The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  Then what did she do?

  Spread out on that bed like he should fall to his knees and thank Christ for the miracle he witnessed there. Fury Fontanelli letting him board her. When she needed him and he could bring her down in a second with what lay in that cellar.

  So, what did he do to retaliate?

  Simple.

  He sloshed another glassful and ambled to the upholstered chair. Even when she had messed up, and he had to step in, she was still something though. All right, maybe he’d grinned—any man would, when he fought not to gasp his pleasure beneath her—and that had put her off. Was it any wonder? Where the hell had she learned to move like that?

  He would like to take the credit. She had been a virgin when she had boarded the Calypso. And she had remained that way for the first twenty-four hours they had been underway. It would be kidding himself though. He was no lover of renown. He just loved sex.

  Once, he’d loved it with her.

  Chapter Six

  A cooling, citrus-scented breeze, just enough to stir the olive trees and mute the cicadas, fluttered across the lawn. Fury frowned, wishing she could enjoy the stroll when it was boiling indoors, but Malmesbury, damn him, was as encroaching as ever. She should have been preparing for her third attempt at conceiving the Beaumont heir, but he had appeared, large as life and twice as unpleasant, on her doorstep.

  All it required was Lady Margaret turning up unannounced to finish this.

  “Return him to you, when I have done?” She swung on her heel. “Yes, yes, but he’s not finished. How can you think so?”

  “I have left you alone with this—”

  “Alone?” The barefaced cheek of the man. As if it had anything to do with him.

  “Indeed. But, Fury, I should remind you we didn’t discuss this the other evening.”

  Swallowing her ire, Fury walked on. The thick carpet of grass beneath her feet was pleasant if nothing else was.

  “You, of all people, should know babies aren’t made in a day.” She raised her cheeks to the sun. “There’s certainly enough information about the ones you made in my little black book.”

  “And I should remind you, I paid good money for him at a slave auction. Do you know what he is?”

  A bubble of laughter almost escaped her. Uncharacteristic, although harsh, at least. The words, an arrogant swine of a man, an insufferable pig, hovered on her lips. A despicable cad—who yet had saved the situation last night.

  She pushed the thought away. “Oh, let me think—”

  “He’s a cabin boy.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Of some damnable pirate.”

  Fury blinked. “Flint?”

  “Yes, that’s the fellow’s name. The scourge of the Caribbean, so I was told. And that is the scourge’s cabin boy, James.”

  Cabin boy? But was it so surprising? It was just the thing Flint would do if he were cornered and there was no other way out. But not telling her, when he had the temerity to blackmail her, was another matter.

  “Small wonder he’s so good at cleaning shoe buckles.” Malmesbury huffed out a small laugh. “Imagine the consequences if you messed that up on board the ship of a scourge. You’d probably be marooned on some deserted island in the middle of nowhere, made to walk the plank.”

  Indeed. “So this Flint was never caught?”

  “How the blazes would I know what the blazes Flint was? Next you’ll be telling me you knew the scurvy damned blackguard—”

  Intimately.

  “—and you sailed the Caribbean with him—”

  Sort of.

  “—and then he brought you to London, where you met Thomas.”

  Her gaze froze. To guess so much, if not quite everything…

  “Me?” She shrugged. She tried to keep her expression neutral. If Malmesbury or any of the others knew, she would be back on that wharf, working it. If she were lucky. “I’ve heard of him, but that’s all. In Jamaica, everyone had. His name was legendary. But, as you know yourself, Jamaica is a big place.”

  She hoped her voice didn’t sound too distant. In truth she had heard of Flint. Everyone had. She’d just never met the notorious bastard until she had stepped on board the Calypso.

  “I imagine there would be quite a reward for him. But that’s of no importance to me.”

  No. But it was useful information just the same. No wonder Flint hadn’t wanted her to tell Malmesbury and the others who he was. Flint was slippery all right. And whatever Malmesbury said, his tone spoke differently.

  He would love to hunt down Flint. It was probably why he’d bought his supposed cabin boy. Probably why he beat him too. A complete waste. As if Flint would give away himself. You would have to kill him first.

  Or was there more to this little conversation? Had Malmesbury, a complete stranger to mathematics, succeeded in placing two and two together, making four? A cabin boy? Flint was thirty.

  Her heart skipped the tiniest fraction of a beat. Malmesbury must want his hands on that little book of hers really badly.

  “And what if I don’t return him?”

  “What if you what?”

  She turned, taking the time to arch her eyebrows in what she hoped was a gesture of perfect disdain. “Now, Lionel, I’m sure you heard. What if I choose to pay him for his services and his silence and then set him free?”

  She might as well ask. It was always preferable to know exactly where one stood.

  “After all, your main desire, so far as I can see anyway, is to mistreat him.”

  “Because he’s a dog.”

  To her astonishment Malmesbury slammed his fist into his palm, although she didn’t, by any manner of means, think the anger was as simple as that.

  “He’s an infidel who doesn’t know his place.” He paused to recollect himself, although the noise he made at the back of his throat and the way he spat the words were no less alarming than before. “I’m astonished you don’t see it.”

  “Me?” Allowing a laugh to escape her, she placed a languid hand on her bodice. “Well, why should I? So long as he does what I’m paying for, I don’t care what he is.” Telling that lie she almost stumbled onto the path. “You know, I’m astonished by your words. I thought we had an agreement about him? About this?”

  “Did we?”

  She lowered her gaze. She didn’t want to think so, because she had enough to worry her right now, but Malmesbury’s behavior was so unnerving she could only take one thing from it. He liked her. Enough to wish he was in Flint’s shoes.

  She shivered in the bright sunlight. As if she could ever have bedded Malmesbury, with his thin, cruel mouth and desire to treat people like so many pieces of rubbish. It was something to thank Flint for.

  Malmesbury leaned closer. “As you can see, I don’t know if we had an agreement or not.” He fisted his pudgy hands. “But I warn you—”

  “Warn me?” She jerked her gaze upward. Disquiet might have stirred, but it was very important she faced this snake down, even if the business of facing him down over Flint was ludicrous. She could barely get Flint to stay around. Did Malmesbury think Flint would do it for him? “You know, I find that astonishing.”

  “You find that what you like.”

  Although she raked her brain, she did not think she had ever heard him snarl like that. Or seen spittle bead his jaw and his eyes bulge either.

  “Then I shall. But I think you should know you are in no position to warn. Thomas would tell you that too.”

  “Thomas?”

  This snarl was even more unexpected, unless someone had talked. She tilted her chin and spoke with perfect coolness, although her heart hammered.

  “Yes. In his letter to me this morning, Thomas did say he hoped that whatever my choice was, you would remember certain things.”

  This was Malmesbury’s chance. His opportunity if he knew what lay in that box in the cellar to tell her, in prayer book terms, or forever hold his peace. And the only way he could know, the only person who coul
d have talked, was Flint.

  Malmesbury’s squat chin tilted to match her own. “Me, Fury?”

  “Hmmm. Yes. You, Lionel.” She used his name carefully. “Thomas was very specific. I could show you the letter, if you desire. But, given this unfortunate outburst, I should prefer it if you would go now.”

  “Go?”

  “Yes. The gate’s there. You realize—” He made a move toward her and she placed a hand on his chest. “I can’t ask you into the villa. Why, think of how unseemly it would be.”

  “Unseemly? When you are bedding that blackguard?”

  “For Thomas’s sake and with his blessing.” How she kept the blush from spreading to the roots of her hair, how she made herself appear dignified at all, was down to one thing. The knowledge she still had her book to protect her. After all, the years spent securing her false position had not been wasted.

  “Your concern is touching. It is what this is about, isn’t it? And I promise, I will let you know when I’m done with James. He is your servant, after all. But at this time, don’t you think that’s my affair? Conceiving an heir with a complete stranger is difficult enough. A woman trying for a baby should not be subject to hassle.”

  * * *

  Flint had listened to every single word between Fury and Malmesbury through the shutters in the Blue Chamber, but as he reached the foot of the stairs in time to see her enter the villa, he knew one thing. No way was he going to admit it.

  “Fury.”

  She stiffened. She wasn’t in the mood, now was she? For it or him. That was, she was even less in the mood than previously. It was saying a hell of a lot. Flint didn’t think it was possible to be less in the mood than she’d been so far. It just went to show how wrong it was possible for a man to be.

  “I will be there in a moment. I was just speaking to your employer. You heard it all, I presume?”

  He could be truthful of course, but in that second self-preservation kicked in. She never said the word former after all. “No.”

  “No?” Her emerald eyes appraised him. “Then why are you out here? Out of your chamber, I mean.”

  It was a good question. Maybe she was genuinely astonished, after the rum and stuff she’d given him, to see him here. But he doubted it. Only with the greatest difficulty did she manage not to sound as if he were the biggest nuisance not just to wander the face of the earth but out of the Blue Chamber especially.

  When he knew he could look after himself, why wish she never held the ace?

  Because, when it came to mercy, no matter the rot he’d talked, he didn’t want to be at hers. Anyone’s. But hers most of all. There was nothing like a few licks with the whip and days of eating grit to make a man feel edgy.

  “Well, James?”

  “I smelled Thomas.”

  With Fury Fontanelli, surprise was always the best method of attack. Anyway, he was sure that if he went down to the cellar it would be no lie.

  “And really,” Flint said, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Malmesbury and his lippy cronies—hell, the whole of Genoa does the same.”

  Like yesterday he somehow spoke without thinking. To save his skin. The outer shell. But now he had, why not save what lay beneath? The bone and essence that was himself. Reestablish his foothold? Make himself of use in other ways. So maybe she’d respect him. Even if he didn’t give a damn about her respect and, probably, she didn’t either.

  “Fury, I know you’ve been busy, but haven’t you thought about that?”

  For all she gave a tiny start, not by any stretch of the imagination would he call it a flinch. A pity.

  “Yes. I have.” She tugged at the ribbons on her cherry-patterned sunbonnet. “I think I said to you I’d deal with it when the time comes.”

  “I’d say that time is now. Just take a breath.”

  “No, thank you.” She endeavored to swish past him in a swirl of dove-gray skirts.

  “A deep one. Go on. That’s it. See.”

  Her mystified air didn’t deter him. Not when it was his chance.

  “You mean you don’t smell it?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t smell anything.”

  “You don’t?”

  Yet was it his chance? Even the way she had come up the steps and into the house had been crooked. As if she had clung to the balustrade for support. Maybe she had faced Malmesbury down; the man was a slimy poke. Flint conceded—and all right, he loathed to—he hadn’t just run down here for himself. He’d run down here for her. Laughable, when if ever there was a woman who could take care of herself it was this one.

  “Maybe you’ve not been downwind of him. What lies have you told about his whereabouts?”

  She wrinkled her brow. She laid the bonnet on a chair. “Lies?”

  “These little things you’re so good at. Where did you tell them he was? Because he’s not here, is he?”

  “I said he was visiting his father.”

  He didn’t know what astonished him most, the fact she answered him, the fact she didn’t tell him to quit it with the nose in her business, or that he persisted.

  “Well, is this in heaven or what?”

  “It could be anywhere.” She shrugged.

  “And Susan knows?”

  “Susan knows everything.” She turned to face him. “How do you think I got him down to the cellar?”

  “That’s all very well, but now we need to get him out of there again.”

  Her eyes glinted. Doubtless she was weighing placing herself in his debt as opposed to keeping him in hers.

  “Us?”

  It was going to be the latter, wasn’t it? Him being kept in her debt. Wasn’t that just dandy when he did this to help himself? He did, didn’t he? After all, why help her when her contempt was plain? And yet, for himself would he be quite so passionate?

  “Listen to me. Malmesbury’s a dangerous man. You needn’t think what dirty little secrets you possess in that book of yours will save you if he gets any wind of Thomas. He doesn’t enjoy being thwarted.”

  “Don’t you seem to know a lot about him?”

  “You might say. I’ve seen him in action plenty. Unlike you.”

  “I know that. I just don’t have a lot of choice. And at least I do have their secrets. It’s better than having nothing. Now, if you will excuse me?”

  Maybe it was the weary, yet unyielding, set of her shoulders. Maybe it was the proud tilt of her head. Or her eyes, steely, yet despairing. Whatever it was, she attempted to brush past him, and he caught her arm.

  Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. He was doing this to help himself. Not her, right? Yet the feel of her arm through the soft gray dress was a cool, silky echo of what he remembered. Something started up in him. Something ridiculously like longing. Something that made no sense when the conceiving of the Beaumont heir allowed him at regular intervals between her legs. Only with the greatest of difficulty did he force himself not to draw even closer, with what seemed to hover there for the briefest of seconds between them.

  “You’ll hang. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I—”

  She parted her lips so he saw the cool darkness within. It was like staring at a heaven, the gates of which weren’t just shut to him, but barred and bolted. He couldn’t remember wanting a woman more. All of her. How did she do this to him? He just wanted…he just wanted his boat. And it wasn’t as though she wanted him. Just his seed.

  “What do you suggest?” She stared at his hand as if it were going to bite her.

  “I bury him here.”

  She widened her eyes. “You can’t.” She shook her head. “It’s Signor Santa-Rosa’s villa. I told you yesterday about the candlesticks. You can’t bury him in the garden. What if a dog or something finds it and digs it up again, thinking it’s a bone?”

  He tried to think. But her closeness clouded his mind. On board the Calypso, now, the sweat sitting along his skin, he’d just take her down to his cabin. A bit of impassioned kissing. A quick tumble. T
hen his thoughts were clear. But if he tried pulling her skirts up like that here—rule fifteen—no doubt, rule sixteen was she’d probably eviscerate him. Then—rule seventeen—he’d be in that cellar sharing that box with Thomas. It was large enough for two.

  “Fine, but this business of you waiting till you conceive is the plum stupidest thing going. We got to deal with this now, before that smell gets worse. What if you can’t ever conceive and that corpse rots while you’re trying?”

  “Hardly.”

  “How do you know?”

  She swallowed and he grinned. He couldn’t help it. The blush that crept up over her cheekbones. And the stiff, horrified, denying look she cast him, as if all this were a secret. The way she tightened her succulent mouth too. When she hadn’t blushed to get someone to fill old Tommie’s boots. What was going on here?

  “You mean you and old Tommie, down there, already did?”

  “I just—I mean that I can. That’s all.” She dragged her arm free as if he burnt her.

  “All right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Why go where he wasn’t welcome? Again? Although her reaction, even the way she froze, was intriguing. “That’s just something I didn’t know, when we set out here. Even so, you can’t go keeping him here till it happens again. We need to get somewhere else. Then you get a load of stones, to bury in the cemetery. Or you just go home to England, burying nothing.”

  She tilted her chin, as though it pleased her to find him so enterprising. She was kindly welcome. If he’d known just how good it was going to make him feel, doing something altruistic, he’d have acquainted himself with it a lot sooner.

  “I would need a funeral to convince Lady Margaret. She isn’t going to believe I didn’t do something to Thomas. And I’m not sure I can just bury a heap of stones. No, I think I’d need a corpse from somewhere.”

  Flint’s first thought—so long as it wasn’t himself—was overridden by his second. This was the longest, least rancorous conversation they’d had.

  “Thomas was ill. That is known around here. Maybe just not how ill. He had a tumor. In his brain. Oh, for goodness sake, I didn’t poison him if that’s what you’re thinking. He fell.”