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

“Aye, lost me leg in the service, but here I’ve a new wife and a new life and it never snows in Naples, so I don’t be complainin’.” The man winked broadly, contented enough even though he’d been whining for coins and tobacco when he’d accosted Jeremiah. “But as for the pirates, King Ferdy, well now, he’d jes’ as soon wink as look the other way.”

The man lowered his voice, confidential. “Are you lookin’ for a berth yourself, guv’nor? Hopin’ to make a quick fortune on the other side? If you is, I’ve got mates who—”

“All I’m interested in is information.” Jeremiah flipped a guinea to the man, who caught it deftly in his palm. “I have a friend who’s a prisoner in Tripoli, and I mean to get him out. Taken by a thieving Scotsman who’s renamed himself Hamil Al-Ameer.”

“Andrew Gordon, y’mean.” The beggar tapped his nose. “He’s a clever one, is Gordon, signin’ over to the heathens that way. He chants their mumbo jumbo, takes a new name, and just like that, he’s one of them, preying on Christians like he weren’t born one his own self.”

“I know,” said Jeremiah curtly. “Does he ever drop anchor here?”

The beggar shrugged, his shoulders propped high on his crutches. “Don’t doubt but that he has, but I can’t say when or for how long. You’ll have t’ go t’ him in Tripoli if you want t’ ransom your man. Lives fine as a lord there, they say. But even then don’t expect much from Hamil. He hates Englishmen, an’ he’s just as like to take your ransom money and slit your throat as smile at you.”

All too easily Jeremiah remembered the feel of Hamil’s blade pressing into his throat. Would Caro’s husband have felt it, too, as it eased him into death? “Then it’s a good thing I’m American, not English.”

“You’re a Yankee, guv’nor?” The man’s eyes lit merrily. “You been deep water sailing, and not heard the news?”

“I’m arrived this day from Portsmouth, aye,” said Jeremiah uneasily. “What news?”

“Why, news o’ the wars, of course! The big one’s France and England settin’ to it again, with the Peace all blown to bits like tinder to a powder keg.”

“That one was brewing when we cleared the channel,” said Jeremiah. “I knew the Peace had broken, for we were chased and boarded by a French frigate not two days from here.”

“But do you know what the Pasha o’ Tripoli up an’ done?” said the beggar eagerly, grinning with anticipation to tell his story. “Let that Yankee frigate Philadelphia run aground on his doorstep an’ then calls it his, jus’ like that, an’ now your country an’ his are at war, too.”

“At war?” repeated Jeremiah, stunned, his thoughts immediately flying to Davy. “America and Tripoli are at war?”

The beggar nodded dramatically, relishing the moment. “True enough, guv’nor. What reason would I have for lyin’, eh? You can jus’ forget your ransom an’ redeemin’ your friend an’ chattin’ all cozylike with Hamil Al-Ameer. There’s no Yankees goin’ into Tripoli, an’ even fewer comin’ out, an’ that’s God’s own truth.”

When he returned to the inn, Jeremiah ordered supper for two, then went to his room to change and shave. Because of Caro’s uncertain relationship with her mother-in-law here in Naples, she had swiftly agreed to end their disguise as husband and wife, and take separate rooms. Perhaps too swiftly, thought Jeremiah gloomily as he scraped the razor across his jaw. Although he knew he had no real hold on her, he could feel her putting distance between them, preparing herself to rejoin her husband.

He’d known from the beginning that it would be this way. All too well he remembered sending her on her way that first night, how determined he’d been not to involve himself with a married woman, despite how lovely or lonely she might appear. Too bad for them both that he hadn’t kept to his resolve.

Wiping a cloth across his face, he stood at the open window. Like nearly every building in Naples, the inn had a clear view of the bay, and in the setting sun Capri and the other, smaller islands were tipped rosy red against the deepening blue water. Cutting in and out among the islands were the striped sails of the last fishing boats straggling home, while fishermen who’d returned earlier and their wives spread their nets on the beach to dry.

Closer to the inn, a woman sang to herself, her language unknown to Jeremiah but the sadness in her song a match to his own mood. A vine with white, trumpet-shaped flowers framed the window, the tendrils weaving in and out of the red shutters and the heady fragrance of the blossoms more intense with the end of the day.

Caro, with her open, eager enthusiasm and delight in anything new or beautiful, would have loved the scene spread before him. Through her eyes he had once again come to appreciate life in a way he’d forgotten, and he hated how she wasn’t here now to enjoy this.

He turned his back to the window and reached for his shirt, sliding it over his head. Tonight he would tell her nothing of what he’d learned at the waterfront, not only from the English beggar but from the port’s officials, as well. Tomorrow would be soon enough for her to learn how the odds against their mission had increased. For Davy’s sake and her husband’s, he still meant to go to Tripoli, but now he could no longer offer any assurances that he’d return himself. With a sigh he pulled on his coat and went downstairs to wait for her.

The inn was owned by an Englishman married to a Neapolitan woman, and the establishment was a curious blend of the two cultures. While the rows of hanging pewter mugs and the keg of rum behind the grated bar in the common room could have been found in any shire, there were also little portraits of sad-eyed saints tucked into odd corners near the hearth, and the rich, spicy smells that wafted from the kitchen had no equivalent in an English cook’s sturdy repertoire.

Jeremiah found an empty chair near the window, choosing the comfort of familiar rum and water over the house’s customary red wine. Impatiently, he ran his fingers back through his hair, glancing down the street in the direction Caro’s hired coach had gone. She was late. She’d sworn she would return by five, and by his pocket watch it was half-past.

“Has Lady Byfield sent word for me?” he asked the innkeeper’s daughter as she refilled his tankard from a sweating crockery pitcher. “That she’s been detained, or some such?”

“The English lady what came with you, sir?” asked the girl, and Jeremiah nodded. “No, nary a word, sir. But if she does, I’ll be certain to bring it to you at once.”

“Thank you.” He swirled the rum in his tankard, no longer interested in drinking. Alone he watched the shadows lengthen and merge into dusk and then darkness, punctuated here and there by the wavering flame of a linkboy.

Perhaps, he thought morosely, she would choose to end it like this. She would patch things up with the old countess, become her guest in the villa, send a servant to bring a scribbled note of regret for him and collect her things. At least he would leave knowing she’d be safe here in Naples.

“Here, sir, for you.” The girl bobbed her curtsy as she held the folded note out to him, and he snatched it from her hand. “The lady came in by the back stairs, sir, not wanting to cause a fuss on account of the hour.”

The seal was hers, the Byfield crest, and in an instant he had cracked it and scanned the short note within.