For the Love of a Pirate (9 page)

“My father,” Constantine had said carefully, trying to listen to what he said so he could believe it, “was a highwayman and a cheat, and died in the commission of a crime, and not in the service of His Majesty? And I,” he'd added more carefully, “was never told this because you and my grandfather decided to lie to me about it.”

“For your own good,” his uncle had said. “You had some mischief in you, we could see that. You were the image of your father, after all. He never saw you. Your grandfather threw him out of the house and disinherited him before you were born, and your mother was too near her time to join him. He wasn't allowed near her again. If they'd caught a glimpse of him, he'd have been thrown into prison and left to languish there, or transported . . . under another name, of course. Nor was your mother allowed to receive letters from him. But she never recovered fully from your birth, and when your father died, she followed soon after. It's over and done, and no part of your life now, so forget it.”

“Bigod said that his son knew her, as well as my father.”

Horatio Anstruther shrugged. “So he may have done.”

“Why was he thrown out of the house?”

“Impudence. Disrespect. And impiety.”

“But not for the commission of a crime?”

“No, that came later. I imagine once he had to earn a living for himself, he strayed down the evil paths his behavior had headed him toward.”

“But my grandfather kept his son's wife with him and gave her a home? She wasn't even related to him. Why would he have done that?”

“He was, as I said, a godly man. His son was a great disappointment to him, but he knew the right thing to do. And her sister, my dear departed wife, was a gentle creature, and a model citizen, so he knew there was good blood in her family.”

“How did you keep this a secret?” Constantine had asked incredulously. “I can understand why I never knew. But surely there were others . . .”

“Your grandfather paid handsomely to have it kept quiet. And he paid to have his threats made plain. Your father only dealt with villains toward the end of his life, and they feared the full weight of the law.”

“And my father's career in the army?” Constantine had asked, grasping at one last straw.

“Your grandfather called in some favors, and the news of his son's dishonorable discharge was expunged from the public record.”

“So, my father, finding himself cast out and about to become a father himself, may have cheated and robbed in order to survive, and to amass enough money to make a home and get my mother to join him again?”

His uncle's laughter had sounded like coughing. “Put as nice a face on it as you will. Who knows what goes through a criminal's mind? What I do know is that your grandfather was a good and moral man. Your father was not. I am not your blood, but I respected your grandfather and promised him that once he was gone, I would watch over you and nip all such tendencies in the bud. And so I have done.”

Constantine had stopped thinking, and was only reacting, and so all the things he normally would have answered in his mind were spoken aloud. He'd been angry, confused, and determined to defend his long-dead father. He'd always been proud of the man he never met. For the first time he realized his father had died at about the same age that he himself was now. He'd suddenly felt a deeper sympathy with the real man than he ever had had with the idealized icon of the saintly soldier and war hero. That fellow didn't need defending. This new one he was learning about did.

“You threw out all his effects?” Constantine had asked. “There is nothing left for me to see of him?”

“Of course,” his uncle had said.

Constantine was shocked, staggered, and slightly shamed. But also furious. “So you taught me to be moral with lies? Interesting.”

“Lies are sins,” his uncle had said, holding up one finger. “But a lie told to save a soul is another matter.”

“And my father's soul? Was that of no account?”

“He was beyond help. Your mother was weak, but then, she was a woman. We decided that you should be spared the pain of knowing their circumstances.”

Constantine had stared at his uncle. “And so you, even disapproving of my mother and father as you did, nevertheless agreed to take me into your home and raise me as your child? Very noble, Uncle.”

“Well,” Horatio had said, “it was the least I could do, as a man of God.”

“But my grandfather paid for it,” Constantine had said carefully. “Didn't he? That makes sense. Because he was a very rich man, and had only his one son and then me, to leave it all to. I doubt he'd have wanted to leave the money from his estate away from it, since I inherited the title, and the manor, and the properties, and he set great store by blood, and name. And I don't doubt he'd have cut you off without a penny if you disagreed. So though you clearly deplored everything about my father and sneered at my mother, you nevertheless let their devil spawn into your home. Was that godliness, Uncle, or plain good financial sense?”

His uncle's face had flushed and darkened. “Aye, and see the thanks I get! You dare admonish me? Be glad that I took you in when your grandfather died, or doubtless you'd be with him and your father and mother by now. Who else would have housed you?”

“There were schools, Uncle. I went to enough of them. There were other respectable people who could have been paid to bear my presence. My grandfather's lawyers would have seen to it. I can't see how your act was particularly noble.”

“I will have an apology sir!”

“Will you?” Constantine had asked. He'd found himself seething with anger. His quiet life had been shattered. He had been taught to worship propriety and reserve. But suddenly, nothing he'd known was so. And the fact that his uncle, who had expected him to be grateful all his life, was suddenly exposed as a liar, staggered him. The monster of respectability and piety was just as much of a cheat as his father supposedly had been. All the insolence that had stayed secure in Constantine's mind rushed from his mouth, and he exulted in it.

“An apology?” Constantine had said with a sneer. “Get one from my mother, poor soul, parted from her husband when she most needed him. Get one from my father, cast out without a thought, because he dared to have a thought of his own. But don't expect one from me, Uncle. I've been lied to since the day you set eyes on me, haven't I? Punished for things I never did, and warned of banishment you never meant to carry out, because although you didn't like me, you liked my money very well. Good day, sir.”

“And you think that old pirate will tell you more truth than I have?” Horatio bellowed after him.

Constantine had paused at the door. “I think he could scarcely tell less truth,” he'd said, and left the house.

He had not only left the house, he'd come here, to meet the odd occupants of this strange house. An eccentric who was a former sea captain of some sort; a drunken governess; a staff of aged or addled retainers; and a girl with the manners of a commoner and the mouth of a doxie, and the face of an angel. And he'd almost kissed her, and sealed his fate forever.

He had better leave this place while he could. And, he told himself, turning over in bed again, restlessly seeking a comfortable spot, he must remember that he was
not
alone. He had friends. Why, Blaise and Kendall had offered to come with him when they heard the story. He'd told them because he could trust them; they'd known him since school days and had always been true. Languid, amused, and amusing, Sir Blaise de Wolf was a landed gentleman whose lands had been conquered for him by his Norman ancestors, and who, to most people's knowledge, hadn't done anything to exert himself since he'd inherited his title and estate. Dark, intense Sir Richard Kendall, sportsman and Corinthian, an athlete who was more at home on a horse than in a parlor, who boxed, fenced, and rode to an inch, but never exerted himself to attend a
ton
party, unless someone there was rumored to be selling off his horses.

But they both exerted themselves for a friend, and Constantine was proud to be one.

“I have to go see for myself,” Constantine had told them. “I've been unable to think of anything else.”

“It is bizarre, if any man in England looks less like a villain than you, I don't know him,” Blaise had finally said.

“Well, a man can be a rogue and look like an angel,” Kendall had argued. “But, no. You don't look as if you have ever considered a shady deed, Con. If anything, you're prim.”

“Yes,” Blaise had agreed with a smile. “And proper. Now, there have been kissing highwaymen and singing highwaymen, and even that French chap, what-was-his name, the waltzing highwayman. But none who looked as though they were ready to read a sermon to their victims. The idea's absurd. The old man's running some sort of a rig. Girl must be a gargoyle. Go see your uncle and get the whole story. Then call on us. We'll jaunt down to Cornwall with you and help chase the big bad captain out to sea.”

“I don't need help getting rid of him,” Constantine had said defensively. “And thank you, but I don't need company while I'm doing it.”

Constantine picked up his pillow and pounded it before he laid his head down again. He'd been wrong there. He certainly could use company now. He had tried to soften his words to his friends.

“I just wondered if you fellows had any insight into the problem,” he'd explained. “And, I might add, I do not consider myself ‘prim' although I certainly do attempt to always be proper.”

“Don't have to try, you are,” Kendall had said. “Never a breath of scandal about you. Never saw you in a caricature in the broadsheets, or heard a word to your discredit.”

“Now he looks wounded,” Blaise had commented. “Beware, Kendall. Keep damning him with such faint praise, and he'll tie a handkerchief around his face and go out and hold up orphans and widows, just to change the way we think about him.”

Even Constantine had laughed at that.

“Still,” Kendall had said thoughtfully, “if you run into any trouble, all you have to do is send word. I'll be there.”

“And I, of course,” Blaise drawled. “Town is rather thin of company now anyway. But, dear fellow, doubtless your fiancée will want you in constant attendance now. Newly engaged females delight in dragging the males they've caught to the firelight to show all the other women how well the hunt went. How will you explain your sudden absence to her, by the by?”

“I'll tell her that important family matters have arisen,” Constantine had said. “She'll understand. She sets great store by family. As do I.”

So his friends had agreed to keep their eyes on his fiancée, and dance attendance upon her at balls and parties to divert her from the fact of his absence.

Constantine now remembered that he was, after all, engaged to be married to Miss Winchester: an upright, intelligent female. He had a delightful life ahead of him, once he solved this present complication. He turned in bed once more, comfortable at last. So the strangely lovely woman his father had wanted him to wed was out of the question, and the matter would soon be under control, and he would be free to go. But that scent, and those eyes, and those lips of hers . . .

Constantine sat straight up in bed. He saw bright sunshine outlining his shuttered windows and shining between their thin slats.

“My lord,” his valet said, pausing by his bedside. “Did I wake you? Pardon me. I attempted to be silent.”

Constantine rubbed his aching head. “No, Atkins. You could have been quiet as a mouse and I would've heard you. I didn't sleep well.”

“First nights in strange surroundings are often thus,” the valet said.

“Yes. My problem is that I don't know how many more strange nights we must spend here,” Constantine grumbled. He looked up. “Have you had anything to do with the other servants here? Have you any impressions of them?”

Atkins, the soul of propriety, paused. “They are . . . unique, my lord. Friendly. Helpful. And loyal to a fault, if loyalty can be a fault. Many are unread and untrained, but they accomplish their tasks, keep the house clean, and are pleasant enough, and always ready to share a jest. Yet one may say nothing uncomplimentary about their master and mistress. Why, if there were a flood, one gets the impression that they would drown in an attempt to save them. If there were a fire, they would burn, if there were—”

“Enough. I get the idea,” Constantine said, head in his hands.

“Did you overindulge last night, my lord?” Atkins asked solicitously, noting his master's distress. This was rare behavior for his lordship, but not at all unusual in the elevated ranks where Atkins had worked all his life.

“No,” Constantine said. “It must be that I'm unused to being up so early. I think I'll wash and dress.”

“Then you're in for a treat, sir,” Atkins said. “The captain has installed the most modern conveniences in his house. He has rooms for the family and for guests, with marble tubs and running water. And conveniences, indoors, that flush. He even has one for his servants' use. The man is generous, all say, and rich as he can stare. But many men are rich and few are as beloved by their inferiors.”

“Do they say nothing to his detriment?” Constantine asked. “No gossip . . . no matter how old?”

“None, sir.”

“Well, then,” Constantine said more cheerfully. “Lay out my riding clothes, please. It looks like a fine morning, after all.”

Because, he thought, as he rose and padded over to the window to see the glowing morning, maybe the captain and his granddaughter were just being uncommonly forthcoming with him, getting him acquainted with his family, so to speak, and didn't usually discuss their odd history with outsiders. That would be fine. Better than fine. That would mean he could stop here a day or two to make a better impression, reject the old pact gracefully, incur no hard feelings, and leave his family's ignoble past behind for good.