The Iron Corsair

by Barbara Devlin

  “Aye, my lady. It is the blessing for which you prayed, and if you are happy, then I am happy.” With a narrow stare, the maid drew a napkin from her apron and covered Florence’s lap. “Do you require anything else?”

  “No.” She cut in half a potato. “You should hurry back, else Jameson may take note of your absence.”

  “That irritating old windbag better keep out of my business, or I will give him something to mind.” Mead shook her fist. “Now, eat while the food is hot, and I will return in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Mead.” Once again, Florence all but inhaled the meal, not even slowing to relish the tender chateaubriand, which seemed a waste. After draining her wine glass, she pushed from the vanity and gazed at her reflection in the long mirror. “Oh, Barrington, I remain yours, yet you are not here to celebrate. When will you return to me?”

  Still, overjoyed by recent developments in her favor, she splayed her arms and twirled about the room, and giggled.

  “That was some performance, for one so near death.”

  The achingly familiar voice wreaked havoc on her senses, and she ground to a halt. Searching for the source of the haunting utterance, she scanned her chamber. From behind the heavy green drapery an apparition—or so she thought—emerged, and fear mixed with panic and rang in her ears.

  The thick and wavy, sandy blonde locks she remembered in frightful detail, and her fingers itched to caress his hair. The tanned profile showed signs of age and maturity, in the wrinkles about his clear blue eyes, but his broad shoulders and impressive physique, garbed in the traditional gentleman’s togs, she could never forget.

  “Barrington, is that really you, or am I dreaming?” She stepped forward, caught the toe of her slipper on the edge of the rug, and fell to the floor.

  “Sweetheart, I am no illusion.” As he rushed to give aid, she retreated from him, until he pulled her into his arms. “Shh, love. I am here, and how I have missed you.”

  Then he shifted, tipped her chin, and set his lips to hers.

  So many nights she conjured her man, his warmth, and his strength, that she might persist. In the dark hours, without fail, she beckoned, and he came to her. With no conditions or restraint, he provided support, yet, in the morning, she found herself alone, and the resulting disappointment well nigh destroyed her every time.

  But that mouth, ah, it was a marvel of perfection, and he knew how to use his talents to sway her, to thrill her, to claim her. Cupping his cheek, she angled her head to deepen and intensify their kiss, and in her slippers she curled her toes. Even after four years, he commanded her as no other, and she welcomed his possession—until she recalled the circumstances of his leaving. In that instant, she wrenched free and let fly a wicked blow to his jaw.

  “How dare you go away without so much as a brief audience, that I might mark a final tender exchange to sustain me?” Then she punched him in the shoulder and would have escalated her assault had he not anchored her wrists at her sides. “Where have you been, why have you not written, and what brings you home, now, after these four years? Do I mean nothing to you?”

  “On the contrary.” He trailed his nose along the curve of her neck. “You are the reason I am here. I came back, because I was told you were gravely infirm, yet I see that is not true.”

  “I only enacted the charade to avoid marrying your brother, because my heart remains fixed in your capable hands, although I would have honored the contract, if it came to it.” When Barrington drew her to her feet, he only tightened his embrace, and she yielded the tension borne of their long separation. Resting her head to his chest, she sank into him. “Now that you know I am well, will you leave again?”

  “No, sweetheart.” With his thumb, he caressed her cheek and kissed the top of her head. “For good or ill, I am here, to stay.”

  “What of the murder?” A chill of dread slithered down her spine. “It brought us low, before, and the newspapers printed horrible things about you. Will the authorities not seek to arrest you?”

  “I made an agreement with Sir Ross Logan, of the Counterintelligence Corps, along with the Marquess of Raynesford, to secure a full and unconditional pardon, but I may have no need of it, if I can clear my name.” Shifting, she wrapped her arms about his waist and pressed her body to his. At once, he tensed beneath her touch, which did much to erase her concerns of his waning devotion. “But I am at Mivart’s, in suite four, if you need to reach me, and I am to meet with Sir Ross, Raynesford, and Chief Prosecutor Berwick, on Wednesday, at noon, to explain my actions and plead the righteousness of my cause, because a killer remains on the loose. Until the scoundrel is caught, everyone is in danger.”

  “Most especially you.” And that terrified Florence. “Promise me, you will be careful, as I cannot lose you, again.”

  “I promise.” To her dismay, he set her apart from him. “And now that I know you are all right, and as smart as ever, not that I expected anything less, I should return to the hotel until I make my official come-out, so to speak.”

  “What of Ernest?” As tears welled, she grabbed his wrist. Although she hated herself for it, she had long suspected Barrington’s younger brother was somehow involved in the horrible crime. “Does he know of your presence in London?”

  “No one does, except those I named.” When he tried to retreat, she clung to him. “Florence, please. I must go.”

  “No.” Grasping the lapels of his wool coat, she held fast. “Stay with me, as there is much to say.”

  “Darling, I must exercise caution.” To her chagrin, he set her at arm’s length. “And we will have the rest of our lives to discuss whatever you wish.”

  “I love you.” Now the tears flowed, and she wept without shame. “I should have told you that, years ago, but I am saying it now, before another word is spoken. I love you.”

  “Oh, my dear girl.” At last, he yielded and embraced her, and she longed to share a secret with him. “I love you, too. While I was away, thoughts of you sustained me, and we will have the future we planned, once I settle my affairs. Just give me some time, sweetheart.”

  “There is something I must tell you.” Raw pain tore at her gut, as she reopened an old wound. Inasmuch as she prayed for his return, she dreaded making her confession. “There is something you must know.”

  “Not now.” Resting his cheek to her crown, he sighed. “Please, just let me hold you, and then I must depart.”

  “But you will not leave London without me?” Closing her eyes, she relaxed.

  “Never again shall I part from you.” Determination rang clear in his statement.

  “Then I am satisfied.” As he bent his head, she lifted her chin in preparation to receive his kiss. “For now.”

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  CHAPTER THREE

  The mantel clock signaled the hour, and Barrington halted before the window in his suite at Mivart’s. A sharp knock followed by two successive raps brought him around, and he crossed the sitting room. At the banks of his Rubicon, he took a deep breath, set his fevered palm to the cool metal knob, and opened the door.

  “Ravenwood, it is good to see you.” Sir Ross stepped inside, with Lance and a third gentleman in his wake. “As promised, I brought a friend I believe can help you avoid charges, provided you are willing to share the details of your alibi.” The spy shifted his weight. “Allow me to introduce Chief Prosecutor Berwick.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.” Barrington extended a hand, and they exchanged a vigorous shake. “While I cannot expose the person who could offer evidence in my favor, because their only crime is association with me, I will endeavor to explain my actions and plead my cause.”

  “Then let us be about our business.” Prosecutor Berwick nodded once. “As I am due in court, for a hearing, later this afternoon.”

  So much hung in the balance, as Barrington considered his words. For the better part of the morning, he organized his recollections and rehearsed his speech. If only he delivered the facts with
sufficient confidence. Just as he assumed his place in an overstuffed chair, another knock at the door brought him to his feet. “Excuse me, but I ordered some refreshments for our meeting, and I expect that is the staff.” When he set wide the oak panel, Florence pushed past him, with her father in tow. Stunned, he secured the lock and faced his future father-in-law. “Lord Braithwaite, I was not expecting you.”

  “You—heartless bastard.” Lord Braithwaite reared back and let fly a vicious punch that knocked Barrington to the floor. “How dare you violate my trust, infringe upon the edicts of polite society, defile my daughter, get her with child, and then leave her to confront the consequences, alone?”

  “Papa—no.” Florence knelt at Barry’s side, and his ears rang as he rubbed his jaw. “The blame is mine to own.”

  “I ought to kill you, Ravenwood. And I suppose this is why my daughter deceived me.” While Sir Ross and Lance restrained Lord Braithwaite, who toppled a small table, Florence’s father put up a wicked struggle. “Let go of me. I want him dead, and I shall gladly pay the price to put him in his grave, after the way he treated my family.”

  “Father, please.” Florence helped Barrington stand upright and steadied him, as he stumbled, and the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. “It was not his fault.”

  “Wait.” Amid the confusion and Braithwaite’s slew of insults, one particular statement emerged from the mental fog and charged the fray, and Barrington rubbed his eyes. “To what child do you refer?”

  “Do you mean to suggest you did not know the end result of your indefensible behavior?” At last, Braithwaite wrenched free of Sir Ross and Lance. “Stand down, men, as I will not accost him again.” As he adjusted his cravat, he pinned Barrington with an icy glare. “After I welcomed you into my home, after I loved you as my own son, after I bestowed upon you my pride and joy, my beloved Florence, you repaid my kindness by dishonoring her before the vows were spoken?”

  “Forgive me, sir, as I never meant hurt Florence. The truth is we were young and in love, and we could not wait.” Barrington took her hand in his. “And am I to understand I have an heir?”

  “But that is not how it happened, because I am responsible for what occurred.” Florence bowed her head and gave vent to a telltale sob of woe. “And no, because I lost the babe.”

  Had Barrington thought he knew pain?

  As the full import of her statement hit him, he drew her into his arms, and she cried. Rocking from side to side, he offered comfort and pressed his lips to her forehead.

  “After you disappeared, with no hint of when you might return, she confessed the situation, which was already dire, and I took her to our home in Derbyshire, for her confinement.” To Barrington’s amazement, Lord Braithwaite, an estimable man of irreproachable character and fortitude, broke and wept. “But the strain of your abandonment, coupled with the murder and ensuing scandal, took its toll, and she lost my first grandchild.”

  “Sir, I owe you much more than an apology, but right now, I need to speak with Florence, alone.” To multiple expressions of shock, Barrington shuffled her into the bedchamber and closed the double doors. Then he led her to the chaise, sat, pulled her into his lap, removed her lace-frilled poke bonnet, and she slumped against his chest. “It is all right, sweetheart. Have your cry, and we can discuss the matter when you are ready.”

  It was as though a dam breached, as the mournful sobs and violent shudders evidenced her agony, and he held her, because it was all he could do in that moment. At the same time, it dawned on him that his cowardice resulted in the demise of his firstborn, and he knew not how he could ever atone for that sorrowful repercussion.

  “It was awful, Barrington.” At last, she sniffed and accepted the handkerchief he produced from his pocket. “I wanted to grieve, but I could not, without risking discovery, so I played my part, as an actress on a stage, but inside I was dying, and I longed for you.”

  “I am so sorry, Florence. And I suppose that is what you tried to tell me, the other night?” When she nodded, he rested his forehead to hers and rubbed her nose with his, as he recalled how he silenced her and extended her suffering. “I spent the better portion of my youth running from my duties, and that ends, here and now. While I doubt I can ever make it up to you, and I could never begin to deserve you, I vow to fill our home with as many babes as you desire.”

  “Just promise you will never leave me, again, and you are forgiven.” The loyalty she professed humbled him, and he squeezed her. “Because I cannot survive another separation.”

  “Sweetheart, on that account, you have no worries.” When someone pounded on the door, he peered at the entry. “Who is it?”

  “Braithwaite.” At her father’s terse reply, she lifted her head. “Florence, are you all right? Should I take you home?”

  “No, Papa, as I am fine.” With a sniff, she glanced at Barry and cast a lopsided grin. “In fact, I am better than fine.”

  “So many nights I tortured myself with the notion that I lost you, and it brought me so very low.” He cupped her cheek and brushed his lips to hers. “To learn the high price exacted by my poor decisions breaks my heart.”

  “You could never lose me, because I am yours.” She turned her head and kissed his palm. “If you are amenable, when we can manage it, I should like to give our babe a proper funeral. Given the tumultuous times surrounding his death, Papa and I buried your heir beneath the large yew, in the north field.”

  “Where we passed many a merry afternoon, as children.” With fondness, he revisited happier memories, and then he flinched. “We had a son?”

  “At just over eight months in development, yes.” Wiping her eyes, she sat upright and met his stare. “Dr. Engelbrecht, my family’s personal physician, was unable to determine what went wrong, but the baby stopped moving, and then I woke one night with terrible spasms in my gut. It was over, quickly.”

  “But you are well?” For some idiotic reason he could not explain, he scrutinized her person, as she was his primary concern. “There is no lingering injury?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I am fully recovered and never more fit, now that you are home.”

  “Yet, I should have been here.” Indeed, if he could travel back in time and have his chance again, he would have stayed in London and confronted the accusations against him. “I should have tended you, myself, and I will go to my grave with the singular regret that I abandoned you when you most needed me.”

  “But we both made mistakes, which is why I intruded on your meeting.” With that, she pushed free of his embrace, stood, and smoothed the skirts of her pale yellow gown. “I should like to make a formal statement, on your behalf, which will erase all doubts as to your involvement in the murder of that poor maid.”

  With a mountain of contrition assuming permanent residence on his shoulders, Barrington rose to his feet and framed her face. For a while, he simply held her cherished gaze, declaring in silence a lifelong devotion he had yet to validate, but he knew how to correct that deficiency. When he bent his head to claim a kiss, she met him halfway.

  As usual, whenever he tasted her tender flesh, even after four years apart, desire sparked, flared, and evolved to a slow simmer, unfurling and spreading from limb to limb. But their kisses represented much more than a physical reaction driven by uncompromising hunger for his lady. Indeed, theirs symbolized a communion of souls so indistinguishable that they moved as a single entity.

  “I needed that.” He laughed, as he broke the tension. “Although I understand there is much more to discuss, I would wait until we are truly alone, and henceforth not a day shall pass that we do not spend some time in each other’s company, until we are wed. Once we are married, we will live, quite happily, in each other’s pockets. Now, shall we rejoin my guests?”

  ~

  Sitting beside Barrington, on the sofa in the outer chamber of his suite, Florence clutched his hand, as Sir Ross reviewed the evidence in the murder of the maid. Resolved to divulge her fiancé
e’s whereabouts, she ordered her thoughts.

  “Am I to assume Lord Ravenwood was with you, on the night in question?” Sir Ross arched a brow. “And that is why he was reluctant to reveal the identity of the person who could confirm his alibi?”

  “Yes,” she replied, without hesitation. Then she glanced at her father. “I am sorry, Papa, if I disappointed you, but Barrington had been sharing my bed, intermittently, for years.” When her sire made to protest, she raised a hand. “Permit me to explain. It began when I was but ten years old, and a wicked storm struck Derbyshire, during his family’s usual summer visit.”

  “It was harmless, really.” Barrington winked and caressed her palm with his thumb. “I knew of her fear, and I wished only to provide comfort, so I slipped into her room.”

  “But nothing happened.” She peered at her man and smiled. “At least, not then. Later, when we grew older, we explored our relationship and its many facets, until the summer of eighteen-twelve, when we consummated our love. We understood—”

  “I should not have done it.” Barrington draped an arm about her shoulders. “As the older, more mature party, I should have ceased my forays into her private apartment, yet I could not bear the thought of her alone and frightened during a storm, and, heaven help me, I love her.”

  “Florence was traumatized after the coach accident that claimed the life of her mother, which occurred on the turnpike, during a torrential downpour,” Papa explained, to Sir Ross, the Marquess of Raynesford, and Chief Prosecutor Berwick. “But I had no idea she still suffered nightmares.”

  “Why do you think I refuse to leave the house, when it rains?” She clutched her throat. “In truth, I have never really recovered from Mama’s death, and Barrington knows that, which is why he came to me, on the night of the murder, when a wicked tempest lashed the city, and the Thames spilled over its banks.”

  “I remember that well.” Berwick scratched his temple. “Forgive the indelicacy of my queries, but I must clarify your statements for my report. So it is your assertion that Lord Ravenwood was with you, in your home, all night?”