Regency Scandals

Looking around, she noticed an attractive dark-haired woman whose eyes were fastened on the Duke of Carisbrook, but if he felt her regard he gave no indication of it as he leant towards her as if to shelter his words from the others around them.

‘Eaton is using the ploy of a robbery to ease his guilt, I would suspect. Though there is another explanation. How honest is your cousin?’

‘As honest as I am, for the ten commandments were the bread and butter of our childhood.’ She felt the distinct turn of guilt in her stomach.

‘You never lie?’

‘My father taught us the importance of truth and honesty.’

She forced back conscience and stiffened when he reached for the locket dangling on a long chain about her neck.

‘Is this some family crest?’

‘My mother’s,’ she replied softly and deposited the golden trinket down again between her breasts, glad when he did not pursue the topic.

‘Who was French?’

She looked at him blankly. ‘Pardon.’

‘You said that your mother was from France.’ He was so close she could have reached out a finger to run along the hard cut of his jaw.

‘I did? Yes, of course I did. Because she was.’ Lord, this lying was eating at her composure and she felt sweat in the palms of her hands.

‘Êtes-vous originaire du sud ou bien du nord de la France?’

What was it he had said? Something of north and south. This much she had translated, though the other was lost to her.

‘Oui.’ She chanced one of the ten or so French words she actually knew and was disconcerted by the amusement scrawled on his face.

‘And honesty was as important to your mother as it is to you?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Admirable,’ he returned and as his eyes glanced across the loose material of her gown she felt the skin on her nipples pucker and folded her arms. She should have worn her underclothing, but it felt so much better without it.

‘It is seldom one meets a woman of such high moral fibre.’

The blood rushed into her face. ‘I will take that as a compliment, your Grace,’ she said simply.

His laughter brought the conversation around them to a noticeable quietening and as she looked up the hostess, Lady Flora, caught her eye and smiled broadly. Emerald observed that the green-eyed beauty standing next to their host didn’t look anywhere near as friendly as she posed a question.

‘I hear that your newest ship is ready for a launch here in London, your Grace. What is it to be called?’

‘The Melanie.’

An inexplicable tension filled the room.

Who was Melanie, she wondered, and what was she to Asher Wellingham? Someone important, no doubt. Someone he loved?

But where was she now?

The Bishop of Kingseat raised his glass.

‘To the Melanie, then. May she ride the waves long and true and be as beautiful as her namesake.’

There it was again. Her namesake? Interest flared as Asher acknowledged the toast and drank and Emerald was struck by the difference five years had made in the lines of his face.

Hardness and distance.

For some reason the thought made her unfathomably sad and when the topic turned to dancing she was pleased, for it gave her time to compose herself.

Half an hour Emerald stood alone near a pillar that led off to a balcony. Asher Wellingham was across the other side of the room with the beautiful green-eyed woman draped across his arm. From this distance the darkness of her carefully coiffed hair was exactly the same shade as his. The memory of her own hair was sharp and she raised her hand to pat down the short errant curls.

Two ladies behind her were talking about the Duke and she turned so that she could overhear them more easily.

‘If only he would look our way, Claire. Just once. Would it be considered rude, do you think, to raise one’s glass and smile at him?’

The other girl began to laugh. ‘Oh, you would never do that, surely. Imagine what he might think of us.’

‘It is rumoured that he will go to India next month. Let us hope that he does not meet the ghost of the pirate Beau Sandford on his travels.’

A loud squawk of titillation brought the Duke’s glance their way, and Emerald tensed. Hearing the name of her father here disorientated her because it was so very unexpected. Her heartbeat accelerated when she saw the subject of the girl’s conversation start towards her.

‘Lady Emma? Would you walk with me for a moment?’

‘Walk with you?’ Her astonishment was such that she forgot to use her carefully perfected girly voice.

‘There is a balcony just here overlooking a garden. I thought it a good place to talk and I have something for you.’

More of an order than a request. She ignored the arm he held out and hoped that he had not seen the imprinted adulation on the faces of the young women around her. His arrogance was already legendary enough.

The balcony was open at one end and she welcomed the quietness of it. A group of other people stood near the French doors that led in from the main room; pausing by the railing she waited for him to speak.

‘Lucy gave me something to give to you and I had my man return home for the letter when I saw that you were here tonight.’ He dragged a sealed envelope out of his pocket. ‘It is for your cousin, Liam Kingston. A letter of thanks, I should imagine but Lucinda is young and impressionable, so if the correspondence seems exaggerated in places—’ He stopped as she held out her hand and his fingers inadvertently touched her own. She shivered. Even here in the most public of places and with the simplest of contacts she was vulnerable. Hoping that her face did not hold the same expression as the vacuous women inside, she tucked the letter unread into her reticule.

‘If Mr Kingston could find it in him to send a reply and state his circumstances, I would be grateful. Seventeen-year-old girls have a propensity for imagination, you understand, and I would like the matter resolved.’

There it was again. Responsibility and control. Important to a man like Asher Wellingham and something he rarely let go of.

What would happen if he did let go of it? a small voice questioned. As the blood hammered in her temples she turned away to give herself a moment to recover and his next words came through a haze.

‘Would it be possible for you to give me his direction? When I am next in his part of the world I could call in on him and give my thanks.’

Lord!

What address could she tell him? She knew no one in the Americas. A happier thought surfaced. Perhaps Azziz had contacts …

‘I will write it down for you and have it delivered.’

He shook his head. ‘You will be in Falder in two days. I can wait until then.’

The strain of the supper waltz rent the air.

‘How is it that I know you, Lady Emma? Have we met before?’

‘Are you familiar with Cheshire, your Grace?’ She was relieved when he smiled at her question and shook his head.

‘No, but I do not think the memory of you lingers from England somehow …’

Desperate to take his mind from recollection, she locked her hand on his and asked him to dance, completely ignoring the look of astonishment on his face.

His body melded against her own and found the rhythm of the music with much more finesse than she did. Leaning into him for just a moment she closed her eyes.

Wishing.

Wishing that she was a well-born lady and that he might like her just a little. Wishing that things could have been different between them and that all he believed of her was true.

Asher felt her relax against him and pulled her closer. He had not asked anyone to dance with him since Melanie.

In truth, he had not asked Emma Seaton to dance with him either and yet here she was, the warm whisper of her breath tantalising in the folds of his neck. Close. Unexpected. Had she not listened to gossip?

A quick glance at the interest on the faces of others made him wary and he pulled back, the distance between them wider now.

‘You are new to town, Lady Emma. If you want your reputation to stay intact, it might be as well to avoid me as your supper partner.’

‘And why would that be, your Grace? The girls who stood behind me inside would have liked an introduction and they looked innocuous enough.’

He began to laugh. ‘Where were you schooled?’

She was taken aback. ‘In a convent. Why?’

‘Because your vocabulary is … surprising.’ Emerald sensed a new emotion in him that was difficult to interpret. ‘Have you had any offers yet?’

‘Offers?’

‘Of marriage. Isn’t that why you have come to London?’

The blood drained out of her face.

‘You did not know this to be the Season? The time for men to choose from the year’s débutantes.’

‘Men like you?’ she countered and tried to sound indifferent.

‘If you had been listening to the gossip, you would know that the state of holy matrimony is something that I have become adept at avoiding.’

‘Oh. I see.’ The uneasy sensation of being played for a fool suddenly overcame her. ‘Then you will be pleased to know that I am not on the look out for a husband either, your Grace.’

‘Really.’ His brows raised. ‘What are you here for then, Lady Emma?’

Two things hit Emerald simultaneously. The lazy devastation of his smile and the husky timbre of his voice. Her spine tingled with an odd and lonely pain as she remembered a younger Asher Wellingham standing on the transom of his ship, eyes blazing under the emotion of a high-seas’ battle and releasing her from the sharp tip of his sword only when he determined her not to be the lad he thought she was, but a girl. And now here in the ballroom of a beautiful English house she understood what she had only half-known then.

The Duke of Carisbrook was an honourable man and one who respected the codes of England’s aristocracy. Gentlemen did not hurt women. Even ones who could wield a weapon with as much finesse as any man aboard the Mariposa.

‘I am here to see to the welfare of my aunt. She is old and lonely and I am the very last of her family.’

‘And very deaf?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Deaf. Hard of hearing. A woman who would sleep through the night no matter what might happen in her house.’ A glint in his eyes softened the insult. ‘Your cousin, Liam Kingston, for instance, keeps hours that a poor sleeper might find tiring.’

Despite everything she laughed. ‘And for your sister’s sake it is just as well that he does.’

‘Indeed,’ he returned. ‘A lucky coincidence that.

What was your cousin doing following the Carisbrook coach in the first place?’

‘Pardon?’

‘My driver noticed a carriage dogging his heels through the city streets. On memory he would say it to be a hired hack and I know that your aunt does not keep a conveyance.’

She was silent. Lord, he had worked it all out with little more than a passing clue.

‘Perhaps he was mistaken. Liam has only recently come to London and I can think of no reason for him to be following your sister.’

‘Can you not? Then perhaps it was me he wanted.’

‘And what would my cousin want with you?’

‘That’s the same question I have been asking myself these past few days.’ His voice was laconic.

‘And did you find an answer, your Grace?’

‘I did not, Lady Emma.’

Leaning back, the lights glinted off his timepiece and threw refracted rainbows across the floor at his feet. Danger and stealth. And manners. Was there ever a combination quite so appealing?

‘My cousin is a wealthy and respectable married man.’

‘So you say.’

‘Who makes his money from cotton,’ she continued, not liking the disbelief she could so plainly hear in his voice. ‘He would have no need for blackmail, if that is what you are suggesting.’

‘I suggested nothing.’

‘Or kidnapping,’ she continued and then bit down on her lip. Lord, she was being drawn into showing her cards by a master. The thought had her temper rising. Dredging up every skill she had ever shown in acting, she plastered a smile on her face.

‘Why, your Grace, it is really too bad of you to jest me, for surely that is what all this is.’

‘Assuredly,’ he returned, bowing as the music stopped, implacable politeness replacing the humour. ‘Although sometimes I greatly doubt that you are quite as vapid as you make out to be.’

Emerald’s heartbeat faltered at the tone and without even trying she could see the lonely mantle of distance that lay between him and everyone, keeping them back and away.

Cross this line and be damned.

The missing fingers and his limp underplayed the jeopardy, but she could not afford to let her guard down.

Supper had been set up on a long table to one end of the salon, and Asher led her over to join the Learys and Jack Henshaw and Charlotte Withers at one of the smaller tables around it. After finding them each a plate of food, he sat down beside her and the topic turned to music.

‘Do you have a speciality, Lady Emma? An instrument that you play.’ Flora Leary’s eyes were full of interest.

‘No. I am afraid not.’ She did not imagine that the harmonica was the sort of instrument the Bishop’s wife would be thinking about.

‘Can you sing?’

‘No.’ God forbid that she should have to stand in front of this crowd and croon a bawdy number learnt at the knees of sailors who had never so much as graced a salon even a quarter as reputable as this one. ‘My father was a man who believed music to be a facet of the Devil’s mind. A religious man, you understand, of strong beliefs and an utter conviction in the rightness of them.’

‘Not an easy man to live with, then.’ Asher joined in the conversation and an undercurrent threaded his words. ‘What is it that you are well versed in?’

Emerald struggled to think up accomplishments that would be acceptable to this company. ‘I am a proficient rider and excellent in the preparation of meals.’

The heavy silence around the table lengthened as she realised the extent of her mistake.

‘Surely you mean the planning of menus, Lady Emma? A most salutatory undertaking. Why, I remember my mother enjoyed the art of putting together meat and wine. It quite took up much of her time before a grand meal. Was it that sort of thing you meant, my dear?’ The kind and gracious Lady Flora gave her an easy way out and she gladly took it.

‘Yes. Just exactly that.’

Lady Charlotte leaned forward and laid her fingers along the line of Asher Wellingham’s arm. ‘Your brother Taris was always a connoisseur of fine wines, your Grace. How is he? Has his sight improved?’

‘Markedly.’

‘Well, that is the most pleasing news I have heard in a while. Tell him I was asking after him, and if he is down in London in the near future …’

‘I will.’

Emerald felt that something was not quite as it should be. She knew that Taris was Asher’s brother, for Miriam had given her a vague outline of his immediate family. But the fact that he had some problem with his sight had not been mentioned at all and the mask that shuttered any trace of emotion on the Duke of Carisbrook’s face was intriguing.

A brother with a sight problem and a woman named Melanie who, apart from being beautiful, was also absent from his life. He had many secrets and held every emotion beneath a rigid self-control.

Discipline and governance had etched a hard line between his eyes, puncturing a face of pure masculine beauty into something less easy—whenever she was near him she felt a pull of sadness, the world stretched out of shape. Even here in the bland world of London society he did not relax as the others did, but looked around.

A constant check on safety.

She was certain that if someone had come up unexpectedly behind him he would have used the small knife hidden in the folds of his jacket. And used it well. She smiled. It was intriguing, this mix of mannerisms. The crest of ducal importance counterpoised by a dangerous fighting ability.

She had seen it, after all, and knew what he was capable of. Knew too that these people who fawned over his title and wealth had absolutely no idea: the wash of blood and guts across the deck on the high seas and the wailing agony of hurt.

Her life.

His life for a time.

For the time it had taken her to extinguish honour and send him hurtling downwards into the boiling anger of the ocean.

Asher instructed his driver to go fast through the dark London streets and, opening a window, enjoyed the breeze on his face and the sky above his head. Dotted with stars tonight, he mused. A small respite in a month of rain. His brother would be pleased, for watching the heavens through the telescope he had had shipped over especially from China was a passion he could still enjoy. He grimaced. But for how long?

Taris’s sight was worse. He admitted it to himself and cursed Charlotte Withers for asking. Emma Seaton would be at Falder the day after tomorrow and he did not want her to know the extent of the problem.

He wanted no one to know.

He wanted to keep the world away from his brother until he could fashion a solution. Until he knew for certain what it was they were facing. Total loss of sight? Partial vision?

If only Taris had not come out to the Caribbean to find him after the ransom note had been sent. If only he had stayed here in England and left the danger of rescue to others. No, he could not think like that. Taris had come and he had been saved. The high price of his brother’s sacrifice paid ever since with his own crippling guilt over his brother’s blindness.

‘God, help me,’ he whispered to a deity that tonight felt close, though the vision of Emma Seaton’s lack of underclothing juxtaposed strangely against his request, and for a second amusement filled the more familiar void of loneliness.

Her soft skin on her right breast had been marked with an indigo tattoo. A butterfly. Tiny. Delicate. Unexpected.

Curiosity welled. An emotion he had not felt in years. It was a relief to laugh. Even to himself out here in the night.

Emma Seaton.

Her hair was curly when it was loosened from the pins that tightly bound it. Stray tendrils had worked themselves free at her nape and the ringlets that hung only to her collar were tightly coiled. Red-blonde hair and turquoise eyes. And a body well endowed with the curves of womanhood.

He shook his head and rubbed at the stiff muscles on the back of his neck. He had enjoyed tonight. Enjoyed her humour and her candidness. Enjoyed the view of sun-warmed skin that lay beneath her loose bodice and the feel of her in his arms as they had danced.

What would she look like in silks and satins and with her hair dressed by the best of London’s hair salons?

He swore roundly. He had seldom kept a mistress in the way other men of the ton did. Oh, granted he had occasionally used the services of select women who could be relied on for their discretion, yet tonight, with the dull ache of sexual frustration seeping through his bones, he wanted more.

The image of two rosy-tipped breasts came to mind as the bells of Westminster rang out the hour of one across the slumbering city, and he smiled into the darkness as his horses slowed at the corner between Pall Mall and St James’s Square.

Opening Lucy’s letter on her return home, Emerald found the missive to be full of the adolescent adulation Asher Wellingham had spoken of. After memorising the note for future reference and consigning it to the fire, she walked across to the window to watch the sky.

Tonight the heavens were clear, a half-formed moon low in the eastern horizon and climbing. It would rain tomorrow, she suspected, for a cloud of mist encircled the glowing crescent and the air had a tang of moisture in it.

She wondered where the Duke of Carisbrook was now. Entwined in the arms of the green-eyed woman, she guessed, and wondered why she found the thought so irritating.

Asher Wellingham was nothing to her.

She would be in and out of Falder in a matter of days, hours even, if her searching went to plan. And then she would be gone. Away from here. Away from him.

Her mind wandered to the feel of his arms around her waist as they had danced tonight, the soft music between them. She had leant her head against the superfine of his jacket and breathed in.

‘Lord,’ she said aloud and swore roundly. Is this what England was making her? Soft? Needy? Dependent?

She was her father’s daughter with years of fighting imbued in her blood and drawn upon her skin. Her finger went to the mark that intersected her right eyebrow and travelled beneath her fringe into her scalp. Black Jack Porrit and his men off the coast of Barranquilla in the winter of 1819. She would never fit in here and before the first whisper of her parentage surfaced in London town she would need to be gone.

With resolve she stripped off the gown and arranged her blankets beside the window overlooking the street.

Across the city the bells peeled in the night. Two o’clock. Burrowing down, she whispered the name of her sister into the darkness.

‘Soon, Ruby. I will be home soon. I promise.’

Chapter Five

Miriam and Emerald arrived at Falder just as a rain shower departed and the sun tinged the clouds off the wild coast of Fleetness Point.

Falder.

To Emerald it was the most beautiful land she had ever seen, soft green hills with glades of trees colouring the lay of the fields. Everything about it was appealing. The isolation. The strength. The way the valleys dipped to a sea that was cold and free and deep. She could smell the sharp taste of salt on the wind and hear the lonely voices of the gulls.

Home. Home. Home.

Falder beckoned to her in a doleful wailing chant. Breathing in, she caught her reflection in the window of the coach and screwed up her nose. Would she ever get used to the shortness of her hair?

‘If the master of Falder discovers any more about us we will be tossed out in a minute.’ Miriam fidgeted with the thin silk strap of the little reticule she carried. ‘And if you think to dress in your lad’s clothes and scour the house at night, I should warn you of the dangers in it.’

Taking a deep breath, Emerald rubbed her palms against the rough wool of her cape. ‘Would you rather I took a knife to his throat, Aunt?’ Today, in the light of what she had to pretend, she could not find it in herself to be kind.

‘You would kill him?’

‘No, of course not,’ she answered back and swallowed down chagrin. Lord, did Miriam truly think that she was capable of slitting the jugular of an unarmed man?

‘Beau made some stupid mistakes, Emerald. And I would say his biggest one was not dispatching you to England the moment your mother left.’

‘I think sometimes you are too hard on my father—’ she began, but Miriam would have none of it.

‘You were six and he was away as often as he was not.’

‘I had Azziz and St Clair.’

‘Pah! That huge house and a boy who barely spoke the English language. You think that was a suitable home?’

‘It was my home.’ How often before had they had this very same conversation?

‘Your home? With a bevy of Beau’s good-time girls and barely a night without some drunken orgy?’

‘He missed my mother.’

‘Missed her money more like.’

Emerald frowned. This was a tangent she had not heard before. ‘Money. My mother had money?’

Miriam paled. ‘I promised my brother that I would never talk of that time. He wanted you to be free of the restraints and vagaries of society and I promised him my silence.’ Shifting in her seat, she crossed herself and Emerald saw the glimpse of a tear. ‘He was a man who demanded too much sometimes. Even of me.’

‘I do not even have a name to remember her by, Miriam. Can you not give me just that?’