Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3)

by Lily Silver

  “Does it?” He leaned back from the rail and dropped the spyglass. His look made her shiver, even before he answered her question. “Who owns this ship, my dear.”

  “Why, the count. Count Rochembeau.”

  “Count Rochembeau,” Jack repeated. “A Frenchman.”

  “They would think us spies?” Her voice rose with alarm.

  “It’s possible. We must proceed with caution. I have ship’s papers stating that Donovan R. Beaumont, Count Rochembeau, is the owner of this vessel. We fly English colors, but a man with a French surname and title owns this ship. England is at war with France. They will be leery of us, unless … unless we can find a way to change Donovan’s name on the ownership paper or create a new one–damn it. If only I had something of his with the name O’Rourke. Donovan O’Rourke, it would be so easy to claim an Irishman owns this rig.”

  Chloe nibbled on her forefinger. The nail was ragged. She chewed around the rough edges, attempting to smooth them. “I’ve a letter of introduction from Lord Greystowe. He’s an English earl, a member of parliament.”

  Jack was gazing intently at the sea. He whispered something under his breath–a prayer, a curse, she couldn’t tell–it was too low to hear and the breeze carried it away. He turned suddenly. “We must act quickly. Bring your letter from Lord Greystowe to my cabin.” He hurried down the stairs, calling for Mr. Jinx to attend him immediately.

  Chloe followed him down the steps but could not keep up the same pace, as her skirts hampered her descent to the main deck. Mr. Jinx went below and started shouting orders to the crew. A flurry of activity ensued as men rushed to carry out their captain’s wishes.

  By the time she found the letter from Lord Greystowe and knocked on the captain’s cabin door, the room was full of his officers. A scalpel—she recognized the tool having seen it many times before this in the count’s home—was being held in a flame by Dr. Lewis, the ship’s surgeon. Mr. Jinx sat at the table with an official leather packet in front of him. He was quickly unfolding the papers, seeming to be searching through them for one document in particular.

  Jack turned to her at her entry. She offered him the letter signed by Lord Greystowe and marked with his official wax seal.

  Jack took it from her with one hand and kissed her fingers lightly. The quick, soft, thrilling sensation of his lips upon her flesh made her start. Before she could respond with a smile he had turned away and was offering the paper to his first mate. Jinx took the letter and opened it. He took the scalpel from the surgeon’s hand, and began carefully slicing the underside of the wax seal from her official letter.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, rushing toward the man. “You’re ruining my letter!”

  “It cannot be helped, Mrs. O’Donovan,” Jack put out his arm to forbid her to interfere with Jinx’s exacting work. “O’Donovan!” He said, gazing at her. “O’Donovan!”

  “Bloody hell.” Dr. Lewis exclaimed. “We’ve an Irishman’s widow aboard our vessel.”

  Chloe was not amused by their odd banter. They were acting like idiots. “Yes, my husband was half Irish. What does it matter?”

  “We cannot reveal the ship’s owner is of French origin in the presence of the English navy,” Jack informed her. “We must make full use of your husband’s name and Lord Greystowe’s. Your letter will serve a greater purpose in getting us through that blockade.”

  The thick wax seal came away from the parchment as Mr. Jinx carefully cut the underside with the heated scalpel. Chloe mourned the desecration of her letter from Lord Greystowe that would introduce her to her Spanish relations. It held more power than that of the count’s, as an earl was higher in rank than a count or viscount. She watched as Jinx gently laid the seal on the table on a small metal plate, the impression from his lordship’s ring facing up.

  He studied her letter for a few quick moments, and then began to copy Lord Greystowe’s fancy script. It was incredible. The letters he put on the parchment before him matched Lord Greystowe’s. The cabin was silent, as all the officers watched the forger’s progress.

  Dr. Lewis lifted the silver plate and held it over the candle flame while Jinx worked on the fake document. The bottom of the wax seal began to slide around the silver plate like a half melted pat of butter on a warming pan. “Here we are, Jinx.” The doctor handed the plate to the school master. “Careful, it’s hot on the edges. Just warmed to lift off easy, it is.”

  “That’s it.” Jinx handed the quill to the fellow waiting at his elbow and took the plate from Dr. Lewis. “Not too hot or you corrupt the seal imprint. Just enough to keep the back soft.” He took a silver serving spatula and gently coaxed the implement beneath the softened seal. He lifted the seal and expertly slid it onto the parchment. Being careful not to disturb the seal as it cooled and adhered to the new document, he continued to write a few more lines on the parchment, and lastly, he copied Lord Greystowe’s signature.

  An ink pad was at the ready, brought to him by another man, along with an official stamp. Jinx placed the stamp imprint on the paper to make it appear official. Jinx put the tools of his craft away, sighed, and sat back in his chair. He gazed about at the gathering watching him with solemn eyes. “Congrats, mates, we’re in Lord Greystowe’s employ now. We’ve a new title of ownership with his lordship’s personal seal.”

  “Yo, ho! Hurray for Lord Greystowe and for Mrs. O’Donovan!” the men chanted.

  Jack was laughing, and so was Jinx. Chloe was incensed that they would destroy her precious letter from the earl to create a forged document to get past the English navy.

  “What am I to do now?” she wailed, beyond tears, beyond screaming. “That was to introduce me to polite society as Lord Greystowe’s protégé, his dear friend. How am I to go to my uncle and present myself as a lady without Lord Greystowe’s letter?”

  Jack came to stand before her. She glared up at him. “You forget the greater difficulty here.” His large hands cupped her shoulders, squeezing, comforting. “If we cannot get past the British blockade, there is no getting to dear old Uncle Miguel. We have to disguise the ownership of the Pegasus by using Lord Greystowe’s seal and Jenkins’s skilled penmanship to create the illusion of being owned by an English lord instead of a French one. You have the letter from the Countess of Greystowe to use with your uncle, and from Count Rochembeau as well as the countess. And you’ll have my sworn word that you are the great friend of the high and mighty Earl of Greystowe.”

  “The document is dry,” Jinx said, interrupting the captain’s lengthy speech. “It’s an exact replica of the count’s letter of ownership. I wrote a footnote at the bottom of the page explaining that his lordship bought the ship from a plantation owner in the Indies heavy in debt, in case they happen to have a recent copy of the register among them. Otherwise, if Count Rochembeau’s name is found as the ship’s owner in those pages we’ll have much to explain.”

  Jack released Chloe’s shoulders and grasped her hands. He grinned at her, his excitement transparent. He squeezed her hands. “They won’t. Trust me. None of the naval vessels on active duty away from England’s shore have an updated copy of the register on board. Only the old men at the admiralty in London will have access to that specific information of ship registers and by the time they send word to the admiralty in London inquiring about ownership, we’ll be long gone. Ships change ownership in the blink of an eye, Mrs. O’Donovan. In a game of cards, fortunes are made and lost, and ships find new owners.” He was referring to his own loss many years ago, she realized, but doing it in a joyful tone, not a dirge. He raised her hands and hugged them tightly with his larger ones, seeming to forget he was holding them in his glee. “Thank you for your quick wit, my dear.”

  Feeling a little breathless amid his enthusiasm and the men watching them, Chloe couldn’t help but smile back at this conniving rogue. “You’ve done this before, captain.”

  “Many times. It’s what pirates do, my dear. Sail into a port under false colors and sail out again wi
th a prize. We change flags, have a stack of ink at the ready to hide our true origins—or—at least we did, back in the good old days, aye, mates?”

  The men agreed heartily with their captain. They seemed more animated than they had during the entire voyage. It was obvious these men loved the challenge put to them.

  “We’re a bit rusty, my dear; been honest too long, we have.” Jack winked at her and released her hands from his captive embrace. “But, we’ll get you safely into port, won’t we lads! We’ll have one more adventure to tell our boys at home.”

  “Aye!” the officers said as one.

  An hour later, Captain Rawlings saluted the head of the British Naval blockade as they were brought aboard Captain Maxwell’s ship, the Mercury. Chloe stood beside Jack, doing her best to appear the grieving widow. She had a black lace mantilla over her head and wore her black silk mourning gown. She remained silent lest she undo the captain’s hard work at lying.

  It wasn’t truly lying, she reasoned, it was just a disguise of the truth.

  Captain Maxwell’s visage was lined with the indication of many voyages in service to king and country. He resembled a falcon with his wide-set, round eyes, bushy grey brows and rather hooked nose. He had no neck to speak of, adding to the illusion of being a bird. His formal attire, the blue uniform coat, milky white vest and breeches were familiar as she had seen British officers in port at St. Kitts. He kept questioning Jack while studying the forged ownership document and the ship’s papers with his monocle as they stood in his war room.

  No, they were not aware of any French ships in the area, Jack told him.

  No sightings of any ships, English or otherwise, since they left London three days past.

  Jack answered the commander’s terse questions about their business in these waters by telling him Mrs. Gareth O’Donovan was coming to live with her paternal uncle, the Marquis del Amico, after the tragic death of her husband and infant son. She did not care about Napoleon or the British position at Cadiz. She merely wished to embrace the comfort of her father’s family after her staggering loss in the Indies. And he was carrying out the orders of his employer, Lord Greystowe, a relative of Mrs. O’Donovan’s who owned Jack’s ship and the plantation in the West Indies upon which she and her husband had resided for many years.

  At the mention of Lord Greystowe, their interests in Spain were not questioned further. They were given permission to enter the city of Cadiz—just Captain Rawlings and Mrs. O’Donovan and their personal servants. the Pegasus would not be allowed to make port.

  The British naval presence was here to keep the Franco-Spanish fleet locked up, and to keep a watchful eye on any movements at sea and attack if necessary. As he lectured them on the folly of their endeavor, he frowned continually at Jack. “I should not allow my wife or daughter to enter this powder keg, Captain Rawlings. I question the sanity of any man, earl or commoner, who would allow a female in his charge to make such a hazardous journey.”

  “Alas, sir, my lord is in the West Indies, visiting his cane plantation,” Jack explained with an apologetic shrug of his massive shoulders. “The earl has little news of the recent developments here. When Mrs. O’Donovan decided to travel to her homeland, it seemed an easy task, as I was scheduled to deliver the earl’s cane, nutmeg, and coffee beans to London this month. It seemed no trouble to simply drop our dear lady at Cadiz.”

  “So, you’re an American by birth?”

  “Aye, from Boston, sir,” Jack replied.

  “And the captain of a private merchantman ferrying goods and produce to and from the Indies. Is it a slave ship?” The brusque officer scrutinized him with severity. “The Abolition of the Slave Trade Act states that any captain transporting illegal human cargo is subject to fines of one hundred twenty pounds per person.”

  “Lord Greystowe is a member of parliament, sir,” Jack replied respectfully. “He would hardly direct me to trespass against a bill he worked so strenuously with Mr. Wilberforce to see passed by both houses just last year. It would be a black mark on his character to then make use of slave labor on his plantation. My lord uses indentures from the prisons as his work force.”

  “The Act does not affect slaves already laboring on the plantations, merely the transport of new ones.” Captain Maxwell rose up on his heels, as if trying to stand taller as he was dwarfed by Jack’s impressive height and form. “Now, Captain Rawlings, we will return you to your ship so that you may prepare your trunks. Is two hours time sufficient to make ready?”

  “Aye, sir. Once I have delivered Mrs. O’Donovan safely to her uncle’s home, I will need to return to my vessel so we may make the return voyage to St. Kitts to attend Lord Greystowe and his family. How shall I be able to return to my ship, sir?”

  “Give my name to any English officer in any tavern in Cadiz, Rawlings.” He folded the papers, returned them to the leather packet, and then slapped them into Jack’s hand. “I will instruct my men to watch for you and see you safely to your berth at your request.”

  The old captain stepped closer to Chloe. His fierce, wide-set eyes studied her critically.

  She stood ram-rod stiff before him, holding her breath, for indeed, she feared he might see through their charade.

  “Madame, I am sorry for the loss of your husband and your infant.” He bowed before her, and she offered him her hand.

  He held it, kindly, gently, cupping her gloved member between his own large, knotted fingers. “I have a daughter back in Bristol, married, with two young boys. For fathers everywhere, I cannot help but give you a stern warning. This country in which you seek refuge is unstable. My advice, gentle lady, is that you return to London. Were you my daughter, I would forbid this excursion. Reconsider, madame, for your own safety.”

  “I cannot,” she whispered in a choked tone, on the point of tears. This man, this stranger who had just spent the last hour interrogating Captain Rawlings was now speaking to her with kindness and concern. It stirred a yearning for her father’s tenderness. Juan Ramirez was no longer here to offer his love, but his brother was beyond the English blockade, just miles within her reach. After coming all this way, she would not turn back.

  “Madame.” Captain Maxwell offered her his handkerchief. He pulled it from his waistcoat and pressed it firmly into her hand. “You are a brave woman. Foolish, but most brave people are fools or they would not proceed as they do. Do not cry, gentle lady. You will be safe within the walls of Cadiz. I am here to guarantee it.”

  “Good work.” Jack patted her arm when they were delivered to the Pegasus. “The crying. It’s always a good ploy with a man, strikes at his heart. Remember that.”

  “I was not pretending,” she informed him hotly. “I was caught up in the emotion of his words, remembering my own dear papa, and that he is no more.”

  “Pardon me.” Jack said as he hurried to his cabin. “Be ready quickly; our escort awaits.”

  Two hours later, they were rowed to the quay by crew members from Captain Maxwell’s ship. Chloe had her two trunks and Marta with her. Jack had a small knapsack and valise. He brought Mr. Jenkins and Lt. Morgan, introducing them as his valet and his footman. He instructed the crew to await him here, but to slip further out to sea after midnight and maintain a watch for his signal that it was safe to come close to Cadiz once more and rendezvous with him and his men.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lined with palm trees, the main square just past the wharf was full of people.

  Chloe couldn’t help herself, she stared incredulously at the spectacle before her.

  Spanish women were everywhere. They hurried about in flowing peasant skirts with children trailing after them. Men meandered the crowds, too. Some were on horseback, Spanish nobles and British soldiers. Fruit, vegetable, bread and flower stands lined the walkway. Fresh fish, the catch of the day, was piled on the back of a wagon.

  “Stay close, Mrs. O’Donovan.” Jinx admonished. He took her arm, pulling her along behind the captain, who seemed to have no int
erest in the human drama before him as he strode past the stalls and through the throng. It was market day in the square, a similar event in any city he might visit. And yet, for Chloe, this was not just any other city.

  The vibrant sounds of Cadiz embraced her senses: children’s voices at play, donkeys braying, and the click-click-click of heels on the cobbled street. She heard the chatter of women as they gossiped, exchanged news, or bartered with the vendors. It was a vibrant place after her long voyage. Sailing with a crew of men had made her realize how much she missed female companionship. She missed Elizabeth most of all.

  Shoving aside her melancholy over missing her friend, Chloe couldn’t help gazing about with wonder. The market was also burgeoning with men, a few in British uniforms.

  A wild clucking and screeching came from behind them. Chloe started and clutched at her chest, turning on her heels to discover the source of the peculiar noise. A large dog was upsetting a cage of chickens, snuffling at them like a hunter and making them dance frantically and beat their wings in the cage to get away from his drooling jaws. The owner of the chickens, a stout matron as wide as she was high, shooed the dog away from her poultry stand with a broom and much cursing, Spanish cursing!

  It finally came to her. She was home, in Spain, her father’s birthplace.

  “Are you coming?” Captain Rawlings turned about from several feet ahead of them. His tall, blond form stood out in the marketplace, as most of the people milling about had darker complexions and hair. As an American in the port of Cadiz, he was now the stranger, not she.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Mr. Jinx answered for her. “Come, my lady, Let’s follow the captain.”

  Marta’s mood was much the same as Chloe’s. She could see the girl was amazed by the bustling activity and by the Spanish feel of the city. This was not London, with the grubby streets near the wharf that were coated with coal dust, offal and horse dung. This perfect city square was neat, clean, and full of people dressed in colorful outfits. Bright red, orange, and yellow skirts swirled about, patches of color in a crowd of Spanish beauty. There were a few wealthy women among them, but most were shopkeepers, merchants, housewives and fisherman. It was so much like the port of Basseterre, in St. Kitts, and yet, it was not–there were too many new things to capture the eye.