by Darcy Burke
He knew better now. There was no such thing as forever.
Even Daphne had changed. He could hardly believe she was twice as old as the last time he’d seen her. Twice as beautiful. She might not want a husband, but he was frankly surprised she didn’t already have one. She was young and smart. Whole. Happy.
Any man would be lucky to have her.
It was Bartholomew’s duty to keep her safe until she found that man. The right man. Not some degenerate her privateer guardian had flung up from the sea. She needed to marry a husband she desired. A man who deserved her. But until then…
“Now that I’m here, I’d like a word with your new guardian.” He smiled at Daphne and proffered his arm. “Shall we?”
She placed her fingers in the crook of his elbow without the slightest hesitation.
His bravado cracked. If only she knew what a piss-poor hero he made. He’d ruined his life. Broken his parents’ hearts. Failed to save his brother.
The people in Bartholomew’s orbit never escaped unscathed. If the pirate wanted to fight, it would lead to his own destruction. Bartholomew’s expression hardened. So be it.
As long as nothing happened to Daphne. He glanced down at her and smiled.
Her hair was the same red-gold he remembered, but longer and thicker. Despite being coiled to her head in some sort of no-nonsense coif, stray ringlets framed her face like little curls of sunshine.
Most of the freckles had faded from her once-plump apple cheeks, leaving high cheekbones and a roses-and-cream complexion… save for a smudge of ink across the bridge of her nose. Her hair and skin smelled of lilacs. He liked the scent.
He supposed she’d grown taller, but so had he. The top of her head barely crested his shoulders. She’d always been petite, but the scant width of her waist and slenderness of her arms made him wonder if she was getting enough to eat. Was Captain Steele too tightfisted or too ignorant to properly care for a ward?
Or was Daphne still getting lost in her own worlds and forgetting to eat?
His eyes kept straying back to her. Her air and mannerisms were no longer that of a child, but of a grown woman. Her voice was huskier, her stride accented by the swing of the hips.
Ten years could do that. He couldn’t believe he’d missed the transformation.
His jaw clenched. If he’d come home once in a while, he might have noticed sooner. Should have noticed sooner.
He couldn’t even count all the things he wished he’d done differently.
Perhaps, if he’d been less self-centered—if he’d been the good twin instead of trying so hard to be the best—he’d have a woman like this on his arm for a reason other than a faux betrothal.
He’d have been selected because he was a worthy suitor, not because he was so laughable a choice that it hadn’t even crossed her mind to wonder if he already had a paramour.
Perhaps Daphne had assumed he was unattached simply because he’d never been attached. Lord knew he’d never tried to cultivate a lasting relationship. The beauty of being a rake was that one wasn’t required to call with flowers the next day. After the night was through, he was never expected to do anything at all. That was how he liked it.
At least, that’s what gentlemen of a certain background were expected to like.
If being a Corinthian and a rake were half as fulfilling as he’d always pretended they were, maybe he wouldn’t have run off to war in search of something more. He’d still have his brother. The love of his family. And his leg.
Daphne hadn’t said a word, but she wasn’t blind or deaf. Bartholomew couldn’t help wincing at the clapping sound his hand-carved foot made every time it snapped back into place. It shamed him. Everything about his misshapen body shamed him. There was no way to hide it.
Daphne paused a few feet from a familiar doorway.
He swung his head to face her. “Your father’s office? Captain Steele has taken over your father’s study?”
“It is a small home,” she replied quietly, shoulders stiff. “There is nowhere else for him to be. The other gentlemen are in the main parlor.”
Bartholomew clenched his jaw to keep from responding. There might not be much space, but what there was had belonged to her father. The vicar had only passed recently. Daphne was still in mourning clothes.
“What happened?” he asked, then immediately wished to kick himself. Using his false foot, so it would hurt more. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t ask questions, that he would let her grieve and decide whether or not she wished to discuss her loss at her own pace, without any bullish interrogations from—
“Apoplexy,” she said softly. “At least, that’s what we think. He was upright one minute and prone the next. He never got back up.” She shuddered. “’Twas over in moments.”
Bartholomew nodded. It sounded dreadful. His heart ached for her.
He wished he had the right words. He knew from experience there weren’t any. There was nothing a friend could say, nothing anyone could do. Not when you were praying for an impossible miracle. Time could not be turned back. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t want to mention…”
“Edmund.” Bartholomew’s throat dried. She’d been doing the same thing he was. Trying to leave painful subjects alone. Yet they were impossible to ignore. Captain Steele didn’t belong in her father’s study any more than this blank empty space belonged at Bartholomew’s side. Was it as strange for her to see him like this? He wasn’t certain Daphne had ever glimpsed either twin without the other. “We’re easy to tell apart now. I’m the one with the wooden leg. He’s the one who’s dead.”
Her face jerked up at him, her eyes wide with shock.
“Forgive me,” he muttered and glanced away.
He was always saying the wrong thing these days. He couldn’t stifle his words, although they weren’t funny to him, either. They burst out of his mouth on their own. His jokes were awful because they were true. They were all he had left. A nervous tic, he supposed. Or a subconscious attempt to poke fun at himself before anyone else could beat him to it.
“Well, Miss Vaughan?” came a languid drawl from somewhere within the vicar’s study. “Are you going to whisper in the corridor all evening, or are you going to introduce me to our newest guest?”
Bartholomew raised his brows at Daphne. When she nodded, they walked into the study side by side.
A tall, slender man with a scar across his left temple and slight salt-and-pepper in his stubble leaned against the vicar’s old desk.
The infamous Captain Steele.
He was more compact than Bartholomew had expected. More lithe. The captain’s sleekly muscled frame and all-black ensemble gave the man more an air of a panther than that of a pirate. Yet there could be no doubt as to his identity.
“Blackheart.”
The blackguard smiled winningly. “That’s ‘Captain’ to you, I’m afraid. My darling ward refuses to allow ‘savage’ nicknames in her father’s home.”
Daphne’s fingers tightened around Bartholomew’s elbow. She flashed him a tense smile. “This is my guardian, Captain Gregory Steele. Captain Steele, this is the first and only man who ever stole my heart—Major Bartholomew Blackpool.”
Captain Steele smiled like a shark that tasted blood. “Well, damn me.”
Daphne flinched, but held her tongue… and held fast to Bartholomew’s arm.
Bartholomew didn’t take his eyes from the captain.
Steele leaned back against the desk. “Major Blackpool. The King’s Army, I presume?”
Bartholomew inclined his head in silence. He had no interest in engaging in idle chitchat.
“I’ve nothing but respect for men who fought on the front lines,” the captain continued. “Me, I did all my fighting from my ship. Took care of things with some well-aimed cannon fire.” Another shark smile curved his lips. “Run into any cannon fire abroad?”
Daphne jerked up straight. “Of all the inconsiderate�
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“Shh.” Bartholomew hauled her to his side and curled his arm about her waist. Her muscles were tense with anxiety. He raised his cold gaze to the pirate. “Mock my injury all you like. You can’t hurt me and you won’t hurt Daphne.”
Steele’s eyes widened in injured innocence. “I’ve no wish to hurt our darling girl. Only to see her happily married. Isn’t that what guardians do?”
“Happily married,” Bartholomew ground out, “means you cannot force her.”
“Who’s forcing her? I’m just… recommending strongly.” Steele shrugged. “As you said, one cannot force a chit into wedlock.”
“She said you threatened her with an asylum.”
“Oh, yes. I can certainly follow through on that.” Captain Steele bared his teeth. “If the lady wishes.”
Bartholomew ground his jaw. “You’d commit her on what grounds?”
“On the grounds that she’s a raving lunatic.”
Daphne stiffened. “I’m nothing of the sort!”
The pirate chuckled. “You believe yourself to be multiple people. Last I checked, that’s called ‘madness.’”
“I’m Daphne Vaughan and no one else,” she said hotly, her hands curling into fists.
Captain Steele leaned back and brandished a handful of letters. “Then explain these.”
Her mouth fell open. “You stole my correspondence?”
“I waylaid it temporarily.” He flipped through the pile. “Either you believe yourself to be Mr. Caldwell, Mr. Baker, and Mr. Smith, or you’re purposely and fraudulently attempting to bamboozle… Parliament, is it? What do you think, Major Blackpool? Is our girl bound for Bedlam or the Fleet Prison?”
Good Lord. Bartholomew sent her a sharp look.
She flushed and reached for the letters.
Captain Steele held them out of reach. “Right fortunate she is to have me for a guardian and not some upstanding, moral sort of chap who gives a fig about fraud. I’ve no intention to turn her in. I intend to marry her off.”
Bartholomew considered him carefully. “Why bother?”
“Pirates mind ships. They don’t chase after wards. I set sail a week from Sunday, and I expect to have the matter settled before I go. The contract will be signed by Saturday night, and the first banns read Sunday morning.”
Bartholomew frowned. “You’re not staying for the wedding?”
“Yes, yes, it won’t be the same without me present. She’ll just have to make do. I’ve an extremely lucrative… project that I cannot reschedule. I’ll return in a month’s time.” Captain Steele smiled cheerfully. “If she’s not married when I do, it’s off to Bedlam for her.”
“You are heartless.” Daphne’s voice shook with rage.
“I am more than fair. I’ve given you a choice in the matter. If you or your future fiancé make the wrong decision, how are the consequences my fault? You will have chosen your fates.”
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. Although he couldn’t deny Steele’s ruthlessness, the pirate was no doubt exaggerating his reach. “I suppose you’re powerful enough to send the fiancé to Bedlam as well?”
“Newgate,” Captain Steele corrected, flashing his teeth. “Sanitarium for her, prison for him.”
Daphne sucked in a breath. “You said you wouldn’t turn anyone in to the courts!”
“I said I wouldn’t do that to you, love. Any so-called gentleman who breaks a solemn vow with Blackheart, however, gets prison rot in Newgate or impaled upon my sword. His choice.”
Her face went ashen. “You’re a monster!”
Steele tipped his hat. “At your service. Until Saturday, that is. Unless you’ve already chosen? Is your gentleman friend here to make me an offer?”
“We…” The look in her eyes wasn’t as confident as before. Bartholomew didn’t blame her. The threat of institutionalization was credible. So was the threat of prison. “I’m not certain.”
Captain Steele tapped Daphne on the nose. “As your guardian, I will exert final approval. Choose wisely, or I shall choose for you.”
“I need a moment alone with Major Blackpool,” she said tightly.
“Like that, is it? You can have a moment alone with all the gentlemen you wish. Try before you buy, as they say. You’re a clever one, all right.” He rose from behind the desk and swaggered from the room.
Daphne turned to Bartholomew with tears in her eyes. “This is a disaster.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said simply.
She shook her head. “I can’t let him send you to Newgate for breach of contract.”
Nor would he. Bartholomew made his decision. “If I go, he goes, too. Fraud is illegal, but so is coercion into an unwanted marriage. It must be bluster.”
“Are you willing to risk the point of his sword on it?”
“I’d like to see him try.” He belatedly recalled he was no longer light on his feet. Even a child could beat him at fencing now. “What did he mean about final approval?”
“He doesn’t trust my judgment.” Her cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin. “It’s my charity work. He says a young lady like me is meant for ballrooms and ices, not playing nursemaid in the rookeries, and he intends to pair me with a man who can keep me in line.”
To his chagrin, Bartholomew didn’t completely disagree. But it was not his decision. “There is a chance Captain Steele won’t let me sign a marriage contract?”
She gazed up at him in wonder. “You still wish to?”
Save her from an unwanted betrothal? Yes. Help her to ruin her life? No. “I won’t let him send you to prison or Bedlam, but I need to understand what I’m getting myself into.”
“Then you’ll need to see what I’m fighting for. Why it is of utmost importance that I remain unwed.” She scooped up her letters. “Come with me.”
FIVE
Daphne’s heart thumped as she led Bartholomew Blackpool to her bedchamber.
The last time she’d been anywhere near him, she’d been too young to think of boys as anything more than vexing playmates. Ten years later, they were both older and wiser—but there could still be nothing between them. No matter how handsome and heroic he might be.
She needed to continue her charity work. It was all she had left.
When she was a child, she’d thrown herself into charity work to gain her father’s approval. It hadn’t worked. She never managed to hold his attention at all.
The parishioners, however, appreciated her little kindnesses. They might forget the incident—and her—in a fortnight or two. But first, for a few scant hours, she was important to their lives.
That was the moment that had changed everything. The moment she realized if she couldn’t be wanted, she could be needed. If not by her father, then by the hundreds of thousands of people throughout England who didn’t have food to eat or clothes to wear.
Fear twisted her stomach as they approached her bedchamber door.
What if Bartholomew didn’t understand her need to help others? To matter? What if he refused to take part in her charade after all?
Now that she’d built her life around charity work, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Not only would it be selfish to choose marriage over the masses, she wouldn’t be able to live with the shame of abandoning so many worthy causes. Men. Women. Families.
Dedicating her life to the common good and dedicating her life to the will of a husband were mutually exclusive and irreconcilable. She’d chosen the path that would help the most people. For Bartholomew to risk Newgate to help her, however, she’d have to prove to him it was the right path.
Which meant inviting him into her bedchamber. Yet she was terrified to do so.
The wheezing rattle in her too-tight lungs, the appalling tremble in her ice-cold fingers, the fear that flooded her whirling brain until she couldn’t even think—that was because she dreaded letting him see that her bedchamber was actually her office. Her center of operations. Her biggest, deepest secret. There would be no going back.
She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob.
The documents, correspondence, and figures piled upon her escritoire and papering her walls were how she tracked the many worthy causes lacking a champion, lacking a focus, or lacking results. She applied herself to every one of them. Sending letters. Rifling through ledgers. Recruiting help. Marking progress.
She never threw anything away. One never knew when it might be the key to saving a life. Sometimes it took days to find this precise figure or that specific newspaper reference, but they were all right here within her grasp. Somewhere.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
To the untrained eye, well… Captain Steele was right. She no doubt looked positively mad.
To his credit, Bartholomew refrained from pointing out the similarity.
“Interesting,” was all he said aloud. “And here I thought debutantes preferred decorating with pastels and flowers. I burned some letters this very morning that I could’ve brought to add to your collection.”
She cuffed his arm. Some of the tension finally seeped from her shoulders. This was Bartholomew. He would help her, not judge her. Nothing would have to change. Her work could continue.
Her life would matter.
She stepped into the center of the room. “I said I was a crusader. These are my causes. I’m married to every one of them.” She traced her fingers along the clippings covering her walls. “Wheat farmers. Weavers. Miners. Workhouses. Orphans. Apothecaries.”
“Apothecaries?” His brow creased. “If you’re referring to the act prohibiting unlicensed medical practitioners, wasn’t that passed last year?”
“Formal qualifications and compulsory apprenticeship are a wonderful first step, but training and methodology is still wildly unpredictable and, in far too many cases, deadly.” She paused and tilted her head to study him more closely. “I’m surprised you’ve heard about it.”
“Because I’d been at war, or because you doubted I knew how to read?” he asked dryly. “Something about spending months in bed waiting to see if an amputated leg will heal gives one a new appreciation for passing time with the written word.”