Sir Loren sat on the edge of the desk and let his palm caress the lid of his iron chest. “When do you anticipate escaping this creaking tub and coming into town? The ladies are asking for you. Lady Montegue insists she will not host another event without you.”
Thomas grinned, “Then perhaps she will intercede with customs on my behalf. I’m given to understand we won’t be cleared for another week or two.”
“That is an outrage!” Lord Whitesall looked to the others for agreement. “If you were shipping perishables, the cargo would rot before it was off-loaded! Something really should be done.”
“You’ve been waiting nearly three weeks already. It’s no wonder our captains complain of pilferage. A clever thief can strip the cargo while our ships wait for clearance.”
Lord Milton Humphershire inspected the wine in his glass. “That hardly seems of concern in this instance, Your Grace”—he raised his hooded eyes to the chests on the desktop—“as the customs officials will find no goods to tax. How clever of you to exchange goods for gold prior to your arrival.
Thomas spoke into an abrupt silence. “The King’s third has been set aside, my lord.” He waved his glass above the largest chest. “No swindle is in progress, I assure you. When the customs officials find time to attend us, they shall receive every guinea owing.”
An unpleasant smile pressed Lord Humphershire’s pale lips. “If I were one of your investors, as I hope to be in future, I would ask to see within the King’s chest and request a counting. Merely as a matter of good business, you understand, not as a reflection upon Your Grace’s character.”
Thomas stood behind his desk and his eyes darkened to a flinty color. “Each investor has received a full accounting. Should any gentleman wish to verify the King’s third, he may do so now.” When he opened the King’s chest to the glittering tumble of coins within, he watched Lord Humphershire lick his lips. None of the men present stepped forward. After a moment, Thomas closed the lid.
“Well,” Lord Battersea said, clearing his throat. “Do tell us, Your Grace. When do you plan another venture? I can assure you no lack of investors. Not with a profit record like yours.”
“Everyone present is prepared to pledge his share of the next venture,” Lord Humphershire added. Avarice gleamed in his small eyes and he leaned forward, the fingertips of one hand touching Lord Battersea’s chest.
“While I am flattered by your confidence, gentlemen, you must seek future profits elsewhere.” Looking into Humphershire’s face, he watched the man’s gaze harden. “You see before you the booty of my retirement voyage. My next adventure shall be into the realm of marriage.”
“More dangerous waters no man can enter,” Lord Whitesall said with a laugh. “Accept our congratulations and our condolences.”
“Hear, hear!”
Lord Humphershire’s face darkened. “You have made your fortune, now it’s to the devil with everyone else?”
“If you imply it is my obligation to enrich you, my lord, I believe you are mistaken.”
“Speak with care, Your Grace. Your title and your wealth may fail you if slander is at issue.”
Thomas’s eyebrows rose. “I beg pardon if I mistook your meaning, my lord.” His cold gaze belied the apology. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten our company further.”
“This.” Lord Humphershire’s hand swept over the iron chests on the desktop. “It’s piracy.”
“Privateering.”
“Privateering, piracy, the words and deeds are interchangeable!”
“For God’s sake, Milton.” Lord Battersea scowled and touched his stock. “Thomas, I do apologize. I had no idea—”
Thomas raised a hand. “If such is your opinion, I find it strange you were willing to invest in a venture you condemn in nearly the same breath. Mr. Pastor shall see you out, Lord Humphershire. Perhaps the night air will firm your views in one direction or the other.”
“They should hang all of you!” Lord Humphershire said at the door. A sweeping glance included each gentleman present, but lingered on Thomas. “Mark me, the time will come when they shall. If not you, then others like you.” His mouth twisted, then he turned to follow Mr. Parsons. They heard his boots stamping up the stairs.
“Thomas, I don’t know what to say.” Sir Loren drained his wine in a gulp and wiped his mouth. “Lord Humphershire has invested heavily in privateering ventures and has either lost his investment or profited minimally. In a moment of weakness I agreed to bring him to meet you, having sung your praises to the sky. Clearly I have much to atone for.”
“The incident is already forgotten. More wine, gentlemen?”
After his friends had departed, Thomas crossed his legs atop his now empty desk and regarded the candle flame. Tonight he had looked into the face of an enemy. Humphershire would not forgive his frustrated opportunity. Sir. Loren Battersea had dangled a carrot and Thomas had snatched it away. Lord Humphershire would not forget.
After lighting a thin dark Caribbean cigar, he leaned back and exhaled a stream of smoke toward the cabin’s ceiling. Christ, he would be glad to get off this ship.
He thanked God that Blusette Morgan had departed long before Lord Humphershire’s arrival. Humphershire was a greedy bastard and dangerous, but he was not stupid. Had Blu remained on board, Humphershire would have asked why Thomas offered transport to such rough baggage. And he knew the original goods had been fenced. Only a fool would dismiss a possible connection.
Thomas turned brooding eyes toward London Town. He wondered where Blu was now and what she was doing. He held an uneasy suspicion fate had not put quit to Blusette Morgan. Their paths would cross again. And as sure as God made mad dogs and Englishmen, the encounter would earn him trouble.
Frowning, he stubbed his cigar in the candle dish. He hoped to God his crew merited his trust. Too many people knew about Blusette Morgan.
Damn her. He ached to see her again.
~ ~ ~
Blu clasped her hands around her fifth tankard of sky blue and swayed happily to a merry tune screeching from the violins near the fight. She had paid bloody well to have the violins continue playing, no matter what occurred under the musicians’ noses.
At present Mouton was cheerfully bashing heads, looking happier than he had since they had arrived in this scurvy town. A slippery-looking bloke crashed against the pub wall and slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. God’s teeth, but it seemed like home, and that was heaven good.
Monsieur had long since caught a fox and was completely dashed. He lay across the puddled table, his wig askew, loud snores rumbling up from his skinny chest. Tomorrow he would be outraged and furious over the stains now seeping into his brocade waistcoat. For the moment, he was blissfully drunk, smiling in his dreams.
“Business, she is brisk,” Isabelle announced happily, dropping into a chair next to Blu. Her braid had unraveled and loose strands of black hair floated about her flushed cheeks. Absently, she tucked a breast into her bodice, licked a thumb, then carefully counted out the gains from the night’s labors.
Blu swallowed a hefty draught of sky blue. Then her eyes narrowed and she jumped to her feet, toppling the chair behind her.
“Mouton! He has a knife!” Until now, the fighting had remained innocent. But a weaselly-looking scab with blood streaming from his nose had pulled a blade from his boot. A cadre of men, obviously the weasel’s friends, formed a half-circle around Mouton as Blu watched. Two brandished clubs, a third waved a knife at his waist.
Mouton’s grin told Blu he was in no danger. Still, she remained standing, allowing herself to hope things might get out of hand and Mouton would request her assistance. As if he had read her mind, Mouton lifted black eyes to her pleading gaze. As the men closed around him, he continued to examine Blu’s eyes, hesitating, then his hands moved.
“If I agree, do you promise this will be the last time?”
“Aye!” Blu shouted happily.
In one smooth motion she hurled her tankard at the
head of the weasel then tucked her skirts up. Without looking up from the coins she was counting in her lap, Isabelle handed Blu a knife she had stolen from a customer in the back alley. It was of far better fighting size than the dagger Blu carried in her garter.
Blu balanced the hilt in her palm, then jumped forward. With a cry of joy, she cut and kicked her way to Mouton’s side. He winked at her, then lifted a bloke by the throat and threw him into the midst of the musicians. They went down in a heap, then someone threw a tankard which struck Blu on the jaw.
“By Christ, now that makes me mad,” she shouted, leaping forward. Drawing back her fist, she smacked one of the scurvy blokes square in the eye. Then she whirled and in a deft movement easily disarmed the weasel. Putting her arm into it, she hurled his knife across the room and stuck it quivering in the wall above Monsieur’s sleeping head. The weasel stared at the knife then looked back at Blu. He nodded his head with respect before she kicked him in the groin and sent him to his knees.
When the fight was over, Blu and Mouton were the only warriors left standing. The pub was littered with fallen bodies, the only music the sound of groans.
“By God’s green balls, that was purely fine!” Dusting her hands with satisfaction, Blu looked about with a broad smile. The pub owner rose cautiously from behind the counter, his eyes wide. Lifting her skirt, Blu removed a sheaf of bills from her garter and slapped them down. “That should pay for your smashed window and the tables.” Monsieur had informed her earlier if she or her party broke anything, it was considered good form to offer payment. Considering the amount of sky blue she had consumed, she was pleased to have remembered.
Isabelle stood and yawned. “It is almost dawn. No more business.”
Reluctantly, Blu looked through the shattered window at the pink sky. She hated to leave and return to Grosvenor Square. But she had made a vow. Henceforth, she would direct all her effort and energy to becoming a lady. She watched as Mouton slung Monsieur over his shoulder, then the four of them left the pub and walked through the predawn streets toward Grosvenor Square.
“Bueno,” Isabelle said, sleepily. “A good night.” Isabelle looked like a whore who had happily enjoyed an evening of brisk commerce. Monsieur snored on Mouton’s shoulder. Mouton and Blu were bruised and bleeding from a dozen minor cuts and scrapes. But if one returned home without a bruise or two, the evening had not been a success.
Spreading her arms in a spontaneous gesture of joy, Blu tilted her face to the sky. “After an evening such as this, a person can believe life is worth living! Tonight is the best time I’ve had since we arrived in this bloody town!” She grinned happily at Mouton.
Mouton returned her smile then signed, “No more. I have your promise.”
“No more,” Btu vowed, her reluctance obvious.
Mouton’s smile widened. “You drank too much. Your head will explode.”
Blu dismissed his words with scorn. “You know I don’t suffer hangovers.”
~ ~ ~
She was wrong.
When she awoke three hours later, her head felt as if flying blades whirled within her skull. When Mary opened the draperies to the morning sunlight, Blu shrieked, then covered her head with her arms and moaned as her shriek bounced around inside her brain.
“God’s teeth! Bloody hell!”
A bar of sunlight glared across the bed and Blu shielded her eyes. But not before she saw Mary’s mouth drop. The girl’s eyes protruded in a stare.
When Blu dragged herself to the vanity mirror, she saw why. Dried blood glued strands of hair to her cheek. A large purple bruise spread over her jawline. Her lip was cracked. Another bruise ran from her collarbone to her shoulder. Her gown was torn and filthy and reeked of gin.
Mary swallowed and spoke in a faint voice. “Madame Truffoux has arrived for another fitting, miss. Lady Katherine requests your presence in her closet.”
“Don’t... don’t shout.” Dropping her head into her hands, Blu swore softly. Hammers pounded at her temples. Her body was bruised and aching. But by Christ, the evening had been worth it. “Tell Lady Katherine I shall appear within the hour,” she said in a whisper.
Because she couldn’t bear the tug of a brush pulling her scalp, she washed the blood from her hair as best she could, then stuffed the dark mass beneath a morning cap. Because she would be undressed for the fitting, she covered herself only with a loose wrapper, adjusting it over the corset she had worn last night. When she finally was as ready as she could make herself, she stepped into the corridor, walking on tiptoe since placing her heels on the floor jarred her spine and sent needles of pain shooting through her head.
Mouton appeared at her side. Grinning, he spoke to her with hand motions she chose not to see.
As she reached Lady Katherine’s door, Aunt Tremble emerged. Aunt Tremble stared up at Mouton, made a small choking sound then dropped in a faint at Blu’s feet.
“How long is this going to continue?” Blu muttered. Sighing, she stepped over Aunt Tremble and entered Lady Katherine’s closet.
“Oh, my God!” Lady Katherine gasped.
“What happened?” Cecile cried when she could speak. Madame Truffoux stared with openmouthed astonishment.
Blu leaned a hand against the wall to support her gin-wrecked knees. Her other hand rubbed her temple. “God’s balls, but I have a prick-twisting hangover! I’m in desperate need of a shot of gin or rum.” She felt their offense before she opened her eyes and witnessed it. The shocked silence reminded her of her vow and she swore beneath her breath as she summoned fresh resolve. She could do this. She could. “What I mean to say, my lady... mercy, but I do have a bit of a headache. I wonder if you might instruct Mary to bring up a pot of tea or chocolate.”
She hated herself for being dishonest, hated herself for sounding the buffle fool. And she absolutely did not want tea or chocolate. She wanted a stiff draught of gin. But this was the very kind of flam that would get her home to Morgan’s Mound. It couldn’t happen soon enough.
“Blusette! What happened to you?” Hastily, Cecile pushed her chair across the room and took Blu’s cold hand, rubbing it between her soft palms. Even Cecile’s gentle voice sounded like a roar. “Did someone...”—Cecile stared upward at Blu’s bruises, scarcely able to give voice to the unthinkable—“did someone strike you?”
“Yes, Blusette, do tell us what occurred after I believed you to be asleep in your bed.” No hint of sympathy warmed the ice in Lady Katherine’s tone.
Speaking as loudly as she could without blowing off the top of her head, Blu explained. “As you recall, it was a warm night.” Each word sounded like a cannon shot. “My friends and I decided to enjoy a brief stroll in the cooler air outside.”
“Yes?” Cecile encouraged, rubbing Blu’s fingers.
“Well.” There was no help for it, the situation called for toe-stepping flimflam. “Not being familiar with the area, we found ourselves in the vicinity of Covent Garden...”
“Oh no!” Cecile’s fingertips flew to her mouth. Madame Truffoux’s shrewd eyes widened.
“Knowing Your Ladyship would disapprove, quite naturally we turned our steps around at once and attempted to hasten home.” At the word “home” Lady Katherine closed her eyes and grimaced.
“You were set upon by thieves and ruffians!” Cecile gasped, her blue eyes large with horror and fascination.
“That is exactly what happened.” Blu drew a breath. “It was horrible. The rascals had knives and cudgels.”
“The watch isn’t worth twiddle!” Madame Truffoux sniffed, beckoning Blu forward as she filled her mouth with pins.
“Then what happened?” Cecile asked breathlessly. “Did the rogues try to kidnap you and do unspeakable things to you?”
“Aye.” She flicked a glance toward Lady Katherine. She could not be certain from Lady Katherine’s expression if Her Ladyship was buying the tale. “That is, yes. The scurvy swine... the rogues might have forced me down and rogered... had their way if Mouton and Mons
ieur had not intervened.”
“Oh my. Oh my, my.”
“Naturally, I was not idle,” Blu murmured, touching the bruise on her jaw, trying to peek at Lady Katherine from beneath her lashes.
“You struck them?” Cecile asked, fanning her face rapidly, breathless with awe.
“I held my end of the oar,” Blu admitted in a modest tone. Madame Truffoux turned her around and slipped a measure-ribbon about her waist, bringing her face to face with Lady Katherine. Lady Katherine’s stony expression suggested it was time to bring the flam to a close. “The experience was terrifying.” She met her mother’s cool, skeptical gaze. “I can assure you it will not happen again.”
“You may depend on it,” Lady Katherine said firmly, moving to the door. “I’ll have a word with Mouton.”
Wondering what was being said, Blu allowed herself to be turned this way and that by Madame Truffoux. Lady Katherine said nothing when she returned, but moved to stand beside the window, looking down into the gardens below.
When the tea arrived, Blu discovered to her astonishment that her portion, poured from a second pot, was heavily laced with gin. She gulped it with relief and gratitude, then cast a look first at Mary then at Lady Katherine’s rigid spine. Which angel of mercy had taken pity on her?
It was Mary, of course. What did Lady Katherine Paget know of hangovers? When Madame Truffoux turned Blu around again, she mouthed thank you to Mary. Mary didn’t appear to comprehend. Looking puzzled, she dropped an awkward curtsy, then hurried from the room.
Blu turned a thoughtful, surprised expression toward Lady Katherine.
No. No, it simply was not possible.
10
Once Blu acquiesced to the notion of becoming a lady and her resistance ceased, Lady Katherine moved with alacrity. Time trickled through Lady Katherine’s fingers; the warm May days lengthened toward June. Society would begin to return from the country in late August; everyone who counted would be in London for the season by September. At that time she would be forced to present Blusette or risk awkward and embarrassing questions. Though she adored gossip, the horror of finding it directed against herself raised nightmares.
Lady Reluctant Page 17
