Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1

by Stein, Andrea K.

  When Arnaud followed him, Cullen turned suddenly at the far end of the kitchen herb garden. He put a finger across his lips and peered around to see if they’d been followed.

  “Frannie has been missing for weeks because she went to the country to get rid of a little problem,” Cullen said, and widened his eyes for emphasis.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Out with whatever you’re trying to say.” Arnaud frowned and pulled again at the blasted cravat.

  “All right then. My father passed on some on dits from court. Frannie had to get rid of an unwanted child.”

  “But how could she have been increasing?”

  Cullen chuckled. “N’er thought I’d have to gie ye a lesson on the birds and the bees.”

  Arnaud’s mouth dropped open. “But who?”

  Cullen lowered his voice again. “Betting at White’s says the babe belonged to Longthorpe.”

  “Which explains why she’s frantic for me to make her an honest woman…” He gave himself a head-slap. “And why Longthorpe tried to push me into offering for her.”

  Cullen said nothing, but nodded in assent.

  “But she’s the dowager viscountess of Fairfield and the guardian of the heir.” Arnaud shook his head.

  “Apparently, not for long, if what my father hears is to be believed. The viscount’s family is going to appoint a special guardian until the lad reaches his majority.”

  “How did the news slip out?”

  Cullen shrugged his shoulders. “There’s only one physician known for dealing well with such delicate conditions, and someone in his employ makes a little extra on the side by passing tidbits on to the gossip sheets.”

  Arnaud’s head ached with a vengeance after a night of racing after willow-the-wisps in the north garden and constant interruptions whenever he managed to crawl into his bed. He never thought he would have yearned for the simplicity of days at sea with a stalwart deck beneath his feet.

  Sophie bit back tears even as she forced out a smile for Sir Thomas. She’d just witnessed a scene from the dance floor between Arnaud and the ethereal blonde woman Lydia had warned her earlier was his rumored mistress. She’d accepted there was nothing but simple friendship between herself and Arnaud, but seeing him with that woman…the pain cut like a sharp chain tightening around her chest.

  In spite of his mother’s dire warnings, Sir Thomas had asked the dance master and musicians to allow them the forbidden treat of a waltz, and he had just come across the line to claim Sophie for a series of face-to-face whirls down the line of dancers.

  As soon as the dance ended, he captured her hand and did not let go. “Come outside with me to the garden to cool off.”

  “I…no, er, we shouldn’t.”

  “Please? We’ll stay on the lighted path. Just long enough to make sure those tears dry?”

  “Oh—” Sophie pulled her hand away and covered her face. “I must look a fright. What will your guests think?”

  He took a quick look around and turned his teasing smile back on her. “No one’s paying any attention. They’re having too much fun emptying my wine cellar.”

  They walked a while in silence until they reached a stone bench guarded by two bare-breasted mermaid sculptures, fey smiles etched on their faces.

  “Whoever decided to put these naughty creatures in your garden?” Sophie thought better of the question as soon as the words escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry. It is none of my business.”

  Sir Thomas threw his head back and interrupted her apology with a mad bellow of laughter. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie, promise me you will never change.” He placed a hand on each shoulder and turned her to face him. “You need never apologize to me. And my mother, the fierce dragon of a countess, chose those mermaids when she was about your age. My poor father was so infatuated, he could deny her nothing.”

  “Now sit, Sophie, and hear me out.” Sir Thomas handed her his handkerchief, since hers was already twisted and sodden. “Dry your eyes. I have something to say, and I believe it is in your best interest to listen.”

  Arnaud and Cullen made their way to the glass-doored entrance to the glittering ballroom, beckoning in the dark. As they angled back behind a path from the kitchen garden, there were Sophie and Sir Thomas, their heads close together in conversation beneath the light of a torch illuminating a stone bench.

  Arnaud’s thoughts collided in opposition and his gut clenched. This was probably the moment he’d hoped for. Someone would soon go to Lord Howick and offer for Sophie. Someone would take Sophie as his own. Someone would protect her, love her, give her children and the life she’d always deserved. And it looked like that someone would probably be Sir Thomas.

  Arnaud would be free to move on with his life, hire a crew, get his ship ready to return to his squadron. So why did he feel as though he were headed for the hangman’s noose at Old Bailey instead of the life he’d chafed to resume for all these weeks? Why did he want to howl like a wounded animal instead of celebrating?

  Arnaud thought he was still walking until Cullen grasped his elbow and gave him a sharp shove toward the ballroom. “Listen, you stupid swab, you’ve made your own, pig-headed tack in the wrong direction. Now live with your decision and sail on before she sees you wallowing in self-pity over here in the dark.”

  Once inside, Arnaud took up a guard position near the garden doors, just in case Sir Thomas, or Sophie, should need him. Who was he trying to convince? He wanted to see the expression on her face when she walked back through those doors. He needed to see she’d made her decision so he could quit punishing himself with visions of what life would be like if she belonged to him.

  Sophie swallowed hard. She could barely believe the intimate tale Sir Thomas had just shared with her. She was grateful for the half-light beneath the garden path torch. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the heated flush his story and proposal had elicited.

  “I know this is probably too much for a gently bred young woman to take in all at once, but after you’ve had time to think over my proposal, I believe you will see this could be the answer to your dilemma as well as mine.” Sir Thomas took both of her hands and feathered kisses around them before standing and offering his hand to help her rise. “We should return to the dance before we’re missed.

  “I’ve discussed my plan with my mother, and she approves. All that remains is for me to go to Lord Howick and make my intentions known.”

  When she sucked in a sharp breath, he added, “I will not say another word about what has passed between us until you send word you’ve made up your mind. My fate now is entirely in your hands.”

  “I would never hurt you, Sir Thomas.”

  “Just Thomas, please.” He kissed her hands again. “I know you love another who cannot offer for you. I also love another I cannot be with. Why should we not comfort each other? We could stumble along together and wring as much happiness as possible from this life, if only you could agree to be my wife and let me take care of you.”

  “I do not wish to be hurtful, but I must ask.” Sophie raised her eyes to his with a stubborn jut to her chin. “Will there be children?”

  This time he leaned over and brushed a soft kiss across her forehead. “Of course, but only if you wish. I’m merely the third son. My two brothers are reasonably healthy, and the younger one already has a growing tribe of his own. I will never make demands on you…” He paused for a moment. “Unless that is what you want.”

  Sophie’s head whirled. She was not the ton’s usual coming-out innocent. She’d been exposed to the louche group of writers and artists her father had gathered around him. She understood exactly what Sir Thomas offered. And she suspected she had an inkling of what drove Lord Rumsford’s wife to dalliances with tall footmen.

  However much that particular kind of arrangement might appeal, it was not for her. Lady Howick was right. Somehow, rarefied ducal blood still flowed in her veins, regardless of how the rest of society viewed her. She kne
w who she was. She wanted, no, she deserved, nothing less than a true marriage. She was a realist as well, though, and would think over Sir Thomas’s offer. Very carefully. As long as she had to marry a man she did not love, leg-shackling herself to a husband who would not make demands was not such a bad choice.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lydia lay so still, Sophie rolled toward her to make sure she still breathed. Her eyes were wide open in the dark, staring straight above, as if something fascinating lurked within the draping of the fabric at the top of the canopy.

  “Lydia, talk to me. What is wrong? You are never like this. You always roll over and go straight to sleep.”

  “You don’t know that, Sophie.”

  “Of course I do. We’ve shared beds ever since we were tiny girls. You make that little half snuffle, half snore noise when you’re deep asleep.”

  Lydia abruptly sat up and stared down at her. “Oh, Sophie, what is going to become of us?”

  “We’re going to go on living and breathing, taking one step after another, doing all the things we’re expected to do.”

  “But it’s not fair.” Lydia’s words came out so explosively, Sophie sat up as well and covered her friend’s hand. “When we’re small, we’re cosseted and given everything we want. We’re made to believe the world is ours to do with as we choose. And then, then…” She trailed off with a snuffle that wasn’t her usual fading into sleep noise.

  Sophie finished Lydia’s speech for her. “And then, we grow into young women and we learn the awful truth. Our lives are not our own.”

  “No matter what Papa says, he knows I’m right. The only future I can look forward to is marrying some stuffy titled gentleman and settling down into a boring life of running a household and producing a string of brats.”

  “Lydia, this is the life you were born into. What else would you want? A future as the wife of a Royal Navy marine? Living alone most of the time while he’s at sea and running a household without much money while producing a different string of brats?”

  Lydia burst into tears. “I can’t live without George. I’ll die when he leaves to go back to sea.”

  Sophie gave her friend awkward pats on the back while she sobbed, meanwhile easing her back down onto her pillow. When the sobs finally subsided into hiccups and then little snores, Sophie slid from bed and lit a candle to see her way downstairs to the library. Only a book would calm her frayed nerves.

  She pushed open the heavy door and padded across to the shelves where she’d earlier seen a copy of Scott’s “Ivanhoe.” After clutching the novel beneath one arm and holding the candle with the other, she slipped back out into the hallway.

  She had no more than put one foot on the stairway to the upper level when she heard loud voices in argument outside. She raced up to the first landing to see what was happening in the front courtyard. The front entrance torchlights revealed Arnaud’s men half pushing, half holding him upright in an attempt to get him to the staircase on the other side of the house and thence on to his room. He appeared to be singing a bawdy tavern song in a voice so loud, they took turns clapping strong hands over his mouth to quiet him.

  Sophie spun back against a wall on the landing to hide in the shadows. She sucked in a deep breath and remembered the many nights she’d watched her father’s friends doing much the same coaxing of him. She closed her eyes and willed the unhappy images to leave her head. Sophie missed her father desperately, but she did not miss his frequent bouts of drunkenness. Lord, she’d nearly linked her life with another man who could not control his intake of spirits. How could she not have known this about Arnaud? Of all the nights he’d kept watch through endless balls and routs, he’d never once had even one drink.

  She waited for the raucous party to gain the far entrance and trundle the drunken Arnaud up the steps with many bumps and oaths she could hear all the way from her side of the house. She hoped no one else, like Sir Thomas, or Lord Howick heard the noise and investigated.

  Arnaud could not fathom why his men did not want him to sing. He felt better than he had in weeks. Although he suspected that last jug of rum he’d downed at the inn was probably too much.

  He’d drunk himself nearly blind, the better to keep from ever laying eyes on another woman again. Usually his encounters with the fairer sex were months apart, what with his duty at sea. In the last few weeks, however, he’d had to deal with more females than he could remember encountering in his entire life.

  “Bourne,” he shouted, “le’sh have another verse of the one you always sing, you know, the one about a place where there’s no work, the ale mug’s a’ways full, and pretty ladies dance to a fiddle that never stops playing, yesh, that one.”

  Bourne rushed over to Arnaud put his hands around his captain’s neck, forcing him down onto his pillows. “Shut your worthless English face before we get thrown out of a proper English house party, ye feckless sailor.” Just as the others pulled him off Arnaud, there was a light tap at the door. Everyone froze as Lord Howick and Arnaud’s mother, Honore, appeared. Only Arnaud’s valet, Artemis, remained while the others made their excuses and headed back to the inn.

  His mother said nothing, but moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to Arnaud and forced him to drink a foul-looking concoction she’d brought with her.

  When she left as suddenly as she’d appeared, Lord Howick took her place at the edge of Arnaud’s bed. “If I didn’t know what it feels like not to be able to declare yourself to the woman you love, I would have you sent to one of the farthest duties the Royal Navy offers, like maybe St. Helena, Captain Bellingham.”

  Arnaud’s stomach still roiled from whatever his mother had forced down his throat, and he knew better than to argue with Lord Howick in his present state, so he remained silent.

  Howick gave a small salute to Artemis and ordered, “No one is to see him until he sobers up. If anyone does, I will hold you personally responsible.

  Artemis rolled up his sleeves and picked up a cold pitcher of water from a table near the open window. “The captain rarely over-imbibes spirits, so it’s that much harder on him when he does. We’ll have him just the thing in no time, Sir. You have my word.” He gave Lord Howick a wink and added, “He must have had a compelling reason to drown his troubles.

  After Lord Howick left the room, Artemis rolled Arnaud out of bed in spite of his protests. His valet poised the pitcher above his head and warned, “This is going to be as cold as the Southern Sea, and if you make a sound, I’ll take that andiron by the fireplace to your head.”

  Arnaud sat silently on the floor while Artemis went about bringing him back to sanity.

  Sophie rushed back to the chamber she shared with Lydia and leaned against the door for a few moments before settling onto a comfortable chair in the corner. She’d moved the screen they used for privacy when bathing around the chair so that she wouldn’t disturb Lydia and read until the candle burned down to a stub and stuttered out.

  The sunrise glowed pink at the horizon through the window when she finally found her bed and snuggled next to Lydia. Maybe she could find the ease of sleep for a few hours before she had to face the rest of the members of the house party. Sophie’s last thoughts before slumber claimed her were of her mother. Somehow, she now understood better why her mother had left the comfort of a ducal household to follow a totally unsuitable man into social oblivion. No matter how odious Arnaud’s behavior, a part of her still hungered for his touch.

  Arnaud sat in a corner of Sir Thomas’s tack room in the largest of the horse barns. He leaned his chair against the wall and watched Lord Howick question Teddy Seaton. In spite of the late night they’d both had, courtesy of his own wooden-headed attempt to drown his sorrows, Lord Howick seemed alert and ready for what had to be done.

  He’d had Seaton brought into Sir Thomas’s stable. The obnoxious weasel of a man sat there now with the local magistrate as witness while Howick questioned his cousin about what had possessed him to return from Wales to devil S
ophie and Lydia. When Howick had asked Arnaud to sit in on the questioning, he had not mentioned anything about his pathetic attempt to drink himself into forgetfulness over what he assumed was Sophie’s final choice in a husband.

  In spite of Lady Howick’s ongoing megrim since they’d arrived at Clifford Park, her son had met with her and brought her up to date on what had happened during the early morning hours of Saturday with Teddy. She’d agreed with his plan to turn the problem over to the local magistrate. She said she could no longer support her nephew in whatever he’d gotten involved in during his dogged pursuit of Sophie’s inheritance.

  Teddy sat across from them at a rough wooden table, his expression sullen.

  “Why did you come all the way from Wales to Clifford Park to try to interfere with Sophie and Lydia?”

  “I’m not your servant. I can come and go as I please, can’t I?”

  “I found you the position at the mine to give you a chance to make a go of your life on your own. Nothing more. The opportunity was yours to make of it what you will.” Howick poured a mug of water from a jug on the table. “Would you like some water?”

  “No. What I want is to be on my way.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave until you tell me who you’re working for.”

  “I thought I was working for you.”

  “In Wales, not here. And while we’re on that subject, how did you know where we’d be?”

  “You know what you say, Howick. Someone’s always watching, someone’s always listening.”

  Arnaud had heard enough. He rose from his tilted chair, and everyone turned at the clatter of the legs knocking back onto the floor. He said nothing but simply walked behind Seaton’s chair and grasped one of his shoulders in an iron grip, squeezing and pushing down until Seaton finally squeaked, “Oy!”