A Woman Made for Pleasure

by Michele Sinclair

  I’m in trouble now, Millie reflected, seeing the water rise almost a third of the way up the cave’s opening. “I should have realized how late it was,” she mumbled out loud, admonishing herself. She glanced at the water level again, knowing she was trapped until the sea retreated. Midway down the side of the Wentworth cliffs, the mouth of the dark cave became enveloped at high tide. Luckily, once inside, one could ascend an immediate and very steep, long, winding bank that kept the majority of the cave from getting wet.

  Millie paced back and forth, trying to come up with options. She would be safe and dry if she remained where she was for the next six hours. Unfortunately, that solution would also mean Mother Wentworth would know of her latest adventure in the caves. She really did not want to worry her, or her friends, who would definitely panic and reveal all when she didn’t return.

  The only other option was to strip and swim. She eyed the cold, lapping sea water inching its way in. Maybe, if she was very careful, she could tie her dress, the lavender, and her shoes together and hold them high above the water to prevent them from getting wet as she swam to shore.

  Millie started peeling off her stockings, trying to think of ways she could sneak back to her room without being seen. She was just stripping off her second stocking, when a cough echoed from behind, making her jump.

  “Oww!” Millie hollered as she stepped on a rock.

  “Whatever are you doing now?” asked Charles Wentworth, Viscount Erndale and heir to the Marquess of Chaselton, as well as many other titles. As the first and only son, he already retained the title of viscount.

  “Charlie Wentworth! What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?”

  Charles looked at the small, ragamuffin form standing in her bare feet. “Spying on you? Believe me, Mildred Aldon, I have better things to do than rescue a twelve-year-old child. Whatever are you doing taking your clothes off?”

  Millie stopped herself from stomping her foot. Aimee’s brother always had a way of discovering her latest scrape and extracting her from it in a most humiliating manner. “I am no child. And if you must know, I was preparing for a swim.”

  “A swim? Are you stupid? Do you realize how cold the water is? Or how strong the currents are?”

  Millie gave him her most menacing glare. “Charlie Wentworth, I’ll have you know I am an excellent swimmer. And don’t call me stupid again or I swear I . . . I . . . I will hurt you. Don’t forget that I know how to fight men of your enormous size!” For as long as Millie could remember, Charles Wentworth towered above her. He was also the most tiresome person of her acquaintance, continually quoting her rules and telling her things not to do.

  “You? Hurt me?” Charles started laughing. “I would like to see you try. I think you are forgetting who taught whom, twig.”

  Millie considered her mode of attack, but decided against executing it. The last time she had tried to retaliate against Charlie, he had put her over his knee and swatted her in the most mortifying fashion. It was at that moment Millie began to invent and practice new ways of defense beyond those few tactics Charlie had taught her last year.

  “Come on, Mildred,” Charles said mockingly as he walked farther into the cave.

  Millie glowered at the brute who dared to use her real name. He looked a lot like his father—dark haired, chiseled features, and tall. Suddenly Millie realized he was leaving her.

  “Come on, where?” Then Millie looked back at the lapping water and wondered how he got into the cave without getting wet. He answered her with silence and disappeared around the corner. Millie threw on her stockings and shoes as fast as she could.

  “Charlie! Wait!”

  “I have asked you repeatedly to call me Lord Charles or Lord Erndale, Mildred,” he replied, knowing how much she detested her birth name.

  “Fine, but then you must call me Lady Millie,” she said, out of breath running to catch up to him.

  “Lady! The day I call you Lady is—”

  “—is the same day I stop calling you Charlie.” Suddenly Millie stopped, turned, and ran toward the cave’s entrance, yelling, “I have to get the lavender!”

  When she returned with the flowers, most of her dark hair had fallen out of its pins. “You are a mess,” sighed Charles and resumed his walk into the dark bowels of the cave.

  Millie straightened her shoulders and calmly smoothed back her long hair. “I may be a mess, but at least it comes from having adventures. I bet you have never had a day in your life where you didn’t follow the rules,” Millie snapped as she ran to keep up with his long strides. “Charlie, please slow down.”

  He looked back at the spitfire. Of the Daring Three, Charles admired her the most. He loved her zest for life, courage, and steadfast loyalty, but he would never let her know. “Hurry up, twig. Mother needs to put weight on you.”

  “Twig!” Millie huffed. She thoroughly despised him sometimes. Only bits of daylight peeking in from the random cracks and gopher holes allowed her to see his mocking stance. “Everything looks undersized to a giant of your height. You are ridiculously ill-proportioned. If I were as big as you, I would become a hermit, I would. No wonder you don’t have any adventures. You’re too big to have them!” she declared as she marched ahead of him, not knowing their destination.

  He stopped and watched her for a moment before reaching up to climb through a shadowed hole. He was out and sitting on the grassy banks waiting when he heard her yelp in surprise. “Charlie? Where are you? If you believe you can scare me, think again!”

  He reached his hand down into the hole and heard her scream. As he hauled her up, Millie shot daggers at him with threatening eyes. He grinned in return.

  Charles laughed all the way back to the stables. Little Mildred Aldon was certainly entertaining. She had always been a tiny firecracker. When she first entered their lives, his mother had made him promise to look after her. And he soon knew why.

  The girl was always finding new ways to entertain herself as well as his sister and their redheaded friend. She was ingenious and frightening with her creativity. He could not count how many times he had saved her from certain injury. And did Millie ever thank him? No. Sometimes he would get apologies or looks of gratitude from the others, but never from her.

  She would just explain how she was in absolute control of the situation and had a perfectly good reason for doing, escaping, climbing, or riding whatever he had interrupted. But best of all, she would then try to stare him down. Those purple eyes of hers could be hauntingly clear or dangerously dark when angered. He felt sorry for the men in her future who had to look into those eyes and tell her no.

  He shook his head and felt somewhat sad for Millie. In just a few years, she would have to give up her adventuring ways. Daughters of earls were required to carry themselves with a certain deportment, especially if they wanted to marry. So many times, he had looked at the young Lady Mildred Aldon and envied her open and carefree ways. Her dogmatic ability to seek and conquer anything her heart desired.

  At almost two and twenty, Charles knew he was unnaturally pragmatic for his age. People called him staid and pedantic, and it was true. He had been born and bred a marquess, and it seemed to him that the weight of his responsibilities—to his title, family, and father—were always pressing on him.

  Soon, Millie would also discover the burdens of adulthood. But unlike him, he was sure that his little Millie would go kicking and screaming all the way.

  Chapter 1

  Spain, February 1816

  “Chase,” said a deep, familiar voice from the makeshift doorway. “There’s someone coming. About fifteen minutes out. Does anyone know you are here?”

  A powerfully built man with strong, athletic features was sitting behind a desk reviewing maps and communiqués. His chocolate brown hair was a mass of untidy long locks, and his golden eyes, despite their warm color, appeared cold and devoid of emotion. “Yes, a few. But no one knows of your presence. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Aye. An
d the traitor?”

  Golden eyes glanced up and found the blue gaze of one of the few people Chase trusted. “I now have proof of his existence. Besides me, only you are aware of it.” He looked back down at one of the maps depicting the Americas’ coastline. Scattered beside the pen-and-ink diagram were the communiqués between General Sir Pakenham and a nameless murderer.

  Chase stood and stared at the proof his father had sent him to find almost eight years ago. Proof that someone was more interested in conquest and power than in the lives of his countrymen. Someone who was willing to smear the names of good men in order to attain such power. Chase looked up and stared his friend directly in the eye. “That’s why I sent for you. No one is to know I have left here until I am already in London. For that, you are the only man I trust, Reece.”

  Acknowledgment entered the shrewd, sapphire-colored eyes. “I have already loaded everything on board the Sea Emerald. Only what is here, remains.”

  Chase nodded and began stacking the documents on the table.

  Reece moved to help but decided against the idea. His friend had always been driven. But when his father died, Chase had emotionally shut down and had become determined to finish his father’s one last request. “What are you going to do without the name of the traitor?” Reece asked.

  “Find it. My father sent me to locate the proof, and I now have it. I think this . . . this turncoat had much to do with the Peninsular War, but now I have proof of his motives and duplicitous intentions between our government and the Americas.” Chase stabbed a stack of papers with his finger. “There is no longer any doubt someone was trying to stop the impending treaty between America and England. This”—he picked up a letter—“outlines plans to send General Pakenham, stripped of talented men, to attack New Orleans. Here”—Chase grabbed another hastily scribed document—“is the general’s reply warning his superiors that their directed plan of attack was ‘unimaginative’ and ‘deadly.’ And these are the very proof I need to tie it all together,” Chase added, pointing to a third set of documents. “I cannot believe Vandeleur had not even looked at these manuscripts before handing them to me.”

  The documents under Chase’s fist confirmed that Pakenham was tricked into attacking New Orleans. Upon direct orders, he took his force ashore and ran into a defensive line of militia, Indians, black troops, and even pirates, hastily put together by General Andrew Jackson. Pakenham led seventy-five hundred men into an ambush of cannon and musket fire.

  By the time the English soldiers had reached the American lines, the deaths of their commanders had thrown them into confusion. While trying to establish order, Pakenham was mortally wounded. Not realizing the English forces were on the brink of victory, a retreat was ordered.

  Chase understood war was sometimes a necessary evil, but the Battle of New Orleans was an unwarranted, useless, preordained English tragedy. One nameless man had purposefully arranged those pointless deaths. And Chase knew the traitor would try again. Of that, he was sure. For despite heavy English losses, peace had been made with the colonies and the Treaty of Ghent had been signed on Christmas Eve.

  “I met Ned Pakenham,” Reece said respectfully. “He commanded the Third Division until the capture of Madrid. I was there in 1813, when he was given command of the Sixth Division at the Battle of the Pyrenees. He was a good man and an able commander.”

  “I want this traitor, Reece. I want him, and I will have him,” said Chase forcefully, the depth of his desire evident. “But I am not going to sacrifice the names of good men while seeking the devil.”

  Reece nodded in agreement. The good men Chase was referring to were called the Rebuilders, a select group of noblemen with idealistic beliefs and purposes. Chase’s father had been a member, and now, by default, so was his son. A few years ago, an inner faction began to grow and started calling themselves Expansionists. Their views of government, while not as peaceful, were not disloyal. If Chase were to reveal his proof and proclaim a member to be a traitor, without a name, all those affiliated with either group—Rebuilders or Expansionists—would be tagged as possible turncoats. Guilt by association could ruin a man’s reputation, a necessary asset in a country ruled by Tories and an extravagant, vain prince regent.

  Reece looked out the slightly cracked open door. “The rider is almost here. Looks to be a delivery boy from one of the larger battalions. I’ll wait for you on the Sea Emerald. We’ll leave as soon as you are on board.”

  Chase nodded as his friend silently disappeared through the back door. He sat back down behind the crude desk and hid the communiqués underneath a copy of the Second Treaty of Paris’s terms and conditions for ending the Peninsular War.

  The door opened and a uniformed man entered. “Captain?”

  Chase grunted and pretended to be in deep thought over the papers. It was a common ploy to quickly establish levels of importance. Common, but effective. Chase finally asked, in a gruff voice, “What do you want?”

  “Sir, name is Marshel. I am aide-de-camp to Colonel Vandeleur.”

  Chase looked at the ADC and quickly assessed the young man. “How long have you been with Vandeleur?”

  “Close to seven months, sir. I was part of the Sixteenth Dragoons before Colonel Vandeleur took over for Lord Uxbridge last summer.”

  The young man was not as green as he looked. He had made it through Waterloo. “Light cav, I take it,” Chase deduced. A critical function of light cavalry regiments was to monitor communications between enemy encampments. Only the good survived.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chase leaned back. The chair squeaked. “What do you need of me?”

  “Not a thing, sir. I was just told to pass on this bag to the cap’n who could be found in Sofina’s House of Pleasure near Bilbao.” The young man glanced around at the crumbling structure. It had been a long time since the place had provided a man pleasure.

  Chase saw the man observing his surroundings and took the bag. “You can go now. I have nothing to pass on. But tell your colonel of my appreciation for this.” Chase knew what the bag contained. Letters from home. It had been some time since he had been in a location to receive any word from his mother and his sister, Aimee.

  The man nodded, exited the building, and rode back toward Pamplona.

  Chase leaned back on the small bunk as the waves rolled the Sea Emerald back and forth. An easiness fell on him he hadn’t experienced for some time. Very few had known where he was located in Spain, and only a handful knew his identity. Vandeleur was one of those few. He knew it was safe for the ADC to make contact. Chase trusted Vandeleur, but a signed peace treaty could not instantly remove habits of caution and vigilance that had saved his life multiple times.

  Chase opened up the bag and discovered several letters. Two were personal. He instantly recognized the handwriting on one. It was from his mother. He lit a lamp and proceeded to break the seal.

  Letters from home were his rarest and most cherished treasures. After his father had passed away, only his mother’s stories and amusing updates seemed to register with him emotionally. Tales of his sister and her two friends would bring him back to simpler times, peaceful ones in which he was unaware of the cruelty and duplicitous nature of men.

  He unfolded the page and was surprised to see how short it was. He glanced at the contents. As usual, his mother never mentioned anyone’s identity. Sometimes she would refer to the Daring Three, a private label his mother had given to his sister and her wild friends, but that was as close as she came to disclosing a name.

  Chase wondered if Millie was still his favorite twig, causing chaos wherever she went. He suspected time and experience had changed her as it had certainly changed him.

  Son,

  Your sister will be having her first Season in London this year along with the other members of the Daring Three. My earnest wish is for you to return, escort your sister and her friends, and find someone in the process with whom to settle down and live a happy, safe life.

  I hav
e asked little of you since you have entered into manhood, understanding that your father asked much. However, he has been dead now for over two years, and the wars between England and France are over. It is time you returned home.

  Please send me a prompt response so I can plan accordingly.

  Your Mother

  P.S. Notice how I did not once mention your appalling lack of writing ability these past few years?

  Chase found himself grinning. His mother always had a way of breaking through his detached self, even when she was a country away. Possessing his father’s naturally stoic personality, Chase realized how lucky his father had been to find his mother. He wondered if it was possible that he, too, would find a loyal and spirited woman who could love a self-controlled, serious man like himself.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, discarding the idea. It would not be fair to shackle anyone, especially a woman full of life, to the man he was now. Oh, he would marry someday; he had to, for the sake of his title. But when he did, it would be to someone who needed no emotional support. The arrangement would be simple. She would look beautiful and bear him a son, and he would drench her in Wentworth money. He would not care that she was shallow, and she wouldn’t care that he was haunted.

  He broke the seal on the second letter. As he read the contents, an icy rage reawakened deep within him. One he had long thought to have under control.

  The Most Honorable, The Marquess of Chaselton

  My Lord Marquess,

  I am sorry I never had the opportunity to make your acquaintance. It is unfortunate that I now must introduce myself through such ineffectual means.

  As a close friend of your father’s, I am aware that you know about the organization to which he belonged and our current squabble over its direction. What you may not know is that your father, like myself, was one of five men working against the Expansionist movement. For protection, none of us knew all five members, a decision both wise and ill-fated.