Allow him? The baron was Gillian’s husband, not his. Still, he nodded and said, “Of course.”
The sound of dirt plunking atop Edwina’s coffin followed Simon as he limped the seventy paces that would bring him to Gillian’s side. Life was given and taken, born to sunrise and set to bittersweet memories. The distance between them loomed large, an infernal gap that he meant to narrow without causing any impropriety.
Gillian’s veil covered her face allowing him little in the way of seeing her expression fully as he walked toward her, though the reason they were there and the way she clasped her gloved hands together spoke volumes. She stood silent and unyielding, a picture of grace and bereavement as she stared into the depths of what would be Chauncey’s final resting place.
Stanton, Goodayle, and Archer turned to look at the road as Sir Landon-Fitzhugh’s carriage retreated. Simon, too, watched the horses trot off, hooves clomping on the lane and the suspension complaining.
Rock put his hand on his brother’s shoulder once more. “It was good of you to send for the baron’s body, Dan,” he said. “I realize I didn’t offer my support when the duke arranged your marriage, but I know how deeply the baroness’s marriage to another man affected you.”
“I had the means to help her, that is all.”
“Is it?” Rock peered into his eyes. “Most men would not honor the man who married the woman he once loved.” He smiled sadly when Simon opened his mouth to deny his words. “Say no more. I understand better than most. True love does not fade with time or even death.”
“There is more here than meets the eye.” Simon grabbed Rock’s hand and squeezed it tightly. His brother didn’t know about the way he’d lived his life or exactly what he did for the Admiralty, but to protect him and Constance, Simon needed to keep it that way. “We are not most men.”
“No.” His brother winked. “We are not. And so I shall leave you in the vicar’s care. Cooper and the rest of the staff have prepared Throckmorton for us. Do come for refreshments. It will do you good.”
Simon nodded. “Thank you, Brother.”
Rock made his way to his carriage, a black landau that had been shined so clean it reflected the tombstones and crypts nearby.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Simon looked away from his brother’s conveyance and lifted his gaze to the steeple as the death knell began. The church’s melodic carillon was a haunting reminder of how fleeting life could be. That no one was immortal. Certainly not spies who willingly put themselves in danger.
“It is done,” Simon whispered to Gillian as he came to a stop beside her.
His thoughts were jagged and painful as he waited for her to alert him that she’d heard him speak, though her closeness was a comfort and a relief. As much as he’d prepared for Edwina’s death, there was emptiness inside him that only faith in God, time, and the love he’d once shared with Gillian could fill. He stood as close to her as decorum allowed as they listened to the bells chime and then slowly fade.
When at last a solemnity settled back over the graveyard, Gillian looked at Simon for the first time since he’d left Edwina’s graveside. “The bells . . . are a nice touch, my lord. Please offer my thanks to the ringers.”
“I will,” he promised.
She sighed. “I’ve been standing here for some time, just listening to the wind.”
“Are you not cold?”
“No. This is a peaceful place. Your wife and my husband will like it here, and I must thank you for it.”
“There is nothing to thank me for.”
“You sent for the baron’s body,” she insisted.
It was true, but he’d done so without expecting thanks. “It was disagreeable that he be buried without any fanfare. I did what any man would do.”
“You forget I’ve seen men at their worst,” she said.
Did she refer to him, as well? Would she ever forgive him for marrying another?
“Perhaps,” he said softly.
“I speak honestly. You see things other men do not. The baron and I began our lives here. How just and fitting that this is the place our time together comes to an end.”
Beginnings always have endings.
Their gazes met, and guilt sheared away from Simon’s shoulders. “Death is not the end, Gillian. Your husband will live on . . . in you, in me—”
“In all of us,” Stanton finished as he stepped closer. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I’d hoped to draw your attention elsewhere.”
Gillian cut her gaze to the marquess. Simon thought he saw a haunting smile beneath her veil. He turned to spy what Gillian had seen to lift her spirits so.
He didn’t need long to find out. There, all around them, men marched in a procession out of the trees from the direction of the river and through the headstones, entering the graveyard from every direction, dressed in black greatcoats with matching armbands—the members of Nelson’s Tea.
“What is this?” he asked, dumbfounded. “I was told the men had all gone home.”
Stanton somehow managed to look the part of effeminate fop as he cocked out his hip, even dressed in dull black garments. “We swore an oath, did we not, to stand together come what may?”
Simon nodded. “We did.”
“Did you think we would dishonor one of our fallen by allowing him to be put to rest without a proper farewell?”
Gillian held her head high as Viscount Seaton, naval officers Guffald, Winters, Edwards, and Collins, Whitbread, Russell, Milford, Holt, Walden, Chapman, and Hamlet, and the four other men who’d joined the clandestine group came to her, bowed, and took their places around Chauncey’s grave.
Simon and Gillian both turned as a team of Friesian horses pulling a black carriage with gold embellishment arrived. The footman stepped down, lowered the steps, and opened the door. Inside the carriage, Simon saw a man put on his bicorn. Then lowering his head to fit through the framework, Vice-Admiral Nelson exited the vehicle. He stood by and waited for another man to follow. When his companion, Henry Dundas, joined him, the two men marched toward the graveside.
They stopped before Chauncey’s coffin and gave a salute, then offered Gillian their condolences before taking their places beside Simon.
“Your fortitude is remarkable, Baroness.” Nelson’s rich baritone was controlled. “If only every woman in our nation could summon such strength.”
“It is of necessity,” she said. “I am greatly honored you came, my lord. Thank you. Thank you all.”
“It is I who am honored, my lady,” Nelson said, stepping back as the funeral assistants removed the pall from Chauncey’s coffin.
Simon was astonished at the awe brimming inside him. He’d never been prouder than he was at this moment. The men he and the vice-admiral had assembled had come to show their respect for a man who’d blazed a trail for them to follow. If this was any indication of how well they would all work together, he could—and would—be content.
Mr. Crofton moved to the head of the grave. “Now that we are all here, shall we begin?” He cleared his throat and eased his spectacles down his nose. “Out of the deep have I called unto thee . . .” The vicar’s prayer continued for several minutes and ended with, “And in Him there is plenteous redemption.”
Simon looked to Gillian as he stood beside her in a show of unity. Theirs was a union he hoped to one day rekindle, and intended to honor until the day he died. They were professionals in a perilous field that often courted folly. The risk that neither of them would survive was great. But somehow fate had brought them back together, and by god, he would not allow anyone to tear them asunder.
When the moment came to ease the baron’s coffin into the ground, Gillian’s lower lip quivered slightly. Daring to offer her what comfort he could, he reached for her hand. He was stepping out of bounds of propriety, but he wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone. That she’d never be alone.
She jerked her hand away, clasping her fingers in front of her again.
The vi
car gave Simon a nod. It was time to say goodbye.
He guided her forward with one motion, his hand on her elbow. She grabbed a handful of soil in her kid glove and turned, hesitating only briefly as she dropped the earth on the baron’s coffin.
“We should go,” he told her when the service was finished. “The sky is darkening and the air has grown colder.” He could feel the chill in his bones and as exhausted as he knew she was, he didn’t want her to catch the ague.
“Wait,” she said, turning to look at the men standing a respectful distance from her. “Thank you for honoring my husband. I shall never forget it.”
The men tipped their hats, offering more condolences, and then, just as silently and suddenly as they had appeared, they returned the way they had come.
Simon placed Gillian’s hand in the crook of his arm and watched the others go as the church bells rang once more.
Gillian tilted her head to look at him. “How much did you pay the bell ringers?”
He shrugged and glanced at the steeple where the bells were housed. “A significant donation. But in this instance, money is no consequence.”
“But the expense,” she exclaimed. “Surely—”
“Worth every pound note,” he interrupted. With agonizing slowness, he tore his gaze from the bell tower and looked down at Gillian while he escorted her to the carriage. “My brother and his daughter have prepared refreshments for us.” The black beasts pawed the ground in anticipation of their arrival. “Shall we away?” he asked, helping her up the steps.
She climbed inside and sat back on the squabs. “Is that wise?”
He joined her. “Do you recall what the admiral said before our meeting in the library disbanded? ‘We mustn’t allow fear to dictate how we live our lives. And we must not live with the apprehension of what this day has in store for us.’”
She raised her veil. “You quote Nelson’s code now?”
“One—nothing is predictable.” He got up and moved beside her as the carriage began to move. “We have lived different lives, matured and loved with no regrets.”
“Yes,” she slowly agreed. “Go on.”
“Two—flexibility saves lives.” He brought her gloved fingers to his lips. “In spite of our past, imagine the good we can achieve as a united front.”
She drew back her hand. “I wasn’t aware that we were the only members of Nelson’s Tea,” she said.
“Three”—he added swiftly—“be on hand . . . to assist friends.”
“Simon,” she whispered, determination knitting her brows. “Be advised, I am prepared to—”
“Four”—he cut in—“deliberate your options.”
“You are incorrigible,” she protested, looking away. After a moment’s hesitation, she glanced back at him. “What options?”
“The future holds many possibilities for both of us.” He cupped her face. “Five—execute every decision with astonishing heroism.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “From this moment forward, everything we say and do will be suspect.”
“Our bereavement—”
“Will be met,” he finished for her. “As it should be.” He wouldn’t scandalize her or dishonor the ones they loved. “But these are dangerous times. We have no idea when a mission will be our last. I do not want to squander what time we do have. And if I am to be honest with you—and I vow I always will be—I must confess a long-held secret.”
“What secret?” she asked.
“You stole my heart years ago, and I have never wanted it back.”
“Oh, Simon.” Her eyes darkened with pain. “If only things had been different for us.”
He shook his head. “We cannot go back. I only ask that I may be given a second chance to love you in the future.”
She smiled, color returning to her features. “It won’t be easy. There are people who will talk.” Not unless they gave them reason to, that was. She placed her hands in his. “I never wanted any of this . . .”
“Don’t.” He put his finger on her lips. “Let me finish. There is no way around it. We will—we must—mourn our spouses for as long as it takes. I would never expect anything less.” He inhaled her scent, drowning in the bittersweet agony of finding his first love at the cost of losing another. “When Edwina lay dying, she asked me to go to you, to love you . . . to live.”
“What did you tell her?” she asked.
“That I would. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
The corners of her mouth turned upward. “I believe so.”
“I do not take my vows lightly. She thought of nothing else but my happiness in the end, and I will spend my life upholding the promise I made to her.” He cupped the sides of her face and looked deeply into her eyes. “I will never be persuaded to leave you again.”
“Oh, Simon.” Tears glistened in her eyes. She raised his hands to her lips and kissed him. “Your wife urged me to forgive you. She gave me her blessing, too.”
“Then it is settled,” he said, sitting back on the squabs. “We’ve been given our heading. Our sails are set.”
“It would appear so.” She smiled again. “If this accounts for anything, please know that I will always be indebted to you for introducing me to Lucien, Simon. I am who I am today because of him.”
“And how glad I am of it,” he said sincerely. Without the covert training Lucien had provided Gillian, Simon might never have seen her alive again. “Lucien has always had my utmost respect.”
“You are kind.”
“No, I’m a rogue through and through, and never forget it.”
“Several rogues would be needed to defeat Fouché’s men. It will not be easy to accomplish all that the admiral requires.” She hinted at their travails ahead. “Among our successes, there are bound to be losses. Difficult days await us both.”
“I can endure it as long as I do not lose you again,” he admitted, pulling her close. He brushed her veil out of his face. “I could not survive it.”
“Then for reasons I will not share at this time, I will endeavor to live.”
Emotions dueled inside Simon as he tightened his arms about Gillian. “And I will hold you to that promise.”
Author’s note
The idea for the Nelson’s Tea Series came to me while researching Vice-Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson and the political upset of the Napoleonic Wars (1795-1815). Nelson’s courage in the face of adversity was inspiring. He was a glory seeker, a vain man struggling to rise in the ranks at a time when promotions were earned at a grueling pace. Few rivaled his bravery, and nothing—including losing sight in his right eye at Calvi or his right arm at Santa Cruz de Tenerife—could stop him from doing his duty.
He was also adored by the masses, craved constant attention, and loved in earnest. And there was one thing Nelson never went without: his tea. He drank tea at the same time every day, even while aboard a ship or in battle. That’s when the idea hit me. What if when Nelson asked for his tea, he meant a mercenary group operating outside of the Admiralty’s reach? What if the group consisted of men who defied convention, men unafraid to risk their lives for king and country? And what if they were men from every walk of life, or the kind of men who lived and roved outside the law? What if they were pirates?
And that was it. I just had to write that story. Before I start writing any of my historical romance novels, though, I always research, and while doing so, I always find fabulous nuggets of information. One such instance is the production of Holcroft’s Deaf and Dumb, originally produced by Holcroft, T. & Bouilly, J. N. (1801). Deaf and Dumb, or The Orphan Protected is an historical drama in five acts, which was first performed by Their Majesties Servants of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane on February 24, 1801. Vice-Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson returned to London on October 22, 1801 due to ill-health, took up residence with Lord William and Emma Hamilton at Twenty-Three Piccadilly, and spoke out in support of Prime Minister Addington in the House of Lords particularly between October 29 and November 12, 1801. Two pla
ys are listed as having been produced at Drury Lane in 1801: Holcroft’s Deaf and Dumb (February 1801) and Lewis’s Adelmourn the Outlaw (May 1801). It is here that I took literary license and moved the production of Holcroft’s play to November 5, 1801. This was a time of peace, a time when Nelson wished all Frenchmen to the devil, and a perfect time for Napoleon to strike while the enemy was asleep.
Resources used in my research for this book include the following:
The Cambridge Companion to British Theatre, 1730-1830
Plays About the Theatre in England, 1737-1800
Lewis’s Adelmourn the Outlaw, May 4, 1801, Drury Lane
The Illegitimate Theatre in London, 1770-1840
The History of Productions of Venice Preserv’d Website
The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane Website
Acknowledgments
My books wouldn’t have the swashbuckling action, humor, and adventure I strive to include without the help of my brainstorming partner, author M.V. Freeman. Our plotting sessions and satisfying afternoon teas are the joy of my life. Thank you, dear friend!
Special thanks to the other authors who helped plot this series, Crystal R. Lee and Jean Hovey. I’d also like to thank Nicole Laverdure, Monique Daoust, and Liette Bougie for helping me with the French translations in this series. Merci!!! And thanks go out to Ingrid Seymour for the Spanish translations. Gracias!
Behind every good book is a FABulous team. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to Jennifer Lawler, Adams Media, Kim Bowman, and EsKape Press who believed in me when no one else would. And thank you to my dream team at Double Vision Editorial, my editors Danielle Poiesz, Lorrie Noggle, and Kyle Avery. You’ve taken my stories to the next level! Huzzah!
Raising a well-deserved signal flag to my Rogues, Rebels & Rakes Street Team and all my fans on social media! Thank you for sharing this extraordinary voyage with me!
Lastly, I owe everything I am and achieve to God and my family, whose love and support enable me to spend countless hours at my computer doing this thing that I love so much. To my family and to you, dear reader, thank you for sharing my passion for swashbuckling heroes of yesteryear!
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