Miss Sweeting’s eyelids popped open. “Oh, dear. You don’t know. I’d quite forgotten.” She rested a gnarled hand upon his fingers cupping her shoulder. “Nic’s circumstances have undergone a rather unexpected and dramatic change.”
“I’ll say they have.” An undercurrent of derision weighted The Saint’s flippant remark.
Had his lettre de marque been rescinded? What would he do now?
The sea had been St. Monté’s life these past fourteen years, since he’d stowed away on a cutter at twelve, and his near legendary exploits traveled High Society’s most elite circles.
A fortune nudged open many doors, as Papa and Mama had discovered. Aristocratic by-blows sipped Champagne and enjoyed caviar and truffles side by side with those born on the right side of the blanket. Might The Saint now enter the social fray he’d formerly scorned?
“May I assume we’ll have the pleasure of your presence more often?” Katrina oughtn’t to have been so giddy at the notion. Richard wouldn’t approve, even if he wasn’t overtly jealous. Really, betwixt the two, rough pirate or polished officer, only Richard should’ve appealed. That Captain St. Monté also did, perplexed her no end.
St. Monté’s left eyebrow elevated in a lofty and sardonic manner again.
Did he use that expression when facing the captains whose ships he’d pillaged?
“Some mightn’t consider my presence all that pleasurable,” he said, that same mockery tinging his words.
“I beg your pardon.” Oddly discomfited, Katrina directed her gaze to her wadded handkerchief, crushing the tormented scrap. “It wasn’t my intent to pry.”
Burning curiosity piqued, nonetheless, and she studied him through her lashes.
Satire, rather than humor, kicked his well-formed mouth upward on one side. “No need to apologize, Miss Needham, and I must ask forgiveness for my boorish behavior.”
“Truly, your plans are none of my concern.” But she’d like to make them hers. She might love another, but her fascination with the infamous Scoundrel of the Sea hadn’t waned a jot.
“Oh, pooh.” Miss Sweeting flapped her bony hand. “Tell her, Nic. No doubt the news has swept all of London by now.” A gleeful smile pleated her eyes’ wrinkled corners even more. “I’d love to see the faces of those pompous highbrows now, I would. We’ll see who cuts whom.” She tittered before coughing again.
“Oh, and why is that?” Katrina’s attention vacillated between Miss Sweeting and The Saint.
“It seems, Miss Needham, my sire was more of a cockscum than I’d formerly comprehended. Upon the death abroad of my half-brother and stepmother last month, certain information has come to light. Information my father made certain be revealed in order for his seed to retain the dukedom, no matter the scandal or disgrace doing so caused innocent others.”
All traces of the lighthearted swashbuckler vanished, replaced by a pitiless pirate.
Immobile, hardly daring to breathe, Katrina ceased fiddling with her handkerchief. A frisson—no, more of a chilling shudder, truth to tell—jolted her from shoulder to toe. Only an idiot would cross him.
“What sort of information?” Blast her impetuous, babbling tongue and infinite inquisitiveness.
Chapter Three
Nic swept her a courtly, albeit mocking bow. “Formerly Dominic Horatio St. Monté, the Duke of Pendergast’s bastard eldest son, I am—always have been, it seems—the dukedom’s true, legal heir.”
Aunt Bertie clapped her hands and laughed. “Isn’t it absolutely brilliant?”
Brilliant? Not by half.
Familiar rage-induced restlessness gripped Nic, and, jaw set, he paced the threadbare carpet to the shabbily curtained window before marching the return route. A growl, part frustration and part fury, lurked deep in his throat, choking him. He repeated the journey across the room until he’d reined his ire in a modicum.
Astonishment darkened Miss Needham’s eyes from a tropical lagoon’s clear, vivid blue to the sea’s cobalt horizon before a hurricane, and her lips, more ripe plum than petal pink, rounded delightfully in shock.
“I’d not heard of his grace’s and her grace’s passing,” she said, quietly, sympathy brimming in her eyes. “Please accept my sincerest condolences.”
Nic dipped his head. He hadn’t grieved, and guilt jabbed needle-sharp darts into his conscience. How could he grieve for people he’d never met? Nor had he rejoiced upon learning the title legally belonged to him.
Unexpectedly inheriting a dukedom and his sisters’ potential guardianship splayed him, leaving a gaping chasm he’d no idea how to fill or breach, except with fury. Yet he refused to give Pendergast that power over him. Anger and rage turned a person bitter, ate away until hatred directed their every thought, every decision.
Still, he was woefully unprepared for his new role.
Lacking his peers’ polished manners—artificial though they might be—he claimed but a rudimentary education. Letters and numbers he’d learned at Aunt Bertie’s small, square kitchen table, and upon the coarse decks of various ships, he’d mastered three languages, navigation, swordsmanship, and other skills required to captain a ship.
Nic favored rum and whisky to ratafia and wine, an unlaced shirt to a neckcloth’s choking embrace, and his women well-rounded and equally experienced rather than svelte, virginal misses likely to swoon at a vulgar oath. He didn’t dance or converse well either, and the discomfort his elevated position had already caused rivaled a prestigious carbuncle.
On his arse.
Not that he’d ever personally experienced that particular nastiness, but his first mate, Rhye O’Hearnan, had, and his bony bum still bore the impressive scar.
Nic preferred battling two pirate crews at once rather than finagle balls, parlors, or Almack’s. With absolute certainty, he’d make an utter arse of himself.
Miss Needham pressed her pretty lips together, and a spark glinted in her keen gaze. Whether compassion or chagrin or something else, Nic couldn’t determine. Noteworthy too, that she’d offered sincere sympathies but said not a word about his new status, which revealed what she valued.
People over position. Another point of admiration.
But, God, how Nic loathed the old duke—conniving, manipulative bugger—and God, how he craved the sea’s brisk, salty air spraying his face, tangling his hair—her waves frolicking beneath The Weeping Siren’s hull. For his young sisters’ sakes, he must relinquish his captaincy and venture into Society. A mélange of outrage, grief, and loathing ensured that a steady surge of bile burned his throat and injustice lashed his soul.
Needing a moment, he strode to the dingy window once more and stared outside. The surly, ashen sky mirrored his bleak soul.
A month after Pendergast had secretly married Nic’s impoverished, yet gentle-bred mother and tucked her away in a humble cottage, his scheming father wed an heiress—sweet, plain Lady Sarah Trehmain—for her immense fortune. The lying cull had the ballocks to inform Nic’s mother, already ailing from pregnancy difficulties, that their marriage had been a farce. When his heartbroken mother died during childbirth, the duke had pawned Nic off on Aunt Bertie, forcing her to vacate her governess position to care for him, a premature, sickly infant.
Aunt Bertie hadn’t complained. Not one single word. Ever. She’d loved and nurtured him with a mother’s devotion, and he would do anything for her.
Pride and stubbornness prevented her from accepting the house he’d offered to buy her, as well as the bulk of the funds he regularly deposited into an account for her use. And she wondered where his mulishness originated. She’d only accept enough money to live modestly and retain her maid of all work, but she kept the trinkets he sent her, wrongly assuming the knick-knacks cheap, worthless baubles. If she ever comprehended the ugly trifles’ values, she’d swoon, but in a financial pinch, they could be sold.
The pittance Pendergast had intermittently sent to provide for Nic had ceased after five years—once the duchess produced an heir—leaving Aunt Ber
tie as her and Nic’s sole provider. His father sired two more sons, each dying in infancy, before Nic’s sisters, Lady Daphne’s and Lady Delilah’s births.
Blister and damn, they weren’t even ladies any more.
Silence hung heavily behind him, and summoning an enigmatic smile he didn’t feel, he faced the ladies once more.
Miss Needham’s curiosity-laden expression begged for an explanation, but she’d not ask the questions no doubt tapping at her teeth and fairly shouting from her bright eyes.
Nic would’ve wagered on it.
As a wealthy banker’s daughter, she’d been carefully, and thoroughly, schooled in decorum and propriety. Yet, an untamed glint deep within her expressive eyes hinted rebellion lay buried within her politesse trappings.
Might as well appease her curiosity.
He flicked an orangey cat hair from his sleeve then plucked another off. “Irrefutable evidence has come forth, proving my sire married my mother before he wed the duchess. Wainwright, his grace’s solicitor, produced the documents.”
A noise somewhere between a hiss and a gasp burst from Miss Needham. “Good heavens. What an unconscionable cawker! I’d run him through, if I were you. Except, he’s already dead. Good thing, the rotting fiend.” She shook her head, sheer disgust pinching her pretty face. “Go stomp on his grave then. You’ll feel better for it.”
Aunt Bertie snickered, really snickered. “Oh, if I were only able, I’d dance a jig, I would.”
One knew precisely where one stood with Miss Needham, for certain. Nic found her transparency, honesty, and unpretentious mien extraordinarily refreshing, if a mite outrageous.
He rather liked outrageous. They’d rub along quite well.
“Oh, your poor sisters. Surely they’re confused and frightened. Whatever will become of them?” Miss Needham sucked in a deep—most indelicate—breath and tossed a thoroughly crumpled handkerchief on the tea table. Her anxious gaze leaped to Nic’s. “Hounds’ teeth. Did they even know you existed?”
“No.” He shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders. “But they do now. I saw to that straightaway. As you can imagine, they are in shock and frightened about their futures. That’s what their sour-faced governess told me when she met with me at my solicitor’s. More likely she’s worried about her future. As she should, after calling my sisters empty-headed corkbrains.”
Holding his chin between his forefinger and thumb, he dipped his head. His hair swept forward, and he flicked the tawny strands behind him. Ought to see about hiring a valet and having his hair cut, except his spirit mutinied at the notion of having the last vestige of his former life hacked away.
“How awful for your sisters. Their governess sounds hideous.” Compassion lowered Miss Needham’s voice, the huskiness strangely comforting. Arousing too. “If I knew them, I’d invite them to stay with us. We’ve already taken Shona Atterberry into our home, and I know my parents would welcome your sisters. Is there no one they’re close to?”
“No one I’m aware of.” Nic ran a finger ’round his collar, loosening the stranglehold. Bare-chested, he might’ve been accustomed to tropical heat, but not attired in a nabob’s fancy togs. And these stiffly starched yards of cloth bandaging his neck, gagging him, had him well on his way to cursing like a rummed-up sailor.
No wonder Miss Needham drooped from the room’s temperature.
“Old Pendergast, the stupid fribble, named Collerington the girls other guardian, aside from their mother, and he’s contesting Nic’s request for guardianship.” Aunt Bertie, her birdlike eyes round and worried, peered at him, and anxiety shook her wispy voice as her words reminded him of his purpose.
Protect his sisters.
“I cannot imagine why the duke did such a hair-brained thing, especially when he made a point to reveal my parentage in the event my half-brother, Leopold died without issue. Always thought the dunderhead had room to let upstairs. The duke, that is, though, if rumors hold true, Leopold’s candle burned dimly too.”
Aunt Bertie tsked and tutted. “But naming that rutting cit their guardian …? No, no, that won’t do. Not at all. Everyone knows his financial situation is windmill dwindled to a nutshell, and he has …” Her faded gaze swerved to Miss Needham, and crimson skated up her thin face. “Unusual habits. Or so I’ve heard.”
Unusual? Not by half. Daphne and Delilah mustn’t be exposed to his twisted perversity. Precisely why Nic hadn’t time to spare with courtship and wooing rigmaroles.
“I don’t give a halfpenny about the dukedom, but I do care about my two motherless sisters, and I’ll not have them subjected to Collerington’s salacious ways, nor will I cloister them with servants and a fusty governess at Chamberdall Court while I blissfully carry on with my life. Daphne and Delilah are the victims in all this wretchedness, and I’ll do whatever I must to protect them and help them heal.”
“That is a truly admirable sentiment, Your Grace.” Approval shone on Miss Needham’s face, but the ‘Your Grace’ falderal would damn well take some adjustment. Ironic that he, a coarse sailor, should inherit a coveted title, one that most heirs typically received grooming for from birth. For certain, he’d not been fed with a silver spoon nor had his bum wiped with silken cloths.
Dalton clattered into the parlor, bearing a laden tray. Once she’d deposited the tea service on the table before Miss Needham, Dalton asked, “Will there be anything else, Miss Beatrice? Would you like me to pour?”
“Thank you, no, Dalton. I’m sure I can impose upon Miss Needham.”
“I should be happy to.” Miss Needham gave a blinding smile.
And for no reason other than that her sweetly curved mouth stirred a similar cheerful sentiment, Nic’s lips swept upward, too, as he claimed the settee’s other seat and Dalton took her leave.
Miss Needham set about preparing their tea, her movements graceful and confident. Each shift in position released her subtle scent: floral fragrance, soap, and something slightly spicy.
Cloves, perhaps?
She caught his perusal, but instead of coloring, becoming flustered, or flirting, she offered a swift partial tilt of her mouth and continued her adept arrangements.
Nic spread a serviette on his lap, enjoying her graceful movements.
He had recognized her.
Instantly, truth to tell, but he’d permitted himself a leisurely inspection of her superbly rounded, tipped-up bottom. Though attractive as a girl, the vivacious woman she’d blossomed into beguiled him, and he didn’t enthrall easily. Given his immediate need for a duchess, he’d taken a few moments, probing his memory to recall if Miss Needham had repeated vows yet.
He couldn’t have sworn definitively that she’d wed already, which pleased him no end, as did her spirit and obvious affection for Aunt Bertie. True, he didn’t stay abreast of the ton’s tattle, so Miss Needham might well be betrothed, though her ring finger remained conspicuously bare.
Splendid, and most providential.
He mightn’t have to search for a bride after all—not that the task would prove overly difficult. Even if he lacked social graces and had been a rogue of the sea, a lofty title—particularly a dukedom—combined with his deep pockets proved irresistibly attractive to females.
A great horde of sniping, calculating, determined ladies, all bent on the same purpose: snaring a duke and leg-shackling him. Much like the huge ants he’d witnessed in Africa converging on a dead duckling and devouring it, the tonnish misses wouldn’t be deterred in their quest to become the next Duchess of Pendergast.
A horrified snarl nearly escaped Nic’s tightly meshed lips. God help him. Forced to endure the company he’d always eschewed.
After expertly pouring tea, and adding milk and sugar to Aunt Bertie’s before passing it to her, Miss Needham lifted the sugar tongs. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”
“No sugar or milk, please.” He grinned. “Not many cows aboard ships, so I learned to drink tea and coffee plain early on. The orient boasts the best brews I
’ve ever sampled.”
“Mama avows the same. This particular blend is pekoe and congo, but oolong is equally tasty.” Lifting her cup, Miss Needham shut her eyelids and inhaled the steam casually spiraling upward. “Mmm.” She slowly opened her eyes, like a woman thoroughly satiated after a satisfying tumble, and taking a dainty sip, her azure gaze sought his.
Nic indulged his naughty daydream for a few tantalizing moments.
Miss Needham’s sultry eyes questioned him above her teacup’s rim. “Now, please tell me about your dear sisters. What do you intend for them?”
Nic reluctantly allowed the tempting image to fade away. “I’m still working on those details.”
“Perhaps I may be of assistance,” Miss Needham offered. “After all, my parents’ sphere of influence is quite substantial.”
Direct and straight to the point—no tiptoeing around the issue with inferences and innuendos. Another factor in Miss Needham’s favor. Yes, she’d do quite well, and enlisting her help? Bloody brilliant, if he didn’t say so himself.
“I’ll have to petition the Court of Chancery for Daphne and Delilah’s guardianship, and that is more successfully done if I’ve married and can establish myself as a respectable fellow, rather than a roving, ship-pillaging scoundrel.” Nic helped himself to a ginger biscuit, a favorite yet rare childhood treat, as he gauged Miss Needham’s reaction.
She nodded, her intelligent face meditative. “Indeed. I understand the advantage. A generous donation to the church as well as a charity or two wouldn’t go amiss. Perhaps something to help London’s street children? It wouldn’t hurt for you to be seen attending services either, though I personally find le beau ton’s Sunday form of Christianity galling.”
“Sound advice.” Nic managed to conceal his cringe. He hadn’t set foot in a church since he ran away. For the girls, though, he would and pray he didn’t burst into flames directly upon entering the sanctuary.
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