Velvet Chains (Historical Romance)

by Constance O'Banyon

  "I have been getting an uneasy feeling lately that you are taking too many chances," Silas stated, staring into the unmasked man's eyes. "You seem to thrive on danger without weighing the consequences. Should you be discovered, it would be a great loss to the cause. Tonight is a clear example of that. Suppose Tuddle had come out on top tonight? You would now either be dead, or in the hands of the British. My dead sister would turn over in her grave if she could see how her son continually mocks death."

  The Raven studied his uncle's face. It was a kind face, but one which was careworn and etched with sorrow. Silas had lost his wife and only daughter because of the British, and he had never recovered from the blow. The Raven thought back to the time when his aunt and cousin had been visiting a friend in the village of Fairfield, Connecticut, when it had been burned by the British. The British had used the excuse that the town harbored spies; they had left very little untouched that day. Silas' wife and daughter had lost their lives in the fire along with several other women and children That was one reason why The Raven's uncle now worked against the British in any way he could.

  "I cannot credit that you worry about me, Uncle. 1 can take care of myself," The Raven stated matter-of-factly.

  Silas rose, his face red with anger. "Sometimes I feel some people give too much to the cause, while others not near enough. Good lord, every day you place your life in danger! You are too foolhardy, always laughing in the face of death. One day you will make a wrong move, or trust the wrong person, and that will seal your end." Silas looked down at his nephew, who was a handsome rogue, as many a fair maiden could attest. He was the son Silas had never had, and he loved him more like a father, than an uncle.

  "I don't consciously test fate, Uncle, although I will admit, I have chosen a dangerous profession in being a privateer." He smiled devilishly. "It does have its moments, however."

  "You would have me believe you are risking your life for the fun of it, but I know better—you can't fool me. There isn't a better patriot in this whole country than you."

  Again his nephew smiled. "There would be some who would dispute that."

  "I have to admit this double life you live has lost me many nights' sleep. I fear each day to hear you have been exposed, and you know the penalty for being a spy. Already the price on your head is high. Give up this madness. Allow The Raven to disappear," his uncle argued, not for the first time.

  "I cannot do as you ask, Uncle. You, more than anyone, know of the valuable British plans to which I am privy. I must continue to pass on the information I acquire to the Continental Congress. I feel it is my duty to walk the fine line between treason and honor."

  Too many times Silas had tried to persuade his nephew to give up this dangerous game, now, as always, he met with stubborn resistance. Deep inside he was proud of his nephew, but he feared for his life. Silas knew from past failures, however, that it was useless to pursue the matter further, so he changed the subject.

  "Where is the Andromeda anchored?"

  "She's off the Jersey coast. I have found a way to add two more knots to her speed, thanks to a British ship I took as prize."

  Silas sat down, and his eyes sparkled with interest.

  The older man had only sailed on the Andromeda once, and on that occasion he had enjoyed himself enormously.

  "How was that accomplished?"

  The Raven smiled, knowing he had caught his uncle's undivided attention. "It was simple really when you stop to think about it. I had a layer of copper sheeting placed on the hull. It not only increases the Andromeda's speed, but discourages marine growth on the hull as well."

  Silas remembered the summer he had sailed to France with his nephew. It was an experience he had never forgotten; even now it stirred his sense of adventure. In a way he envied his nephew for having the courage and ability to strike at the enemy. He had a crew that had been handpicked; to a man they were loyal to The Raven.

  The Andromeda was as legendary as the dark master who sailed her. She was a privately owned vessel that had once belonged to an English merchant. Before the war, Silas' nephew had purchased her, never dreaming she would be used in battle. She was a sharp and rakish ship with long clean lines. She had been built for speed, with a sharp bow and an undercut stern, and she had then been modified by his nephew who had made her one of the fastest vessels afloat. What Silas didn't like was the bounty the British had placed on her captain's head—a reward of five thousand pounds to anyone who would provide information leading to the capture of The Raven.

  "I would have thought copper sheeting would slow her down by adding to her weight," Silas said reflectively.

  "No, not at all. In fact, the opposite is true," his nephew answered.

  Both men lapsed into silence as they stared into the crackling fire, each lost in his own thoughts. At last Silas spoke. "I have a letter for you. It was hand delivered a week ago. Although it has no return address, I suspect it's from Captain John Paul Jones."

  Silas stood up, moved to his desk, and removed the letter from the top drawer where he had placed it. He handed it to his nephew and sat down in front of the fire once more.

  The Raven broke the seal and began to read.

  "Yes, it's from John Paul," he said, scanning the letter and then tossing it into the fire. He knew it would be dangerous to leave such a letter lying around. Both men watched the hungry flames lick at the parchment. “Jones is in France waiting to be outfitted with a ship."

  Silas snorted. "He will do better getting a ship from France than from our own country. He has powerful enemies in Congress who are too blind to see Captain Jones is the best damned sea captain they have."

  The Raven nodded. "He wrote of hardships, mutiny, and petty jealousy."

  “What else does he say?"

  “He hints that if I come across someone who is of great importance to the British Crown . . . someone who could be captured and later held for ransom, it would be in our country's best interest."

  Silas leaned forward. "Good lord, in what respect would that be of any help to the United States?"

  "It seems that when our ships are captured by the enemy, the crew are imprisoned as traitors, under the most deplorable conditions. Some are even pressed into the British Navy and forced to work aboard their ships."

  "Yes, I have heard that also," Silas admitted. "But I don't see what can be gained by capturing some high English official."

  "John Paul wrote that the navy is abominably short-handed. He has been obliged to take on Spanish, French, and even Russians to man his ships. It's not being short-handed that he minds so much, but rather the cruel and inhuman treatment our sailors are receiving at the hands of the British."

  "Is he asking you to do this deed then?"

  "I believe he is . . . although he states that if he's ever asked if it was his idea, he will deny any knowledge of it."

  Silas raised his eyebrow. "Will he now, by damn. It would seem he is willing to place your head on the block and hand the enemy an ax to lob it off with!"

  The Raven laughed deeply. "It's not as bad as you may suppose, Uncle. John Paul himself tried to take the Earl of Selkirk as hostage. But on arriving at St. Mary's Isle, he found the earl to be away from home and had to abandon his plan. He says it was the most embarrassing situation he has yet had to endure."

  Silas looked at his nephew suspiciously. "Are you planning to do as the good captain suggested?" Silas asked, fearing his nephew might be considering Jones's foolish notion.

  "I don't think so, Uncle Silas. I believe John Paul's plan has merit; however, I have no stomach for kidnapping. I wouldn't be surprised if John Paul tried again to take some highborn Englishman and then demand the release of our sailors for the man's return. I would imagine all he needs is another likely candidate!"

  Silas' face eased into a smile. Can you imagine John Paul sailing all the way to St. Mary's Isle to take the earl prisoner, only to find the man away from home? Dammit, if that's what our navy has come to, I'm glad you are
n't a part of it. I'd sooner see you scuttle the Andromeda and retire her from the sea than use her in such a harebrained scheme."

  The Raven merely looked at his uncle through lowered lashes. "When America is free and we no longer have to worry about that tyrant who sits upon his throne in England, perhaps then I can retire from the sea," he stated lazily. "Until that time, we all do things that are distasteful to us."

  "You are a fool if you think this war hinges on anything you do. The war will be won or lost without your help or interference."

  The Raven nodded his head and laughed, amused by his uncle's blunt observation. "I suppose you are right, but I do what I can, however small the contribution."

  Silas looked into dancing eyes and couldn't help smiling himself. "You are a devil and you seem to thrive on causing me worry. I will no longer belittle the effort you are making on this country's behalf. Just be careful, that's all I ask of you."

  The Raven drained the brandy glass, then he stood. "I must take my leave now. I don't know when I will see you again. Watch your own health, Uncle."

  Before Silas had time to reply, The Raven had gone through the door as silently as he had entered earlier. The old man walked to the doorway and stared out into the darkened night. He wondered what new and daring adventure his nephew would attempt next, and secretly he wished he could go with him.

  3

  England—February 1779

  Lady Season Chatsworth stared at her image in the mirror. She knew she was pretty, but she had never found much satisfaction in that fact. So far, her beauty had proven to be only a curse. Of late, her hand had been sought by many titled gentlemen, yet Season still couldn't believe her father had betrothed her to the odious Earl of Ransford.

  At the tender age of nineteen, Season felt as though her life was over. She shuddered in disgust, remembering the touch of the earl's sweaty palms sliding down her arms and over her breasts. Lord Arthur Ransford was always correct and respectful when her father was present, but whenever her father left the room, Ransford would touch her in the most disgusting and intimate ways. Season remembered the feel of his wet mouth on hers and closed her eyes, trying to block the dreadful experience from her mind. She remembered the time she had escaped from him by running into the garden, only to have him follow her. He had been delighted to have her alone, and he had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. In trying to free herself, Season had bitten the earl on the lip. She had felt no guilt for having done so. Indeed, she had felt great satisfaction from drawing blood that day. Afterward, Lord Ransford had angrily declared that she wouldn't act so high and mighty once she became his wife.

  Season frowned at her image in the mirror. Her skin was creamy white and she had been blessed with high cheekbones. When she smiled, dimples appeared on either side of her cheeks. Her hair was a vibrant golden color, and when the sun struck the shiny mass, her curls came alive with red highlights. Her father had once laughingly told her that there was distant Viking blood running through her veins, thus explaining the color of her hair. Season was tall for a girl and, she thought, much too thin, but her body was appealingly curved, though very firm from the many hours she spent on horseback.

  Although Season found her eyes were too large for her face, she was pleased with their deep green color. Unlike many women with light-colored hair, Season's lashes weren't pale in color, but long and dark. They were complemented by her delicately arched brows. Her mouth was full and generous, but at the moment it trembled as she pondered her future.

  Lord Arthur Ransford was a widower who, it was rumored, had long been searching for a young wife to bear him the children his barren wife had been unable to give him. Season shuddered, remembering the earl's assurances that he could father children. He had mentioned several bastards scattered about his estates as proof of his virility.

  On many occasions Season had begged her father not to give her hand in marriage to the odious earl who, in truth, was more than ten years older than her father. On those occasions her father had raged at her, accusing her of being an ungrateful chit and declaring she should feel honored because the earl had asked for her hand. No amount of pleading on Season's part could sway her father. He was determined that his daughter would be Countess of Ransford.

  As the date for the wedding drew near, Season became almost desperate to save herself from the lecherous old man. The young girl thought that if her mother were still alive she might have taken her side in the matter, but Season's mother had been dead for twelve years. The girl had been left motherless at an early age.

  Season's father was very rarely at Chatsworth Castle. He placed great importance on his seat in The House of Lords and spent the majority of his time in London. He took very little interest in his daughter or his country estates. Season had learned long ago that she was little more than an afterthought where her father was concerned.

  The coach accident that had taken her mother's life twelve years ago had also killed Season's only brother, and since that time her father had changed from a gentle, caring man to a cold one who hardly ever smiled. He didn't seem to concern himself overmuch with the welfare of his only child. Season hadn't been to London since she was ten years old. For that matter, she'd rarely gone farther than the village at the foot of Chatsworth Castle. It appeared that her father had all but forgotten her existence.

  Season was often lonely because she had no companions of her own age. Most of the time she could be found riding her favorite black gelding, Cinibar. She spent many hours racing across the vast Chatsworth estate, her golden hair flying in the wind, Cinibar her only companion.

  Yet for all her father's disinterest in her, he hadn't neglected her education. When she had been younger he had employed a strict governess who had taught Season all the finer graces that befitted a lady of her high station, and as she had grown older, her father had engaged a tutor, a dance instructor, and a music teacher. Season now realized that her father had been grooming her for an advantageous marriage.

  Unlike most young girls her age, Season loved to read, and she spent hours pouring over the tomes in her father's vast library. Her favorite reading was poetry and romance. The Lady Season Chatsworth was a hopeless romantic. She often dreamed of a handsome young man who would carry her away with him. Yet Season knew her dreams would never be. No young gentleman had come to sweep her into his arms and declare his undying love for her, and Lord Ransford fell far short of the dashing young hero she had created in her mind. She was young and alive and couldn't stand the thought of being shut away from the world in Lord Ransford's dark castle.

  While she was growing up, Season hadn't been entirely unhappy. She had been surrounded by servants who looked after her every comfort. Indeed, she would be perfectly content to live out her days at Chatsworth Castle ... if only she could meet the man who would sweep her off her feet and fulfill her girlhood dreams.

  Two weeks ago, Season's father had sent a dressmaker from London to make her wedding trousseau, and if it weren't for the fact that she was being forced into a marriage she didn't want, she would have been elated by all the new gowns. In the past, a seamstress from the village had made all her clothing. Now her father had sent a Frenchwoman from one of the finest establishments in London to see that she was properly gowned. Season was being outfitted with evening gowns, morning gowns, riding habits, nightgowns, and robes. She had shoes to match each outfit, along with bonnets, gloves, capes, and shawls—everything a new bride would need to take to her new home... everything, except a man she chose to marry, and perhaps a kind word from her father.

  Season looked again at her reflection in the mirror. She was dressed in a simple, light blue gown with white puffed sleeves. The bodice was tightly laced across her breasts and the waist was fitted to call attention to her eighteen-inch circumference. For all her new finery, Season sometimes preferred to dress simply, especially when she was grooming her horse, Cinibar. What did it matter how she dressed, she thought, biting her lower lip. There was no
one to notice how she was gowned.

  "’Tis said, oh shame to be sacrificed for fame!" she said aloud, quoting one of her favorite poems. There was no doubt in Season's mind that she was being sacrificed by her father to the Earl of Ransford. The reason for it she could only guess. Perhaps her father wanted to be rid of the responsibility for her upkeep. In the past she had pleaded with him to take her to London so she could be presented at court, but he had refused her so often that finally she had given up asking altogether.

  It was a lonely, solitary life at Chatsworth. The young girl was never invited to attend any of the village functions, since it would be unseemly for the Lady Season Chatsworth to socialize with the locals. She sighed heavily, and reflected that she didn't seem to belong anywhere. She had grown up without benefit of family or friends.

  Pushing an unruly lock of golden hair away from her face, Season bit her lip. She had only a short time of freedom left. In three weeks she would become the wife of Lord Ransford. If only there were some way she could save herself from this marriage, she thought unhappily.

  Shaking her head, Season picked up her straw bonnet, tied it under her chin, and walked out the door of her bedroom. If nothing else, she would enjoy her last three weeks of freedom to the fullest.

  As she made her way to the stables, Season decided she would groom and curry Cinibar. Perhaps after luncheon, she would ride to Chatsworth Village. The people of the village always seemed genuinely happy to see her. They were always warm and friendly to their lord's daughter.

  Season patted Cinibar's black coat, which gleamed from the brushing she had just given him, and gazed out the stable door, allowing her eyes to move over Chatsworth Castle. The aged white brick structure was the only home she had ever known. She felt an ache deep inside, knowing she would soon be leaving it behind. The huge castle was made up of two different architectural styles: the oldest part had been constructed during William the Conquer's time, and boasted nine Norman towers; the latter wing, added in time of Henry VIII, represented the Tudor era. At one time there had been a moat surrounding the castle, but it had been filled in with earth during Season's greatgrandfather's life; he had complained of the stench that came from the foul, stagnant water. However, a huge lake was located behind the castle, and in warmer weather a large number of white swans drifted lazily over the water.