Her heart plummeted. The return address on the envelope made her heart sing, but the greeting and rest of the letter turned her breakfast to lead.
* * *
Dear Miss Brancelli,
Although your poems are of the highest quality, I fear they are unsuitable for our publication. It has come to our attention that you have misrepresented your identity. According to our source, you are Miss Brancelli, not Mr. Brancelli. Although your poetry is publishable, our subscribers would not read the work of a previously unpublished female.
Very Sincerely,
Arthur Chamless, Editor
* * *
Who would have betrayed her to the publisher? And why? She knew no one in London besides Lydia and the rest of the Howick family. She wanted to cry, but was too angry, so she jumped to her feet and paced. The forgotten card dropped from her sash.
When she swooped down to retrieve the wayward rectangle, she saw a name that made her heart give a little hiccup - Captain Arnaud Bellingham. Captain Bellingham represented everything forbidden to Sophie. He made her feel as if reading the gypsy cards the night before had been the most natural, appropriate thing in the world. He’d encouraged her and promised to protect her. But he did not understand. She didn’t have the luxury of choosing her own life.
He was a man who honestly believed there was nothing he could not fix. In her case, some things would have to stay broken. Captain Bellingham was surrounded by a loving, normal family and friends. He couldn’t possibly understand her situation.
After another tortured look at the rejection letter, she balled up the proof of failure and stuffed it back inside her pocket.
Arnaud and Cullen walked along Piccadilly toward the Admiralty, their boots clicking a staccato beat against the cobblestones. Arnaud had forgotten how hard and solid London streets could be after so many months navigating the danger-fraught estuaries along the west coast of Africa. The heightened awareness that naval duty had given him made a jarring appearance on the early morning fog-shrouded street.
His ship’s surgeon paced in silence next to him
Arnaud gave him a sideways glance. “Are we being followed?”
Cullen kept his head down but nodded, adding in a low voice, “Those three swabs have been behind us ever since we left your rooms at Albany.”
Arnaud concurred. He could swear the last few times he'd glanced behind, the same men had continued to trail them. They did not narrow the gap, but instead kept the same distance, even stopping once to purchase a paper of roasted walnuts from a street vendor.
Arnaud might have written them off as a group of friends still on their way home from a night of debauchery. However, there was something a bit off about their clothing. They did not belong amongst Piccadilly Street's wealthy shoppers, or the servants scurrying to and fro, collecting goods for their employers.
As they neared the milliner's shop where the ruffians had assaulted Miss Brancelli, Arnaud spotted the young street sweeps he'd talked to that day. In a move so rapid, he nearly missed it, they disappeared alongside the shop. When Arnaud followed, Cullen stayed behind and faced the three stalkers.
Arnaud raced behind the imps through a narrow passageway barely wide enough for two men shoulder-to-shoulder, but the slightly built sweeps cannonaded along ahead of him. He ran on through the passage and soon caught up, grabbing them by the backs of their filthy shirts.
"Oy," one of them squeaked, and thrashed about, struggling to escape his grasp.
The second boy calmed and gave Arnaud a sullen look. "E's the gull wot gave us coins for news on those kidnap coves,” he told his partner, and coughed up a gob of spit onto the passage walkway.
"And?" Arnaud asked. "What did you find out?"
"Put us down, en we might tell you."
Arnaud tightened his grip on the boys and shook them.
"Aw right," the small spokesman said. "We followed 'em to the Dog and Partridge on Piccadilly. A gent came out and shouted for a while, but then ‘anded over some money. They weren't happy, but neither was ‘e.”
"Where did they go after that?" Arnaud asked.
"They rode off in the hack and ‘eaded out of town. You didn't give us enough blunt to follow 'em that far.”
“If you see them again, there is more where this came from.” He tossed two coins before waving off the boys. He'd heard enough. If he wasn't mistaken, the Dog was a few blocks away from Teddy Seaton's rooms. After the boys tore off down the narrow passageway, Arnaud turned back toward Piccadilly. If Cullen hadn’t been thrashed by the men following them, he’d take him along to Seaton's boarding house on Duke Street.
Arnaud had some serious questions about the kidnapping attempt on Sophie, and if the right answers were not forthcoming, a certain gentleman would wish he had never been born.
By the time he reached Piccadilly, his anger had reached a near boiling point. He stopped mid-stride and shook his head.
What was he thinking? He was on the verge of calling out Lady Howick’s nephew without a shred of proof as to whether or not Mr. Seaton had been involved with the kidnappers.
And what was he doing championing a young woman with nothing to commend her…save the most luminous brown eyes he’d ever seen?
Besides, he’d already made up his mind to marry Frances, a mature, socially connected widow of the ton.
The sight of Cullen dusting off his hat he’d retrieved from a window box jarred Arnaud out his thoughts when he emerged back onto Piccadilly.
“What happened?”
“Something must have scared off those three bullies.” Cullen slapped the dust from his hat and re-settled it on his head.
“How so?”
“No sooner did I turn and take off my hat and jacket than they all fled in different directions, like cockroaches. Can’t imagine what disagreed with ‘em.”
Arnaud could. This was not the first time potential adversaries had underestimated his long-time surgeon. Cullen’s cheerful exterior hid a Celt’s temper that was frankly terrifying to behold. And although Cullen was a full head taller than Arnaud, his scholarly attitude made many a footpad assume he was an easy mark.
However, all doubts fled the moment Cullen removed his jacket. Arnaud’s surgeon was hardened from growing up in the Scottish Highlands with his mother’s family. In fact, during many a bloody battle at sea, Arnaud had seen Cullen toss heavy, injured sailors over his shoulder and take them below to the surgery. No wonder the three had fled.
“Any idea who they are?” Arnaud took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his brow. Racing down a tight passageway after the two sweeps had taken a toll.
“One of ‘em looked a bit like one of the kidnappers, but I can’t be sure.” Cullen shook his head. “You’d think two sailors on leave could find better things to get up to than me and thee.”
“We did give ourselves a bit of a conker last night from the dregs of my absinthe.”
“And you with a beautiful lass who follows your every move with her dark eyes. A waste, I tell you, a waste.” Cullen shook his head.
“She does not. You’re mistaken. And besides, Miss Brancelli is barely out of leading strings. I could never be the man she deserves at this point in my career.”
“Why not? And in case your eyesight is failing, she appears to me to be a diamond of the first water.”
“Because—” Arnaud stopped, agitated, and ticked off reasons on one hand. “One - she is very young. Two - she is an innocent, and three through at least twenty - she is totally unschooled in the ways of the ton. She would be eaten alive by the social circles a wife of mine would need to navigate. Oh, and did I mention she’d be alone for up to a year and a half at a time?”
Cullen shook his head. “None of that should matter if you care for her.”
“And then there is the matter of her skills with the gypsy cards. Gypsy cards! She’d be shunned everywhere the minute even a whisper about her strange gift for divining came out.”
“What make
s ye think ye can reel off the reasons for love like a farmer bartering for a cow?” Cullen stopped Arnaud with a meaty hand when he made to move around him. “Love isn’t right or wrong. It’s somethin’ so fragile in between, ye’d be an infernal fool to pass it up. Think with yer heart for once.”
“Never mind.” Arnaud brushed off his surgeon’s arguments. “Come along with me.” He pushed around Cullen and headed west back along Piccadilly. “Let’s set course for the corner of Duke and Jermyn Streets.”
“Why?” His friend trotted to keep up.
“That’s where our trickster friend, Mr. Seaton, keeps rooms. The sweeps said they followed the kidnappers to the Dog and Partridge.” Arnaud walked faster.
“And what does that have to do with the disagreeable Mr. Seaton?” Cullen stopped, forcing Arnaud to backtrack.
“The Dog is a ways down on Piccadilly, right around the corner from Seaton’s rooms.” Arnaud shook his head and kept up a brisk pace.
“Are ye daft, man? That’s a good ha-mile out of our way, hell and gone from the Admiralty.”
“What else do you have to do for the next hour?” Arnaud shouted back over his shoulder.
Cullen opened his mouth as if to object and then fell in with Arnaud’s fast trot.
Sophie and Lydia sat cross-legged on the Turkish carpet in front of the massive armoire in Sophie’s bedroom. With both doors swung open, the interior space revealed only four well-worn pieces hanging from hooks. They represented Sophie’s entire wardrobe: her threadbare green muslin day dress; one carriage dress with a warm woolen pelisse; and a second day dress of faded blue wool. The only extravagant item in the cavernous space was a rich, red wool paisley shawl hanging in lush folds from a hook.
Her single evening dress of blue satin with simple puff sleeves and a wide, silvery sash was packed in tissue in a small trunk at the foot of her bed.
And then there was the black mourning dress she’d worn to honor her father’s memory. Lydia’s grandmother had provided that item earlier in the year, when she’d come to the Howicks’ London house after her father’s death. But lately, she’d encouraged the young woman to wear brighter colors.
Lydia stood and pulled out the gown from the tissue packing in the trunk. She fingered the faded blue ribbons gathering the sleeves. “This will never do. How often did you wear this dress? It looks like it’s been to one too many balls.”
“That was my mother’s dress, one she managed to take with her when she ran away with my father.” Sophie leaned back on her elbows and stuck her legs straight out, crossing her ankles.
Lydia’s mouth dropped open. “That was more than twenty years ago.”
Sophie frowned. “My father’s friend from the theater, Mrs. Withers, helped me re-cut and fashion this dress from my mother’s old gown. No one would know if I didn’t tell them.”
Lydia moved back to the carpet where Sophie still sprawled and pulled her into her arms. “Papa and my Grand will make sure you have a new wardrobe. We can’t let you go through the Season with those.”
“I can’t,” Sophie started to explain.
“Of course you can,” Lydia interrupted, placing a finger on Sophie’s lips. “You have to make the most of your one chance to find a husband, so you can claim your inheritance and keep writing your poetry.”
“But I don’t know where to start…”
“You don’t have to, Silly. Mrs. Bellingham has offered to take you to her modiste. She’s an expert at fashion and travels in all the best circles of the ton. You have to trust her.”
“I’m afraid…”
“Don’t worry,” Lydia said. “I’ll be there too. What could possibly go wrong?”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
Her friend jumped up and did a series of clumsy pirouettes, singing all the while. “We’re going shopping tomorrow, shopping, shopping, shopping. I can’t wait.”
Sophie shook her head. In her mind she ran through all the disasters she’d encountered over the years with Lydia right after her friend had uttered the words, “What can possibly go wrong?”
Arnaud frowned at Teddy’s poor landlady. “Are you sure he left without saying where he was headed or when he’ll be back?”
She repeated what she’d said earlier, only this time more slowly, as if better enunciation could make Arnaud comprehend. “Mr. Seaton packed a bag and headed for the post chaise yesterday, a little before noon. Didn’t say where he was going, or when he’d be back. Tis nothing to my mind what these young blades get up to, long as they pay the rent on time.” She stuck out her chin and pushed an escaped gray curl back beneath her mob cap.
A strong odor of cooking cabbage and onions assailed his nose. For all the gentlemanly airs Teddy Seaton put on, his boarding house, though respectable, had the rundown look and smell of having seen better times.
Arnaud turned over and over in his mind where he’d seen the landlady before. She seemed so familiar. She had unusual gray eyes. The color turned with every shift of light through the cracked mullion windows.
And then he remembered. Captain Charles Lambert. That bloody night in the Bay of Algiers. Arnaud saw him fall, his life draining from a gaping wound in his side. In better times he’d met the captain’s lady at one of Admiral Pellew’s dinners.
“Mrs. Lambert?” Arnaud asked. “Captain Lambert’s widow?”
She bowed her head and when she looked back up, there were tears glistening in her eyes.
“You served with Charlie.” Her voice conveyed a certainty.
Ah. She remembered him as well. The high color flooding her face betrayed embarrassment for her circumstances.
“We regret your loss, Madame.”
At that moment, a tall young man swung into the shabby drawing room. “Do you require assistance, Mother?” He gave him and Cullen suspicious looks.
“This is my son Charles,” she said. “These men served with your father and were asking after Mr. Seaton. Did he say anything to you about where he was bound?”
The youth looked askance at the two strangers in his mother’s parlor before answering. “He spent a lot of time at the Dog and Partridge. Maybe someone down there knows.”
Arnaud moved close to the young man. “Is there anyone else in the neighborhood who might know where he was headed?”
“He doesn’t have many friends, at least none that I know of.” Young Charles shifted his eyes away from Arnaud’s questioning look.
“Thank you for your help,” Arnaud said, and privately determined to give Mrs. Lambert’s name and address to his mother for inclusion in her fund for widows and orphans of sailors lost at sea. Captain Lambert’s little family certainly deserved as much assistance as any of the others she helped. He would have to ensure the Lamberts never discovered the source.
Before they took their leave of Mrs. Lambert, Arnaud gave her son his address and a few coins to continue to look to Mr. Seaton’s whereabouts and to notify him as soon as their boarder returned. The young man stared at the money for a few seconds before nodding and extending his hand.
“Lady Howick’s lackwit nephew apparently has disappeared without a trace,” Arnaud said, and made a quick step to the side once they emerged onto Duke Street to avoid a loaded brewer’s dray thundering by, drawn by two powerful horses.
After the noisy dray clattered on down the block toward the pub, Cullen offered an observation. “Don’t you think young Charles seemed a bit uneasy when we asked about Seaton?”
“Yes, my thoughts exactly.” Arnaud’s years of command in the Royal Navy had made him bristle at the hesitation in the young man’s voice and actions when they questioned him. Arnaud was all too familiar with young recruits evading questions they did not want to answer.
Chapter Seven
Sophie bent deep over the latest volume of “Ackerman’s Repository.” She and Lydia had cleared off a table in the Howick family drawing room and were hard at work, intent on finding suitable styles for the coming Season before their excursion the next
day with Mrs. Bellingham to her mantua-maker.
A crackling fire had been set in the fireplace to offset the raw, early March weather outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. St. James Square had turned into a white blur with tree branches hanging low with heavy, wet snow.
Sophie feared the light slippers and frothy hemlines that currently seemed the fashion would be the death of them if the fierce winter winds and snows continued through Easter, a little over a month away.
“You need two of these, one in cashmere, and one in velvet,” Lydia said, and pointed to a long pelisse that swept to the illustrated lady’s ankles. “Four or five of these…” Her finger hovered over a page of extravagantly trimmed bonnets.
“Stop,” Sophie said, and held out a hand. “Stop and please listen. I cannot put such a burden on your grandmother.”
“But it’s not a burden. She said she wants to help you.” Lydia made a slight moue as if she’d mistaken Sophie for one of her easily misled beaux.
Lydia had already had a Season the year before, but none of the suitors who were ready to come up to scratch had created so much as a ripple on the stream of her never ending whirl of balls and events. Sophie knew because even when she had lived in her father’s household, she and Lydia had exchanged letters almost every day. Sophie suspected her friend was having too much fun to be bothered with capitulating to an engagement and limiting her social possibilities to just one man.
“What do you think you need?” Lydia extended her pout with a deeper frown. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“I need just enough of a wardrobe to get a proposal from a ‘proper gentleman,’ whatever that entails.” Sophie turned back to the hefty volume and turned a page. “Let’s apply our minds to this puzzle. Easter is April 2, and everyone will go back to the country by the end of July. That’s only four months, a total of sixteen weeks at the most.
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 6