His mockery stung, for Baret Buckington had first described her as being a mere fledgling. However, Baret had not spoken in mockery but protectively.
“Grow up, m’dear,” he goaded, tasting his wine. “This is Port Royal! Not a convent! The changing times and culture give leeway for young women to loosen their prim and proper ways. The old days are gone. Who’s to tell? And should you stay uppity, who’d appreciate your fidelity? Not Baret Buckington. Don’t let him fool you. He’s the worst of rogues with women.”
“He is not!”
“Most surely he is. I see he’s pulled the scarf over your eyes. Ask him who Carlotta is.”
She looked down at her frock—the “senorita” was Carlotta? She glanced quickly at Jasper. Was he the other man Carlotta had wished to marry? Was this the hacienda in Spanish Town that Baret had told her about?
“I know about Carlotta. She’s a cousin of Baret’s.”
He shrugged and emptied his goblet. “Ask your gallant and noble buccaneer. He probably won’t remember either. He collects ’em. And soon forgets ’em.”
“I know better than that.”
“Do you?” Jasper removed his jacket and laid it across the divan back. “Just what do you know about him except his long betrothal to Lavender Thaxton? Did you ever wonder why that betrothal lasted so long?”
“Because—she’s ill. And he’s a buccaneer, with business of his own to see to. He’s not ready to settle down.”
“So he told you—and her.” He chuckled. “He likes his freedom. And his entertainments.”
She glared, folding her arms. “You’re lying.”
“So he’s an angel, is he?”
“He’s a graduate from divinity training at Cambridge, and he’s more of a man and a gentleman than you’ll ever be.”
“Gentleman! He’s a rogue, m’dear, and you’re deceived. As for you, who are my only interest at the moment, you do yourself an injustice. Your family rejects you anyway; they scorn your reputation. What reason have you to deny yourself? Especially when I’m prepared to offer you ease, comfort, and a good deal of wealth. I’m anything but a poor man, you know.”
“Should I be flattered? How easy you make things sound. Simply throw away the rules and live as I want. Who cares? And whose business is it? Truth becomes mere clay to shape as we wish, just as long as it benefits our plans or eases our circumstances. You’ve turned things inside out, Sir Jasper.”
He slouched on the divan, resting the side of his head against his hand. “Your words weary me. If I’d wished to hear a sermon, I’d have made Mathias a crony. He’s dead. So is your father. You’d best think of your future. You have nothing.”
If she permitted the painful memory of the deaths of the two bulwarks in her life, it would leave her depressed and weakened. “Not all have abandoned me,” she said tiredly. “Geneva, for one, has not. If she knew her husband held me here a prisoner—”
“Geneva is an ill woman. She’s a broken reed, if you think to lean upon her.”
Geneva wasn’t well, but Jasper made the situation sound far worse. Had something drastic occurred since Emerald had spoken to her at the town house six weeks ago? Or was he only using the devil’s tactics to dishearten her: No use resisting. She couldn’t win. Might as well give up.
“Don’t misunderstand me, darlin’. I do respect your ideals. They’re fine for the cloister, for the parson’s daughter, for a rich girl with a strong family to stand behind her, but they won’t work in the glare of life as it’s truly lived. Port Royal is a ruthless monster that’ll swallow you whole if you fight against it. Don’t oppose the tide and times. What did Mathias receive for his noble pains? The old man is dead and gone, with nothing to show for his sacrifices except a burned-down hut and a satchel of scribbled notes. Is not your future here and now worth more than that?”
She’d left the satchel at the lookout when brought to Brideswell. Now she turned toward him, alarmed. “What do you know of those notes?”
He seemed to measure her response thoughtfully. “They mean something to you, do they?”
Wisely, she said nothing more, thinking he might send for them and use them as a bargaining tool. She changed the subject back to her meeting with Felix Buckington.
“I wish to speak with his lordship now. You’ll bring me there, please.”
“You squawk like a parrot. Will you bite the hand that offers you sweet morsels?” He came toward her dangling a pearl on a gold chain. “Desist, darlin’. Surely you’ll allow me to place this pretty thing about your neck,” he wheedled.
“Come a step closer, and I’ll scream. Where is Felix?”
His eyes snapped. “All right, you snarling little minx, have it your way—for now. Felix waits below. He’ll call for you in due time. And don’t look relieved,” he mocked. “Felix is not as moved by your charms as I am, but you have something he wants even more—a letter he wishes you to write to King Charles.”
“I’ll not write any incriminating letter to His Majesty. You might as well let me go,” she said, knowing it was hopeless to say it.
He laughed. “Sweetheart, having gone to such lengths to lure Buckington into the trap, do you think either of us will remove the bait now?”
“Then it is Baret you want,” she breathed, “and you think he’ll risk arrest to take me away from you? He doesn’t know I’m even here!”
“He knows, and you can be sure Levasseur will earn his pieces of eight, as well as satisfy his vengeance over that duel.”
So her French cousin was involved. “You’re mad. Captain Buckington isn’t foolish enough to fall for your scheme. He won’t trust Rafael. He knows what a miserable pirate he is.”
“He won’t trust him, but he’ll come.”
“So you think. He has his own cause already. He won’t risk failure for what you tempt him with.”
He looked uneasy, as though a thought from the past disturbed him. “Yes, there’s his father. He expects to find Royce alive. But he’s dead—Foxworth just doesn’t know it yet. But he’ll come to Port Royal. And when he does, you’ll soon change your mind about the letter—or see him below on the rack. Ah, yes, alas, the noble Spanish officer who built this sweet hacienda made sure he had his dungeons furnished with all the instruments used so well in Cádiz.”
Her breath tightened. “You’re not serious! You’d torture him? That’s cowardly. At least Levasseur was willing to fight an open duel for what he wanted.”
He was undisturbed. “And he lost and was humiliated. So much for his open duel. I intend to win, whatever the means, cowardly or not. But let me assure you, darlin’, there is none better than I with the sword. If I choose to use it, I will not lose.”
Her mind was still on his first threat. “You’d resort to such evil, for what? More power, more pieces of eight?”
He sighed. “Life without honor is a sacrifice, I admit, but that is the way of things, m’dear, and there’s no use lamenting it. And now, since you are so anxious to confront Lord Felix, see to your appearance. He would find untidy face and hair inappropriate for his refined tastes.” He made a gesture of departure and went to the open door. “And see you don’t try to escape by way of the terrace when you are called to him. The guards will be posted.”
She watched him leave, and a surge of hopelessness swept over her despite her bold words. “Lord, what am I going to do?” she cried in anguish.
There was not only the letter to avoid writing, but Jasper’s odious advances to deter. She feared that soon all her talk would be pushed aside as his frustration with her refusals grew.
She was beginning to learn it wasn’t always the Lord’s purpose to deliver from trial. Others, more obedient than she, had faced suffering, loss, earthly ruin, even death. Yet God was not capricious in what He permitted to befall His own. He was a God of infinite design. His ways could not always be understood by her feeble mind, but she knew enough about His character to trust His perfect love and wisdom.
“In what
ever circumstances come,” she said aloud, “He’ll prove faithful to me.”
She walked to the pile of exquisite frocks and snatched up the first one that appeared to fit. “Lord,” she prayed, gripping the dress to her pounding heart. “You have taken away my earthly father, and I feel so alone, so abandoned. But You are my heavenly Father. I commit myself to Your faithful care. I choose to trust in Your love toward me, whatever happens.”
Emerald stepped hesitantly from her chamber onto the balcony above the wide stairway that led down to the salon. A written message had arrived, informing Emerald that she should join Lord Felix and Jasper there for dinner. It was early, but she would drift in that direction—and explore. It appeared that the guard usually loitering in the upper hall had been called away.
She paused at the balcony rail. Below she could see a door standing ajar and golden light spilling out across the tile floor. Polished dark wood, wine-colored rugs, and wall tapestries smothered her with their Spanish ambience. Paintings hung on the wall beside the door.
Then her heart squeezed into her throat. What was a painting of Viscount Baret Buckington doing on the wall of Jasper Hall? Or was she not at Jasper’s plantation after all? Could he have taken her elsewhere? But why?
Tensely, she glanced back over her shoulder to see that the corridor leading to Jasper’s suite of rooms was empty. Swiftly, she gathered up her skirts and hurried in the opposite direction to the stairs. She peered over the banister. No one was in view. She descended, heart pounding, casting another glance behind her for Jasper or one of the guards. She reached the salon and breathlessly walked toward the paintings that hung on the dark yellow plaster. Waves of firelight flickered from severely ornate silver lanterns.
Two men, dressed in masculine finery, looked down on her like Cavalier rogues, swords unsheathed, and wearing plumed hats. She would know the young viscount anywhere, for he now haunted her dreams, but who was the older man? Even from the painting she could see the same virile look and strength of will.
“They’re both rebels, I assure you, Miss Harwick.”
Emerald whirled.
Felix stood there.
Lord Felix was not large-boned or physically powerful, but the man’s forceful personality gave that impression. He was tall and spare with erect shoulders, as swarthy as a Spaniard. His startling blue eyes glanced determinedly, and she detected ruthlessness there. His mouth was thin and strong; his aquiline nose boasted of superior blood. His black camlet coat had bone-colored lace at the wrists, and there were dense ruffles at his cravat along with the glimmering sapphire she had seen him wear before.
She glanced toward the paintings, and he followed her gaze, knowingly. “My half brother, Royce,” he said, but his voice harbored no warmth. “As you see, we do not resemble each other. I take after my mother’s family. And of course—” he gestured with a slim, brown hand “—my nephew Baret, a troublesome individual and, as you well know, like his father a pirate—but perhaps an even worse scoundrel.”
She might have contradicted him but dared not.
So then, Felix was the presence she had felt in this house, but why had Jasper led her to think she was at Jasper Hall on his own plantation? More curious perhaps was why Felix had paintings of Royce and Baret on his wall. They were not in display out of family affection. And who was the mother of Felix? She had heard little about her. Perhaps she had been from Spain. If so, that could account for his sympathy for Madrid.
She stared at him, more concerned than ever over his marriage to Geneva. If she had any consolation at all, it rested in the presence of the one man even stronger in will than Felix—his father. Earl Nigel had been at Foxemoore to see to the well-being of Jette and Geneva. Geneva had mentioned returning to the plantation, now that the war made it impossible to sail to England.
Distaste for the man before her surged. Emerald blamed him and his schemes for the death of her father. She wished to accuse him openly, but wisdom forbade such an emotional display. She was now left to his authority, as was Baret. Lord Felix Buckington was not the foppish, odious Sir Jasper, but a coldly ruthless man.
He took command at once. “Come into the den and sit down. We have much to discuss before dinner.” And he smiled.
Emerald’s skin crawled. He could be charming, but she wondered what Geneva had seen in him, for she detected a cruel streak.
Emerald stood in the cool, shadowed den with its flagstone floor and dark furnishings splashed with warm orange, red, and yellow. She watched Felix go behind a large desk and unlock a drawer. A moment later he straightened, producing a letter.
“Do you ride?” he asked casually.
Emerald stirred. “I beg pardon, your lordship?”
“I asked whether you enjoyed riding horses.”
She wondered at the question coming at a time like this.
“Yes, I ride very well.”
“The mention of horses has brought the first glimmer of life to your eyes. Jette also enjoys riding, but he’s not skilled yet. You learned while with your mother’s relatives on—where was it—Tortuga?”
On guard, she hesitated. He was pretending not to be aware of her background. He knew well enough.
“No, I did not learn on Tortuga. I left there as a small child.”
“I once visited Lyon, France, and met members of your mother’s family. Did she ever tell you of them?”
Startled, she considered. Felix had met her mother’s family? She took a moment to measure what might be behind his question, or if he even spoke the truth.
“Yes, she mentioned them, but I was quite small and remember little of what she said. They fled the persecution. She did mention visiting royalty once.”
Was it her imagination, or did his eyes glint? He doesn’t believe me. Yet he appeared to be sympathetic. He walked over to light a second lantern, letting a flood of light into the chamber. As he did, insects entered through the window and made sounds that wore on her nerves.
Emerald turned her head away from the lantern. Lighting it was a purposeful endeavor on his part. He wished to see her more clearly. Why?
The humidity from the rainfall was oppressive.
“My father brought me to Foxemoore, where I grew up,” she said to break the silence. She omitted the fact she’d grown up in the bungalow next to the slaves’ quarters. He knew all this, so why was he pretending interest?
“Yes, Karlton,” he said sadly, “his death was a tragedy,” and he turned again to the desk, tapping the letter. “A horrid turn of events. I want you to know I’m doing all in my power to discover what happened and who is to blame for his death. Rest assured, your father’s death will not go unpunished.”
Her hands clenched. Her eyes drifted to the letter. Why this little meeting when he knew very well she was being held here against her will? It was Felix who had arranged for her arrest. Did that letter have anything to do with Baret?
“I’ve not told Geneva yet about his death,” he said thoughtfully. “She’s very ill, and the news may weaken her still.”
Her heart lurched, and her eyes darted to his riveting blue gaze. It was all she could do not to blatantly accuse him.
“Then there’s this scandal you find yourself in. Geneva must not learn of your incarceration in Brideswell. She’s bedridden now and under a physician’s care. I sent for him from Barbados.”
Geneva had been well enough to be on her feet when she last spoke to Emerald at the town house six weeks ago. What had happened since that fateful night?
“She’s a brave woman,” he was commenting. “She was ill even when we married but did not wish to delay the wedding.”
Geneva ill at the time of the wedding? He was lying!
“I had hoped the voyage to London would change matters, but the war has intervened in more than your schooling.”
Did he know she suspected him? His searching look warned her he was trying to learn just how much she did suspect. Had Jasper told him she insisted he was behind her father’s
death?
It was to her advantage now to make him think she was gullible and trusting.
“Your interest in my father’s death brings me peace at last, your lordship. Geneva has told me of your brilliance in the Inns of Court. And how the king himself sent you here to stop the evils of piracy. Jamaica needs a man of your talents.”
His lips drew back. “Your confidence encourages me. I shall try all the harder for the sake of justice.”
“That is reassuring.”
He continued to tap the letter on the edge of the desk, studying her.
Emerald stood casually, she hoped, but sweat trickled down her ribs. She glanced toward the open windows where the rain monotonously beat upon the courtyard. She swished her black lace fan.
“You are a wise young woman, Emerald. Jasper informs me you believe Karlton was innocent of piracy?”
Her face felt stiff from keeping her expression one of friendly pretense. “I’m certain he didn’t try to escape Brideswell, as the guards said. My father wasn’t a pirate, and he had nothing to do with Maracaibo.”
“That is what we intend to find out. The Admiralty officials now believe he may have been innocent after all.”
Was this true, or was he merely saying this to take her off guard?
“Sadly, they have another in mind who was behind the entire debacle in Lake Maracaibo.”
Baret, of course. She remained silent.
“A man was killed in that pirate raid, a very fine man of the government of Cromwell, named Lucca. You knew him?”
“No,” she said truthfully, “I didn’t know him.”
“Do you know why I’ve ordered Sir Jasper, a member of the council, to bring you here?”
That he underscored Jasper’s position did not go unnoticed. “Yes, he made it clear. However, I know little of your nephew’s voyage, since it was Levasseur who first planned to abduct me. The indentured servant you sought for involvement in the uprising on Foxemoore was Jamie Bradford, Levasseur’s lieutenant. They were searching for the treasure of the Prince Philip. It was your nephew, Captain Buckington, who rescued me.”
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