The child was christened Sarah Hogarth Winfield, Sarah for Summer's mother, Hogarth for Bennett's mother's family name. Sir Lionel was jovially insistent that the next child would be a boy, named Lionel Humphrey after the respective grandfathers. His gift to the new parents was an additional twenty-thousand-acre parcel of land, which, when combined with the Dover plantation, made Bennett one of the largest landowners on the island.
Sarah Winfield plumped rapidly into a beautiful child. She rarely cried and seemed almost as content to while away the hours of each day in the loving arms of her mother as Summer was to simply hold her. The baby blatantly refused the services of a wet nurse, and, much to the nanny's consternation, stubbornly wailed her annoyance when anyone other than her mother or adoring new uncle picked her up. Bennett never even tried.
Michael decided that 'Old Winifred' was a prude and definitely a bit 'grotty' for thinking a son could have been any kind of improvement over Sarah. He sang to her and told her stories. He became Summer's steadfast companion and loyal supporter, happily taking over Bennett's role for long walks in the public gardens.
Aside from the formal ceremony of the christening, Bennett showed little interest in his daughter. His public facade was pleasant enough, but in the privacy of their rooms, Summer would often find him staring at her or at Sarah, a drink in hand, his cold pale eyes as flat and lifeless as those of a stranger.
Not improving his mood overmuch was the almost constant talk of war. Dinner conversations were dominated by politics; luncheons and teas often became heated discussions over free trade, blockades, taxes, embargoes. Even the gardens and streets became crowded with uniforms as the parade grounds of the Savannah Garrison became a training camp for eager recruits to the home guard. Talk of an invasion was on everyone's lips. The British fully expected to receive orders any day that their ships were offloading marines and soldiers along the American coastline to reclaim their dominion from the upstart colonists.
To that end, Commodore Winfield's task was to keep the shipping lanes free of the French and Dutch privateers who saw the potential for making enormous profits. The Americans were desperate for supplies and running the blockade could yield a thousand percent return for the lucky captain who succeeded. Bennett's prize record grew impressively and he stopped more ships and seized more illegal cargo than a score of revenue cutters combined. His main target continued to elude him, however, but his forays were so successful and so inspiring to his fellow officers, that his embarrassment at the Sirens was readily forgotten. In its stead grew a speculation that when and if Morgan Wade ever dared to return to the islands, the sleek black panther—as the Caledonia was fondly referred to—would run him to the ground within the month.
The Governor's Ball had been an institution in Barbados since the first appointed governor had declared the morals too lax and climate too fertile, presenting a very real threat to the formal structure of English society. Only the rich and very rich were presented with delicate gold invitations to the event which was held annually on June twenty-fifth. Coaches and carriages belonging to diplomats and wealthy plantation owners lined both sides of the boulevards surrounding Government House, each with liveried manservants proudly displaying the crest and family colors.
Inside, the buffet tables sagged under mountains of food and drink. Crystal glasses were filled with champagne from a three-tiered fountain, and pastry chefs beamed from behind platters of their finest concoctions, intoxicated by the praise of sticky-fingered guests.
The enormous ballroom swelled with colorful, beautiful people, who swayed to the music of a ten-piece orchestra. The gowns in myriad shades of greens, peaches, and yellows swirled in amid a sea of formal frockcoats and dress uniforms. The lights from thousands of candles were dazzling. The sparkle from chandeliers glittered overhead like a layer of silver stardust, falling here and there to twinkle off a flash of jewels or the gleam of a dress sabre.
Sir Lionel Cambridge headed the reception line, resplendent in the snow white breeches and scarlet coat of office. His moustache was waxed to needle-sharp points, his cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were an eruption of tiny red veins from sampling and approving wines all day. Michael stood by his side wearing a replica of his father's uniform only in navy velvet, extremely proud to be participating in the festivities for the first time without a nanny hovering over his shoulder.
Summer and Bennett Winfield were next in line, and for a time he was the man she remembered from her first meeting in London. He was poised, charming, and exceedingly handsome in his dress uniform. His mood had improved remarkably over the past week, although Summer could not have explained why. But he was attentive, he smiled often, and as a result, she was lulled by a sense of well-being she had not felt in a longer time than she cared to think about.
Bennett had even selected the gown she was wearing. It was made of cream-colored satin, so slippery and sensuous it seemed to mold to every curve of her body. Cut astoundingly low across the bosom, it dipped into a wide vee where it met the high waist of the skirt, drawing eyes down to the plumped rise of her breasts. Nestled between the creamy half moons, and drawing just as many stares, was the second cause of Summer's light-headedness—Bennett's belated gift for the birth of their daughter: An emerald and diamond pendant as large as a gull's egg.
Summer laughed and smiled and radiated happiness. She greeted each guest as if they were warm, dear friends, accepting compliments and flattery under the approving eyes of her husband.
"Well, Commodore Winfield, I see I must commend you again on your capture of such an exquisite young lady. She grows lovelier each time we meet."
Summer's head was half turned, but she recognized the oily, nasal voice and had to force the smile to remain in place as Farley Glasse bowed over her hand. His black eyes bored through her gown, causing her flesh to crawl and a shudder to race down her spine.
"May I be so bold as to steal her away, just for a few moments?" Glasse asked Bennett. "I fear once the receiving is officially concluded, I may not have a chance to compete with the scores of her admirers."
"I do not mind at all," Bennett said. "And I'm sure Summer would appreciate a breath of fresh air."
She looked up into the pale blue eyes and saw nothing but the warmth of his smile. She murmured her acceptance to Glasse and daintily took up the train of her gown in one hand while resting the other on his offered forearm. He led her through a set of tall french doors out onto the terrace, where she did, admittedly enjoy the clean, sweet air away from the heat of the crowded room.
"Your husband is a lucky man, Mrs. Winfield," he said as she dropped her hand from his arm. "He will go far in this man's navy, due in no small part to a supportive family behind him."
"Thank you, Mr. Glasse."
"Your little daughter is how old now?"
"Nearly three months," Summer answered, tensing slightly.
"And as lovely as her mother, I am informed...although to hear Sir Lionel's boasts, she is the exact image of his late wife."
"She has similar coloring, yes, with her red hair. Unfortunately Mother died when Michael was born, and memories of her grow sadly hazy."
"One of the tragedies of this climate," Glasse nodded. "So hot and sultry, babies are often brought into the world at a terrible price."
He kept talking and Summer glanced around, hoping for a reprieve. She had no idea why the noxious little man would single her out for company. He smelled particularly sour tonight, having slicked his hair back with enough pomade to fry a pan of eggs.
"Isn't that so, Mrs. Winfield?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I said...unlike the slave population. It appears to double almost daily despite the heat and rather squalid conditions in which they live. Then again, they do represent a profitable industry for the islands. Those born and raised here command higher prices in the colonies than those transported from Africa."
"I find the slave trade rather repulsive at best, Mr. Glasse."
"You an
d many others," he said with a nod. "Why only last week a ship full of black ivory was waylaid by a corsair and the cargo set free on one of the out islands. Foolishly romantic as a gesture, for the beasts will simply be recaptured again. However, I believe you would have first-hand knowledge of the Samaritan of whom I speak: Captain Morgan Wade?"
Summer held her breath. She had not heard that Wade was back in the islands. In fact, she had not heard his name mentioned at all of late.
"I am told he sets the blackbirds free whenever he takes a ship and finds them on board. Not very enterprising for a man in the business of making profits, is it?"
Summer moistened her lips. "I think I should return to—"
"He was becoming quite the hero in the eyes of the ignorant public, was he not? The dashing daredevil, blockade runner, privateer. I came across penny sheets in town the other day, exaggerating one of his meetings with a French frigate. The Etoile, I believe was the name of the ship. Blasted it out of the water without a thought to picking up survivors. In that sense, I must say you and your brother were lucky...as lucky as Wade himself has been in eluding justice. Hopefully all that will change when the navy's hands are no longer tied."
"You mean when war is declared?"
"Or when Wade makes a mistake. It is bound to happen; his luck cannot last forever."
"He has managed to disappoint you before."
"You refer, of course, to the incident last September? Yes, we certainly did have prime fools made of us then. One cannot help but wonder how Wade knew he was being followed, or how he knew to avoid the area of the Twin Sisters."
"Perhaps he does not travel the same route twice."
"Or perhaps his plans were altered at the last moment? Perhaps someone whispered a word in his ear?"
She gazed unwaveringly into the narrowed ferret-eyes. "Or perhaps that is the danger inherent in setting a trap, sir: The intended victim does not always co-operate."
"Trap, Mrs. Winfield?...may I call you Summer?"
"I prefer Mrs. Winfield. And what else would you call it, sir? Lying in wait for his ship, plotting in advance where he would be the most vulnerable. The word trap comes to mind at once."
Glasse laughed, and his eyes reverted to the study of her breasts. "How fortunate for us all that we learn from our mistakes. This time the vaunted Captain Wade will not find us so easy to dupe, no matter how many spies he pays to warn him."
"This time?"
"Surely you do not expect us to simply lie back and watch him take up where he left off last year? You speak of traps with such authority, it might interest you to know that this time, your husband has generously offered the perfect bait."
Summer felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sweet breeze. "I find this conversation growing quite tiresome, Mr. Glasse. If you will excuse me, I should return to the line to receive our guests."
She turned without waiting for him to accompany her. Back inside, under the brighter lights, she saw Bennett's suntanned face turn in her direction. He frowned slightly at Glasse, who was hustling behind her to keep apace, but then his smile returned as he stepped aside and guided her back into her place in line.
"You look flushed, my dear. Is something amiss?"
"That horrid little man. He...he—" the words froze on her lips and her gaze froze on the entrance to the ballroom.
Captain Morgan Wade was standing in the open doorway, as cool and indifferent as if he belonged. His wavy black hair was as unruly as ever, making him stand apart from the sea of white rolled periwigs and neatly clubbed tails. His broad shoulders were encased in an elegant maroon cutaway jacket set off by a silvered brocade waistcoat and black breeches. His handsome face wore the familiar half-mocking smile as he perused the crowded room, his presence exuding the kind of power and insolence that slowly drew every eye in the room toward him. And every eye that was not on Morgan Wade was fastened on the woman standing by his side: as cool and seductive a beauty as Summer had ever seen.
"Imagine that," Bennett murmured. "He actually had the gall to accept the invitation."
"Invitation?" She looked up at her husband, horrified. "You invited him here tonight?"
"Only as a matter of formality, my dear. We heard he was in the vicinity, and as it happens, he owns a sizable sugar cane plantation outside of Marchfield. We could hardly invite every other planter on the islands and not him. Besides, there is an unwritten amnesty during the entire week of the Governor's Ball. He knows he's as safe as a virgin while he's anchored in Bridgetown."
Summer whirled and stared at Morgan Wade. He was gazing out over the dance floor and had not seen her yet, but she was certain at any moment he would hear the pounding of her heart over the noise of the voices and laughter, and he would look her way. She could feel Bennett beside her, feel the heat of his eyes studying her every reaction and she knew, suddenly, the reason for his cloying good humor over the past week.
The bodice of her gown cut into her flesh as she tried to take deeper breaths to calm herself and she realized that there, too, she had fallen into Bennett's plans. He had clothed her like a prime courtesan and given her a jewel that would catch the attention of a blind man from across the room.
"...your husband has generously offered the perfect bait..."
Summer's head swam as she watched Wade move from the doorway to the end of the reception line. As if through a vat of water, she heard Michael's enthusiastic greeting and Morgan Wade's deep, throaty laugh.
"Is Mr. Thorntree with you, sir? Is he in Bridgetown too?"
"He is indeed, lad. I will tell him you asked after him, that should raise a smile on his hoary old face."
"Please do, sir. And the same from Mr. Roarke and Mr. Phillips...oh, and Mr. Monday too, even though he was a little frightening."
"Now, now, Michael," Sir Lionel interrupted before the entire crew could be mentioned. "You must not pester the captain."
Wade's smile altered subtly. "I must say, Sir Lionel, your invitation came as somewhat of a surprise. I am honored."
"Well, ah..." Sir Lionel cleared his throat brusquely. "Nonsense, m'good man. It was the least I could do. We were...and still are...mightily indebted to you for what you did last year."
Wade drew the beauty on his arm forward. "Allow me to present Mrs. Arianna Teague...Sir Lionel Cambridge, and his son Michael Cambridge."
The woman held out a hand to Sir Lionel, who had already warmed several shades darker at the proximity to her impressive cleavage. Her gown was rose-colored and consisted of two sheer layers of silk, the top one seeded liberally with spangles of silver beading so that she shimmered when she moved. She was nearly as tall as Wade, and had deep chestnut brown hair and the amber eyes of a tigress. Sir Lionel kept hold of her hand as he proceeded with the introductions.
"You, er, know my son-in-law, Commodore Bennett Winfield?"
"By reputation only," Wade said easily, offering a curt nod. "I understand our paths have just missed crossing on several occasions."
Bennett's gaze was locked on Wade's and for a moment he could not speak. Wade's eyes were dark blue with just a hint of violet. Over the past three months, Sarah Hogarth Winfield's eyes had darkened to a deeper shade of blue...tinted with just a hint of violet.
The proof was there, staring at him as boldly as any insult ever delivered.
"Your reputation, Captain Wade," he managed to say, his throat taut and his lips white, "leaves my own somewhat lacking, I am afraid."
Wade's grin widened. "My associates tell me the Caledonia has become a formidable sight on the horizon."
"My duty is to keep the sea lanes clear for British ships going about their lawful trade. If your...associates...feel threatened in some way, perhaps they should conduct their business elsewhere."
The two men sized one another up silently.
"Perhaps they should," Wade murmured. "Is there any small corner of the ocean the Royal Navy deems to be unclaimed territory?"
Bennett's smile was equally sardonic. "I
am not sure. I could certainly look into it for you if you are toying with the idea of a permanent change of climate. But forgive me, I am being remiss...you have, of course, already met my wife?"
The dark blue eyes were suddenly on Summer. She was feeling slightly nauseous, slightly weak-kneed. She braced herself to see anything on his face from horror to complete surprise. Any reaction from anger to shock to disbelief.
Anything but polite nonchalance.
"Mrs. Winfield." He smiled and bowed over her hand. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you again. You will have to accept my belated congratulations on your marriage; I was only recently informed."
"Thank you, Captain," she whispered.
"Mr. Roarke sends his fond regards as well. He regrets he could not attend tonight, he was nursing a rather badly bruised eye."
An introduction was made to Mrs. Teague, to which Summer murmured something hopelessly inadequate. She saw great dark blotches in her eyes before she realized she had been holding her breath, and it was when she released it that she heard Bennett casually introducing Wade to the man standing behind him in line.
"...Mr. Farley Glasse."
Summer glanced up in time to see the dark blue eyes flick away from her face, and she remembered, with a jolt of panic, what she had neglected to tell Stuart Roarke that night in the carriage. She had completely forgotten about Glasse's accusations against Morgan Wade.
"Mr. Glasse is attached to the Admiralty in an advisory capacity," Bennett added.
"Captain Wade." Glasse breathed the name out between his teeth. "I have long been looking forward to meeting you, sir. We, too, seem to have had paths that have crossed but never quite touched."
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