“Can you imagine the scandal the news of my return will unleash on her household?”
Will looked up at last, his expression mulish. “You told me to send for you if I thought you were needed here—by either his lordship or anyone else in your family. I truly believe Lady Davenport and her sons are in danger—some kind of danger—so I wrote to you. My lord.” The last two words were a grudging afterthought.
Hugh massaged his scarred temple, which throbbed in times of aggravation. Times like now. Aside from his instant fascination with his widowed aunt, the brouhaha his sudden reappearance would stir up was enough to make Hugh weep. Just wait until the rest of his family learned he was back; just wait until his Aunt Letitia learned he was back. Good God in Heaven. The woman was more frightening than a ship full of armed corsairs.
Hugh closed his eyes and tried to block out the scene. Was it too late to run back to the harbor, jump on his ship, and disappear again?
Chapter Three
Daphne’s maid began speaking before the door had even closed.
“Why has he come back here after all this time? Why did he wait until now to return—until after Lord Davenport died?” Rowena demanded, pacing and wringing her hands so hard Daphne could hear the joints popping from across the room. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand whom Rowena meant.
Daphne wondered the same thing herself, of course, but saw no point in admitting it.
“I can hardly put such a question to him, Rowena. Besides, why shouldn’t he come back to Lessing Hall? It was always his home. It is still his home. It is we who are trespassers here, as you well know.” Not to mention thieves and liars, she could have added. “In any case, his reasons do not alter the fact that he has returned and—”
“Do you know the name of his ship?”
Daphne blinked at the rude interruption, staring hard at the smaller woman’s reflection in the mirror as she came forward to remove her habit.
“I beg your pardon?” Rowena had been her mother’s maid and Daphne had always treated her more like an aunt or older sister, but that did not mean she would tolerate such a hostile cross-examination.
“Do you know the name of his ship, my lady?”
“The name of his ship? Why would I know which ship he returned on?” Daphne yanked out her hat pin and snatched the hat from her head before spinning to face Rowena rather than argue with her reflection in the mirror. “Why are you asking these strange questions?”
“Because his ship is the Batavia’s Ghost and he is its captain.”
Daphne stared at her servant as she tried to make sense of her words. She could not have heard her correctly. “Batavia’s Ghost?”
“Yes.”
“But that is—”
Rowena nodded grimly. “Aye, Batavia’s Ghost is One-Eyed Standish’s ship.”
Daphne laughed. “You have been terribly misinformed. Just because Lord Ramsay has only one eye does not—”
“They are speaking of nothing else in the servants’ hall.”
“I’m not sure you should—”
Rowena grabbed Daphne’s arm, her hand like a small iron claw. “One-eyed Standish and Hugh Redvers are the same man. He is the King’s Privateer, my lady.”
Daphne only stared.
Her silence seemed to enflame the older woman, whose dark eyes burned like a zealot’s. “The man is a monster—that’s why Lord Davenport sent him away all those years ago. And now he will be seventeen years to the worse. There is no telling what mischief he will make. No good can come of his return, my lady. He will learn the truth about the boys and he will ruin everything we have worked so hard for.” The older woman’s chest was rising and falling in shallow, rapid gasps and spittle flew from her mouth. “You cannot let him stay at Lessing Hall—you cannot. He must leave—anywhere but here. He is—”
“Stop it, Rowena!”
The hatred on the older woman’s face made Daphne’s flesh crawl and she yanked her arm away from her grasp. “What is wrong with you? Do you think I could steal everything that is his and then deny him shelter under his own roof? Of course he must stay here and of course I will tell him the truth. I simply need some time to find the best way to approach it all.” These last words were more for herself than her servant.
Rowena grabbed Daphne again when she tried to turn away. “You do not understand. You were only a girl when Hugh Redvers left. He was a hellion—the very Devil himself—good for nothing but gambling, fighting, and whoring. He did wicked, wicked things—unspeakable things that got him sent away from that fancy school. Things that went far beyond boyish misadventures—he was bad . . . evil. As soon as he came back to Lessing Hall in disgrace, he killed one of the earl’s horses and got Meg Standish with child and abandoned her.”
Daphne gaped.
“Aye, you can look at me that way, but it is true—Meg and more than a few others. The countryside is littered with his blond, green-eyed bastards. And now he is the Devil with decades of experience—” She squinted at Daphne’s riding coat. “My God! There are two buttons missing and—Is this blood?” Her voice leaped at least two octaves and her dark brown eyes flickered up and down Daphne’s person, finally seeing her.
“It is not my blood; it is Malcolm’s,” Daphne said absently, stunned by Rowena’s tirade.
The flush that had colored Rowena’s cheeks drained from her thin face. “Malcolm? What happened? Did he—”
Daphne grabbed her shoulders. “Rowena, stop. You cannot behave this way every time Malcolm’s name is mentioned or you will most certainly expose me.”
“What happened, my lady?” she persisted.
“Malcolm approached me when the boys and Caswell went down to the stream. He tried to . . . engage me.”
Rowena sucked in a breath. “He must have been watching for you. Watching the house and waiting. He’s probably been waiting for his chance ever since the earl died.”
“We can’t know that,” Daphne protested, although she suspected Rowena spoke the truth.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, I hurt him. I . . . hit him.” Daphne’s face warmed with a combination of embarrassment and pride at the memory of his bleeding face.
“You hit him?”
Daphne turned to the mirror so the overwrought woman might finish the task of undressing her. “Yes, I hit him in the face with my forehead. I might have broken his nose—that is where the blood is from. And then Lord Ramsay showed up and Malcolm departed.” Daphne left it at that. After all, what good would it do to tell her hysterical servant about the blackmail demands Malcolm had made before she broke his nose?
She shuddered to imagine Rowena’s response if the older woman learned Malcolm threatened to disclose he was the real father of her children if she did not agree to marry him. Or that he would give Daphne time to think about it but the delay would cost her £1,000.
Most especially, she could not tell Rowena how Malcolm had grabbed her, telling her he was going to give Lucien and Richard a little brother or sister to ensure Daphne made the right decision. Daphne’s reflection smiled grimly back at her; that’s when she’d head-butted him. Breaking his nose hadn’t made up for the last time Malcolm had touched her, but then, what could ever do that?
She met Rowena’s gaze in the glass.
The older woman’s face was rigid with terror. “I can guess why Malcolm was there, but why was Hugh Redvers looking for you? What on earth does he want, my lady—what? Why has he returned after all these years?”
Daphne couldn’t blame her servant for putting the question into words. Why had he returned after an absence of almost two decades? More importantly, what had he seen and heard today?
* * *
By the time Hugh was able to seek refuge in his chambers, Kemal was already there, fussing with Hugh’s clothing and muttering to himself about imperfections visible only to himself. Kemal might have come to valeting late in life, but he’d taken to his position with a vengeance.
Mr. Bosw
ell was moving around inside his wooden house, which was a perfect miniature of Hugh’s house in Shanghai. Horace and Horatia, the two shar-pei pups, were nestled together on a large velvet cushion.
Only the Great Sou’wester registered Hugh’s entrance. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” The bird followed the order with maniacal laughter.
“I should have left that vile bird on the Ghost,” Hugh muttered.
Kemal ignored the comment and began a minute inspection of Hugh’s clothing while it was still on his person.
“Kemal—” Hugh began, too fatigued to tolerate the man’s obsessive ministrations.
Kemal dropped his hands. “I will shave you while your bath is filled, Captain.”
“Excellent.” Hugh thought back on the day as Kemal pulled off his boots.
The excitement the Batavia’s Ghost had generated when it approached the harbor would have been comical had it not almost led to its sinking by the local constabulary, a nervous and rather inexperienced group inclined to fire first and ask questions later. The excisemen who minded this part of the coastline had never before encountered such a famous vessel and had remained skeptical even after viewing the Ghost’s letter of marque. It had taken Hugh’s impressive collection of endorsements to convince them, one such letter written and signed by Admiral Nelson himself.
It had been the admiral who’d convinced Hugh to pursue a career as a privateer.
Hugh had been engaged in a spot of smuggling the first time he’d encountered Nelson’s ship, the Agamemnon, fleeing a French squadron. Recognizing a countryman in distress, Hugh had distracted the lead French vessel with his cannon before turning tail and barely escaping the skirmish himself. His actions had been enough to allow Nelson to escape and fight another day.
A few months later Hugh had met Nelson in Tunis, where the story of Hugh’s escape preceded Hugh like a sirocco.
Nelson had shown his gratitude with documents to ease Hugh’s way in difficult situations and also to assist him in acquiring his letter of marque for the Ghost. The famous admiral was the first to thank him—and also the one who would christen Hugh the King’s Privateer—but over the years many other members of the British Navy, from humble seamen to the head of the navy, had come to appreciate the Batavia’s Ghost and its one-eyed captain.
Hugh slipped into one of his gaudier robes, an emerald-green and gold affair that had been a gift from his mistress in New Orleans. He pulled off his eye patch and tossed it onto the dressing room table, taking a seat in front of the glass while Kemal prepared to shave him.
He sighed as he studied his battered and scarred reflection; he looked old—and he felt even older. Light glinted off the razor as Kemal stropped it, reminding Hugh of another, equally sharp blade that had cleaved his eye neatly in half fifteen years ago. Only the fact that his eyes had been open when the blade fell had saved the eyelid; a blessing he hadn’t appreciated until sometime later. Hugh knew he should count his blessings that all he’d lost was one eye, but he still felt rage when he looked at the scar: rage at the men who’d done this to him. Hugh had killed five of those men, but the last one—the worst one—was still living and breathing when so many far better men were not. The scar ached at the thought, just like it always did; just like it would until Hugh put an end to it all.
But that would need to wait. First he would have to look into the matter of Will’s threatening letters.
A lovely face floated into his mind. The countess’s distant, untouchable beauty and eminently touchable body would have been hard enough to resist. But the severe looks she’d given him whenever he teased her had guaranteed his interest.
“Captain?”
Hugh blinked and looked in the mirror. Kemal had finished shaving him while he’d fantasized about his nubile young aunt.
He stood, shrugged off his robe, and went to the gray-and-white marble bathing chamber, where steaming water awaited. Joints popped and muscles ached as he lowered himself into the extra-long tub, a vessel which had been constructed for Hugh’s grandfather, a man who’d been even taller than Hugh. He lay back and let his mind drift as he soaked, guiding his thoughts away from his alluring aunt back to this past journey.
Hugh had been on his way to England in response to Will’s letter when he’d received an urgent message from a woman he hadn’t spoken to since before his escape from Sultan Babba Hassan.
The woman had been a girl the last time Hugh saw her— only fourteen when she’d been given to the sultan by Faisal Barbarossa, the notorious corsair captain who’d captured her, Hugh, and dozens of others. Even now the memory of that day was agony. The girl had cried as if her heart were breaking as they dragged her away. Foolishly, Hugh had gone after her and Barbarossa’s men had grabbed him and whipped him bloody for his useless efforts.
Hugh had put her from his mind over the next two years, afraid he’d go mad if he thought about her life in the sultan’s harem—only a stone’s throw from where he labored every day under the overseer’s lash. But he had never forgotten her and had risked everything to send her a message when he planned his escape. She had never replied.
Until now. Somehow she had managed to survive seventeen years in the sultan’s palace. But it appeared her luck had finally run out and she was in terrible danger. The message had been emphatic: Hugh must come to Oran immediately.
Had it not been for Will Standish’s urgency, Hugh would have gone to Oran himself. But Will’s missive had been almost frantic, so Hugh had deposited three of his best men in Gran Canaria with instructions to hire the next ship headed for the Mediterranean. Once they reached Oran, the men were to find the woman and her son and keep them safe until the Batavia’s Ghost returned for them.
Hugh soaped the mass of scars that ran up his left arm and across his chest while he considered his ship’s next journey—a journey that would have to take place without Hugh. Now that he’d returned to England he might as well stay and get to the bottom of the threatening letters. He had already taken steps to have the Ghost ready to leave quickly—perhaps even on tomorrow’s tide, with his first mate at the helm. Hugh wanted to send the Ghost on its way before word of his return reached the ears of newspapermen and turned Eastbourne into a circus. He grimaced. That powder keg would explode sooner rather than later and Hugh would need to be here to put out the flames when it did.
Hugh considered the two letters Will had shown him. As of right now, the first and only person on his list of suspects was Malcolm Hastings. Hugh didn’t know if Hastings was the source of the letters, the reason for the warning letters, or another threat altogether, but he would certainly find out.
He lowered his torso into the tub and sluiced away the soap. He didn’t like sending the Ghost into danger without him, but he also couldn’t dismiss Will’s concerns out of hand and leave Lessing Hall without looking into the matter.
Hugh snorted. Not that he could stay in good conscience, either; at least not if he had to fight his urges to bed the beautiful widow every step of the way.
Chapter Four
Daphne spent the remainder of the day seeing to the myriad housekeeping matters Hugh’s arrival engendered. As a result, she returned to her chambers with less than an hour to rest, wash, and change for dinner.
She was certain the gown Rowena had selected for the evening was the most unattractive item of clothing in her wardrobe—perhaps in existence. Daphne had always allowed her maid to choose her clothing because such matters were of no concern to her. But even Daphne, with her utter lack of fashion knowledge, could see the drab gray dress was spectacularly ugly.
For a moment she considered reminding her maid she was out of mourning and ordering her to select another gown. Ultimately, however, she decided she was in no mood to engage in a second argument with her emotional servant.
Besides, it annoyed her that she was even entertaining thoughts of dresses. She’d always despised frivolous matters such as clothing and fashion.
It annoyed her still more that the rea
son behind her sudden interest in clothing—all six-and-a-half feet of him—was a man who would never notice a tall, matronly, and bespectacled woman like herself.
And it especially annoyed her that her body’s response to his potent masculinity had been so immediate and almost overwhelming.
She told herself that women far more sophisticated than she probably wouldn’t remain unaffected in such a man’s presence. But that didn’t help her humor.
It wasn’t just his gorgeous exterior—which was bad enough—it was the confidence, danger, and sheer animal magnetism he exuded.
And then there was the fact he was One-Eyed Standish.
Daphne rolled her eyes; he was a pirate, for pity’s sake. And not just any pirate, he was the pirate. Well, if one were to be precise—and precision was a characteristic Daphne valued highly—the man was not in truth a pirate but a privateer. A pirate with the King’s blessing, in other words. The very same man all of Britain referred to as the King’s Privateer.
It was beyond fantastic that her very proper husband’s nephew would turn out to be none other than One-Eyed Standish, the scourge of corsairs and French sailors everywhere. What would Thomas have said about his nephew’s return? What would he have thought about his normally prosaic young wife’s immediate attraction to a man who was a consummate rake and scoundrel? Daphne had to smile at the thought. Thomas had possessed a finely honed sense of the absurd—as did Hugh Redvers, although he took no pains to hide it as her staid, elderly husband had done.
One thing Daphne knew for certain was that close proximity to Hugh—living in the same house with him—would lead to danger. And most likely humiliation.
But what else could she do? Disclose the truth about her sons at the dinner table tonight and leave before morning? And go where? How would they live? Would she have to tuck the twins away in the decaying house in Yorkshire—the only piece of property she truly owned?
She had her jointure, so there would be enough money to scratch out a humble existence. But what kind of life would her sons have in the aftermath of such scandal? And what if Hugh Redvers was the kind of man who wanted retribution?
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