Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast)

by Devlin, Barbara

  But for Caroline, Trevor was anything but elusive.

  He called on her every day, a different hothouse bouquet in hand. She knew the flowers were intended as a subtle reminder of the tryst they had shared in the orangery at Chatham House. However, she was certain she would die of embarrassment when her mother commented on his fondness for flowers and suggested they erect their own hothouse.

  To which her incorrigible husband-to-be replied, “Actually, I have just arranged to have one built at my ancestral pile.” He studied Caroline with a shameless gleam in his eyes. “I have only recently discovered the simple pleasures to be had in an orangery.”

  There were other gifts, as well. He brought her a small tin of sugared candies, a box of chocolates, an elegant gold gilt jewelry box embossed with the Lockwood family crest, and a pair of diamond stud earrings. But it was the first present he had bestowed upon her, the wooden replica of the Hera, which she kept on the night table beside her bed. On a sunny afternoon, he took her for a drive in the park; they sat under the maple trees in Berkley Square and ate flavored ices from Gunter’s, then promenaded through Hyde Park. Another evening, he appeared on her doorstep with tickets to a play on Drury Lane.

  Before she knew it, the eve of her wedding had arrived.

  #

  As he stood in front of the elegant town home marked 24 Upper Brooke Street, Trevor studied the gold embossed summons he had received only that morning. Pressed in wax was the imprint of an intriguing seal bearing the shape of an eight-point wind-star. Underneath was the Latin phrase, Nulli Secundus, Second to None.

  Lord Lockwood,

  The honor of your presence is requested at six o’clock, 24 Upper Brooke Street. Be prompt and discreet.

  The Brethren

  Trevor raised his hand to knock and was startled when the door opened to reveal none other than Admiral Mark Douglas, father of Cara and Sabrina, and a legend in the British Navy.

  “Ah, Lord Lockwood, and on time.” As if they were old friends, Admiral Douglas set the oak panels wide in welcome. “But we are in the study.”

  When he strolled into the foyer of the palatial residence, Trevor searched his mind for some clue to the purpose of the perplexing invitation. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, except for the fact that there were no servants or staff present.

  “Please, follow me.” Admiral Douglas led him down a side hall and to another entrance. “After you.”

  The door was slightly ajar. Trevor pushed open the panel and stepped inside the spacious study of mahogany walls with leather inserts. The air smelled of cigar smoke, which declared the room a man’s domain. An intricately carved bookcase filled with old tomes and account ledgers occupied the wall behind a matching desk, and a leather high-back chair sat at the rear. In the center of the room was a half-circle of identical chairs, all of which were occupied, save one in the middle.

  Blake, Damian, Dirk, Dalton, and Lance, the full compliment of his wife’s male family members, were in attendance. It was evident that something of importance was about to take place, Trevor just was not certain he wanted to be a part of whatever that was. As he considered making a hasty retreat, the latch clicked and the bolt set behind him. In other words, he was locked in and going nowhere.

  “Will you not have a seat?” Admiral Douglas gave him a slight prod. “Can I offer you a brandy?”

  “Uh--yes, thank you, sir.” Bloody hell, he might need a whole bottle, since the faces before him revealed nothing in regard to the circumstances necessitating such a secretive summons.

  At that moment, the elder Randolph stood. “Will you not join us, Lockwood?”

  “Yes--” And then he saw it, on the breast of Dirk’s navy blue coat was an insignia. The symbol was unlike any of which Trevor had ever seen. The seal, fashioned of gold, bore the same wind-star design and Latin phrase as the curious missive. But a large, blue diamond twinkled at the center.

  “Your brandy, Lord Lockwood.”

  Trevor accepted the glass from Admiral Douglas and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. The hair stood on the back of his neck, and a chill of unease shivered over his flesh.

  “Are you all right, Lockwood?” Dalton inquired with a grin.

  “You look quite pale,” Blake said as he snatched the empty brandy balloon from his grasp.

  Trevor cleared his throat. “Would someone care to tell me-”

  Blake let fly with a punch to Trevor’s gut. “There it is. Now that we’ve dispensed with the honor punch, in honest payment for my sister’s virtue, we can put that nasty business behind us.”

  “How very big of you. Anyone else care to have a go while I’ve a mind to allow it?” Hunched over, Trevor braced for another attack. As he assessed each man in the study, he noticed that all sported the same magnificent badge of order.

  But what order?

  “Relax, Lockwood.” Admiral Douglas settled behind his desk. “We are all friends here.”

  “Are we?” Trevor had more to say but was silenced when the admiral placed a box covered in indigo velvet before him. “Is this for me?”

  Admiral Douglas merely arched a brow.

  Despite thoughts to the contrary, he took hold of the parcel and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of pure white satin, sat the same mysterious seal.

  “It is the badge for the Order of the Brethren of the Coast.”

  “The Brethren of the Coast?” Trevor almost dropped the box. God, help him, he feared he might faint. “But--they are the stuff of legend. You don’t expect me to believe they actually exist, do you?”

  The Brethren of the Coast was a secret society of daring sea captains, and he had heard countless stories of the fabled order. What naval man had not? Nautionnier Knights said to have descended from the Order of the Knights Templar, the warriors of the Crusades, their exploits were widely circulated throughout the seafaring ranks, but the Brethren were considered nothing more than exaggerated lore, for there had never been any proof of their existence. It was oft rumored that Vice Admiral Nelson himself had been one of their league, but that was just a child’s fancy, was it not?

  “Ah, yes, the stuff of legend. But what is a legend, without a kernel of truth? In 1307, King Philip IV of France sought to dissolve the Order of the Knights Templar. Denied entrance to the Order, and in debt to the Templars for an enormous sum of which he was unable to repay, King Philip plotted to destroy the Order and seize the vast wealth and property it possessed. In connivance with Pope Clement V, the Templars were accused of heresy, sorcery, and sexual perversion, arrested and tortured in an effort to gain confessions,” Admiral Douglas stated in a melancholy tone.

  “Of the estimated two thousand Templars, many were killed or committed suicide as a result of the Inquisition.” Lance continued the tale as he inclined his head and frowned. “Only a handful of Templar mariners were able to escape persecution by sailing for England, where torture had been outlawed. Seeking the protection of Edward II, the English Templars were spared the fate of their French brother knights.”

  “The Order of the Brethren of the Coast was formed in 1312, by the surviving Templar mariners after their order was banned by papal decree.” Damian steepled his hands and spoke reverently. “Since that time, our forefathers have logged a distinguished history of service to the Crown.”

  “Pull my other leg.” Trevor fisted his trembling hands. “The Brethren are nothing more than an old seaman’s tale.”

  “I assure you, this is no joke.” With a grim expression, Dirk rested his elbows on his knees. “You are marrying into our family. Caroline’s father was a Knight of the Order, as was his father before him. As you shall now be.”

  “Wait a minute.” Trevor’s grip on reality was slipping, and he leaned forward to set the little box on the desk. “This sounds a bit farfetched--”

  The rasp of steel being unsheathed brought him out of his seat in a heartbeat. Just as quick, Blake and Damian caught him by the arms and forced him to the floor.

&nb
sp; “On your knees, Lockwood,” his soon-to-be-brother-in-law said.

  “Hold hard.” Trevor struggled to break free without success. “I served my commission and am no longer in the Navy.”

  “Indeed, you have.” The admiral rounded his desk, sword in hand. “And had you not served honorably, we would neither allow your marriage nor extend this invitation to join the Order.”

  “Invitation?” Trevor snorted. “So I have a choice in the matter?”

  “Of course,” the admiral replied with a smile. “And it must be freely made.”

  “But if you refuse, we shall have to kill you,” Dalton added, as though daring Trevor to reject the honor.

  And it was an honor, one that did not escape his notice. What young midshipman did not dream of the day that he might call himself a Nautionnier Knight, while roaming the Royal Naval Academy halls in Greenwich? Yet never once in his wildest, youthful imaginings had he thought such estimable seaman existed. But did he belong? They had been born into the Order. He was being admitted by default through marriage. Again, he felt the outsider, the misfit, the one who did not deserve a place such elite company.

  “Were your military record not distinguished, we would not be offering you this opportunity,” the admiral said, as if he guessed the reason for Trevor’s hesitation. “Believe me, Lord Lockwood, you are worthy.”

  He stared at the floor. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Say that you accept your fate.” The admiral paused, and the room grew silent as a tomb.

  How long had he wanted to belong, to be a part of something more than himself, and a Nautionnier Knight at that? But would he ever truly be a member of their family? It would be so easy to refuse, to sail on the next high water and never see London again. But that decision meant he would never see Caroline again, either.

  “I accept.”

  The tip of the antique sword grazed his left shoulder, then his right, as Admiral Douglas wasted no time in bestowing the knighthood. “Now, rise, Lord Sir Lockwood.”

  “Well done,” said Blake while he hauled Trevor to his feet and unceremoniously slapped him on the back. “You are one of us.”

  “Of course, there will be no appearance at court, because we serve in silence. However, there will be a notation made in your naval file.” Admiral Douglas gave him a fatherly hug. “Welcome, brother.”

  Each man, in turn, repeated the same greeting. Dalton included a chuck of his shoulder, and Dirk informed Trevor he would be accompanying him on his first mission for the Brethren.

  At last, Blake approached. “You have no idea how difficult it has been for my little sister to keep our secret.”

  “Caroline knows about this?” Trevor asked.

  “Indeed, but it was not her place to mention it to you.” Blake clucked his tongue. “Though I must say, she is very proud.”

  Trevor was mortified by an unfamiliar burn in his cheeks and lowered his chin. Never in his life could he recall anyone taking pride in his accomplishments. “Caroline is very emotional.”

  “Let us come to order, gentlemen.” Admiral Douglas pounded his fist to the desk. “We must finish our business so you lads may be about your celebrations.” He handed Trevor a parcel of documents. “These are your new Letters of Marque issued by the Lord High Admiral, himself. From this day forward, you shall sail under special commission, and your missions will come from the Lord High Admiral, through me. No need to say that our dealings must always be held in the strictest of confidence.”

  “I understand, but what are my duties? What is expected of me?” Trevor accepted the rolled parchment, and a smaller seal for authenticating correspondence, and promptly tucked the packet into his coat pocket. “I only ask because, as of tomorrow, I shall have a wife to consider.”

  “Your concern for Caroline is commendable.” Admiral Douglas perched on the edge of his desk. “However, our first priority is the war, and she understands that it must be so. You see, although Wellington defeated Joseph at Talavera, his losses were enormous. With Soult threatening to cut the road to Portugal, Wellington was forced to fall back. He and his men have been secretly constructing a defensive system, a line of trenches and redoubts north of Lisbon stretching from the Atlantic to the Tagus, known as Torres Vedras. The Brethren have been tasked with supporting this effort by delivering reinforcements and supplies, as our marked military vessels are too easy to track.”

  “I see.” Trevor ran a series of shipping routes through his head and plotted an imaginary course that would enable him to elude enemy ships. “I take it the French are, as yet, unaware of this development?”

  “As far as we can tell,” said Blake. “Our information has been solid. An elite operative, a member of the Counterintelligence Corps, code-named L’araignee, has proven quite reliable.”

  “L’araignee?” Trevor narrowed his stare.

  “The spider,” Blake explained. “Whoever he is, the man is very good at what he does, because his reports have been quite revealing.”

  “Now then.” Admiral Douglas slapped his hands to his thighs. “Enough talk of war. This is a time for celebration. Lance, bring the decanter and refill our glasses. I believe a toast is in order.”

  The men gathered around in a circle, and Trevor took his place between Blake and Damian.

  Admiral Douglas raised his glass high. “Nulli Secundus.”

  Trevor had barely tasted his brandy, when he was hustled out the door, down the hall, and into the cool evening air. “Where are you taking me?” The expressions with which Blake and Damian favored him made his skin crawl, and he stumbled as they attempted to shove him into an unmarked carriage. “Wait, what about my rig?”

  “Don’t worry, it will be sent to Elliott House. And you will not need it tonight, because you will be staying at our bachelor lodgings. Tomorrow, we shall see you to your wedding, safe and sound, lest you forget your way to the church.” Blake gave Trevor a push. “Now get in there.”

  He crawled to the bench and considered escaping through the opposite door. “But, where are we going?”

  “To celebrate your getting leg-shackled,” Damian declared as he settled his coat.

  “Bloody hell.” Trevor rolled his eyes.

  “Right.” Blake rapped the roof, and the coach lurched forward. “There is nothing like a night of drinking and wenching to send you off into matrimonial bliss.”

  “Just a minute, brother,” Damian interrupted. “Caroline will have our heads if we take him wenching the night before he gets shackled. Not to mention your mother, my sister, and the rest of the women.”

  “Hang it all, I hadn’t thought of that.” Blake rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed. “But how the devil would they find out?”

  “I do not know.” Damian shrugged. “But somehow they always do. I would swear they have a spy keeping watch on our bachelor lodgings.”

  “Well, we shall have to get him foxed, instead,” Blake announced as if making an imperial decree.

  Damian wrinkled his nose. “Do you think Caroline will appreciate a bridegroom with a headache?”

  “Blister it, Damian, if you’re going to be prudish you may as well hie yourself to Elliott House and spend the evening with the women.” Head cocked to the side, Blake said in a girlish, high-pitched voice, “If you hurry, you may learn to sew or pour tea, or some other wifely endeavor.”

  Having remained a spectator long enough, Trevor asked, “Do I have a say in this?”

  In unison, Blake and Damian shouted, “No!”

  The carriage slowed to a halt, and Trevor realized they were near the docks. As he stepped down, another carriage rolled up behind theirs, and Dalton, Dirk, Lance, and Everett descended. Together, they entered the Muddy Rudder, a dank, smoke-filled, crowded tavern frequented by veteran naval officers and sea hardened crewmen. The strange accompaniment of noblemen straddled wooden benches that looked as if they would collapse at any moment under the combined weight. A rough looking barmaid took their order and quickly delivere
d a tray laden with mugs.

  Trevor downed a healthy gulp of ale and studied the men who, for all intents and purposes, were now his family. But despite what had occurred in the admiral’s study, he still felt very much an outsider. Thank heavens his friend had been included in his farewell to bachelorhood. At that moment, Everett met his gaze from across the table and offered a mock salute.

  “What?”

  “This does not seem real.” Everett shook his head. “Never thought I would live to see the day that you would be felled by a woman.”

  “That makes two of us.” Trevor touched his mug to Everett’s.

  “So you admit it?” Everett waved off a passing doxy. “You have been conquered by the weaker sex?”

  “I admit nothing.” He motioned for another ale. “But I am not displeased by my impending nuptials.”

  “Oh, come now.” His friend appeared exceedingly skeptical.

  “It is true.” Trevor emptied his mug. “Consider this, I shall never again have to chase a skirt to fill my bed.”

  “Perhaps,” Everett said as one corner of his mouth quirked. “But will that not be like eating the same fare for dinner, night after night?”

  “Perhaps, but she is a prime dish.”

  “You have me there.”

  “And what is this sudden revulsion toward marriage?” Trevor tapped a finger to his chin. “If memory serves, you have long desired a wife and family.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Everett looked positively horrified. “You are mistaken, sir.”

  “When we were in shortcoats, you spoke of nothing else.” He leaned near and said, “What was it you used to wish for? Ah, yes, I remember now. You wanted a quiet little thing, with no opinions of her own, much less a desire to express them, to bring you your pipe and slippers every night and sit at your feet while you read to her.”

  “Go to the devil.”

  Trevor burst out laughing. “Mark my words, old friend. When you least expect it, it will happen to you.”