Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  “I noticed,” Kit said tightly. “But it suited my purpose to inconvenience you at every opportunity. I thought it a rather fitting reprisal against your arrogance.”

  Sheridan nodded thoughtfully. “Then that explains several puzzling events. Very well—so you were astute enough to play both ends against the middle. Eventually, one must tally up the sums to see who has won.”

  “The problem here is that I was not seeking vengeance or victory. You were just useful. My pursuit involved something quite different from what you may imagine.”

  “Ah yes, the eternal quest for Vivian. You have heard, by the way, that she is back in London?”

  “Damn you.” Kit stared at the duke. “Have you always known where she is?”

  “Approximately. She is a relatively easy woman to pursue, once one discovers the trick of it. I admit that it was not always so easy. She can certainly be a conniving piece of work when she wants to be.”

  Reeling, Kit felt as if he had been caught unaware by a ground swell. It was as if the carpeted floor had just been yanked from beneath his feet. “Where is she?” he asked hoarsely.

  Charles Sheridan rose to his feet and crushed the cigar into the glass dish on his desk. “Patience, son. Work out one problem at a time. Do not fear—she will not be leaving London soon. When you see her, you must be well prepared.” His mouth twisted into a cynical smile that looked vaguely familiar to Kit. “I would not have you taken by surprise as I was. Vivian is a very unique individual, and a very dangerous one.”

  Striding past Kit, the duke reached the door, then turned around with one hand on the latch. “This has been a most enlightening discussion for me, Christian. I hope it has been as revealing for you. Now, I must return to my guests before the gossip about your reappearance gets quite out of hand. Someone must be there to be certain the rumors are steered in the right direction. Oh—and welcome back. Your arrival was most timely this morning.”

  Echoes of the closing door reverberated softly in the huge study, and Kit stated blindly after his father. He had been expected. It had been no sudden shock or revelation to arrive at the house this morning, except for his own surprise at finding the bustle of preparations for the evening’s ball. He should have known. Filbert’s bland countenance and lack of shock should have more than prepared him. Why had he thought he could discompose Charles Sheridan in any way? The duke’s network of spies would make a king envious. More than likely, news of Kit’s arrival in London had reached the duke long before the Sea Tiger—disguised, of course, with a dragon bowsprit and new name—had even docked at the Pool. Turk, as usual, had been quite correct in stating that the Duke of Tremayne employed many methods of gathering knowledge. It was glaringly apparent.

  So what did he do now? He had bungled his first meeting with Angela, but the shock of not only seeing her there, but having her introduced as his father’s amiable companion, had thrown him off-course. Instinct advised him to tread softly around her. God, he had probably ruined everything now. What had happened to his earlier plans to woo her slowly? Gone in a moment of anger . . . now he had to start over. He’d thought—hoped—to court Angela as any proper suitor would do, to allow their relationship to grow slowly and steadily, without the restraints between them that had been formed upon their first meeting.

  After all, he reflected wryly, it was hardly conducive to romance to have the object of one’s affections as a prisoner. That state in itself entailed certain disagreeable formalities. Turk had been right. As usual. So what did he do about it now? When she was publicly his father’s companion? It would hardly be to his credit to press his suit when everyone in London assumed that the duke and Miss Lindell were “keeping company.”

  Kit drew in a deep breath. The best he could hope for at this time was to keep his head and not make any more mistakes. After all, no betrothal had been announced. Instinct told him that his father’s emotions were not involved, and he was certain that Angela was more bemused than in love. All he could do was bide his time and wait.

  Having repaired the damage done to the rice powder liberally applied to her face, Angela joined her mother after a lengthy search through the crowd. Alicia turned anxiously, relief on her face at her daughter’s appearance.

  “There you are. Angela—it’s the most exciting thing! You will never imagine in a hundred years just who has made an appearance here tonight.”

  “Lord Westcott. The duke’s son.”

  “Oh. You must have heard.” Alicia turned to survey the crowd. “Have you seen him yet? I caught only a glimpse before he disappeared. Everyone is talking—he’s an earl in his own right, they say. Where do you suppose he has been for so long? Lady Farnsworth—her husband is Sir Percival Farnsworth, a baronet—said that Westcott must have been tending the duke’s foreign interests all this time. Do you think that possible?”

  “Anything is possible,” Angela murmured. “Mama—I am feeling quite ill. My head aches, and I . . . I feel nauseous. Do you suppose you could fetch the carriage and we could leave?”

  Alicia looked dismayed. “Dear me—shall I see if there is a spot where you can lie on a couch until you are better? This is such an important affair, Angela, with the duke’s son arriving and the prince due to make an appearance—I should hate for you to miss it all. Have you spoken with the duke?”

  “Yes. Mama—I would much rather go home. Perhaps Papa can fetch me a hired cab.”

  Desperation tinged her voice, and some of it must have seeped through to her mother, for Alicia gave a disappointed nod. “Very well, dear. If you are ill, you are ill. And I must say, you are dreadfully pale. I shall send a footman for the carriage to take you home at once.”

  Gratefully, Angela sagged against the wall while her mother beckoned for a liveried footman. The press of people and constant hum of conversation and clink of glasses vied with the musicians in a turbulent blend. The shock of seeing Kit had unnerved her. Just meeting him again would have been disturbing enough; discovering not only that he was in London, but also that he was the Duke of Tremayne’s son had been mind-numbing. Why had he never told her? Did he think her that grasping and greedy?

  Apparently, she answered her own question, recalling with a sting his earlier words. He thought her intimately involved with his father. If it was not so infuriating, she would have laughed at him.

  She put her fingers to her temples and rubbed slowly. Her head ached. Her legs ached from hours of standing, and her eyes stung with the effort to hold back tears. She was miserable. This was the worst night of her life, and she’d thought she had already had that. No, somehow, the emotional impact of being confronted by six feet of hostile male whom she had once assumed cared for her had taken even more of a toll. There had been no love in his eyes, only a raging fury and animosity that had stunned and wounded her.

  Kit’s actions tonight had only proven what she had tried not to think since her departure from the Sea Tiger—he had never loved her. She had been only a convenience, and though Emily had tried time and again to convince her that some men just found it hard to say farewell, she now knew in her heart that had not been the case with Kit.

  Pushing away from the wall, Angela tried to tear her mind away from Kit. She had to escape, before she saw him again. It would never do to flee the duke’s ball in tears.

  “Angela,” her mother said at her elbow, “the footman has gone to fetch the carriage. It will take a few moments, however, so why don’t you just wait here with me? He will send inside for you when it has been brought ’round.”

  Agreeing with a silent nod, Angela had begun to lean back against the wall when she heard her mother call a greeting to Lord Brompton. She sighed inwardly and prepared herself to put on a pleasant face.

  “Lord Brompton,” Alicia was saying, “how delightful to see you again.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Brompton said with a broad smile. “One does tend to knock about in such a press, what? I have lost sight of my companions in this crush, but am making amends by
meeting such lovely friends again.” His eyes strayed to Angela, and she managed a smile.

  “Lord Brompton,” she murmured in acknowledgment of his greeting.

  “Have you heard the news, Miss Lindell?” his lordship inquired, leaning forward as if to impart vital information. “The duke’s prodigal son has returned home. Just today, I understand. Conjecture is running rampant as to the explanation for his long absence from England. Some say business; I say—perhaps not.”

  Fascinated, Alicia Lindell asked eagerly, “Why do you say that, my lord?”

  Wagging his head wisely, Brompton lifted his brows. “Gossip has it that there was a serious disagreement between the duke and his son years ago. I am inclined to agree. Being a bit older than some in this crowd, I can recall things more clearly. The earl was betrothed to a most charming young woman at the time. Susan Witherington, daughter of Baron Heathrow. At any rate, the duke took a fancy to her, the way I heard it, and the young lady, of course, decided that being a duchess was much better than being a countess. Perhaps if she had not made her decision known at a very public ball, the young earl would not have taken it so to heart. But Miss Witherington was not the most generous of young ladies. That is why few felt sorry for her when the duke shifted his attentions elsewhere once the earl left England.”

  Angela wished she could transport herself to another spot without hearing any more. Poor Kit. No wonder he had not mentioned his betrothed. Or his father. Perhaps he had come home to mend the rift between them. And now—now he thought that the duke was her admirer . . .

  Straightening as if shot from a crossbow, Angela earned a rather startled glance from Lord Brompton. “Excuse me,” she said. “I . . . I just saw someone I know.”

  She turned blindly, not knowing which way to go through the crowd, when she saw Kit approaching her. His tall frame was easily seen among the nattily dressed gentlemen and multihued ladies. She had been right, she thought distractedly. Kit looked exceedingly handsome in a cutaway coat of deep claret. Beneath the vee of his white satin waistcoat, his linen shirt protruded in a cascade of frills topped by an intricately tied cravat. Buff doeskin trousers fit snugly to his muscled calves. He looked every inch the dandy, something she had been too shocked to notice earlier. Even his hair was romantically ruffled onto his forehead in the Greek style so favored by the fashionable young man.

  “Look,” Alicia whispered excitedly to Brompton, “there is Lord Westcott now!”

  Angela’s heart lurched when she saw that Kit intended to pass her by without speaking. It was Lord Brompton at her side, however, who snared not only Kit’s attention, but that of everyone within earshot.

  “I say!” he exclaimed loudly. “That cannot be Westcott . . .”

  Kit stopped and turned toward him, raking the corpulent baron with a narrow stare. “Can I not? Pray, tell me why not.”

  “Why, be—because . . . I made your acquaintance only a few months ago. Do you not recall it?” Brompton shifted uneasily, apparently aware that he was creating a scene that might not be to his advantage. It would never do to alienate the duke or his son. “We . . . we played cards. In Greece.”

  A sardonic smile curled Kit’s mouth. “Ah yes. I do recall you now. You were drunk as a friar under a grape arbor in Limenas. We played whist and I won ten pounds from you. You are a very bad gambler, my lord.”

  Indignant, Brompton blurted, “Only because I was afraid to say anything about the way you deal cards, sir. Did you think me fool enough to challenge a pirate such as Kit Saber about his method of—” He stumbled to an abrupt halt, his face flushing then going pale.

  The little pocket of silence around them rippled into soft murmurs, but the sardonic smile on Kit’s mouth never wavered. He merely lifted a brow.

  “Method of what? I did not have to cheat, Brompton. But you were very wise not to suggest it. You’re quite right about my possible reaction. We pirates are notorious for being insulted by vague accusations of cheating. At times, the reaction can be quite—dangerous.”

  The baron’s color receded again and he made an odd, wheezing sort of sound. “My lord, I never meant—”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Brompton. I have taken no offense.” Kit looked around at the gawking faces pressed close, and for a brief instant, his eyes met Angela’s. Then his gaze swept over her as if he had never seen her before, and with a nod of his head, he turned and made his way through the crowd.

  Angela realized she’d been holding her breath when her lungs began to ache, and she released it slowly, not surprised to see others around her doing the same. Whispers began immediately.

  “A pirate,” someone said softly. “Can it be true?”

  “Kit Saber?” another inquired. “The notorious Kit Saber?”

  Lord Brompton, apparently deciding that he had risked his welcome quite enough for one evening, managed to melt into the crowd with a dexterity that Angela found more amazing than amusing. She looked around her at the variety of reactions, and knew that whatever else, this evening had certainly exceeded the anticipation of all the guests. Not only had the duke’s son reappeared after a mysteriously long absence, but he was none other than the notorious pirate captain Kit Saber. Yes, this ball would be one long remembered in the annals of London gossipmongers.

  Angela didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Despite her apprehension that the ball would prove to be boring beyond all bearing, it had been the most memorable in her life.

  Twenty-two

  “This has been,” Alicia Lindell said, “the most exciting month that I can recall. Do you not think so, John?”

  Not glancing from behind the Morning Post, Lindell muttered an indistinct reply that his wife took to be assent. Alicia took another sip of tea, sighing contentedly. “Of course, one can almost feel pity for the duke. He has been beset on all sides with vicious rumors about his heir. Imagine. A notorious pirate captain. I can only envision some of the depredations the young earl must have initiated while roving the seas.”

  Angela did her best not to look up from her book. It was raining again, or she would have gone to the garden to read. Her mother’s endless prattle about the topic of conversation that had all of London buzzing with new tidbits every day was beginning to wear upon her nerves. And she had yet to inquire of her father if he knew about her stay on the Sea Tiger. He had not mentioned it, and neither had she. Did he realize that it was Kit Saber’s ship that had taken her from the burning Scrutiny?

  Sliding deeper into her cushioned chair near the fire, Angela tried to concentrate on her novel. Her mother’s conversation had turned from pirates to romantic speculation, a familiar drone in the background. She murmured occasional responses for the sake of courtesy, wishing that her mother would run out of information. It wasn’t until a name caught her attention that Angela looked up.

  “Excuse me, Mama? Who did you say?”

  “Christian Sheridan. Westcott, of course.”

  “No, I meant the other one.”

  “Ah.” Alicia took another sip of tea, delighted to have captured undivided attention at last. “La Diabolique, some call her. I have never seen her, but Letitia Crandle claims that she is one of the most beautiful women ever to grace London. It is rumored that she is a notorious spy, but that is probably untrue. The government would never allow her to roam about freely if that was so. Let’s see . . . she has another name . . . Contessa Villiers, I believe. Of course, that is probably one of those Royalist affectations. It would be my guess that the number of deposed Royalists has doubled from the actual number, for every Frenchman who comes across the Channel claims ties to the royal family.” Sniffing disdainfully, she took another sip of tea before continuing, “All the same, it must be most distressing to the duke to have his son following about after such a woman.”

  Angela closed her book. “And is he?” she asked carefully.

  Her mother gave her a blank stare. “Is who what?”

  “Is Westcott following about after Contessa Villiers?”<
br />
  “Why—I should think so. I have it from a most reliable source. Why do you ask, dear?”

  “No reason.” Angela traced the embossing on the leather cover of her novel with one finger, staring into the fire. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

  When she turned her gaze from the flames dancing in the grate, she saw John Lindell gazing at her with a troubled frown. Her mother had moved on to another topic concerning the broken betrothal of a viscount’s daughter Angela had never heard of. Rain pattered against the windows with a hissing sound, and flames crackled and popped. On the mantel, a clock ticked loudly.

  Opening her book again, Angela stared down at the printed pages without seeing them. In a moment, she heard her father’s paper rustle as he lifted it. Christian Sheridan and the contessa were not mentioned again that afternoon.

  It was almost bedtime that evening when Angela turned restlessly to Emily. A cool September breeze drifted in her open window and lifted a strand of her loose hair.

  “Emily, where do you go every night?”

  Hesitating, Emily flushed and looked down. The linens she held were wadded in her hands. “How do you know I go out?”

  “Because I looked for you one night and couldn’t find you. Mrs. Peach told me that you go out almost every night after you are done with your work.”

  “And if I do?” Emily asked with a defiant tilt of her chin. “I do my work first.”