–Katherine
About the Author
Historical Romance author Katherine Bone has been passionate about history since she had the opportunity to travel to various Army bases, castles, battlegrounds, and cathedrals as an Army brat turned officer’s wife. Who knew an Army wife’s passion for romance novels would lead to pirates? Certainly not her rogue, whose Alma Mater’s adage is “Go Army. Beat Navy!” Now enjoying the best of both worlds, Katherine lives with her hero in the south, where she writes about rogues, rebels, and rakes—aka pirates, lords, captains, duty, honor, and country—and the happily-ever-afters that every alpha male and damsel deserve.
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Thank you for reading My Lord Rogue!
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Simon and Gillian’s mission to save Vice-Admiral Nelson’s life, and their heart wrenching love story. I understand the ending of book isn’t the traditional HEA you might have been expecting. Don’t worry though! This introduction to my Nelson’s Tea Series sets the ground work for Simon and Gillian to have their HEA in My Lady Rogue, and it’s a beautiful one, I promise you that! Until then, reviews are a great way for readers like yourself to find books, and I’d be ever so grateful if you took the time to share your experience with others.
Interested in knowing when my next book will be available? Sign up for Katherine’s Rogues, Rebels & Rakes E-Newsletter.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in the Nelson’s Tea Series, Duke by Day, Rogue by Night, featuring Percival Avery, the Duke of Blendingham, and Simon’s niece, Lady Constance Danbury.
Percy’s quest to avenge his family puts him at odds with his commander’s niece, a woman who faces her greatest fear and is suddenly thrust into danger.
One
The English Channel, 1804
“Hands to quarters,” the bosun shouted.
More orders filtered down from the quarterdeck through the companionway to the deck below. The merchantman they’d been searching for was finally within range. Grappling hooks were plied from the mizzenmast and boarding pikes, pistols, and swords were removed from their hidey-holes.
Percival Avery, the Duke of Blendingham, strode through the passageway of the Striker’s gun deck, dodging crewmen scurrying to their stations. Every man prepared to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting ship and the innocents harbored within the Octavia’s pristine hull.
God help the poor wretches . . .
Dodging a member of the gun crew, Percy growled low in his throat as he swallowed back his disgust. If he showed his true colors now, everything he and the men loyal to him had hoped to achieve by putting an end to Captain Barnabas Frink’s devious smuggling schemes would be lost. He longed to warn Frink’s target of its impending doom, but under the circumstances, it was necessary for him to maintain his disguise. War loomed on the horizon, and far more lives weighed in the balance than would perish in this fight. So to nullify Frink’s reign of terror and discover who was funding his forays into smuggling, Percy had to become the thing most seafaring men despised most—a pirate.
Hastening his footsteps, Percy approached Frink’s cabin. He’d been summoned to report on the Striker’s progress, as before. This time, however, there was more at stake. Every knot navigated toward the Bay of Biscay and their quarry brought them closer to a cargo ship bearing an English flag. The air frizzled with tension. Betrayal and disloyalty gutted him afresh. The Octavia was a prize the captain had been ordered to capture, and Frink had been promised a glorious reward for its return. Who commanded Frink, Percy wasn’t privy to know. As the Striker’s quartermaster, a man who’d earned Frink’s highest regard, Percy didn’t necessarily have the captain’s ear, even though the captain relied on him. A more villainous man he’d never met. Every pore of the man’s pock-ridden face oozed a hatred that poisoned all those under his command, including Percy, making him fear for his own mortal soul.
He knocked twice on the cabin bulkhead.
“Enter,” the captain said sharply.
Percy lifted the latch and stepped inside, shutting out the calamitous activity along the gun deck as cannons were positioned on their breeching trucks and rolled out to volley deadly broadsides. Men scurried across the deck carrying powder cartridges to their houses. Aware of the captain’s disdain for interruption, Percy closed the cabin door swiftly behind him. Time being of the essence, he was fueled by a need to discover for whom Frink plundered and why. No doubt a schemer was involved, a man bent on enrichening his coffers; however, it could not be done without bloodying his hands. Luckily, Frink gladly fulfilled the task.
The captain was motivated by more than greed and lust. He had no decency whatsoever, no moral compass. He’d do anyone’s bidding for the right price, including murder—or perhaps especially murder. An investigation into Frink’s affairs had proven he was politically linked to someone in the House of Lords or Parliament, as well as to seditious Irish rebels and their treasonous acts. But who was this Englishman who controlled the captain like a marionette? Someone did. Percy had no proof to back his suspicions yet, but Frink certainly wasn’t acting alone.
Eerie quiet met his ears. He confronted the captain, completely unfazed by the man’s unpredictable demeanor. Unlike most men on board the Striker, Percy had the means of protecting himself, if it came to that, so he didn’t fear the man as most did. In fact, Percy was choosing not to kill Frink, at least not until the time was right.
Frink didn’t appear disturbed by his presence. He made no effort to acknowledge Percy. He was seated calmly at his desk, ignoring the haphazard footfalls above their heads. And why wouldn’t he? Killing and maiming innocents was Frink’s forte, with pilfering and plundering ships a normal occurrence.
The most detestable man to set sail since Francois L’Ollonais—who whipped, beat, and burned men alive—rose from his chair and shrugged his meaty form into his maroon brocade coat, before eyeing Percy irritably. “Well, don’t stand there like a spindle-shanked whiffler. What’s the hubbub about? Report yer findin’s. Have we caught our prey? Are the men ready?”
“Aye,” Percy said.
He strode forward, curbing his inclination to grab one of the swords from the bulkhead nearby and run Frink through. That satisfying act would save humanity much unnecessary grief and heaven the mournful wails of souls not long for this world. Percy fisted his hands, resisting the urge to choke the life out of the bastard. Instead, he came to a halt before Frink’s overly large, masterfully crafted mahogany desk. Its four legs were adorned with garish carvings, and he studied them while he waited for the captain to speak. His conscience argued against allowing the attack to continue, but Nelson’s Tea had reasons for backing the madman’s scheme.
Damn my soul to hell.
“Out with it!” Frink shouted. “It’s obvious ye have more to say. I can see it in yer eyes. How many guns does she have?”
“’Tis a twenty-four-gun merchantman,” he said, allowing that information to sink in. “The Octavia, just as ye predicted. By all accounts, she’s undermanned and shouldn’t be difficult to board.”
“The Octavia,” Frink repeated thoughtfully, fingering his beard. His eyes flickered wickedly as he stared back at Percy. “Ye’re certain?”
“Sure as death.” Percy swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His chest tightened painfully, and he felt the weight of his duplicity as keenly as the beat of his own heart. He knew more than he wanted to know about death, and he warranted he’d witness plenty of it this very day.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with piracy and all that the da
ngerous lifestyle entailed, and this wasn’t his first foray into dangerous waters. He was one of the founding members of Nelson’s Tea, a clandestine group organized by Lord Simon Danbury and Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson to defend England’s shores in 1801. His presence aboard the Striker coincided with an intricate plot to deceive and destroy anyone in league with their enemy, Napoleon. Percy had been sent to unmask Frink’s secret employer, who they suspected associated with Napoleon in his efforts to cripple the British government. If the head of a snake wasn’t cut off, it did little good to grab its tail.
Several of the captain’s voyages had been linked to France, a treasonous association by all accounts. Nelson’s Tea labored to curtail invasions of England, especially when the French emperor was in such dire need of gold to fund his resurgence of war.
Frink thumbed through the pamphlets and maps on his desk. His lips twisted cruelly, making Percy regret inventing his alias, the pirate Thomas Sexton. “The moment has come. It’ll be there. Mark my words.”
“What will, sir?” he pressed, hoping to uncover some of the information he needed. “I thought the plan was to pillage the Octavia and sell her wares.”
Frink cackled and jabbed his finger in the air. “Never ye mind, wharf rat!” He combed his fingers through his beard. “Leave the strategy to me.” He locked his gaze with Percy’s. “But harken this. I’ll trust this prize with no other but ye.”
Percy’s brow furrowed, eyes crinkling in confusion. “Me?”
Someone shouted a warning above, just before a cannon shot whirred past the ship. The obvious miss hit the water off the starboard tack, causing the Striker to list side to side. Frink’s face reddened. He let out a growl. “I’ve a score to settle with that cap’n for firin’ on my ship.” He cut his gaze to Percy. “When the attack begins, board her. Take yer men below and bring up what ye find to me. I’ll do the rest.”
“What if we’re sailin’ into a trap?” After all, he and his men were trying to trap Frink themselves.
The captain burst out laughing. “Ye’ve a quick mind. ’Tis one of the things I admire about ye.” He left the haven of his cabin. “Leverage, Sexton. Never agree to a partnership or go into battle without it. Leverage gives a man the upper hand, especially when he’s in a bind. And so it is with me. My employer has high aspirations, and I shall strip from him that which he desires most. That’ll burn and blast his bones.”
“Whose bones?” he asked, growing more confused than ever as an explosive burst of gunfire jolted the Striker. The situation was getting out of hand. He’d infiltrated Frink’s crew with twenty men associated with Nelson’s Tea under his command. Together, they’d clandestinely searched the ship for clues, questioned the crew, and listened to tall tales about the captain’s nefarious activities, all the while hoping to put a stop to them.
“’Tis a woman we’re after,” Frink said, affirming the captain was about to cross the line. “One of my scouts in Wapping learned of her presence aboard the Octavia and notified me. Her name was confirmed in the manifest.”
“She was the reason for our quick departure? This is all about a woman?”
Burn and skin me alive. Who the hell was she?
“Aye, she’s . . .” The captain faltered. He glanced up at Percy, forcing him to mask his emotions before Frink could decipher them. Frink shook his head, a strange expression distorting his face. “Nay.” He waved his hands outward. “Think on it no more. The less ye know the better. I’ve been promised a good purse. ‘Dead or alive,’ he said. I’ll collect either way.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “But I’d prefer the woman to be alive when she’s captured.” He allowed Percy time for his words to sink in. “That is where ye come in. Understood?”
Completely.
“Ye don’t have any intention on deliverin’ her alive, do ye?” Percy asked.
Frink cocked his brow, shrugged his broad shoulders, and bent to another task, easily dismissing the conversation.
History proved the captain would show little mercy to those aboard the Octavia, especially a woman. So why would someone want Frink to kidnap her? He intended to find out. If Frink’s previous history was any indication, he would rake the Octavia, destroy her masts, and immobilize her, giving Percy time to acquire his prisoner. Then, Frink would use her cruelly, an act that would only prolong her agony. He couldn’t allow it. He had to get to her first, discover what made her so valuable to Frink’s source, and find a way to save her life.
He had not been able to save his sister, Celeste, or their father when they’d been ambushed in their carriage. God’s hounds! Three months ago, his father’s body had been found in the wreckage, his sister’s nearby. Both had suffered cruelly at the hands of highwaymen, but Celeste more so. Her wounds suggested she’d fought her attackers, but she had clearly failed, suffering unconscionable pain instead. It was bad enough that Percy had not been able to locate the men responsible for their deaths, despite tirelessly searching for clues since the day he had learned what happened. He could not let that type of abuse happen to another woman, whether he knew her or not. It no longer mattered that he desperately needed Frink and the man, or men, who sanctioned his activities.
Oh, these were brutal times. In addition to gathering intelligence on Frink’s correspondence, Percy had memorized maps and studied routes Frink had used between France and Dover, Plymouth and Saint-Malo. Whoever financed his money-making schemes waged war against England by funding Frink’s gold-smuggling endeavors. While Percy and the other members of Nelson’s Tea were trying to bring Frink and his benefactor to their knees, Napoleon would not stop until Britain was isolated from the rest of the world and destroyed from within.
Questions multiplied in his mind. Why would a lofty Englishman join forces with Captain Frink and the enemy in the first place? What did anyone have to gain with that association, other than financial stability, when there was infinitely more to lose? Hadn’t enough men died already? Perhaps that didn’t matter. Great men were not born; they were carried on the backs of innocents they crushed beneath them.
Sacrifices made to gather evidence thus far had already been great. Many good men had been lost, though none had affected him as deeply as the death of the man who’d taught Percy everything he knew about espionage, Lucien, Baron Chauncey. Percy may have been trained to accept loss of life, but the reality of a life spent in espionage was getting harder to bear, the weight heavier each and every day.
By birth, Percy was the only son of Rathbone Avery, Fourth Duke of Blendingham. As a duke’s son, born into a life of privilege and ease, his secret identity allowed him freedoms his title did not. Thomas Sexton had materialized out of a need to investigate the East End, enabling him to shed his cloak of civility and operate covertly on overcrowded streets and in ill-favored slums, where he gleaned intelligence that benefited the clandestine group. Together, his two personas breeched the social divide, allowing him to mingle in Society and among docks and workhouses at will.
Flexibility saves lives. Nelson’s Tea’s second principle of conduct reminded him to always be prepared to alter his course at any given time. That time had come.
Gently bred women did not disobey their fathers. But Lady Constance Danbury embraced rebellion with open arms the day she boarded a merchantman bound for Spain. A series of failed investments were threatening the reputation of her father, the Duke of Throckmorton, and his solution to rectify the situation required her to wed a much older, quite despicable man who’d tricked her, tried to kiss her, and then threatened to ruin Papa when she had refused his advances. But at nineteen, Constance refused to sacrifice herself and had been forced to come up with an alternative plan.
She could only think of one fix, however: to acquire her deceased mother’s trust, which totaled thirty thousand pounds. Yet letters to her aunt, Lady Lydia Claremont Vasquez, had gone unanswered, and the woman was in charge of the funds until Constance’s twenty-first birthday. Aunt Lydia lived in Spain, which was why Constance was aboard the Octa
via at that very moment, but the distance was not the only challenge. Papa still blamed her aunt for her mother’s death eleven years earlier. He wanted nothing more to do with Aunt Lydia or the Claremonts after the vessel transporting Constance and her mother to Spain had been attacked and sunk by pirates. Constance had survived, but the pirates had kidnapped her and held her for ransom.
Nevertheless, desperation sometimes called for harsh measures. Constance was a lady, the daughter of a proud duke who happened to be destitute, though certainly not by his own design. Someone had tricked him into speculation, and she was determined to salvage her father’s good name, even if it meant facing her greatest fear: drowning at sea as her mother had.
The reality of how far her family had fallen in such a short time hit Constance full force when a shrill whistle sliced over the Octavia’s deck. She started as the ship recoiled and one thunderous volley after another discharged, vibrating the vessel from bow to stern. Lying in her bunk, Constance gripped its wooden edge, staring wide-eyed at the beams overhead and willing the deck above her to hold firm.
The ship’s mighty timbers groaned and convulsed again, and she heard a younger version of herself shouting Mama! in her mind.
Tormented by the age-old spasm of fright, Constance held back the scream that was threatening to burst from her throat as an explosion rattled the vessel.
’Tis but another dream. It has to be!
But no, her eyes were open. She was awake!
Beads of sweat dewed on her skin. She knew all too well what awaited her if the Octavia sank. Shaking uncontrollably, she turned and looked around the cabin for her longtime governess and companion, Mrs. Mortimer. The woman had practically raised Constance ever since Papa had paid her ransom and gotten her back from the pirates, and now Morty stared back at her charge from her own bunk. They locked terrified gazes.
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