Margaret McPhee - Regency Debutantes - The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

‘A stubborn and self-gratifying will at that,’ added her father.

The man inclined his golden head. ‘She is perhaps a trifle strong-willed, but, in the hands of the right husband, such a flaw could be remedied.’ He smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth to offset the pretty looks of his face.

‘Our plans fade to dust, Praxton. What desire have you for a woman whose reputation is tarnished? She has absconded, dressed as a boy! For all we know she’s run off with a lover!’ He clamped his large loose-skinned hands over his face. ‘Oh, heaven help us, for we’re soon to be a laughing stock throughout the town, and wherever else this story travels.’

Walter Praxton examined his nails before replying. ‘All is not lost, sir, for I have it on good authority that a young boy matching your daughter’s height and build was observed to take the evening mail to Gosport on the night in question. A boy that no one of the town knew, and who didn’t alight from any other coach. He was quite alone amidst the travellers, no sign of any possible lover. I rather think—’ his mouth twisted to a crooked semblance of a smile ‘—that the reason for Miss Raithwaite’s flight was due to her determination not to become my wife.’

Mr Raithwaite’s eyes opened at that. ‘Surely you’re mistaken, for, no matter what she thinks she feels, Georgiana would not disobey me so blatantly.’

‘I doubt that your daughter views the situation in quite the same way.’

The grizzled head shook once more. ‘I’ll put it about that she’s gone to stay with an elderly relative in Scotland. At least that may buy us some time with which to attempt to remedy this damnable mess. When I get my hands on her—’

Mr Praxton swiftly interrupted. ‘The betrothal is still binding. If I can discover her location, then the situation might be resolved if I were to immediately marry Miss Raithwaite. That way she could return here as my wife, with all threat of scandal avoided. Do I have your permission to force her to a speedy exchange of vows by whatever means are required?’

‘You would still wed her, after all she’s done? What if she’s dishonoured? A fallen woman? Would you take her even then?’ Edward Raithwaite’s tired eyes focused with a new clarity.

‘I would take her whatever the circumstance, provided that any threat of ensuing scandal could be extinguished.’

The older man leaned forward and with a deliberate and careful manner said, ‘Well, in that case, Mr Praxton, you must do whatever you deem necessary to resolve this matter satisfactorily. You have my full support.’ One fleshy hand thrust forward and clasped Mr Praxton’s in a firm shake. ‘I wish you Godspeed, Walter, and may you save the situation for us all.’

Mr Praxton glanced back only once at Tythecock Crescent, and as he did anyone close by would have heard him utter softly, ‘I will have you, Georgiana Raithwaite. One way or another, you are mine.’

Captain Hawke was taking the noon sight with Lieutenants Anderson and Pensenby, and the young midshipmen. The murmuring hush of their voices lapped against his ears as, armed with their sextants, they compared measurements and subsequent calculations of the ship’s latitude. Across the breadth of the forecastle he could see Jenkins, the quartermaster, at the great steering wheel, hands firm upon the burnished wood. Canvas flapped and ropes creaked as the wind moved to catch the sails. He stifled a yawn and, turning to look out across the great expanse of the cold grey water, thought of the previous night spent sitting upright in his captain’s chair. Little wonder that he’d only managed to catnap through the long dark hours, and had been up on deck before the bosun had piped the hands just before dawn. In truth, he had pondered long and hard over the matter of Miss Georgiana Raithwaite.

It was unfortunate that for this trip none of the officers had brought their wives along for company. Indeed, there were no women aboard, only one hundred and eighty-five men. Nathaniel grimaced and corrected himself. One hundred and eighty-five men and one lady. A lady whose ability to place herself in quite the worst situations possible was equalled by none. To have almost drowned in the River Borne was one thing. To have run away from home, been taken by the Press Gang and worked, disguised as a boy, undetected upon his ship for two weeks was quite another. That the captain of that ship could have failed to notice such an absurd thing was preposterous.

He glanced once more at the group of young men behind him. Such enthusiasm, such commitment. If any one of them learned of Miss Raithwaite’s secret, she would be well and truly ruined—if she wasn’t already. And despite what his father thought, that was something Nathaniel could not let happen. The girl affected him far more than he was willing to own—her courage in the face of what for her was most definitely a disastrous situation, the transparency of emotion upon her face, those eyes that mirrored the colour of the sea before him. That he was attracted to her was obvious. He’d felt it since the moment she opened her eyes and looked up at him on the riverbank, her long hair dripping river water, her body relaxed and trusting in his arms. It had obviously been too long since he’d had a woman. A physical need, nothing more. But even as the thought formed, he knew it wasn’t true. What he felt for her was much more than that, more than he was ready to admit.

Quite how Miss Raithwaite had escaped detection was nothing short of a miracle. He gripped the smooth wood of the quarterdeck rail with tense hands. It was imperative that no one should discover the true identity of Lord George Hawke or, indeed, Master George Robertson. He walked back to the small group of would-be officers without a hint of the worry that plagued his mind or the fatigue that pulled at his body.

Georgiana was helping Mr Fraser, the captain’s valet, in cleansing the great man’s clothes. She struggled to hold back her laughter at the reverential voice that Gordon Fraser constantly adopted when speaking of Captain Hawke.

‘Now, Master Robertson,’ Mr Fraser said in his lilting Scottish tones, ‘it is vital that Captain Hawke’s shirts—’ he lowered his voice as he uttered his master’s name ‘—are treated exactly to his liking. Gather up the washing tub and follow me.’ He marched off across the deck with the manner of a schoolmaster who would brook no nonsense.

Georgiana did as she was bid, scooping the wooden basin under one arm and holding three of Nathaniel’s shirts in the other hand.

They stopped before a large wooden cask. ‘Off with the lid and fill your basin.’ Mr Fraser stood well back.

‘Yes, sir.’ Georgiana prised the lid off and promptly dropped both the basin and the shirts in her hurry to scramble away. ‘Dear Lord!’ she mumbled beneath her breath and retched.

Mr Fraser pursed his lips. The boy had to learn, even if he was the captain’s nephew, perhaps even more so. ‘We haven’t got all day, laddie. Now, retrieve your basin and Captain Hawke’s shirts, and do as you’re bid.’

The hard biscuit and apple eaten for luncheon were threatening to make a reappearance upon the deck. Georgiana’s stomach heaved. ‘What on earth…?’

‘That’s quite enough, Master Robertson. Stop behaving like a namby-pamby and get back over there.’ He twirled at his grey moustache.

Georgiana held her nose, approached the cask, and fulfilled Mr Fraser’s requirements as quickly as she could. The liquid slopping within the basin was dark brown in colour and stank to high heaven.

‘Submerge the shirts and scrub around the cuffs and collar to remove any marks.’ He handed her a small brush.