by Ruth Owen
As always, Juliana’s father had expected far too much from her.
During the two weeks since the news of the Anne’s disappearance had reached London, she’d received a flood of notes and letters, most of them from people who barely knew her father, who said many things that the marquis would have considered very silly. She had no idea how his “bonny ships” were faring. Indeed, since she’d learned of the fate of the Anne, she’d hardly left her bedchamber. Marriage to any man, good or not, was not even on the horizon. And as for not shedding a tear—well, during the last fortnight it seemed as if she had done little else.…
“My dear, I do not believe you have heard a word that I have said to you.”
Juliana turned from the window and met the gaze of the elderly woman who sat propped against an expanse of satin pillows, her Irish lace cap tied under her chin with military precision, her expression one of profound rebuke. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jolly. I was not attending.”
“I can see that,” Hortensia Jolly commented as she put down the letter she’d been reading aloud. “Apparently the prime scandal between Mrs. D. and the young lieutenant is lost on you. Well, perhaps it is for the best,” she acknowledged as she laid the letter onto a pile of correspondence by her bedside. “It lacks barely a half hour until your father’s will is to be read. Though I think it is unfortunate that the disagreeable Mr. McGregor must do the reading instead of your father’s regular solicitor. The man has a reputation of squeezing a farthing till it screams.”
“How did you know that Mr. McGregor—?” Juliana stopped midsentence, her eyes lighting on the stack of letters on the nightstand and the larger pile on the vanity. Mrs. Jolly had been bedridden for a good portion of her life, but she had turned her disability into an invaluable asset. Born into the well-connected Sommes-Fitzgerald family that could trace its bloodlines back to Eleanor of Aquitaine, she had grown up in the heart of London society—a position strengthened when she married the much-decorated, if somewhat dull, Captain Sir Robert Jolly. Her bedchamber was as well appointed as any sitting room, and her custom-designed bedclothes were as grand as any evening gowns. Her confinement allowed her to turn down all but the choicest callers, and gaining an invitation to her rooms was almost as sought after as a voucher to Almack’s. Yet, despite her confinement, she was more aware of what was happening on the streets of London than most of the people who walked them. It was rumored that she could tell you not only what the regent had for breakfast, but also which merchant sold the kippers and what hens laid the eggs. Over the years, Juliana had developed a healthy respect for her knowledge. She had also found it prudent not to delve too deeply into her sources.
Juliana rose from her chair and made a show of smoothing the skirt of her black crepe dress. Trying to keep her voice light, she stated, “Whoever reads the will, I believe it is a silly waste of time. It is too soon. Only a fortnight. They found the Anne’s debris, but they never found any bodies. My father could still be alive.”
The woman’s mouth curved into a sad smile. “My girl, I lost a father and a husband to the sea. I know exactly what you are feeling, twice over. God knows, I wish there was even a bit of doubt. But the Admiralty agrees that the chances of finding anyone alive in these waters are very slim. You must face the truth, my dear. Your father is gone, and you must go on with your life as he would wish you to.”
Juliana bit her lip. “I know. ’Tis just that I miss him so. There is no one who knows me as he did. No one—”
Untrue, her mind whispered. There was one person who had spent almost as many years with her as her father had, one person who knew her almost as well as he did.
One person who had not bothered to send anything more than the most perfunctory note of condolence since her father’s death.
She shook off the thought as she realized Mrs. Jolly was talking. “… cannot be expected to offer for you now. After all, you are officially in mourning. ’Tis unfortunate that you must miss the better part of the upcoming Season, but by June you will be able to put off your colors and resume your station in society. By this time next year I fully expect that you will have made an advantageous match.”
Juliana stared at the usually compassionate woman in shock. “My father has just died. I don’t give a fig about finding an advantageous match.”
“Which is exactly why I must. Your father charged me and the commodore to look after you, a charge that is in no way diminished by his death. Part of that responsibility entails finding you a suitable husband. You must know that is what he hoped for you.”
Reluctantly Juliana nodded. Since her father’s death, her need for a family had grown stronger. She felt so alone. And yet, the thought of marrying any of the suitable men she knew somehow left her feeling even more alone. “I cannot think of such things right now.”
“It seems to me that you have not been able to think of ‘such things’ for a good long while, considering the number of proposals you’ve turned down this last year.” Mrs. Jolly’s eyes narrowed cannily “Tell me, my dear. Is there anything I should know of on this matter?”
The timely knock from the commodore announcing Mr. McGregor’s arrival saved Juliana from answering.
The downstairs drawing room was the largest room in the Jolly household, but it was filled to the bursting point. The marquis had been as generous as he was wealthy, and he never forgot a kindness or an obligation. People from all walks of life crowded into the room, from the lowliest kitchen maid, to street merchants, to silk garbed gentry who looked at the rabble in alarm. There was even a sharp-nosed reporter from the Morning Post, who had come to chronicle the eminent marquis’s final wishes for his readership. It was an unusual sight, and one that might have brought a smile to Juliana’s lips under other circumstances. I hope you are watching this, Father. You would enjoy it.
The commodore led Juliana to the front of the room to a seat beside Meg. Meg took Juliana’s hand and squeezed it tightly. The gesture of comfort brought a lump to Juliana’s throat. Self-consciously, she glanced away at the crowd—and caught sight of a dark-haired boy disappearing behind a gaggle of kitchen servants and street vendors. Juliana thought he was probably one of the bootblacks or a child of one of the merchants. Still, she nudged Meg and nodded toward the door to the hall. “ ’Tis likely my imagination, but I thought I just saw the boy we met on the docks, the one who knew Con—”
“My dear Lady Juliana, I am inconsolable over your gweat loss.”
“Um, thank you, Lord Renquist,” Juliana replied as she looked in surprise at the gentleman. Renquist wore an elegant bottle green coat and a nattily powdered wig. He looked as if he’d dressed for a ball, not a will reading. Reluctantly Juliana offered him her hand. “I did not expect to … have the pleasure of seeing you.”
“Of couwrse not,” he oozed as he enveloped her hand in his. “And I should not pwesume to be here, save that I was entweated to attend by your cousin Gwenville.”
It would be Grenville. Juliana’s cousin was still in Sicily, and had replied to the news of her father’s death with a terse letter that he would be returning to London as soon as it was convenient. His indifference did not surprise Juliana—the only time her father had heard from Grenville during the past few years was when he wanted an advance on his allowance. The fact that he’d sent someone in his stead did little to mollify Juliana, especially since that someone was the supercilious Renquist. No doubt the man was here to catalog Grenville’s inheritance. She was more than a little tempted to say as much, but Meg spoke first.
“I was not aware that you knew Juliana’s cousin, Lord Renquist. I believe he has been abroad for years. When did you make his acquaintance?”
Renquist’s carefully desolate expression shifted to annoyance. Then, as if remembering where he was, his sympathetic smile returned. “I met Gwenville when we were in school together. Though now I suppose I must begin to call him the mawqwess.”
Juliana barely masked a wince. Grenville was her father’s closest male
relative. As such, he would inherit the title, and likely the marquessate and various other estates that made up her father’s holdings. Juliana did not fear for the lands and properties—they were well established enough to run themselves regardless of whether Grenville sold them or no. But he would also inherit the Marquis Line. The thought of Grenville having charge of her father’s beloved fleet made her blood run cold. He will sell every one of my father’s ships for the coin they’ll bring, I know he will.
The man behind the desk pounded his gavel for silence. Juliana quickly surmised that this was “the disagreeable Mr. McGregor” Mrs. Jolly had spoken of. He was a thin, unremarkable man with stooped shoulders, and his clothes were as rumpled as an unmade bed. His thatch of white hair was as unkempt as his coat. Juliana frowned, wondering why her father, who could have had his pick of all the solicitors in Chancery, would have chosen this disheveled person to entrust with his final bequests.
Her thoughts were cut short as the solicitor reached into his wrinkled coat and produced a quill pen, an inkwell, and a roll of papers from what appeared to be a profusion of pockets. He cleared his throat and began reading the will in an emotionless but surprisingly rich, deep brogue.
The first stipends were to the minor servants, page upon page of small bequests. Juliana tried to remain attentive, for these were her father’s last wishes, but try as she might, her attention wandered. She glanced to her left, and caught sight of the Han dynasty vase her father had bought for her in a market in Shanghai. She turned to the right, and saw the Indian tapestry he’d given her in Madras.
She twisted her black lace handkerchief into a tortured knot, fighting the overwhelming loneliness inside her. Her father was dead. She would never again hear his booming laugh, never feel his tremendous hug. Never hear him say that he loved her. His property and title would go to an inferior man. It was monstrously unfair, but there was nothing she could do. She’d had the ill luck to be born a woman. As Mrs. Jolly had pointed out, her one purpose in life was to make an “advantageous match.” Under the law, she was considered little more than another piece of her father’s property. And in the end she would go to the highest bidder, just like his beautiful ships.
A commotion in the back of the room caught her attention. She turned in her chair and saw at least two dozen tars push their way into the room, led by a short, stocky man with button bright eyes and an enormous cauliflower nose.
“Tommy Blue!” Before anyone could stop her Juliana jumped out of her seat and wrapped the man in a huge embrace. “I thought you were bound for Gibraltar.”
“I was, but when I put into Plymouth for the last of my cargo I heard about your da. I turned the Valiant right around and headed for home.”
Mr. McGregor rose from his chair. “Ye must see that this is most irregular. Kindly take yourself and your hooligan friends outside at once.”
Captain Thomas Aloysius Blue strode up to the solicitor as if he were heading for a fight. “These hooligans is some of the finest men what ever sailed the seven seas, and every man jack of ’em sails for the Marquis Line. We got a right to know what ’appens to our ships. And iffen you want us out you’ll have to carry us, one by one.”
A cheer from the back of the room showed that his mates felt the same.
“Most irregular,” Mr. McGregor muttered as he made a note on a scrap of paper and deposited it in one of his many pockets. Then he took his seat and resumed his reading of the will. Juliana also returned to her seat, but she glanced at the sailors who’d mixed in with the rest of the crowd. Tommy Blue stood out in front like a field marshall and gave her a jaunty wink.
For the first time since her father’s death, Juliana grinned.
At the very back of the room, one of the sailors pulled his stocking cap down over his blond hair and lifted his pea coat collar to hide his scarred cheek. He pressed against the wall and craned his neck to get a better view of the rest of the room. But while the crowd around him stared at the lawyer, his gaze never strayed from the black-garbed woman seated near the front table.
Zut, you are the biggest fool in England!
Connor winced. Maybe Raoul was right. God knows the room was stuffed with enough people who could recognize the notorious Captain Gabriel—from swells he’d met at Morrow’s ball, to Commodore Jolly, to the news reporter who’d interviewed him for the Times only three days before. And Tommy Blue, if he got a good look at him, might recognize him as the beggar boy who’d been taken in by the marquis. He’d risked his entire mission to come here, yet he’d come all the same when he’d heard that Tommy was looking for men to come with him to the reading of Albany’s will. He had to see her, to know how she was faring. And from what he could see, she wasn’t faring well.
She was pale as a sheet. And too thin by half. Pushing his cap up a notch, Connor turned an angry eye at the commodore, who was currently polishing a brass button on his sleeve. God’s teeth, what was wrong with the man? Couldn’t he see the girl was wasting away—
A quick movement near the door caught his eye. If Connor’s cap hadn’t been pushed up, he might have missed it, but as it was he saw all he needed. He moved stealthily through the crowd to the door, careful not to attract attention. Then he snatched his prey by the collar, whisked him into the hallway, and landed him in a dark alcove before he could make a sound.
Hunkering down, Connor brought his eyes level with his catch as he whispered, “Jamie, what in blazes are you doing here?”
The boy’s eyes were white with fear, but his voice shook only a little as he answered. “Came for her. The lady. Heard she lost her da.”
“You know her?”
Jamie nodded and gave him a brief summary of their meeting on the docks. Connor grimaced, knowing now how she’d tracked him to the Bell even though Barnacle had sworn on “Satan’s hairy arse” that he’d told her nothing. “You still shouldn’t be here,” Connor said as he dug a shilling out of his pocket. “This will pay for a cab to the docks. Go back to the ship.”
Jamie stared at the coin but he didn’t take it. Instead he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Ain’t goin’.”
Connor was in no mood to argue. He’d have enough trouble explaining his own presence here, let alone Jamie’s. Whether the boy knew it or not, he was putting them both at risk. “You’ll go where I tell you,” he snapped, his anger more from fear than fury. “That’s an order, mister. You know the penalty for disobeying your captain.”
Jamie knew, all right. Every sailor did. Disobeying the captain put the whole crew in danger. At sea, it meant irons, flogging, or even keelhauling. In port, it meant immediate dismissal. Jamie risked being turned out from the only family he’d ever known. Yet he stood his ground. “She called me a gentleman. No one’s ever done that, not once. Now she’s an orphan, like me. She might want a friend. And a gentleman don’t … doesn’t turn his back on a friend.”
Connor knew better. Gentlemen turned their back on friends all the time. But in the months since he’d rescued Jamie from the hellhole wharf, the child had barely strung three words together. Now he was chatting like a magpie. An unfamiliar tightness rose in Connor’s throat. He’d saved the boy on a whim, because he couldn’t have stood seeing a dog treated so cruelly, much less a starving child. But as he knelt in front of the boy and saw the first hints of pride and self-respect stir in his long-empty eyes, he realized Jamie had become much more to him than a charity case. All at once he felt richer than all the grand nobs in Mayfair put together. I owe you for this at least, Juliana.
He got to his feet and glanced around, making sure they’d aroused no suspicions. Everyone still hovered around the dining room door, listening as the solicitor read the marquis’s will. “All right, boy. We’ll both stay. But we’ll listen from here. If we have to make a dash for it, we can—”
“Connor Reed,” the lawyer read.
Suddenly it seemed to Jamie as if Captain Gabriel had forgotten all his instructions. The captain raced to the doorway, and even parti
ally elbowed his way inside the room. Jamie followed, taking up a position behind a bowlegged footman, where he could see both the lady and his unusually forgetful Captain.
“ ‘… dunna know if he is alive or dead,” the solicitor continued. “If he is alive, I dunna know if he even thinks of me or my daughter. I know that the circumstances of our last meeting gave him little reason to, and that is a situation I profoundly regret.’ ”
Above him, the captain mouthed something, but he made no sound, so Jamie couldn’t figure it. He looked like a man who’d just swallowed a cupful of jiggered gin. Jamie’s gaze shifted to the lady, whose head was turned just enough for him to glimpse her profile. Queerly enough, she looked as if she also had tumbled to some bad liquor.
“ ‘I had an opportunity to show mercy, but I did not. Instead, I listened to my pride and arrogance, and—though it shames me to admit it—concern for my daughter’s future position. My actions were justified, but they were not just. My hasty judgment of Reed is the one moment of my life I wish I could five over.’ ”
All around Jamie, people were buzzing like bees.
“Oo’s this Reed?” a young scullery maid hissed.
“Never ’eard a the bloke,” the bowlegged footman answered back. “I weren’t with his lordship all that long. But if you ask me, the lord was a bit nodcocked to ’ave wasted ink on a man what might a snuffed it long past.”