Summer felt a chill sweep along her spine. The pale blue eyes held the same degree of sincerity as they had those warm nights in London when he had dazzled her with his charm and taken her breath away. Yet something was different now. Very different. There was no innocent flush of eagerness in her cheeks, no spidery thrills of anticipation racing through her limbs at his touch. She knew the reason. It would be the same reason that a week or a month or a year would do nothing to erase. But what choice did she have? What choice did any woman have who had been pampered and spoiled and raised to be nothing more than an ornament on a man's arm. She was trapped by convention just as surely as Bennett was trapped by his own strict code of honor.
If she refused, people would surely wonder why. She would be ruined. Her father's reputation and career would suffer, as would Michael's future prospects.
What choice, indeed, did she have?
Summer felt curiously detached as she heard herself accepting her fate. She saw her father dab the linen across his brow in relief, and she saw him nearly rip the bell pull off the wall as he called for the finest champagne the cellars had to offer. She felt Bennett's lips brush against her hand, and in the split second when their eyes met and held, she did indeed feel another chill skitter down her spine. It was caused by the utter and complete coldness in the depths of the blue eyes and by the compressed tightness of his smile—a smile so fake and emotionless that it sent her heart plummeting into the pit of her belly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The marriage of Summer Cambridge to Commodore Bennett Winfield took place three weeks after the miraculous return from the sea. It was whispered into all the right ears that the engagement had been set months ago in London and that because of the political climate and the possibility that Winfield might be sent away on the Caledonia, they saw no reason to delay the nuptials. Guests were drawn from the island's wealthy and elite. Lawyers, bankers, businessmen and merchants mingled with cane growers and rum exporters, who in turn toasted the newlyweds with every high-ranking member of the Admiralty and government present in Barbados and the neighboring colonies. It was not the elaborate social event of the season, for the shadow of the Sea Vixen's losses still loomed in the background, but it was impressive and Government House was filled with flowers, music and guests for two days and two nights.
The Winfields, on Sir Lionel's urging, took up residence in the south wing of Government House. Bennett's naval duties would be taking him away for long stretches of time and Summer would appreciate the company as well as the opportunity to act as hostess to the many political functions held daily under the vast tiled roof.
True to Bennett's prediction, no one questioned the identity of S. Roarke. Whispers were made in the right ears that suggested he was a wealthy cane grower from the Windward Islands who had luckily happened by after the storm had ravaged the Sea Vixen. No one associated Roarke with Morgan Wade, and in that respect, the gossips had a poor July.
Not so the cane growers, who harvested a record crop that year. There was a growing fear, if war was officially declared between America and Britain, there would be an embargo on exports, and merchants were loading ships and selling goods as fast as they could, and at much inflated prices. The increased shipping traffic naturally bred an increase in the number of ships and cargoes that were prime targets for pirates of all nationalities.
Every drawing room conversation eventually centered on politics and the growing problem of piracy. Rarely a discussion went by that there was not some mention of the dashing privateers who overcame great risks to deliver their goods. It was even more rare not to hear the name of the most infamous privateer of them all...one who regularly managed to slip through the fingers and iron teeth of anyone who tried to catch him.
"Morgan Wade! Bah! He is like a ghost. He comes and goes as if he's sprouted wings, and one never knows where or when he will alight next."
The speaker was the senior naval officer stationed in Barbados. Old and crusty, Admiral Sir Reginald Stonekipper was a long-time friend of Sir Lionel's and was often a guest at Government House. He and several other gentlemen were seated on the wide veranda enjoying an afternoon cup of coffee.
"Why, only this past month," the admiral continued, "we had a report of a sighting—from an extremely reliable source, I might add—seven hundred miles due south of where he was raking the bejesus out of a pair of Portuguese merchantmen. We know it was him doing the pounding because when he finished with them, he had the cheek to offer one of our agents the hulls at what he considered to be a fair price."
Sir Lionel chuckled. "Did the agent take them?"
"Of course he took them. He then sold them back to the Portuguese for twice what he paid. But that's not the point here. The point is, the fellow is starting to take on the flavor of a romantic, dashing hero in these parts and that won't do. That won't do at all. My own wife of thirty-two blessed and fruitful years blushes and flutters like a schoolgirl when the talk turns to Captain Morgan Wade."
Summer Winfield and the stoic Mrs. Stonekipper were seated a short distance away enjoying their own pot of coffee and sewing shirts for the charity ward of the hospital. They were far enough to be able to ignore the men's conversation, but close enough to overhear what they wished, and at the admiral's last comment, his wife glanced up and made a small face.
"I don't mind saying I give a hearty cheer every time word reaches us that he's downed another foreigner," said Lawrence Ross. Ross was the senior agent in charge of monitoring the imports and exports for the island. He was also fondly known as the Taxman, ensuring that a portion of each shipment in or out of port was credited to the king's coffers. "It must also be said that his paperwork and his cargo are always in order when he sails into my jurisdiction."
Stonekipper nodded grudgingly. "A half dozen times he's been impounded in the harbor and each time, by God, he's had his ship searched to the timbers and we've found nothing wrong with his manifests."
"He cannot be touched if he is holding legal, and he knows it," Ross said. "Although I do suspect at times he sails away laughing out of the side of his mouth."
"My informant tells us he just bought a huge shipment of gunpowder and muskets from the French," Bennett said obliquely. "Where is the legality in that?"
"Have your informant show me on his manifests where it states guns and powder—better yet, show me where it does not state guns and powder, then show me the guns and powder." Ross cast a cold look at the commodore. "Do that, sir, and I'll have a warrant issued for his arrest before the water dries on his boots."
"If he were to be caught in open water," Stonekipper said, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar, "my guess is there would be more than enough grounds to slap him in irons."
"If you were to catch him in open water, I should hope you would be able to do more than simply slap him in irons."
All eyes turned toward the speaker. Farley Glasse had been in Bridgetown less than two months and had arrived on the doorstep this day in the company of Admiral Stonekipper. He was an oily little man with small black eyes positioned too close together over a long, pointy nose. He had not contributed much thus far to the conversation, seeming to be content to sit with his fingers steepled under his chin and his little ferret eyes going from one man to the next, absorbing and assessing.
"As for Wade laughing out of the side of his mouth," Glass continued, "you have the Northgate at your disposal, rated at fifty-two guns, if I am not mistaken. And the Caledonia. Seventy-four guns. Ample firepower, I should think, to run a single privateer to ground."
"The Northgate and the Caledonia are both warships, sir. They have enough to do worrying about controlling the blasted French, let alone starting an incident with some damned American renegade...beg pardon for the language," the admiral said with a nod in the ladies direction.
"This same damned renegade is smuggling guns and armaments through our blockade lines to the American mainland. You are not dealing with a simple smuggler carrying tea and rum to th
e colonies."
"It is not for lack of trying that we've failed to catch the fellow at his business," Stonekipper growled. "For the past six months or more we've sent one ship after another out to give him chase, and that is precisely what he has given them: a merry chase."
"It would seem to me then, that one well-placed broadside—"
"Would give us another incident like the Chesapeake, or the Little Belt," Sir Lionel said flatly. "We would be at war with the Americans before the smoke cleared."
"The instances to which you refer, Governor, were both justifiable. The Chesapeake carried British deserters and, as is our right, we boarded her and removed them. As to the other," Glasse shrugged, "I was not the only one amazed by parliament's reluctance to throw down the gauntlet."
In early May, the British frigate, Guerriere, had stopped an American brig and had seized a crewman suspected of being a British deserter. Capturing deserters was a common excuse used by the Royal Navy to justify stopping a ship to search for contraband goods, but in this instance, the sailor in question had lived in Virginia all of his life and had never served in the Royal Navy. Roused by patriotic indignation, the Americans dispatched one of their newly commissioned warships, the President, to chase after the Guerriere and fetch the man back. Mid-month it caught up to the British ship and opened fire, only to discover later that it was not the Guerriere, but a smaller, inoffensive vessel, the Little Belt. The British public was, in turn, outraged at the effrontery of the American upstarts, who had simply apologized for the misunderstanding and sent the damaged brig on its way.
"Are you suggesting we take the initiative and start a war on three fronts, sir?" Sir Lionel scratched savagely beneath his periwig. "We are already fighting the French and the Spanish and while I am aware the warmongers in Philadelphia are straining at the leash to join the fray, I'll not be the one responsible for giving them due cause. No, sir, I will not."
"What I am suggesting," Glasse said with a thin smile, "is that we merely cease to label piracy as anything else. I suggest we stop sending cutters and naval sloops after men like Wade when they haven't a hope of doing anything more than aggrandizing his reputation. He has, in fact, attacked and raided British merchant ships, has he not?"
"Only sporting, if you think of it, sir" said Harvey Aslop, Winfield's young and extremely efficient adjutant. "since our privateers have taken pot shots at him."
"To no avail."
"To no avail," Harvey conceded. "Which speaks, perhaps, to his greater knowledge of the area. There are a thousand islands in this chain, half of which do not even appear on any charts."
Glasse pursed his lips. "Have you thought of using a decoy?"
The admiral almost swallowed his cigar butt as he rammed it into his mouth. "We have tried two, by God."
"And?"
"And...both ended up being sailed under a prize crew of Wade's men, past the revenue ships that were sent to spring the trap, past the whole goddamn fleet blockading the American coastline, and right into a goddamn American harbor where they were stripped and refitted and turned out again flying the goddamn Stars and Stripes." He agitated the soggy end of the cigar to the corner of his mouth and shot a glance at the ladies. "Beg pardon again."
"Quite alright, Admiral," Summer said quietly, looking up from her sewing.
"You know this man Wade, do you not?" Glasse asked abruptly.
Summer was startled by the question and nearly dropped her own cup before she realized it was directed at Bennett.
"Insomuch as anyone else who has been plagued by his presence in these waters."
"Have you taken the Caledonia out on an extended patrol yet?"
"Not as yet, no. I have been making a few minor alterations while I have her in port."
"Really? I should be intrigued to see how one goes about altering a work of supreme art."
"This work of art wallows, Mr. Glasse," Bennett replied smoothly. "She was dragging at least ten wagonloads of barnacles on her sheathing that had to be scraped clean before she could hope to muster anywhere near her peak speed. I have also taken the liberty of moving some of her guns and substituting more thirty-two pounders for the less effective twenty-fours."
"With such preparations, may I assume that you believe war is inevitable?"
"I believe in being prepared for whatever needs may arise."
Glasse nodded and gave what, for him, passed as a smile. "Indeed. But when I asked you if you knew Wade, I was naturally referring to earlier on in your respective careers. You were with Admiral Nelson off the Barbary Coast back in '02, were you not? About the same time Morgan Wade was serving in the newly conceptualized American Navy."
"That was nine years ago. We were both junior officers, he a rather hastily promoted lieutenant I believe, and I a midshipman. The Americans, if you recall, initiated the most action against the pirate stronghold, so we were there more or less as observers."
"Thus, you were in an excellent position to observe Wade's blooding ground, as it were. He led several high-risk forays against the Tripolitans and made quite a name for himself."
"He had no lack of nerve or initiative, if that is what you mean. As to the brilliance of his tactics, I can only say that had he been serving under my command, he would have been court-martialed many times over."
"So he should have been," Glasse agreed silkily. "And yet I doubt the Americans would have been too keen on drawing attention to the fact they had a titled Englishman in their ranks."
"What's that you say?" Sir Lionel paused mid-scratch, leaving his wig at a precarious angle. "A titled Englishman? Who the deuce are you talking about?"
"Morgan Wade," Glasse responded blithely. "I have every reason to believe he was born Edmund Granville, and became Sir Edmund Granville upon inheriting his father's barony. Unfortunately—" and here Glasse's voice took on a brittle edge— "there was some rather unsavory business involving an unsolved murder which spurred him into leaving England in a hurry. Upon his hasty departure, Lord Granville ceased to exist. Shortly thereafter, Morgan Wade's name first appeared on the American naval rolls."
"And you believe they are one and the same man?"
"I am not alone in that belief. For one thing, the name Morgan Wade does not exist prior to nine years ago, yet he suddenly appears at that time as a naval lieutenant on board an American ship. For another, we have this—" Glasse paused and reached into an inner pocket of his coat. A small indigo disc was carefully unwrapped from a layer of linen and was transferred onto the tabletop for inspection. It was a round of sealing wax.
"Several documents surfaced a few months back carrying the Granville seal, which you see before you now. A falcon in full wingspread with the stylized initial G embossed beneath. It understandably roused some curiosity when it was identified."
Summer, her sewing untouched, felt a chill shiver down her spine. In a heartbeat she was back on board the Chimera, seated at Wade's desk, the elegant filigreed cask open before her revealing the contents: several sticks of indigo-colored wax and a brass seal bearing a falcon in full wingspread, the claws gripping the initial G.
"Documents, you say? What kind of documents," the admiral asked.
"They were on board a ship that was apprehended whilst attempting to run the blockade into Norfolk. In exchange for the release of his ship and crew, the captain was persuaded to turn over to us his manifests, logs, and a sealed folder that contained, among other items of interest, letters from Morgan Wade to his close personal friend and naval ally, Stephen Decatur, another heroic veteran of the Tripolitan wars."
Summer clasped her hands tightly together, seeing clearly the salutation: "Dear Stephen..."
"The letters appeared innocent enough at first reading. They were polite, yet informal, chatting about everything from the weather to the sugar cane harvests. One particularly intuitive young man, however, was bothered by a discrepancy in some of the details and investigated further. He discovered that storms had been reported where no storms had occur
red. Harvests of cane were praised where there were only stretches of barren rock and sand. Imagine our surprise when the storms were reported exactly where our navy had been conducting maneuvers, and the harvest he mentioned on the island of Grenada was, in fact, the reinforcing of the garrison stationed there. All of this and more was being relayed to the American War Office through Captain Decatur."
"Espionage is a way of life here in the West Indies, Mr. Glasse," said Harvey Aslop. "Spies are thicker than mosquitoes on a hot August night."
"Ah yes, and it only adds to Morgan Wade's charisma, I'm sure, but...if I can prove that Wade and Sir Edmund Granville are one and the same man, he can be apprehended without any fear of repercussions from the Americans. He can be charged and brought to trial as a murderer as well as a bona fide traitor to the Crown."
Glasse's black, ferret-like eyes shifted around the circle of thoughtful faces.
"Difficult to prove after so many years, without an admission," the admiral murmured at length. "Or a witness. If you are basing your suspicions on a seal and a disc of wax, it vanishes the instant he catches wind and tosses the lot overboard."
"Granted, the link is precarious, but it does warrant further investigation," Bennett said, his eyes sparking with interest. "All the Americans need is one hero—one renegade who succeeds in making us all look like fools—and the war will be won without firing a single shot."
"That is, essentially, why I am here," Glasse said. "I represent certain factions of our government...men who anticipate the war between America and Britain becoming a reality within the year. It is no secret that the Americans are presently ill-equipped to engage in any lengthy naval warfare. Their navy consists of three heavy frigates and a laughable fifteen mismatched sloops and schooners, most of which are trapped inside our blockade line. Their crews are young and inexperienced. On land, their militia is untrained and disorganized."
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