“Poor Gibby.” The viscount turned to Fanny. “He was pressed into service and did very well, but he had a problem with heights. Didn’t like rigging the sails.”
Pressed! Fanny seized on this image to break the disturbing atmosphere of closeness between herself and the captain. “You mean you used press gangs to make up your crew?” she demanded of him. “How horrible! How could you do such a thing?”
Both men looked at her in genuine surprise.
“Press gangs are barbaric!” she continued. “Taking men off the streets, knocking them unconscious, tying them up, and throwing them aboard departing vessels.”
“Many an undesirable citizen has been reformed aboard ship,” the captain said. “Gibby, for instance. He used to be a cutpurse. Spare your pity, Rosalind. Life at sea is an adventure. My men even chanced to see the Galapagos Islands, which I doubt you will ever see.”
“You sound as though you were captaining a pleasure cruise. They stood a much better than average chance of being killed or drowned.”
Fanny’s disappointment in Deal was so great, it filled her with dismay. However, to her discomfort, it did not lessen by one whit the notice he paid her with those attentive eyes. She felt the blood come into her face again. When had she become so susceptible? “I understand you made your fortune by capturing French ships. You could not have done so without your crew, could you?”
“All prize money is shared among the crew, Rosalind. And the Press has been going on for centuries. I did not invent it. Without it, we would never have had the men to crew a ship and beat the French.”
Left without a reply to this, she sought another way to fight her unruly surge of awareness. Her eyes lit on two beturbaned and plumed matrons, holding up their quizzing glasses and inspecting the company down their long, patrician noses. They whispered together, obviously disapproving. She knew them to be Lady Cowper and the Princess Esterhazy, two of the patronesses of Almack’s. They set themselves up as social arbiters, deciding who could receive their coveted vouchers, who could waltz, and who would be excluded. Theirs was one of the little kingdoms that existed among the ton. Naval officers were apparently in possession of another kingdom.
“I think I would like it in America,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “Perhaps Elise and the duke will pay my passage. There, I would not be at the mercy of arbitrary rules of conduct.”
“You deceive yourself, my dear,” Deal said. “Wherever there is society, there are arbitrary rules of conduct. Even among savages. And I believe the Puritans are far more rigid than the ton. Not to mention the Dutch aristocrats who reign over New York society.”
Why must he always set himself up as being in the right? How annoying! “But in America, there is no aristocracy,” she insisted.
Westringham entered the conversation. “Perhaps you would have sent us to the guillotine?” His voice held a trace of humor.
“Just because I hate injustice, do not label me an advocate of the Reign of Terror. There is a middle ground. I think it to be found in America.” Did she sound as unreasonable as she felt? Why had she begun this conversation?
“You are an extremely unusual young lady,” Westringham concluded.
“And one whose views, were they known to certain individuals, would make you a persona non grata,” Deal added. “The ton does not like to be reminded of the poor. In fact, I am of the opinion that they are terrified of them.”
Fanny shut her eyes to block out the sight of the marquis in the splendid hunter green evening coat that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin while playing up his disturbing eyes. Summoning her most heartfelt voice, she said, “We build our society on the backs of the poor.” Opening her eyes, she looked fixedly at Lady Cowper’s turban and said, “Those who reign over petty fiefdoms set impossibly strict rules for belonging, afraid they will lose what they have.”
The marquis took her arm at the elbow and squeezed it. “Ever the dramatist.” He looked into her face again, his eyes searching hers. She was uncommonly aware of his hand cupping her elbow. “We all do what we can, Rosalind. But keep your voice down or you are like to be thrown out of this gathering.”
“I should not care!” she declared, pulling her arm away.
“But I should,” he said quietly. “I should not want you to suffer ruin for your radical ideals. Again, pray recall the French Revolution. Noble Britons are poised to put any such ideas to death. Your sister’s soup kitchen is only borderline acceptable; you must know that. Perhaps society considers it to be insurance against an uprising by the East End rabble.”
“Why are you being so disagreeable?” Fanny asked.
“Rosalind, you have been determined to eat me ever since you saw me this evening.”
Turning to the viscount, she asked, “What do you think about these matters, my lord?”
“I am not a deep thinker like you, Miss Edwards. I fear your words make me uncomfortable, lest they should be overheard.”
“Go then,” she said, her chin up. “I should not like you to be tarred by the same brush that shall tar me if my speaking my mind becomes known.”
“You are magnificent,” Westringham said softly, looking into her eyes. “Brave, noble . . .”
“And excessively foolish,” Deal finished. “Do you think your thoughts original? Do you think no one has ever noticed the inequality in our country before? You are naïve, Rosalind.”
His words were stern, but his eyes were unaccountably gentle. So confused was she by the contradiction between his words and the warm current between the two of them that his gentleness almost disarmed her. That was dangerous. “So you think I am a child. Well, I think you a . . . a . . . I wish to find my sister. I wish to leave.”
“By all means, Rosalind. Come, I will take you to her. Keep your lip buttoned.” As they walked through the room, the marquis said in a low, conversational voice, looking straight ahead, “You needn’t be such a termagant, you know. I promise in time you will become used to these feelings between us.”
* * *
After undressing that night, Fanny dismissed Becky and entered her sitting room. She looked out at the still night. Actually, it was nearer to morning. Her whole body was still tingling with awareness. The crescent moon shone through sailing clouds as it sank near to the horizon. Fanny tried to understand the conversation, especially its undercurrents. She grew so warm, she wiggled out of her dressing gown and cast it on the day bed. Closing her eyes, she summoned the last exchange: You will become used to these feelings between us in time.
Somehow, as a result of their time apart, they had come to a new awareness of one another. He had felt what she had felt. Those moments weren’t an illusion. Why had she been so determined to be disagreeable?
I was trying to distance myself. Elise was right. I am vulnerable, and I do not like it one little bit. Or do I? I’m so confused by these emotions!
Oh, those eyes . . . he was not fooled by my tirades. Those green eyes were soft as a caress.
{ 15 }
BUCK WAS THE GENTLEMAN PATRON who watched over the activities of the soup kitchen the next day. To his pleasure, Rosalind was serving as a substitute for Sukey Braithwaite, her aunt’s companion. But she had nothing to say to him and pointedly avoided his eyes.
In his sitting room over a brandy last night, he had gone over the scene at the rout and realized all was altered between them. The sight of her slight form, crown of auburn hair, and lively turquoise eyes had caused his heart to behave like a schoolboy’s. Their sudden awareness of each other as man and woman could only traverse in one direction with honor. Rosalind’s striking out at him proved she did not welcome it. Surely he could not have fallen in love with such a prickly hedgehog! Why was she so determined to fight with him? How could he disarm her?
He was enjoying watching her today. Whenever a woman or child appeared in the queue before her, she always spoke bright and soothing words to them.
“Show me your doll, dear. What is her
name? Gwendolyn? How lovely.”
“Oh, it looks like you have lost some teeth! You must be about six years old. You are growing up!”
“Are you a big help to your mother with your brothers and sisters? Tell me all of your names.”
Buck had asked Elise if there had ever been problems or incidents at the kitchen. She had said, “Only once. Several years ago, a man threw a hot bowl of soup in my face. He was angry because he could not find employment. But my face healed. Nothing has happened since. We treat the soldiers and their wives like our extended family. They know the duke and his friends are searching for employment for them and that many of their friends are settled in a job.”
Still, used to dealing with the surly pressed seamen on his ship, Buck was not completely easy about Rosalind’s safety. He was afraid her friendliness might be seen as condescension.
A natural protective instinct rose in him as he watched her graceful figure ladling the lamb stew and offering it to the ragged poor. An inopportune desire to embrace that slim wand of a torso and hold her close rose within him, and he forced himself to recall her sentiments of the night before—her outrage at press gangs, the patronesses of Almacks, and the restrictions of the “unworthy” ton. All had their valid points, but that is not why she had thrown them at him. After his night’s cogitation, he had come to believe that she was frightened of him. Why?
Buck did not think she was feeling any differently today. At least part of her friendliness was an act for him, and he could see that her enthusiasm was making the other volunteers a bit uncomfortable.
So, when the shift was over and Rosalind had not made her way to the hackney he had summoned, he experienced a spurt of alarm. Dodging the thick crowds around the market stalls, he saw her at last, an upright figure in her old dress the indistinct color of toast. He kept her in view. Where the devil was she going?
Soon her destination became horribly obvious as they drew closer to Covent Garden Theater. She disappeared through what must be the backstage door.
In Buck’s hurry to follow her, he jostled a cart of Brussels sprouts and the vegetables fell to the dirty ground, rolling in all directions.
“Oy! Look what you gone an’ done, guv. You’ll pay me for this bit. Can’t sell ‘em sprouts what’s been rollin’ in the filf, now can I?”
Buck paused in the act of trying to retrieve the rolling vegetables. Paying the man off would certainly be the quicker option. Withdrawing the purse that was secured to his person by a small chain, he took a guinea and tossed it to the man.
“I’m very sorry to be so clumsy. This should cover it and then some.”
He left the man applying his teeth to the gold coin. After rounding several more carts, Buck finally found his way to the door his Rosalind had entered.
In the dim light of the corridor, he heard a boisterous laugh. Moving towards it, he was chagrined to see Warmsby, a flashy bit of muslin on his arm. She was addressing Rosalind. “I’m that sorry, my lady, but the manager has promised the part of Rosalind to me. And I can’t see that you have any business at all to be here.”
Warmsby patted the actress on her arm, let her go, and moved over to Rosalind. “I can take the sting out of the situation,” he said, encircling her waist with an arm and drawing her to his chest. “I will marry you.”
“I would rather marry a snake,” Rosalind said, struggling to be free of his embrace.
“I am sorry to hear it,” the earl said. “However, what do you think Emily Cowper would do with such a choice bit of gossip: ‘Duchess of Ruisdell’s Sister Disappointed in her Audition for Starring Role at Covent Garden Theater?’”
He tightened his grasp and, lowering his lips to hers, gave her a bruising kiss.
Rosalind finally succeeded in wrestling herself away from him. “You devil!”
“Now I’ve thoroughly compromised you. Marry me, and Lady Cowper shall never hear of it. She is by way of being my friend, you know.”
Buck’s thoughts raced. He judged this to be the moment to intervene, knowing suddenly what he had to do. “Warmsby, leave my fiancée alone. She cannot marry you when she is engaged to me.”
Stepping up to his Rosalind, he drew her to him so she was tucked beneath his arm. She molded herself to him, saying, “Thank heavens you have come, darling. It seems my hopes are to be disappointed after all.”
“How do you intend to keep me from spreading this delicious gossip?” Warmsby asked.
“I could kill you in a duel,” Buck said, raising an eyebrow in studied negligence.
“But duels are so uncertain. Would it not be better to pay me off? You are a wealthy man. I am a bit short at the moment. How about five hundred guineas?” Warmsby asked with an ingratiating smile.
“You will not pay this snake!” Rosalind became rigid with rage.
Buck brought his hands to her shoulders, squeezing to communicate his desire to handle it.
He replied to Warmsby’s offer with far more coolness than he felt. “I will pay you half that. And there will be no further demands. I have cut down or shot more Frenchmen than you have ever seen in your life, so you do not want to engage me in a duel. If I hear any gossip at all, I will call you out. This is to be the end of the matter. Understood?”
The man’s teeth gleamed white in the dim light as he smiled. “How unfortunate that you turned up just as I was on the point of securing a fortune by marriage. However, I cannot begrudge you the prior claim. When may I collect?”
“In the morning.”
“See that you come by Boodles, then.”
Buck offered his fiancée his arm. “Come, my dear.”
He ushered Rosalind out of the theater, his thoughts far from peaceful. Had he really just thrown himself on the sacrificial platter of matrimony? It would seem he was engaged.
{ 16 }
ASTORM OF EMOTIONS raced through Fanny. “Merciful heavens, my lord! Thank you for rescuing me from that coil, but I certainly cannot marry you!”
“You think I was a little presumptuous? It was the only way to stop Warmsby.”
“But, marriage?” The confusion of her thoughts was not helped at all by having to dodge carts of berries, cabbages, and plucked chickens dangling from a wire. “You are not thinking straight! We cannot marry!”
“I agree that present surroundings do not lend themselves to the romance of the matter. Pray, let us not mention it again until we return to Shearings.”
And so, as they made their way out of the market, hailed a hackney cab, and rode in silence to Mayfair and Shearings, Fanny tried to make sense of her jumbled thoughts. The captain must have had a brainstorm. The gravity of the situation she was in had pushed him into declaring himself. She knew for a fact he thought her silly and naïve. He had said so, had he not? This imbroglio had certainly shown her to be reckless. Last night, he had had to rescue her from her own tongue, for mercy’s sake!
A few warm thoughts and heated glances were surely not enough to overcome his longtime aversion to marriage. He could not be offering her love, but only a marriage of convenience. No, she would stand firm. A marriage of convenience would not do at all!
But there was that devil Warmsby. Would he keep his word if no engagement appeared? How could she allow Deal to pay him such a great sum for his silence? And what if there was a duel? All the projected outcomes were disastrous. Why had the marquis had to walk in at precisely that moment?
By the time they reached Shearings, Fanny thought her head would burst from considering all the problems arising out of her irresponsible behavior. Why had she yielded to temptation? It was the decision of a moment, nothing more, and now it could dictate the rest of her life. Not just hers, but the life of a man who was far too gallant for his own good.
What am I to do?
After the captain paid the jarvey and handed her down, she preceded him into Elise’s house.
“Let us go into the downstairs parlor. We should have privacy there,” she said, leading him to the back of the h
ouse. The room was a cheerful yellow, looking out upon a dazzling display of sweet peas in Elise’s garden.
“I know that going to the theater expecting to audition was rebellious and silly,” she said once she seated herself. “You have my deepest gratitude for rescuing me, but it is I, not you, who should pay the consequences. I know you do not love me. You did not even have time to stop to think before you declared me your fiancée!”
“What makes you think I have not given it prior consideration?” he asked, his eyes laughing.
“Do be serious! You could not wish to be married to me! You think me nothing but a irritating baggage. And after today, I am convinced you are right!”
“Yes, I may have to put you back in leading strings.”
She raised her chin. “I do not want to marry anyone for convenience. Even if it is my convenience. Besides, how do we know Warmsby will keep his word? Speaking of which, I cannot allow you to pay him all that money! Or duel with him!” In her confusion, tears started to her eyes, and she dropped her head into her hands.
“If Warmsby should break his word, it would be even more important for you to be married.”
“But I know you do not love me! I cannot force that fate upon you!” The words were out before she could stop them.
She did not miss the sight of his knotted forehead, nor the confusion in his eyes.
Wiping her own eyes with her handkerchief, she said, “You cannot rush into this. It is not a mere matter of pulling me out of scandal broth. This is your life we are speaking of. I cannot believe that you would want me to partner you through life, to have your children . . .”
“Rosalind . . .”
“And if anyone is to pay off Warmsby, why should it be you?”
His face seemed to relax. Getting up, he walked over to her chair, knelt next to her, and took her busy hands into his. They felt warm and strong. The same feelings as the night before rose inside her. She kept her eyes lowered so he would not see the longing she felt to be in his arms.
Rescuing Rosalind (Three Original Ladies and Their Gentlemen) Page 9