Never Trust a Pirate

by Valerie Bowman

  “A master like you can think of a much better way to seduce a woman than to hand her a glass of wine and sit too close on a settee.”

  “I can?” He could?

  “Do you doubt your own prowess?”

  Cade scratched his head. In all of his years seducing women—he had lost count—he had never encountered one who had so subtly and completely turned the tables on him. Was he truly that obvious? It was time to change tactics. “Are you saying you don’t want to kiss me?”

  Her tinkling laughter followed. “Don’t be petulant. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Petulant? No one had ever called him petulant. “Very well, mademoiselle, why don’t you tell me what you’d like?”

  “I’d like for you to answer my question.”

  Question? Had she asked him a question? “Which was?”

  “I told you I wanted a sister and you said, ‘Careful what you wish for.’ Then I asked why you said that.”

  Oh, that. Cade frowned. She still wanted to talk about that? Very well. He studied the liquid in his glass. “The truth is … my brother doesn’t trust me.”

  “Have you given him reasons not to?”

  This woman had a penchant for asking probing questions. It was as if she knew the exact thing to say to poke a hole through his armor. Cade thought about what Tomlinson had said. “You wouldn’t happen to be the Black Fox, would you?” Cade knew Rafe suspected him. Had known it since the moment Rafe had seen the paper at the club the other day and turned his gaze on Cade with suspicion in his familiar blue eyes.

  “Plenty of them,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Name one,” Danielle whispered back. This was a dangerous game, asking Cade Cavendish for his secrets. Her stomach clenched. He wasn’t about to reveal his without dragging out a few of hers. She would have to expose something to this man.

  She had a job to do, she reminded herself. Grimaldi wanted to know why the self-proclaimed black sheep of his family was in London. Who was he meeting with, and why? That was the reason she’d been sent to this house, after all. Not to be mesmerized by the man’s crystal-blue eyes and the scent of him, like wood smoke and soap. Nor the way he was tilting his head toward her and watching her lips. Nor the charming dimple in his cheek. Mon dieu, this wasn’t helping.

  “I’ve been gone for years,” Cade replied in a deep, smooth voice. “Until I returned to London last year, my brother thought I was dead.”

  “Dead?” The word startled her. She sat up a bit straighter. “Why?” She took another sip of wine, trying to make sense of this latest revelation.

  Cade reached out and traced the line of her décolletage against her skin with the tip of one finger. “Let’s just say in my line of work, I’m sometimes better off dead.”

  “What in the world does that mean?” But her words came out a bit rushed and slurred, given the distraction of his finger tracing her neckline.

  “I haven’t always been … on the right side of the law,” he finished, his finger tracing up the vein in her neck to her ear. She closed her eyes. The man knew where to touch a woman. She had never imagined that a simple stroke of her earlobe could feel so … good.

  “What have you done?” she whispered.

  “Ah, ah, ah, I’m not about to spill all my secrets, mademoiselle. Not without a bit of … impetus.”

  “What sort of impetus?” Her words came out in a breathy rush.

  He leaned forward to set his wineglass on the table behind her head. “I could ask for a kiss, but you were right about me,” he whispered back, his mouth mere inches from hers.

  “How? When?” His gaze was mesmerizing her.

  “When you said I wasn’t about to ply you with wine and try to kiss you.”

  “You’re not?” Oh, why did the news disappoint her?

  “No. I’m not the type to try. I prefer action.” He pulled her into his arms, his mouth hovering just above hers.

  Danielle’s wineglass nearly toppled out of her hand, but Cade managed to grab it and place it on the table, too. He was going to kiss her, wasn’t he? Why didn’t he? She wanted to sob.

  “When I kiss you,” he drawled, his breath hot on her lips. “You’ll welcome it and wine won’t be involved.” He pushed himself away from her and moved back against the settee, a smug look on his face.

  He could tell she was disappointed. She knew he could tell. It was sitting there, obvious, in the pompous smile on his handsome face. She did her best to right her skirts and appear completely unaffected but oh, how she had wanted his kiss.

  “Why did you come back? Why are you here?” she asked in an effort to distract herself.

  “Miss LaCrosse, you’re going to have to do a lot more than almost kiss me to get me to answer that.” He stood, winked at her wickedly, and exited the room.

  * * *

  One hour later, Danielle slipped into bed still replaying her conversation with Cade in the library. The man had many secrets. And that was coming from a woman who had many secrets. He seemed discomfited by the fact that his brother was a viscount. While he apparently enjoyed the fine things his brother’s new life had to offer, something about it didn’t sit well with him.

  That near-kiss had been enough to scorch off her stockings. The most shocking part was that when he’d told her she’d have to do more than kiss him to get him to answer her other questions, her first thought had been to ask what. And then to do it. The man was tempting. It would be a pleasure to trade kisses for secrets. In fact, they might make a game of it. Ooh la la.

  She suspected he’d left, however, because she’d asked questions that made him uncomfortable. She had to be less forthright in the future.

  A knock sounded at the door, interrupting her thoughts. Quiet. Soft. At first she was certain she’d imagined it. She sat up and listened. It came again a moment later, followed by Mary’s voice floating through the wood. “Mademoiselle?”

  Danielle lit the candle on the bedside table, tossed aside the quilt, and hurried to the door. Mary stood in the corridor in her night rail, a dressing gown wrapped over her thin shoulders.

  “Mary? Is everything all right?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes. Yes. I just thought we might…” The girl looked a bit sheepish. She pressed one bare foot atop the other and squeezed her hands together tightly. “Talk for a bit.”

  Danielle blinked. “Talk?”

  “Yes.” Mary’s freckled face looked hopeful.

  “Oh, well, of course,” Danielle replied, remembering her manners. The ones her mother had tried to instill in her before her whole world changed.

  “Come in.” Danielle stepped back to allow the younger woman to enter.

  “Gor,” Mary exclaimed as she made her way over to the window and sat in the cushioned chair nearby. “Ye have yer own chair and wardrobe. And a dressing table? And a desk!”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  Mary shook her head. “No. I room down the hall with Molly and all’s we got is two beds and a few pegs fer our gowns.”

  “Oh,” Danielle replied, not certain what else to say.

  “Housemaids don’t get their own fancy rooms with desk and chair,” Mary continued. “I guess it don’t matter none. What would me and Molly do with a fine desk like that? It’s not like we can write.” Mary snorted.

  Danielle shut the door carefully and took a seat on the edge of the mattress facing Mary. “You can’t write?”

  Mary shook her head again. “Not at all.” She scratched her nose. “Well, I surely can write me name, but that’s all.”

  Danielle couldn’t imagine not being able to write. Her father had taught her, her lovely French father. He’d been a professor of English and had met her beautiful mama during his extensive travels in England in his youth. Mama had run off with him, scandalized her family, caused an outrageous uproar—or so her aunt Madeline had once told her. They’d gone to France and lived until Papa was killed, Mama was imprisoned, and Danielle had been cast out on the street
s.

  She’d tried to find Aunt Madeline, but her aunt had been traveling. Her mama, she learned, had been sent back to England, a prisoner, for the murder of her husband. She’d been traded for a French prisoner. Danielle needed to get to London to plead with the judge. She’d seen the man who had killed her father, and she’d learned his name years later. Lafayette Baptiste. She’d spent her life hunting the man. She knew he was a sailor, the captain of a ship. She’d traced him to the docks, located his ship, and followed him. She’d tracked him, trailed him, knew all his secrets.

  Then Grimaldi had found her, offered her another life in exchange for keeping her from gaol on the charge of smuggling. She was no fool. She’d taken his offer. Grimaldi had offered her training, skills, a respectable position, and most importantly, he’d promised to find and help her mother.

  And he had. Grimaldi was a man of his word. A man of honor. A man, perhaps the only man living, whom she could trust. A vision of Cade Cavendish flashed through her mind. No, she couldn’t trust Cade. He saw her only as a pretty face. Another in a long string of women to seduce. Though he had answered her questions. And she suspected she’d flustered him.

  “Mademoiselle?” Mary murmured, snapping Danielle out of her thoughts.

  Danielle smiled at the girl. “You must call me Danielle.”

  Mary’s grin widened, a charming gap-toothed smile. “Well, thank ye, madam—I mean, Danielle. Thank ye, kindly.”

  “No need to thank me, Mary. Now tell me, what did you wish to talk about?”

  Mary blushed a beautiful rose color that highlighted the fine freckles on her cheeks.

  “Tell me.” Danielle tucked her feet beneath her and leaned toward Mary, even more eager to hear the subject that had made the girl blush so adorably.

  Mary clasped her hands together and took a deep breath. “Oh, Danielle, ye’re so poised and yer hair is so well done and ye’re so lovely and—”

  Danielle would have blushed if she was a blusher. “That’s quite kind of you, but I hardly think that I—”

  “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen how the footmen look at ye and how Mr. Cavendish looks at ye and—”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Surely you’re mistaken.” But then, “Mr. Cavendish looks at me?” Mon dieu, she couldn’t keep herself from asking.

  “Like he can’t take his eyes off o’ ye.” Mary sighed, a dreamlike expression on her face.

  Danielle blinked. Could that amazing news possibly be true? “Oh, but I—”

  “Ye’re so kind, well-spoken, and have such gracious manners and…”

  A lump formed in Danielle’s throat. She’d never been told any of these things. Kind? It certainly wasn’t something she aspired to. Treating people well was second nature. Who would be mean for mean’s sake? Besides, was it kind of her to be lying to these good people about being a lady’s maid while spying on her employer’s brother?

  Well-spoken? Perhaps. If that were true, it was thanks to the education at her parents’ knees. Papa had taught her flawless French and Mama had taught her the perfect English-cultured tones. She’d taught herself the less refined accents of both languages.

  As for gracious manners, she had her mother to thank. She supposed she had Aunt Madeline to thank for showing her how to arrange hair and how to toss on clothing that was fashionable, though she’d had precious little time for fashion and loveliness. And of course she’d undertaken a fortnight of training at the hands of one of London’s most popular lady’s maids. This position in Lady Daphne’s household felt like a whole new world to her, one that, to her surprise, she was quite enjoying. Nevertheless it was kind of Mary to pay her such lovely compliments.

  “Ye’re just so … perfect,” Mary continued.

  Danielle waved her hands in front of her to stop the girl from saying more. “Now wait a moment. I’m far from perfect…” Danielle chuckled. If only Mary knew how imperfect she was. Guilt tugged at her. She bit her lip.

  “You seem quite perfect ta me,” Mary insisted. “I wanted ta ask if ye would perhaps … see fit ta…” The girl’s blush returned. She seemed hesitant to continue.

  “Yes?” Danielle prompted, nodding to encourage her.

  “See fit ta give me some guidance,” Mary finally blurted.

  Danielle sat back, a hand to her chest. “Guidance?”

  Mary smoothed her skirts. “Yes. Ye see, there’s a boy I fancy and—”

  Danielle lifted her brows. “A boy?” A smile spread across her face.

  Mary giggled and nodded.

  Danielle pushed her shoulder against Mary’s thin one. “Anyone I know?”

  Mary’s blush deepened. “It’s … Trevor.”

  Danielle blinked. “Trevor? The footman?”

  Mary wrung her hands and nodded.

  “You fancy Trevor?” Danielle clarified.

  “He’s so tall and handsome and he’s been so sweet ta me.” Mary sighed again, a starry look in her eyes.

  Danielle considered the lanky footman. He was well over six feet tall, had a shock of white-blond hair, pale blue eyes, and as many freckles as Mary. It was utterly adorable that the maid should fancy him.

  “What sort of advice are you looking for?” Danielle couldn’t imagine what she might be able to offer. When it came to someone fancying someone else, she’d had too little experience in that quarter herself.

  “I thought ye might be able ta help me with me hair,” Mary squeaked.

  Danielle breathed a sigh of relief. “That is no problem whatsoever. I’d be happy to. Your hair is lovely, you know.”

  The girl self-consciously touched the braid wrapped around her head. “I … I noticed you had a … a vial o’ perfume.” She nodded toward the dressing table.

  Danielle’s gaze fell on the vial, too. Her French grandmere had given it to her. Lavender. “I could help you with your hair and I am certainly happy to share a bit of my perfume but—”

  “Oh, no.” Mary shook her head and turned pale. “I should never be so bold as ta ask ye for yer perfume. I was hoping ye would go with me ta choose some fer meself. I’ve been saving me wages and finally have enough ta purchase a small amount. I want some perfume that will drive Trevor mad with longing.”

  “Mad?” Danielle watched the girl’s face. She was perfectly serious.

  “Yes. Mrs. Huckleberry says perfume has been known ta drive men mad. Especially French perfume.”

  Danielle contemplated that for a moment. It sounded like something the cheeky housekeeper might say. A Frenchwoman was rarely without her perfume. The English must have decided it was the secret to attracting a man’s attention. At least this English girl had. “I can help you with your hair and perhaps the perfume, but why do you think I would know much about … men?”

  “Have ye never fancied a boy before?”

  A boy? A vision flashed through her mind, one she hadn’t contemplated in nearly a decade. A vision of a boy and a night and an uncomfortable act she didn’t enjoy, fumbling hands and sweat and grunting. She shuddered. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Don’t ye fancy Mr. Cavendish?”

  A vision of Cade Cavendish’s enticing visage replaced the bad memory. “Ah, but Mr. Cavendish is no boy. He’s all man.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Danielle regretted them. She cleared her throat. “That is to say … I mean…”

  “Ye don’t have ta explain yerself.” Mary nodded sagely. “I quite agree.”

  “But I don’t know that I’d say I fancy him,” Danielle rushed to add.

  “He surely is handsome,” Mary pointed out.

  “Yes, he is that,” Danielle agreed.

  “And he has a fine body,” Mary continued, hugging herself.

  “It’s true.” Danielle couldn’t argue that point.

  “And he is ever so charming if ye ask me.”

  “Charming is an apt word,” Danielle agreed.

  Mary put her small hand on Danielle’s and Danielle allowed it to stay.

  “I’ve never been good at
maths, mademoiselle,” Mary said. “But I say when ye add up all o’ them things, ye’ve got one fine specimen o’ a man and one wot is quite worthy o’ being fancied.”

  A small spattering of laugher spilled from Danielle’s lips. Mon dieu. Was that? It couldn’t be. A giggle? A giggle? When in her entire life had she ever giggled? “You make a fine point, Mary. I cannot disagree with you.”

  Mary grinned and elbowed her and the two giggled again. It was an oddly comforting, sharing secrets with Mary.

  “I’m happy to help,” Danielle said, awkwardly patting Mary’s hand.

  Mary grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Danielle, thank ye so much. I’m ever so glad we’re friends.”

  Friends? The word rang in Danielle’s head. “Friends?” She echoed without thinking about it.

  A frown marred Mary’s brow. “We are friends, ain’t we?”

  Danielle thought about it. Is this what it was like, having a friend? Was this sense of fun and belonging, talking and sharing secrets, what being a friend meant? She’d never had a friend before. She’d been born an only child, was never schooled with other children her own age, and then she’d gone to work on ships and pretended to be a boy. She couldn’t make a friend during those years. She hadn’t been able to share her secret with anyone. Well, unless you counted Robert, and he had left her soon after the one awful night they’d spent together.

  “Yes,” she replied, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Yes, Mary, we’re friends.”

  “I’m so glad.” Mary stood and moved toward the door. “And just think … after ye help me win Trevor, perhaps I can help ye win Mr. Cavendish.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Danielle spent the next several days in a flurry of activity. In the mornings she served Lady Daphne her breakfast. Then she helped Mary and Molly with their reading. After that, she helped Lady Daphne dress and arranged her hair for her afternoon calls. Later, she prepared Lady Daphne’s clothing and jewels for the endless rounds of balls, or the opera, or dinner parties. While Lady Daphne was out, if Mary wasn’t busy with chores, Danielle taught the girl how to do her hair and answered her many questions about France. Danielle’s days fell into a comfortable routine.