“Dare we prove our hypothesis that we’re the best looking couple in London?” he asked.
“The point is moot because I’ll only have eyes for you,” she replied.
*
Ponsnowyth, Cornwall
Adam rarely closed the door to his study. He loved the sound of his daughters playing in the house, and they were as welcome in this room as any.
But right now he needed time to think.
He poured a measure of whisky into a tumbler and stood with his back to the fire, looking to the desk where the letter lay. It had turned his world upside down this afternoon.
It had been years since the sight of an envelope bearing Sir Daniel Ridgeway’s hand put him on alert. England was now at peace. The King’s Rogues, as Ridgeway had dubbed their group, were in happy retirement.
Adam had read the letter a half-dozen times over. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the words.
Dear Adam,
Abigail and I have news, and I struggle to know how to broach it.
Through Abigail’s family connection, we recently renewed acquaintance with Lord William Bentinck who, as you know, has returned to sit in the House of Commons after a commission in Sicily.
Without prompting on our part, Bentinck told us the most remarkable tale of a young English-born sailor who harried the slavers of the Barbary Coast – an entertaining tale of reckless mischief and heroics performed by this man and his crew.
We would have thought nothing of it until Bentinck named the privateer – one Captain Christopher Hardacre, who goes by the name of “Kit” Hardacre.
I know we all believed the cabin boy, Christopher Hardacre, was lost at the age of ten in the sinking of the Pendragon and yet the man of whom Bentinck speaks would be of the correct age.
My friend, I can only imagine your shock is as great as mine, if not more so.
My wife ignored my wish for caution and made direct contact with this Captain Hardacre’s agent in Sicily. She has placed a sizable order for coffee from the Gambino-Afua Trading Company to ensure this man’s journey to England.
Without being given the particulars, Bentinck has agreed to extend a dinner party invitation to Captain Hardacre and his wife. Mrs. Hardacre is a half-Spanish cousin to the Capplemans, a rather successful manufacturing family here in London.
Tomorrow night, we dine with the Bentincks, and we shall see for ourselves whether the name is merely a coincidence. If it is, then we will confirm it and your mind can be at ease. Should we believe this man to be your son, however, then we shall come to you to see how we should proceed.
Give our love to Olivia and the girls. We look forward seeing you all soon.
Yours faithfully,
Daniel
Adam Hardacre took another sip of the whisky, feeling its heat warm his throat and his gullet where it soured rather than comforted.
“Papa?” The question was accompanied by a feminine rap on the door. “Charlotte and I would like to say goodnight before bed.”
That stirred him into action. He opened the door and gave his eldest, Julia, an embrace. At age eleven, she was growing taller, no longer a little girl. Very soon, she would look like her mother with her brown hair and matching eyes. Her sister, at eight, shared Adam’s coloring of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. She waited five steps up on the stairs leading to their bedroom.
“Remember? I was going to read to you more from The History of Little Henry And His Bearer,” said Charlotte.
Adam fixed a smile on his face. “Yes. Get ready for bed. I need to talk to your mother about something then I’ll be right up.”
The girls were happy enough with that arrangement. He found Olivia in the drawing room at her needlework. He might be able to hide his disquiet from his children, but he could not hide it from his wife.
She set down the embroidery loop.
“Adam? What’s the matter?”
“Can I see you in the study?”
She followed in silence, as grave as his own mood.
“I got a letter from Daniel today.”
“Has something happened? I was so looking forward to spending Christmas with them. I hope they’re not unwell.”
Adam’s throat threatened to close up. He wasn’t sure what to say other than motion to his desk. Olivia’s look of concern increased. She went to the desk and picked up the open letter.
“Read,” he said. “We’ll talk when I get back from putting the girls to bed.”
Adam loved his daughters. But Charlotte, with her hair turning blond in some lights, and with her friendly mischievousness, had him wonder on occasion what the son conceived in his youth might have been like.
He listened to his youngest daughter read from the book, stumbling bravely over some of the words she did not know, until yawns rounded out her speech and she conceded defeat.
Next door, Adam walked quietly into the semi-darkened room. Julia was buried under the covers with only the top half of her face in view. She was eleven, about a year older than Christopher was when the corsairs raided and sank the Pendragon.
A fierce tenderness clutched his breast. He would never, never abandon his family. He would ride through the flames of Hell itself to protect his wife and children. And yet, there was one he had failed – the consequence of a summer love thirty-five years ago between himself, a young carpenter’s son, and the daughter of a local squire.
In his defense, he hadn’t even known of his son’s existence until fourteen years ago. He would not have learned about Christopher at all had the tragic story not been pieced together by Olivia who had been governess to the squire’s daughter by his second wife.
And just three months after learning he had a son in the first place, Adam was devastated by the news that the boy was presumed dead. Even the considerable connections of Lord Daniel and Lady Abigail did not bring any further information.
And now, to learn he is possibly alive…
Olivia was in the study, just where he had left her.
“Adam, if this is true…” she breathed.
Adam folded his wife into his arms. “I know,” he breathed into her ear. Her arms tightened around him, giving comfort and seeking it in return.
“He should be made welcome here… he and his wife, of course. There is much he’ll want to know and…”
Adam pulled back so he could look into Olivia’s eyes.
“First of all, we don’t know for certain that this Captain Hardacre is my Christopher,” he said. “Even if he is, have you considered the possibility he may not wish to meet me after all this time? If he ever thinks about his parents at all that he might hate the man who abandoned his mother?”
Chapter Three
Burlington House, London
Of all the other guests Bentinck and his wife, Lady Mary, had invited for tonight’s gathering, it was the older couple, Sir Daniel Ridgeway and his wife, Lady Abigail, who were the most interesting.
Kit sipped a glass of champagne and watched the two of them work the room together like experienced campaigners.
Ridgeway’s maturity showed itself in his face and the color of his hair, silver-grey with a touch of ginger, but age was not in his posture. Although he appeared to be at the end of his fifth decade, he did not have the stoop of age and his attention was sharp. The woman on his arm was like a shining beacon, her silver-white hair artfully arranged to set off a gown of shimmering ice blue.
When she turned in his direction, he was struck by her feline grey-green eyes. Now, like a mouse stunned into motionlessness in the face of a predator, he stood paralyzed as the woman approached, only able to glance quickly toward Sophia for help – except she had been drawn into conversation with Lady Mary.
“Captain Hardacre, I wish to thank you for the safe delivery of my coffee.”
Oh my God, the woman even speaks with a purr.
Kit quickly recovered his composure.
That solves the mystery of an unusually large order from Morwena’s brand n
ew client.
“I’m pleased to be of service, My Lady. I can vouch for the quality of the coffee myself.”
Lady Abigail smiled. It was only then that Kit noticed some of the youthfulness in her face was aided by cosmetics.
“You must be pleased to be home… in England I mean.”
“Sicily is home, ma’am.”
“Fascinating!” she said before she took him by the arm. “I planned to emigrate to Naples once, but that was some time ago. Shall we take a turn about the room? You must tell me all about Sicily before dinner.”
For a moment, Kit almost believed her interest was genuine. But his reservation must have shown itself on his face because he saw the acknowledgement of it in her own expression.
“How did you come to live there?”
He considered his answer. He was not about to tell a stranger his life story, nor of his treatment as a child captive of the Barbary Coast corsairs, so he decided on something simple and more palatable.
“The ship I was on as a cabin boy sailed the Mediterranean. After a while, I decided I liked it enough to stay.”
“Indeed? Which ship?”
He saw no harm in telling her. After all, it had been more than two decades ago, and Lady Abigail didn’t strike him as being a naval historian.
“The Pendragon.”
His arm felt the involuntary squeeze of her hand, but full credit to the woman’s self-possession, there was no evidence of surprise on her face. Her make-up was very good, indeed.
“Are you quite well, My Lady? Perhaps, I should escort you back to your husband.”
Lady Abigail inclined her head and smiled.
Check and mate.
Suddenly, the urge to collect Sophia and go home was nearly overwhelming. But he put paid to the idea with one look at his wife’s face, animated and lovely, as she regaled a tale to an engaged audience of Lord William, Lady Mary, Sir Daniel, and the Viscount and Viscountess of Salford.
As he and Lady Abigail drew near, he heard her speak enthusiastically about the work done by her uncle, Professor Jonas Fenton, and the various forms of architecture she sketched for her part in her uncle’s book On Exploring the Southern Mediterranean For Islands Once Settled By The Ancients.
“Ah, Captain Hardacre,” said Ridgeway. When he smiled, long lines creased his cheeks. “Forgive us for monopolizing so much time with Mrs. Hardacre. She has told us of Professor Fenton’s recent excavations of the North Leigh Roman Villa at Oxfordshire. And it appears her own accomplishments in the field of archaeology are truly quite impressive.”
“I’ve always been proud of her, sir.” Kit spoke the words with sincerity and gravity. And Kit had eyes only for his wife.
Lady Abigail lightly touched a fan to Ridgeway’s arm.
“A word, Husband.”
Sophia stepped forward. Taking Kit’s hand, she led him away from the group.
“Are you truly having such a miserable time?” she asked.
“Does it show?”
“No, not too much,” she said lightly, then her manner turned to teasing. “You seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with Lady Abigail. How is our newest client?”
“Curious. And not in a good way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She reacted when I mentioned the Pendragon.”
“Did you ask why?”
Sophia paused until they were a safe distance from the others. Still, she glanced back at the other guests and spoke with her voice low. “There is no shame attached to you for what happened after the slavers took you from that ship. You were a boy. The only thing that matters now is the man you’ve become.”
Kit squeezed her arm and gave her a smile. “I’m probably overreacting, right?”
“It has been known to happen,” Sophia said as she grinned, conceding the point with a tilt of her head.
For many years, Kit had slept with a knife within reach. Heightened vigilance had kept him alive against demons both real and imagined. But that war had been won. He was safe; Sophia was safe. Their friends were safe. But habits of a lifetime were hard to break.
That’s why the dashing ebony and silver cane he sported was also a sword stick.
“Then we are agreed?” Sophia continued, “We’ll remain to have a lovely evening with friends old and new and leave the past where it belongs.”
He took a deep breath. “Agreed.”
To his surprise, the rest of the evening did pass pleasantly. After a glass or two of port accompanied by a fine cigar, he warmed to Bentinck’s guests, particularly Ridgeway.
By the time the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies, Kit found Lady Abigail holding court and, if he was not mistaken, she had just finished the end of a rather risqué tale.
“Daniel, my love,” the older woman called, as though she was the Queen of Sheba, Queen Elizabeth, and Marie Antoinette all rolled into one, “I’ve taken such a liking to the Hardacres. You must help me persuade them to join us in Cornwall for Christmas.”
Kit watched Ridgeway’s expression transform into one of well-practiced, amused tolerance. He would bet the man beside him was no pushover. Only one with an equally strong personality would be a match for a woman like Lady Abigail.
Kit glanced at Ridgeway, expecting him to veto his wife’s impetuous declaration, but all he saw was mild surprise instead.
“Your invitation is most gracious, My Lady,” accepted Kit. No doubt forgotten by morning.
While Dr. Mathewson sorted the papers on his desk, Kit discreetly rubbed his aching leg.
“There we have it, the details for the name you gave us. Miss Constance Marie Denton succumbed to bed fever within a few days of giving birth.”
Kit watched the superintendent’s face turn grim. “It also says her family refused to accept her mortal remains. She was buried in a pauper’s grave, unmarked.”
Kit’s leg throbbed. Beside him, Sophia let out a murmur of dismay of her own before reaching for his hand.
“Constance was from Cornwall, a village called Ponsnowyth, which is near Truro, I believe,” the doctor concluded. He shuffled the papers once more and slid them toward Kit.
“Was there a mention of…” Kit hesitated over saying “my father”, “… the child’s father?”
“No. There so often isn’t in these cases, but that she provided a surname gives you somewhere to look, although there is no guarantee it is your father’s true name.”
“I see.” Kit rose from the chair and extended his hand. “I thank you, Dr. Mathewson, you have been of great assistance.”
Kit didn’t speak again even when they were safely seated in the carriage, heading back to St. James’ Square. He stared out the side window sightlessly. He was right all along. It was a fool’s errand. He didn’t need to know his father. He’d done all right without one so far.
The only reason he didn’t immediately head to the docks and give the order to ready the Calliope for the return voyage was the promise he’d given to the crew of a month’s furlough and Christmas in England.
Beside him, Sophia shifted on the seat.
“Before we left this morning, a messenger came confirming the invitation to Cornwall with the Ridgeways should we wish to go,” she said. “I hear Cornwall is warmer than London in winter. Perhaps that would suit your leg as well.”
He pulled his attention away from the fog-filled streets and to his wife, offering a half-smile.
“Is this your way of telling me you want to continue the search for my sire?”
Sophia shrugged. “It would make better sense than to leave the job half-done. And besides, the longer we spend in London, the more obliged Victoria will feel to invite us to spend Christmas at Bentwood House. Do you really want to spend the season with Samuel?”
Kit gave a theatrical shudder and look of revulsion, which made her laugh.
“No, thank you.” No thank you, indeed. Samuel Cappleman had refused to listen to Kit’s advice and, as a result, Sophia and his sister, Laur
a, endured a horrific two years as harem concubines. Sophia attached no blame to her cousin, but Kit did.
Sophia drew him back to the present. “Then it’s settled, I shall write to Sir Daniel and tell him we’d be delighted to join him and Lady Abigail in Truro.”
Chapter Four
Ponsnowyth, Cornwall.
“Abigail did what?”
From the corner of his eye, Adam saw his daughters lift their heads from their puzzle and stare at him wide-eyed.
He allowed Olivia to lead him from the cozy drawing room and into his study. He’d been outdoors all morning with Will Trellow and his wife from the Angler’s Arms to help ready Ponsnowyth for the annual Christmas markets.
Lady Abigail dropping a surprise on him was the last thing he wanted.
The first thing he wanted was a drink but that was on a table a dozen steps away and his wife stood before him.
“The letter came while you were out,” explained Olivia. “Both she and Daniel are now convinced that Captain Kit Hardacre is your son Christopher.”
“So they were just going to roll up on the doorstep on Christmas morning with two unsuspecting strangers in tow? Why the hell doesn’t that man pull his wife into line?”
He stopped his rant when a flicker of amusement touched his wife’s face.
“Did I just hear you suggest Daniel pull Abigail ‘into line’?”
Adam conceded the absurdity of it with a tilt of his head and a self-depreciating smile.
Olivia rubbed her hands up and down his arms, which warmed him more than the whisky he’d thought he needed.
“Is it truly Daniel and Abigail you’re angry with?”
No. It wasn’t. He knew it, and Olivia knew it.
“So when were they going to spring the surprise on the captain and his wife?”
“I can show you the letter…”
Adam shook his head, unable to keep the resigned note from his voice. “No, that’s fine, just tell me.”
“Well, that will be up to you.”
Ah-ha! A choice at last!
“Then that depends on Christopher – Kit – wanting to meet me.”
Father's Day (The King's Rogues Book 2) Page 2