by Annie Seaton
Winter of the Passion Flower
By
Annie Seaton
Winter of the Passion Flower
Copyright © January 2013, Annie Seaton
Edited by Amanda Clymo
Cover Art by Annie Seaton
NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Epilogue
Summer of the Moon Flower
Chapter 1
The de Vargas Family series
Other books by Annie Seaton
About the author
Dedication
To Daphne May for instilling in me a lifelong love of words.
Acknowledgements
Life events often change the direction you have planned for your life and this story is the result of one of those unexpected side roads. I would like to acknowledge the support of my ever-patient husband and family. Many new friends have been made on my writing journey. My dear friend Elle Fynllay who has been a fabulous critique partner and provided support on those ‘I am not really a writer’ days and my wonderful editor Amanda Clymo who has helped me polish this story until it gleamed.
Chapter 1
’Twas a shame.
An opportunity for a brief, but she was sure, satisfying sexual interlude had not been taken up. The courier who had delivered the missive from London was a young man with a very pleasing physique and Indigo de Vargas y Irausquínno had been tempted to indulge for a fleeting moment.
But not to be. Her desire was destined to remain unfulfilled.
The young man had insisted on setting off on the return trip in his small dirigible after partaking of a quick refreshment, despite the howling winds and driving snow. His gaze darted nervously around the salon and even a suggestive fingertip run down his chest did not persuade him to stay for more than a quick cup of mulled wine. However, thoughts of a sexual diversion quickly disappeared as Indigo broke the seal and read the document from London..
“Absolutely impossible,” she said emphatically as she read the document before her. Gripping the document tightly, she strode across the sitting room to the warmth of the blazing fire as she continued reading in disbelief.
The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations to be held in London three months hence, and now Henry Cole, representative of Prince Albert, asked…nay, demanded, the exhibition prototype be finalized within a month. Reading aloud, Indigo refused to believe that Henry Cole gave credence to her dastardly neighbor’s trivial complaints. She knew Duke Lorca constantly sent erroneous information about her and her business to London. One consolation—
She was well aware she remained a thorn in Lorca’s side and would continue to do so while ever her enterprise was successful. He was just a sniveling jealous little man without a shred of intelligence.
“Grrr.” Indigo grunted in frustration and continued reading
“I am of the advice that your product will not be manufactured in the timeframe required for display at the Crystal Palace. I urge you, Madame, to respond to my letter forthwith and provide evidence that your prototype will be forthcoming within the period of one month. Duke Leopold Lorca is willing and able to exhibit a selection of steamed farming machinery in the space, and will be allotted the aforementioned space if a timely and satisfactory response is not forthcoming from yourself. Yours sincerely, Sir Henry Cole, Representative of Prince Albert, Patron of Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce.”
Indigo threw the parchment to the floor in disgust. “Over my dead body. That sniveling coward Lorca will not get his manipulative hands on my exhibition space.”
The wind whistled through the door as Mrs. Grimoult, her housekeeper, locked the cogs behind the departing courier but Indigo paid scant attention. Bending to retrieve the parchment from the floor, she tore it in half and threw it on the flames, muttering as it curled and disappeared up the chimney.
“Round one to you, Lorca, but not for long.”
It had been a long and frustrating day with a procession of bad news coming to her door. And the latest shipment of blooms from South America was late; Indigo had passed much of the day in the viewing room, alternately pacing the floor and peering through the large telescope mounted on the high platform, awaiting the arrival of her submarine, the Artemis.
Now, sitting at the bay window in her salon, she fumed over the missive. The dismal weather matched her mood. The large trees facing the sea bore the brunt of the strong wind gusting fiercely off the Atlantic Ocean. An old oak tree bent with the weight of the fallen snow, creaked ominously as the huge boughs pushed against the walls of her manor house. She plucked at the velvet tassels of the scarlet cover on the window seat as her temper worsened.
A loud knocking on the entry door interrupted her brooding and she waited impatiently for Mrs. Grimoult to announce the unexpected visitor. The knocking became louder and Indigo rose, sweeping through the foyer, heels clicking on the wooden floor.
“I don’t know why I bother keeping staff,” she muttered crossly to herself as she unlocked the series of cogs securing the heavy oak door. She held the door firmly against the wind and flurries of snow swept through the opening.
“Gothewhar daa.” A mellifluous voice came from beneath the silken folds of a hooded cloak, which concealed the face of the speaker. Indigo leaned forward, intrigued to hear the Cornish dialect. The stranger with the deep voice stood hidden in the deep shadows of the porch, where the candles flickered from the wind gusting from the ocean.
“Good evening, sir. May I ask what brings you out on this miserable night?” she asked curiously.
“I need an audience with Madame de Vargas as a matter of urgency. Is she in residence?”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?” Indigo wanted to know the business of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger with the deep voice before revealing her identity.
“I would prefer to introduce myself to Madame de Vargas, if I may,” he replied.
She stood back, carefully scrutinizing the dark stranger before replying. Well-spoken and expensively dressed, he was obviously a man of standing. “I am Madame de Vargas. Come in from this foul night and state your business.” She ushered him in as the heavy door pushed against her hands.
The stranger stepped through the wide doorway and dipped into a sweeping bow. “I am here to offer my services as captain of your vessel. I believe you have urgent need for a captain to master your next expedition, Madame?” The silk-edged cloak of black wool slipped from his shoulders as the stranger stepped forward, and pooled sinuously upon the wet floor. Indigo choked back a startled gasp before it could escape her lips. She looked up slowly, and her gaze locked with eyes the color of midnight. For a long moment, she held his gaze and his lips tipped upward in a slight smile. Indigo looked away disconcerted by the confidence of this man.
She pursed her lips; it was most unusual for a man to challenge her. Her gaze dropped to his chest as she tried to think who he may be; but he was unknown to her.
The removal of his cloak had revealed a muscled forearm dusted with a sprinkling of dark hair. At the edge of his wrist, the tattooed petals of a blue passionflower contrasted with tanned skin, and her eyes narrowed as she saw the intricate gree
n tendrils snaking their way to his elbow.
Very interesting…and very strange.
“Who are you?” Indigo demanded, regaining her equilibrium.
“Captain Dogooder, at your service, Madame.”
She regarded him for a long moment and his gaze held hers. Flakes of snow blowing through the open doorway melted, making small puddles on the wooden floor.
“You had better come in to my salon, sir, and tell me why I need a new captain. And especially one with such an…interesting name. I am intrigued.” Ushering him in from the foyer, Indigo caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored wall opposite the main door and was satisfied with her appearance, considering she had such a handsome, albeit, mysterious guest.
She had dressed that morning in a revealing ruby red bustier and black silk skirt. The intricate folds of her long skirt molded to her derriere. Luxuriant black curls surrounded her face, and her lips were painted ruby red and her eyes outlined with black kohl. She stood straight and drew a deep breath. She was well used to her occasional gentleman visitors using words such as bewitching loveliness, statuesque beauty, and not to mention her commanding cleavage as she took them to her bed. This visitor was of a different nature, she suspected.
Following Indigo into the salon, the captain strolled to the fire, removed his leather gloves and spread his fingers in front of the leaping flames. He reached into a deep pocket of his breeches and Indigo’s gaze dropped to the muscled thighs outlined by the tight leather as he removed a brass chronometer and checked the time before casually returning the timepiece to his pocket.
“Are you expected elsewhere on this fierce evening, Captain?” The peculiarity of the situation was beginning to grate on her.
“No, Madame ,” he replied quietly.
She indicated for him to sit in a deep-winged chair in front of the fire as she pulled a brass lever on the wall, requesting the housekeeper’s services. Mulled wine would warm them both while he provided her with an explanation for his visit. A sharp bell sounded down the corridor but there was no response. Indigo went to pull the lever again and the housekeeper bustled into the room.
“Madame , oh Madame …” Wringing her hands, Mrs. Grimoult trailed off, eyes widening as she realized her mistress had company. The captain rose from the chair and hurried across to the doorway, gently taking the little housekeeper’s hands between his.
“’Tis all right, Madame. You can speak.”
Indigo looked from one to the other, as the housekeeper pulled away from her visitor before lifting her apron and dabbing at her eyes. She stepped away from him and spoke to her mistress.
“Oh, Madame, the Artemis has returned.”
A huge sense of relief filled Indigo until Mrs. Grimoult began to weep noisily into her apron. Indigo looked across at her, worry quickly replacing her relief. Her housekeeper was generally an unexcitable creature and it was unusual to see her showing so much emotion.
“The crew is gone. There is only my man returned.” She lifted her apron, wiping more tears away.
“Where is Mr. Grimoult?” Indigo stood with her hands on her hips, concern filling her chest.
“Upstairs, Madame.” The housekeeper’s voice was muffled by the apron covering her face.
Indigo turned to the captain, who leaned against the doorway. His shoulders were bent forward, and he dipped his head dipped to avoid touching the lintel. She strode over, pushing him back, putting her face close up to his. Reaching down, she pulled an embossed brass knife from her long boot and held it at his throat, the finely honed edge pressing against the tanned skin. Mrs. Grimoult lowered her apron and gasped, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Tell me what you know, man? Why are you on my doorstep the night my vessel strikes trouble?” Indigo kept her voice low.
The captain pushed the knife aside with little trouble, holding her hand tightly as the knife dropped silently to the Turkish carpet. Bending to retrieve it, he wound the fingers of his free hand tightly through hers as he examined the embossed handle. Holding the knife out to her, he spoke quietly but firmly. “Take me to your viewing room.”
Indigo tried to pull away from him as she took the weapon and slid it back into the side of her boot. His fingers tightened on her arm as he steered her toward the door, his other hand hard against her back. She twisted but was unable to escape his vice-like hold.
“Let go of me,” she snapped. “If you wish entry to my viewing room, you must release my arm.” Keen to get upstairs to see Mr. Grimoult, it was apparent she was going to have to take the risk and allow this stranger entry to her sanctum upstairs.
The captain released her arm and Indigo strode across to the side of the salon. Putting her hand behind a large trompe l’oeil of painted books, a gentle whirring noise sounded as an entire panel turned inward and a doorway appeared in the wall. Stepping into a dark corridor, she gestured impatiently for him to follow. Candles in brass sconces were placed at intervals on the embossed scarlet wallpaper lining the corridor and pierced the inky darkness.
“Follow me,” she said tersely. He stepped in behind her and followed her into the shadows. Mrs. Grimoult hurried along behind them.
“How do you know of my viewing room?” she asked him looking back over her shoulder as she strode along the narrow corridor. To her knowledge, only her two loyal retainers, Mr. and Mrs. Grimoult, knew of the room upstairs and they alone were aware of the extent of her enterprise. The captain did not reply and her mouth tightened as she held her temper and mulled over the dilemma in which she unexpectedly found herself.
It was common knowledge that she, Indigo de Vargas y Irausquínno, owned two hundred acres of exotic blooms surrounding an exclusive holiday retreat perched high on the wild cliffs of Cornwall. But the holiday biomes camouflaged her true business, and Indigo knew Duke Leopold Lorca, owner of the castle next to her property, envied the success of her enterprise and would do anything to put obstacles in her path. She also suspected Lorca knew of her pharmacological production, and feared her plans for the Great Exhibition may now be at risk. The mysterious events surrounding the arrival of the Artemis, the disappearance of her crew and the appearance of this stranger on her doorstep within minutes of the submarine arriving home were too coincidental for her to remain unworried.
As Indigo and the captain reached the end of the corridor, she considered the complication of his mysterious arrival. The captain knew of the Artemis and her viewing room; he must have a connection with the Grimoults. People she would trust with her life. Either that or information had been leaked. Indigo’s mind worked furiously as she pondered how much she could disclose to this man. The development of the prototype would fail unless the Artemis made one more voyage to the Amazon to collect the blooms. Without more passionflowers, there would not be enough pharmacologicals or cosmecuticals to display at the Great Exhibition.
All their preparation would have been for nought.
If the captain knew of her activities, someone close to her had felt a great need to share the information with him.
Why had it not been shared with her?
“Do you have a vessel?” Indigo reached across and spun the large brass cog mounted on the wall next to a pair of embossed scarlet drapes. A soft humming began as it turned, interspersed every couple of seconds with a loud grinding noise.
“I do.” He spoke loudly to be heard over the increasing noise.
Indigo slipped her hand behind the drapes and pulled a hidden lever. The drapes opened, revealing a solid door made entirely of brass interlocking cogs whirring and clicking in constant movement, not unlike a clock mechanism.
“Watch your hands,” she warned as the door opened out toward them, the cogs winding furiously as the humming became unbearably loud. Indigo and Mrs. Grimoult lifted headpieces with ear covers from a large brass hook and placed the contraptions over their heads. Indigo passed a third headpiece to the captain and he placed it over his head. The door closed and the movement of the cogs slowed. Warm
air rushed past them as the small room ascended and Indigo watched the captain closely. His eyes were shut tightly and he clutched at his stomach when the room lurched upward. Indigo was accustomed to the gravitational pull of the perambulator and the weightless effect on internal organs.
Her gaze traveled slowly down his body during the ascent. His broad shoulders and tautly muscled body were clad in expensive garments. The height and breadth of this mysterious man made her feel small and feminine, despite her being taller than most women. His straight black hair framed sharp cheekbones before falling untidily past a starched linen collar. The dark stubble covering his jaw barely concealed a small white scar near his lip. Yet, despite his dark, mysterious appearance, he had the bearing of a gentleman.
As the perambulator slowed, Indigo placed her hand on the control cog on the intricate lacing of wrought iron which continued to move horizontally. The captain’s eyes opened slowly, and the pallor of his face contrasted with his dark stubble. He examined the small room with interest and his hand reached to touch the spinning cogs.
“Steam lift,” Indigo spoke loudly above the humming. “Precision movement defined by the cogs. The perambulator ascends, descends and moves sideways if needed. You did well. Most people heave on their first trip in this directional perambulator. It was one of the first models invented last century. ”
Hanging the three headpieces back on the hook, she stepped back, allowing Mrs. Grimoult to exit the perambulator in front of them. Indigo turned to the captain, and she held his gaze as she gestured to the door. “Follow me.”
The perambulator opened into a huge circular room surrounded with the darkness of the ink-black sky. Glass walls allowed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vista of the panorama surrounding the manor. The lights of an icebreaker, clearing the shipping channel, reflected off a black, stormy sea as huge wind gusts pushed snow flurries against the window.
