Sir Cecil’s suggestion that she meet with Baret brought special apprehension because of Lavender’s presence. Emerald glanced toward the parlor door, certain that every eye would turn her direction with a knowing glance as she entered. Being in the dignified and Christian company of Sir Cecil would help shield her, but she was anxious to leave.
Remembering that Mr. Pitt was even now in the bungalow, and that Minette was a slave, strengthened her resolve to endure the situation. “Well, if you think it’s appropriate,” she told him.
With an arm about her shoulder, he led her through the salon to the open doorway of the large and handsomely furnished parlor.
Lanterns burned bold and hot on the walls, dispersing light onto the maroon brocade draperies, French paintings, and golden bowls and vases. An intricately woven Spanish rug with thick golden tassels, pirated during a raid on Santo Domingo, was flaunted in the center of the room. Surrounding it sat an assortment of velvet chairs, divans, and ottomans. At the far end of the parlor was an open terrace with black wrought iron, overlooking the sloping front lawn. A welcome breeze ruffled the drapes and caused the torchlight to flutter.
Emerald tensed and avoided looking into the florid faces of the well-fed planters and councilmen who turned to see who had arrived late.
Seated beside a table on which was placed a crystal lamp, Lady Lavender Thaxton, pale and looking more miserable than Emerald remembered ever seeing her, showed surprise at her entry.
Lord Grayford stood behind her chair, tall and elegant and almost as fair as she. His tanned face reflected none of the turmoil that must surely be going on in his heart, Emerald thought. He knew all about the past relationship between Lavender and Baret and must wonder if she ever regretted breaking their engagement. Now he found himself in the intolerable position of having to wait to marry her until the war ended. Wait, while Baret unexpectedly arrived in Jamaica, not as a pirate wanted by Admiralty officials but as a privateer destined to receive honor in London. Matters had certainly changed.
Yes, Grayford must be unhappy, she thought, but no more so than Lavender. Why, she looks as though she’s been crying.
Then Emerald saw Baret, in handsome royal blue and a ruffled shirt. He was perhaps the one man in the parlor who looked undisturbed either by news of the war or the presence of Lavender. He was silently listening to a heated debate between Modyford’s council members—some of whom represented the king’s Spanish Peace Party—and certain powerful planters and merchants who wanted the buccaneers received freely back in Port Royal, even if it meant attacking Spain’s shipping.
He appeared oblivious to Lavender. Her tears were probably for him. Did he care? But I shouldn’t feel gleeful, she rebuked herself with irony. I, too, am hopelessly infatuated.
With practiced poise, Emerald sat on the hardwood chair nearest the door. She folded her hands quietly in her lap, becoming aware of Baret’s gaze shifting in her direction. For the first time she wished ardently that she hadn’t worn the burgundy gown.
She felt her face warm, and, as though willed, her eyes strayed to where he stood, surprised by the interest she found in his gaze. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was the one he was in love with instead of Lavender, she thought. Snapping open her black lace fan, she swished it rapidly.
The parlor was crowded, and Baret decided to take refuge from the heat by stepping out onto the small terrace. He folded his arms and glanced over the railing onto the front lawn.
Officials and their wives and families were still arriving for the dinner, but more than a succulent meal was on the minds of the men gathered with Governor Modyford. He well knew that Modyford had called the meeting to convince his council of the need to appease the buccaneers by granting them marques against Spanish shipping.
Baret mused over the delectable thought of attacking Spain, impatiently removing a moth from his glass and flicking it away. Little did the officials know that the decision had already been made in an earlier meeting with himself and Henry Morgan. Even now a letter was on its way to King Charles. But Modyford needed a cover to authorize an attack when England was at peace with Madrid.
The secret plans sanctioned by Modyford and Earl Nigel Buckington to attack the Main had already been discussed in private with Henry Morgan and Baret. Nothing Felix would say now would change that, but the danger remained that Felix would alert the Spanish governors of an attack. For that reason alone, Baret had been against any public meeting discussing an attack.
But Modyford had insisted. If he cooperated secretly with the buccaneers, he had informed them, then he must have a cover to protect him from Spanish sympathizers in the king’s court. Valid reasons must be given to His Majesty for allowing commissions, or his enemies would see the governor called to answer before the king.
Modyford had even sent off a letter through the pro-Spanish secretary of state in London to the Spanish governor of Hispaniola, informing him he had orders from King Charles to restrain the buccaneers from attacking Spanish ships in the Caribbean. So he must have excellent cause for calling the buccaneers back.
“Gentleman, I’ve called this council together for a serious reason. With good cause, Jamaica worries about her safety now that Commodore Mings has been called back to England to fight with Holland. We are in danger, and not only from the Dutch and French. There’s reason to suspect a secret attack by Spain.” He held out his seegar for a half-caste boy to light.
As Baret had expected, Uncle Felix jumped to his feet. “I say, Thomas, this is outlandish! Spain, attack Jamaica? You know very well Spain’s ships are woefully undermanned at this time—a credit to the buccaneers.” He looked toward Baret.
Baret pretended the scorn was a compliment and, smiling, offered a bow in his direction.
Felix looked around the room at the faces that became suddenly masked at the mention of Spain.
“None of you believe an attack ordered by Madrid is imminent. This is a ruse to reward the buccaneers with commissions.”
The governor appeared unconcerned. He was stretched out in a chair with a goblet of wine and his seegar, tobacco smoke adding to the closeness of the room. “I, for one, admit nothing, except a dire emergency on this island for protection, for which reason His Majesty has sent me here. You are aware, Felix, that Spain has attacked us thrice with the intention of driving the English off Jamaica?”
“That may be so,” he agreed reluctantly, “however—”
“The privateers from Tortuga happen to be the only source of capable defense at my disposal.”
Felix gave a laugh. “These privateers, as you call them, are better termed pirates.”
Modyford bit the end of his seegar. “Semantics mean nothing to me, Felix. If you’ve another solution for giving me fighting men and ships in time of war, then come forth with it. Or do you think the Royale is sufficient?” He turned in his chair and looked across the parlor toward Grayford. “No offense intended.”
Grayford smiled thinly, and his cool gray eyes turned on Baret, who lifted his glass and watched Modyford. Baret knew Grayford must feel as though he had been outperformed at Barbados.
“Look here, Thomas,” said Felix. “I’ll warn you now. Any attack permitted upon Spanish shipping will bring His Majesty’s wrath upon your head!” He glanced at the grave expressions of the councilmen. “Need I remind you of England’s peace treaty with Madrid?”
Baret listened to Felix with restrained contempt. This was one discussion on Spain he would wisely stay out of, lest he give himself away. He was now deemed an agent of the king.
He knew that the reason Felix wanted to appease Spain was to benefit the Royal African Company. Governor Modyford also leaned toward appeasement but was realistic enough to understand his dependence on the buccaneers. And so he played a conflicting game: conciliation with the Peace Party in London and secret aggression against the Main. The buccaneers, despite their prickly ways, remained his double-edged sword.
“As Captain Buckington will tell y
ou,” said Modyford, “the French governor on Tortuga incurs no shame in luring the buccaneers to his port by offering marques against Spain. But in so doing he’s left Jamaica with an empty harbor. I’ve less than a hundred and fifty men in the Port Royal militia. Thankfully, Henry Morgan has agreed to be placed in charge,” said Modyford smoothly. “He is now Admiral Morgan.”
“Admiral!” Felix banged his fist on the table. “I’ll have you in the Tower for this!”
Modyford drew on his seegar.
Baret recognized that between the support now coming from Earl Nigel and Modyford’s own politically powerful cousin in London, the Duke of Abermarle, the governor need not worry—not yet. Modyford had only to write Abermarle his reasons, and the duke would quietly intercede on his behalf before the king.
“Henry Morgan or not,” said a councilman, “the only way you’ll strengthen the militia, Thomas, is to call in the buccaneers with marques against Spain.”
“Has the king authorized this?” demanded Felix. “Most assuredly not. I tell you, Lord Arlington has written plainly enough of the king’s wishes. Commissions are granted only to privateers who will fall upon the Dutch fleet trading at St. Christopher. They are to capture Curaço, Saba, and St. Eustatius.” He turned to an old colonel who thus far had sat mopping his brow, saying nothing. “Colonel Edward Morgan has his orders.”
Henry Morgan’s uncle, Colonel Edward, was a big, overweight Welshman who suffered from gout. He looked anything but a colonel to Baret, but he was a fighting man who was not to be treated lightly. He was a staunch Royalist and had won honors for Charles in the Civil War. Modyford had recently placed him in command of the planned expedition to attack the Dutch.
“If I am able to get a fleet of privateers,” said Colonel Morgan. “The buccaneers have no heart for fighting Hollanders.”
“I’ve word that there are some who will sail to the place of rendezvous,” said Modyford. “What’s your report, Warwick?”
Baronet Warwick frowned. “I spoke to them on Tortuga, as Captain Buckington will tell you. And Captains Mansfield, Jackman, and a host of others made it clear—the pickings aren’t fat enough to bring them out against the Dutch. And the Frenchies are also as disinclined. It’s Spain, fellows.” He looked about dourly. “Or they’ll stay on Tortuga. There are only a few privateers who will fight the Dutch. These are making plans now to meet with Colonel Morgan.”
The colonel turned to the governor. “Then let it be known that I’ll encourage any of the buccaneers to sail with me, and we’ll hit the Dutch islands hard.”
“What do you say, Lord Thaxton?”
Grayford smiled wearily. “I have little choice in the matter. I must do as His Majesty requested. I need every vessel I can get, and I’m not looking to see if the joli rouge is hidden in the hold. I want guns, fighting men, men with a will to attack. Every privateer is needed, including—” and he toasted Baret with a crooked smile “—my cousin, who has since emerged as the king’s agent.”
Baret smiled in return. “With so warm an endorsement, does this mean you wish me to command His Majesty’s vessel?”
Grayford shrugged and emptied his goblet. “You know the answer to that, Baret. I never really wanted the responsibility to begin with.”
Lord Felix faced his stepson impatiently. “Be careful how you speak of your commission. And if I were you, I would abhor sailing with a fleet of pirates.”
Grayford straightened from his position behind Lavender’s chair, his lean face hard. “If Colonel Edward Morgan intends to attack Curaço and Eustatius, then I will sail with him and the privateers. The governor has no choice. The king has used them before. Why not now?”
“He’s right, Felix,” said Baret. “And the more buccaneers you enlist, the less cause you will have to worry about Spanish shipping.”
Felix looked at him as though he felt threatened. “And will you also rally to the cause?” he asked.
Baret had no intention of sailing with Colonel Edward to attack the island. He would sail with Morgan, but secretly. “I’ve already proved my loyalty to the king and will continue to do so.”
“You might as well sign the document to be sent to Charles with the rest of us,” Modyford told Felix.
“I’ll never sign asking the pirates to return to Jamaica in exchange for commissions against Spain. Before this is over, Thomas, you’ll have the king recalling you to England.”
“It’s my opinion we should be grateful we have the buccaneers on our side,” said a disgruntled merchant who had lost business recently. “Consider what your nephew recently accomplished at Barbados,” he challenged.
“The viscount, we have all agreed, gentlemen, is not a pirate but an agent of King Charles.”
And Baret watched Felix smoothly slip out of that noose.
“The sooner commissions are offered against Spain, the better off Port Royal will be,” stated a councilman, several other councilmen, planters, and merchants agreeing. “Get on with it, Thomas. Skeletons twistin’ in the breeze won’t improve the pirate mind-set. We must welcome them to this port to bring in their booty for exchange, otherwise they’ll simply go to Tortuga, and His Majesty will lose his portion.”
Baret knew Modyford had his cover. The governor’s agent would sail to England with a letter for Duke Abermarle, who would then meet privately with King Charles. Modyford’s letter explained the “urgency” placed upon him: An attack must take place to keep Jamaica from falling victim to a secret expedition by the dons. Admiral Henry Morgan and a host of seasoned buccaneer captains will respond to their threat to capture Jamaica. The best strategy is to keep hitting Spain hard in her most vital parts—the treasure colonies. Cartagena, center of Spanish naval power; Porto Bello, Panama, Maracaibo, Santa Marta, Rio de la Hacha …
Finally, thought Baret, his dark eyes glinting, Porto Bello.
The meeting ended, and he leaned back against the terrace rail. His gaze moved to Emerald, who was under the watchful care of Sir Cecil. Baret was pleased to see that his old tutor had done as he requested and was keeping her from leaving. Watching, he found the sweetly alluring face and form in rich burgundy satin and lace to be distracting. Her glossy dark hair was parted in the center and lay over the crown of her head in waves. The long curls that hung in the back were pulled up from her neck, then braided and twisted into a high scroll.
He saw that Lavender had stood to her feet and was looking in his direction, probably anticipating that he would join her and Grayford on the lawn for supper. Then Emerald too, though less obviously than Lavender, cast a glance at him as though to see what his intentions were.
Baret caught up his jacket and hat from the terrace table and walked toward Emerald.
Suddenly there was an unexpected disturbance.
“Send for Doctor Wilkinson!” Grayford called. “Lady Thaxton—she’s fainted!”
Emerald turned at Grayford’s voice to look worriedly in her cousin’s direction. She saw Lavender lying on the floor. She did that on purpose, she found herself thinking, astounded. She saw Baret walking over to me instead of her and suddenly ‘swooned.’
Emerald glanced at Baret. The expression on his face was unreadable, but the concern written there could not be hidden. He moved through the small throng of onlookers and bent down beside Lavender and Grayford.
Emerald knew she’d been forgotten. She stepped back, unnoticed now, and watched as a moment later Baret, not Grayford, carried Lavender across the parlor and into the hall, followed by Grayford, Earl Nigel, Lord Felix, and Sir Cecil.
Emerald glanced down at the black lace fan in her hands and saw that her fingers trembled. Lavender would always get her way. She whirled and was bent on quick flight out of the governor’s residence when Sir Cecil reappeared.
She paused, not wishing to appear indifferent to Lavender’s “illness.”
“Is she all right?”
“The doctor will see her when he comes. I’ve been asked to stay with her.”
“Yes, of course.” She snapped her fan shut. “I’d best be going, Sir Cecil.”
He laid a restraining hand on her arm as though he read her thoughts. “The viscount has asked you wait. He wishes to talk with you. He says he won’t be long.”
She was surprised and gave him a searching glance, but he smiled reassuringly. “Remember, he’s been close to Lavender since they were children. He’s bound to care.”
She watched him leave, feeling uneasy about the risks of staying. The parlor was now empty, and she walked back to the front salon to wait in the furnished cubicle used as a waiting room for the ladies to deposit their wraps.
I’ll wait, she thought, but not for long. If I know Lavender, she’ll soon awake if Baret is with her. There’ll be no leaving the duchess tonight. She’ll need his encouragement.
She tapped her fan against her palm. “She’ll never let him go—never.”
Lavender felt herself being carried up a flight of steps, down a corridor, and into a chamber. Here, she was laid on a four-poster bed, and the room buzzed as a maid and Colonel Edward Morgan’s daughter Mary Elizabeth made her comfortable. Grayford drew near and took her hand, his eyes questioning her worriedly.
But it was Baret’s response that interested Lavender, and she moaned slightly, glancing about the chamber to see where he was.
Across the room she saw Baret watching her evenly. He looked concerned, and her heart throbbed with satisfaction. He had left Emerald to rush to her side when she needed him. A glimpse of his dark eyes and the restrained energy in his handsome face stirred her passions from slumber. She’d been a fool to settle for Grayford, but she’d get Baret back.
Again, she glanced across the chamber, this time at the one man she feared, Earl Nigel Buckington. He had informed her bluntly in the carriage on the way from the town house that regardless of Baret’s restored reputation over the victory at Barbados, he would not permit them to marry. Her betrothal to Grayford was settled; she must—if she expected any inheritance from the earl—be content with her lot.
Buccaneers Series Page 82