by Bree Wolf
Despite his escapades and dubious pastimes–as his father called them–on the shadier side of London, Oliver knew that he had never truly stood up to his father. He had never gone against the man’s orders as he could not deny that family did mean something to him. He did feel a certain responsibility to the family he was born to. He did not wish to ruin its reputation and allow the title to be passed on outside of his immediate family.
Still, Oliver hoped that there would be another way. A compromise that would satisfy his father as well as Oliver’s own desires for love and home. For a life that filled him with happiness, with pride.
Unfortunately, such a compromise did not seem to exist.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Oliver sighed, remembering the many times in his life when his father had spoken out against Oliver’s plans and ordered him to change them. And as his reasoning had always been sound, Oliver had not been able to deny him. Still, a part of him had never ceased to hope that his father’s motivation stemmed from something other.
A few years ago, when his two childhood friends Frederick and Kenneth had gone to France to fight in the war, Oliver had wanted to accompany them. His father, however, had argued against it, stating that he had no right to risk his life and leave the family without an heir. Certainly, his reasoning had been sound, and yet, Oliver had to admit that he had hoped to hear his father tell him that he feared for his life. That he could not bear the thought of losing his son. That he cared.
Of course, these words had never been spoken…and they never would.
And yet, Oliver had stayed behind. He had stayed in England where he had been safe and allowed his friends to face the horrors of war alone.
And now, Kenneth was dead.
Closing his eyes, Oliver remembered his childhood friend, a man full of compassion and utter loyalty. A man who would not hesitate to give his life for someone he loved. A man who had been like a brother to him.
Guilt claimed Oliver’s heart whenever he remembered Kenneth’s death. He knew very well that his being there would likely not have changed the outcome, but still he could not help but feel that he had abandoned him in his time of need.
Oliver would never forgive himself for it.
However, now was not the time for regrets.
A few days ago, Frederick had called on him, informing him that Kenneth’s death could not be deemed a random casualty of war after all. In truth, it had been a plot concocted by an envious peer that had sent him to France and certain death…to remove him from his fiancée’s life for good.
That peer’s name was Philip Stanton, Baron Northfield.
A man with a soul as black as coal. A man who–not unlike Oliver’s father–cared only for rank and fortune. A man who had set his sights on Kenneth’s fiancée, Lady Charlotte Frampton, an earl’s daughter with a large dowry to her name.
A man who did not hesitate to kill to achieve his goals.
After succumbing to despair after Kenneth’s death, Charlotte had been thought dead, only to resurface now as the wife of Sebastian Campbell, Earl of Weston. A man with a heart of gold, whose undying love had coaxed her back from the edge of that bottomless pit of despair.
Still, Northfield remained a threat to her as he could not allow anyone to disobey him, to cross his plans and live to tell of it.
Oliver knew that he would once more disappoint his father as he could not attend Lord Bretmore’s ball in two days’ time. For he had other plans that night.
That night, he would join Frederick and Sebastian, and they would rid themselves of Northfield once and for all.
For Charlotte.
And Kenneth.
And himself.
Chapter Three – Loyalty
Two days later, Oliver found himself hiding around the corner of a decent-sized townhouse, lying in wait.
The night was dark, and the faint light of the street lamps cast eerie shadows along the pavement. By the kerb, a lone carriage stood waiting. Although it bore the coat of arms of the Northfield family, inside sat no other than Frederick Lancaster, Marquess of Elmridge, while Sebastian Campbell, Earl of Weston, and his wife Charlotte sat atop the box. Although they had all argued with Charlotte to stay behind, she had insisted on coming along. A part of Oliver could understand her vehemence. She needed to lay her demons to rest, or she would never be free.
Dressed in concealing garb, Charlotte glanced at the townhouse, her hands holding the reins, before she turned to her husband, half-hidden on the other side of the carriage, and whispered something to him.
Oliver’s gaze slid over the carriage. It was the same model as Northfield’s with a freshly-painted coat of arms on the door that would be visible to the baron. Northfield’s own carriage was already at the bottom of the Thames while his trusted driver was busy getting drunk. Come morning, he would not remember anything that had passed that night when he woke on the banks of the Thames.
Everyone would believe Northfield to be dead.
Excitement and the need to move coursed through Oliver’s veins, and he felt more alive than he had in a long time. Although the reason for their presence there that night was one of pain and loss, he could not deny that it felt good to have a purpose, to be needed, to be asked for help. He glanced at his friends and knew that their lives were very different from his own.
For they had a family.
A true family connected by love and devotion.
Suddenly, the door of the townhouse swung open, and a dark-clad man stepped outside. For a moment, Oliver had the sudden desire to rush forward and squeeze the life from him. But he did not. He held himself back.
After all, he was not a murderer. None of them were. They would not sink to Northfield’s level.
Gritting his teeth, Oliver watched as Northfield descended the stairs to the pavement, praying that he would not notice anything out of the ordinary. Oliver’s breath lodged in his throat, and the muscles in his arms ached as he held his hands balled into tight fists.
“Home, Wilson,” Northfield ordered in a commanding voice and then lifted his foot to climb into the carriage.
The moment he disappeared inside, Oliver charged forward.
Large strides carried him to the carriage, and he flung himself inside after Northfield. A muffled sound of surprise escaped the man’s throat as Frederick tripped him onto the carriage’s floor. Then he raised a club they had brought for that purpose and brought it down on Northfield’s head.
Yanking the door closed behind him, Oliver saw Sebastian obscure the freshly-painted coat of arms. “Go!” he urged, and within moments, the carriage began to rumble down the street.
Sinking into the seat, Oliver stared down at Northfield’s limp body with a sense of disbelief. Then he lifted his gaze and met his friend’s eyes, who looked back at him, equally stunned.
“A part of me wishes we could have met him in a fair fight,” Frederick mumbled, disgust clouding his eyes as he looked down at the man who had sent their friend to his grave. “Then at least we could’ve killed him.”
Oliver nodded. “You know as well as I do that he wouldn’t have fought honourably. He would have found a way to kill you and protect himself even in a duel.”
Inhaling deeply, Frederick nodded. “Still, I cannot help but feel that he deserves a harsher punishment for what he did to Kenneth and Charlotte.”
Oliver snorted, “To tell you the truth, I believe taking his life would have been too kind. He needs to suffer as Charlotte has. He needs to be in agony. He needs to learn what despair is.” He looked up and met Frederick’s gaze. “And he will. I promise you.”
“You’re right,” Frederick mumbled before the ghost of a grin flitted across his face. “I wish I could be there when he wakes up.”
Oliver laughed, “As would I. I would give all I own to see his face when he finds himself on a convict ship to Australia.” Glancing at the bundle of clothes they had brought, Oliver gestured to his friend. “Let’s get to work.”
Desp
ite the tight space in the carriage, the two of them managed to remove Northfield’s fine clothes and replace them with worn breeches, a stained shirt as well as a moth-infested overcoat and scuffed boots. For all intents and purposes, the baron had disappeared and now resembled a man guilty of his crimes.
Once the carriage stopped at the docks, Oliver stepped out, eyes drifting to the moored ship resting in the water beside them, the gangplank down. Then he glanced at Sebastian and Charlotte, huddling close together, and a smile came to his face. “Moon over your wife later,” he teased. “There’s work to be done.” Then he grabbed hold of Northfield’s feet while Frederick gripped the man under the arms. “The fellow is heavier than he looks,” Oliver grunted, looking up at Sebastian. “Give us a hand, will you?”
After helping his wife down, Sebastian came to stand beside the open door and glanced inside. “Why don’t we just toss him in the water?”
Although he could understand the impulse, Oliver shook his head. “Because that is not the plan.”
Boots echoed over from the gangplank, and Oliver turned his head to see the captain walking toward them.
“This yer man?” the captain asked, his yellow teeth and unkempt hair even visible in the dim light.
Oliver chuckled, “What gave him away?” Handing Northfield’s feet over to Sebastian, he walked over to the captain. “Are we clear?”
“Aye, we’re clear.”
Seeing neither suspicion nor interest on the man’s haggard face, Oliver reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a small purse. Instantly, the captain’s face came alive as his eyes eagerly turned to the small pouch. “A one-way trip,” Oliver stressed as he handed the man his payment. “No returns.”
The captain grinned, revealing his rotten teeth. “Returns cost extra.” Then he opened the small pouch and began counting the coins. Obviously satisfied, he nodded and then turned back to the ship, gesturing for two sailors to come down and take hold of Northfield. Without a word, they complied, carrying Northfield on board.
The moment the man vanished from sight, Oliver drew in a deep breath, feeling a heavy burden lifted off his shoulders. Then he turned to look at his friends, seeing an equal mixture of relief and disbelief on their faces. After everything they had suffered, it was hard to believe that it was finally over.
But it was.
Now, they could look to the future.
All of them had found love, the one person to share their life with, and Frederick had even become a father. Now, he had not only a wife who was his other half, but also a son to love and cherish.
A son he had brought into this world because he had wanted him, not because he had needed him to continue his line. That had merely been a bonus. Not the reason why.
Oliver could not help but envy them.
***
Like clockwork, the marquess graced Oliver with his presence the next day.
“Was it too much to ask to stay sober for one evening?” he demanded, sinking into the armchair opposite Oliver’s desk. “One evening! And attend a ball?” Shaking his head, his father gritted his teeth, clearly at a loss. Never in his life had he experienced helplessness. Always had he been in control. Always had he been the one to order others around. And never had anyone dared to defy him.
Until now.
And he did not know what to do about it.
“I apologise, Father.” Speaking the words that were expected of him, Oliver leaned back in his chair and met his father’s accusing gaze. “However, I had to take care of something of great importance.”
The marquess scoffed, “Do not lie! I know where you go at night. I know what you do. Do not for a second believe that anything escapes my notice.”
For a second, Oliver tensed. However, judging from the disgusted look on his father’s face, he surmised that the marquess spoke merely of Oliver’s usual pastimes, not precisely the one he had been engaged in the night before.
As though to confirm Oliver’s conclusion, his father leaned forward, fixing him with sharp eyes, and growled, “You spend your days with women and liquor, getting in trouble with the lowlifes of this world.” He shook his head. “You’re not fit to be an earl, let alone a marquess. Believe me, if I could, I would withhold the title. You’re not worthy of it.”
Although Oliver was very much aware of his father’s lack of sentiment for his son, the words still stung, and he wondered if he would ever get past the point where he desired his father’s approval and affection. “And if I could,” he forced out as calmly as he could, “I would refuse it.”
Enraged, his father shot to his feet and turned to leave, his head hot red by the time he reached the door. “If only you had never been born!” the marquess hissed over his shoulder as he yanked open the door and hobbled down the corridor, the sound of his walking stick on the hardwood floor echoing to Oliver’s ears.
Hanging his head, Oliver sighed.
All his life, he had been torn between his own desires and his father’s as they never seemed to go hand in hand. Never had he been able to commit to being the son his father wanted him to be. After all, it was not as though he had never tried. Indeed, he had. He had tried to adhere to society’s rules and conduct himself as a true gentleman would. As his father demanded of him.
However, before long, he had been bored out of his mind.
And so, to offset the mind-numbing dullness of societal events, Oliver had taken to a secret life down by the docks. Many nights he spent in bars and taverns, trying to satisfy his taste for adventure as he listened to sailors tell of their exploits of the world and the exotic places they had seen. More than once, Oliver had wished he could simply trade places with them. And yet, he never seemed to be able to work up the courage to leave his life behind and seek out the adventures he dreamed of.
What if his father was right? What if they were merely dreams? Tempting because they could never be real?
“One day,” Oliver mumbled, gazing out the window as a small bird soared past. “One day.”
But would one day ever come? Or was it merely a hollow dream? Something to soothe his nerves and keep him where he was? Where his father wanted him?
Chapter Four – Memories of an Old Life
Opening the hatch, Violette climbed down the ladder to the captain’s quarters.
“There you are,” her father greeted her as he looked up from the map he and Henri had been studying. “Come. Have a look.”
Walking over, Violette came to stand beside her two favourite men in the world. “Where are we headed?” she asked, winking at her cousin, who grinned back at her with mischief twinkling in his green eyes.
“Up the English Channel,” her father said, his finger sliding over the map, indicating their heading. “Alain will sell off the last captured ship as well as its goods. That ought to keep him busy for a few weeks. By the time he’s finished, I hope to return with yet another prize.”
Henri and Violette nodded.
While their place was out at sea, Alain Duret–Henri’s father–had never had the stomach for spending his life on a ship. Getting seasick at the mere sight of a ship dancing over the waves, Alain had always remained behind, seeing to selling their captured goods and passing along France’s share of the profit.
“However, our plan is to proceed through the English Channel and make our way into the North Sea to disrupt trade out of Norfolk,” her father continued, his index finger grazing the old map that had been in their family for as long as anyone could remember. Privateering was a family business.
Inhaling a deep breath at the mention of her birthplace, Violette met her father’s gaze. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and she knew that–like her–he remembered that stormy night long ago when they had become a family on a rocky beach in Norfolk.
Henri’s gaze lifted off the map and met Violette’s. “Norfolk? Is that not where you’re from, chère cousine?”
Swallowing, Violette nodded. “It is.”
As her father
turned back to studying the map, Henri’s green eyes held hers. “Are you not tempted to see your home again?”
Squaring her shoulders, Violette shook her head. “I am home.”
A slow smile grew on Henri’s face as he held her gaze, then nodded.
After settling all the details, they returned on deck, and Violette’s father began yelling orders. Instantly, the quiet calm on the ship exploded in a flurry of stomping feet as sailors rushed to their stations to get the ship under way.
Violette’s heart began beating at a faster rhythm as the excitement of a new adventure loomed on the horizon. After doing her part in raising the sails and getting them on their way out of the harbour, Violette returned to her favourite spot at the bow.
Standing at the very tip of the ship, she felt as though she were flying across the water as the three-masted sloop slowly picked up speed and headed for the open ocean. Seagulls circled overhead, and the wind blew fiercely, yanking on her hair and overcoat as though trying to persuade her to turn back. “Never,” Violette stated, determinedly leaning into the wind, standing her ground. “Never.”
Gazing over her shoulder, she watched the harbour fall away, getting smaller with each wave that carried them farther out to sea. A soft ache came to her heart as it always did when they departed France. Glancing up to her father who stood on the quarterdeck, legs braced apart and hands linked behind his back, Violette saw his own gaze directed backward as well. When he turned back toward the sea, he heaved a long sigh before the touch of sadness vanished from his face and it once again held nothing but certain determination and calm authority.
Violette smiled. He was thinking of her mother…as was she.
Although Alexandra Duret had always had a taste for adventure as well, hers was of a more domestic kind. She loved going to sea and being on a ship. However, privateering was not for her. Instead, she took great pleasure in raising Violette’s four little siblings amongst their loud but loving extended family. They truly had found a home in France, and although she always bid her husband and eldest daughter farewell with sad eyes, she could not leave her four youngest children on their own. Her place was with them.