This Rake of Mine (25 page)

Glancing up at her red tumbled hair, the pink in her cheeks, and the sparkling light in her eyes, he knew something else.

He couldn't take such a risk with Miss Porter. Put her in harm's way. His life was of no consequence. He'd been resigned to that fact since he'd come here, taken the responsibilities that came with being the master of this house—but by his own choice. But not her, her life… that wasn't his to endanger.

Jack glanced at the clock again. "So late?" he said, raking his fingers through his hair, keeping them well out of the way before they reached out and stole Miss Porter's hand.

Before he asked her to waltz again. Beseeched Tally to play until dawn.

To let him while away the hours in Miss Porter's arms and forget the dangers that lurked at the dappled shores of England. That awaited him this very night.

"What do you mean, 'so late'?" Felicity protested. "Say it isn't so, Jack."

"Yes, I fear I have… um… business matters that I must attend to," he lied. "Yes, that's it. Estate business. Mr. Jones is an exacting task master, and I must catch up on my… my correspondence or he will be most displeased with me in the morning if it isn't completed." He bowed low and fled out of the room without another word.

Miranda watched Jack go. Correspondence, indeed!

One look about Thistleton Park and the grounds said business was the last thing the master of the house attended to.

"But… but…" Felicity stammered after him. She heaved a sigh and flounced back down on the sofa, her arms crossed over her chest. "We had it all planned."

"I don't understand," Tally said, rising from her seat at the pianoforte and coming to stand behind her sister. She put a reassuring hand on Felicity's shoulder. "He wasn't supposed to leave yet. Not before he—" Her words halted as she glanced up at her teacher. "I mean—"

Miranda arched a brow at the three of them. "What exactly were you three expecting?"

" 'Tis all for naught now!" Felicity despaired. "We'll leave in the morning and… and…"

"Lord John will not have declared his intentions for me?"

"Exactly!" Felicity declared. Why, the girl looked relieved to discover that Miss Porter fully understood what was at stake. "He does have a
tendre
for you."

Miranda came over to the sofa and sat down beside Felicity. She offered her a small smile of consolation. "Come sit, Pippin, Tally," she told the others. "Let me tell you where your plans went awry."

The girls settled into their seats with all eagerness.

Miranda drew a deep breath. "You cannot force the affections of a man."

They sat silently for a few moments, as if waiting for more enlightenment on this all too important subject.

"That's it?" Felicity complained. " 'Don't force their affections'? Miss Porter, you'll have to do better than that. Besides, Nanny Tasha always said any man could be induced with a good meal, the right wine, and proper lighting."

"I don't think she was referring to marriage, Felicity," Miranda told her.

"Oh," she muttered, and then, as it dawned on her exactly what her beloved nanny had been implying, she blushed. "Oh, my."

"Oh, dear," Tally added, having obviously come to the same realization. "We never meant for… well, that wouldn't be proper."

"Yes, exactly," Miranda added.

Pippin looked from one to the other. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I'll explain it later," Felicity whispered.

Miranda rose and glanced around the music room: "You really did do a marvelous job of transforming this room."

The girls beamed under her praise.

"Too bad it will all go back under Holland covers and be coated in dust in a fortnight," Tally said. "This house could use a mistress. Have you ever seen such an ill-run place, Miss Porter?"

"No, Tally. I can honestly say I have never been in a house quite like this."

Felicity rose and walked toward the door, as if she was still replaying the events of the evening in her mind and trying to determine what she could have done differently. "Don't you think it is odd that all of a sudden Lord John had to go attend to business? I mean, it is ten o'clock at night." Her hands went to her hips.

"Yes, Felicity, it is odd, but you have to consider the other key element in which you miscalculated."

The girl's head snapped around. "What?"

"You're dealing with a man. And they are neither predictable nor reliable."

"Bother them all," Felicity complained.

"Hold onto that sentiment until you find the right one to bother," Miranda advised. "Now let us retire, for tomorrow we need to arrive at Lady Caldecott's fresh and ready for her capable hospitality."

Well away from Lord John Tremont.

She ignored the protest rising in her heart, the bricks that tumbled freely down on her resolve.

No, this was how it must be.

And even as they gained their rooms and were about to shut the door, Miranda thought she heard the front door open and close.

Harrumph
. Business indeed! A tomcat on the midnight prowl, most likely.
No matter his advanced age
, she thought with some mild amusement.

She had to go back to Sir Norris's assessment of the man. Jack Tremont was no gentleman, and it was a lesson they should all have heeded.

Miranda heaved a sigh and shooed the girls toward their respective beds, bidding them to sleep well and retreating to her own adjoining chamber. Unwittingly, she crossed the room and came to stand before the window. The dark of night offered no clues as to where Lord John had gone, not that she sought any.

Despite her silent assertion that she cared not about his foray into the darkness, to her chagrin, she felt an unfamiliar ache. A sense of longing for something she would never know.

What it would be like to be the woman in the night waiting for him…

Jack made his way to the tower and lit a single lamp. Placing it in the window, he hoped that this time Dash and his ship would be just out amongst the waves and ready to risk sending a longboat ashore.

But demmit, what was he going to say about the fact that he didn't have the gold the cheeky American had been promised? Dash was so unpredictable, Jack wouldn't put it past him to pull up his oars and never return. He climbed down the stairs and then carefully followed the steep path to the rocky shore.

There was still Bruno's suggestion—offering the girls to the captain in exchange for the cargo.

Jack laughed to himself. Certainly the loss of Felicity Langley would be a favor to all the unwitting and unmarried men of England.

But he liked Dash too much to pull such a fast one on him.

As he made it down to the last few feet to the beach, he looked up and out at the waves.

"Come on, Dash," he whispered. "Don't disappoint me tonight."

Overhead, a few stray stars winked and sparkled in the breaks in the clouds.

Demmit, if the weather continued to clear, the moon would be out and it could make them all too visible. Something neither he nor Dash liked or needed.

Then through the even, never-ending whoosh and swoosh of the waves came a lonely creak. Oars? At least he thought it might be. Then again, it could have been pieces of driftwood butting into each other.

Jack stilled, his eyes straining to see through the darkness. It wasn't until the boat was nearly upon him that he spied it.

If anything, Dash knew his business well. The oars were muffled, the boat painted as black as the waves surrounding it. All of his men were dressed similarly, in dark caps and black wool coats. They blended into the night with the stealth of a band of pirates—which some might claim they were.

Even Dash. Which only gave further evidence to the overwhelming sense of foreboding that had surrounded Jack for a sennight now. Dash in black? The young captain usually wore the most colorful garb he could steal, relishing the awe and fear his wild clothing and dangerous swagger evoked in those who met him.

Jack waded out to greet them, and as he drew alongside the boat, he realized there was only one extra person aboard—and no one else.

His gut clenched—this was all wrong. Where the hell was the rest of the cargo?

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Easy there, Jack, my friend. The rest of your goods are safe aboard the
Circe
," Dash told him, leaping out of the longboat and helping Jack pull it ashore. "We'll fetch them in once I have the gold I was promised."

"You're late," Jack said. "I don't pay for late cargo."

Dash snorted. "You'll pay. Would have been here a week ago if I hadn't had a bit of trouble getting out of Calais—and then this demmed French frigate chased me out into the Atlantic. Thought I was going to have to go all the way to Boston to shake that frog off my stern." He grinned and winked at Jack. "The devil paid him back with that storm, though. The French haven't the blood for a good wind like that. Last time I saw the bastard he was floundering about like an old woman. So pay up, Tremont, this trip has been more trouble than even I like."

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. "Dash, you know the rules. No gold until my cargo is delivered. All of it."

"But you see, Tremont," the young captain said with that lazy American drawl of his, "I believed that very same promise last month when you offered me a fat reward for making an extra of these little runs to France for you. Then I get back to my ship and count the money, and find some of it missing." Dash leaned against the prow. "Let me rephrase that—most of it missing. I'll not be conned with painted lead again."

So much for Bruno's promise that his cousin's coins would pass muster.

The passenger on the boat got up and started to move to disembark, but two of the crew pulled pistols and pointed them at their "guest."

"Not so fast, Mr. Grey," Dash advised him. "You are worth more to me alive than dead. Worth twice what Jack here promised me, I would imagine."

"Dash, you pigheaded, arrogant bastard—" Jack sputtered. "Don't you know what is at stake here? Give Malcolm over. Give them all over, and I will see you paid thrice what you want."

Dash swaggered closer. "I take that to mean you don't have my gold, despite the fact you look dressed to rob the king himself. Did I bring you out of the ballroom, Tremont? Is that why you are in such a hurry? Got a woman up there waiting for you?" The bastard grinned and laughed.

Jack took a deep breath and reined in the desire to put his fist directly into Dash's smug face. Instead, he cursed his ill luck. The storm, his guests, that skinflint Pymm with the Foreign Office, who never paid his accounts.

For it was Jack's job to see that England's spies and Foreign Office agents made their way from England's shores into the heart of France, and back again. He paid the various and sundry captains—like Thomas Dashwell—who could be trusted (for the most part) to make the perilous crossing with every measure of secrecy.

The Tremonts of Thistleton Park had used their house, their beach, and now Albin's Folly, as a sort of way station for the king's lesser-known business. Everyone helped: Bruno provided traveling papers, his forger's craft honed so sharply that he could duplicate the ever changing French identity papers in a matter of hours. Birdwell could be counted on to fit a French uniform or traveling clothes from the closet of extras they maintained.

But to keep it all running smoothly and unobtrusively, it took gold.

Gold that wasn't always so easily had.

"Have you got the money or not, Tremont?" Dashwell demanded.

Then Jack's luck turned from bad to deadly.

Overhead, a volley of rockets shot into the sky, illuminating the beach and the sea beyond.

The
Circe
, Dash's fleet ketch, stood out suddenly, naked and exposed, as did their position on the beach.

The rockets were quickly followed by musket fire.

"Bloody hell," Jack cursed. "Excise men."

"I see you forgot to bribe them as well," Dash said, even as he pulled his pistol out and returned fire. Once the gun was spent, he laid his shoulder into the prow of his longboat and gave it a hard shove back into the waves.

The gunfire from the top of the cliffs was then matched by cannon fire. And not from the
Circe
but from a warship looming in fast.

"I see we have no friends tonight, lads," Dash cried out. "To the ship, and hard to it."

Oh, this can't be happening
, Jack thought, pulling his own pistol and returning fire. He didn't want to kill one of the local militia, but it might deter them a bit. Most of the lads preferred downing pints of illegal brandy at the Henry than getting themselves shot up over it on the beach.

Dash hoisted himself into the longboat, and his men pulled the oars with all their might, heading back to the
Circe
.

With his cargo!

"Demmit, Dash, hand over Grey."

"Not tonight," the captain called back. "Not until I have my gold, Tremont. I'll be back for it. Trust me." His rude laugh suggested something altogether different.

But Malcolm Grey, unlike Dash, wasn't a man disconcerted by a bit of gunfire. He rose up in his seat and was about to jump overboard when another rocket exploded overhead, pinpointing the longboat's position and giving the militia a clear target.

Dash twisted in his seat, and to his credit, tried to pull Grey down, to get the man out of the line of fire, but it was too late.

A bullet hit Malcolm in the chest, the force of it pitching him into the water.

"Tremont, get him," Dash cried out. "They've hit Grey."

Jack waded into the icy waves until he was nearly to his neck. In the flash of another rocket, he spied his friend and caught hold of his coat, pulling him into his arms, then dragging him through the water toward the rocks at the end of the beach.

The
Circe
was returning fire, snipers from the rigging firing at the men on the cliffs, their cannon sending warning shots at the fast-approaching warship.

Dash and his men were already alongside the stern, clambering up the sides like sea rats, and Jack had to imagine the devilish American would once again beat the Fates and slip through this trap.