Never Trust a Pirate

by Valerie Bowman

  He tested his jaw. Damn. The bastard had really got a good blow in. The bloody pulp he’d left the man in attested to the fact that while his assailant may have landed a hit or two, Cade had won the fight. The only problem was, he’d beaten the man so severely, he’d lost consciousness and couldn’t be questioned. Cade had ransacked his pockets and found nothing more than some snuff, a bit more of the paper the urchin had delivered, and a pocket watch. He’d kicked the bastard one last time for good measure, tossed the pocket watch on his chest, and went to meet the man he’d been originally scheduled to meet at a tavern not far from the theater district.

  Cade searched his memory. He’d had a bottle of scotch to numb the pain in his hand and face, may have sung a few bawdy songs, and come home at a very decent hour, at least for him. So how did he get his hand wrapped? He searched his memory further. Absolutely nothing.

  The door to his room cracked open and a pair of bright blue eyes framed by black lashes and black bangs blinked at him.

  “You’re awake?” the voice said in a decidedly French accent.

  “You’ve been waiting?” he replied, equally amused and confused.

  The door opened all the way, obviously pushed by the French woman’s foot. She carried in a silver tray. “I told Mary I’d bring this up to you.”

  “Ah, Mary.… Wait. Who is Mary?” He tested his jaw again.

  “She’s the downstairs maid. Don’t you know her?”

  “I do not. And I hate to point it out but I also don’t know you. I hope to God there’s a pot of coffee on that thing.”

  She blinked at him and he looked up from inspecting his wrapped hand and really looked at her for the first time. Dear God. Who was this creature? Straight black hair fell past her shoulders. Bright cobalt eyes blinked at him from beneath a heavy fringe of bangs. Her mouth was too wide to be called beautiful, but it was bright pink and ever so alluring. Her cheeks were like apples, her figure slim though enticing, but it was her stare that arrested him. Like some sort of an inquisitive woodland creature that he might scare off if he moved too suddenly. He did not want to scare her off. Not at all.

  “You don’t remember?” she asked, looking a bit crestfallen.

  It was not the first time a beautiful woman had said such a thing to him in his bedchamber after an evening of drinking. In fact, it wasn’t the twentieth time, truth be told, but he hoped to God he hadn’t done anything he’d be ashamed of this time, not in his brother’s fancy house. “Should I?” he asked tentatively, studying her face.

  “You were quite foxed last night.” She moved over to the bed and slid the tray onto his lap. “And there is a pot of coffee here.”

  He felt chagrined for having said the thing about the coffee. She wasn’t his servant after all. He glanced down at the contents of the tray. Two slices of dry toast, the pot of coffee, and a small glass of something that looked a bit greenish and that he didn’t recognize.

  “My father occasionally drank to excess.”

  “You and I have that in common,” Cade drawled. “I don’t remember my father being sober a day in his life.”

  “This is what Père liked to eat in the morning,” she continued.

  “What is this?” He lifted the green glass.

  “Le elixir vert,” she replied with a smile. “At least that’s what my father called it.”

  “And what is in it?” Cade asked.

  “A mix of herbs and brandy.”

  He brought the glass to his nose. “It smells revolting.”

  “It will make you feel better.”

  He arched a brow. “How do you know I feel poorly?”

  She blinked at him. “Because you don’t remember who I am and we met last night.”

  Cade winced. “How did I behave? Poorly?”

  “Exceedingly poorly.” But her smile belied her words.

  “Did I sing?”

  “Yes. A lot.”

  “I apologize.”

  “No need. Your brother and Lady Daphne already did that for you.”

  He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Blast. That’s all I need. More of Rafe’s censure.”

  “He does not approve of you?”

  “Does the white sheep ever approve of the black one?”

  A frown marred her brow. “I do not know what you mean. Le mouton noir?”

  “It’s an English saying,” he replied, eyeing the green elixir warily.

  “What does it mean, this, black sheep?”

  He blew air into his cheeks and they puffed out. “It’s used to describe the most disreputable member of the family.”

  “And you are le mouton noir?”

  “In my family, yes.”

  “Lord Rafe is le mouton blanc?”

  “Yes. Quite blanc.”

  She laughed at that and Cade was enchanted. He lifted the concoction to his lips and tipped it back. It burned a path down his throat. He choked. “What the devil are these herbs? Brandy never tasted so vile, even at this hour of the day.”

  “Give it a moment,” she said, pressing her lips together. Cade suspected it was to keep from laughing at his discomfort.

  Cade took a swig of coffee to kill the taste of the bitter liquid he’d just consumed. But even he had to admit that moments later the spinning in his head and the churning in his stomach stopped. By God, he did feel better.

  “D’accord?” she asked in her adorable French accent. “All right?”

  “Yes. I do believe it’s cured me.”

  She pulled his injured hand from his lap. A spark unexpectedly shot up his arm. Dear God. When was the last time a mere touch from a young woman did that to him? Before he had a chance to protest, she’d efficiently unwrapped the bandage. “It looks good,” she announced. The movement of her thumb, rubbing in little circles on his palm was making him sweat. He swiped the back of his hand across his brow. It had to be the elixir. God only knew what was in that drink. “No sign of infection,” she finished.

  “I suppose I have you to thank for that,” he said as she gingerly wrapped his hand again. He reluctantly pulled his hand away from hers.

  “I couldn’t allow you to bleed on these fine bedsheets.”

  Cade cleared his throat. “Hmm. I daresay we haven’t even mentioned how inappropriate it is for you to be in my bedchamber. Alas, to my proper brother’s everlasting regret, I refuse to hire a valet.”

  Her throaty laughter followed. “I don’t see why it’s inappropriate for me to be here. You’re fully dressed and I wanted to ensure your hand was all right. You English are entirely too proper.”

  “I agree, my dear. Thank you for seeing to my hand,” he said, chagrined again. He was never chagrined yet he’d been twice in the span of mere minutes with this woman. Chagrined and sweating. That, along with the oddest feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if something exciting were about to happen. That usually only happened right before he dressed up as someone else and did something dangerous.

  “I’ll leave you to your coffee and toast,” she said, turning toward the door, affording Cade the picture of her alluring backside. The flicker of a memory shot through his brain. He narrowed his eyes on her backside.

  She got to the door and paused. Her hand rested on the handle, but she didn’t turn around.

  “You’re looking at my backside, aren’t you, Mr. Cavendish?”

  Cade nearly spat his coffee. In a thousand years he wouldn’t have expected that question from the little slip of a maid, and he certainly wouldn’t have expected her to be reading his bloody mind.

  “If I told you that I wasn’t would you believe me?” he asked instead.

  “Not a bit.” She pulled open the door, but he could hear the smile in her voice. Oh, he was going to have fun flirting with this one. He was no fan of the French but a beautiful woman was a beautiful woman. Besides, hadn’t the girl just said herself the English were too proper? They could agree on that at least.

  “You can’t leave,” he called after her. “Y
ou haven’t yet told me your name. All I know is that it’s not Mary.”

  “It’s Danielle,” she said, tossing her straight hair over her shoulder and glancing back at him with mischief in her sparkling blue eyes. “I’m Lady Daphne’s new lady’s maid and last night, I accidentally fell onto your lap while helping you remove your boots and you told me I have the most enticing backside you’ve ever seen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Danielle hurried down Harley Street. It was in a busy, safe part of London, not too far from Mayfair where her new employer resided. She’d relocated her mother here months ago. Dr. Montgomery lived near here. He was reputed to be the finest doctor in the country when it came to treating consumption. That’s why Danielle desperately wanted to remain in London and the position at Lady Daphne’s house afforded her that for the time being.

  Danielle hurried up the stairs and let herself into the small flat using a key she pulled from her reticule. The smell of medicine and illness hit her in the face as it always did when she came here.

  “Is that you, Miss Cross?” The nurse called from the bedchamber of the small apartment.

  “Yes, Mrs. Horton. It’s me.”

  Danielle took a deep breath and pasted the fake smile on her face. The same smile she used every time she came to visit her mother. The one that was designed to be calm and reassuring. She entered the room and addressed her mother’s caretaker. “How is she today, Mrs. Horton?”

  “Not worse than yesterday,” Mrs. Horton said with an encouraging but weak smile. Danielle knew the woman didn’t ever want to tell her the worst but her mother was not improving, despite all of Dr. Montgomery’s medicines.

  “Yes, well, I’ll just read to her for a bit,” Danielle said. “You may take a break.”

  “Of course, miss.” Mrs. Horton excused herself and soon the door to the flat opened and shut. Danielle knew the woman preferred to eat her lunch near the park and take a walk outside. Even London’s smoggy, coal-filled air was a welcome change after being cooped up in a sickroom most of the day.

  Danielle settled into the chair next to her mother’s bed as her mother smiled weakly up at her. Her thin body looked so frail and thin, her eyes sunken and shadowed. Danielle didn’t let her smile waver once. She poured some water into a glass from a pitcher next to the bed and held the glass to her mother’s dry, cracked lips.

  “Where did we leave off yesterday?” she asked, opening the book that remained on the bedside table. “Ah, yes, we’d just discovered that Manfred is Father Jerome’s son, hadn’t we?” They’d been reading The Castle of Otranto. Her mother adored a mystery.

  Nearly an hour later, Danielle glanced up to see her mother’s eyes closed and her chest moving with the shallow breaths of sleep. The wheezing sound in her chest never went away, but at least Mama was getting some rest.

  When Mrs. Horton returned soon after, Danielle left the bedchamber to speak to her about the plans for the rest of the week and her mother’s medicines. The doctor’s assistant usually delivered medicine throughout the week and left the bills with Mrs. Horton. Danielle opened her reticule and fished out the necessary bills to pay first Mrs. Horton herself, then the doctor, then for the medicine. It was all of her money just as it was every week. But at least she had it. Many young ladies in her situation wouldn’t have anything like the kind of money it took to keep her mother in the finest care. Mrs. Horton tried to reach out and pat her hand, but Danielle took an instinctive step away. Any tenderness now and she might break. “Thank you for all of your help,” she murmured instead. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  It wasn’t until she left the house and walked down the stairs to the outside of the building that Danielle allowed the tears to slide down her cheeks. But just as quickly, she brushed them away with the backs of her gloved hands. She didn’t have time to cry. She had to meet the general.

  * * *

  Danielle made her way through the tidy little town houses on Shepherd Street. To the outside eye, this was a pleasant neighborhood inhabited by solid London citizens. Clean, neat, nothing extravagant like the mansions of Mayfair. That was exactly why it housed one of the most secret offices in the kingdom. No one would ever suspect it was here.

  This place did not exist on any paperwork, did not appear on any reports. It was a location the other spies in the Home Office didn’t know about. This was the second office of General Mark Grimaldi. At the age of thirty-three, Grimaldi was the head of an elite unit of spies. So elite they didn’t know one another’s identities. Only Grimaldi knew them all.

  She marched up the stairs to the door marked twelve and knocked once. A slot in the door opened.

  “How is the weather today?” a pleasant male voice asked.

  “A bit too windy for my taste,” she answered.

  The pass code uttered, the door opened. Danielle stepped inside a spartan room that contained a silver sideboard, a desk, two chairs, and a wall full of bookshelves.

  Mr. Groggs, the secretary who’d opened the door, stepped back. “The general will see you.”

  She stepped to the next door. It was made of sturdy wood and boasted a knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. She knocked once there, too.

  “Come in,” a deep, authoritative voice answered.

  She squared her shoulders and swallowed, then stepped inside.

  She shut the door behind her.

  The dark-haired man sat facing the opposite direction, staring out the window across the mews behind the building. His large chair swiveled. He was a giant of a man, tall, broad, dark. General Mark Grimaldi. This man had secrets. Secrets she didn’t want to contemplate. She’d known him since she was a lass of fifteen. He hadn’t been much older at the age of twenty-three. She’d been dressed as a lad, having joined a gang of smugglers in France at the ripe age of thirteen. Smugglers made money. Smugglers had connections. A smuggler could get her to England to save her mother who had been taken there as a prisoner, unjustly accused of her father’s murder. It had left Danielle a virtual orphan. The smugglers had been her only choice, but smugglers weren’t about to take a girl into their ranks. She’d done what she had to do. She’d dressed as a lad, cut her hair short, and took her first foray into doing what she must to make money.

  Grimaldi, who hadn’t been a general at the time, had dragged her kicking and screaming off a French smuggler’s ship and asked her a stream of questions in fluent French. When she’d answered in similarly fluent English with an angry, narrowed gaze and not a hint of an accent, his eyebrows had risen in admiration.

  He’d taken her to a small room outside a warehouse and privately questioned her. He’d ensured she was comfortable, given her tea—the English loved their tea—and biscuits and made certain the cut on her cheek was seen to by a real doctor. Then he’d asked her a series of questions, this time in English. She’d answered in French. She hadn’t given much away and felt pleased with herself, smug. She certainly hadn’t admitted to any crime. After two hours of interrogation, she stood to leave, hoping against hope the Englishman wouldn’t stop her and arrest her for smuggling.

  “I’ll just be leaving now, Captain,” she’d said.

  She’d got as far as the door when his voice, smooth as cream but dangerous as a coiled snake, stopped her. “I’m impressed, Mr. Cross.”

  “Impressed by what, Captain?” Her hand shook against the door handle. She was so close to freedom.

  “Impressed by your eloquence. Your lack of an accent when speaking either English or French. Your intelligence in one so young.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” She’d pulled open the door and took one step outside.

  “Don’t you want to hear what I’m most impressed with, Mr. Cross?”

  She gulped, but forced herself to face him, pinning a fake, bored expression on her face. “What’s that, Captain?” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

  “I’m most impressed that you’ve been able to convince a boatload of French smugglers that you’re a la
d for God knows how long.”

  And that had been that. She’d gasped, shut the door, and resumed her seat in front of him. In the two years since her mother’s arrest, she’d never had one person guess her secret. Not one. This man had sussed it out in less than two hours.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain. Perhaps the sea air has made you fou.”

  “I’m not insane. Spare us both, Mr. Cross. Or should I say, mademoiselle? Don’t make me rip open your shirt to prove I’m right.”

  Her eyes flashed fire at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “It’s not my first choice, but I’ll do what I must. Try me.”

  “What do you want?” she shot at him.

  “It’s quite simple. I want your help.”

  An unlikely allegiance had been born that day, between a French girl and an English spy. She would do anything to save her mother. Ten years later, Danielle was still visiting the general. He was still her employer. Her mother was safe, but the man who had murdered her father was still at large and Danielle intended to bring him to justice.

  “Good to see you, Cross.” Grimaldi turned in his seat to face her.

  “You rang,” she intoned with a smirk. They both knew he only asked her to see him in person if it was important. Quite important. They never risked such meetings otherwise.

  “I did.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? It’s time to tell you your mission. I received the information from your last mission, by the by.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But I thought my new mission was to watch the Viscount Spy. Ensure he remains loyal to the Crown.”

  “That’s not the mission. I trust Rafe Cavendish with my life. He’s as loyal a subject to the Crown as you’ll ever meet.”

  “Then why in the nom de dieu do you have me trussed up in gowns, traipsing around a town house in Mayfair, pretending to be a lady’s maid of all things? Maudit!”