by Jo Goodman
This time when Ashley struggled to sit up she was successful. But where was she going? she wondered. She knew she wanted to chase after Nigel and demand that he explain what he meant. Had he really known her mother? At the moment that seemed more important to Ashley than his parting shot about killing her. She did not doubt that Nigel was capable of doing such a deed, yet he was also capable of any lie that would serve his purpose. Ashley acknowledged, in this case, he had achieved it. She had to know what he knew about her parents. And if it meant eating to regain her strength so she could hound him for the answers, she would do it.
Beyond that, she thought, her heart sinking, she would need the strength to fight off the Yankee.
* * *
Sitting in Pooley's Tavern, only a hard stone's throw from where his cargo was being brought ashore, Captain Salem McClellan had reason to wonder if this was his last taste of hearty English ale on treacherous English soil. Shrugging philosophically he savored the brew's heady taste. When there was ale like this, why fuss about tea? In his opinion, Parliament had once again acted foolishly, this time by taxing the wrong beverage. Of course there were any number of outraged Bostonians who thought differently. He lifted his mug in a toasting gesture, drank deeply, then motioned a barmaid for a refill.
"Will you be wantin' anything to eat, yer lordship?" the maid asked, showing a row of crooked teeth as she attempted to charm the tavern's most handsome patron. Erin Brownlee didn't often see men of Salem's stature frequenting the Pooley. He was a right handsome devil, she thought. Noticed it the minute he came into the room, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway. He was the kind of man a woman would trade her warming pan for. Hell, he'd probably light a fire in the damn bed.
He didn't have a pretty face, she noted, as he gave her his order in a husky tone that made her want to sigh. His features were too rough to be merely pretty. His face possessed a special strength one did not see in most faces. To reinforce the point in her own mind she glanced quickly around the tavern, seeing several handsome faces. She dismissed them because they lacked the measure of character she saw in Salem McClellan. Give her the man at her side, with his lightly tanned skin pulled taut over high cheekbones and a chin that seemed to thrust daringly forward. His eyes were silver, and they seemed to be strangely alert even when they were shaded by thick, ebony lashes. It didn't bear thinking what she would do for those lashes. She sighed audibly when she caught sight of the deep dimple that appeared on the right side of his mouth, then blushed to the roots of her carroty hair as she realized she had been staring so longingly. Just like I was some virgin wench who ain't never even seen a man before, she thought disgustedly. "Will there be anythin' else, yer lordship?" she asked. No sense in tryin' to charm this'un. He ain't for the likes of you, Erin, megirl. He'll be wantin' a fancy piece, and from the cut of his clothes, he'll be gettin' one, too.
"Nothing, thank you, except that you not call me your lordship and you have an ale at my expense."
"Thank you, guvn'r. I'll have it when things slow a bit."
Salem almost laughed when she walked away muttering epithets about Yankees not being quite right in the head. He didn't know if it was because he had offered her a drink or because he eschewed the title.
Erin was back in a few minutes to refill his mug. "You need anything before your meal's ready, just holler for Erin."
"As a matter of fact, Erin, there is something," Salem said as the maid began to turn away. "I plan to be in London for some weeks before all my business is transacted. I was wondering if you might have heard of the Duke of Linfield. I'm in need of an introduction. Perhaps you've knowledge of the clubs he might frequent?"
"Sure, and I know the king himself," Erin snapped, disappointed that what she hoped was an invitation for an evening's toss was an inquiry for information. Sorely tried, she flounced away.
Salem couldn't really blame her; he had asked her very badly, and he really hadn't expected her to be of much help. The trouble was, he didn't know how to go about meeting the duke. Although Salem had been bringing a great portion of his family's tobacco harvest to London for ten years now, he had never had any contact with anyone in the British nobility. That didn't include the peers sent by Parliament to govern his native Virginia. Salem was quite familiar with those men and wished differently. Here, in London, he was a Yankee merchant, and that made him well received for his money but poorly treated for his position. It did not matter that in Virginia the McClellans were highly respected for their enterprising spirit and solid values. Here he was a Colonial, someone a trifle crackbrained because he didn't aspire to a title, someone who was not even accorded the same privileges as his fellow Englishmen. Salem agreed with some of the Colony's more vocal statesmen, men like Franklin, Henry, Lee, and his friend Jefferson who believed the time for reconciliation with England had past. Salem's work for the rebellious Sons of Liberty was a source of pride. At thirty he could hardly bemoan the fact he didn't know any nobility; lacking the acquaintance hadn't hurt him so far.
Salem leaned back in his chair, his thoughtful revery disturbed by the raucous voices of several other patrons. His mouth curled in disgust at their vulgar wordplay. He glanced briefly at the four members of the party, wondering what brought them to the riverfront tavern. Salem had no respect for the thrill seekers among the nobility who enjoyed slumming. The two men were macaronies, dressed with flair rather than comfort in mind. Neither of them looked as if they had ever done anything more strenuous than lifting an ale to their lips. Their female companions were attractive in a cold sort of way. The redhead was flirting boldly with her attendant while the blonde seemed more interested in her surroundings, particularly the Pooley's clientele. She happened to look in his direction at that moment and caught his eye. Salem politely returned her smile and managed to control his grimace as she excused herself and started for his table.
"Pardon me, but I thought I heard you ask the serving girl about the Duke of Linfield. I wondered if I might be of assistance?"
Salem viewed the woman over the rim of his mug. He was not one given to making immediate assessments, but there was no mistaking this woman's interest. Damn, he thought, even the tavern maid didn't look at him that hungrily. He realized he might have been attracted to her if they had met in another setting, but he knew this woman didn't belong here, and her bold overture made him wary. He felt no need to extend himself beyond the superficial niceties, unaware his indifference piqued her interest.
"Do you know the duke?" Salem asked.
"I do. His Grace is a dear friend of mine as well as my husband's."
She waited expectantly, and Salem realized she was desirous of an invitation to sit down. Salem issued one less than graciously. "Salem McClellan," he said when Davinia was seated. "I'm interested in making the duke's acquaintance." He motioned Erin to bring some wine for his companion and ignored her bitter smile when she saw the two of them together. So that's the way of it, her lifted eyebrows seemed to say. Found himself a fancy piece already. Well, he's picked nothin' but trouble with this one.
Davinia did not appear to notice the maid's disgust, having interest only in Salem. "Affairs of business? Perhaps politics?"
"Surely, that would be my concern. I can say I am acting in my father's stead." Also for my brother, he could have added. It was Gareth who handled the majority of the transactions dealing with the McClellan stud farm. Horseflesh was his younger sibling's interest. But for reasons his father would not detail, Robert McClellan considered Salem the one with the best chance of spotting the thoroughbred filly the duke was rumored to have in his stables.
"I hope you have no expectation of securing a loan from His Grace."
Too certain of herself by half, Salem thought. "That can't be of any consequence to you. Do you know the duke well enough to tell me where I might meet him?"
Davinia shrugged negligently while Erin served Salem his joint of beef and boiled potatoes. Repulsive tavern fare, she noted. The Yankee seemed to enjo
y it though, which only proved how coarse the Colonies had become. She shuddered just remembering her husband had once expected her to go with him to that miserable land. Still, Salem's questionable epicurean tastes were not at issue here; his taste in women was. Davinia could envy Ashley's good fortune to be bedded by the virile man seated across the table. "No, it's not my affair," she said, sensing she must be careful not to push him. She was thoughtful, her narrow and delicate fingers tapping against the edge of the table as she made her decision. "I can supply the introduction. As it would happen I am leaving for Linfield later today. I would be honored if you would accompany me." Her smile was coy. "You would be doing me a service. One never knows what one may encounter on the roads these days."
"What of your husband? Won't he object to my escort?"
"Charles has been in the Colonies for several years now. We go our own way. He would be pleased I had such a protector." Her pale blue eyes slid over Salem's handsome face and could find nothing that was not to her liking. He was a most agreeable man; the rough edges made him all the more desirable. A pity Ashley would not appreciate him.
Salem nearly rolled his eyes at Davinia's brazen manner. He was almost certain she was the duke's mistress. Wasn't one man enough for her? "I wouldn't want to impose. I have business with him after all."
"What is one guest, more or less? I'll send a groom on ahead to let Nigel know."
"I have some work to complete first," Salem said.
"Fine. Where shall I send a carriage round?"
"The docks. Ask for the McClellan merchant, the Caroline. Anyone can direct you."
"Then I'll look forward to seeing you. Shall we say five?"
Salem nodded. He avoided Davinia's attempt to brush past him as she left the table, pretending renewed interest in his meal. After she and her companions left the tavern, he pushed his plate away and called for another ale. His forbidding expression as he drank did not invite company; the disgusted half smile on his face reflected his inner dilemma. Damn, I should have told Father to send Gareth or just forget this matter. Now I think I've just accepted a well-bred whore's invitation to pleasure her. How am I supposed to proceed from here?
He was not pleased to be repeating the question some hours later as he rode beside Davinia's carriage on a cinnamon-colored gelding. The purchase of the fine piece of horseflesh was not as impulsive as Salem allowed Davinia to believe. Salem's second in command, James Shannon, suggested the purchase once he was informed of his captain's plan to travel. "Sure, and you don't want to be at an Englishman's mercy. An Englishwoman's either. Scurvy breed, the lot of them."
"And what exactly would you be?" Salem had asked his cagey friend.
"Irish. Don't you be forgettin' it either." James had raised a meaty fist threateningly and glared darkly at Salem from beneath wildly bushy brows. "I'll be expectin' to hear from you in a sennight. If y'er not back by then I'll be sendin' someone after you. And take care to remember yer da didn't send you over here to be pleasured. I don't like the sound of this lady you met. She's most likely the duke's mistress and not a very faithful one at that. It'd be a shame if you returned with the pox." Then Shannon had run, laughing boisterously, for the safety of the hold as Salem threatened his life in three languages, including Latín.
Salem's brows drew together as he anticipated meeting Nigel Lynne and the problem of persuading the duke to sell a certain thoroughbred filly. His father had his mind set on a new line of breeding stock. Salem knew horses, but he was not the authority; his brother and father were. But Robert McClellan had told him how to identify the horse: a small L-shaped brand on the left side of her chest supposedly marked the duke's treasured animal. Salem had remarked that Nigel Lynne seemed a singularly possessive man. "I've heard he destroys what he cannot keep," Robert replied, a distant look in his dark green eyes. Beyond that he would say nothing, and his son, though he wondered at the look and the words, honored his father's privacy.
He wished now he had asked more questions. Davinia Grant's approaching him was still a puzzle. She said it was the mention of the duke that brought her to the captain's table, yet Salem sensed Davinia's interest before that. The duke's name provided an excuse for the introduction and perhaps peaked Davinia's curiosity, but Salem considered their confrontation inevitable. He was certain she had her own reasons for desiring his company. Salem realized he would have to proceed warily with the duke and his mistress. He was not really concerned that he might somehow end up their dupe, but it was imperative to him that he did not fail his father. Robert McClellan had never specifically asked his sons for anything. That he had made the request at all clued Salem to its importance.
He glanced over at the carriage which was making surprisingly good time on the rutted road. He could just make out Davinia's delicate profile through the window as she was jounced about even in the well-sprung conveyance. He wondered if she still pouted because he chose to ride in the open.
Davinia was, in fact, pouting a little, her face taking on a sullen expression the duke would have erased with a light slap. She was also more than a little troubled, wondering at this late moment if she had done the right thing by inviting Captain McClellan to Linfield. McClellan was exactly the sort of man Nigel would have chosen, but the captain's own interests in the duke could present a problem. Davinia had still not decided if she should relate the conversation with Salem in the tavern. Lately she felt unsure of her hold on Nigel's affections. She wanted to avoid anything that would antagonize him. Though she felt attracted to the Yankee captain, and many other men during the years she had been Nigel's mistress, she had never once seriously considered severing her ties with the duke. She knew she would do anything to prevent him from ending their liaison. Captain McClellan's presence at Linfield's gates was proof of that.
Salem's first view of Linfield House was colored by the blue-grey light of dusk. Twilight shaded the ancestral home of the duke, making it appear fortress-like and lending it a faintly mysterious air. Riding toward the house, Salem noted the grounds were meticulously cared for. The box hedge lining the semicircular drive leading to Linfield's main entrance had been so painstakingly trimmed it resembled a choker of square-cut emeralds.
The house itself looked to have been built over a period of many years, reflecting the influence of changing architectural design and the personal tastes of a number of Linfield's owners. The south wing was topped by a crenelated tower and was oddly out of balance with the ornately sculpted dome on the north tower. The windows, other than permitting light to enter, had little in common. Some were framed with elaborate iron scrolling while others were bordered by cathedral-like white arches. The lack of any unifying design led Salem to consider the person who had introduced ivy to Linfield's grey stone walls to be the most inspired of all the planners.
There was a light mist rising from the garden pond as cool evening air brushed the warmer water. Salem would have liked to explore the estate, as his father requested, and determine the extent of the duke's wealth, but he advised himself to be patient. There would be opportunity later to look into the stud farm, the tenant holdings, and the crop production. He had one week to investigate all of that and the thoroughbred. Mustn't forget the blasted horse.
Salem's musings were interrupted by a movement that drew his attention to the upper floors at Linfield. He lifted his head to stare at one of the arched windows situated at the near corner of the house. The flutter of something white that drew his attention did not repeat itself while he looked, and after a few moments, he acknowledged that it probably would not. It never occurred to him that he might have imagined the movement. His long training to become the captain of the Caroline had taught him better use of his eyes than to fancy something that did not exist.
Oh, God! Ashley gasped mournfully as she fell away from the window to make herself invisible in the dark interior of her room. Had he seen her? She could only hope he had not. She wanted to do nothing to call attention to herself. No good would come of it; she
knew it without knowing why. She sank onto her bed, wishing she had exercised more control over her curious nature, but ever since Nigel had triumphantly entered her room a few hours ago with the news of the Yankee's arrival in the evening, Ashley had been alternately repelled and intrigued by the thought of catching a glimpse of him before he entered Linfield House.
She had stationed herself carefully to one side of the thickly padded window bench, giving her a clear view of Linfield's drive at an angle that left her unable to be seen. She had waited patiently, picking at the remains of the supper the duke had brought her. She had been eating regular meals since Nigel's announcement four days earlier, and though her skin still appeared almost translucent, pulled taut as it was over her delicate bones, she knew that her mirror's reflection of her vulnerability was in part a lie, for she felt a good portion of her strength had already returned.
She thought she was ready to confront Nigel and Davinia and anything they planned for her, yet her first glimpse of the Yankee sent a shiver of despair through Ashley that made her clutch at the quilting beneath her.
He was bigger than she imagined a Colonial would be. Thinking they had all descended from thieves and weak men who could not prosper in their own homeland, Ashley had conceived a picture of a man of no physical consequence. This was not the picture of the man who confronted her now. Even given the distance separating her from the Yankee she could see his shoulders were broad beneath his black cape, and where the cape parted, she saw that his hard thighs seemed to strain at the confines of his buff britches while he controlled the horse with practiced ease. She found herself admiring the Yankee's seat until she remembered her guardian's crude words about being ridden. Suddenly, even looking at the Yankee seemed obscene.
She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine what sort of devil's face was hidden by the stiff tricorn hat. She risked another look at the grounds. At the same moment the Yankee was looking at the garden pond, and Ashley grew bolder as his attention was directed at something beside the house's face. She leaned past the drape to face the window more fully, and the sleeve of her nightgown snagged on the window's latch. She yanked on her sleeve to release it, horrified to see her small movement had caught the Yankee's eye.