Blaike: Secrets Gone Askew (Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Book 4)
Page 15
Spine rigid, she looped her arm through Blaire’s, and wordlessly, they pivoted and strode in the other direction.
Never before in her life had she cut someone. But so help her God, the urge to beat Severs and his snotty sister to a pulp with her parasol so overwhelmed Blaike, her rage frightened her. She hadn’t thought herself capable of such fury or of wishing someone bodily harm.
“Oh, Blaike,” whispered Blaire, nearly running to keep up with Blaike’s brisk pace. “What are we to do? Why are they here? Did you notice Jacqueline’s snide—?”
“Snarl?”
For wasn’t that how rabid animals behaved before they attacked? Blaike curled her lip in contempt. “How could I miss it? You can bet our sweet Freddy the others did as well.”
“I’m sure of it.” Blaire exhaled loudly. “What a deuced conundrum.”
So much for keeping the surreptitious matter in Geneva quiet.
Dragging in a shaky breath, Blaike pursed her lips.
“I’ll have to tell all. Then hope to God Raven, or Leventhorpe—or both—can threaten that bounder to such an extent, Jonathon will be forced to leave London. He doesn’t dare even hint what he attempted. But his sister . . .”
Blaike’s stomach flipped over like the time she’d eaten tainted fish and had been violently ill.
“She’ll twist the truth. The tattle she contrives could cause damage to our family’s standing.” She squeezed her parasol handle so tight, it was a wonder it didn’t snap under the strain. “I’m sure Heath and Tristan will think of a plausible—”
“Excuse. Yes, yes, of course they will. They’re all powerful lords with many influential friends.” Blaire dared a swift half-glance over her shoulder. “Those social climbing mushrooms don’t know what they’re up against.”
She lifted her head and slid a covert glance toward where they’d last seen the lieutenant.
He’d disappeared from view.
Sadness deepened the contours of Blaire’s pale countenance, and Blaike clamped her jaw because her beloved twin also faced heartbreak.
“Girls. Wait for us,” Brooke called, as she and the others scurried to catch up.
Hardly girls anymore.
Blaike slowed, then stopped before turning with a forced upward bend of her mouth.
Probably looked more like a grimace than a smile. Even after several weeks, she wasn’t ready to reveal the ugliness to the rest of her family. Odd since she’d had no qualms telling Oliver about the incident.
Honestly, though the ordeal had been traumatic and she could scarcely stand to look upon Jonathon Servers, she fretted more about le beau monde’s reaction and how it would affect the others. Women and their families had been ostracized for less, even if the scandal weren’t of their making or was no fault of theirs. Yet clandestine assignations were not unusual for married women.
She couldn’t help but be galled by the hypocrisy.
Despite her intent to ignore them, her attention gravitated to the Severs. Arm in arm, they strolled in the other direction, their heads close together and apparently in an earnest conversation.
Plotting no doubt, the fiends.
Well, she’d not cow or hide in disgrace. She was the victim, and far past time women began to stand up against such assaults on their person instead of retreating in shame.
Again the notion of learning some sort of self-defense poked its head up. The idea didn’t seem as farfetched as it once might have.
Radiant in a white embroidered muslin gown and breathless from her hurried walk, Blythe pressed a palm to her distended belly. She glanced downward and chuckled. “Someone didn’t like Mama rushing about. I swear this babe is playing leap frog in there.”
Brette touched Blaike’s arm and angled her parasol’s tip at the retreating Severs. “Whatever was that all about? I’ve never known you to be so abrupt.”
A nicely worded way of saying rude.
Nurse was almost upon them with Leopold, his cheerful gurgles earning him an affectionate smile from the middling-aged woman.
Freddy, tongue lolling and eyes mere slits as he enjoyed the sunshine, sat inside the pram as well. Too much for the old boy to toddle to and from Highfield.
“Indeed,” agreed Brooke, her gaze shifting between Blaike and her twin. “Though I expect you have good reason for abandoning your manners.”
“I think it best we save that conversation for home.” Blaike met each of their concerned gazes in turn as her twin made a sympathetic sound of agreement. “It’s an unsavory tale and one I don’t relish the telling of.”
“Very well.” Countenance contemplative, Brooke touched her chin with two fingers. “I don’t usually form an opinion upon first meeting someone, but for those two I’ll make an exception. That Miss Severs had the audacity to demand to know who we were. Must be an American custom, for I believe, given their accents, that’s where they hail from.”
Two laughing boys in deep blue and gray striped skeleton suits ran by in pursuit of a yapping Cocker Spaniel, dragging his lead.
“Jolly, come back here,” called the elder boy.
They careened too near the pram, and Freddy barked, a weak, near-sighted warning.
Behind the lads, and holding a slightly older girl’s hand, what had to be their frenzied governess scurried after the scamps.
“Masters Jesse and Travess. Stop chasing that wretched beast this instant!” Offering an apologetic smile, she bustled past the women while complaining to her other charge. “Miss Brianna, I do not know why they must always be into mischief. Frogs in the parlor yesterday, and a snake in the larder the day before.”
The peach-clad girl shook her head, causing her neat russet ringlets to bounce.
“Why? Because they’re boys, Miss Snowdrop, and all boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Remember the poem?”
“And when they’re young men they’re made of sighs, and leers and crocodile tears. Add lies to that, too,” the disgruntled governess huffed.
Even Blaike had to smile at the child’s matter-of-fact explanation.
Brooke, however was having none of it. She bent low and kissed Leopold’s pudgy cheek. “Not a bit of it, my love. Snails indeed. Boys can be sugar and spice too.”
Yes, cinnamon and cloves in particular.
Blaike could almost smell Oliver’s scent, feel his lips sinking onto hers and his tongue plundering her mouth.
A much more somber troupe climbed Highfield Place House’s stoop a quarter hour later than had departed.
No sooner had they reached the top step than the door swung open to a rather frazzled Jenkin.
“My lady, his lordship, as well as Lords Leventhorpe and Wycombe just arrived with Captain Whitehouse. And a bird.”
Such disdain riddled his voice and puckered his face, at another time Blaike might’ve been amused.
Instead, she sucked in a great gulp of air and balked at the entrance so suddenly, Brette and Blythe plowed into her.
Oliver here? With M’Lady Lottie?
How could she bear to see him and not make a complete cake of herself?
“Sluice yer gob,” came a familiar screech. “Blast and damn.”
“Good heavens.” Blythe peered around, seeking the culprit. “Who or what is that?”
“M’Lady Lottie,” Blaike and Blaire said in unison.
So confounded did the others appear, Blaike offered by way of an explanation, “She’s a salmon-crested cockatoo that spent several years in a—erm—house of ill repute.”
“This ought to be most entertaining.” Blythe chuckled, while looking about for the bird again.
What had possessed Oliver to bring Lottie to Highfield?
Blaike wasn’t noddy enough to believe he’d toted the bird along for a visit.
Still in a dither, the typically unflappable Jenkin rattled on as he closed the door, moisture actually beading his forehead and upper lip.
A first, that.
“That creature has stationed itsel
f in a hanging pot in the solarium.” Radiating disapproval, he elevated his chin and cinched his mouth.
“Jenkin?” Blaike said. “Where might we find the gentlemen?”
She wasn’t about to specify one particular swarthy-skinned sea captain.
“In a bedchamber, Miss. There’s been a fire on the captain’s ship. The physician has been sent for.”
A scrupulous woman knows that much like diseases wastes
the body secrets oft’ tarnish the soul as do the scandals they cause.
~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living
Once Oliver’s coughing fit ceased, he shrugged off Ravensdale and Leventhorpe’s helping hands and collapsed onto the bed.
“I cannot think Lady Ravensdale will be pleased to have this fine counterpane stained with soot and smelling of burnt timber, canvas, and the Thames.”
“My lady won’t consider it for an instant,” Ravensdale claimed and gave a slight shudder. “Lest you forget, she operated a dairy farm for years. Trust me, my friend, when I tell you that stench is not something easily forgotten. And we are all grateful beyond words for what you did for the twins. We are indebted to you, Oliver. A ruined bedcover is naught.”
Rather than answer, Oliver grunted, momentarily overcome with angst.
The Sea Gypsy.
What would his crew do now?
They were good men, decent men, and they needed employment. For certain, a few might find positions on other vessels, but what about Hawkins? He wasn’t a young man anymore.
At least Longhurst had insured the Sea Gypsy. He’d not fuss overly much at the ship’s loss.
Why should he?
He never wanted any part of her except for Oliver’s payments, and now Longhurst could collect the insurance, too.
For a flash, devastation rendered Oliver mute and immobile.
Now what did his future entail?
Hire on as a hand once more?
How could he when he’d captained his own ship these past years?
All was truly lost to him. Every hope and dream. Every ambition and goal. Gone up in orange flames.
After facing that dismal prospect, he forced his thoughts elsewhere, dredging up a speck of gratitude for what had been avoided. No hands had died, except Fairnly. No cargo yet loaded. His almost-paid-for ship had been anchored away from the docks, thus preventing a catastrophe beyond measure.
Three things to be grateful for.
Focus on those for now.
Time to fret about the other later. When his head didn’t ache like a Lochaber Axe had been laid to his nape.
“Where’s M’Lady Lottie?”
Raising his head a couple of inches, he peered about the finely appointed chamber.
“I take it you mean that evil-tempered, winged demon with a spear for a beak?” Leventhorpe scratched the bridge of his nose, then examined the crimson-stained handkerchief wrapped around his hand, covering the bite he received whilst helping haul Oliver onto the dock. “I think Jenkin chased her into the solarium. I’ve never seen the man so flustered. He actually bolted after her, flapping his arms and yelling. She called him a pimp whiskin.”
Raising a brow, Wycombe grinned. “Somehow, I don’t think our staid Jenkin appreciated being compared to a pimp. Wherever did she learn such language?”
“In a bordello,” Oliver replied. “And Lottie was protecting me, Leventhorpe. That’s why she bit you.”
Why did that embarrass him?
His lesser station and lighter pockets had never caused him chagrin with these men, but a crazed bird from a whorehouse attacking those same friends did?
Devil a bit, his ravaged throat felt as if he’d swallowed glass shards. He eyed Leventhorpe’s hand. “You probably ought to have that looked at. I have no idea how serious a bird bite can be.”
“Sound advice, I think. The physician is expected shortly, in any event.” Ravensdale leaned a shoulder against the bedpost, his intense scrutiny belaying his casual mien. “As is my wife, according to Jenkin.”
Which meant Blaike would be here soon as well.
Oliver had counted himself fortunate that when they’d arrived the women hadn’t been at home. He fully intended to depart just as soon as he could stand without the room spinning like a toy boat caught in a maelstrom. He’d not wanted to come here at all and protested loudly and strenuously against doing so.
Despite his objections, like fussy old tabbies, Raven, Leventhorpe, and Wycombe had bustled him into a carriage and made straight for Highfield Place House. They hadn’t heeded his complaints, probably wrongly assuming manly pride motivated his reluctance.
They were wrong.
He’d refused each invitation thus far to spare Blaike more sorrow.
Why Ravensdale had insisted on inviting him here when he’d have preferred to meet at Lady Sethwick’s London office he couldn’t fathom. He still hadn’t come to terms with dining here tonight. Not that he’d be able to now, dressed only in a stained and torn lawn shirt, equally abused trousers and barefoot, to boot.
He couldn’t even care for M’Lady Lottie now, much less a wife. What would become of the peevish cockatoo?
In a matter of hours, he’d been reduced to nothing.
More confirmation he’d made the right decision regarding Blaike, though he’d lived in a haze since seeing her disembark the Sea Gypsy. Careful to remain in the shadows, concealing his presence amongst the wharf’s many buildings, he’d not been able to resist one final glimpse of her.
Pivoting in a slow circle, she’d surveyed the docks, and his heart had ripped asunder.
Not a doubt she searched for him.
And he hadn’t a qualm that she loved him either, which made letting her go all that much more unbearable.
In obvious disappointment, her pretty mouth had turned down and her shoulders drooped the merest bit.
Impotent frustration had overwhelmed him, and he’d slammed his fist into the building’s rough siding. He flexed his hand, his nearly healed cut and bruised knuckles a potent reminder of the folly of loving her and taking his rage out on unyielding wood.
Daring to peek at his friends from slitted eyes, he tensed at the pity edging each of their faces. Likely they knew full well everything he owned, save the clothing on his back, his mother’s jewels hastily stuffed into a coin bag and tied with the string still hanging from his neck, and the bird raising a ruckus below were all he had to his name now.
There yet remained the small hope that Lady Sethwick might actually consider the clipper drawings he’d had sent round, or perhaps even have need of a ship’s captain. That might’ve been discussed tonight, too.
That opportunity had gone up in flames as surely as the Sea Gypsy had.
Despair, second only to losing his beloved Blaike encompassed Oliver, and for a moment moisture stung his eyes.
“Whitehouse?” A tinge of alarm leeched into Leventhorpe’s voice, and he poked Oliver’s shoulder.
“I’m not incapacitated, nor do I need a physician or anyone fussing over me.” Unless it was his sweet Blaike. He’d gladly accept her ministrations. Except he’d broken her heart, and now she most likely loathed him.
Particularly since he hadn’t answered her letter.
He’d started to.
More times than he could count as the wadded foolscap littering his quarters could attest before they burned to cinders today. Yet every missive turned into a moonstruck swain’s pathetic and not the least bit lyrical proclamation of devotion and adoration.
Ravensdale snorted his disapproval. “Nonetheless, you’ll permit Dr. Barclay to examine you.”
“Bloody blueblood, giving orders as usual,” Oliver rasped, his voice hoarse as much from shouting as inhaling smoke. And swallowing a barrel full of river water as Lottie ranted her outrage whilst clawing his back.
“I don’t suppose I need to remind you, that blue blood also runs in your veins.” No real censure weighted Ravensdale’s words.
“Old chap, that was more than a bit of smoke. Your ship lit up like someone torched a fireworks factory.” Leventhorpe’s dry retort earned him a glare beneath Oliver’s crooked elbow.
“Probably because someone placed explosives on her.”
By someone Oliver meant Fairnly, the turncoat.
It seems after the Black Dove limped into port last week, Abraham had bribed the blackguard. Only, the reckless idiot had blown his hand off and practically disemboweled himself. As he lay dying, he’d confessed all to Oliver.
Hawkins and Grover also witnessed the admission before Oliver realized the futility of fighting the spreading flames and ordered them over the Sea Gypsy’s side. Surely with their testimony Abraham would see a noose now, or at the very least, the inside of a prison cell for a long while.
Raven’s short chuckle relieved a jot of the tension in the bedchamber. “Queerest thing I’ve ever seen. You swimming toward the wharf with that obscenity screaming bird bobbing on your back. Drew quite a crowd.”
“Do shut up, Ravensdale.” Oliver needn’t be reminded of the hooting and guffawing onlookers.
“Thank God you’re all right, Whitehouse. I confess, I initially feared the worst. Pure luck we were on our way to Stapleton Shipping and saw the fire.” This from Wycombe, a former rector.
Oliver ought to introduce him to Hawkins. They’d get along famously.
Where was Hawkins anyway?
He’d made it to shore, hadn’t he?
Sudden fear stabbed behind Oliver’s ribs. “Did anyone see my first mate, Jack Hawkins?”
To a man they shook their heads.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Wycombe swept Oliver a compassionate gaze. “We rushed to help you while others assisted your crew. I’m sure he’s fine, however.”
Ravensdale scraped a hand through his hair. “I’ll send a missive to the harbor master and make an inquiry, if that relieves your mind.”
“I’d appreciate it.” If something had happened to Hawkins . . .