rooms, thick rugs, marble fireplaces, and beeswax candles. His cousin’s house didn’t have this many fancy paintings on the wall, and it smelled of tallow candles. Amelia’s family had money, that was for damned sure.
But everything looked new, as if it had been bought in the past few years. If he was right, and the money to buy all this had come from—
“Lucas, slow down!”
Amelia’s voice dragged him from his thoughts, and he realized he’d been striding so fast she was having to run to keep up with him.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he bit out as he slowed his pace.
“You’re awfully eager to see our roses,” she teased.
“I sure am,” he lied. “Nice house. Expensive-looking.” They headed down the back stairs into the big garden. “No wonder the fortune hunters are beating down your door. Have you lived here long?”
Her steps slowed along the garden path. “Long enough. And here’s another lesson for you—it’s horribly rude to talk about money and how much things cost.” She arched one brow. “Even Americans probably follow that rule.”
“You’re the one who brought up fortune hunters last night.” When she eyed him askance, he added, “You should practice what you preach.”
She pouted at him. “And you should take these lessons seriously, sir, or I shan’t even bother to give them to you.”
“I promise you, I’m taking them very seriously.”More seriously than you can possibly know.
“Oh? I daresay you brought your dagger, even after what I said last night.”
In London, with footpads roaming every street? Damned right he had. But he’d stowed it where she wouldn’t notice. “No, ma’am,” he lied, figuring she’d never know the difference.
“You’re just saying that to appease me.”
Eyes gleaming, he halted to open his coat. “Feel free to search if you want.”
When her gaze dropped to survey his chest, then turned admiring, his blood ran hot. As if she could see right through his waistcoat, her eyes did a slow crawl up to his face that sent his pulse galloping. Hellfire and damnation—where had the woman learned to be such a little seductress?
Then she gazed at him from beneath flirtatiously lowered lashes. “Much as I’m dying to find out just how big and strong you really are, Lucas, I had better not.” She glanced beyond him. “And you’d better close your coat before Mrs. Harris puts a swift end to this lesson.”
Sucking in a harsh breath, he followed her gaze. Through an upstairs window, he could see her chaperone sitting at a desk, keeping an eye on them as she wrote something. Damnation. That would make it hard to kiss Amelia into telling him what he needed.
He let his coat fall back into place. “I guess opening my coat is something else I shouldn’t do in good society.”
“Absolutely not.” She continued down the path. “Don’t ever remove it, either.”
He fell into step beside her. “Not even in the card room?”
“Not if ladies are around.” She cut her eyes up at him. “Do you play cards?”
“Once in a while. But I’ve never gotten myself into trouble with them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I suppose you meet a lot of card cheats.”
That was a strange comment. He glanced over to find her watching him closely. “Not too many, why?”
She looked relieved. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“You think Americans are more likely to be card cheats, is that it?”
“Really, sir,” she protested, “you mustn’t take every innocent remark and turn it into a criticism of your countrymen.”
“Have I been doing that?”
“You certainly did last night at the ball. The soldiers were quite put out.”
“Then they shouldn’t talk about battles they damned well never fought in.”
“And you shouldn’t use such foul language.”
He bit back a hot retort. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I’ve spent nearly half my life with soldiers. I sometimes forget how to behave around a lady.”
She tipped her head. “As long as you reform your behavior.”
He snorted. He’d reform his behavior for an Englishwoman when the moon fell into the Atlantic. “I don’t know what your stepmother told you about Americans, but we don’t make a fuss if a man cusses sometimes.” That wasn’t completely true, but he had to turn the conversation back to his quarry.
“Dolly hasn’t mentioned it, no.”
He took a risk. “Kirkwood tells me that her parents were English, not American.”
Amelia increased her pace along the path. “Yes, they emigrated to your country before she was born.”
That fit with what he’d learned about Dorothy Frier. “Where’d she grow up?”
“I have no idea,” she said lightly. “She rarely mentions her life there. It reminds her too much of her late husband, whom she dearly loved.”
“Who was he?” When she raised an eyebrow at him, he added, “Maybe I know him.”
“His name was Obadiah Smith. He owned a trading concern in Boston.”
He frowned. When Theodore Frier had headed north from Baltimore, he’d joined Dorothy in Rhinebeck, New York, not in Boston. And from there, the Friers had crossed the border into Canada.
So was Dorothy Smith not Dorothy Frier? Or had she simply lied to her new family? “I don’t recognize the name, but then I don’t know Boston. Are you sure that’s where she lived?”
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