Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘Good day,’ Alice said with a smile, fearing she looked more like a vagrant than a peer’s wife with dust on her shoes and clinging to her hem. ‘Do you have any post for me today?’

  The woman made a show of checking an array of five pigeonholes behind her. ‘Not today, my lady,’ she said brightly. ‘Unusual for you not to have a letter or two.’

  A tremble started low in Alice’s stomach, an odd little quiver. She swallowed. ‘Have there been letters for me over the past few weeks?’

  The woman’s iron grey brows drew together. ‘Your man picked them up. He brought a letter from his lordship giving him permission.’

  The woman must be confused. ‘But none addressed to me personally?’

  The red in the woman’s cheeks deepened. ‘Do you mean that man of yours hasn’t been giving you your post?’

  Apparently so. A hot buzz sounded in her ears. Anger. She took a deep calming breath and smiled at the woman. ‘Mr Simpson is sometimes forgetful. May I borrow a letter opener, and a pen? I have just thought of a postscript I wish to add to my missive.’

  The postmistress proferred a pen and sealing wax. Alice took them to a table against the wall and pulled out the note for Selina. She dashed off a few lines across those already written and returned to the now very suspicious woman.

  Pretending unconcern, despite the hot fury in her veins, she handed over the letter and the woman dropped it into a canvas bag at her feet. ‘Please keep any post addressed to me here until I call for it personally,’ Alice said.

  The woman sniffed. ‘Interfering with other people’s post. Ain’t right.’ She pressed her thin lips together, as if to keep from saying more.

  Alice gave her what she hoped was a not-to-worry smile and headed for the door. ‘I am sure it is a simple mistake.’

  The woman jerked a disapproving chin. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  Outside, low clouds now covered the sky, releasing their burden in the form of a light drizzle. Alice put up her umbrella. Her gaze lingered on the inn just a few yards down the road. Might Simpson be there? He had some explaining to do. And she wanted her letters.

  She set her steps for the inn, avoiding the puddles that were already forming in the rutted lane. The cottages on either side of the road hunched beneath their sodden thatch with nary a sign of their occupants. At the green, she glanced up at the sign, the King’s Arms, an overly grand name for a one-storey thatched and half-timbered building boasting one taproom.

  The idea of bearding Simpson in his den no longer seemed quite so attractive. After a moment’s hesitation, she straightened her spine and marched around the back to the stables.

  A down-at-heel groom forking hay looked up at her entry.

  ‘Is Mr Simpson here?’ she asked, closing her umbrella and giving it a shake.

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Mr Simpson, is it?’ He chewed on the straw sticking out of his mouth.

  ‘George,’ she said, remembering. She smiled. ‘He’s expecting me.’

  ‘Aaar,’ he said, somewhat mysteriously. ‘He’s not in.’

  She gulped a quick breath. ‘He said to wait.’

  He chewed his straw, then jerked his head to the back wall. ‘Up them stairs, then. Key’s under the mat. Don’t steal ought or he’ll have your guts. Not a man to cross, our Mr Simpson.’

  Apparently female visitors were not an unusual occurrence for Simpson. Lucky for her. She climbed the wooden steps to the landing, a half-loft really, found the key and opened the door. The smell of stale smoke hit the back of her throat.

  Simpson’s quarters were spartan. A hammock hung across one corner, a neatly made cot against one wall and a table and chair beneath the window. A row of hooks held two shirts and an overcoat behind the door. Breathless, not from climbing the stairs, but from the press of her rapidly beating heart against her lungs, Alice ran to the window. She peered up and down what little she could see of the lane. A workman hurried past on foot. A woman scurried along beneath her umbrella. No Simpson.

  But he could return at any moment.

  She whirled around. If he had stolen her letters, would he keep them or destroy them?

  Only a pipe in a stand inhabited the rough wooden table. A sea chest had been pushed beneath the cot. She dragged it out. Dash it. It was locked.

  She lifted the ticking mattress. A document fluttered to the floor. A letter. She lifted the mattress higher and discovered another caught in the bedropes. She scooped them up and walked to the window. Each was addressed to her. Both from Selina.

  She wasn’t forgotten.

  She glanced outside. The inn courtyard was empty.

  She opened the one dated first. ‘Glad to get your note…Mrs Bixby’s rout a disaster…Father still absent from town…’

  The second was along the same lines, but began with a querulous question about why there had been no reply to her last missive. And then Michael’s name jumped off the page. ‘…taken London by storm. There are even whispers of his adventures at sea…ladies swooning at his every glance.’

  She frowned. Michael? In London? There had to be some mistake. He was at sea repairing their fortunes.

  Alice’s hand shook.

  She steadied the paper and continued reading. ‘They say he’s won a fortune at White’s. When I saw him in Bond Street and asked after you, he said you preferred the country and, if I may say so, was really quite rude, wandering off while I was speaking. Now I hear he has left town to visit a cousin. I made enquiries about your father, but no one has seen him recently.’

  She couldn’t breathe. It was as if some great weight had landed on her chest and was restricting the air. Michael was in London, enjoying himself. And Father had disappeared?

  Surely not.

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples and gazed unseeing out of the window.

  Michael had lied about going to sea.

  The bottom fell out of her stomach and it hit the ground with a sickening jolt.

  She’d trusted him and he’d lied.

  An ache in her chest rose up in a hot hard lump to scour her throat and scald the backs of her eyes. She clutched her arms around her waist. Something tender and small, the seedling of hope she’d nurtured after their last night together, a hope for more than a marriage of convenience, seemed to wither inside her.

  No. She would not believe the worst of him, not without proof. She’d been sure he meant to treat her honestly. So hopeful for the future. But the recollection of the way he’d left ground away at her defences.

  And where was Father?

  A cold chill ran down her back.

  Only Michael could explain. And she needed to tell him about Simpson’s odd behavior. She skimmed Selina’s note. Michael had left town to visit a cousin. Jaimie. Then why would he not have come to Hawkhurst Place only a few miles away? She forced the nagging question aside. She would have her answers directly from Michael, not spend time in useless conjecture.

  The distance to Sandford’s was less than ten miles. The letter was dated three days ago. Michael might still be there. If not, she would travel to London.

  Michael. How could you? The thought whirled around in her head. A maelstrom of emotions. Hurt. Anger. Worry. Fear that she’d trusted the wrong man. Again. Let her passions rule her head. She felt sick.

  She took a deep breath. And another. If she left now she could be with Sandford before dark.

  And Simpson? Let him worry when he found her gone, the rotten thief.

  She stuffed Selina’s letters into her reticule, made sure everything looked undisturbed and deposited the key back under the mat. If she was lucky, Simpson wouldn’t realise where she’d gone until it was far too late to follow.

  Michael handed his hat and gloves to the Sandford butler and raised a brow. ‘Garden room?’

  The butler must have seen something of his mood in his face because he stepped back smartly. ‘Yes, my lord. You know your way.’

  Michael strode for the back of the house. This interv
iew with Jaimie was not the triumphant homecoming he’d planned. The weight of the world bore down on his shoulders as he contemplated his news.

  The farther he’d driven from London with the news, the stronger the realisation had become. Alice would never forgive him for what he’d done to her father. Even if he hadn’t physically harmed the man. Even if Fulton was safe with Bones.

  If she found out…

  How would she not? He was going to have to tell her. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know what had happened, or why. She’d never stop looking for the old man.

  The only reason she’d married him in the first place was to save him from financial ruin. She’d sacrificed herself and then she’d trusted Michael to help him out of his difficulties. When she found out the truth, she’d never trust Michael again. He’d never hear her say I love you again, because she wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t go through with it. Not while there was still time to salvage something of his marriage.

  As usual, Jaimie lay among his cushions, his gaze hazy from smoke. Michael’s fingers tingled with the desire to knock some sense into his cousin. But brute force never did any good. Either Jaimie would come to it on his own, or he’d fade away to nothing.

  ‘I have bad news,’ Michael said.

  Jaimie paled. The blue of his veins stood out on his pallid face like rivers drawn on parchment. ‘What has happened? Did something happen to Alice?’

  ‘No. It’s not that. I just came from utterly ruining Fulton—he’s destitute. On the street with nothing to his name, not even his children know where he is, but…’ Chest tight, he dropped to his knees beside his cousin. ‘Jaimie, I’m sorry. I can’t go through with it. I know I swore revenge for the sake of our families, but I can’t do it. I’ll lose Alice. I have to go straight back to London and sort it out.’

  Jaimie laughed. High-pitched and hoarse, he sounded hysterical. ‘Why didn’t you come before this? I wrote to you twenty times this past fortnight.’ He sounded so strained, Michael stilled.

  ‘I told you, I had something to tell you.’

  Michael had a strange sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘What is it?’

  ‘About the fire,’ Jaimie whispered. ‘About what happened.’ His eyes misted.

  Michael reached out and clasped his cousin’s thin shoulders. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to talk about it. I know how it pains you.’

  Jaimie shook the hand off, his face agonised. ‘You don’t understand. I did it. I caused the fire.’

  The words hung in the air, pungent, hot, dizzying, like opium smoke. Michael shook his head to clear it. ‘No.’ It was the only word he could think of.

  Jaimie covered his face with his hands. His bowed shoulders shook. ‘I killed all those people. It was an accident.’ The words frothed forth like wine from a bottle of champagne, except this brew tasted bitter.

  Horror erupted in Michael’s chest. ‘You lie,’ he roared. Yet he knew. He’d broken Alice’s trust for a lie.

  ‘It was l-late.’ Jaimie spoke dully, as if by rote. ‘I could hear music. People laughing and talking. I—I wanted to see the fun. I saw you weren’t in your bed and I thought they’d fetched you down and left me. I crept downstairs and into the ballroom.’ He choked on a sob.

  Michael could only stare. Numbed by denial. He’d planned to forgive Fulton and tell Alice what he’d done. She might have forgiven him then, but this? ‘Oh God, Jaimie.’

  Jaimie inhaled a shuddering breath and began again. ‘There were so many people. Someone knocked the candle out of my hand. It must have rolled beneath the curtain. I saw smoke. No one else noticed. I ran away.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Michael said. ‘This is too important for one of your opium tales.’

  Jaimie pressed his shaking hands over his ears. ‘Let me finish.’ His voice dropped to a grating whisper. ‘When I looked back flames were licking up the curtains, spreading across the floor. I couldn’t move. I knew what I had done and I froze. If I had shouted, anything…’

  Michael couldn’t look at him. He stared up at the reds and blues of the canopy, unable to watch the agony on his cousin’s face, unable to bear the heavy beating of his own heart, or the taste of bile in his mouth. But he couldn’t stop the words from pounding into his head.

  ‘All hell broke loose, Michael. Fire raced across the floor. Furniture. Pictures. It took seconds. And hours. I was rooted to the spot. People yelling. Heat.’ His voice broke. He shuddered for a long moment. ‘Someone tossed me over their shoulder. I hid my face. I couldn’t watch.’

  Sick, numb, legs as heavy as lead, Michael sank back on the cushions. He felt empty. Sucked dry.

  The tears running down his cousin’s face were real. There was no doubt this was the truth.

  Dear God. What had he done?

  He fought to regain his senses. ‘Why, for God’s sake, didn’t you tell me?’ His voice was rough, as if scarred by the long-ago fire.

  Jaimie’s huge brown eyes pleaded for understanding. ‘How could I? For years, I thought you were dead. I’d lived with the guilt, knowing what I’d done and wanting to die. You appeared out of nowhere. A miracle.’ He cracked a bitter laugh. ‘An absolution of sorts. And when we talked about it and you named Fulton, I grabbed for salvation. You were terrifying, Michael. So angry. So hurt. I feared I’d lose you.’

  Instead, it was Michael who would lose everything—again.

  Jaimie stared at the brightly patterned rug, avoiding Michael’s gaze. ‘You were so angry, Michael. I knew you would never forgive me. Hell, I couldn’t forgive myself.’

  It would be hard to forgive, after all this time. Alice’s voice breathed in his inner ear. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, a harsh voice followed up with a rather grim chuckle. His own voice. Oh, the Fates had played him cruelly. Made him blind to everything except his self-righteous anger.

  Dazed, he stared down at the bowed head with its carefully ordered brown curls. His only living blood. ‘Oh God. If you had only told me last time I visited,’ he whispered.

  His cousin lifted his head, the despair in his face painful to see. ‘I wanted to. I saw how you looked at her, Michael, that day after your wedding. I’d never seen such happiness in your eyes. God help me. I wanted to tell you. Before you did anything. I swear it. Why didn’t you come back? I sent messages. Every day. But you never came.’

  Michael remembered the messages. But he’d been far too busy destroying Alex Fulton to heed his cousin’s pleas for a visit.

  ‘Michael, there’s more.’

  A cold chill settled in his gut at the fear on Jaimie’s face. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It was Fulton who carried me out of the house.’ He hesitated, bit his lip. ‘And you. He carried us both out of the fire and collapsed on the grass. I lay down beside him, but you—you disappeared.’

  ‘Are you telling me Fulton saved my life?’

  Jaimie collapsed and buried his face in the cushions. ‘I should have told you.’

  A low ache started at the base of Michael’s skull. He cradled his head in his hands. ‘Then how the hell did I get taken by a press gang?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His hoarse voice was muffled. ‘You—you disappeared. People thought you went back inside.’

  Bright light speared the backs of Michael’s eyes. The old visions of flames danced in his brain. He squeezed his eyes tight, in an effort to remember. There was nothing there. Nothing but the horrific images he wanted to forget. ‘What are you saying?’

  Jaimie looked up then, his eyes and nose red, his cheeks tearstained. ‘Oh God, Michael. I’ve thought and I’ve thought ever since you came back. I think you must have run away.’

  ‘Like a coward.’

  A boy scared witless. It made terrible sense. Somehow he’d ended up at the docks, either carried there by a stranger who found him on the road, or on his own two feet.

  He groaned. He should have known the Fates would play him false, that they’d find a way to punish him for seeing a happi
ness he didn’t deserve.

  Alice had given up her life for him. Given him her trust. Opened her generous heart. And he’d betrayed her.

  She’d hate him. She couldn’t hate him worse than he hated himself. Because if he’d not left his room, the fire would never have happened.

  He deserved to lose Alice.

  The emptiness in his soul deepened into a vast cold wasteland.

  ‘Can you ever forgive me?’ Jaimie asked, his head bowed.

  A shudder ran down his spine. He couldn’t forgive himself.

  He placed a hand on Jaimie’s shoulder, felt fine bones beneath the silky fabric. ‘There is nothing to forgive. It was an accident.’

  ‘I should have told you the day you came here with her,’ Jaimie wailed. ‘I’m such a bloody coward.’

  A pain, bright and white, stabbed Michael behind the eyes.

  The walk in the rain suited Alice’s black mood. By the time she reached Sandford House, she was saturated from hem to knee, and furious. She banged on the front door.

  The butler’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Lady Hawkhurst to see Lord Sandford,’ she said and pushed past him.

  ‘If you’d care to wait in the drawing room, my lady, I will see if his lordship is at home.’

  Alice stripped off her damp gloves. ‘I do not care to wait. Please conduct me to his lordship now.’

  The man looked startled, then shrugged. ‘As you wish, my lady,’ he said in one of those on-your-head-be-it tones butlers practised in off-duty hours. He led the way towards the back of the house.

  ‘Is he in the garden room?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Then there is no need to announce me. I know the way.’ She brushed passed him and picked up her pace. She heard him follow for a few steps and then stop with a muffled exclamation. Good. The element of surprise was on her side.

  As before, the sound of male voices led her to the far end of the conservatory. As before, two men occupied the cushions, but Michael was bent over his cousin, who seemed to be ill.