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

Critically Dorinda’s gaze swept over Caro. “You’re not at all what I expected, girl.”

“Neither are you, your ladyship.” Caro smiled beatifically. She’d been warned by Frederick that his mother could be sharp-tongued, and she was determined not to let the older woman better her. Though they’d never met, in a way they’d already been warring for fifteen years, and though Dorinda might have the diamonds, Caro had Frederick. “And please, call me Caro.”

Pointedly Dorinda ignored the request. “Sit, girl.”

She motioned to the small taboret beside her own chair, and without protest Caro sat. Another chair would have been more comfortable and more appropriate than the backless stool, but Caro was willing to concede that much. Although there was nothing of Frederick in the old woman’s face, little mannerisms—the quirk of her brow, the way she arched her wrist—were disconcertingly his.

With a sweep that was still graceful, Dorinda opened her fan. “I did not expect you to come to me yourself.”

“And I wondered if you would receive me when I did,” answered Caro. “But when you wrote to me that you had proof that my husband still lives, how could I not come?”

“It is a great distance for a lady to travel.”

Attuned to such subtleties, Caro didn’t miss the scornful emphasis on that lady. “I would travel any distance for Frederick’s return.”

“But I trust you did not make the journey alone.” Dorinda’s fan paused as she baited her trap. “No doubt you had a companion to ease your trial.”

“I did, yes. An American gentleman who seeks word of other captives was so kind as to agree to accompany me.”

The fan remained still, poised. “An American gentleman accompanied you? I would have expected Mr. Perkins, or perhaps dear George.”

“They did not offer,” said Caro, her cheeks warming in spite of her resolution. It wasn’t exactly a lie. They hadn’t offered, true, but then she hadn’t told them of her plans. And oh, how different that long voyage would have been with either George or Mr. Perkins in place of Jeremiah! “Mr. Sparhawk graciously did, and I accepted.”

Dorinda paused, letting the chit consider her own words. According to George, this Sparhawk was no better than a common footpad; in Captain Bertle’s opinion, the man was some sort of seafaring adventurer, prone to intemperate violence and treasonous friendships with Frenchmen. Both, without question, believed him to be Caroline’s lover.

“This Mr. Sparhawk must be an old and trusted friend to undertake such a journey with you,” she said, watching with satisfaction as the little strumpet’s blush betrayed the truth. “Perhaps a friend of Frederick’s?”

Damn her cheeks for blushing so! Consciously Caro willed her hands to keep from twisting in her lap and wished she had the same control over the blood that rushed to her face.

“I have known Mr. Sparhawk only a brief time, but he has always acted with such honor and good grace that I felt my trust would not be misplaced,” she said carefully. “Although he is American, his sister is married to Admiral Lord John Herendon.”

“Ah, Britain’s own pretty Lord Jack,” purred Dorinda, remembering when Herendon, then a frigate captain, had been stationed with the other English ships in the bay. She had met him at the palace and found him much to her liking, tall and gold-haired like a Grecian god, and so much more like a hero than that poor bedraggled little Lord Nelson. Forty years ago, thought Dorinda nostalgically, no, even thirty, and she would have made a conquest of Lord Jack.

But for this man Sparhawk to be connected to the Herendons put a whole different coloring on Caroline’s infidelity. Jack Herendon would have married a beauty, and her brother would doubtless be comely, too, and young. Trust both George and Bertle not to tell her what would matter most to a woman!

“Are they of a piece then, this Mr. Sparhawk and Lord Jack?” she asked archly. “Certainly any lady would wish for a man of Lord Jack’s courage on a voyage in these uncertain times.”

“No, they are not very similar at all,” said Caro, imagining the two men side by side. “Jeremiah is taller than Jack, broader, with dark hair and green eyes. His life has not been easy, which sometimes makes him melancholy, but when he smiles, he makes one forget everything else, and he is very loyal, willing to fight to defend whatever he believes in.”

Jeremiah. The way the chit said the name alone was enough to condemn her. Worse, she was so smitten that she didn’t even realize her own error, babbling on happily about the man’s qualities. Tall, handsome, a touch of melancholia for romance, a man of action and heartbreaking smiles. Oh, yes, thought Dorinda cynically, he was everything a woman could want in a lover, and everything, too, that Frederick—quiet, awkward, gentlemanly Frederick—never would, or could, be. As a woman, Dorinda might envy the creature’s good fortune, but as a mother, she could only hate her more for scorning her son.

“Then it sounds as if you have chosen well, Caroline,” she said, her smile creasing her paint. “Mr. Sparhawk will need all his strength on the next part of the journey.”

“You have word of Frederick, then?” said Caro excitedly, forgetting all her promises to herself to be cool and distant with Frederick’s mother. “He is indeed still alive?”

Lying little hypocrite, thought Dorinda angrily. Frederick had been captured for her love, and now the chit repaid his devotion with deceit.

“We can only pray that he is,” she said, her voice smooth as cream. “They say the conditions for the prisoners are harsh, and as an English gentleman, Frederick is unaccustomed to deprivation.”

Tears filled Caro’s eyes at the thought of a man as kind and mild as Frederick suffering so. “Has anyone seen or spoken to him?”

Dorinda shook her head, the stiff black curls bobbing around her cheeks. “No, or any of the American prisoners, either. But my friends among the diplomats at the court assure me that Frederick lives, and is awaiting your assistance.”

In fact there had been no such assurances, quite the contrary. The minister who had given her the list of hostages had cautioned that it was most likely a forgery, and that by now, after two years, Lord Byfield was most certainly beyond rescue, even through the efforts of a devoted mother. Dorinda knew he was right, for she had tried before on Frederick’s behalf. It had been on that day, her grief for her son still fresh and raw, that Dorinda had written to Caro, summoning her, and to George, to reestablish her link with the future earl. George was a fool, but with him as earl she could return to die with dignity and respect at Blackstone House.

Languidly the fan moved through the warm spring air. Soon, thought Dorinda with grim satisfaction, soon the little bitch with the upturned eyes and handsome American lover would find the fate she’d earned so richly for herself.

“I would, of course, do anything I could for my son,” she continued with a sigh, “but I am far too old to enter into such negotiations as will be necessary, or would I trust them to anyone who would not care for Frederick as I do.”

“Let me do it, please, I beg you!” said Caro, eagerly leaning forward on her stool with her hands clasped. “I can make all the arrangements and arrange for the ransom. After all, that’s why I’ve come, isn’t it?”

Once again Dorinda sighed dramatically. This was almost too easy, without any sport in it. The chit was so gullible, so willing to believe, that it was no wonder that her son, another foolish idealist, would have fallen in love with her.

“Would that it were so easy, dear Caroline! But I fear that it cannot be done from Naples. No, no! The Tunisians are a sly, heathen lot who demand such business be conducted face-to-face. If you wish to help your husband, you must be willing to take your brave American and go to Tripoli, and bring Frederick back to me.”