Bronwyn Scott - Playing the Rake's Game

As a result, he did not come to Barbados without at least some knowledge of Britain’s colonial gem. Nor did he come without his opinions. He would make an honest profit and he would pay an honest wage to see it done. He would not raise his family up by abusing the sweat of other men. Even a desperate man had ethics.

‘Ahoy there, Dryden, is that you?’ A tall, bronzed man with sun-bleached hair cut through the crowd, taking Ren by momentary surprise. Ren might not have recognised the man, but he’d know the voice of his one-time best friend anywhere in the world, case in point. London would have an apoplexy if it could see its one-time ballroom favourite now. The Caribbean had bleached his dark-blond hair and tanned his pale skin.

‘Kitt Sherard!’ Ren felt his face break into wide grin. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.’ He’d sent a letter on the mail packet preceding him telling Kitt of his arrival, but there’d been no chance to receive a response.

‘Of course I made it. I wouldn’t leave you stranded at the docks.’ Kitt pulled him into a strong embrace. ‘What has it been, Ren? Five years?’

‘Five long years. Look at you, Kitt. Barbados agrees with you,’ Ren exclaimed. He couldn’t get over the completeness of his friend’s transformation. Kitt had always been wild at heart, but now the wildness had entirely taken over. His hair was not only bleached, but long, and his dress more closely resembled the loose clothing of those swarming the docks than the traditional breeches and coats Ren had on. They looked more comfortable too. But the eyes were the same: a sharp, shrewd sea-blue. It was Kitt all right and it felt good to see a friendly face.

‘It does indeed.’ Kitt laughed as a pretty, coffee-skinned fruit seller approached, swinging her hips.

‘Fresh fruit, me loves, de best on de island. Is this handsome fellow a friend of yours, Mr Kitt?’ She wafted a firm round orange under Ren’s nose, teasing him with its citrusy scent. The persuasion was effective. After two weeks without anything resembling ‘fresh’, the orange was a temptation nonpareil. She might as well have been Eve with the apple, and if Eve had been wearing a scoop-necked blouse like this island beauty, Ren completely understood why Adam had eaten it.

‘He’s come all the way from London, Liddie. You be good to him.’ Kitt gave her two coins and took the fruit, tossing it to Ren.

‘Are all your friends this handsome?’ Liddie flirted with Ren, the loose neck of her blouse gaping open to offer a quick glimpse of firm, round fruit of a more erotic sort. She flashed him an inviting smile.

Kitt feigned wounded pride, a hand on his heart. ‘More handsome than me, Liddie?’

Liddie laughed. ‘You’re too much for a poor girl like me, Mr Kitt. Are you going to introduce me?’

‘Liddie, this is Ren Dryden, Albert Merrimore’s cousin. He’s going to be taking over Sugarland plantation.’

Ren thought he saw Liddie take the slightest step backwards. Her next words confirmed it wasn’t his imagination. ‘There’s trouble out there.’ She shot a warning glance at Kitt. ‘You better tell him about the spirits and the witch woman, Mr Kitt.’ She fumbled with a string about her neck and pulled a necklace over her head. A chunk of black coral hung from a strip of leather. She handed it to Ren. ‘You’re going to need protection. This will keep the bad spirits away.’

Ren took the charm, unsure of what to say. The idea there was trouble at his plantation was more than a little unsettling. That the trouble involved spirits and a witch woman seemed to portend the ominous. He looked a hasty question at Kitt, who merely shrugged at the mention.

‘My friend and I are good Anglicans, Liddie. We don’t believe in spirits.’ Kitt dismissed Liddie’s worries with an easy smile

Good Anglicans? Ren fought back a laugh at the notion. He didn’t think Kitt had ever been a good anything except a good amount of trouble. Decent simply wasn’t in Sherard’s vocabulary.

Ren tucked the amulet inside his shirt and Kitt went back to flirting with Liddie. ‘I am a bit jealous though, Liddie. What about me? Don’t I get an amulet, too, just in case?’

Liddie’s face broke into a pretty smile. ‘Mr Kitt, I pity the poor spirits that mess with you, Anglican or not.’ It was a good note to leave on. Liddie sauntered away, hips swaying.

‘She likes you.’ Kitt elbowed Ren. ‘Do you want me to arrange something?’

‘No. I think women will need to wait until I can get my bearings at the plantation.’ Ren laughed. ‘You’re the same old Kitt Sherard, women falling all over you wherever you go.’

Kitt seemed to sober at that. ‘Well, not quite the same, I hope. I didn’t come here to be what I was in London and I’m guessing neither did you.’

Ren nodded in understanding. For them both, Barbados was a place for new lives. Kitt had left London five years ago rather suddenly and without warning. He’d shown up one night on Ren’s doorstep needing sanctuary but unable to explain. He’d left the next day, slinking out of town towards the ports, leaving everything behind including his real name. Ren had been the last to see him. After that, Kitt had cut all ties with the exception of random letter to him and the third of their trio, Benedict DeBreed.

Ren had no idea what Kitt had been up to since then. A silence had sprung up between them, a reminder of the profundity of their choices. Ren steered the conversation back to the practical. ‘Were you able to bring a wagon?’ It was easier not to think about the larger scope of his decisions, but to take it all step by step. The next step was to get out to the plantation.

‘It’s right over here. I think they’ve just brought your trunks ashore.’ Kitt gestured to the returning bumboat. Ren’s questions had to wait while they loaded his trunks, but his nerves were rising. What had Cousin Merrimore done? What was wrong at Sugarland? He’d expected a bit of unease. There’d been four months between his cousin’s passing and his arrival, but surely there was enough sense in the group of investors to manage things in the short term.

In fact, he’d assumed there would be very little to handle. Most plantation owners were absentee landlords who left the running of the estate to an overseer while they lived in England. But if that was the case, none of them had contacted him. It would have been simple enough to meet if they had been in England.

Since no one had come forward, Ren was starting to believe the landlords were in residence on the island. Even so, with or without his cousin’s presence or the presence of any other shareholders, the overseer would keep the plantation going just as he always had. Ren ran a finger beneath his collar, the heat starting to make his garments uncomfortable. He shot an envied glance Kitt’s direction.

‘Take off the damn coats, Ren. We aren’t in England any more.’ Kitt laughed at his discomfort. ‘Even the heat’s different here, but you’ll learn how to cope. You’ll get used to it.’ He winked. ‘If you’re anything like me, you’ll even like it.’

Ren grinned and shrugged out of his jacket. ‘I love the heat and I don’t think London ever had a sky this blue. This is paradise.’ Just minutes off the boat and he could see the allure of this place. Everything was different: the sky, the heat, the fruit, the people.

The talk of spirits and witches didn’t bother him so much as did the fact that they were connected to his property. He’d risked everything to come here. Hell, he’d left the earldom unprotected, having turned the day-to-day affairs entirely over to his steward and solicitors. He could trust them, of course, and if he was wrong on that account he’d left his close friend, Benedict DeBreed, in charge to ensure he wasn’t. He had protections in place, but still, if he’d been Trojan Horsed...well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. He’d find a way to make it work.