Brazen Temptress (17 page)

Maureen wondered if he meant her ship and crew or the smuggler's hanging she'd been sentenced to from the beginning.

"Mary, my girl, what have you got planned for Maureen tonight?" William asked, rejoining the conversation. "Like the Lord Admiral is saying, time is of the essence."

Maureen looked up at the ruddy-faced captain and not only saw misgivings behind his quickly hooded glance but also heard the reluctance in his voice.

He knows. He knows the Lord Admiral can't be trusted, she realized. And this wasn't the first time Captain Johnston had been caught by the Lord Admiral's net.

Nor does he know how to get out of it, she concluded.
No more than I.
She rubbed her bare arms, as if suddenly feeling the first draft of winter rush over them.

"Yes, Mary," the Lord Admiral said. "A speedy resolution to all this would be best for everyone."

Lady Mary's brows furrowed. Maureen knew the lady wanted nothing more than to see their charade continue for the rest of the Season, using the Lord Admiral's munificence to give her the social whirl she'd dreamed of for years. "I suppose we could add a few more appearances to our schedule, but I can't run the poor girl into the ground." She turned her worried gaze to the Lord Admiral. "She'll be no good to you, Peter, if she takes ill with too much night air or not enough rest."

As if to do her part, Maureen brought her hand to her mouth and coughed delicately.

Her ladyship beamed with appreciation.

"Just the same, Mary," the Lord Admiral said, his mouth set in a straight, hard line, "she's no good to me if she can't find this man. I need him found and found immediately. I'll do my best to secure invitations for both of you to Lady Weston's ball tonight. If he's going to be anywhere, this would be the evening for him to surface. Everyone with any connections will be there."

"Don't go to the trouble," Lady Mary said. She raised her nose in the air. "The Viscountess sent over invitations yesterday. She was quite apologetic that she hadn't sent them earlier."

The Lord Admiral looked as if he didn't quite believe her but wasn't about to lower himself to an argument. "I surmise, given the bills that have been arriving at my house daily, that she has an adequate gown in which to attend?"

The lady sighed, then reached down to scratch Baxter's head. "I believe we can find something that won't embarrass her standing with the
ton,
though I am still trying to find just the right costume for the Trahern masquerade."

"Well, never mind costumes for something she won't be attending. I have a feeling tonight will be the end of Captain de Ryes." He turned to Maureen. "An end we both look forward to, wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded, unwilling to speak.

For in truth, she wasn't so sure anymore.

Arriving at Lady Weston's ball that evening, Maureen wondered what the Lord Admiral was thinking sending her to this party — a crush so thick she would have been surprised to find anyone, let alone a notorious privateer within the press of bodies.

Even worse was her introduction to Lord and Lady Weston, Julien's sister and brother-in-law. Rather than looking down her aristocratic nose at the less socially connected Lady Mary and her unknown goddaughter, the vivacious Lady Weston went out of her way to welcome them, especially when Lady Dearsley arrived and made quite a fuss about Lady Mary's return to society.

At her aunt's behest Lady Weston sought them out after the receiving line was finished and introduced them to her friends and family.

Maureen found herself charmed by Julien's sister, much to her chagrin. It was terribly difficult to continue plotting a man's demise when his sister was so kind. It was even harder to believe that he'd turned out so blackhearted with such a genuine and generous sister.

And the aloof and disarmingly beautiful Lady Trahern, whom Maureen had heard so much of from Lady Mary on the carriage ride over, was just as pleasant, telling Lady Mary that she was thrilled they would be attending her masquerade.

Maureen had kept as much as she could to the background during all this, unwilling to become any more familiar with Julien's relatives than she had to.

They were, in some strange sense, her family as well, and she didn't like the idea of accepting their warmth and hospitality any more than she felt a right to the motherly affection Lady Mary showered over her.

"Lady Mary," Lady Weston was saying, "have you met my nephew, the Earl of Hawksbury? He's a rascal and a terrible rake, but I still adore him."

Maureen didn't pay much attention to this introduction, taking only the slightest glance at the nephew in question.

The young man hardly looked the reprobate his aunt described, though he was dressed like the other young bucks circling the room, in the latest state of fashion.

"Lady Mary," he said, "please forgive my lady aunt. My mother says I inherited my talent for finding trouble from my Aunt Lily, and my aunt considers that a great compliment."

With that he took Lady Mary's hand and brought it to his lips, though his gaze moved over the lady's shoulder and sought out Maureen.

Maureen was startled to find herself staring into a pair of moss green eyes exactly like Julien's. From the chestnut hair to the tanned features, the resemblance between the two was startling.

For a moment the man's youthful features took her back to the decks of the
Forgotten Lady,
to the first time she'd leaned over the rail and seen Julien's handsome face close up.

Her eyes obviously reflected her shock, for the young Earl grinned at her. "This wide-eyed lady must be your enchanting goddaughter I have heard so much about, Lady Mary." He turned to his aunt. "I'm afraid she sees the similarities between me and Uncle Julien." Stepping forward, he took Maureen's hand. "Fear not, I haven't my uncle's reputation or reprobate ways. You are safe with me, dear lady."

She doubted that, considering the friendly way he held her hand and the way he lingered over her fingers before finally relenting to let her hand go.

"We've met your uncle," said Lady Mary. "Such a handsome man, and so kind. I hardly see what all the fuss is about. He seemed perfectly amiable to me, though Maureen gave him quite a set down."

This drew an exchange of looks between nephew and aunt that Maureen couldn't quite interpret. Obviously, it wasn't every day a young lady of the
ton
rang a peal over the esteemed head of Julien D'Artiers.

"Then if my uncle is the cause of your discomfort, I must insist on escorting you two ladies about the room," the Earl said. He grinned at Maureen. "Especially given your obvious dislike of him, Miss Fenwick. For I know he is prowling about somewhere, and he would delight in causing a scene. Besides, I was promised Miss Fenwick's first dance, was I not, Lady Mary?"

"Of course! Why, of course you were!" Lady Mary fluttered her fan. "How ever did you know I loved sugared almonds?"

"Every lovely lady does," he told her, but again his gaze fell on Maureen.

She glanced sideways at the young man. She wondered how fast he'd retreat if he knew he was trying to charm his uncle's wife.

It was almost too humorous, too ironic.

Lady Mary, in the meantime, had conveniently disengaged herself from Maureen and the Earl and was happily chatting with Lady Dearsley on one side of the room, leaving Lord Hawksbury free to escort Maureen about the ballroom. While he entertained her with endless accounts of the other guests, she glanced again at his familiar features and let herself pretend for the moment that this was Julien and that this was the first time they were meeting.

If things had been different, this was how they might have met — in a ballroom with an innocent introduction. They would have danced and flirted and maybe even fallen in love without the disastrous consequences.

What was she thinking?

She was the daughter of a smuggler, and a smuggler herself. She wasn't a lady; she didn't belong here.

And yet ... she remembered the line from the naval history.

Ethan, Lord Hawthorne.

If her father had been titled, as the book indicated, how different would her life have been if she'd been raised in England rather than at sea?

Ever since she'd learned of her father's secret past, there had been a litany of questions in the back of her mind.

Who was she? Did she have family beyond Aunt Pettigrew?

She might have. Looking about the room, any one of the multitudes could be her family.

As far as she'd been told, Aunt Pettigrew was the only one left in that line. Why, she didn't even know her mother's maiden name, only her first name, which she'd seen in her father's bible written in the column marking the family deaths.

Ellen Hawthorne, died of fever, 21 September 1790.

The puzzle of finding her father's lost place in society almost outweighed her desire to see his murder avenged, especially when she looked around at the young misses, most of whom were in their first Season and flushed with the prospect of falling in love.

Would she have ever fallen in love with someone like Julien?

She couldn't help but think she would have. She glanced at his nephew. Though the two men could be taken for brothers, there was also a difference.

The Earl of Hawksbury hadn't the wariness about him that Julien had always worn like a second coat. Vigilance brought on by living by the hard rules of the sea.

But then again, she told herself, this young member of Julien's family was an earl and heir to his father's titles. What would he know of the hardships of war or the problems of the world, raised as he probably was in a cradle of luxury and security?

She and Julien had too much in common; they understood each other — a connection she'd never grasped until now. Never wanted to believe.

As she looked up this time, her gaze crossed the room and fell on him.

Julien.

Across a room, across time, it seemed they were bound together, no matter how much she hated it, how much she wanted to disavow it, how much she wanted to change it.

His gaze met hers, and for a moment it was as if they were in another place, another time. Just the two of them, staring at each other across the narrow channel between their two ships.

The
Destiny
and the
Forgotten Lady.

Together, yet separate.

If he acknowledged her it was so brief and so fleeting, she wondered if she'd imagined it. A flash of recognition, a need in his gaze she knew only too well, but when she looked again it was gone, his attention diverted by the lady at his side.

Because the room was so crowded, Maureen couldn't see who Julien's latest victim was.

"Ah, you see, Miss Fenwick," the Earl of Hawksbury was saying. "You have nothing to fear from my uncle. For he is quite occupied at the moment. And from what I hear, he will be for the rest of his life with yonder leg shackle."

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, glancing back at Julien, but still unable to see his companion.

"Why, Miss Cottwell, of course. The betting book at White's is rife with speculations and wagers. It is said my uncle has finally fallen under Cupid's arrow."

Miss Cottwell?

Maureen looked again. The crowd parted, and she could see Julien bent attentively over the young lady's shoulder. Certainly, he was spending an inordinate amount of time with the girl, but Julien in love with the likes of that simpering, arrogant little snip?

Hardly.

"Given what I have heard about your uncle," Maureen said, "I doubt his affliction is serious and hardly as fatal as you seem to believe."

The Earl of Hawksbury laughed. "Would you care to wager, Miss Fenwick?" His tone implied something altogether different from a friendly exchange of coins.

"I haven't anything to bet," she told the impertinent young buck.

"Ah, but you do. Perhaps a kiss?"

Maureen nearly choked. A kiss? This boy was her nephew. "I don't think that is at all proper," she finally managed to say, doubting the young man would have made such an offer if he knew he was proposing it to his aunt.

"Then a ride in the park. I will bet you that my uncle will be engaged to Miss Cottwell before the stroke of midnight at my mother's masquerade next week."

"Engaged?"

"Yes, engaged. Do you agree to the wager?"

Julien, engaged? How could he? He was still married. Married to her. Had he forgotten the words he said aboard her father's ship eight years ago?

'Til death do us part.

How could he have forgotten? It wasn't every day a man said them with a cutlass nudging him in the back and a pistol aimed at his head.

But he'd said them, and said them quite willingly. Or at least she thought he had.

West Indies
1805

Maureen Margaret Hawthorne, where the hell have you been, lass?"

Her father's voice bellowed across the deck, cutting through the still calm of the predawn with the ferocity of a cannon shot.

"Damn," she cursed under her breath, as Julien steadied the rowboat alongside the
Forgotten Lady.
They'd tarried too long on the beach, and now with the sun just starting to rise, they'd been spotted coming from shore.

Even as she caught the line to pull herself back aboard, she heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

"Give me one good reason, you rutting bastard, why I shouldn't blow your head off," her father hollered over the rail.

Maureen looked up to find him aiming a pistol straight at Julien.

"Papa!" she called out. "What are you thinking? Have you gone mad? Put that away; Julien has done nothing."

"Julien,
is it now?" Her father's eyes narrowed. "I told you, lass, not to go over to his ship alone. I told him that as well. Ye both promised, but I see he couldn't honor his word, so I have no use for the man."

She stepped back in the boat and put herself in front of Julien. "You'll not shoot him, Papa. Not unless you want to shoot me first."