The Trouble With Misbehaving

C.C. smiled. “You seem to have found a friend.”

“French women always like me.” Beau gave C.C. a roguish grin and raised the little poodle to let her lick his face. “Yes, I can tell you and I will be good friends.” He placed the dog on his lap, and allowed her to get comfortable.

Expecting the other two dogs to be as friendly, the second dog handed in surprised him by growling the moment he saw him.

C.C. picked up the cantankerous little beast and settled him on her lap.

The third dog scrambled onto the maid’s knee, refused to sit and watched Beau with bright, beady little eyes.

When Beau moved his hat on the seat next to him, C.C.’s little hound began barking.

“Hush, Plutarch.” C.C. gave the dog a scratch. “Don’t mind him, Captain, he’s a little blind in his left eye. Probably mistook your hat for a strange animal.”

Plutarch? Interesting. Quite a bluestocking name for a little yapper. The dog continued to growl while Beau looked him over. “How old is he?”

“Ten.”

“I haven’t seen an animal like him since Canton. An ancient breed, I was told. The Chinese are loath to let those dogs leave their country.”

She cast him a sideways glance. “Very good, Captain. No one seems to know what to make of him. Are you acquainted with Canton?”

“I spent a few years in the South China Sea with the Royal Navy.” Was it possible she didn’t know that about him? She seemed to know everything else. He couldn’t resist asking. “How does a Chinese Lion Dog end up named after a Greek philosopher?”

She regarded him for a moment before quietly answering, “At the time I was reading Plutarch’s Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores.”

Now that put a different light on things. So she was a bluestocking. If she read Latin well enough to understand Greek philosophers, it indicated a certain studiousness and level of education he would not have expected.

Maybe it was because his first impression persisted of her as a lovely, ardent shopgirl. He gazed at her soft lips and idly scratched Jossette’s ears. The memory of how C.C.’s mouth felt under his made him long for another taste.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Latin? I used to be quite good at Latin. Let me see if I can remember how to translate.” He took a moment to get the words straight in his mind. “Which are Worse: Diseases of the Soul or of the Body? Did you come to any conclusion on such a weighty subject?”

C.C. pursed her lips as she studied his face. “Yes. I learned…we are an imperfect lot and sometimes good friends are the best cure. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she seemed to withdraw into herself.

Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t sit well. He was used to giving the orders and having his questions answered.

If she read the book ten years ago, that was about the time of her scandal and deep depression. “Sooo, did these good friends help with the melancholy?”

C.C.’s head jerked up. With a quick twitch of her eyes she shot a wary glance toward her maid and then back to him.

Ah, she didn’t want to talk in front of her maid. “And how about your friend—Sarah, was it? Could she also read Plutarch?”

She gave him a steady, questioning stare as she slowly scratched Plutarch’s ears. “Sarah did not read Latin. If she had, she might have avoided—” C.C.’s shoulders sagged and her gaze turned inward. A sheen of moisture added bleakness to her eyes. “She didn’t deserve what Falgate did.” Her words came out a whisper, and she quickly glanced out the window, as if something caught her attention.

Clearly, she grieved for Sarah. Thomas had said they were good friends and that Falgate had been implicated in Sarah’s death. It seemed a stretch to imagine C.C. had led the viscount on, but perhaps she saw an opportunity when he pursued her into the library, and exacted a measure of revenge.

“And what is this one?” Beau leaned toward dog number three on the maid’s knee and extended his hand for the dog to sniff.

The cur shot forward and bit him.

“Blast!” Beau yanked his hand away.

“Fosco! Down!” both C.C. and the maid chided together.

While the maid grabbed the snarling little bugger and held him tighter in her lap, C.C. continued her scold. “Fosco, you bad, bad boy! We do not bite our guests! I’m very sorry, Captain.” Her gaze dropped to the hand he was rubbing. “Oh, dear. Did he break the skin?” She set Plutarch on the seat next to her and scooted forward. May I see where he bit you?” She extended an ungloved hand over the legroom between the seats.

Beau eyed the dogs. He doubted either fur ball could jump that far for another bite. Still, he took his time before he laid his hand in her palm.

She closed her fingers around his.

He hissed in air through his teeth, as if it pained him.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Captain.” Concern filled her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch so gentle. No wonder her little hounds quieted right down when she ran her fingers through their fur. She slowly turned his hand over.

He made another little hissing sound.

Her gaze shot to his, and this time he allowed himself to fall into her beautiful, dark eyes.

“Did he bite you here?” She pointed to a slight redness on the top of his hand—the scrape caused by his trunk latch.

The dog had only nipped his finger, but Beau liked how her soft fingers smoothed over his skin. The sensation of her gentle prodding sent a tingle up his arm. His pulse jumped as well. He was enjoying this too much to give her any reason to stop.

“The top of your hand is a little red. It doesn’t look like he broke the skin,” she said, turning his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m so sorry for his bad behavior.”

Beau gazed about her face as she continued to gently rub her thumb over his hand. “Fosco would need sharper teeth to get through my tough hide.” He could see when it registered in her mind that the dog hadn’t really done any damage.

A nostril flared. “You are a scoundrel, Captain.” She dropped his hand, sat back rigidly against the seat, plopped Plutarch back on her lap and gazed out the window.

She obviously knew he’d taken advantage of the situation, but Beau was just getting warmed up. He glared at the cantankerous little mongrel on the maid’s lap.

The dog growled back.

“I say, he rather looks like a Lion Dog mix. How did that happen?”

C.C. gazed coolly at Beau. “He’s Plutarch’s moment of indiscretion with Lady Whiting’s saucy terrier.” Turning Plutarch around, she smoothed the fur out of his large black eyes and whispered, “You were a bad, bad boy, weren’t you? Lady Whiting no longer receives us because of you.”

“A clandestine mating? It is said dogs often resemble their owners.”

Her eyes widened, and made another twitch toward the maid.

He’d not intended to hint at her visit to his bed at Grancliffe, but sometimes his tongue worked things out on its own, surprising even him.

C.C.’s lips thinned. “My dogs are not like me!”

“I beg to differ.” He pointed to each dog in turn. “Kiss. Growl. Bite.”

A rush of pink colored her cheeks. “Really, Captain,” she huffed. “That is absurd!”

“Will we be taking the train back to London?” Beau asked cheerily, enjoying irritating her. She’d made him plenty uncomfortable with their bargain, and he was going to feel even worse if he found out she truly was a nutter.

“No, Captain,” she snipped. “Dogs aren’t welcome with passengers on the train, and I can’t bear the thought of them being caged in some stuffy cargo car.”

Ferrying her mongrels back and forth had to cost a small fortune. Obviously, money didn’t concern her, or she cared a great deal for her dogs. “Will you be bringing your lap warmers to North Carolina?”

She didn’t answer immediately while she fished around in her reticule. Withdrawing a small hand mirror, she tweaked one or two hair coils around her face and checked the stability of her hat. “I’ll miss them terribly, but I’m afraid it would be too arduous for them. We’ll drop everyone off in London to stay at Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse, Amelia’s…I mean, Lady Grancliffe’s mother.”

“And you don’t think it will be too arduous for you?” He frowned as he gazed about her exquisite carriage, beautiful traveling ensemble, and flawless coiffure. “War is being waged where we’re headed. Do you have any concept of what that means: the dangers you’ll face—the lack of conveniences? Things are not like they are here.”

Mirror still poised in the air, she shrugged and said simply, “I know.”

Well, he doubted she had any idea what she’d be up against, but far be it from him to tell her. He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, what’s on the itinerary?”

“If all goes well, we should be in London by tomorrow evening.”

Tomorrow evening. Beau settled back into the plush squabs and gazed about the carriage. It was so new he could smell the conditioning oils in the seat and door leather. Flecks of silver sparkled in the dark purple upholstery lining the ceiling and walls. Silver fringe adorned the windows. It was magnificent if one liked purple, violet or lavender.

The springs were so well balanced they floated over bumps in the road. At least the trip back to London should be more comfortable than the train. He might even take a nap. Hopefully the compensations of traveling with a wealthy woman would outweigh the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his gut.

Not more than a quarter hour later they passed the entrance to Rockford lands. He’d done quite well forgetting unwanted memories, but some remained as sharp and vibrant as if they’d happened yesterday.

Beau’s lips turn down in disgust. Never had there been a more besotted young fool. At fifteen he’d fancied himself a man in love and had been as randy as a rabbit. That summer Lady Rockford, four years his senior and married to a man twice her age, had made several very specific and beguiling overtures. Her invitation started with a picnic and ended in the master’s chambers.

At the time, Beau considered Lady R. the most comely of young women. He’d felt deep sympathy for her story that Lord Rockford only married her to keep up appearances. She’d been left to ‘rot’ at his elegant country home for a year while he attended the House of Lords in London.

She and Beau were twined together in the huge four-poster bed when Lord Rockford arrived home.

On seeing them, the incensed lord put all his weight into beating him. “You filthy little bastard. You’re no better than your mother. I’ll have you in jail for your efforts!”

Then he began shouting obscenities at Lady R., grabbed and slapped her.

“You hypocrite!” she screamed. “You claimed you loved me, but you have two mistresses in London! I’ve had you investigated. You keep them in fine style while you leave me on this desolate old farm. If you forsake me for another…two others, then I shall do the same!”

“The devil you will!” Rockford roared.

Belatedly, Beau realized he’d been the instrument to exact revenge on her husband.

Lord Rockford marched over, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the bedroom door and threw him from the room, naked as a newborn.

The next day, on a break from his studies at Grancliffe Hall, Beau happened to gaze out the window to see Lord Rockford stomping down the front steps. Shortly thereafter, he was summoned to the library. On the corner of his father’s desk sat Beau’s neatly folded clothes. The very ones he’d shed in Lord Rockford’s bedroom.

His father glowered at him and wordlessly stabbed a finger toward the pile of clothes. Profound disapproval wrinkled his face. Something flickered in his eyes that even then Beau recognized as the last straw. More disturbing still was the resignation on his face.

All summer Beau had been studying with Greek and Latin tutors to prepare him for Divinity studies. Several weeks later, he found himself a midshipman in the Royal Navy.

“Are you quite all right, Captain?” C.C. asked. “You look as though you’ve a touch of motion sickness.”

“I’d forgotten why it’s taken me so long to return to the family pile. It finally occurred to me—individuals continue to coerce me into leaving before I’d planned.”

Plutarch, the grouchy little cur, now sprawled on the seat between her and her maid. A small leather-bound journal lay in C.C.’s lap. Jewels sparkled on her purple fountain pen. She returned to jotting down words and numbers in purple ink.

Without looking up, she added, “We can stop, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“I’ll be all right,” he growled. “I’ve suffered worse at sea.” He watched her long, slender fingers grasp the pen. Something didn’t look right.

“You’re a left-hander?”

Her writing arm jerked like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. Pink flared on her cheeks. She carefully capped her pen and slid it into her reticule. “My parents were not remiss in attempting to cure me of my disorder. I am proficient with both hands. Sitting as we are, it’s easier to write with my left.”

Cure her disorder? He’d heard some parents considered it such. Left-handedness, he’d been told, was inborn like blue-green eyes and blond hair. Clearly it still shamed her.

Beau shifted his gaze to the maid. C.C. had appeared concerned about discussing certain topics in front of her. Did she only keep information from this woman or was C.C. reserved with everyone? Like a ship’s captain, she certainly seemed to have command over her servants.

The memory of their expert loading of the carriages surfaced. Understanding finally struck. Somewhat a veteran of quick getaways himself, he realized their rapid departure couldn’t have been accomplished had C.C.’s attendants not already been packed and ready to go.

Dear God, the truth finally sank in. They’d all been waiting for her to corral him and strike a bargain. He’d been her objective all along. A chill crawled through him. While he’d been mesmerized by her beauty, seductive teasing and questions as to her sanity, she’d used more grit and audacity than a cold-eyed Caribbean pirate.

Their departure from Grancliffe Hall had been so rapid, he’d not had time to think or even ask questions. His stomach began to roll with tension. She’d said this was a mission to rescue her family. With the effective way in which she’d coerced an agreement from him, he doubted she’d reveal this voyage’s true purpose. Rich payoffs often included ulterior motives. And something about this journey didn’t smell right.

Chapter 7

C.C. breathed in the clean fragrance of beeswax and inwardly sighed as the innkeeper led them to their rooms. They’d finally made it halfway to London. She rubbed her aching temple. Sharing her new, well-appointed coach with the wily captain had been anything but comfortable.

The crafty-tongued rascal had presented a fine show of nonchalance, but clearly he felt threatened. All day he treaded the edges of propriety, alternately making her laugh and irritating her. Initially, she’d been embarrassed by her dog’s bad behavior. After the day she’d endured, she was now glad Fosco had the sense to bite him.

This could not go on. Somehow she had to find a middle ground. They’d a long journey ahead, and she suspected his annoying insinuations would escalate until he’d worked off some of his vexation.

“Will you join me for dinner, perhaps in half an hour?” she asked, right before the proprietor showed the captain to his room.

“Of course,” Beau said blandly.

She almost asked if he’d prefer a tray sent up. But they needed to build some sort of esprit de corps. It tired her to even think about parrying his sly verbal swordplay all the way to North Carolina.

Within half an hour she’d arranged for her servant’s meals, scraps for the dogs, a hasty cleanup and now sat at a quiet table in the corner of the dining room. Dark wood paneling, small vases of flowers and candlelight gave the room an ambiance made for intimate liaisons.

Even with the room’s warmth, a cold draft seemed to thread around her ankles. She’d never had an intimate meal with a man and certainly not at an inn. She peered around the half-filled room. Thank goodness no one looked familiar. A supper alone here with Captain Tollier would certainly set tongues wagging.

She clasped her hands in front of her, prayer-like. Perhaps a prayer or two might help. A possibility still existed that he might refuse to take her through the blockade. Hopefully, a supper alone would allow them more freedom to talk. Given his sly remarks today, the very thought of a private conversation with him sent butterflies flitting around her growling stomach.

By the time he entered the dining room her knuckles had turned white. He’d changed his shirt and raked his hair into place with what appeared to be fingers and water. Her jaw went slack. Few men could wear disheveled with so much appeal.

“Good evening, Captain,” she finally managed. “Please join me. I trust you found everything you needed in your room.”

“Yes, thank you.” He made an abbreviated bow and sat.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Since they’d arrived at the inn his mood had made a radical change from banter and barbs to taciturn contemplation.

After ordering, C.C. searched for an innocuous subject of conversation. The butterflies now seemed to have grown mallets for wings. “Did you ride much as a child?” She picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it into her glass of water, then tasted the mixture.

The captain’s long brows drew into mismatched furrows. He sipped his ale, slowly washed it around his mouth and licked the foam from his lips. Without preamble, he drawled, “What did you do that was so unforgivable they exiled you from New York City?”

Water caught in her throat and she nearly choked. “You don’t shy away from sensitive subjects, do you, Captain?” She coughed.

“I am merely following your lead of this morning. It’s been on the tip of my tongue all day. I gathered you might not want your maid overhearing. Since you seem to know so much about me, it would only be fair I know something of you.”

Pulling her kerchief from the wrist of her sleeve, she dabbed her lips. “And you go straight to the most disagreeable, darkest part. Must we start with such uncivil questions?”

“My apologies,” he said, although he didn’t look or sound all that apologetic. He ran his finger around the rim of his tankard. “I presume you did something more than dash down Broadway at high noon in nothing but your bonnet.”

Before she could jam her kerchief to her lips, a startled squeak escaped. She quickly glanced around the room. “I’m not proud of my actions at that time and never discuss them.”

One side of his mouth quirked; an evil twinkle flashed. “Never?”

She clenched her teeth to keep from laughing. The man’s shocking, devilish way of asking questions tickled when it should have stung.

He leaned forward, his voice ironic. “Do you think I’m in any position to judge you?”

She drew in an uneasy breath. He spoke the truth. As painful and embarrassing as her mistakes had been, from what she knew of Captain Tollier and his lengthy résumé of misconduct, her list of folly might not give him even a twitch of discomfort.

He leaned back placidly, awaiting her answer.

For ten years she’d kept those secrets locked away. She didn’t need to tell him. It probably wasn’t even wise. Staying in her old room at Grancliffe reminded her how long it had been. One-third of her life had passed since. But if revealing one or two misdeeds would establish some common ground with him and help her family, then so be it.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Clearly her mind and body disagreed. “Let’s discuss something else. It’s old history and not pertinent to the voyage ahead of us.”

He leaned in, his jaw hardening. “I disagree. It is highly relevant to our journey.” His voice took on a tone of implacable determination, and his bright aqua-blue eyes intensified like they had in the long gallery. She had no doubt he’d used similar intimidation on stubborn crewmembers to great effect.

Though he’d not said it aloud, the implication was clear. If she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he might not take her through the blockade. Time was running out. If he backed out now she didn’t know what she’d do.

Her butterflies flew into a hammering frenzy.

She took a big gulp of water, gazed at her kerchief and began working it into knots. “At nineteen I was one of the most sought-after debutantes in New York City. She cut a quick glance his direction. “I was also a very spoiled, privileged only child, and extremely sheltered from the ways of the world. Back then I had an unrealistic optimism and naïveté that I could have anything I wanted. My blunders ruined my reputation and that of my parents.”

The knotted kerchief bit into her hand. Untying it, she checked his expression. The captain had eased back into his chair, but his jaw hadn’t softened. The slight pursing of his lips and intense gaze indicated he was waiting for her to continue.

She took another big gulp of water. “In those days I was the perfect hostess and lady. My mother was a stickler for propriety and respectability, you see. When gentlemen called, I made polite conversation, tried to put them at ease, patiently listened to them, and always took great pains to gently send them on their way. There were plenty of gold diggers to be sure, but my parents were a little surprised when I stubbornly refused to consider any of the decent, eligible, constant young men who begged my attention.”

The captain shifted in his seat and raised the tankard to eye her over its rim. His gaze became an even more intense blue, compelling her to explain, “Making a spectacular match is the goal of any well brought up young lady.”

“Of course.”

“It may sound boastful, but back then I could have had first pick of any one of the best young men. Instead, I became embroiled in a very public…love triangle.” Her disgust at the memory and what she’d admitted made her want to crawl under the table.

“Did the gentlemen kill each other?” he asked blandly.

Her stays bit into her sides as she squelched a laugh. “Nooo,” she whispered. “He chose the other woman.” Her tense throat muscles strained against attempts to pull in air. When finally able to breathe again, she searched the captain’s face. His expression had turned to polite, courteous indifference, tending toward boredom.

“Did you kill her?” he asked, deadpan.

The question so surprised her, a high titter escaped before she could clap a hand over her mouth. While she struggled to curb her laughter, he studied her.

“You killed him?”

His question, delivered with such casualness, brought forth an even louder peal. Such ridiculousness seemed to pry open a small door. Years of pent-up secrets and lonely regrets bubbled toward the exit and fought her attempts to curb her amusement. The sudden loss of control nearly sent her off her chair into a heap of hysterics on the dining room floor. She hugged her middle with one hand and covered her mouth with the other. Even so, with each forward rock, mirth escaped through her nose.

A few diners in the nearly empty room looked up from their meals and began to stare.

Captain Tollier tipped his tankard to his mouth and gazed at her with dispassionate calm.

She took another big gulp of water to squelch the giggles. “No, Captain, I did not kill him either.”

He looked skeptical, but a gleam formed in his eye. “There was blood, though, lots of blood?”

She bit a knuckle.

Tsking, he whispered, “No blood at all?”

“I did not say that.”