For the Love of a Pirate (12 page)

Constantine didn't know if she was being sarcastic or not. But the vicar smiled.

“As for me,” she went on, “I'm sure you'll excuse me if I do some errands, drop in on some old friends, and return when I'm done. You two will have a lot to talk about anyway. So, may I leave?”

“With all good will,” the vicar said. “If his lordship doesn't mind?”

“Of course not,” Constantine said, yet feeling every inch as old in Lisabeth's eyes now as that kindly old fellow.

“Well, good-bye for now,” she said, and sauntered out the door.

Constantine sat again, and watched as the vicar slowly lowered himself into a chair.

“I daresay that all this is a great and unpleasant surprise to you, isn't it?” the vicar asked.

“Not all of it,” Constantine said gallantly. “Miss Lisabeth is a charming woman.”

The vicar's smile was knowing. “But nothing like any respectable female you've ever met, I venture to say.” He waved a thin hand. “And she is respectable, never doubt it. Though I suppose you do. Don't bother to deny it, my lord. Lisabeth is an original. But she is, withal, in many ways more honorable than most ladies you will meet. Still, she is not at all suitable as a wife to a gentleman like you, and I can see she already knows it. Nor are you right for a free-spirited creature like her. It's a pity, for her, and I suppose for you, little though you may credit it.

“Still, she must be disappointed. She always worshiped the legends of the captain, and his jolly grandson.” The vicar waved his hand again, this time at a portrait over his fireplace mantel.

Constantine stared. The man in the portrait stared back at him. It was another depiction of the rogue pirate who bore his face. This time the fellow looked more sardonic than demonic. He stood in front of a house this time, with his horse and a pair of hunting dogs. The painting was a little brighter than the one in the captain's house, but not so vivid as the one in the inn. The artist was obviously not as well trained as either of the others. But primitive as it was, nevertheless the portrait held more humanity.

“Captain Cunning built this house we are sitting in,” the vicar went on. “He helped rebuild this village, restored the church and this part of the country at a time when protectors and kings were too busy tearing each other apart to care for the common man. I do not say he was a moral man, but he was at least as moral as some of the royals we have had, if not better than many. He wasn't greedy, he was generous, and he took care of his people. It's a thing that's been handed down in the family. His son, however, was a prig, humorless and joyless. I think that's why your father was such a wastrel in his youth. He was defying his father, and in a way, trying to honor his grandfather. Had he survived his wild youth, I've no doubt he'd have calmed down. But there we are, and if you follow the family tradition, I suppose that is why you're more like his father than your own.

“Lisabeth's family was associated with Captain Cunning. Her grandfather, a very wise fellow, used those connections and went into a more legal line of seafaring, which no doubt his son would have done. But alas, the fellow was in the petticoat line, lifted the wrong skirts, and paid with his life for it. In a way, your father's death was nobler, for he was only trying to get enough money to support his wife, and leave his father for good.”

He leaned forward, and lowered his voice, although no one was in the room with them. He studied Constantine intently. “It would help if you tried to see your family in terms of the conditions that bred them. London is a great city, but here in the countryside is where England's lifeblood flows. While our regent gives grand parties and spares no expense in collecting great art and clever guests to his flowing table, there are parts of England, London itself, where the poor are starving to death. Your great-grandfather would never have allowed that to happen.”

He paused. “And as for Lisabeth. She is unconventional, of course, but she's got pluck and heart and kindness in her soul. She's the way she is because of her unconventional upbringing. You know about the servants in the captain's employ?”

Constantine nodded his head.

“Well,” the old man said with a shrug. “It's good and it's not. Because all the older ones come from . . . bleak beginnings, let us say. Another family tradition. Many of the footmen, the stablemen, the housekeeper, the maids, even Miss Lovelace herself, are unfortunates whom the captain took on as servants after their . . . interesting lives were done with. Many were jailed, many saved from the noose . . . No matter, they're all reformed now, not to mention too old to do harm. The younger ones, of course, are merely local, in need of work. However legal the origins of the captain's own fortune, he took some steps in your great-grandfather's footprints. It is a charitable way to live, if somewhat irregular.”

“Miss Lovelace?” was all that Constantine could say, trying to picture some of the quavering footmen as cutthroats, the gardeners as brigands. But the old governess?

“It is her story to tell, and doubtless she will, after a few glasses of good wine. It is one of her pleasures, but not my story to divulge,” the vicar said. “But I can see you'll need time to think about this. I hope you plan to stay a while and learn for yourself?”

Constantine was glad to see the housekeeper and a footman come in with a tray and the tea. There was too much to think about for him to respond immediately.

But after the servants had left, and he'd had his first sip of tea, he put his cup down. He leaned forward. “Sir,” he said earnestly. “I'll try to learn more, and to understand as well. But if I may . . . make a generous contribution to the church, could I assure myself that this fascinating history will go no further than it already has?”

The vicar looked at him as though he'd thrown the cup of tea in his face.

Constantine was unused to disapproval. He blinked.

“My dear sir,” the vicar said slowly. “You do indeed have much to learn. This is your story, which is why I told it to you. I would not indulge in such gossip otherwise. Perhaps you need more time away from us, than with us, after all.”

“No, no,” Constantine said. “Please forgive me. It was rude and insulting, and I beg your forgiveness. You're right. I've been too long in London. I need time to acclimate myself, and understand that life is indeed different here.”

The vicar nodded. “Perhaps. But I can relieve your mind about one thing. You don't have to worry about Miss Lisabeth wanting you to agree to her father and your father's strange pact. That's clearly not in her mind, and to my mind, best for both of you.”

Constantine felt vaguely insulted.

They sat and drank their tea in silence for a while, as Constantine decided that staying on for a while was really the best thing to do. He had to try to keep these people, this village, as deluded and happy about him and his family as they had been when he arrived, so they'd have no hard feelings when he left. Happy people tell no ugly tales.

Then he'd make sure to never visit this part of the world again. Nor would he ever tell his friends, or his fiancée, about anything that he had learned here.

Nor could he insult Lisabeth or her grandfather. He would have to charm them, until he left. It would be difficult to be friends with Lisabeth without leading her on; she was a tempting piece. But since she didn't seem to like him, perhaps it wouldn't be so hard after all. He just couldn't afford to alienate her . . .

As he was thinking of her, she appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, good,” she said, “I haven't missed tea!”

“You never could,” the vicar said, with a smile.

Constantine smiled too. “Welcome back,” he said.

She looked at him strangely, but took a seat.

And he kept smiling.

C
onstantine and Lisabeth walked back to the inn when they were done having tea with the vicar. There, they had a few bumpers of ale, heard a great many stories, and laughed a good deal with the crowds of local folk who had come to see Constantine. Lisabeth was astonished at his behavior. He'd changed. He was charming, friendly, patient, and seemed entirely at home now with the people at the inn; it was almost as though he'd grown up in her little village.

The vicar, Lisabeth thought, must have had quite a talk with him. She was still eyeing him curiously when they mounted their horses and began the ride back to Sea Mews.

“What is it?” Constantine asked her amiably, after a few moments.

“What?” she answered guiltily.

“You're looking at me as though you've just seen me for the first time.”

“Well, so I think I have,” she said with candor. “I never thought you'd take to our local folk the way you did. After all, they're a long way from the people you normally rub elbows with.”

He turned to look at her and raised one of those arced brows. “And who do you think I normally spend my time with?”

She shrugged. “Earls and dukes and such. Ladies of fashion and gentlemen of leisure. Certainly not anyone who works with their hands, hauls nets of fish, or sews for their livelihood, that's certain.”

He laughed. “But that doesn't mean I don't know people who do. I spar twice a week at Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon. If you don't use your hands there, you'll lose your head. He doesn't care whether you have a crown on it, or not. Nor do any of the bruisers who regularly work out there. I go to the races, and if I want to bet on something with a chance to win, I meet with jockeys and stablemen to get the odds. I attend the theater and talk with actors and stagehands.” He fell still, realizing he'd neglected to mention that he usually spoke with the actresses, but a glance at Lisabeth and the burgeoning laughter in her eyes told him she knew it.

“All right,” he said, laughing. “
And
I talk with the actresses and dancers there too. I do communicate with my household staff as well, and regularly deal with people from all walks of life, all over London. What I'm trying to say is that no man in London can live in a gilded cage, except for Prinny, of course. And even he doesn't, but I'm not at liberty to tell you who he regularly chooses to speak and deal with.”

“It may be true,” she said. “But you're a changed man since you talked with the vicar. Did he lecture you?”

“On godliness? Charity, and love toward my fellow man? No. He just chatted with me and made me see that there's a different way of life here. And I realized it's one I'd like to get to know before I have to return to London.” His eyebrow arched higher. “I thought you'd be pleased. I am trying to please you, you know. I was a bit stiff and off-putting after we met, I suppose. Well, my family history was a shock to me. Still, that's no excuse. You've been nothing but kind to me, and I'm heartily ashamed of myself. Shocked or not, I didn't act like a gentleman, or even a very nice man. Forgive me? Please? And let me try to make amends?”

His smile was intimate, teasing, it quite transformed him, she thought. He looked more like his rascally forebears than he ever had before.

The sudden transformation in him was difficult for her to absorb—or maybe too easy, too long wished for, to take in all at once. She ducked her head to avoid the familiar and yet unfamiliar look in his eyes. “There's nothing to forgive,” she said. “And no amends to make . . . But I'd be delighted if you dared to race me home!” She spurred her horse, and flew up the road.

He sat back and laughed. He'd no chance to catch her, and no way to do it. She knew the roads, she knew the byways. But he'd seen the color fly into her cheeks when he'd looked at her before she left him. And he believed he had a very good chance of catching her in other ways. Though he wouldn't of course, he reminded himself immediately. That would be folly. Still, catching her favor was no bad thing. Constantine nudged his horse, and rode back slowly, deep in pleasant thoughts.

The boy was gone. In his place stood a radiant young woman. Constantine tilted his head to the side when he saw how Lisabeth had dressed for dinner. Her face grew pink, which looked very well with the rose-colored gown she'd put on. Her grandfather beamed at her. Constantine raised an eyebrow.

She grinned at last, and only then did Constantine see any traces of the cheeky lad he'd gone to the village with this morning. Otherwise, she was transformed. Her gown wasn't the latest style. Constantine was very well up on that. But she was dressed in a very acceptable high-waisted gown of soft muslin that flattered her lush form. Her breasts were, he mused, remarkable, or at least it was remarkable that he'd forgotten them so completely when she was dressed as a boy this morning.

Her gown was sashed with apple green, and she wore a golden locket at her throat. Her hair was drawn up with a green ribbon, and left to tumble down in back to rest on her white shoulders. She looked, he thought, very young, and very enticing—and suddenly very shy with him. She stood near the hearth with her grandfather, and after Constantine entered the room, raised her gaze to his. She looked at him with her clear topaz gaze and then let her lashes flutter down over her eyes. He liked the effect. It made him feel more comfortable because it was familiar, and after all, how most young women reacted to him.