The Trouble With Misbehaving

Chapter 4

An hour later, Beau slowly made his way down the south wing’s grand staircase to reacquaint himself with the old hall. Signs of his sister-in-law’s renovations were everywhere. Scents of the fresh yellow paint and new red carpet pervaded the cool air. The windows had been replaced and cleared of the heavy drapery. Sunshine now poured in on all sides. He shaded his eyes with one hand.

Music drifted up from below. Someone was playing the pianoforte in the music room. As a boy he’d not been allowed to attend his father’s receptions. Back then his nurse let him sit on the top steps to listen. He recognized the tune—Chopin—one of his favorites. He stopped on a stair. Such a beautiful melody, so filled with emotion and depth. Oh, the memories that lived in this grand foyer.

An odd chord sprang out, then the rubato hit a few bumps, and finally all expression fled in a frantic hammering of keys. On a final dissonant note, Beau sighed and clutched his sore head as he descended the last few steps.

A footman pulled open the music room’s door for Beau. Rows of guests sat in a semicircle around the pianoforte. They began to clap when the cherubic-faced older woman rose from the instrument, gave an unsteady smile and bowed. On the piano bench next to her sat her page-turner, C.C.

She looked up.

Her gaze locked onto Beau’s.

Pivoting in a quick about-face, he muttered to the footman, “No thank you, I need someplace quieter.” He would not allow her to toy with him again.

Beau strode down the corridor and turned into the grand library. Tall mullioned windows reflected the gothic interior of ancient stone, carved wood paneling, ornate gas lamps and plush furniture. He climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the second floor. Thick walls and fully stocked bookcases made for heavy silence—a perfect place to lay low, nurse his throbbing head, and begin the process of making plans for his new life.

As a boy he’d discovered a nook in one corner of the room between two walls of shelves. From that vantage point, he could see most of the library while remaining fully concealed. He dragged a comfortable chair to the spot, snatched a book off a shelf and sat.

Seconds later he heard the swish of the door and a soft patter of silk slippers. He peered down at a crown of dark curls and lavender gown.

C.C. stepped quickly around the ground floor, gazing about as if searching for something.

Even though he knew he couldn’t be seen, Beau drew back when her gaze flitted up to the second floor. Blast! Had she seen him enter the library?

“Where is he?” she muttered.

He ducked lower. Didn’t this beat all? He’d dodged Yankee blockaders for years, yet one demented Yankee heiress managed to stay on his trail as if he wore a beacon.

Heavy footsteps stomped down the outside hallway.

C.C. stilled, turning her head toward the sound. She dashed to a shelf, ran her finger over the spines of several books and pulled one out. Flipping it open, she buried her nose in the pages as if deeply absorbed.

The door swung open. Viscount Falgate stood in the doorway in a crisp black suit, white shirt and red cravat.

An overpowering scent of stale sandalwood seeded the air all the way up to Beau’s little corner. Holding his nose and aching head, he sat motionless hoping they would quickly find their books and leave. All he wanted was some peace. Quiet would be good too.

Falgate tramped into the room with an unsteady gait. “Miss Collins,” he rumbled.

She turned toward him. They stood for a long moment, gazing at one another, neither speaking.

Beau wasn’t sure what to make of it. Assignations often began as such. So, she’d been searching for Lord Falgate and not him? By her outlandish remarks toward the man at dinner and again in the breakfast parlor, it didn’t seem possible. Could it be another sign of her instability, or had she been trying to throw everyone off their sordid little affair?

“We appear to enjoy the same entertainments,” Falgate cooed and stepped closer. Too close.

Instead of taking a step back, C.C. drew herself up and stood her ground. “My lord, I get the distinct impression you are following me.”

Her expression appeared haughty, but the tone of her voice almost sounded teasing.

“Miss Collins,” Falgate admonished and grinned while he waved his pointer finger from side to side. “You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”

She smiled and said with almost a girl’s intonation. “I do not know what you mean.”

Beau inched forward in his seat. Their dialogue almost sounded like a playful prelude to something more degenerate. Was this the opening gambit to more wanton games? Even though he’d vowed to avoid C.C., seeing Falgate make advances on her tweaked his ire.

The viscount’s voice emerged a low grumble. “I think you do. You know we English must display at least an appearance of neutrality when it comes to that fracas across the pond. If I was able to discover what you’ve been up to, others could as well. Of course, if you were to grant me a certain favor, I’d do you one in return and make sure tongues would rest.”

Was he propositioning her?

“I highly doubt that’s possible, my lord.” She sniffed. “My name has provided such a steady diet of toothsome tidbits it would be difficult for tongues to give up the taste now.”

“It would be a shame for new scandal to besmirch your dear cousin and family. Are they aware of your penchant for meeting men in darkened pleasure gardens?”

Good God, now Beau recognized that nauseating cologne. Falgate was one of the villains who’d followed them into the trees. Had C.C. met other men at Cremorne? Falgate was threatening to spread malicious gossip that would not only hurt C.C, but Lady Grancliffe and Beau’s brother as well. And under Thomas’s own roof!

She stood perfectly still. Only a slight flaring of her nostrils and a thinning of her lips indicated she’d even heard the viscount’s accusation.

Beau fisted his hands. He wanted to pound some manners into that blackguard. But if he showed himself with C.C, Falgate would surely put the two of them together and have proof of her peregrinations. Was that why C.C. wouldn’t acknowledge Beau at dinner?

“What say you, Miss Collins? One small favor?” Falgate purred.

Although close to forty, his lordship still had what might be considered dark good looks and a tall, sturdy build. So far, he’d made veiled threats, but C.C. appeared unbothered by them. Perhaps she found his games exciting?

While part of Beau wanted to charge down and send the viscount packing, another more analytical part advised further assessment.

Her three dark hairs in his bed proved she’d visited Beau last night. Now she was engaged in a provocative conversation with another man. Beau didn’t know why he should care, but for some reason her answer to Falgate’s question mattered. He leaned in. Yes, what say you, Miss Collins?

Footsteps shuffled down the outside hallway.

Falgate turned his head toward the sound.

C.C. suddenly flew into a rage, slapped him and screamed. “You despicable cretin!”

By the look on Falgate’s face, he hadn’t expected this sudden violence any more than Beau. Was this what Thomas had meant by unpredictable? Beau had heard of such erratic behavior in the insane. One minute they were fine, the next they’d plunged a fork into your throat.

The library door swung open. Three more male guests tentatively entered, mouths agape, all staring between C.C. and Falgate.

“Do you truly presume threats and favors will woo me to your dark designs?” Her words hissed through an incredulous smile. “Sarah may have found you charming, but look where that got her!” C.C.’s lovely features wrinkled into an expression of outrage and disgust as if she were close to slapping him again. Instead, she spun around and marched out the door.

Beau shook his head. The beautiful hellcat who left the library bore little resemblance to the charming shopgirl he’d met in the pleasure gardens. There she’d been caring, rational and full of purpose. So different from the erratic woman she’d become at Grancliffe Hall. His brother’s warnings were beginning to make sense. Perhaps she was unstable.

Chapter 5

The next morning, Lady Grancliffe announced the day’s games would require a partner of the opposite gender. Beau immediately saw the necessity to find a good hiding place and burrow in. Fortunately, he knew plenty of hidey-holes in his childhood home.

Over the centuries, different ancestors had added on, restored, redecorated and redesigned portions of the one hundred and two rooms. Ignored for generations, the gloomy north wing rarely drew visitors. Guests generally kept to the more hospitable parts of the mansion.

Ambling down the north wing’s corridors, he saw his memories had remained fairly accurate. The old place was still drafty, still cold, and still unwelcoming. Phantoms of days gone by reappeared at the sight of a painting, the position of a sconce, or the squeak of a door hinge.

He turned into the long gallery. Very little about the room had changed since his boyhood. The faint musty smell of ancient oak paneling still pervaded the cave-like air. Sunlight struggled through mullioned windows casting shadows around the marble floor. Long vines of gilt curled across the walls and adorned the high cast-plaster ceiling.

Beau’s boots clipped on the marble and echoed around the long room as he slowly examined each painting. Every one of his stern-faced ancestors scowled down at him with dark hair and eyes. Eleven generations wore the same imperious disdain. He stopped to study his own portrait halfway down the room.

“A fine painting of you,” a disembodied voice announced nearby.

Beau jumped and bit back a curse as he spun around.

C.C. sat nearly engulfed in one of the enormous wing-backed chairs facing his portrait.

Alarmed at how he’d once again been caught with this mysterious, forward woman, he bowed. “Sorry to disturb you.” Wheeling around, he made for a hasty exit.

“If I’m not mistaken, you appear to be avoiding me.”

He stopped but didn’t turn toward her. “Indeed. I’d hoped to quietly go our separate ways with no one the wiser.”

“Did you now? Since you burned my letters we still have much to discuss.”

He squared his shoulders. “I think not. Our brief association is at an end. I do not wish to be a part of your mad games. After the night before last—”

“After the night before last?”

“It seems best to allow you your distance.”

He heard a quick intake of breath and a rustle of silk. Her voice seemed to rise in pitch, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone what you almost did with crazy ol’ Miss Collins. But then you have lots of secrets, do you not, Captain Tollier? What’s one more?”

“I don’t know what you mean, nor do I care.” He started walking again.

“Looking at all these…lovely portraits, I can see why people whisper you’re the family’s cuckoo.”

Lurching around, he clenched his fists in an effort to control his temper. Not only did the insult shock, it cut into one of his earliest, deepest insecurities. He lowered his voice to a dangerous calm. “You are fortunate to be a woman, madam. Were you a man, such an insult might force me to call you out.”

She stood and gave him a look so sultry it almost begged him to teach her lessons of a different sort.

“Ah yes, call me out. And what should I call you?”

He turned to leave, hoping to prevent saying or doing something he’d regret. Before he’d taken two steps, C.C. said in a voice full of authority, “Mr. Wainwright. Perhaps Captain Scott? Or would it be Cornelius Dolan?”

The hairs on his neck stood straight out. Where did she hear those names? He’d been very careful using aliases. Some of the names still had a price on their head.

Making a slow, controlled turn, he assumed the tall, rigid military stance he’d mastered years before: the bearing of strength and authority. He strode to within a foot of her and glowered down with his most intimidating captain’s stare. The well-practiced glare never failed to shut an insolent sailor’s yap.

She continued. “All your relatives are dark, many harsh-featured with an undercurrent of anger.” Her gaze traveled across the portraits as if he were not standing right in front of her. “Yet you have blue-green eyes, blond hair and features designed to break hearts. You look full of life and joy in your portrait, ready to spin the world on its ear, and you did, didn’t you?”

“What is it you’re about, madam?”

Only now did he notice her violet, exceedingly expensive bell-shaped gown—another fashionable masterpiece. The skirt’s gauzy valances reminded him of a cloud or perhaps…meringue? He took his time assessing her. Besides having remarkable taste, he’d never seen a more perfectly groomed, comely woman—not a hair or thread out of place. So different from the woman at the pleasure gardens, but one he knew fit his body as if it were the other half.

She locked gazes and said significantly, “My mother and relatives in North Carolina are in desperate circumstances. They must be rescued.”

He leaned in, scowling. “Then you’d best find yourself a good captain and a fast ship. London and Liverpool have many in need of work. I could provide names if you like.”

“I’ve already found a captain and have it on the best authority he knows his way to North Carolina.” She didn’t move, returning stare for stare. Challenging him again.

An uncomfortable ache pulsed his loins. “Then you should hire him, straight away. There’s a war on, in case you haven’t heard. No one in their right mind would sail those waters now.”

She smiled at him for the first time since he’d come to Grancliffe Hall…a knowing smile…with a quirked eyebrow.

He maintained his stern expression, refusing to respond to her humor. Even through his anger and suspicion she roused something in him he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“If I’m not mistaken, this captain made regular runs in and out of Nassau and Wilmington on the St. Charles, the Tropic Flyer and the Annie Milford, to name a few.”

He shoved his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep from showing his shock. How did she know those names? A week ago, he didn’t even know this strange, beautiful woman existed. He’d been first mate on the commerce raider, the St. Charles. Powerful Yankee noses were still bent out of shape over those involved in commerce raiding. “I’ve decided to swallow the anchor and seek a different livelihood.”

She took a step toward his portrait and then turned back to him. “I was very sorry to hear about Millie and little Freddie. Typhus is such a treacherous disease.”

Rage ripped through him so quickly he could barely control his temper. In a strained, soft voice, his men knew better than provoke, he said, “No one outside of a few trusted friends knew about Millie and our little boy.”

Fury, hurt and longing clawed at him. Millie and Freddie had been his most cherished secret—the tenderest part of his heart. In the world where he came from, the son of an earl did not marry his mistress. Millie had been a lovely blend of several races. When her mother passed, she’d been virtually enslaved by her madam.

He’d rescued her from that way of life and built them a home on a secluded Caribbean island. There, Millie and sweet little Freddie were safe from stupid comments and vile gossip. Safe from people like C.C.—the spoiled, lazy, self-centered society women who messed up their own lives and then went to work on others for entertainment.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, and the threat of falling into the black hole of grief, he concealed his pain with a mask of anger.

She looked down at her hands, her face falling.

Was that remorse in her expression? Did the woman even possess such a thing?

Rubbing her temple, she sighed, “I’m terribly sorry for bringing up such a devastating loss. Please forgive me for my insensitive bluntness.”

He clenched his fists to keep a hold on his temper. If there were anything that could humble him, cut right to the most vulnerable part of his being, it was the pain and guilt he felt over Millie and Freddie’s deaths. He now knew why people called C.C. unbalanced. She trampled convention. The woman was everything unnerving, even frightening.

Suddenly all business, she said again, “My mother, uncle and his children are all I have left on my mother’s side of the family in America. They’ll die if something isn’t done. I wish to hire you to command a ship going to Wilmington, North Carolina.”

“I said I’m retired.”

“You have a reputation for the most experience and success of any captain to have run the Union blockade. To hire the best, I’m prepared to offer more than twice the going rate. A certain acquaintance of mine is a shipbuilder in Liverpool. His latest vessel is on its way to the Azores. Investors have a similar desire to bring urgently needed cargo through the blockade.”

Beau only partially heard the rest. A conversation he’d overheard in London came back to him. Pay had gone up since he’d been in prison. Captains running the blockade now made five thousand dollars a round trip. The zeros on the doubled amount seemed to float like champagne bubbles before his eyes. Good God, he could make a fortune.

An impossible thought took root in his mind and churned out quick calculations. Added to the amount he already had, he could start the shipbuilding company he’d always dreamed of but thought beyond his reach.

Skepticism cooled his excitement. He gripped his hands behind his back, strode to the gallery’s mullioned windows and gazed out. Five thousand was a lot of money, and she was doubling it to ten?

What hadn’t she told him? Something too good to be true usually isn’t. The vertical molding between the glass panes seemed to grow more pronounced, reminding him of prison bars. He shivered, pivoted and marched back in her direction.

Her expectant gaze fixed on his. The intensity of it sent him whirling back toward the windows again. Gazing at her made thinking impossible. Could he even trust her offer?

Women didn’t assemble dangerous voyages into war zones and make rich bargains. This had to be another cracked ruse to toy with him, make him twist on her string. Still, her vehemence and chilling knowledge about him made it crazy enough to be real.

He glowered at her over his shoulder. In the dim light she almost looked like a beautiful angel—an angel who tempted him with a devil’s pact. Getting caught running the blockade this time could mean his end. If he had the bad fortune to cross paths with Rives, the bastard guaranteed it. But if Beau made it safely, he’d have enough to design ships or not work another day of his life.

Turning, he strode up to her and studied her expression. All he could discern was earnest resolve. He clenched his jaw, thinking, weighing the alternatives. “I’ll only do it if I’m paid in gold, half in advance and half on completion. And I’ll be allotted plenty of space for my own cargo.”

“It’s done then. I’m prepared to leave for London within the hour. You’ll accompany me to my man of business for your six thousand and further instructions for our voyage.”

“Wait a minute. That’s not double the going rate—”

“Six is half of twelve. I’m offering seven thousand over market. Do we have a deal?”

Beau rocked back on his heels, amazed by the richness of her offer. Gold gleamed in his mind’s eye, muting the warnings screaming in his ear. “Yes, but…you’re coming too?”

“Do not mistake me, Captain Tollier. This is business and time is lives. Gather your things, the clock is ticking.”

Chapter 6

In less than an hour, Beau made his apologies to his brother and sister-in-law and descended the front steps of Grancliffe Hall. A gleaming midnight purple carriage awaited. In front of it stood four sleek black coach horses with purple plumes and silver-mounted harnesses. Two drivers dressed in black, silver and purple livery attended them. This was how C.C. traveled? Good Lord, royalty couldn’t boast finer cattle or equipage.

Force of habit had him counting items as footmen loaded trunks and valises onto a heavier, more utilitarian carriage behind.

Grudgingly, Beau found himself impressed. He’d not seen any woman pull herself together in barely an hour, much less with two carriages, eight horses, four drivers, eleven valises, seven hatboxes, nine trunks of varying sizes, three female servants and two footmen. Yet everything had been loaded in a matter of minutes with exacting precision.

If he could get past the way she’d pressured him into this journey, he might even admire her single-minded determination. Not only had she compelled him to do her bidding, she’d gotten all of her people, horses and possessions on the road faster than any commander he knew—and she’d managed to change clothes.

She now wore a severe yet handsome chin-to-toe purple traveling ensemble. Three bold feathers sprouted upward giving balance to a purple hat that clung jauntily to the side of her head. Everything matched…everything. “Let me guess,” he said. “Your favorite color is purple?”

One side of her lips quivered. “You are most observant, Captain.”

Yes, indeed. Miss Collins had an impressive logistical capability. Clearly she could manage without a man. Yet her kisses in the pleasure garden were not the stuff of a coldhearted spinster. The teasing, erratic woman in the library was very different from the hard-nosed negotiator in the long gallery.

He’d witnessed her scene with Falgate, listened to the warnings about her instability and knew he needed to get to the bottom of it. She’d offered him a lot of money to do something he’d sworn never to do again. If she was as unstable as they said, her ship may be a lunatic’s dream and her family in North Carolina now ghosts calling to her from their graves.

In any event, he considered himself a fairly good judge of character. He should have her sorted out by the time they reached London.

A footman helped C.C. into the carriage along with her lady’s maid. Beau followed and sat in the seat across from them. Last aboard were the three little dogs.

The first dog handed in wiggled and squirmed out of the footman’s arms and bounded onto Beau’s lap, wagging her tail furiously. “Oh, hallo! Whose pretty little girl are you?” he cooed to the toy poodle.

“Her name is Jossette,” C.C. said.

The dog put her paws on his chest. Her little tongue flicked out to beg for a kiss.

“Are you a coquette, Jossette?” He sank his fingers into the dog’s soft fur and gave her a scratch.