“He should be made welcome here… he and his wife, of course. There is much he’ll want to know and…”
Adam pulled back so he could look into Olivia’s eyes.
“First of all, we don’t know for certain that this Captain Hardacre is my Christopher,” he said. “Even if he is, have you considered the possibility he may not wish to meet me after all this time? If he ever thinks about his parents at all that he might hate the man who abandoned his mother?”
Chapter Three
Burlington House, London
Of all the other guests Bentinck and his wife, Lady Mary, had invited for tonight’s gathering, it was the older couple, Sir Daniel Ridgeway and his wife, Lady Abigail, who were the most interesting.
Kit sipped a glass of champagne and watched the two of them work the room together like experienced campaigners.
Ridgeway’s maturity showed itself in his face and the color of his hair, silver-grey with a touch of ginger, but age was not in his posture. Although he appeared to be at the end of his fifth decade, he did not have the stoop of age and his attention was sharp. The woman on his arm was like a shining beacon, her silver-white hair artfully arranged to set off a gown of shimmering ice blue.
When she turned in his direction, he was struck by her feline grey-green eyes. Now, like a mouse stunned into motionlessness in the face of a predator, he stood paralyzed as the woman approached, only able to glance quickly toward Sophia for help – except she had been drawn into conversation with Lady Mary.
“Captain Hardacre, I wish to thank you for the safe delivery of my coffee.”
Oh my God, the woman even speaks with a purr.
Kit quickly recovered his composure.
That solves the mystery of an unusually large order from Morwena’s brand new client.
“I’m pleased to be of service, My Lady. I can vouch for the quality of the coffee myself.”
Lady Abigail smiled. It was only then that Kit noticed some of the youthfulness in her face was aided by cosmetics.
“You must be pleased to be home… in England I mean.”
“Sicily is home, ma’am.”
“Fascinating!” she said before she took him by the arm. “I planned to emigrate to Naples once, but that was some time ago. Shall we take a turn about the room? You must tell me all about Sicily before dinner.”
For a moment, Kit almost believed her interest was genuine. But his reservation must have shown itself on his face because he saw the acknowledgement of it in her own expression.
“How did you come to live there?”
He considered his answer. He was not about to tell a stranger his life story, nor of his treatment as a child captive of the Barbary Coast corsairs, so he decided on something simple and more palatable.
“The ship I was on as a cabin boy sailed the Mediterranean. After a while, I decided I liked it enough to stay.”
“Indeed? Which ship?”
He saw no harm in telling her. After all, it had been more than two decades ago, and Lady Abigail didn’t strike him as being a naval historian.
“The Pendragon.”
His arm felt the involuntary squeeze of her hand, but full credit to the woman’s self-possession, there was no evidence of surprise on her face. Her make-up was very good, indeed.
“Are you quite well, My Lady? Perhaps, I should escort you back to your husband.”
Lady Abigail inclined her head and smiled.
Check and mate.
Suddenly, the urge to collect Sophia and go home was nearly overwhelming. But he put paid to the idea with one look at his wife’s face, animated and lovely, as she regaled a tale to an engaged audience of Lord William, Lady Mary, Sir Daniel, and the Viscount and Viscountess of Salford.
As he and Lady Abigail drew near, he heard her speak enthusiastically about the work done by her uncle, Professor Jonas Fenton, and the various forms of architecture she sketched for her part in her uncle’s book On Exploring the Southern Mediterranean For Islands Once Settled By The Ancients.
“Ah, Captain Hardacre,” said Ridgeway. When he smiled, long lines creased his cheeks. “Forgive us for monopolizing so much time with Mrs. Hardacre. She has told us of Professor Fenton’s recent excavations of the North Leigh Roman Villa at Oxfordshire. And it appears her own accomplishments in the field of archaeology are truly quite impressive.”
“I’ve always been proud of her, sir.” Kit spoke the words with sincerity and gravity. And Kit had eyes only for his wife.
Lady Abigail lightly touched a fan to Ridgeway’s arm.
“A word, Husband.”
Sophia stepped forward. Taking Kit’s hand, she led him away from the group.
“Are you truly having such a miserable time?” she asked.
“Does it show?”
“No, not too much,” she said lightly, then her manner turned to teasing. “You seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with Lady Abigail. How is our newest client?”
“Curious. And not in a good way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She reacted when I mentioned the Pendragon.”
“Did you ask why?”
Sophia paused until they were a safe distance from the others. Still, she glanced back at the other guests and spoke with her voice low. “There is no shame attached to you for what happened after the slavers took you from that ship. You were a boy. The only thing that matters now is the man you’ve become.”
Kit squeezed her arm and gave her a smile. “I’m probably overreacting, right?”
“It has been known to happen,” Sophia said as she grinned, conceding the point with a tilt of her head.
For many years, Kit had slept with a knife within reach. Heightened vigilance had kept him alive against demons both real and imagined. But that war had been won. He was safe; Sophia was safe. Their friends were safe. But habits of a lifetime were hard to break.
That’s why the dashing ebony and silver cane he sported was also a sword stick.
“Then we are agreed?” Sophia continued, “We’ll remain to have a lovely evening with friends old and new and leave the past where it belongs.”
He took a deep breath. “Agreed.”
To his surprise, the rest of the evening did pass pleasantly. After a glass or two of port accompanied by a fine cigar, he warmed to Bentinck’s guests, particularly Ridgeway.
By the time the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies, Kit found Lady Abigail holding court and, if he was not mistaken, she had just finished the end of a rather risqué tale.
“Daniel, my love,” the older woman called, as though she was the Queen of Sheba, Queen Elizabeth, and Marie Antoinette all rolled into one, “I’ve taken such a liking to the Hardacres. You must help me persuade them to join us in Cornwall for Christmas.”
Kit watched Ridgeway’s expression transform into one of well-practiced, amused tolerance. He would bet the man beside him was no pushover. Only one with an equally strong personality would be a match for a woman like Lady Abigail.
Kit glanced at Ridgeway, expecting him to veto his wife’s impetuous declaration, but all he saw was mild surprise instead.
“Your invitation is most gracious, My Lady,” accepted Kit. No doubt forgotten by morning.
While Dr. Mathewson sorted the papers on his desk, Kit discreetly rubbed his aching leg.
“There we have it, the details for the name you gave us. Miss Constance Marie Denton succumbed to bed fever within a few days of giving birth.”
Kit watched the superintendent’s face turn grim. “It also says her family refused to accept her mortal remains. She was buried in a pauper’s grave, unmarked.”
Kit’s leg throbbed. Beside him, Sophia let out a murmur of dismay of her own before reaching for his hand.
“Constance was from Cornwall, a village called Ponsnowyth, which is near Truro, I believe,” the doctor concluded. He shuffled the papers once more and slid them toward Kit.
“Was there a mention of…” Kit hesitate
d over saying “my father”, “… the child’s father?”
“No. There so often isn’t in these cases, but that she provided a surname gives you somewhere to look, although there is no guarantee it is your father’s true name.”
“I see.” Kit rose from the chair and extended his hand. “I thank you, Dr. Mathewson, you have been of great assistance.”
Kit didn’t speak again even when they were safely seated in the carriage, heading back to St. James’ Square. He stared out the side window sightlessly. He was right all along. It was a fool’s errand. He didn’t need to know his father. He’d done all right without one so far.
The only reason he didn’t immediately head to the docks and give the order to ready the Calliope for the return voyage was the promise he’d given to the crew of a month’s furlough and Christmas in England.
Beside him, Sophia shifted on the seat.
“Before we left this morning, a messenger came confirming the invitation to Cornwall with the Ridgeways should we wish to go,” she said. “I hear Cornwall is warmer than London in winter. Perhaps that would suit your leg as well.”
He pulled his attention away from the fog-filled streets and to his wife, offering a half-smile.
“Is this your way of telling me you want to continue the search for my sire?”
Sophia shrugged. “It would make better sense than to leave the job half-done. And besides, the longer we spend in London, the more obliged Victoria will feel to invite us to spend Christmas at Bentwood House. Do you really want to spend the season with Samuel?”
Kit gave a theatrical shudder and look of revulsion, which made her laugh.
“No, thank you.” No thank you, indeed. Samuel Cappleman had refused to listen to Kit’s advice and, as a result, Sophia and his sister, Laura, endured a horrific two years as harem concubines. Sophia attached no blame to her cousin, but Kit did.
Sophia drew him back to the present. “Then it’s settled, I shall write to Sir Daniel and tell him we’d be delighted to join him and Lady Abigail in Truro.”
Chapter Four
Ponsnowyth, Cornwall.
“Abigail did what?”
From the corner of his eye, Adam saw his daughters lift their heads from their puzzle and stare at him wide-eyed.
He allowed Olivia to lead him from the cozy drawing room and into his study. He’d been outdoors all morning with Will Trellow and his wife from the Angler’s Arms to help ready Ponsnowyth for the annual Christmas markets.
Lady Abigail dropping a surprise on him was the last thing he wanted.
The first thing he wanted was a drink but that was on a table a dozen steps away and his wife stood before him.
“The letter came while you were out,” explained Olivia. “Both she and Daniel are now convinced that Captain Kit Hardacre is your son Christopher.”
“So they were just going to roll up on the doorstep on Christmas morning with two unsuspecting strangers in tow? Why the hell doesn’t that man pull his wife into line?”
He stopped his rant when a flicker of amusement touched his wife’s face.
“Did I just hear you suggest Daniel pull Abigail ‘into line’?”
Adam conceded the absurdity of it with a tilt of his head and a self-depreciating smile.
Olivia rubbed her hands up and down his arms, which warmed him more than the whisky he’d thought he needed.
“Is it truly Daniel and Abigail you’re angry with?”
No. It wasn’t. He knew it, and Olivia knew it.
“So when were they going to spring the surprise on the captain and his wife?”
“I can show you the letter…”
Adam shook his head, unable to keep the resigned note from his voice. “No, that’s fine, just tell me.”
“Well, that will be up to you.”
Ah-ha! A choice at last!
“Then that depends on Christopher – Kit – wanting to meet me.”
The absurdity of the whole situation did require a drink. A large one.
He poured for himself and glanced at Olivia. He poured her choice, a small sweet sherry.
“How do you feel about the idea of meeting my son?”
“I… I feel… I hope… he will be a son to me as he is to you.”
Adam pressed the glass into her hand.
“I owe you everything,” he whispered. “If it had not been for you, I would not have known of Chr… Kit’s existence at all. You kept Constance’s memory alive when her father wanted to erase every trace of her.”
At the sound of Olivia’s sob, he took the glass from her hand and put it down on the edge of the desk with his. He took her into his arms. “Because of you, Constance is remembered alongside her mother. Because of you, Kit Hardacre – if he wishes – will know more about his mother than I could ever have told him.”
“Oh, darling,” said Olivia, her voice shaky. “For your love of Constance and my love for you, Kit and his wife will be made welcome. And, together with our daughters, we will welcome him home.”
“What do we tell our daughters?” he whispered into Olivia’s ear.
“The truth,” she replied, “but not until Kit is told.”
Beautiful as well as wise. Adam closed his eyes. Thank God for my wife.
How empty his life had been before they met. They hadn’t the most conventional of courtships – life as a spy did that – but the happy and peaceful years that passed since had more than made up for it.
Adam prayed his nice, comfortable life wasn’t built on sand for an incoming tide to destroy.
Kit could sleep through tumultuous seas and room in close quarters with rough, unwashed sailors. But three days in a rolling, rocking coach – even one as luxuriously appointed as the one owned by the Ridgeways – would leave him only just this side of homicidal.
Besides, he would rest much easier if he was no more than a day’s ride from his ship. So while the Ridgeways would make the journey by coach, he and Sophia would sail to Falmouth and be there three days ahead of their hosts.
And that was not the only reason he decided to jump ship – so to speak. According to his maps, Falmouth was but a little over twelve miles from Truro. Ponsnowyth was only five miles away – less if he crossed the mouth of the river Fal.
Kit watched the reduced crew who’d short sailed the ship from London, especially his new captain, bring the Calliope into an unfamiliar port. Acting Captain Stefano Andretti had been willing to break his shore leave to please the ship’s owner and the crew who’d abandoned their furlough had done so either because they had nowhere particular in England to spend Christmas or had already expended their money.
Kit was well satisfied. All his new crew had settled in well. Another few months and he would feel comfortable enough to assign them to their own ship, the Clio, which Elias and Jonathan were readying back in Palermo. It had been Sophia who named the Calliope’s sister ship, and perfectly so – Clio, the Greek muse of history, as Sophia was his muse of history.
Speaking of which, it was nine o’clock, and Sophia still hadn’t arisen from their bed. Despite her insistence otherwise, he knew there was something amiss. He determined to watch her carefully to make sure she ate and rested.
Kit breathed in deep. He didn’t mind the cold as much here. Certainly his leg ached less. Two weeks in London and he’d already missed the sea.
He thought again of Sophia. The last time he went below deck to the master cabin, she still slept, rugged up warmly beneath the blankets. She seemed more pale than she ought to be.
Perhaps he worried too much.
“You worry too much,” Sophia’s voice carried up to him. She accepted his hand to help her up the steps, though she didn’t need it.
Captain Andretti, a man just a few years younger than Kit himself, approached. He greeted Sophia with a bow. Andretti, with black hair and hawk-like features, was dashing and charismatic, and he had a good instinct for managing men and the ship. He turned to his commanding officer.
&nbs
p; “Are you ready to go ashore, Captain Hardacre?”
“We can go into Falmouth and hire a gig,” said Kit to Sophia.
“Or we can walk from Flushing over to Ponsnowyth as we originally planned,” she countered.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was certain, but her look told him to hold his tongue, instead.
“Tell the men to lower the boat.”
Andretti nodded curtly, a sweep of his jet hair falling across his bow. He left, ordering in accented English for one of the small boats to be lowered.
“Well then,” said Kit, turning to Sophia. “Let’s put together what we need to spend a day tracking down information about dear maman.”
Sophia was true to her word. She kept pace with him effortlessly as they followed the path through the farmlands. They had only gone half a mile before the edge of the castellated, square Norman tower of the church came into view.
The records would be there. He could find his mother’s family if they still lived. And what of his father? If Hardacre was, indeed, his name, what had happened to him?
The wind at their backs pushed them forward, up the gentle incline.
Shimmering in the mid-morning sun were the Carrick Roads. Another quarter of a mile ahead, the way forked, one disappearing down to the Carrick and the other snaking along past where the bluestone church sat in the lee of another hill.
The church was not large, but a testament to its age was the fact it was an island, surrounded by a sea of headstones.
It was quiet, which Kit supposed was to be expected on a Tuesday morning. Wind blew through the shin-high grass at the edges of the churchyard, making it hiss ominously.
“Perhaps we should go straight to the village,” said Sophia. “It should be just around the hill, another quarter of a mile I should think.”
“No, let’s start here first,” he replied. “We can at least find more about the Dentons before we bother the priest about looking at the parish records.”
“Where do we start?”
A Night of Angels Page 41
