The Trouble With Misbehaving

Love, Betrayal and Redemption

Calista ‘CC’ Collins is used to being the talk of the town. With her scandalous past she’s learnt the hard way that a woman needs to be strong to get what she wants in a man’s world. And what she wants is the infamous Captain Beauford Tollier—roguish son of an earl, notorious blockade-runner and all-round knave of the seas.

However, Captain Beau is not one to be cajoled—he is done with the dangerous sea life and ready to follow the life of the straight and narrow. But with many powerful forces circling around him, Beau doesn’t stand a chance…

The Trouble with Misbehaving

Victoria Hanlen

www.CarinaUK.com

VICTORIA HANLEN

When Victoria won her first writing honor at age ten, a D.A.R. award for Excellence in History, it never occurred to her she’d grow up to write historical romance. She went on to tread the boards of stage and professional opera. There she absorbed the basics of story telling and learned to inhabit characters while costumed in wigs, hats and flowing gowns. Now as an author, instead of singing in the shower she takes notes, her characters inhabit her, and they get to wear the great clothes. Victoria lives in rural New England with her husband and a host of wildlife. She loves to hear from her readers. For more, please visit her at victoriahanlen.com

Writing this book has been an adventure and a labor of love, and I have many people to thank. Immense gratitude goes to my fabulous editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her patient guidance and for taking a chance on a new author. I very much appreciate the talented Carina UK team for their brilliant work in launching C.C.’s and Beau’s story out into the world.

To my awesome critiquers Ann Clement, Julia Gabriel, Anna James, Jael Wye, and Jessica Trapp—thanks for the honesty, laughter and enthusiasm. It’s meant the world to me. Thanks also to Ann Messecar, Bob Bonitz, and Jamie Beck, your input was invaluable. And a big thank you goes out to the Connecticut Romance Writers for your encouragement, camaraderie and commitment to seeing us all in print.

I enjoyed talking with the historians at Fort Anderson, Fort Fisher and the Wilmington, North Carolina Railroad Museum. Thank you for your time and generosity in pointing me to such great research resources and acquainting me with a myriad of Civil War details. Any mistakes are on me.

To my family, the loves of my life, you are my moorings and inspiration.

And lastly, thank you dear reader for choosing to spend a few hours getting to know C.C. and Beau. I hope they’ve managed to entertain you with their misbehaving.

To my wonderful, supportive husband who has accompanied me on this journey, patiently seeing to my computer problems and traveling with me to do research in the U.S., the Bahamas and the U.K. You are my hero.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter 1

London, England, 1864

Captain Beauford Tollier knew the glue-like qualities of trouble. The stuff collected on him like burrs on wool socks. Over the years he’d devised a somewhat reliable rule—trouble avoided was trouble contained.

Hence, when the first two letters arrived, he prudently tossed them into the fire. With the third, however, he let the note linger in his fingers a moment too long. Long enough for the vanilla and honeysuckle perfume to seep into his senses. Long enough for him to notice the elegant, swirling penmanship. And long enough to read the large purple letters emblazoned across the back:

“PROMISING THE HIGHEST REWARDS AND BENEFITS.”

Trouble.

Yet here he stood at the designated fountain in London’s Cremorne Pleasure Gardens. In front of him, horns trumpeted a polka in the tall Chinese bandstand. Below, hundreds of colorful lamps shimmered over the dance platform where seemingly half of London bobbed and weaved.

Beau leaned against a flagpole and opened his pocket watch—eleven p.m.—the appointed time. Where was the mysterious letter writer signed only as C.C.?

Bells suddenly jangled in a nearby arcade. Tension riveted his spine. Spies often set traps with enticing words. But the letter’s mystery and its author’s persistence had tweaked his infernal curiosity.

Tapping his foot, he peered about the swarms of festive patrons milling around him. He shouldn’t be here. His return to England was to be a new start. He’d made a vow—if he survived the Yankee prison he would reunite with his brothers and change his life. Still, anticipation buzzed through his veins.

He flicked open his program, scanned it and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Families still left at dusk. Now only roistering men and women remained. Save for a novel act or two, a dozen years hadn’t altered the variety of amusements and death-defying feats. Hot air balloons, operettas, circuses and tightrope walkers still entertained. He yawned—child’s play, really. Little could rival the excitement of blockade-running.

In the distance, a steam calliope whistled a merry tune. Aromas of coffee and hot grog tugged his attention to the outdoor café where flashy women ringed dainty tables. He brushed his hand over his jacket pocket and felt the note crinkle under his fingertips. Could one of those women be the mysterious letter writer?

“Dawdling won’t get you tuppence here. If you want one o’ ’em, ask her for a dance. Then negotiate.”

Beau flinched at the strange voice. With all the noise and commotion surrounding him, he hadn’t noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen step to his side. He narrowed his eyes on them.

The mustachioed fellow rattled on, “Got to exert yourself. That’s the way of it here at these pleasure gardens.” He motioned toward the crowded dance platform where a sea of hats and bonnets and every kind of suit and gown imaginable bounced about in something resembling more of a bacchanal than a polka.

“The tarts here do not solicit acquaintance. Got to be asked,” his friend said and adjusted his bowler hat.

Rockets burst overhead and exploded through the mist into flowering streams of silver. Beau’s sinews seized. Ghostly images of flying shrapnel and live shell fell all around him. “Take cover!” gurgled in his throat. He clutched the flagpole, gasped for air, pulled at his cravat and fought the panic rioting inside.

The man with the mustache stared, eyes bulging. “N-not that one o’ ’em wouldn’t be thrilled to accommodate a f-fine bloke such as yourself. Not to worry. London’s trollops are a friendly sort. That’s just how it’s done here at Cremorne.”

Beau dragged in desperate breaths. Even with the cool fall air floating in off the Thames, the boom of fireworks made him break into a sweat. Frustration boiled in his gullet. He’d come here to find out what ‘Rewards and Benefits’ meant, not fend off his lingering battle demons.

After nearly fifty runs through the blockade he’d lost his nerve, quite effectively ending his blockade-running career. Fortunately, he’d saved a tidy sum, but the money wouldn’t last. Even an earl’s third son needed to keep up appearances. With any luck, the letter writer would offer generous pay for legitimate, peaceful work. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Heart still pounding, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket. “Blast!” He yanked it out again. The paper cut him! He knew better than to allow an infernal letter to tempt his curiosity. A more superstitious mariner would take it as a sign. He should leave.

Vacillating, he rubbed his stinging finger and studied the men. They didn’t seem dodgy enough to have sent the letter, but they were too friendly. He didn’t like friendly. And what made them think he didn’t know London? Was it his tan? He needed to get rid of them. “Perhaps you could show me how one procures…a tart.”

The bowler-hatted man gave him a crooked smile. “All right. It’s not so difficult. Remember, they got to make a living. Pick out one you fancy, be polite and ask.” He tipped his hat toward several women sitting at a nearby table. One smiled back. He soon disappeared with the woman into the mass whirling around the bandstand.

His friend twiddled his mustache and grinned. “Good on him. See? Easy. That’s how it’s done.”

Beau checked his pocket watch…six minutes past eleven. The letter writer was late. Patience had never been his virtue, but tardiness nearly gave him fits. The last time someone kept him waiting he’d been forced to confess to a lie to save his crew and was nearly hanged.

A ticklish skitter climbed his torso. Another grazed his face. He slowly peered around. Union spies had trailed him before. He’d been shocked by the amount of intelligence his nemesis, Union Navy Commander Rives, presented at his trial. Rives promised a bullet to the brain if he ever saw him again. Enough. Time to leave.

“Captain Tollier?”

The soft American accent pinched a raw nerve. He lurched around toward the woman’s voice. Dear God in Heaven. Fireworks exploded overhead in the grand finale. All Beau heard was a distant ringing.

Diamond lights sparkled in the large, dark-lashed eyes gazing up at him. Tight sable ringlets framed creamy skin. High cheekbones lent strength to a comely heart-shaped face. A thin, straight little nose tipped up with just a trace of determination. And her lips, oh, her full, soft lips were made to bedevil a man’s imagination.

At first he thought her a delicate maiden. In the next instant, she pursed those lovely lips ever so slightly to reveal an edge and maturity that hinted older. And with closer examination, her charming womanly curves suggested older as well. Surely this spectacular creature couldn’t be the C.C.

Stunned, he couldn’t respond, only watch her study his face and give him a smile—a very pretty smile—white teeth, a dimple on her soft left cheek. The glamour of it spurred stirrings he’d not felt in nearly a year.

“Oh dear, I must have been mistaken. Terribly sorry.” She turned to walk away.

An elbow dug into his side. The mustachioed man shot him a look of disbelief and gave a quick nod in her direction.

Rubbing his rib, Beau’s mind finally snapped into gear. “May I help you, miss?”

She turned back. “If you aren’t Captain Tollier, then no. I’m very sorry to bother you.”

Curiosity wrestled with uncertainty. She couldn’t have written the letter, could she? Stunning women made very beguiling spies, yet something about her didn’t quite fit the part. Sweeping his hat from his head he smiled, “And if I were he?”

“Then you’d know who you were. Do you know who you are?”

He couldn’t decide if her tone held a joke or condescension.

American women. They spoke the same language, for the most part, but if he wasn’t mistaken, this one’s cheekiness included a subtle challenge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustached fellow angle his arm for another shot to his ribs.

Beau quickly stepped to the side. “If I should happen to make his acquaintance, who might I say is enquiring?” He flashed her his dazzling smile. The one that usually brought blushes to even the most hardened old harridans.

A graceful brow rose.

The intensity of her gaze sharpened as she openly assessed his new black top hat; took careful note of his face; measured the breadth of his shoulders; inspected his new suit, cravat, starched shirt, waistcoat and burnished boots; slowly drew her gaze upward to his lips and then directly into his eyes.

Beau found himself straightening to attention. For a man of the world and a former Royal Navy officer, he’d never experienced a more unabashed, thorough inspection. His voice came out a little too tight and stern. “Do I pass muster, madam?”

Humor flashed in her eyes, hitting him like an electric jolt. His gaze flew to her delectable mouth. More curiosity stirred.

The music swelled into another rollicking polka.

Peripherally, he saw ‘mustache’ nodding his head toward the bandstand.

Nothing about this supposed business meeting had been typical, but life and freedom were meant to be enjoyed. Why not dance with a pretty woman? Beau could ask questions with her in his arms as well as anywhere else. “Shall we take a turn about the dance floor?”

She turned to him in surprise. “You know this new polka, Captain?”

Her response gave him pause. Women had often complimented him on his dancing. How hard could it be? He glanced at the dancers’ antics while positioning his hat on his head. “We’ll soon find out.”

***

C.C. placed her gloved hand on his arm and let him lead the way toward the packed dance platform. Could this truly be Captain Tollier? Having not met him until now, she’d counted on his portrait, painted a dozen years before, to at least somewhat resemble him.

Above, the orchestra increased its tempo. Couples spun faster, skipped and twirled in wild gyrations, barely missing one another. She gazed about the roiling mass of bodies.

Discussions would be difficult on the rowdy dance floor, and the stakes were too high to risk misinterpretation. Though C.C. grew up in New York, after her father’s death, her mother moved back to be with her family in North Carolina. Now they were in desperate need of her help. It was imperative she persuade Captain Tollier to take her through the Union blockade.

“We must discuss my proposal. The gardens are quieter,” she shouted over the music and pulled on his arm to guide him toward the path around the platform.

His brow rose and a glint sparked in his deep-set aqua-blue eyes. Magnetism hit her like a gale-force wind. Her pulse began to pound in her ears. Laws, what had she been thinking? Dealings of this sort should take place in a dignified business setting with no prying ears.

When the captain didn’t answer her first two proper meeting requests, she’d reckoned he might respond better to something rather improper. It had worked, but now she wondered at the wisdom of that bright idea.

As they moved through the throng, the sweet smell of cinnamon apple tarts eddied on the breeze. Deafening cheers erupted from the game booths. Suddenly, the crowd surged. A large man nearly knocked her off her feet.

The captain circled a muscular arm around her shoulder, steadying her. “I know a shortcut. Let me lead the way,” he announced, his deep voice full of command. The side of her body locked against his tingled, even as his assumption of control began to annoy.

She needed to keep charge of the situation. This whole endeavor depended on her ability to work with this man. He’d a reputation for being wily and unpredictable and clever as a fox. No doubt he’d an impressive stubborn streak as well. But then, he was a captain.

As he forged a path through the chaotic revelers, she slyly studied him. Pleasant features could hide all sorts of unpleasantness. Of this she was well aware. His younger, callow portrait had resembled a blond Adonis, and accounts of his bravery and adventures had kept her spellbound.

Now up close, she could see his face had become leaner, more honed. Years at sea had weathered his skin, transformed the handsome face of a youth into that of a formidable man. Strength and resolve now etched his striking features, carved distinction into the shrewd line of his jaw and made his lips all the more sensuous with an added cynical curve.

Heavens! Desist! She sounded like a starry-eyed girl. She tore her gaze from him as they entered the shadowy gardens’ main walkway. Scents of vegetation wove through the air. Fog had rolled in off the Thames, cloaking the elms’ and poplars’ branches in a murky haze. Goddess-shaped lampposts stood on the long path like sentries guarding the well-tended flowerbeds. Their gauzy areoles of light marched into the distance.

“I take it you are familiar with Cremorne?” the captain drawled.

Were her ears playing tricks on her, or did that certain note in his voice refer to the garden’s ribald reputation after dusk? Surely he didn’t think this meeting included something a little more ribald, did he?

C.C. cut him a quick glance and tried to smile. “Oh yes, it is most enjoyable. I bring the children here when they’re good. We especially like the games. The darling poppets and toy prizes make nice rewards.”

“Poppets? Toys?” He sounded confused. “Something must be amiss. The letter said highest rewards and benefits?” He quickly cut her a glance and said in astonishment, “You have children?”

“They’re not mine, exactly. They live at the Freesdale Orphanage.”

“You keep looking around. Is your husband aware of this meeting?”

“Husband. Dear me, that is funny.” She attempted a laugh. “I’m looking for an empty bench where we can sit and talk.” She gazed down the long line of couples strolling the pathways. “So many people are here tonight.”

His white teeth flashed mischievously. “We probably could find someplace more secluded if you like.”

Her pulse launched into an uneven skip. Oh he was a rascal. This meeting at Cremorne was beginning to look more and more misguided. For goodness’ sake, she’d taken such care with everything, including her no-nonsense business attire: a worn shopkeeper’s gown, hair in a plain style and a brush of coal dust. All to avoid recognition by acquaintances and hopefully ensure Captain Tollier took her seriously.

She drew herself up primly. “Since you didn’t answer either of my first two letters, I assume something in them didn’t meet with your liking.” Tonight she was determined to discover what those things were. “If we can find a calm, quiet place to discuss my proposal, I feel confident we can come to an amicable agreement.”

***

Beau extended his arm to point. “Look, there in the fog, I think I see a bench.” As they made their way toward it, they passed under a lamp allowing him a closer examination. Nothing about this mysterious woman added up. Not a bauble or jewel adorned her person. Her coarse shawl and worn, dark-purple, high-necked gown might indicate any number of occupations.

What was she? A shopgirl? A governess? A Union spy? A tart? He studied her entrancing lips. A kiss might identify one vocation. Yet the way she carried herself shouted prim, proper and upper crust. If he were to needle her in the right manner, he’d not be surprised to find the airs and graces of a ‘papa’s little princess.’

Enough. He needed some answers. He pulled her to a stop. Taking her hand, he kissed a gloved knuckle. Her enticing vanilla and honeysuckle perfume blossomed through his senses—the same fragrance as on the letter. Lord, she smelled good. How long had it been since he’d even noticed a woman’s perfume?

Clearing his throat, he said, “Now then. Would I be correct if I said your initials are C.C.?”

“Yes, they are,” she said with an air of self-possession.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he never would have imagined a woman like her. “Why have you asked me to meet you here tonight?”

She waited for a couple to walk past before leaning in to whisper, “Did you not read the letters?”

He pulled the note from his jacket pocket and held it up. “I read this one.”

Her features tightened. “You should have received two more. Did you read them?”

Rather than deny he’d gotten the letters, he merely said, “No.”

Two elegant brows drew into a frown. She lifted her chin. “Why not?”

He almost laughed at her presumptuousness. Who was she to take him to task for not reading her letters? She reminded him of an autocratic Greek tutor he’d once had, although he found her much more interesting. “Madam, before a few minutes ago, you were a total stranger. When I receive unsolicited letters from unknown addressees, alas, they go into the fire.”

“Into the fire!” She rocked on her feet and glared up at him, her ringlets bouncing to and fro. “If you’d bothered to read them, you would have found that my man of business set forth the whole proposal in detail!”

Well, well now wasn’t she a feisty one…so direct and so…different. “Perhaps you could give me the short version,” he drawled, unable to keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Ordinarily he might take offense at her plain speaking. Instead, her uninhibited boldness made him want to laugh. He could almost see sparks sputtering around her tight hair coils and rather enjoyed ruffling her.

She glanced about them again, waited for another couple to pass and said in a quiet clipped tone, “The short version is that I am in desperate need of your help and expertise.”

“To do what?” He grinned.

Cannon blasts pummeled the air and shook the ground. The percussion slammed him in the chest and knocked him back a step. All the air disappeared. He clutched his arms to his sides, gasped for air and hoped to God this very attractive woman couldn’t see how his nerves were fraying.

In the distance, a stentorian voice announced the reenactment of a battle. Even though his mind knew the cannon fire was only an exhibition, his body couldn’t be so easily convinced.

Concern etched C.C.’s countenance. “Are you all right?” She gently placed a gloved hand against his cheek, tipping his head down.

He had the oddest sensation of falling into fathomless eyes filled with compassion, calm strength and a steely will—a mooring of sorts.

Rifle volleys sent sharp waves screaming through him. He clenched again, and struggled to mirror her slow inhale and exhale. Gradually, his rigid sinews began to loosen.

“Do you have difficulties with London’s air, too, Captain?”

“How did you do that?” he gasped.

“Kipp, a little boy at the orphanage, has weak lungs. His brother showed me how to help him when he has an attack.”

Beau had never experienced anything like it. In those silent, breathless moments he’d sensed a connection form between them. But was it an illusion? Another trick from a lady of the evening or a spy?

The cursed prickles began treading up his spine again. Cringing, he slowly peered over his shoulder. If C.C. was standing in front of him, who was spying on him from behind?

Several couples strolled toward them out of the fog.

Clutching her elbow, he led her across the manicured lawn into a copse of trees.