Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  “It need not take place at all,” Treynor responded. “I have no desire to kill an old man who is ill-equipped to face me.”

  St. Ives’ voice revealed his eagerness. “I have had my share of success with a pistol. Take heed for your own hide, Lieutenant Treynor. Your minutes on this earth are numbered.”

  Treynor chuckled, but didn’t get off his horse. “Is there no way to talk you out of this madness?”

  “My lord, it might serve you well to listen—” Moore started. Jeannette could tell he was hopeful the duel would be canceled, but St. Ives squelched any talk of forgoing the bloodshed.

  “A pity my wife is not here to see what a sniveling coward you really are,” he snapped at Treynor and Moore’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Bosun Hawker mumbled something, and he and Treynor dismounted.

  Jeannette crawled down the ditch, trying to get a better view, but the rustling of her movements sounded far too loud. Afraid the foursome would turn and see her, or at least investigate, she held still.

  They didn’t even glance over.

  The cumbersome gun wedged inside her belt poked into her stomach, which was uncomfortable. She was just reaching for it when she sensed that she had company and froze. Someone or something had come up from behind. Who or what? St. Ives, Ralston Moore, Bosun Hawker, and Treynor were already marking off their paces, oblivious to her presence.

  The hair on the back of her neck rose as she braved a glance over her shoulder. Sir Thomas, the baron’s filthy-minded friend, crouched beside her, wearing a sinister smile beneath the shadow of his big nose. The other man she’d met at her wedding, Desmond Something if she remembered right. He crept out of the fog on her other side, trapping her between them. Bringing a pistol into view, Sir Thomas pointed it at her head and motioned her to silence.

  Jeannette began to sweat despite the cold, damp air as Desmond put a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place.

  “Four …five …six…” Moore counted as Treynor and the baron walked.

  Jeannette watched the men move apart. According to the rules set by their seconds, at ten, they would turn and shoot. Only Treynor would be dead before he could pull the trigger. Sir Thomas was already taking aim.

  “Seven …eight …nine…”

  Jeannette’s nerves stretched so taut she tingled all over. Taking short, quick breaths, she prayed for the opportunity to do what she must.

  Sir Thomas watched the men on the road as carefully as she did, waiting for the right time. She could see his finger tighten on the trigger, knew she had to stop him or Treynor would die, just as St. Ives intended.

  As soon as Ralston Moore cried, “Ten!” everything happened at once. Using all the energy she possessed, she broke free from Desmond and knocked Sir Thomas off balance.

  His gun exploded in spite of her efforts.

  She pulled out her father’s pistol, but several more shots rent the air before she could fire, and Sir Thomas and Desmond both fell.

  Scrambling up and out of the ditch, she took no time to wonder who had shot them. Frantically, she looked around for Treynor, half-expecting to find him in a heap on the ground. But he wasn’t dead; he was striding toward his opponent with his gun raised. Amazingly, the baron stood, unhurt, as well.

  “Evidently you do not understand the rules of a duel, my lord,” Treynor said. “No doubt the tactics you have employed this morning is how you have won so many.” He motioned for St. Ives to drop his pistol as men from the Tempest came out of the foggy thicket behind Jeannette.

  The baron complied, his eyes daggers of hate.

  “You see,” Treynor continued, “having a hidden accomplice shoot your opponent is against an Englishman’s code of honor. Or, at least, that is what I have been told. But I am just a bastard. Hawker, have you ever heard otherwise?”

  “Not me, sir, no.” The bosun held a gun to the frightened Ralston Moore to keep him from going anywhere. “But then I’m not a bloody aristocrat, either. Seems the baron thinks ‘e can murder in cold blood whenever it suits ‘im.”

  “I tried to stop him,” Moore said, his voice filled with regret. “I told him it was wrong.”

  The baron sent his solicitor a disgusted glance for this betrayal, one that said he was lower than a dog.

  “Fortunately for me, I brought a little insurance,” Treynor said.

  “Sorry we was late, Lieutenant.” A pig-tailed sailor dragged a sullen Sir Thomas into the open; another man did the same with Desmond. They’d both been shot and were in a great deal of pain, but they did not seem near death. “We ‘ad a ‘ell of a time findin’ these blokes after we watched ‘em go in. But the lad here—” He nodded at Jeannette, then blinked in surprise when he recognized her. “Blimey! ‘Tis Jean Vicard! I mean Lady St. Ives, if ye’ll forgive me language!”

  Treynor’s steady gaze pinned Jeannette to the spot where she stood.

  She looked down at the gun in her hands, only now remembering that amid her fear and worry, she had forgotten to load and prime it.

  “She’s a right brave lass, sir,” said the man at her side.

  “That she is,” Treynor acknowledged, but he hardly seemed pleased. “I still say you deserve a good spanking,” he told her. “And I know just the man to give it to you.”

  His lips curved into a wry grin that Jeannette answered with one of her own. “Proceed with caution, Lieutenant. This time I am armed.”

  “May you both rot in hell!” the baron growled.

  Treynor raised a sardonic eyebrow as he turned back to St. Ives and reached into his jacket to withdraw a packet of papers. “I believe you have an agreement to fulfill, sir. I happen to have all the paperwork right here.”

  At the mention of a document, Ralston Moore craned his head around to have a better look. “What is it? A confession?”

  “It’s a promise to seek an annulment, you idiot.” St. Ives visually checked with his driver as though considering the possibility of escape, but his man sat slack-jawed on the seat, stunned. He definitely didn’t seem to be thinking about going anywhere. Even if he was, the tars surrounding him stepped closer.

  Moore brushed himself off. “I recommend you sign it.”

  St. Ives gave his solicitor a scathing look When he turned his attention to Jeannette, she could almost hear his thoughts, feel his desire for revenge.

  Sign it, she silently willed him.

  “You are a fool,” he said to her. “You have given up everything. And for what? For him?” He motioned to Treynor. “What will he be able to give you? Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “At least I will be free of you,” she spat.

  Reluctantly taking the quill Treynor handed him, St. Ives moved to dip the nib into a jar of ink held by one of the other sailors, but fumbled and dropped it. Immediately, he bent as if to retrieve it, but pulled a hidden pistol from his coat instead.

  A shot rang out, the sound deafening at such close range. Jeannette blinked at the men, fearing the baron had shot Treynor after all, but it was St. Ives who crumbled to the ground.

  Throwing down his pistol, Hawker stared at the man he’d just shot.

  “Blast you to hell!” The baron clasped one hand to his chest as if he could hold back the blood that seeped through his clothing.

  “My lord!” Moore rushed to kneel at his patron’s side and tried to help him staunch the bleeding.

  Sir Thomas and Desmond stopped writhing from the misery of their wounds long enough to gape in horror.

  The solicitor blinked at Sir Thomas and Desmond, then at St. Ives. “I will get help. Don’t worry.” He looked back at the road, but before he could even stand, a gurgle came out of the baron’s throat, and he died.

  The gruesome spectacle sickened Jeannette. She averted her eyes as Treynor sent two of his men to town to bring medical help and a constable.

  “It’s over now,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms.

  The others gathered around, staring at the dead man.

  “Yo
u will hang for murder,” Sir Thomas told Bosun Hawker. “Maybe you all will.”

  Treynor made a negating sound. “Not when we have so many witnesses to tell what really happened.” He cocked an eyebrow at St. Ives’s driver and his solicitor, who was still trying to wipe the baron’s blood off his hands. “Is that not true, Mr. Moore?”

  Moore’s eyes darted to Sir Thomas, who was shot in the arm, and Desmond, who was shot in the shoulder a little higher and seemed worse off, before looking at Treynor. “I want no more trouble.” He sounded relieved. “I will tell the truth. I swear I will.”

  His words seemed to drain the anger out of Sir Thomas, as well. St. Ives’s friend studied the solicitor for a moment, then nudged Desmond. “So will we,” he said at last. “Just get us a damn doctor.”

  * * *

  “Where will you go from here?” Jeannette asked Treynor as she rode behind him in the saddle.

  The chestnut gelding’s hooves rang out on the cobblestone streets that led to the square where Darby lived. “I have some matters to attend to.”

  She tried to ignore the feel of his lean waist beneath the circle of her arms, but couldn’t stop her nerves from responding to him any more than she could stop her heart from loving him. “Are you to be knighted, then?”

  He glanced back, his brows raised. “What?”

  “I asked if you will receive a knighthood.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Are you not excited?”

  He nodded. “But I have other issues to deal with that might prove less enjoyable.”

  Jeannette waited, thinking he might elaborate. When he didn’t, she decided not to press him. “I suppose you will be going back to sea shortly.”

  “Yes. I am to be promoted to post-captain.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though it wasn’t a monumental accomplishment, but Jeannette knew better.

  “Good. You make an admirable leader.” She didn’t add how much she’d miss him, or how frightened she was at the thought of him going back to fight more battles like the one she had witnessed on the Tempest.

  They fell a few paces behind Bosun Hawker and the others, who had been riding in a group around them. “Hopefully I will get a decent ship. And you? What will you do?” he asked, his body tensing as though he feared her answer.

  “I have been thinking about becoming a governess. I could teach French.”

  He turned to see her face. “No more marriage contracts?”

  She tried to laugh. “I hope not.”

  Treynor halted the horse in front of Darby’s townhouse and one of his men helped her dismount. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

  Jeannette tried not to wince at the casual remark. “No, I think not.” She allowed him to help her down, then gave him a brief smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I wish you health and happiness,” she murmured and turned to move away, but he called her back.

  “Jeannette?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, her heart nearly stopping at the sight of him sitting tall in the saddle, watching her. A weak sun, the only sun they would likely see all day, gleamed off his hair and lighted the chiseled planes of his face, drawing her attention to his lips.

  What she wouldn’t give for one more kiss.

  “I …never mind.” He stayed on the horse, unbending. Then he smiled a good-bye and rode away.

  * * *

  “So. I am officially a widow.” Jeannette, still wearing Henri’s clothes, faced her parents as they sat at breakfast. Fortunately Darby hadn’t yet descended from his room or Jeannette knew he’d be scandalized by her attire and her devil-may-care attitude. But she couldn’t find it in her to worry about such trivialities anymore.

  “What happened?” Her mother took in her disheveled hair and boy’s clothes with minute precision.

  Ignoring the food on his plate, her father shoved his chair back and stood. “You didn’t go to the duel….”

  Jeannette nodded, too tired after her sleepless night to remain standing. She was not inclined to placate her parents for having disobeyed her father. She sank into a seat at the end of the table and propped her chin on her fist.

  A frown punctuated her father’s disapproval. “You are getting far too willful for your own good, young lady—”

  Rose Marie cut him off with a restraining hand on his arm. “Jacques, she loves him. Can you not see how miserable she is? What good is your fussing now? She is back, no? And whole enough.”

  Her opened his mouth as though he would berate her anyway, then shut it. “At least tell us what happened,” he said at last.

  “What is this?” Henri entered the room and gawked at her. “Since when have you started wearing my clothes?”

  “Never mind, Henri,” Rose Marie told him. “Fill your plate and sit down. We are in the middle of something.” Her gaze returned to Jeannette, but Henri would not be put off so easily.

  “You went to the duel!” he exclaimed. “I cannot believe it! And Maman would not let me watch.”

  “Henri!” Rose Marie snapped, her voice a warning. “Eat your breakfast.”

  “Yes, Maman.” Henri shot his sister a sulky look as he helped himself to the food on the sideboard before taking a seat across from Jacques.

  “Well?” Jeannette’s mother prompted. “Are you going to tell us how your lieutenant killed the baron?”

  “He didn’t kill him, Maman. His second did.” Jeannette quickly explained everything that had happened, cringing at the memory. She had come so close to losing Treynor….

  What was she thinking? She had lost him. He was going back to sea, moving on with his life.

  “And what of the lieutenant?” her mother asked when she’d finished the tale.

  “He has been made post-captain and will be receiving his own ship. He does not yet know which one—”

  Rose Marie set her napkin aside. “So he is returning to sea?”

  Jeannette swallowed against the lump in her throat and nodded.

  “And you, my poor daughter?”

  “I think I shall become a governess, Maman.”

  Worry etched deep lines in her mother’s face. “Surely, you cannot be seriously considering going into service.”

  “I am.”

  “But why? You could run a girl’s school or do charitable service, either of which would be far more befitting your station—”

  “I no longer care about station, Maman. At this moment, teaching children appeals to me more than anything else.”

  “Are you sure? Being a governess, living with others, is not an easy thing. I hate to see you give up the idea of marriage and a family of your own—”

  “I am sure,” Jeannette interrupted.

  Rose Marie nodded. “I see. Well, it is a respectable way to live, ma petite. You would make an excellent governess. Perhaps the earl can recommend you to a good family.”

  “I shall speak to him, Maman.”

  “No, I will take care of it,” her father said.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  “Why is everyone so sad?” Henri asked. “We knew the baron wouldn’t live forever. We arranged a marriage contract, did we not?”

  “We did,” Rose Marie confirmed. “Jeannette will receive a goodly widow’s portion. And she deserves it after what that miserable wretch has put her through.”

  “Then what is wrong?” His childish gaze moved from face to face. “Jeannette, you are glad to be rid of the baron, n’est-ce pas?”

  Jeannette nodded. “Indeed, Henri. I have never been happier,” she said. And then she burst into tears.

  Chapter 24

  The Earl of Darby’s study, with its dark paneling, leather furniture, and the scent of pipe tobacco lingering in the air, was a somber place. It didn’t help that the earl’s father, a severe-looking man, glared down from his portrait high on the wall.

  Having been a widower for nearly twenty years, Lord Darby had transformed the house into a wholly male domain, this room more than any other. Newspapers were st
acked on chairs, various files, documents, and law books lay open on the floor or on the side table, and a pile of mail awaited his attention in front of him. Jeannette saw Darby frowning over an invitation of some sort as she knocked tentatively on the open door.

  “Excuse me, Lord Darby. Do you have a moment?”

  He glanced up, looking puzzled at the interruption, as though he had forgotten his houseguests. Indeed, the way he went about his business as though she and her family weren’t there made Jeannette suspect he had.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Standing, he rounded his desk to clear off a chair for her, then glanced helplessly at the clutter as if he didn’t know where to put the pile of papers now that her visit had disturbed its normal resting place.

  “I will not allow the maids in here,” he explained, his color rising. “My fondness for finding what I want the moment I need it is too great.”

  How he could find anything on his overburdened desk or the avalanche of paper growing toward the center of the floor was a puzzle, but Jeannette smiled as he solved his dilemma by simply adding to the pile in the chair next to her.

  “A man’s study should be exactly as he would like it,” she said as he returned to his seat. “I apologize for disturbing you here. It is just that …I have had something on my mind of late, and wish to discuss it with you.”

  “Of course. I am afraid I have been neglectful of you. Those damn Tories in Parliament, you know. They keep me hopping. Every good Whig needs to do his civic duty—indeed more, during these trying times.”

  “In comparison, this is a trifling matter, but …I spoke to my father about the possibility of my becoming a governess nearly a fortnight ago.” She toyed with the edges of her shawl. “He assured me he would ask you for a letter of recommendation, but I fear the matter has completely slipped his mind.”

  That Jacques was holding out, hoping she would change her mind was more likely, but Jeannette had no intention of speaking more of the truth than necessary.