Miranda Jarrett - Regency High Society Vol 2 - Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch

With a surgeon’s delicacy Bertle slid a thin-bladed knife beneath the seal of the first letter and worked it free without cracking the stiff blob of stamped green wax. The sender’s name had meant nothing to him, but the recipient’s—that ancient harridan of a countess, Lady Byfield—had attracted Bertle’s attention immediately. The countess was said to have the ear of the Queen of Naples herself, which in that court was far better than the king’s. News sent to her might be interesting indeed.

But Bertle’s hopes fell as he scanned the letter. Only some impoverished grandson living beyond his means and begging for funds, whining over a horse gone lame at Newmarket and a dispute with an aunt who’d refused him money, as well. Nothing useful, nothing interesting. But just as Bertle was ready to toss the letter aside, a sentence caught his eye. The tightfisted aunt had run off with her lover, abandoning her husband and his fortune to the hopeful avarice of the letter’s writer and, he prayed, to the rejoicing of the countess. The missing aunt’s name was Caro, the present Lady Byfield, her lover a huge, violent outlaw, and where they had so completely vanished to was anyone’s guess.

Anyone’s guess, and Bertle’s surety. He plucked another wedge of lime from the tankard, savoring both the rumlaced juice and his own revenge. As tempting as it would be to confront that Yankee braggart, it would be better still to wait until Raleigh reached Naples.

He would call on the countess himself, pay his respects, tell her how honored he’d been to carry Lord and Lady Byfield themselves in his sloop. He’d tell her how he’d naturally respected their wish for anonymity and accepted the false surname they’d used, but the lady’s breeding was unmistakable. As for the so-called husband—well, he’d let the man’s real identity be discovered soon enough, and decide at the time which would pay the best, a reward for his honesty or blackmail for silence. Either way there would be gold, gold guineas and plenty of them.

A reward, and revenge. Bertle laughed aloud, spewing bits of lime rind as he imagined the fate of the brash, bullying Yankee in the hands of the Dowager Countess of Byfield.

“You have the look of a fightin’ man, Mr. Sparhawk,” said Hart, the earnest young man who was the Raleigh ’s mate. Jeremiah had come on deck while he waited for Caro to wake and dress, and while the mate’s cheerful company was not exactly his choice for so early in the morning, at least Hart had none of Bertle’s belligerence.

With obvious pride, the young man patted the stubby little cannonade he was polishing, and swiped his rag over the barrel again as he grinned at Jeremiah. “We’re only a merchantman, but the cap’n insists we be able to hold our own in a fight. You can see for yourself, sir, how far he’s gone to outfit us proper.”

Though Jeremiah considered himself a merchant shipmaster by trade, he’d seen a good deal more fighting one way or another than many captains in the American navy. The boy had guessed right enough there. But Hart’s estimation of the four pitiful cannonades with which Bertle had armed his sloop was inflated by pride, or perhaps loyalty. To Jeremiah’s eye the guns were probably older than Hart himself, and all the polishing in the world wouldn’t make the antiquated barrels aim true or far enough to frighten any enemy. Arming a merchant vessel like this one was asking for trouble, for any attacker would consider the cannonades excuse enough to fire first.

“How I’d like a good crack at a Frenchman myself, wouldn’t I though!” continued Hart. “Why, put anything French within my range and I’d give them a taste of British courage!”

“Be careful what you wish for, lad,” said Jeremiah dryly. Once, very long ago, he’d been every bit as eager to chase after the enemy. His first encounter with one of that enemy’s frigates and the carnage a single broadside could bring had instantly toppled his youthful bravado. “The press-gangs would make a prize of you in an instant.”

“Oh, they can’t take me,” said Hart blithely. “My father paid old man Bertle twenty guineas to rank me mate so I’d be clear of the press. Masters and mates, by law the press can’t touch them.”

“Don’t be so certain.” Judging by what else Jeremiah had seen of Bertle’s character, he wouldn’t trust the man not to sell poor Hart, mate or not, and collect the navy’s bounty himself. He glanced at the horizon, gauging the time by the level of the rising sun, and wondered uneasily why Caro hadn’t joined him by now. She’d been stirring when he’d left, and that had been at least an hour ago.

“Not that it matters,” Hart was saying, his disappointment clear. “I’ll lay you odds we won’t see even a hair of a Frenchman between here and Naples, let alone get to fire at one. Have you ever killed one yourself, Mr. Sparhawk? One of the French bastards, I mean?”

Jeremiah almost winced at the young man’s innocent callousness. “They’re men, Hart, not grouse in season, and they tend to bleed and die the same as the rest of us.”

“Then you are a fighting man, sir!” he exclaimed excitedly. “We was talking in the mess and we were sure you were, no matter what the cap’n said. He said you was mean and dangerous, and we should steer clear of you, but I thought you looked like a man who’d know things worth knowing. A sight more than old Bertle would, anyway.”

Jeremiah looked past the young man to the water. He knew things, all right, such wonderful things that made him shake and weep helplessly as he had last night, things he’d give much to forget if he could. There had been a time in his life when he’d been proud to be known as a man who never walked from a fight because he was confident he’d always win, but now he wasn’t as certain. These days it seemed he wasn’t certain about much of anything.

He thought again of last night, wondering how Caro would treat him this morning. Like the young man before him, she had wanted so badly to believe him a hero who could solve her problems through the magic of his courage alone. Well, she couldn’t believe that any longer. He glanced again at the empty companionway. Where the devil was she, anyway?

“So how many Frenchmen have you killed, Mr. Sparhawk?” persisted Hart, his eyes shining with bloodthirsty ardor.

“Enough to know I’d rather not kill any more of them.”

Hart’s chubby face fell. “Even to defend English soil?”

“The only thing I’ve done for English soil is send English men under it.” He knew he’d be quoted in the mess, and he didn’t give a damn if he was. “If you ever bothered to listen to your captain, you’d know I’m American, lad, not English, and I’ll thank you not to forget the war— our war—that made the difference.”

He turned on his heel before Hart could answer and headed below. God, he sounded as if he were a hundred years old! If Caro had been with him, he wouldn’t have made such a pompous fool of himself. Caro would understand. Caro would—damnation, why had he left her alone for so long?

He skipped the bottom three steps of the ladder and raced to their cabin. He tried to open the door and found it latched from within, and though last night he’d wanted her to lock the door, he now found it nothing but frustrating.

“Caro, open the door,” he ordered, thumping his fist on the pine for good measure. “It’s Jeremiah, Caro!”

Yet all he heard in return was a faint, muffled voice from within, and his frustration turned to fear for her. He remembered the way Bertle had leered as he’d spoken her name, how he’d said half the crew was already in love with her. Dear God, if anything had happened to her because he’d been careless…