“We’ve set a trap for the impostors,” said William.
James gathered his brow. “What sort of trap?”
William moved away from the desk and approached the liquor table. He poured himself a small amount of spirits.
“Here.” Quincy stretched out his hand. “Pass the rest o’ the bottle to me.”
William snorted. “You’ve had enough.”
Edmund was breathing deeply, sound asleep.
William looked at James again. “We tried hunting the charlatans, but they’re elusive. We figured we’d let them come to us instead.”
Quincy chimed in with, “Eddie and I spread the word about our precious ‘cargo’ in port tonight.”
“Is that why you’re piss drunk?” demanded James.
The kid shrugged. “It’s all Will’s fault. He told us to make it look like we were having a gay ol’ time before we let word slip about our valuable cargo. Less suspicious, you know?”
William clarified, “The impostors won’t think it a trap then.”
James glared at the lieutenant. “What cargo?”
But it was Quincy who blurted, “Diamonds.”
“Blimey!” James blustered, “We’re going to have every ship—pirate or not—hunting us now!”
Edmund started at the bellowed remark, blinked, then dropped back against the chair and closed his eyes.
“Quincy’s teasing,” William said in a calm manner.
James glared at the pup.
Quincy looked sheepish. “You’d think bedding a wench like Sophia would put you in a better mood.”
William downed the spirits. “I don’t think he bedded Sophia.”
The pup’s eyes rounded. “Oh, that’d put me in a foul temper, too.”
“Fuck off,” said James. “All of you.”
William set the empty glass aside and returned to the matter at hand. “We spread word we were hauling two hundred tons of sperm oil across the Atlantic. The booty will fetch a high price in America. It’s sure to entice the impostors out of hiding.”
“Aye.” Another hiccup. “Eddie and I were ‘foxed’ and let the word leak.”
“You are foxed,” James growled, “and you’re repeating yourself.”
The kid looked confused. “Am I?”
“We’re to set sail in two nights,” informed William.
Wednesday night.
James rubbed the back of his neck, so stiff. The trap coincided with the opera—and his revenge. But he refused to give up on Sophia. He refused to let the witch think she had chased him off with her wily ways, that she had won their battle of wills. He would attend the opera and still return in time to set sail with his brothers and crush the impostors.
“There’s a lot of work to be done over the next two days,” said William. “We need to prepare the ship and crew.”
The ship and crew were already prepared, thought James. The men might have retired from piracy, but the fight in their blood was still strong. And the Bonny Meg was always equipped for a brutal sea battle, her guns in ideal condition. However, there were other provisions to amass, like food and gunpowder, more canvas, and medical supplies. Two days was plenty of time to gather the needed materials.
James sensed the spasms in his neck, the twisting muscles. His brethren had done everything without him. They had prepared a trap and set it in motion without advice or leadership from him. They had never done that before.
James fisted his palms as if to keep the authority, the control from slipping between his fingers. “Fine. We weigh anchor in two nights.”
Quincy rambled, “And the Bonny Meg needs to be in good shape for our next venture, too.”
“What venture?” snapped James.
The inebriated Quincy glanced at William with only one eye open. “You still haven’t told him?”
James cut the lieutenant a sharp glance, too. “Told me what?”
William looked from one brother to the next, the room quiet except for Edmund’s sound and steady breathing.
“Let’s talk about it some other time, James. Get some sleep. We have a lot to do before we set sail.”
The lieutenant was right. James was fagged, the spirits he had swallowed earlier taking hold of his senses and making him drowsy. Whatever shipping venture his brother had planned, let him deal with it. He always did.
William headed for the door. “I’ll fetch Sophia and return her to your room.”
Yes, Sophia.
James still had that island witch to seduce, and he needed all his faculties intact to bring about her downfall.
Chapter 12
Sophia searched the crowd. The opera was scheduled to begin in a quarter of an hour, so the theater was brimming with patrons. It was hard to see over so many heads.
Where are you?
She pinched her eyes closed. A longing stemmed from her toes. The appendages twitched at the memory of his touch, his heat.
She huffed. Curse the blackguard! He possessed her senses even now. He chained her thoughts, even her will. For two days she had suffered in silence. For two days she had languished without a touch or a word from him. Lifeless. Even the earl had cooled his pursuit of her. The black devil had pressed him to be more affectionate. Jealousy had goaded him to be more possessive. But as soon as the pirate lord had deserted the country house, the earl had returned to the aloof yet amiable gentleman that he was—sans proposal.
Sophia opened her eyes. She lifted them to the vaulted ceiling. Stone columns and arched doorways supported the grand structure. She was dizzy. She lowered her gaze to the wide steps, carpeted in rich red fabric. She placed her hand on the wood finial for support. Traffic ascended the mighty staircase. The upper levels housed the private boxes. There was so much noise, so much color and movement.
Once more she searched the throng of spectators. She stepped onto the red carpet, seeking height—and the proverbial black locks that heralded him.
One look and she would be satisfied. She would ignore him the rest of the evening then…but the brigand had a way about him that disrupted her senses. Would a single look be enough to quiet her restless jitters?
“My dear, did you hear?”
Sophia grabbed the glossy banister, startled. “Hear what, Lady Lucas?”
The matron dabbed her brow with a kerchief. “It’s most shocking!”
Sophia had parted from the party, looking for breath and quiet…and him. She wasn’t privy to the goings-on that had transpired in her absence. But she had to wonder: What had happened in the past two minutes that was so shocking?
She eyed the woman closely. “What’s wrong, Lady Lucas?”
“Well—”
“It’s horrifying, Miss Dawson!”
Sophia glanced at Lady Rosamond, skirting toward her. The girl’s cheeks boasted rich pigment, even her lips looked bright and plump with blood. And her eyes! Her eyes glowed and sparkled and burned with energy.
“It’s all my fault.” The earl was more ashen. He followed his sister like a sentry. “It’s my duty to protect you, Mondie.”
Sophia quickly descended a step. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
Rosamond gasped for breath. “I’ve been corrupted!”
“Nonsense, Mondie!” cried the earl.
“I was very nearly corrupted…and by an acquaintance I trusted, Miss Dawson.”
Lady Lucas was flushed, too.
Sophia’s head throbbed. She whispered, “Who?”
“There she is!” Rosamond squeaked. “What is she doing here?”
Sophia whirled around. The horde still moved and laughed and chatted. However, the whispers started, too. The pointed looks.
Sophia followed the bloody trail of gossiping voices and disdainful expressions to the wounded creature in the center of the room.
Imogen.
“You invited her to the opera, Mondie,” said the earl.
“Two days ago! I didn’t know who she truly was then.”
Sophia’s heart cra
mped. “And who is she?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, my dear.” Lady Lucas whispered, “Miss Rayne is a fallen woman.”
It was a hammer to the heart, the words. So hard and biting. Sophia watched the lone figure fidget. She listened to the ghastly murmurs, so much louder in her own head. They were like savage blows, the voices and looks. Her bones ached under the pressure of the beating. She wasn’t even the unfortunate victim…but she sensed it. She sensed every brutal bash.
Sophia trembled. “Are you sure she’s a fallen woman?”
“Oh yes,” said Lady Lucas.
“It’s all over Town.” Rosamond hissed, “She lost her virtue to a Jew.”
“Mondie!”
The chit composed her features, brimming with vim. “It’s what I heard.”
“You should not speak of such things,” Maximilian chastised. “It’s indelicate.”
“Yes, very indelicate.” Lady Lucas cupped the girl’s hand. “Come, my dear. Let me take you away from such unsavory company.”
The chit made a noise of protest as she was ushered up the steps by the matron. Sophia and the earl remained behind.
Sophia was in a dream. Nay, a nightmare. She stood vulnerable, naked. She gazed at herself in the mirror.
It was a wretched sight.
She whispered weakly, “How do you know she’s a fallen woman?”
“I understand it happened this morning. Miss Rayne was spied in a compromising situation.”
“And you believe the gossip?”
“I’m afraid I must, Miss Dawson. I must guard my sister’s well-being.”
So even the hint of scandal was enough to devastate a woman’s position in the world?
Sophia shuddered.
“How could I have been so careless?” said the earl. “I never suspected Miss Rayne a deviant.”
Sophia swallowed the sob in her throat. “It’s not Miss Rayne’s fault.”
It was cruel. So very cruel. Imogen was in love. She wanted to pursue an honorable courtship. But her par ents—society at large—forbade it, forcing her into an illicit affair.
Or was it an illicit affair? Imogen had insisted her beau was a respectable gentleman. Had she been deceived? Or was it true? Was he a respectable gentleman? Had the couple shared an innocent kiss? Was that the “compromising situation” everyone was talking about? And was it enough to ruin her forever?
“You’re right, Miss Dawson. It’s not Miss Rayne’s fault. She is sweet and impressionable. I blame the Jew who tempted her into the affair. He led her astray.”
Sophia’s heart was heavy. The pressure squeezed her breast, taking her breath away. The gossip had spread so quickly. It had surprised even Imogen, it seemed. The woman had come to the opera with nary a thought about the spiteful words circling Town about her. Where was her chaperone? Had she vanished in a panic when the whispers had started?
The snipes and glares bounced off Imogen. Sophia flinched with each cutting remark and harsh eye that passed through the room. Jeers filled her head.
“A pity such a charming young lady is now ruined and not fit for good society,” commiserated Maximilian.
A great pity.
Sophia trembled. What would happen to the girl now? What would society do with a “charming young lady” not fit for respectable company? Banish her to the country? Ship her to the continent?
Sophia gnashed her teeth. She wanted to reach out to the spooked young woman. But she pressed her fists at her sides instead. If she reached out to Imogen, she, too, would be sucked into the black vortex that was ignominy. And as distasteful as it was to admit the truth, Sophia wasn’t prepared to suffer Imogen’s fate—not again.
Imogen’s wide eyes filled with tears. She was rooted to the spot. So was Sophia. It was easy to lose one’s sense of balance, even poise in such a situation. Sophia remembered the garish laughter, the disgusting hoots and gestures on the island. She remembered feeling overwhelmed. Powerless. Desperate.
Their eyes met.
Help me, Sophia!
Sophia listened to the cries in her head…but she did not budge from the sturdy stone steps. The hard rock maintained her weight, her composure. It sheltered her from the wild and bloody storm that swirled around Imogen.
Sophia gasped for breath. Imogen was alone. Hurting. She was a woman of grace and compassion. She filled an awkward void in a conversation. She offered an arm in support or a smile in encouragement.
But no one offered her such assistance.
“Scandalous!”
“Barbarous!”
“Shameful!”
The ruthless mob emitted such vulgar judgment, Sophia’s head smarted. She yearned for Imogen’s well-being. She—
She wanted to shout with joy.
He cut through the rabble with quick, hard strides. He paused for no one. He allowed no one to step aside. Jump or be trampled. And he offered no apology if he treaded across a hem or a booted toe.
He was big and barbarous as charged. And the room pulsed with energy as soon as he entered it. Sophia pulsed with energy as soon as he entered it, too.
James took Imogen by the hand.
She collapsed against him.
Sophia wanted to collapse, too. The tautness in her muscles eased as soon as he took charge of the girl and sheltered her.
The mob swarmed them.
Sophia twisted her throat, searching. But the couple had vanished. A gong resounded. Last call. The opera was about to begin.
“Come, Miss Dawson.” The earl offered an arm. “Let us join the other ladies.”
Sophia placed her clammy palm on the cuff of the earl’s well-tailored coat. She mounted the steps, bemused. Her heart swelled. The pirate lord had saved Imogen. He had whisked her away from all the dreadful reproach.
Sophia’s heart knocked. It rattled and raged against her breastbone. Fire welled in her belly, her bust. A dangerous fire…for him.
“I respect Captain Hawkins.” Maximilian placed his fingers over her hand. “I would have escorted poor Miss Rayne from the theater myself if it wasn’t for my sister. I must protect Mondie’s reputation. I cannot associate with a woman of ill repute. You understand, don’t you, Miss Dawson?”
“Yes, my lord.”
She understood very well indeed. She understood she had to guard her scandalous past as the state guarded the crown jewels—or she would face Imogen’s dreadful fate.
The earl steered her through the dark passageways: a labyrinth of tunnels and lush curtains protecting the lofty spectators within.
“Here we are,” he said. “After you, Miss Dawson.”
Sophia entered the private box. She was still in a daze, weak. She had a wicked headache. The disgust chained in her belly roiled. She wanted to let it out. She tamped the nausea instead. She had to maintain her composure. She had to keep her features cool.
“What happened?” demanded Rosamond. “Tell me!”
“Sit down, Mondie,” ordered Maximilian. “Can’t you see Miss Dawson is ill with grief?”
“Such a pity,” said Lady Lucas. “A tragedy, really…Here, my dear. For the performance.”
Sophia stared at the delicate opera glasses. She took them from the matron before she settled into the plush seat next to Lady Rosamond. So weak. Sophia was so weak. Restless, too.
“Where’s Imogen?” the chit wondered. “Was she chased out of the theater?”
“Mondie!” The earl tsked. “I’m disappointed in you.”
The girl pouted. “Why?”
“You have an unhealthy fascination with salacious tittle-tattle.”
“Miss Rayne was my friend,” she said defiantly. “What’s become of her? I want to know!”
“I’m afraid nothing will ever become of her now,” returned Lady Lucas in an authoritative manner.
Sophia’s heart ached at the words. So true. So dreadfully true. She clutched the opera lenses in her hand, knuckles white.
The earl took the empty seat beside t
he matron. “Captain Hawkins escorted Miss Rayne out of the theater.”
Rosamond gasped. “He did?”
“Yes,” said Maximilian succinctly. “And we’ll hear no more about the matter.”
“But where is the captain?”
“I don’t think he’ll be joining us this evening, Mondie.”
“But—”
“Mondie,” the man said with warning.
The girl huffed. She glanced at Sophia and whispered, “What else happened, Miss Dawson?”
“Mondie!” from the earl.
“Ohh.”
The girl sulked.
Applause resounded as the limelight dimmed and the main stage curtain parted. Sophia dismissed the lavish production from her mind. The dark theater offered her an opportunity to rest her stiff features, to let loose the anguish brimming inside her.
A maelstrom of feeling ravaged her breast. She gasped for breath to quell the misery filling her veins…the self-loathing.
She had forsaken a good woman, a friend. She had treated her with the same disdain and rejection others had once treated her with on the island.
Sophia’s belly ached. She placed her hand over the stirring movements to stifle the nausea.
So cruel. Society was so cruel. But Sophia didn’t want to change society. She just wanted to be a part of it. She yearned to be a part of it. It was so ignoble to be an outcast, to endure shame and aloneness. She wouldn’t be a pariah anymore. It would devastate her.
The air was thick. She was going to be sick. She set aside the opera lenses and quietly excused herself from the private box.
The matron quickly followed her into the passageway. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Sophia circled a small spot. “I need fresh air, is all. Might I have a private moment?”
The matron eyed her warily. “Call if you need me.”
“I will.”
The older woman reluctantly returned to the private box. The murmurs started right away. Sophia listened to the hushed inquires:
“Is she all right, Lady Lucas?” from Rosamond.
“The poor dear is distressed,” returned the matron.
“Yes, Miss Rayne’s disgrace is distressing to us all,” said the earl.
The Infamous Rogue Page 14