The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

by Louise Allen

  With Julietta all his energies had been devoted to keeping her out of the scrapes her impulsive nature sent her tumbling into. Emptying his wallet as she shopped had been one way of doing that, even if the silks and taffetas, the pearls and bangles, had all been deployed to attract attention and aid her in flirting with any man who paid her heed. He closed his eyes for a moment against the pain. That was all she had ever meant to do: flirt. And yet it had killed her.

  But Clemence did not flirt and she did not once open her reticule, although he saw her lips curve at the sight of a shop window full of nonsensically pretty hats and look wistfully at a display of fans and shawls. He wanted to buy it all for her, see her eyes light up and hear her laugh. But he should not give her something as intimate as a garment, he knew that.

  Eliza had found a shop full of small antiquities, old paintings, statues and trays of second-hand knick-knacks. She rummaged enthusiastically while the shopkeeper stared at her dark skin and her colourful head-wrap.

  To distract himself from watching Clemence, Nathan picked up fans from a shelf, almost at random. One small one caught his eye. Painted with a group of young women in the centre, it was surrounded in verses in French. It wasn’t new—in fact, it was slightly scuffed—but it intrigued him. The women were taking papers from cherubs who appeared to be operating some kind of lottery or lucky dip. It was hard to read in the subdued light as he skimmed the words, then he saw the name in the last verse. Clémence.

  ‘I’ll take this.’ The shopkeeper wrapped it for him and he thrust it into his breast pocket as the two women tore themselves away from the trinkets and came to join him. ‘Finished?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. You must be so bored.’ Clemence smiled up at him. ‘Should we go back to the inn?’

  ‘I think so. I will hire a chaise for tomorrow.’

  She grew quieter and quieter as they neared the inn and Nathan found himself suddenly devoid of conversation. ‘You’ll take dinner in the private parlour?’ She nodded. ‘I will not join you. I have business to attend to.’ He stopped at the door. ‘I will send a note with the time for us to leave.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Clemence said politely, her eyes troubled. His memory brought back the look in them when he had refused to marry her. He felt, obscurely, that he had let her down, and yet, surely by now she knew he had made the right decision? ‘We will be ready.’

  Almost there, he thought as he strode off down St Edmund’s Street towards his non-existent business. Almost free of the need to watch every thought and every word. Almost time for the safety of loneliness and of not having to worry about another human being. Because that was all it was, all it could be, this odd ache inside him. He had missed feminine company and Clemence was such an original female it was hard not to be attracted by her. He had been trained to care for those under his command and he supposed that was why he felt such a need to protect her. And he wanted to make love to her and that, of course, was impossible. So the sooner he could return to his bachelor existence, the better.

  It had been easier to sleep in the cramped cabin, Clemence concluded after a restless night in the high bed, alternately stifled and cold. Everything seemed to be moving still, yet the familiar shipboard noises had been replaced by cartwheels on cobbles, shouts from the harbour, heavy feet on the landing outside and heavy snores from the chamber next door.

  Nathan did not snore. Clemence rolled over and buried her head under a pillow, but all that the comparative peace provided was more tranquillity in which to think and to worry.

  Somehow she would get through the meeting with her family, she knew that, despite her anxious anticipation. But what then? They would expect her to become part of their world, to take her place in society and to find a husband. And how could she when the only man she loved didn’t want to marry her?

  Those days together on the Orion had given her a glimpse of what their life together could be, the companionship, the shared amusements, the spark of temper and the fun of making up. Everything, that is, except the nights spent in each other’s arms. Her body ached as she let herself remember the feel of those slim hips between her thighs as she had massaged his back, the ripple of muscle under the palms, the spring of his hair, the scent of hot masculinity.

  Stubborn, stubborn man! And yet, now, she could understand his scruples. And it was not as though he loved her, after all. He knew she was safe now so he had no need to fight for her.

  Clemence screwed her eyes tightly shut and refused to let herself cry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘We have arrived.’

  The chaise swung through between tall gate posts. Clemence caught a glimpse of a quaint cottage and a man holding the gate, then they were into parkland, great sweeping grasslands dotted with trees, the glint of distant water, a small temple artfully placed on a mound. Elegant, artificial and yet deeply satisfying.

  ‘What are those odd cattle?’ Eliza pointed.

  ‘Deer.’ She knew that, she had seen pictures. Clemence tightened her grip on her reticule, her elbow rubbing against Nathan’s. A hired chaise was hardly big enough for a hound and four people, not when one of them was Street. Street, Nathan had decreed, was staying with her, although in what capacity he had not said. Her imagination baulked at the thought of the ex-pirate in footman’s livery.

  The carriage drive seemed endless, but at last they came to a halt and Nathan opened the door and handed her down. ‘Courage,’ he murmured as he offered her his arm. ‘You faced down Red Matthew McTiernan, one duchess will be child’s play.’

  The footman who answered the door was too well trained to express surprise to find himself confronted by an unexpected member of his master’s family on the arm of a naval officer, although his eyes widened at the sight of their entourage, one of whom was snarling at a peacock. The butler, materialising as they entered, was above showing even that degree of surprise and ushered Clemence and Nathan into a salon. ‘Your staff will be comfortable in the servants’ hall, sir. I will ascertain if her Grace is receiving.’

  ‘Clemence! My dear child, I had no idea!’ The human whirlwind who appeared five minutes later, sweeping past the butler, clasped Clemence to her bosom and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You poor lamb, I was devastated to hear about your papa and then your uncle said you were unwell—we had no thought you might be able to make the journey.’

  Clemence found herself seated beside the lady she supposed must be her aunt. She was tall, although not as tall as Clemence, dark haired, long nosed and remarkably handsome. At first glance she seemed daunting, but there was humour in her large blue eyes and kindness in the clasp of her hands around Clemence’s own cold ones.

  ‘I was not unwell, ma’am. My uncle Naismith is determined on seizing my inheritance by forcing me to marry my cousin Lewis. I ran away,’ she added, then ran out of words. There ought to be some way to gently lead up to what had happened, but it escaped her.

  The duchess raised her eyebrows, took a deep breath, then turned her eyes on Nathan. ‘With this gentleman?’

  ‘Captain Nathan Stanier, your Grace. Royal Navy. Miss Ravenhurst’s fight took her into the hands of a pirate crew of which I was, at that time, the navigator.’

  ‘On a naval mission, I trust? Your present occupation does not represent a sudden change of heart?’ Despite her sharp words, her expression as she turned back to Clemence was gentle. ‘My dear, I am sure you would like to tell me all about this alone in my boudoir.’

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am. There is nothing I cannot discuss in front of Captain Stanier. I was disguised as a boy. There was a battle and it was all very unpleasant. But, through it all, Captain Stanier knew and protected me. He was hurt because of me. Nothing…untoward occurred.’ At least her aunt was not having hysterics, or had shown her the door or any of the other unpleasant scenarios that had been running through her mind.

  ‘Call me Aunt Amelia, child.’ The duchess squeezed her hands. ‘You will want to rest a while and take some tea. Captain,
may I trouble you to pull the bell? Thank you. Ah, Andrewes, please will you show Miss Ravenhurst to the Blue suite and send my woman to her. And a tea tray.’

  ‘Aunt Amelia—’ She was being got out of the way while her aunt interrogated Nathan, which was unfair. She should stay and defend him.

  ‘I will just have a word with Captain Stanier, my dear,’ the duchess continued, confirming her fears. ‘I will come and see you shortly.’

  Nathan met her eyes and mouthed, Go, so Clemence got to her feet, bemused. She could hardly cling to his coat and insist on staying.

  ‘Perhaps you had better say goodbye now,’ her aunt added with finality.

  Clemence swallowed. She had not expected the parting to be so sudden and she had no words beyond, ‘Thank you, Na…Captain.’ He was studying her, like a painter looking at a subject before he laid chalk to paper. She tried again. ‘You saved my life, at no little risk to your own. I thank you and I wish you well. Goodbye.’

  ‘It was a pleasure to be of service, Miss Ravenhurst.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out a slender package. ‘A trifle. A keepsake. I saw your name on it, but I have not stopped to translate it, I fear.’

  He bowed, she curtsied and took it, an unimportant thing when all she wanted was him, and then she was walking away from the man she had thought, for a few blissful moments, would be her destiny.

  ‘Well, Captain Stanier?’

  Despite the distinct feeling that he was up before the admiral on charges, Nathan felt a twinge of appreciation. The duchess was formidably unshaken by the unexpected arrival of her niece and, he could see, was more than capable of looking after Clemence.

  ‘There is no doubt, your Grace, that Miss Ravenhurst is quite comprehensively compromised. She has spent nights in my cabin, during only one of which was I fooled into thinking she was male. But I can give you my word that, although she has been exposed to violence that no young woman should ever see, her virtue has not been outraged.’

  ‘You relieve my mind,’ she said drily. ‘But as you say, my niece is compromised. It does not occur to you to offer her the protection of your name?’

  ‘It did. That was my intention—before I knew who she was. I am unequal to one of her birth or her fortune. I am the younger son of the third Baron Howarth and I live on my pay. When I prevailed upon Clemence to tell me her name, I realised that the power of the Ravenhurst family would both protect her good name and effectively crush her uncle and his schemes. She has no need to marry me—she may marry who she chooses, as high as she chooses.’

  ‘That is true.’ The duchess sat studying him. Nathan looked stolidly back at her. If she thought she was going to push him into babbling on, she was mistaken. ‘What do you know about her uncle?’ she asked at length.

  ‘That when Clemence ran away her face was swollen from the blow he had dealt her because she had refused his son. Their intention was for the young man to come to her bed and force her until she was with child. They assumed this would compel her to give in for the sake of the baby, thus giving them permanent control of her fortune.’

  He had thought he could get through this without emotion, but it was an effort to control the anger in his voice. The duchess’s eyes widened in shock, but she did not speak. ‘The navy has legal representation on Jamaica. We have left a deposition with them against the time when you wish to act.’

  ‘Then I must thank you, Captain Stanier. It seems Clemence owes you her life—I am not sure how we may repay that debt.’ He made an abrupt gesture of rejection and she nodded. A perceptive woman with more sensibility than her forthright appearance had led him to expect. ‘What are your plans now?’

  ‘To report to the Admiralty as soon as I reach London. The post chaise is waiting.’

  ‘Then all I can do is thank you.’ The duchess rose and held out her hand. He bowed over it and turned. ‘Tell me, Captain Stanier,’ she said softly as he was halfway to the door, ‘do you love her?’

  It halted him in mid-stride, the truth of it like a blow. Nathan stood, his back to the tall woman, staring into the glass that hung on the wall, reflecting his image and hers into the overmantel glass and back again. He saw his own face, endlessly repeated and the sudden shock of knowledge on it, and he saw, too, the pity on hers.

  In front of him the door handle turned and the door opened a fraction. It was Clemence, he knew it by instinct. She had not wanted to abandon him to her aunt’s questions; now she had come back to defend him.

  ‘Do I love Clemence?’ he repeated, his voice clear and cool, his intent driving the words through the wooden panels as though they were a rapier thrust. The door stopped opening. ‘No,’ he lied, shocked at how the word hurt. ‘No, but I would have done my duty by her if that was the right thing, naturally. I confess, it is a relief not to have to take that step. I have been married once, your Grace. I have no desire to be burdened with a second wife, however sweet and young.’

  The gasp was so soft he hardly heard it—perhaps he imagined it. He felt as though he had hit her. By why should he feel so badly? She did not love him, even if she felt friendship, gratitude and perhaps, still, some half-aroused desire. At worst, she had formed a tendre for him and that would soon vanish in the admiration and attention of a dozen young aspirants for her hand and heart. The door closed softly. Click. There, it was finished.

  ‘Good day, your Grace.’

  The hall was empty when he stepped out into it, although the butler appeared with the usual supernatural efficiency of his kind, Nathan’s hat and gloves in hand. ‘I have found accommodation for Miss Ravenhurst’s maid and man.’

  ‘Personal cook and bodyguard,’ Nathan explained, finding some faint amusement at the expression that crossed the butler’s face.

  ‘As you say, sir. Doubtless we can outfit him suitably. The hound is in the stables.’

  But not for long, I’ll warrant. ‘Thank you.’ There was nothing for it now but to walk out of the wide front doors and get into the chaise and drive back to London and to duty and the whims of their lordships of the Admiralty and to learn to pretend that the last three months had not happened. To come to terms with the fact that his feelings for Clemence Ravenhurst were not simply liking and friendship and desire, but love. Thank God he would never have to see her again.

  Clemence stood on the landing, a foot back from the balustrade, and watched Nathan’s back until the doors closed, something hot and painful lodged in her chest. What had she thought, what had she dreamed? Surely not that he would change his mind at the last moment, ignore the wealth and magnificence of her cousin’s home, the dignity and station of her aunt and discover that he loved her after all?

  Yes, of course that was what she had dreamed. A fantasy of Nathan on his knees, clasping her hands, telling her he could not live without her and his scruples were as nothing compared to the force of his love and adoration for her.

  So, now she knew. He would have done his duty and she was sweet and young. But it was a relief not to have to marry her, he had said, with the air of a man explaining why a horse was not of the right conformation to suit him.

  Something was hurting her hand. She looked down to find it clenched around the slim hard package he had given her. Clemence retraced her steps to the bedchamber that had been allotted to her and sat down at the dressing table to unwrap it.

  It was a fan. Not new, slightly scuffed, with plain sticks and a printed design on one side. Feeling as though she was watching someone else through a window, Clemence opened it and studied the design. Six young women clustered around a table on which stood a revolving drum and above their heads little Cupids fluttered, taking papers from the drum and giving them to the girls. The verses were in French, the print small. Clemence began to read. It was, it seemed, a lottery for a lover.

  Here is Love, putting the charms

  Of all these beauties to the test.

  The prizes, he has promised, will be

  The true qualities of men…

  A constant f
riend, a faithful husband,

  Are both a lottery.

  It was horribly apposite. Clemence made herself continue to translate. Isis, despairing, had drawn a blank, Aglaé a man with no merit; Aglaure, though, was more fortunate, winning a man both constant and handsome. Mélise finds she has a man with three good qualities—he will be generous, handsome and sensitive. Clemence began to see the pattern: the next girl would win a man with four virtues and, indeed, Aline’s lover was destined be a man with wit, beauty, good heart and fidelity.

  And finally, there remains but one.

  It is for the lovely Clémence.

  That was what Nathan had meant—he had seen her name. She read on, the fragile object trembling in her hand.

  Her destiny is wonderful, but rare.

  It surpasses all her hopes.

  A stout heart, a quick mind,

  Virtue, courage and a handsome form.

  Her lover is blessed with them all.

  She has won the fivefold prize.

  He had not translated it, she had to believe him. He would not be so cruel. He had bought the pretty thing for her simply because of her name upon it, never guessing the irony. Clémence’s promised lover was everything Nathan was in her mind, everything she loved him for.

  She closed the fan until all she was holding was the slender length of it between its polished brown guard sticks. Her hands closed on it, tightened. It would break so easily, just like her heart.

  After a long while she laid it down and drew a silk handkerchief from her reticule, wrapped the fan in it with care and slid open the drawer beneath the dressing-table mirror. It fitted as though it had been made for it, just as Nathan had been made for her. Clemence slid the drawer shut, consigning it to darkness.