by Hatch, Donna
She picked up her gun and raised her chin. “Married to my husband,” she replied primly. “Good day, sir.”
“Wait,” he called, undaunted. “What is your name?”
She stowed the gun on the saddle and turned back, holding Prince’s reins. After dredging up every ounce of haughtiness she possessed, she looked down her nose at him and hoped he’d believe her façade. “As it is unlikely that you and I shall ever meet again, it hardly matters.”
His compelling laugh rang out again. “Then I shall just have to call you Angel.”
Far from being offended by her rebuff, he dared laugh at her. Twice! Annoyed more than she’d believed possible, she led her horse to a nearby boulder to use as a step. After mounting and settling herself upon the side-saddle, she looked back with a frown, partly to reassure herself that he suffered no dangerous injuries, partly to restate her disapproval of his shocking conduct.
Most of all, to show him that she felt nothing whatsoever for him.
Or his scandalous kiss.
Still lying on his back, his eyes traveled lazily over her figure as if what he saw pleased him in an ungentlemanly way. “Farewell, my angel.”
“Humph.” She turned her horse to the narrow path.
His laughter chased her as she left the hollow.
She paused at the rise and looked out. The valley lay below her in every direction. No other riders appeared to be in the vicinity. It would be safe to leave the man and child here without fear of further encounters with ruffians.
She glanced back. The boy was helping the man to his feet, both speaking a language she could not identify. Spanish, perhaps? As she watched, they both mounted the blue roan and rode off in the opposite direction. Despite his obvious pains, his laugh rang out over the valley again.
Fighting a smile of her own, she shook her head at the man’s audacity and tried to banish the memory of his hands on her face and his lips on hers.
Most of all, she tried to banish the unwelcome awareness he’d stirred within her. The scoundrel! The next time she saw a man in danger, she’d keep her distance.
CHAPTER 2
In his bedroom of the manor house he’d let for the summer, Jared waved off his valet hovering anxiously nearby.
“No, Gibbs, no need to contact the constable. The villains are, no doubt, long gone by now.”
Frowning, Jared examined the bloodied ring around his neck in the looking glass and suppressed a shiver at the memory of the noose. His swollen lip and eye had turned interesting shades of purple. Each time he drew a deep breath, searing pain flared in his ribs. The bump on the back of his head throbbed in earnest.
Few could have managed to creep up and clout him on the back of the head. Apparently, Leandro had been less drunk than usual or Jared surely would have heard him coming.
“A doctor then, sir?” the valet persisted.
“Not necessary. No serious harm done.” Nothing a good bottle of rum wouldn’t cure. Since English gentlemen normally avoided such crude liquor, he’d have to settle for brandy. Hmmm. Perhaps being landlocked would have a few advantages, after all.
He cursed his stupidity at letting down his guard. When José had gone missing, Jared’s instincts had screamed of sinister forces at work. He’d shed his gentleman’s clothing and gone out after the boy alone, unwilling to trust any of his new staff. The servants must never discover his secret life.
He should have used more caution. Though he had eliminated most of his enemies before he left the sea, his safety remained far from sure. His recklessness had placed José in mortal danger. Jared’s hands clenched and a sick dread knotted his stomach. He harbored no doubts that Leandro and his toady, Santos, would have killed them both. Painfully. It would have been a pity, too, with all the work he had yet to do.
No one except the British Secret Service was supposed to know he’d come to this quiet village. Especially not Leandro. His presence might ruin everything. He couldn’t fail now so close to freedom.
“I shall prepare your bath, sir. Dinner will be served shortly.” Gibbs’s statement brought Jared back to the present.
“Very good, Gibbs.”
“And sir, you have an appointment with your tailor tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, yes, for Lady Standwich’s soirée. Don’t I have anything formal enough for that?”
“Oh, no sir. You’ll need a black superfine for a soirée.”
Jared frowned as he considered enduring another session with the tailor. His favorite manner of passing the time did not involve standing in his skin while a man with pins in his mouth measured, tucked and poked. However, since his assignment depended upon fitting in with polite society, he would bear it without complaint.
“Very well. I’ll go to Port Edmunds and submit myself to the tailor’s torture.” Besides, he needed to check on his ship.
Jared was almost certain Gibb’s lip twitched into a triumphant smile as he gathered Jared’s discarded clothes and left. Jared sank into the slipper tub. The warm water soothed his soreness but not the pain in his ribs where Leandro administered his parting shot. The damage would be inconvenient but not crippling. He leaned back and drew a breath, his tension fading.
José was safe. Because of the courage of an angel, they’d survived the afternoon. At the moment, little else mattered.
Gibbs bustled in, added a log to the fire, and meekly offered a towel. A week ago Jared had forcibly taught his new valet that he was fully capable of drying himself. As Jared made use of the towel, he smiled at the memory of the valet quailing under his wrath.
Gritting his teeth, he remained still while the uncomfortable business of being dressed by another person commenced. With all the layers of clothing polite society demanded—shirt, collar, waistcoat, frockcoat, and especially the cursed cravat with its complicated knots—he had to admit he would never have managed without Gibbs’s practiced hands.
Pirates dressed more comfortably than the civilized gentleman, and when Jared had posed as the pirate Black Jack, his devil-take-it attitude had won him the freedom to dress however he pleased rather than as some dandified weakling enslaved by fashion.
A footman came in as Gibbs finished tying the dratted neckwear. “Mr. Greymore to see you, sir,” he announced.
“Excellent. Ah, show him into, er…” He’d fallen dreadfully out of practice.
“The parlor, sir?” the footman offered.
“Yes. The parlor. Quite.”
“Here, sir, for your face,” Gibbs said.
Jared drew back as Gibbs came at him with a silver tin of—good grief! Was that face powder? “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
Patiently, Gibbs held it out so Jared could see that it lacked any terrifying properties. “Sir, your bruises will draw attention. This will just—”
“No. I am not putting on that stuff. Take it away before I get my sword.”
With a frown of resigned disapproval, Gibbs stepped back. “As you wish, sir.”
Though Jared looked disreputable, like he’d gone five rounds with the champ in fisticuffs, there was nothing—outside of wearing make up, for heaven’s sake—that he could do about it. Besides, little shocked Greymore.
Unlike his normal lope, Jared descended the stairs with all the dignity of a duke. It made for a better image. It also hurt less. He refrained from tugging at the annoying cravat.
He hadn’t been in the parlor since his arrival the previous week. The draperies were thrown wide, and the afternoon sun shone onto the carpeted floors in distorted squares from the leaded glass. No fire burned in the fireplace, and the only sound in the room came from the ticking of a mantle clock. The servants had swept away the last vestiges of dust and neglect in the house. It didn’t even smell closed-in anymore.
A dignified gentleman wearing an immaculate suit waited by the windows. About ten years Jared’s senior, Greymore had recently developed a few grey hairs near the temple, giving him a refined, distinguished appearance. Though slightly shorter than Jared, and a
tad portly, he possessed a commanding presence.
“Greymore,” Jared greeted.
The man turned with a smile and clasped his hand. His bright, sharp eyes swept over Jared. When he caught sight of Jared’s swollen and bruised face and what little of his neck the cravat did not conceal, alarm replaced his smile.
“Good grief! What happened to you?”
“Merely a misunderstanding,” Jared replied.
He might trust Greymore with his life, but he trusted no one with all of his secrets. He went to a side table and poured port from a crystal decanter into two glasses.
“Is that a rope burn?” Greymore persisted.
“An enthusiastic wench, to be sure. Fortunately, this time she used only a rope and not a chain.” He grinned and handed Greymore a port.
Greymore frowned, clearly not believing a word, and sipped the port. “You are the most closed- mouthed man I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve developed a dreadful habit of preferring to live.”
Heaven knew he’d made enough bargains with the devil to live another day. Today was the first time he’d actually found himself within the embrace of a noose.
It was also the first time he’d met an angel. He caught himself before he sighed at the memory.
Greymore eyed him with speculation. “For the first few months on the Peninsula, I wasn’t sure if I could trust you, notwithstanding the Secret Service’s assurances.”
“I’m sure you weren’t alone in that uncertainty.”
“But Rebecca believed in you. And you saved my life. Twice.”
Pain flared at the mention of Rebecca. Stifling it, Jared swirled the port and took a long drink. The liquid warmed him, numbing the ache in his ribs. And in his heart. He summoned a wry grin. “I have my moments. Few, but they do exist.”
“I brought the information you requested.” Greymore retrieved a letter from a hidden inner coat pocket and handed it to him. “These gentlemen in the parish have a vested interest in shipping. Some are owners, others are merely investors. On the next page, you’ll see the name of each ship in their fleet, and which ones have reported losses due to pirates. There’s also a list of cargo stolen.”
Jared scanned the names. Using the Black Jack alias, he’d been the pirate to take some of them. The Intrepid had been the one with the newly married couple traveling on board. The husband had glared at Jared murderously, watching for any sign that his wife would be molested. The bride had eyed him with revulsion and terror.
Those were aspects of piracy Jared would not miss.
“How can I help you?” Greymore’s voice brought him back.
Jared drew a breath. He needed to learn to trust sometime. He pulled at the cravat and decided which of his many secrets he’d need to reveal in order to complete his task.
“We have proof of a coalition of pirates. There have been a shocking number of hits on the most heavily-laden merchant ships over the last four years. Someone is passing information from the shipping business to a leader of the pirate ring. The leader goes by the name O Ladrão, but we don’t know who he actually is.”
“O Ladrão? What does that mean?”
Jared quirked a wry grin. “It means ‘the thief’ in Portuguese. O Ladrão then sells information to other pirates in his organization in return for a percentage of the plunder. There are at least three men between O Ladrão and the pirate captains. None of the informants know the identity of anyone in the ring except the one man directly above him to whom he passes on the information.”
Greymore’s gaze turned probing. The unspoken question, ‘were you one of those pirate captains,’ hung in the air, but Jared volunteered nothing.
Finally removing his piercing stare, Greymore chewed on his lower lip. “We created those miscreants when we turned respectable merchants into privateers during the war.”
Jared nodded. “After the war ended, some privateers turned to outright piracy instead of returning to honest work. And someone is organizing a number of them.”
“A pirate coalition,” Greymore said thoughtfully. “A chilling thought. What do you know?”
“I’ve followed the trail here to a member of the gentry or the aristocracy. Find him, we find O Ladrão.”
Greymore frowned. “What do you propose we do? Search every house looking for incriminating evidence?”
Jared couldn’t resist needling him a bit. “We could try to get hired on as someone’s servant and eavesdrop, but that would take an awfully long time if we do it for every house here.”
Greymore’s frown deepened. “That, and I’m well known here. But you aren’t the only one good with disguises.”
Grinning, Jared waved him off. “I don’t think we’ll need to resort to that.” He read through the list again. “Many of the members of the ton have shares in shipping. None of the names listed here have any obvious connections; all have suffered losses due to pirate attacks.” He looked up from the paper and stared, unseeing, out the window. “I wonder if O Ladrão has allowed his own ships to be boarded to throw suspicion off himself. The goods might be sold at a smuggler’s port and thus the losses could be recouped.”
“Hasn’t the navy shut down all the smuggling coves?”
“They’ve made a valiant attempt. But I know of three that remain undisturbed.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Garner invitations to social events so I can meet people here. Then keep my mouth shut and listen. Maybe I’ll hear something interesting.”
“Hmm. I read somewhere that an unwed gentleman who has money must invariably be looking for a wife. If word gets out that you’re wealthy, and unmarried, all the mamas will throw parties for you.”
Jared made a face and replied with great reluctance, “I suppose that’s one option.”
“We’ll have to make up some wild story about how upright and virtuous you are, or everyone will see you for a rake and lock up their daughters. You’ll receive few invitations.”
“You’ve always been good at telling tales. Very well. Tell your friends I’m an upstanding gentleman of means seeking the peace afforded by the countryside.”
Greymore wagged a finger at him. “See to it that you behave in a manner that would not contradict that story.”
Jared held up his hands in surrender. “I will be the picture of propriety. Although it’s gatherings that attract men folk that I want, not marriage marts filled with conniving mothers. I didn’t come here to get leg-shackled.”
“You’ll meet the men because the ladies will have their husbands call upon you and invite you to hunt or have dinner and so forth in order to determine your suitability for their daughters. They’ll fall all over themselves to meet you.”
“I’m only a second son.”
The older man waved that off. “You’re the son of an earl, and you’ve amassed a fortune. Trust me, they’ll consider you ideal. Besides, women with no taste seem to find your looks tolerable.”
“Your flattery makes me blush,” Jared murmured with a wry grin that pulled at his sore lip.
A picture of shallow, grasping women flashed into his mind, like sharks in a feeding frenzy. At least the women here wouldn’t be afraid of him.
“It’s my money women find attractive,” Jared added.
“Right,” Greymore said dryly. “And it’s been how long since you’ve slept alone?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t tell.” Actually, Greymore would be disappointed to learn the truth. People often assumed by his playful and impulsive nature that he was a philanderer. He’d have to work on his demeanor and be the kind of gentleman fathers would trust with both their daughters and their secrets. Especially their secrets.
Greymore snorted. “Just don’t seduce any virgins.”
Jared let out an inarticulate cry of outrage. “What do you take me for? I never seduce virgins.”
Greymore pinned him with a searching stare. Jared resisted the urge to tug at his cravat. Cursed thing!
Removing his ass
essing gaze, Greymore finished his drink. “Mr. Hogan is fond of faro, and we’re having an evening of games at his house two days hence. Care to join us? It would be the perfect way to introduce you to the others in the area.”
Jared groaned. “I haven’t played faro in years. I suppose I should plan to lose heavily.”
“They’ll love you if you lose.”
Jared made a sound that was partly a laugh, partly a snort. “No doubt.”
“And I’m hosting a riding party in three weeks.”
“Perfect. And Lady Standwich has invited me to her soirée in two weeks.”
Greymore’s eyebrows rose. “How’d you manage an invitation from Lady Standwich?”
“Connections, dear fellow,” he replied, a bit smug.
At the thought of a social affair involving ladies, a sudden hope flared. The soirée might prove more useful than he originally thought. His angel’s genteel demeanor, cultured accent, and the quality of her expertly tailored riding habit firmly proclaimed her a noblewoman. She’d no doubt be a member of the same elite social circle in which Lady Standwich traveled.
And yet, the haughtiness he often encountered in peers and their kin remained absent in that lady. She’d attempted to emulate that attitude after he kissed her, but her anger and indignation only masked her true emotions. Emotions which clearly surprised and frightened her.
“Say, Greymore, do you know a lady in this area with blond hair and grey eyes? She appeared perhaps five and twenty. She’s pretty and very proper.”
“That describes about half the women in the parish,” Greymore replied dryly.
“This one is special.”
Greymore rolled his eyes. “You are here to fulfill an assignment, not bed every poor, hapless woman who has the misfortune of crossing your path.”
“None of the women I bedded were hapless or misfortunate,” Jared replied with a wounded tone. Building on Greymore’s suggestion, he added to the tale. “Moreover, most of them are the seducers; I had to be the gentleman and oblige their whim. Think of how rejected they would have felt had I refused.”
