by Sara Ramsey
She tossed the paper onto Callie’s lap. It was the Gazette from Saturday, delivered that morning. Callie hadn’t seen it yet. But the front page included a headline that she couldn’t miss.
AMERICAN PRIVATEERS MUST BE DESTROYED, SAYS ADMIRALTY.
It was such a relief to switch from her private scandal to the activities of the privateers that she very nearly didn’t read the rest of the paper. She knew what invective the paper would fling at the Americans, and she didn’t need to read more of it. But as her mind slowly abandoned Thorington to think of her shipping company, she grew curious. She scanned the following paragraphs — the usual mix of inflammatory anti-American sentiment, with cries for justice from ship owners whose cargos had been taken by privateers. Baltimore was mentioned several times as a city that must be punished for its contribution to Britain’s woes. She’d read it all before…
Until she saw mention of Nero.
The newspaper had somehow gotten more information of Captain Jacobs’ antics than Callie had — rumor traveled faster than writing, and it was possible that any communications from her captain had been lost. It listed at least sixteen ships he had taken or sunk in his latest cruise. They had even published a bitter, petulant letter from Captain Hallett, the man who had lost Adamant to them and was now based at the harbor in Dartmouth. He had responded to their earlier story about his disgrace, giving more details about Captain Jacobs and the cruise that had destroyed Hallett’s career.
The Gazette called Jacobs the Scourge of the Caribbean — a name that would please Jacobs so greatly that he would probably engrave it on his calling cards if he survived the war.
She might have been thrilled to hear it. But the ships also listed their owners.
And the three richest ships he’d taken, including Crescendo, belonged to a company that was owned by the Duke of Thorington.
A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. She dropped the paper, trying to pretend that it was all a grand jest — that she laughed with humor, not with an onslaught of sudden panic. “Come after me with a sword if you must,” she said to Lucretia. “But I thought Briarleys fought direct battles, not with rumor and innuendo like cowards in the shadows.”
Octavia grinned. “She has you there, Lucy. Will you act dishonorably to preserve our honor?”
Lucretia looked at all of them as though she hated them. “I’ve nothing further to say to either of you. If you will excuse me, I must consult with the housekeeper about the plans for tonight’s ball.”
She left as soon as she finished her speech, not waiting to escort them out. Was she going to start the rumor about Callie’s ships immediately? Or could she simply no longer bear to be in their company?
Emma sighed as she left. “Briarleys,” she muttered. “It’s a wonder you all survived this long.”
Callie stayed another few minutes, finishing her tea, attempting to look calm and unaffected by Lucretia’s threats. But inside, her heart raced.
Would Thorington have come to Maidenstone looking for an heiress for his brother if he had still had his ships? The cargo on Crescendo had been very wealthy, and the news reports indicated that the other two ships were even richer. They also tittered that Thorington hadn’t bothered to insure them. Callie didn’t know whether Ferguson’s hints about Thorington’s financial ruin were true — but the value of his lost cargoes would have swayed even a grand fortune from security to bankruptcy.
Now she had it all, if Jacobs hadn’t been captured before selling it at the prize courts.
And while Thorington may have been wholly unaware that he had broken her heart, he also didn’t know she’d played a role in his ruin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The annual Maidenstone ball that night swelled the ranks of the assorted houseguests, bringing in every member of the landed gentry who could be assembled from within a few hours’ drive of Maidenstone. London accents, drawling with boredom, blended into the softer tones of Devon, creating an endless buzz in the vast, soaring ballroom.
Maidenstone Abbey was at her best. The ballroom, situated in the Georgian wing, was grand enough to cast all other ballrooms into shade. If the Prince Regent had attended, he would have left foaming with jealousy, bound to beg another allowance from Parliament to add a grander ballroom to Carlton House. But even without Prinny’s dubiously august presence, Maidenstone was capable of overwhelming.
Thorington, from his shadowed position along the wall, cast a critical eye over the gathered throngs. Some wore silk; others muslin. While there were still more men than women, the balance between the sexes was much improved compared to the days when only fortune-hunters filled Maidenstone’s halls. The local girls couldn’t compete with the London set, of course, but at least there were more skirts swirling among the suits. Portia and Serena wouldn’t lack for attention, but they wouldn’t be mobbed quite so badly.
His sisters weren’t his concern tonight, though.
He shifted against the wall, searching for a better angle with a clear view of the door. The more curious guests — country-raised lordlings with no knowledge of the ton — looked at him as though he was a circus offering. The more savvy guests ignored him, which was how he preferred it.
Rafe, though, couldn’t leave well enough alone. “How go your schemes?” he asked, settling in beside Thorington with a lean that made a mockery of Thorington’s negligent pose.
“I do not scheme,” Thorington said.
“Of course you don’t,” Rafe said. “How go your attempts to arrange all our lives?”
Thorington didn’t look away from the door. “They would go better if you all cooperated.”
Rafe laughed. “Is there something I can help with, or are you still intent on saving us all by yourself?”
“Unless you want to marry a Briarley, no.”
“Do you include Callista in that offer?” Rafe asked.
His neck prickled. He saw the trap Rafe had set for him, but he didn’t react. “Callista, Lucretia, Octavia — it makes no difference to me.”
“I never wanted children with Roman names,” Rafe said, sounding like he was seriously mulling over the possibility. “But Callista is good breeding stock.”
Thorington slanted him a sideways glance. Trap or no, he couldn’t ignore it. “Miss Briarley deserves more respect than that.”
Rafe’s face was the picture of innocence. “Meant it as a compliment, Gav. Don’t say you have an interest there?”
Thorington resolutely returned to his watch.
And then she walked through the door.
He had avoided her all day. It was the coward’s way out, and he was ashamed of himself for it. He had spent the day with his ledgers and his correspondence, wishing, again, that the numbers would change before his eyes. But they didn’t. The only image before his eyes was Callista, and how beautiful she looked in bed. She’d looked even more beautiful after, even as she’d driven a knife into his heart by pretending it all meant nothing to her.
He never should have come down from his room. He never should have taken her the night before. He couldn’t have her, after all. She had made it clear — more than clear — that she still wanted to win Maidenstone. If he married her against Ferguson’s wishes, all her chances would be destroyed. The house loomed over them now, as though it waited for Callista to win — as though the beat of the dancers’ feet was the steady, eager heartbeat of the house itself.
Maidenstone seemed happy, for once. The dancing covered all the past sins perpetrated there. It was just a house, for the moment, not a monument to the Briarleys’ centuries of folly.
This was Callista’s destiny. Not the unhappy, poverty-stricken life he could give her.
Still, he watched her. Her steps, solid and confident and made for the sea, were bolder than anything the local gentry would have seen before. Her dress must have started its life for Portia, but now it could only belong to her — a watered cerulean silk that swirled around her legs like she’d just stepped from the ocean
and brought a wave with her. Her sapphire pendant, appropriate for once, winked at him from between her breasts.
His Callista could conquer the world. He would pay dearly to see it happen.
But her smile gave him pause. It was too tight — as though she expected pain, not a party. He’d never seen it that way before. It was the opposite of the fey light he’d seen in her eyes the night before, when she’d been so casual at the end of their lovemaking. Last night, she had very nearly made him believe that she didn’t care at all.
Tonight, it looked like she cared too much.
He could go to her. He could pull her into his arms. He could say something that would make her laugh. He could spirit her out into the garden, where she would lose herself to the moonlight, where he would kiss her again, where he would skim his hands over that silk and find out where it stopped and where all her soft curves began. He would…
He couldn’t. He hardened his heart. Let her think he was a cad. He had to think of more than just the pleasure of bedding her. She deserved more than him, even if she wanted him.
“You are a fool,” Rafe said.
“You should form a society with Serena and Portia to discuss my inadequacies,” Thorington said.
“Charge a membership fee to all the interested parties here and we might raise enough to solve your current difficulties.”
“I’ll solve them on my own.”
“Is your luck turning?”
The news seemed to be slowing, but his estate managers still sent the occasional frantic missive about burned crops, broken watermills, and other calamities. “No. But I’ll find a way to keep you in whisky.”
Rafe didn’t take offense. He sighed instead. “None of us are children anymore, Gav. The younger ones won’t starve if you fail them. We can provide for ourselves.”
Thorington looked out over the crowd. Portia held court with a group of young officers from the garrison at Dartmoor. Their scarlet uniforms, trapping her white muslin, looked vaguely sinister — but Portia usually knew what she was about, and her smile was happy enough. Serena, less dramatic than her sister, had snared a sober-looking young man and was carrying on a more serious — but doubtlessly still flirtatious — conversation.
And Callista was drinking lemonade with some man Thorington didn’t recognize. He looked nervous. Callista looked bored. Ennui was accepted in the ton — respected, even.
But she was made for fireworks. For midnight rides on stolen horses. For laughing until she couldn’t breathe.
For coming apart in his arms. For raking her nails down his back.
He closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch her without going to her. He couldn’t go to her without touching her. He couldn’t touch her without needing her, desperately.
He couldn’t have her. And if she chose boredom, that was her problem, not his.
A footman interrupted them. When Thorington opened his eyes, the servant bowed deeply, as though he wasn’t sure whether Thorington would tip him or hit him for the message. “Your grace, begging your pardon, your servant has returned from London and would like a word, if it doesn’t trouble you.”
He’d sent the man to London the day after he’d met Callista — partially to hire a modiste for her, but mostly to find out why she cared so much about her ships. The knot in his stomach coiled tighter upon itself. He nodded at Rafe. “Practice providing for yourself while I attend to business,” he said.
Rafe saluted, but there was no humor in his eyes.
Thorington’s business, as it happened, was quick. He met the servant — his most trusted messenger — in one of the sitting rooms. The man was covered in dust from the London road and looked to be badly in need of a bed, but he still bowed smartly when Thorington entered.
“What is your report?” Thorington asked.
“The modiste you requested is in the village, your grace. She will attend to Miss Briarley in the morning.”
Thorington waved a hand, impatient. “And the rest?”
The man handed him a packet of papers, wrapped in a cover sheet and sealed with red wax. “There is no definitive proof of what you asked for, your grace. Tiberius Shipping has several ships, all based in Baltimore. There have been no recent voyages to London listed at Lloyd’s, but that’s to be expected given the war.”
“Did they have a list of ships?”
The servant nodded at the papers. “The Briarley habit of choosing Roman names has carried over to their ships.”
Thorington had seen the latest Gazette to arrive at Maidenstone. He couldn’t help but be interested in the fantastical story of the Scourge of the Caribbean, especially when the man had taken three of his ships. His eyes narrowed. “Do they have a ship named Nero?”
“They did when the war started. Its current status is unknown.”
A neutral answer, but it didn’t give Thorington hope. “What else did you learn?”
“I spoke to a contact at the Admiralty, your grace. If the Gazette from Saturday reached you ahead of me, you’ll have seen that they are posting a large bounty for Nero. The Admiralty wants to see it captured, and badly.”
“Still no proof of which Nero we are discussing.”
“No. But they interviewed Captain Hallett, who helmed the British frigate that was captured at the same time as Crescendo. He claims there was a woman aboard Nero when he was captured. Young, brown hair. He assumed she was the American captain’s mistress. They were standing together after the battle. But now he speculates she must have been more important than that.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Hallett was confined to his cabin on Adamant rather than being taken prisoner on Nero. Poor tactic, since he might have led a mutiny there, and Nero’s captain hasn’t made any similar mistakes. He told the Admiralty that Nero’s captain must have wanted to keep something aboard Nero away from him. And his best guess was the woman.”
Thorington’s heart beat faster. “Do they believe him?”
His servant shrugged. “The truth is that it was as much his fault that he lost the battle as it was Nero’s. I believe the Admiralty would have cast him out already if his father wasn’t in Parliament. They’ve ordered Hallett to serve on one of the sentry ships in Dartmouth while they decide what to do with him. I would guess that they hope he’ll resign over the insult.”
Dartmouth was only twenty miles or so from Maidenstone. The servant was right; guarding the Channel rather than fighting either Napoleon or the Americans would be a bitter blow. “Has Hallett left London yet?”
“Two weeks ago, according to my contact. His father is not pleased. But he knows they could have done worse by the man.”
“And does the Admiralty plan to investigate who was aboard Nero?”
“I doubt it. They care more about stopping the Scourge of the Caribbean. Whoever the man’s mistress is, she doesn’t concern them. But I’m sure Hallett would like to know who she is. He’ll want a bigger scandal to make people stop talking about his own failings.”
So Callista was safe from the Admiralty, for now — at least until Nero was captured. But the naval captain could prove problematic.
Thorington frowned. “Any word on my ships?”
His servant looked away. “You’ve lost all of your Caribbean vessels. Crescendo was scuttled. Nero towed it for a few days, but without a mast it was dead weight, and the Americans couldn’t risk slowing down. They took the cargo. The crew is awaiting ransom in Havana. The others were safely sailed to the prize courts in Havana and have likely been sold by now.”
“And the Asian fleet?” Thorington asked.
“No word, your grace,” the messenger said, still looking at the floor. “They are now three months overdue.”
At least the Caribbean crews had survived. He hoped he would hear the same of the men who were returning from the Orient, but he doubted it. Thorington wasn’t surprised that the ships were gone. It fit his luck. If he’d insured them, it might have all come out differently — but when
the curse had managed his fortune for him, insurance was unnecessary.
He turned his attention to the packet of papers, sliding a finger under the sealing wax and flicking the covering aside. The first page was a list of Callista’s ships, with Nero at the top. The remaining sheets were the manifests for his captured ships. He thumbed through the pages until he found Crescendo’s manifest. The ship had carried cargo bound for Jamaica, mostly textiles and fine goods.
He found what he was looking for on the fourth page. A sapphire pendant, ordered from Rundell and Bridge, to be delivered to one of the richest planters in Jamaica.
“Damn it all to bloody hell,” he said.
His servant knew better than to react.
It was only a matter of time before Nero was captured. Better for Callista if it sunk instead — better for all her men to die than for them to be captured and for her to be implicated. But even if it sunk, chances were there would be survivors. And those survivors would, inevitably, talk.
And then, at best, she would be ruined for her association with the American captain — traveling without a proper escort, even on a ship she owned, while engaging in a sea battle went beyond the pale of what most members of society would accept. At worst, she’d be hung for privateering. Thorington neither knew nor cared about naval law, but she was a British citizen — and owning a fleet of privateers operating against the British Navy seemed dangerously close to treason.
He shoved the papers into the messenger’s hands. “Take these to my room and hide them under the mattress. And sleep well tonight. You’ll need to return to London in the morning.”
The man didn’t make any sign of protest, beyond an infinitesimal sigh that Thorington didn’t begrudge.
Thorington strode from the room. With each step, he revised his plan.
The ballroom, when he found it, no longer looked impressive. He saw bloodthirsty jackals instead of cavalry officers, cruel harpies instead of innocuous ladies. Smiling strangers could turn to lynch mobs in a heartbeat. The fact that they wore jewels instead of homespun made them no less vicious.