Victoria Hanlen - The Trouble With Misbehaving

Tapping his foot, he peered about the swarms of festive patrons milling around him. He shouldn’t be here. His return to England was to be a new start. He’d made a vow—if he survived the Yankee prison he would reunite with his brothers and change his life. Still, anticipation buzzed through his veins.

He flicked open his program, scanned it and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Families still left at dusk. Now only roistering men and women remained. Save for a novel act or two, a dozen years hadn’t altered the variety of amusements and death-defying feats. Hot air balloons, operettas, circuses and tightrope walkers still entertained. He yawned—child’s play, really. Little could rival the excitement of blockade-running.

In the distance, a steam calliope whistled a merry tune. Aromas of coffee and hot grog tugged his attention to the outdoor café where flashy women ringed dainty tables. He brushed his hand over his jacket pocket and felt the note crinkle under his fingertips. Could one of those women be the mysterious letter writer?

“Dawdling won’t get you tuppence here. If you want one o’ ’em, ask her for a dance. Then negotiate.”

Beau flinched at the strange voice. With all the noise and commotion surrounding him, he hadn’t noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen step to his side. He narrowed his eyes on them.

The mustachioed fellow rattled on, “Got to exert yourself. That’s the way of it here at these pleasure gardens.” He motioned toward the crowded dance platform where a sea of hats and bonnets and every kind of suit and gown imaginable bounced about in something resembling more of a bacchanal than a polka.

“The tarts here do not solicit acquaintance. Got to be asked,” his friend said and adjusted his bowler hat.

Rockets burst overhead and exploded through the mist into flowering streams of silver. Beau’s sinews seized. Ghostly images of flying shrapnel and live shell fell all around him. “Take cover!” gurgled in his throat. He clutched the flagpole, gasped for air, pulled at his cravat and fought the panic rioting inside.

The man with the mustache stared, eyes bulging. “N-not that one o’ ’em wouldn’t be thrilled to accommodate a f-fine bloke such as yourself. Not to worry. London’s trollops are a friendly sort. That’s just how it’s done here at Cremorne.”

Beau dragged in desperate breaths. Even with the cool fall air floating in off the Thames, the boom of fireworks made him break into a sweat. Frustration boiled in his gullet. He’d come here to find out what ‘Rewards and Benefits’ meant, not fend off his lingering battle demons.

After nearly fifty runs through the blockade he’d lost his nerve, quite effectively ending his blockade-running career. Fortunately, he’d saved a tidy sum, but the money wouldn’t last. Even an earl’s third son needed to keep up appearances. With any luck, the letter writer would offer generous pay for legitimate, peaceful work. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Heart still pounding, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket. “Blast!” He yanked it out again. The paper cut him! He knew better than to allow an infernal letter to tempt his curiosity. A more superstitious mariner would take it as a sign. He should leave.

Vacillating, he rubbed his stinging finger and studied the men. They didn’t seem dodgy enough to have sent the letter, but they were too friendly. He didn’t like friendly. And what made them think he didn’t know London? Was it his tan? He needed to get rid of them. “Perhaps you could show me how one procures…a tart.”

The bowler-hatted man gave him a crooked smile. “All right. It’s not so difficult. Remember, they got to make a living. Pick out one you fancy, be polite and ask.” He tipped his hat toward several women sitting at a nearby table. One smiled back. He soon disappeared with the woman into the mass whirling around the bandstand.

His friend twiddled his mustache and grinned. “Good on him. See? Easy. That’s how it’s done.”

Beau checked his pocket watch…six minutes past eleven. The letter writer was late. Patience had never been his virtue, but tardiness nearly gave him fits. The last time someone kept him waiting he’d been forced to confess to a lie to save his crew and was nearly hanged.

A ticklish skitter climbed his torso. Another grazed his face. He slowly peered around. Union spies had trailed him before. He’d been shocked by the amount of intelligence his nemesis, Union Navy Commander Rives, presented at his trial. Rives promised a bullet to the brain if he ever saw him again. Enough. Time to leave.

“Captain Tollier?”

The soft American accent pinched a raw nerve. He lurched around toward the woman’s voice. Dear God in Heaven . Fireworks exploded overhead in the grand finale. All Beau heard was a distant ringing.

Diamond lights sparkled in the large, dark-lashed eyes gazing up at him. Tight sable ringlets framed creamy skin. High cheekbones lent strength to a comely heart-shaped face. A thin, straight little nose tipped up with just a trace of determination. And her lips, oh, her full, soft lips were made to bedevil a man’s imagination.

At first he thought her a delicate maiden. In the next instant, she pursed those lovely lips ever so slightly to reveal an edge and maturity that hinted older. And with closer examination, her charming womanly curves suggested older as well. Surely this spectacular creature couldn’t be the C.C.

Stunned, he couldn’t respond, only watch her study his face and give him a smile—a very pretty smile—white teeth, a dimple on her soft left cheek. The glamour of it spurred stirrings he’d not felt in nearly a year.

“Oh dear, I must have been mistaken. Terribly sorry.” She turned to walk away.

An elbow dug into his side. The mustachioed man shot him a look of disbelief and gave a quick nod in her direction.

Rubbing his rib, Beau’s mind finally snapped into gear. “May I help you, miss?”

She turned back. “If you aren’t Captain Tollier, then no. I’m very sorry to bother you.”

Curiosity wrestled with uncertainty. She couldn’t have written the letter, could she? Stunning women made very beguiling spies, yet something about her didn’t quite fit the part. Sweeping his hat from his head he smiled, “And if I were he?”

“Then you’d know who you were. Do you know who you are?”

He couldn’t decide if her tone held a joke or condescension.

American women . They spoke the same language, for the most part, but if he wasn’t mistaken, this one’s cheekiness included a subtle challenge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustached fellow angle his arm for another shot to his ribs.

Beau quickly stepped to the side. “If I should happen to make his acquaintance, who might I say is enquiring?” He flashed her his dazzling smile. The one that usually brought blushes to even the most hardened old harridans.

A graceful brow rose.

The intensity of her gaze sharpened as she openly assessed his new black top hat; took careful note of his face; measured the breadth of his shoulders; inspected his new suit, cravat, starched shirt, waistcoat and burnished boots; slowly drew her gaze upward to his lips and then directly into his eyes.

Beau found himself straightening to attention. For a man of the world and a former Royal Navy officer, he’d never experienced a more unabashed, thorough inspection. His voice came out a little too tight and stern. “Do I pass muster, madam?”

Humor flashed in her eyes, hitting him like an electric jolt. His gaze flew to her delectable mouth. More curiosity stirred.

The music swelled into another rollicking polka.

Peripherally, he saw ‘mustache’ nodding his head toward the bandstand.