Tuesday's Child

by Jeanette Baker

  "Apologies are unnecessary," he said, bowing slightly. "If you'll allow me a few hours, I'll return and we shall begin our journey. Georgiana and my mother are waiting to receive you at Langley." He smiled and left the room.

  Once again Tess felt that unfamiliar weakness in her knees.

  He might have impeccable manners and expensive clothing, but the man had the soul of a rogue. No one else could hide his emotions so completely. One moment, his face carved and remote, was shuttered against her. The next, his eyes glinted with amusement and his mouth curved in a shockingly intimate smile that made her wish she was Miss Harrington again and free to smile back.

  Devereaux's mood deteriorated with every step he took on his way to the Prime Minister's offices. His leg was throbbing painfully but it was nothing compared to the bitterness in his heart. He had been correct in his first assessment of Teresa Bradford's character. She was a woman who loved completely and hated passionately. And it appeared that he was to be the recipient of her hatred.

  James Devereaux, Duke of Langley, rising star of British aristocracy and formidable political opponent, had finally met a woman whose candid gaze touched his heart. Unfortunately she considered him the enemy. One of that same arrogant breed who hovered menacingly in the mists along the Chesapeake dragging unwilling victims to serve their stint in His Majesty's Navy.

  His mouth turned down in a mocking grimace. She also happened to be another man's wife. By some cruel twist of fate he had been selected to find the elusive Mr. Bradford and return him to her loving arms.

  What he really wanted was to be a whole man again, to consign Daniel Bradford to the devil, carry Tess to the most remote corner of England, pull the pins from her hair until it fell past her shoulders in primitive splendor, and bury himself in the promise of that passionate mouth until the hatred died forever.

  Chapter 2

  Lord Liverpool, Prime Minister of Great Britain, sat in his office at Westminster drumming his fingers. Where was Devereaux, he fumed silently? The Prince Regent expected an answer to the colonial problem and he expected it immediately. Perspiration beaded his upper lip. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. It would be a welcome relief to turn over the whole mess into the capable hands of the duke of Langley.

  He looked up as the door opened.

  "James." Exasperation was evident in every shining pore of his face. "Where have you been? I've just come from Prinny. The worst has happened!"

  James, his face inscrutable, sat down in the only comfortable chair in the room. Almost immediately the pain in his leg receded.

  "Enlighten me, please."

  "The colonies have declared war. That damned Madison listened to the War Hawks after all."

  "How long ago?" The clipped voice demanded.

  "The eighteenth of June."

  James whistled. "My compliments to Liston. The news is barely warm."

  "I hardly know what to think." Liverpool laced his shaking fingers across his chest. "How long do you think the militia along the Canadian border can hold out without reinforcements?"

  "There are no reinforcements to send them, m'lord," Devereaux stated calmly. "They'll have to hold out for as long as it takes."

  "Damn it, James," the Prime Minister's fist slammed down on his desk. "Are you suggesting we simply desert them?"

  James's face darkened with anger. "Wellington is in Spain fighting for England's right to exist. May I remind you that Napoleon intends to reign supreme in Europe. If we continue to rob the general of any more men, the British Empire may very well be brought to her knees."

  Liverpool quailed under the contempt in the scathing words. Langley was something of an enigma in Parliament. He wasn't a comfortable man to be around nor did he have the heart of a politician. He was too principled, too straightforward and utterly uncompromising. He was also incredibly wealthy. His lands stretched across the length of England and Scotland.

  For generations, a Devereaux had taken his seat in the House of Lords. When the late duke died ten years before, it was expected that James would follow the tradition of his ancestors. This he had done with enormous success. Blessed from birth with the Devereaux looks and more charm than one human being should decently have, he had surprised his colleagues with the finest mind to be found in government circles.

  The Prime Minister depended on that mind more than anyone knew. He decided to change his tactics.

  "Have you seen Bradford's wife?"

  The blue eyes glinted. "Yes," he replied guardedly, "I've seen her."

  Liverpool sighed. "It doesn't matter. She may have served our purposes when there was still a chance of averting war. Now, she is useless to us. Send her home, James. You can't wish to house an American when our countries are at war."

  "Have you forgotten that Adam Bradford is a staunch Federalist, and the Federalists are overwhelmingly opposed to war with England?" James measured his words carefully. "The senator from Maryland is a powerful statesman. Unless you want the entire United States of America allied against us, I suggest we make every attempt to find his son."

  Liverpool stroked his chin with blunt fingers. "What of Teresa Bradford? Can we expect her to cooperate?"

  James thought of the straight back and moon-bleached hair, the clear perfection of skin drawn tightly across delicate bones and the low soft drawl of the Chesapeake in her speech. He knew as surely as he drew breath that Teresa Bradford would never cooperate with an Englishman. The bitter hatred for everything British was as much a part of her heritage as those eyes that revealed the secrets of her soul.

  "It depends what you mean by cooperate." Devereaux's hooded lids fell over his eyes.

  Liverpool exploded. "Don't play games with me. Can you guarantee she won't make a scene or stir up the liberals against us? Lord knows there are enough of those."

  "Can you guarantee that American citizens won't be impressed into the British Navy?" James quickly retaliated.

  "You know as well as I that half the seamen on American merchant ships are British deserters. We won't win a war that way."

  James leaned back in his chair. "We will never win a war with America. The best we can hope to do is hold Canada."

  "Explain yourself, man," the Prime Minister demanded. "You're an intelligence officer. How can a miserably underdeveloped nation with an enormous coastline possibly win a war against the greatest navy on the seas?"

  Stretching his good leg, James surveyed the immaculate design of his right topboot. "Have you seen a Baltimore clipper, m'lord?"

  "What on earth does that have to do with anything?"

  "The shipwrights of Baltimore have managed to turn out a vessel that is capable of out-sailing any craft afloat."

  The authoritative words succeeded in silencing Liverpool. He listened intently as James continued.

  "They have larger blocks, thinner ropes and an immense spread of sail designed to tack and then dart away under the very guns of our frigates. We've nothing of their like in all of Britain."

  "We can build them," Liverpool protested, "or better yet capture them."

  Amusement darkened the blue of Devereaux's eyes to a deep sapphire. "Are you familiar with the American privateer, m'lord?"

  Liverpool sighed. "No, I'm not but I'm sure I will be shortly."

  James threw back his head and laughed. After a moment the older man joined in reluctantly. It was hardly the time for merriment but that contagious mirth could not be denied.

  "Tell me if I'm becoming obnoxious, sir," Devereaux said at last, the grin still present on his face. "I've no desire to become another Lord Castlereagh."

  Liverpool laughed once more. "I agree the foreign minister has much to learn about diplomacy. When you see your colleagues disappear as soon as you arrive, then you'll know. You're not there yet, James." He was all business once again. "Tell me more about the American privateer."

  "Very well." Devereaux leaned forward again emphasizing every word. "Even if we could build or capture American sh
ips we couldn't sail them. We've neither the knowledge nor the inclination to sail beneath the very noses of the enemy only to turn and run before a single shot is fired." There was reluctant admiration in his voice. "They've bested us this way before. Honor isn't as important to an American privateer as results." He looked toward the window, repressing the urge to walk across the room and look outside. He was long past taking for granted the effortless movements he had enjoyed only a brief year ago. Dancing, sparring, hunting, that life was over for him. A simple walk to the stables from the back door of Langley took enormous concentration, accompanied, as it always was, by white-lipped, shirt-drenching pain.

  Through the long window he could barely see the American minister's residence with the stars and stripes of the United States waving proudly in an English breeze. He wondered if it was possible for a woman raised on the warm banks of the Chesapeake to come to terms with life in England? The white line deepened around his mouth. She had no choice. James Madison had declared war and in so doing had consigned Daniel Bradford to the devil. Like it or not, Tess would not be allowed to return to America. She was a prisoner of the Crown.

  "How's the leg, lad?" The Prime Minister's voice broke through his thoughts.

  James looked up to find the older man eyeing him anxiously. "It's fine, sir."

  "It was a nasty wound. Perhaps you should have stayed at Langley another month to recover." He shivered, remembering the icy fear that consumed him when he'd heard that Devereaux had taken roundshot in the leg during the siege of Badajos.

  Through pouring rain, Wellington had written, the duke had been carted senseless, in a rude wagon over rugged mountains for three days, unable to keep down food or water. While awaiting transport to England, his fever had been dangerously high and even Wellington, who refused to admit that the young man he had grown to depend on was seriously injured, knew he would never be back.

  It had been left to the Prime Minister to inform Langley's mother, the infamous Leonie Devereaux, that the fourth Duke of Langley, her beloved child and only son, scion of an unbroken hereditary line over seven hundred years old, was mortally wounded and would probably die before his ship reached English shores. Below the knee, his leg had atrophied. Given the crude conditions of the peninsula, there was little the surgeon could do except amputate.

  Liverpool would never forget that interview. He had never done anything harder in his life. The duchess had received him in her blue-and-gold sitting room, graciously offering tea. Not once did she weep or cry out. Indeed, he would have felt more comfortable if she had. It was the icy composure in the long, thin hands resting in her lap, and the rigidly controlled expression on the flawless features that unnerved him. Even her eyes were shuttered against him.

  It was almost inhuman, reflected Liverpool, for a woman to be capable of such steel.

  Thankfully, Langley had recovered. Watching the remote, carved features of the younger man, Liverpool wondered, once again, what manner of childhood the Devereaux offspring must have had with a mother like Leonie.

  "You needn't be concerned, my friend," Devereaux interrupted his thoughts. "I'll be at Langley soon enough, with an extremely charming rebel to keep me company."

  Liverpool frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Wait until you see Teresa Bradford." James was enjoying himself. "One look at her will push American sympathies to new heights."

  The Prime Minister groaned. "Dear God, what next?" He sighed helplessly. "Do me one favor, James. Keep her at home. We've trouble enough without a beautiful exiled patriot turning the tide against us."

  "I'm afraid I can't help you," answered James. "Georgiana has been promised a London season and nothing short of a death in the family will stop her." He moved stiffly toward the door. "I can hardly imprison her friend inside the walls of the Langley town house."

  "Wait!" Liverpool's command stopped him from turning the knob. "I know how you feel about this conflict with America, and I'm sorry for it. But," he hesitated, "as a favor I ask you to not speak against it. I could use an ally in Parliament." It was as close to pleading as Lord Liverpool had ever come.

  James turned slowly toward the Prime Minister, noting the lines of strain in the blunt features that hadn't been there before.

  "My apologies, m'lord," he said gently. "But, I am pledged to Wellington. Support for the American conflict would be to sell him out."

  "Are you sure it isn't the beauteous Mrs. Bradford that has your loyalties so divided?"

  From across the room Liverpool could see the blue eyes darken. He was suddenly very grateful he would never meet Lord Langley on the field of battle.

  Devereaux's voice was dangerously soft. "It would be a great mistake to repeat such a suggestion." He bowed. "Good day, sir."

  James was almost at the door of the office assigned to him when a voice called out from down the hall.

  "Devereaux, what the devil are you doing here?"

  He turned to find a very tall, fair young man with a thatch of shocking white-blond hair, merry brown eyes and a nose that had never recovered from a childhood break, bearing down upon him.

  "Charles." A warm smile lit the duke's harsh features. "You've saved me the trouble of finding you."

  "Good Lord, James, you look wonderful!" Charles Mottsinger, Honorable Captain of His Majesty's frigate, The Macedonian, clasped his friend's shoulder affectionately. He wore a blue coat with gold trim, an intricately tied silk cravat, and breeches of pristine white.

  "You've completely recovered. No one, seeing you four months ago, would have believed it possible."

  "You aren't the only one who thought to see the last of me," replied James dryly. "I've never been so deluged with invitations in my entire life. If I attended every dinner party and ball where my presence was requested, I should have no time for anything else."

  "There might be another reason for that, my friend." The captain's grin broadened. "You're the duke of Langley, recently sold out of the army and unmarried." He looked at the splendid elegance of the tall man beside him. "You're not entirely unattractive, you know. I'm sure the matchmaking mamas are planning your downfall this very moment."

  "Don't be absurd." A tinge of red shone faintly under James's dark skin. "Under the circumstances, I'm hardly in a position to offer marriage to anyone."

  "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "My limitations should be obvious, Charles. It would take a most unusual woman to look beyond them." Unbidden, a fair-haired image with wide, thickly lashed grey eyes flickered through his mind. He squashed it immediately.

  A tide of scarlet surged across Mottsinger's fair cheekbones. "That's the most absurd, self-pitying notion I've ever heard you express," he blustered. "You've sixty thousand pounds a year, a title that goes back to the Conqueror and a way with women that is the envy of every man in London, including myself."

  Langley held up his hand. "I've changed," he said briefly. "Now, if you don't mind I'd like to discuss something else." He held his friend's gaze with a level stare.

  "Very well," replied Charles stiffly. "I beg your pardon."

  James brushed aside his apology. "Never mind that. I've news, and a few questions of my own. Shall we go into my office?" He held the door open for the captain to precede him.

  Easing himself into the wing chair behind the desk, James stretched out his aching leg and gritted his teeth. The stump throbbed painfully. What he wouldn't give for the comfort of his own room at Langley. If he could make it through the next hour or so he would soon be on his way home.

  Motioning Mottsinger to the chair in front of him, he began his investigation.

  "What do you know of Teresa Bradford?"

  Charles blinked in surprise. "Only that she was a passenger on my ship bound for a visit to your sister. Why do you ask?"

  "You may as well know. Soon it will be all over England," James replied bitterly. "Madison has declared war."

  "Good God!" Clearly shaken, Charles slumped in his chair. "I can
't believe it."

  "Come now, Charles." Devereaux's eyes were steady on his face. "Did you really think the Americans would sit by and watch us blockade their ports, restrict all trade, and impress their citizens without retaliation? You of all people should know they aren't cowards."

  "Napoleon is twice the culprit Admiral Cockburn is," Charles protested.

  "Perhaps so," agreed James. "But tell that to an American."

  "Boston is full of Federalists," argued the captain. "You can be assured they'll not stand for it if trade is interrupted for long."

  "Tell me about Mrs. Bradford," James repeated.

  "I know nothing." Charles was bewildered. "She was very lovely, intelligent and gracious, but unfortunately, newly married." He frowned. "I didn't think to ask where her husband was."

  "Her husband was impressed by a British man-of-war and she's come to England to find him." No hint of emotion revealed itself on Devereaux's implacable face but his eyes were light and hard as steel. "I've given my word that I'll help her."

  "I see." Charles looked thoughtful. "Does she know we're at war?"

  "Not at the moment."

  Charles whistled. "I don't envy you, my friend. What do you want from me?"

  Relaxing, James grinned. "I knew you wouldn't let me down. I want you to find out which naval vessels were prowling the Chesapeake on April the seventh of this year. The sooner we find Adam Bradford's son, the better."

  "There may be another problem," Charles said slowly. "Mrs. Bradford is the daughter of Nathanial Harrington. The man is as rich as Croesus and one of the most powerful shipping magnates in America. Good God, James, he's the man that designed the Baltimore clipper, damn his unholy soul. He's not a war hawk, but he hates everything British." He ran his finger nervously through the folds of his cravat. "If he finds you're keeping his daughter against her wishes, he may be able to increase production of his vessels to a degree that could threaten English naval superiority on the seas."