The Admiral's Daughter

by Francesca Shaw

  Not a word reached her; only by the rhythm of their speech could she tell that they were speaking French. Cramped, frightened, Helena huddled down, biting her knuckles in anxiety and frustration. Once again she found herself trying to eavesdrop on Adam, and yet on the yacht she had sworn that she trusted him—indeed, had put her own reputation in dire peril to demonstrate that trust.

  And she did still trust him! If only she knew what he was about…If Daniel was right and Adam was indulging in smuggling for the pure excitement of it, was that leading him into danger now? She had heard tell that Lord Darvell was easily bored, sought the thrill of adventure. Had that led him into deeper waters than even Adam was skillful enough to navigate? Helena had no idea how she might help him, she only knew that instinct told her to be there, to watch his back.

  Helena grew chilly as she crouched there, although it could not have been for more than ten minutes. Something tickled her nose: she blew at it and the tickling ceased. Then the men shook hands again and the Frenchman strode off out of the glade without a backward glance. Adam waited until he had vanished, then ran lightly down the steps of the temple and strolled across the clipped grass.

  Conscious that she had to get back to the carriage before Adam reached it, Helena jumped to her feet. She would have to hurry, for Adam, although not in any haste, had a long stride.

  As she stood, she realised that her left leg, which had been tucked beneath her as she knelt, had lost all feeling. At her first step it gave way and she stumbled backwards into the box hedge with a small cry.

  Adam spun round, one hand on the dress sword at his side. Under any other circumstances the range of expressions which crossed his face in the light of the lantern would have entertained her, but Helena felt no temptation to laugh now.

  Adam’s first look of wariness gave way to one of astonishment, rapidly followed by exasperation. He strode over, seized Helena by the arm and hauled her to her feet none too gently.

  ‘Ow!’ she protested plaintively.

  ‘That is no more than you deserve, Miss Wyatt,’ he growled, giving her a little shake. ‘Why are you creeping about like a thief in the night? Spying on me, I assume?’

  ‘No! Well, yes, but…Let go of my arm, you are hurting me, Adam!’ His grip was strong but not as painful as her tone implied: but Helena was desperate for a breathing space to think of some reason, any reason, she could give to account for her behaviour.

  ‘Then stand still! I ask you again, madam—what are you about?’

  Even in the subdued light she could clearly see the anger in his eyes. ‘I was worried about you—I recognised that man going into the gardens. He is the Frenchman from the inn at St Mary’s, is he not?’

  ‘So it was you outside the window that day. I warn you, Helena, I do not brook interference in my affairs. This is more dangerous than you know.’

  He sounded so grim it was all she could do to answer him. ‘I know it is dangerous! I am so worried for you, Adam!’

  Something in her tone arrested his attention, diverting his anger briefly. His face softened and his hand released its hard grip and moved up to rest on her shoulder. With his other hand he tipped up her chin and for a few long seconds he scanned her face. ‘I thought—I believed—you trusted me, Helena Wyatt.’

  ‘I do trust you! I would never have done what I did with those papers on the Moonspinner had I not trusted you. But, Adam…’ She faltered suddenly under the intensity of his gaze. ‘Why will you not trust me and tell me what you are about?’

  For a long moment Adam hesitated, as though on the edge of speech, then he said, ‘I cannot, Helena, it would put you in danger.’

  ‘I am not afraid!’

  ‘Then you should be,’ Adam replied grimly. ‘There are people involved who would not hesitate to cut my throat—and yours, too—’ He broke off abruptly as two people, closely entwined, stumbled drunkenly into the grove.

  Over Adam’s shoulder Helena saw a young buck, his face flushed with wine and desire, fumbling with the lowcut bodice of a gaudily dressed young woman, who in her turn was groping with the waistband of his knee breeches.

  With a swift action Adam pulled Helena close to him and called over his shoulder, ‘Find another nest, my friend, I was here first and I like my privacy!’ He turned his shoulder and bent to kiss Helena hard on the mouth.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ the other man swore amiably. ‘The place is heaving tonight—can’t find anywhere quiet to get my leg over. Come on, darling. Carry on, friend…’ The young man waved a hand airily, almost losing his balance in the process. His doxy pulled his arm over her shoulder and they made their unsteady way back down the path.

  Helena freed her mouth and whispered, ‘They have gone now, Adam.’

  ‘So?’ He began to nuzzle her neck, sending frissons of quivering delight through her.

  ‘Adam…’ She was not certain herself whether it was a protest or an invitation.

  His lordship chose to construe it as the latter. His hands moved inside the sheltering cloak, expecting to encounter the sensual slither of silk under his palms, the warmth of bare shoulders beneath his questing fingers. ‘What have you got on?’ he demanded against her hair. ‘A nun’s habit?’

  ‘My best walking dress. I could hardly come out wearing my evening gown.’ She was feeling increasingly lightheaded, but underneath the tide of sensation a little voice of reason cautioned her. He was trying to distract her, as he knew only too well how to do. Well, she was not so easily deflected. A sudden recollection of that painted doxy filled her mind. She was not going to be fumbled in the shrubbery like a lightskirt; this was not how she wanted to be with Adam, with the man she loved.

  ‘No!’ She wrenched away. ‘Stop it!’ The suddenness of it took him by surprise and Helena was running across the glade and out into the main walk before he could stop her. She did not stop to look back, only slackening her pace when she found herself in one of the more crowded thoroughfares.

  The smell of hot alcohol filled her nostrils and she stopped beside a stall selling rack punch to catch her breath and get her bearings. Her heart was thudding, her breath short in her throat; Helena put up her hand to push the damp curls back from her forehead and realised to her dismay that not only was she unmasked, but that her hood hung down her back, leaving her face fully exposed.

  She was frantically reaching for her hood when an unseen hand came to her assistance and she found the hood put into her grasp. Helena spun round, expecting to find Adam at her side, but instead encountered the hard, level gaze of Lieutenant Daniel Brookes.

  Helena almost swooned with the shock of it. ‘Mr Brookes!’

  He was obviously furious, his face dark and set with anger. ‘Perhaps you would be so good, madam, as to tell me what my affianced bride is doing unescorted in this place and at this hour?’

  Without waiting for a response, Daniel took her by her arm none too gently and marched her away from the punch stall.

  ‘Daniel, you are hurting me!’ Her arm was already tender from Adam’s angry grasp; the Lieutenant’s grip brought tears to her eyes.

  One of the little dining kiosks was empty and he pulled her into it, not releasing her until the door was closed behind them. Helena could see out over the low frontage to the brightly lit crowd beyond, but inside it was shaded, private.

  A party had obviously not long left it, perhaps for the dance floor, for a fan lay beside wine glasses and bottles and a dessert was laid out on the sideboard.

  ‘I was prepared, madam, to overlook your scandalous behaviour with that man on board his yacht, but I find it hard to stomach you walking round Vauxhall Gardens at two in the morning like a common doxy!’ His handsome face was distorted with disgust and Helena found her own anger rising at his hypocrisy.

  She clung to the anger, gaining strength from it to fling back, ‘Fine words indeed, sir, from a man with your history of dealing with women!’

  Daniel laughed harshly. ‘It is not at all the same thing! A man may st
ray where he will: for a woman of your social standing it is unthinkable. I cannot have my wife gaining the reputation of a slut.’

  ‘Your wife! You still intend to marry me?’ Helena demanded, seeing a thread of hope, the chance of release if he saw her as a threat to his future reputation and prospects.

  Daniel’s lips curled in a harsh smile and he gripped her wrist, pulling her towards him. ‘Oh, yes, Helena, I intend to marry you. And once you are my wife, if you so much as look at another man, I will beat you black and blue—and run your lover through.’

  To underline the threat his hand clenched on the hilt of his dress sword. As if on cue, Adam appeared from a side path and halted at the punch stall, casting around, obviously searching for someone.

  ‘I see,’ Daniel snarled. ‘So that’s the way the land lies. Well, this will give me great pleasure.’ As he spoke, he pushed Helena towards the back of the box and flung open the door.

  Adam’s head turned at the sound and the two men confronted each other across the trampled grass.

  Chapter Eleven

  Helena started forward, intent on staying Daniel’s arm, but before she could reach his side there was a flurry of cerise silk and extravagant feathers and Portia Rowlett swept up to the door of the box.

  Daniel stepped back sharply and Portia bestowed upon him a smile as brilliant as the diamonds clasping her throat. ‘Lieutenant Brookes! Why, fancy encountering you here.’ She turned to the party behind her and cried, ‘Look, my dears, it is Lieutenant Brookes!’

  The Lieutenant had no choice but to give way in the face of the incoming party and back into the box. Behind Portia, Helena could see Mr Rowlett and two other couples, one of whom she recognised as a Cabinet Minister and his wife.

  Suddenly Portia saw her friend behind the Lieutenant and in a glance took in the stricken expression on Helena’s face. Helena thought rapidly and, gathering her last shreds of composure, cried, ‘Portia, dear! You see, I made it after all. You did say two o’clock, did you not? I am afraid I am a little late, but Aunt had the migraine and I would have been forced to return with her if I had not persuaded her to let me wait in your box.’

  Mrs Rowlett might choose to present herself as a featherbrain, but her frivolous manner concealed a razor-sharp brain. Finding Mr Brookes uninvited in her box was puzzling, but Helena’s presence was inexplicable. None the less, she recognised an emergency when she saw one. She rustled forward, picking up her fan from the table as she did so.

  ‘Why, you bold thing, Helena,’ she cried, tapping Daniel playfully on the sleeve as she passed. ‘Gadding about unchaperoned and then inviting a gay blade like Mr Brookes into the box! Tut tut, my dear.’ Portia turned to Daniel and added, in a tone of quite clear, if charming, dismissal, ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Brookes, but I am sure we need keep you from your own party no longer. Good night.’

  The Lieutenant was left with no option but to bow his way out with what grace he could muster. Helena cast a frantic glance around outside the kiosk, but Adam had melted into the darkness with Portia’s arrival.

  As the door closed behind Daniel, Portia cried, ‘Sit down, everyone, sit down! You see our dessert is here. I did mention to you, did I not, Mr Rowlett, that Miss Wyatt was hoping to join us this evening? I am sure I did.’

  James Rowlett was no fool; if Portia wanted to play games, then he would let her. ‘So you did, dearest,’ he responded placidly. ‘Miss Wyatt, may I make known to you our other guests?’

  Helena’s brain whirled, but somehow she made the correct responses and joined in the chitchat as the party picked up their spoons and sampled the fruit mousse that had been laid out.

  Under the table, Portia’s hand sought hers and squeezed it reassuringly. Helena began to relax, but could not restrain a start of alarm when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Now, who can that be?’ Portia asked gaily. ‘We are having an exciting evening, are we not? Come in!’

  The door opened to reveal Adam’s coachman, his tricorn clutched in both hands. ‘Good evening, ma’am. Lady Wyatt’s compliments, Miss Helena, and I’m to drive you home directly. Your maid awaits you in the coach.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Portia sighed theatrically. ‘That sounds very like a summons you cannot refuse, my dear. Doubtless your aunt has returned home to Brook Street to discover your mama did not approve of you remaining here with us. You had better go at once, or we will both be in your mama’s disfavour!’

  Helena, who had taken care not to let her cloak fall open to reveal the plain walking dress beneath, stood up with equal caution and made her curtsies and farewells. The coachman was silent as he walked a respectful two paces behind her towards the gate.

  A ragged urchin was standing at the head of the horses and the man tossed him a copper coin before opening the door for Helena. Adam reached out and pulled her none too gently inside.

  ‘Drive on!’ he snapped, slamming the door and pulling up the blind.

  The coach started with a jerk, sending Helena back into the squabs in an undignified heap. ‘Adam—’ she began to say.

  ‘Be quiet,’ he said evenly. ‘I am thinking.’

  Snubbed, she subsided into her corner, trying to descry his expression in the gloom, but failing. After a few minutes, she ventured, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I am taking you home, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed dully. Of course he was taking her home. What else did she expect? What else did she want? Well, the answer to that was simple: she wanted him to take her in his arms, tell her he loved her and trusted her. More than anything else, she needed to see his face, for he was so still and so silent that he gave no clues as to what was going through his mind.

  ‘May I pull down the blind? It is so stuffy in here.’ She sensed rather than saw his nod of agreement and edged the canvas down until the gas lights gave some intermittent illumination to the interior of the coach.

  She stole a sideways glance, but still found it impossible to read his face as the light flickered against his cheekbones. That he was tense she had no doubt; it was almost palpable in the confined space.

  Helena fought back the urgent desire to get up and sit next to him, to feel his arms around her, his strength and warmth encircling her. Why did she love Adam Darvell so much? she wondered, as the carriage rattled over the cobbles. His reputation as a rake and a hellhound was not all unjustified; she remembered the contents of the chest in his cabin aboard the Moonspinner, full of gorgeous silks and satins, the discreet knowingness of the crew who were obviously used to his lordship’s lady friends.

  She remembered the ambivalent expression on the faces of the matrons at Almack’s as their eyes followed him around the rooms. In some there had been a hint of soft recollection, in others, the caution of mamas with eligible daughters to protect.

  Helena may have been brought up in the country, but she was not naı¨ve; there were different rules for gentlemen and she did not grudge Adam his past. It was just that she wished to be his future…

  She fell to dreaming, to remembering. She felt again his strength as he plucked her from the sea, the courage with which he had dived unhesitatingly to her rescue in the cold waves. She recalled the way he was with his crew and the respect in their faces when they looked at him. Her father would have said that he was a good leader, hard but fair.

  Helena’s mind drifted on to the meal they had shared in the inn in St Mary’s. He had been kind and humorous and had listened to her talk of her family with warmth and interest. And the sharp edge of intelligence in his dark eyes fascinated her.

  And when she and her mother had refused his offer of marriage he had taken it with dignity, although it must have come as a shocking blow to his pride.

  Then there was the effect his touch had upon her; at first she had been scandalised at her response to him. She had feared she had all the makings of a loose woman. She had never been kissed by anyone, yet at the touch of his lips she tingled with desire and lost all vestige
of discretion. But when Daniel had tried to kiss her—and he was a good-looking and personable man—she had felt nothing but revulsion and shame. She had felt shameless with Adam, but it had never felt wrong!

  Loving him as she did only made the idea of marrying him for propriety’s sake even more abhorrent to her. The thought that he would feel he had to be kind to her, perhaps would pity her, was more than her spirit could tolerate. And she could not hope that it would be a platonic marriage, for he would have every right to expect an heir. To share his bed, knowing he was only doing his duty…

  Glancing up, she caught his eye and saw, for the first time, uncertainty there. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, startled into sharpness.

  Adam hesitated, then said slowly, ‘I think I can see a way out of your predicament.’

  ‘What is it?’ Helena asked eagerly. It seemed impossible that he could find a way for her to escape from Daniel’s blackmail without either telling her uncle all, or risking the utter ruination of her reputation.

  ‘I am not certain yet…you will be the first to know if I think it will work.’

  The carriage pulled up and the coachman leaned down from the box, calling softly, ‘Brook Street, my lord.’

  Adam glanced out into the empty street, then up at the darkened house. ‘Good, they are all abed.’ The clock of Audley Street chapel chimed three as he spoke. ‘Let me have the key.’

  ‘Key?’ Helena said stupidly as he began to open the carriage door. ‘I have no key.’

  ‘Then how do you intend getting back in? Has your maid left the garden door open for you?’

  ‘No…oh, Adam, I was so eager to get out I never considered how I was going to get back in again!’

  He did not bother to hide his exasperation. ‘You tell me that you dressed up in a mask and a cloak and you escaped from the house without giving a thought as to how you could return to it?’