The Ravishing One

by Connie Brockway

  A few minutes had passed when a shadow filled the sitting room door. Only one person would have the temerity to arrive in her home unannounced.

  “Hello, Father,” Fia said, finishing a stitch. Every muscle in her body tensed with anticipation. She’d been waiting for this visit for a long, long time. She forced herself to relax, taking whatever time was necessary to search the cool, tough persona she’d worn so long for any egress. Finding none, she lifted her head.

  “Can I help you?”

  Her father, resplendent as always in an embroidered copper-colored waistcoat and a blue jacket, idly perused the room. He lifted his silver-topped walking stick and pointed at Kay. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “What is that boy doing here?”

  She glanced in Kay’s direction, allowed a hint of surprise to touch her features, as though she’d forgotten him. “Oh. That’s Kay. MacFarlane’s boy.”

  Kay rose hurriedly to his feet, his expression openly interested.

  No, Kay, she silently begged him. Don’t make him take note of you.

  “Oh?” Carr murmured. “MacFarlane’s heir, eh?”

  “One of two, actually,” Fia said in bored tones. “The other’s a girl. She’s at school.”

  “You can afford to keep her at school?”

  “Well, the alternative is to have her here,” Fia explained smoothly. “And while society is lenient and my suitors hardly sticklers, I do think they might take exception to me tossing MacFarlane’s children out on the streets. Don’t you?”

  Carr considered the matter. “Perhaps. But why is he here, then?”

  “He’s leaving,” Fia answered. “In fact, right now. Go away, Kay.”

  Kay’s cheeks grew ruddy. His youth and embarrassment made him graceless. He executed a short, awkward bow, and hurried from the room.

  Fia watched him go impassively. He’d survive the assault to his dignity. He might even thrive if Carr could find no use for him—say, as a bit of leverage to induce his daughter to do his bidding. But then, for Carr to suspect she held the boy in any sort of regard would presuppose Carr to have imagination as well as heart. No, Kay was safe. Unless something betrayed her feelings.

  “Won’t you be seated?” she said after Kay had gone. “Tell me, to what do I owe this visit? You pine for my company, perhaps?”

  “If that’s the sort of banal sarcasm you try to pass off as wit, ’tis no wonder you are surrounded by such common men.”

  “And here I’d thought there was another reason entirely,” Fia said smoothly. “And one having nothing to do with … wit.”

  Carr’s lips twisted. “You haven’t learned a bit of humility, Fia.”

  He moved across the room, the slight limp he’d acquired on escaping Wanton’s Blush barely noticeable as he made his way to a nearby chair. Once seated, he placed his cane across his lap. “I have come to tell you that I know what you are doing and I shan’t allow it.”

  “What I am doing,” she repeated.

  “Let me save us some time. I know that you have inveigled Captain James Barton into a partnership wherein you purchase cargo, insure it at twice its value, and have it loaded on one of his ships.”

  He held up one well-manicured hand, forestalling her denial.

  “Captain Barton then scuttles his ship, collecting on whatever value it has, while you collect the insured value of the cargo.” He turned his hand over, inviting comment. She obliged.

  “But what a delightfully artful plan,” she said. “I only wish I had thought of it myself.”

  “You did,” Carr said. “I have looked into the matter extensively. You have been, I will allow, clever. And careful. I could find little concrete information. But plenty that is suggestive.

  “So much, in fact, that when tallied, the sum of the various particulars I have uncovered leave but one explanation, the one I have already told you and which you already know.”

  She raised her brows. “You have suspicions but, by your own word, nothing else. Certainly nothing you can use as—what is that fanciful term you have for extortion? Oh yes—impetus. And that being so, tell me, Father, exactly why are we having this conversation?”

  Carr pursed his lips. “Just because I am unable to blackmail your … friend does not mean you are free to do as you wish.

  “You still have no home, Fia. And no money. You have nothing of your own except the very nice gifts with which Captain Barton has been attempting to buy his way into your bed. Ah, yes. I know all about that necklace and the ring and the paintings. Sell them all and you’ll be able to live for less than half a year in the style you currently enjoy.”

  She allowed him to see her tense, just a little. His smile spread thinly across his face.

  “Ah, you wouldn’t like that, would you? No. I didn’t think so. Really, Fia,” he drawled, “while your enterprising partnership with Barton might eventually have brought you within eyeshot of being independent, did you think I’d allow it?

  “You, Fia my dear, will marry who and when and where I say. You are not independent. Not now. Not soon.” He feigned a pout and shook his head. “Not ever, I’m afraid.”

  She voided her expression of anything resembling emotion. “What do you want?”

  He smiled. “Ah! Finally. I feel so much better when there’s real understanding between us, don’t you?” Abruptly his smile, too, vanished. He simply removed it. “I want in. I want your portion. Your share in the partnership.”

  She waited half a heartbeat, then invested the smallest hint of anger into her voice. “I can’t do that.”

  “I truly hope for your sake you are wrong. Did you know the Marquis of Mannett has been asking after you? An unprepossessing-looking man, what with the gout and those open ulcers, but I am sure—well, relatively hopeful at any event—that they are not caused by the French pox, as is rumored. Ugly things, rumors.”

  “You can’t make me marry him,” she said, breathing heavily.

  “No. But I can make sure you don’t marry anyone else. By any means necessary.” His eyes were as flat and unfeeling as a dead man’s. She shivered, this time for real.

  “I can’t, I tell you—” She broke off abruptly. Took a deep breath. It was imperative she not overplay her hand. “As you yourself noted, Captain Barton has been most careful. There is no evidence. Nothing to use to pressure him into letting you in on the arrangements.”

  His gaze met and held hers. “You underestimate yourself, Fia. So unlike you.”

  She met his reptilian stare with one equal to his in blankness. “Are you suggesting I trade my favors for your share?”

  If the idea repelled him, he did not show it. Instead, he merely tipped his head back and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “No. I know Barton’s sort. Romantical. As clean-cut a business transaction as that would only give him a disgust of you. No, he’ll have to be wooed. He’ll have to be made to think that in taking me on he’s winning you.”

  “Impossible,” Fia said. So close now. She must be smart. Take her time. Lead him to it. “Everyone knows I hold you in contempt.”

  Again, what naturally would have hurt a father caused not a ripple of disconcert in her sire. “True,” Carr said. “So, you’ll have to find another way.”

  She tapped her fingers lightly against the arm of her chair. Narrowed her eyes as though concentrating. “He’ll need to be offered something he thinks I want. Something he’ll feel will win my capitulation.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I don’t know. Something he’ll think I’ll find irresistible. Something grand enough to make the risk of taking you on as a partner seem worth the obvious drawbacks.” Her smile was humorless. “Though I doubt he’d know enough to ask for the Crown Jewels.”

  “Most amusing. Think.”

  “I don’t know—Wait. Bramble House.”

  “What?” Carr leaned forward. “MacFarlane’s farmhouse? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yes. I know.” Not too much now. A subtle mixture
of truth and deception. Hadn’t he taught her that? “Barton is always carrying on about ‘the pleasures of rural living.’ I have fostered his belief that we share the same feelings about the countryside. He might think to buy it as our love nest. He might think it just the thing to win my favor. And he would like to own it anyway. He’s spoken of wanting to acquire land.”

  Carr was watching her carefully. “Perhaps,” he finally muttered. “After all, I have nothing else on this man, do I?”

  “Not as far as I know,” she said coolly. “But then, you have never let me see your assemblage of ‘leverage materials.’ ”

  It was the power base from which Carr worked, an accumulation of deeds, mortgages, promissory notes, indiscreet letters, and stolen church records. She’d seen them once, neatly bundled and hidden in Carr’s library at Wanton’s Blush. She’d long suspected that Carr had been scarred retrieving them. Too bad they hadn’t burned. Along with him.

  “And never will, my dear.” He dropped the silver tip of his cane to the floor and pushed himself erect. “Perhaps you ought to stay away from Barton for a while.”

  She blinked at this unexpected suggestion. “But why?”

  “Oh, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ that sort of nonsense. ’Twill make Barton more avid to make you his. An anxious man is a willing dupe.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Carr sighed heavily. “Must we always end our conversations with one of your tiresome assertions of autonomy? Just do as I say, Fia.”

  She did not reply, neither did she rise, nor bid him good-bye when he left. It would be out of character. She set down her needlework. It had gone well. Now all that was needed was for James to play his part.

  Lord Carr exited the town house and waved his carriage off. He wanted to walk tonight. He felt wonderful, so wonderful, in fact, that when he saw Janet peeking out of an upper-story window, he bowed chivalrously and kissed his fingertips to her. She disappeared, and he laughed, a full-blown booming sound.

  Dear Fia! Who would have guessed she would be so entertaining? And she’d done it so well, damned if she hadn’t. His chest swelled with paternal pride. If she’d been pitting herself against anyone but him she might well have ended up with Bramble House.

  But she had pitted herself against him. He shook his head, chuckling fondly. Unfortunately for Fia, he hadn’t forgotten the reason she’d eloped with that disastrous toad-eating Scotsman or that she’d willingly stayed in that horrible little hamlet for all the years of her marriage, proof that she would do anything—yes, anything—to be out from under his power.

  This is how she’d planned to regain her freedom, by having him sign over that rude little manor to a man who would then hand it to her.

  Oh, Fia! He dabbed at his eyes. Doubtless she thought he would have no choice but to sign over her little farm if he wanted in on the Barton and Donne Shipping Line’s insurance ploy. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t need to.

  For while ’twas true he didn’t have anything on James Barton, he most certainly had something on Barton’s partner, Thomas Donne. Or rather, Thomas McClairen.

  Chapter 9

  Trading our routes is the most sensible solution.” Thomas stretched out his legs. He cupped the balloon-shaped brandy snifter in his hand, heating the amber fluid with his palm.

  On the other side of the fire, James Barton sat in repose. It was one of the few nights James hadn’t left the house to trail after Fia like a faithful—if not particularly bright—hound, and Thomas was determined that tonight they would mend the rift Fia had caused between them. He would avoid all mention of her and stick to matters of mutual interest, specifically the shipping business.

  “The Alba Star won’t be seaworthy in time for me to be able to make our delivery date,” he went on. “It will be at least another month before the new sails are ready, and the final coats of varnish need to be applied. If I don’t make the deadline we’ll have to bid adieu to a very nice bonus.”

  James’s lower lip thrust out unhappily. “I hadn’t planned on leaving London so soon. It might prove inconvenient.”

  “Inconvenient? How? Don’t tell me it might interfere with your social obligations. Since when have such become so important to you?” Thomas asked mildly.

  “They haven’t.” Tenacity gelled in James’s blunt features. “There’s simply some unfinished business I’d like to conclude before I sail. I’m not certain I can bring it to a conclusion so swiftly.”

  Conclusion or climax? Thomas thought bitterly, but held his tongue. Would James heed his intellect if it denied his heart? No. It would take more than that to sway his friend. Certainly Thomas had yet to find the way.

  Once more he considered telling James about the sort of family he was becoming embroiled with. That his own family had been decimated by Carr, that Carr had stolen the McClairen birthright and the McClairen lands, had been responsible for the death of a half-dozen McClairen men, including his brother and uncle. He swirled his brandy in his glass, gazing deep into the burnished liquid.

  But that would mean revealing that every time Thomas stepped foot on English soil he risked being exposed as a returned deportee and executed. He’d purposefully kept the knowledge from James, not because he didn’t trust him, but because James, who was open and candid in nature, had never been able to keep a secret. And it was imperative that Thomas keep his past a secret because there were others who depended on his not being found out.

  Besides, if Thomas told him, James would only ask what that had to do with Fia MacFarlane. James was besotted.

  “I have an idea,” James said suddenly. “Couldn’t you captain the Sea Witch round the Cape, and when work on the Alba Star is finished I’ll take her on the North African route?”

  Thomas shook his head. “A ship is like a woman, James. You’d best know her better than your own mistress, in the waters we sail. Unfortunately, you’re not privy to this wench’s secrets, James.”

  James’s mouth tightened. “I was speaking of a ship, Thomas.”

  “As was I,” Thomas said. “But now that you have broached the subject, I would be a poor friend if I didn’t warn you once more against Fia MacFarlane.”

  James set his own glass of brandy on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t understand your animosity. It is unlike you to hate without cause and your hatred of Fia is nearly palpable.”

  Hatred? Thomas thought, stunned. He didn’t hate Fia, and the notion that James thought so vexed him. “I don’t hate her. I fear her. For your sake.”

  “Why?”

  “Her father—”

  “She’s not her father, Thomas.”

  “She’s her father’s daughter.”

  “What proof of that do you have?”

  “I would think her reputation is proof enough.”

  James made an impatient gesture. “Gossip and rumor. By God, man, can’t you see—” He broke off abruptly and swung around to stare out the window.

  Thomas drained the remaining liqueur in his glass in one swallow, his temper frayed. “If only that she-devil disappeared from this earth and vanished back to whatever dark and hellish fairy realm she left,” he muttered.

  “Don’t say that, Thomas,” James said, spinning to face him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “For God’s sake, man! Look at what she’s done to you!”

  “And what exactly is that, Thomas?”

  “I had a meeting with Sir Ffolkes yesterday, James. He wanted to know what had become of your last two shipments. He implied that you purposely lost them to collect the insurance.”

  The fury and amazement Thomas had expected did not appear. Instead, James’s expression grew pensive. “Oh? And what did you say, Tom?”

  “I said it was a lie.”

  James nodded. Nothing more. Thomas stared at him, apprehension trailing up his spine, chilling him with possibility. James should be deeply, grievously offended. He should be penning a note to Ffolkes this
moment, demanding an interview. At the very least he should be swearing his determination to discover who had spread these vicious lies. But he wasn’t.

  “By God!” James was watching him, abrupt realization manifest in his expression. “You don’t put any credence in Ffolkes’s suspicions, do you, Thomas?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I swear to you I have done nothing illegal,” James said stiffly.

  He heard the sincerity in James’s avowal and he believed him, yet at the back of his mind he could not shake the image of Fia laughing as she told him that James was hers. Or of Amelia’s necklace encircling Fia’s throat. “Of course.”

  “Of course,” James repeated bitterly, sensing his doubt. “Well, what would you have me do, then, Thomas?”

  He should ask for nothing. By doing so he admitted questioning James’s integrity. It would be a blow, perhaps even a fatal blow, to their friendship. But if he could remove James from Fia MacFarlane’s influence, it was worth the risk.

  “All right, James,” he said coolly. “I want you to trade routes with me, as I suggested. I’ll remain here while the repairs to the Alba Star are finished and deal with Ffolkes and any other questions that arise.”

  A vein bulged in James’s throat. His lips disappeared into a tight, fine line. “All right, Thomas,” he said. “If this is what you think is necessary. When must I ship out?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Both men understood that there was nothing more to say, and so nothing more was said.

  My Dear Fia,

  I know you prefer I not commit to paper any communication between us. But I cannot see you this evening or the next and feel the information I am about to impart is of a pressing enough nature to take this risk.

  Your concerns about Thomas Donne may have some merit. Indeed, I fear he means you some form of injury, and while I will never believe he means to do you any bodily harm, his words this evening caused me concern, for he spoke quite heatedly of wishing you vanished.

  If only you would release me from my promise not to speak of our relationship. Until then I will, of course, abide by your wishes. Other than hope this warning proves needless, I can do nothing more.