Captive Embraces (18 page)

Aubrey Farrington drained his tankard, pushed his chair back from the rough table and stood up as he reached for his walking stick. I think I'd best get a bead on this situation, he thought to himself. Fluffing the frou-frou of ruffles at his neck and brushing an imaginary speck from his impeccable shirtfront, he drew himself up to his full height and made as if to leave the establishment When he was about to step out into the thick fog, he turned to see the move he was anticipating. The burly thugs were making their way to the second floor.

It was no gallant gesture of the samaritan which propelled Lord Farrington back across the crowded room to the bottom of the stairway. It was more a protection of his own interests. Caleb had been very generous with his company and his pocket, buying food and drinks for him. The stylish aristocrat was loath to see this come to an end, as it certainly would if the young man put up a fight and the two crooks spilled his brains out.

His walking stick securely in hand, he made his way to the upper level. Carefully, in the dimness of the corridor, he extracted the concealed rapier from its sheath. He paused in a small alcove and smiled to himself as he listened to the lusty sounds coming through the door. Ah, to be young again and know what I know now, he sighed.

Suddenly, he was aware of soft footfalls approaching. The same moment he heard the door being thrust open he followed the thugs into the room and shouted to Caleb, “Move, boy, they want your money and your life!”

Caleb's brain was fogged with rum and his eyes had difficulty focusing on the quick events. Sally's mouth was open in horror and she visibly shrank beneath Caleb's weight.

“Move, boy!” Farrington shouted again. “Do you mean to tell me a roll with a bawd is more important than your life?” he demanded, as he flourished his rapier in a wicked slash at one of the scoundrels.

“I'll be damned, who is he?” shouted the other thug as he attempted to pull Caleb from atop Sally, meanwhile brandishing a cudgel. “You said you'd take care of things,” he yelled accusingly at the horrified serving wench.

“Out! Out!” Aubrey Farrington yelled. “Or I'll have the watch on you.” With a last flourish of his weapon he drove the defenseless men through the door and down the stairs. A few minutes later Sally followed them, hastily pulling on her chemise and dragging her stained skirts behind her. The throng of patrons in the taproom howled their approval as the thugs grabbed hold of Sally and tore from the inn, swearing oaths at her and each other.

Lord Farrington climbed the stairs again and entered the room where Caleb lay stretched on the bed, deep snores of oblivion coming from his mouth. Looking at Caleb's lean, muscular body, Aubrey Farrington again longed for his youth. There was something aside from Caleb's generosity which appealed to him. He was about to toss a dirty quilt over the man's prone form when Aubrey thought differently. With a mighty shove, he rolled Caleb's inebriated body over the side of the bed onto the floor. Then he gently took the quilt and covered Caleb's lower regions. Carefully removing his own doublet and waistcoat, Lord Farrington smoothed the covers on the bedstead and lay down, placing his walking stick, which held the concealed rapier, at his side.

As the impoverished lord had nowhere else to sleep this night, due to an unkind landlady who had given him boot for nonpayment of his rent, this was as good a place as any. When the young man woke, he would tell him how he had single-handedly saved his life and fortune. A born gambler, Lord Farrington was certain of the outcome. He made himself comfortable and dozed as he waited for Caleb to waken.

It was dawn when Caleb muttered in his sleep and rolled over. At his first sound, Lord Farrington was awake and smiled expectantly to himself.

Caleb sat up and scratched his head. His tongue licked at his dry lips. He seemed surprised to see he had spent the night on the hard floor. Before Caleb even noticed his presence, Lord Farrington spoke. “Dear boy, how good to see you are awake and well.”

Caleb's eyes focused questioningly on the gentleman. Rubbing his eyes and stretching to relieve the aches from a long night on the hard boards, Caleb stood up reaching for his clothes. “What, may I ask, are you doing here? And how did I leave my bed for the floor?”

Lord Farrington informed Caleb of the night's happenings, eyeing him suspiciously. Only the dried spots of blood from the wound the aristocrat's rapier had dealt to the thief's arm convinced him that the lord spoke the truth.

“And so you see,” Aubrey Farrington explained, “when I came back in here to stay guard over you through the night, I found you there on the floor. I'm afraid, dear boy, your weight was too much for me, so I made you as comfortable as possible; and, since the bed was not being used, I did not think you'd mind if I availed myself of it.”

Caleb touched the pouch of gems at his belt and dug in his pocket till his fingers came in contact with his coins. All seemed to be as it should.

“I hope she was worth it,” Lord Farrington said smugly.

“She was,” Caleb grinned, vaguely remembering an expanse of smooth, white skin and full, ripe breasts.

“Why don't we order a bit of breakfast and talk. I have several things I'd like to discuss with you.”

“Anything to get this taste out of my mouth,” Caleb muttered, as he glanced down to his jerkin and the stains that marred its front.

“Only a raffian drinks rum from the bottle,” Aubrey said distastefully. “That is one of the things I must discuss with you. However, I find I am temporarily indisposed. I left my purse at home and I must impose upon you for my meal.”

Caleb nodded; he would agree to anything just to get out of this stinking room and get a drink of something in his mouth.

Settled downstairs in the taproom of the Owl and Boar, Caleb waited for the lord to broach whatever was on his mind. The moment Aubrey finished with his breakfast, he daintily pulled his immaculate handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his mouth.

“Young man, I see you are in need of a small amount of guidance. I recall last eve you told me of a ship, a frigate, I believe you referred to her. As I told you then, but you have no doubt forgotten, I have been thinking of how you could put this ship of yours to good use and make a fortune.”

Caleb turned to signal the barkeep to pay his bill, obviously not interested in any schemes this elderly, but dubious, gentleman had to offer.

“If you are amenable, that is,” Lord Farrington pressed. “Hear me out. Not long ago I heard of a ship that was berthed in Marseilles, France.” Aubrey Farrington lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “It was a gambling ship. The French call it a ‘folly' and it is frequented by the richest and most fashionable of society. The ship's owner made a killing,” the lord said winking at Caleb. “Now my proposition is this. At the moment I find myself with very little capital. I may as well tell you the truth. My landlady, and a dastardly woman she is, had literally tossed me out on the street with nothing save what is on my back and my reliable walking stick. I have lived my life by my wits and the generosity of ... er, friends. If we could manage, somehow to get enough together to buy gaming equipment and refurbish your ship with trimmings to give it atmosphere, we too could prosper. I have my title, which is by the way, legitimate. And I do know anyone who is anybody. I can offer you my expertise and inherent good taste which would insure the success of the endeavor. Well, what do you think?”

When Caleb didn't answer immediately, Aubrey threw in another morsel. “It's known that women of breeding frequent these ‘follies.' Not only do they spend their money freely, they give of their favors just as generously. For a healthy young man like yourself, what better business to go into? That clap-ridden wench you bedded last night is good enough for a common man, but not for two such as ourselves.”

Caleb pretended thought. It might be a good idea and he would be available to keep his eye on his father and Sirena, who was bound to show up in England sooner or later. No matter what, Sirena couldn't stay away from Regan when she learned where he was.

“And how would the profits be divided?” Caleb asked craftily.

Lord Farrington took the plunge and hoped for the best. “Half, what else?”

“The ship is mine. The money is mine. I will be giving you a home. No, fifty percent is not satisfactory.”

Aubrey Farrington gulped again. He had underestimated this cocky, young provincial. Seeming to give in with good grace, he said, “Very well. A quarter to me, seventy-five to you.”

Caleb shook his head. “You will be receiving the food I provide and will no doubt play against the house. You are a gambler, are you not? I think ten percent as your share is more than fair. Take it or leave it.”

Lord Farrington's face split into a wide grin. “I'll take it!” The young rascal should only know I would have settled gladly for two, Farrington thought. They shook hands and the bargain was sealed. Caleb van der Rhys and Lord Aubrey Farrington would open a gambling ship to entertain the bored rich of London.

On the second floor of a modest-looking gray stoned dwelling on Lime Street, Regan van der Rhys prepared himself for the evening ahead. His movements were fluid and unhurried. Not so his thoughts. They raced like a wild bird caught in a snare. Just that afternoon Sir Stephan Langdon had visited his office and told him the reason for Baroness Sinclair's reception that evening was to introduce a certain Spanish lady, newly arrived from her homeland.

Regan rubbed his chest with a strong, bronzed hand. Why was it every time he thought of Sirena, he experienced this damnable pain in his chest, like a giant vise squeezing the breath from him? He shook his proud, leonine head and buttoned his fine lawn shirt. He glanced at his image in the long looking glass and tried to calm his angry eyes. Brushing at his sheaf of blond hair impatiently, he bent to pull on his boots.

Regan van der Rhys stomped about his room, his agate-blue eyes cold and hard. His stubbornness was evident in his lean, square jaw and the way he kept smashing one capable hand into the palm of the other. Something was happening to him, something he didn't like, something over which he had no control.

Until the day Sirena had stepped into his office unannounced, weeks ago, he had been trying to put the pieces of his life together, to sort them in a semblance of order. Now his life was upside down again.

Shortly after his meeting with Sirena, he asked Camilla Langdon for her hand in marriage and was accepted. Now that he was betrothed to Camilla she was the woman who should occupy his thoughts, not Sirena.

Regan forced his thoughts to conjure up a vision of the pink-and-white Camilla. He had to blink several times before he could focus and, when he did, it was emerald eyes and dark hair that looked back at him. It was ivory skin with a tawny glow and a wide, sensuous mouth with pearl-white teeth that smiled at him. His arms began to ache as did his nether regions. “Bitch!” he shouted hoarsely to the empty room. Even here in England she sought him out, threatened him, lied to him and taunted him. Was he never to know peace? Would she haunt him for the rest of his days? And merciful God, what would she do to the poor, unsuspecting Camilla, who had led such an unspoiled, sheltered life?

Sirena would make short shrift of her with a few well-chosen words. The petal-cheeked Camilla would be little more than pulp if Sirena took . matters into her own hands. Camilla certainly was no match for the wily, cutlass-wielding Sirena. Come to think of it, he wasn't so positive he was a match for her either.

Had she truly come to see him, as she said, or did she have an ulterior motive? “Now she wants shares in my business,” he blustered to his reflection in the mirror. “She'll watch me work seven days a week so she can have her share, and she'll fritter it away on costly gowns and fine furnishings.” Regan felt his shoulders bunch at the thought. There had to be an answer.

Bitterly, he accepted the fact that Sirena had
all
the solutions! With the way his luck ran when it came to dealing with Sirena, she would own the damn company in a year's time. He would break his back carving out his business and she would sit back and live lavishly on his efforts. “My ass!” he thundered to the room.

A more pleasant thought crossed his mind. Sirena wouldn't be able to touch Camilla's fortune. He would have to be very careful to see that a strict accounting was kept and that not a cent of Langdon money was invested in the import-export business he was building. If he made an error, Sirena would get her hands on that, too! Time was the answer. He needed it to work out some plan to outwit Sirena. Hadn't he already taken the first step in asking Camilla to marry him?

Regan surveyed himself again and wondered at the sour expression on his face as he thought of being wed to the delicate Camilla.

 

Regan lifted the heavy knocker on the Langdon front door on fashionable Drury Lane and waited for the family retainer to admit him. He was impatient this night and in no mood for cooling his heels waiting for Camilla. He hoped that for once she was ready to leave.

Just as he was about to light a cheroot, he looked up and saw her standing at the top of the wide, circular staircase. She was becomingly dressed in a demure silk gown of daffodil yellow which enhanced her petite, dainty figure. Fragile was the word that came to Regan's mind when he thought of her—defenseless and in need of a protector. And he was that champion.

Before descending, Camilla hesitated a moment for Regan to gain the full effect of her appearance. Her pale blond hair had been laboriously curled into an elaborate coiffure and tumbled about her head in a studied disarray to frame her piquant features and highlight her creamy white skin and soft violet eyes. Her small, pink mouth trembled slightly at the sight of the tall man waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

Camilla was picture-pretty with small pearl drops nestled on the lobes of her tiny, shell-like ears and a wide ribbon sash tied about her incredibly tiny waist. She held out her hand for Regan as she neared the last step and looked up at him with a smile that brought out the two adorable dimples in her velvety cheeks.

“You're so handsome, Regan. Every woman at the Sinclairs' will want to scratch my eyes from their sockets.”

Regan gulped as an image of Sirena, looming over the delicate flower who was Camilla, swam before his eyes.

“I'm really looking forward to this evening's entertainment. My father tells me that a visitor to our fair London is being introduced this evening. A Spanish lady, I heard. I understand she is quite beautiful and, therefore, I'll not allow you out of my sight,” she cooed playfully.

“You have no fear of me leaving your side, sweetheart,” Regan muttered beneath his breath. He would never allow Camilla and the wild, untamed Sirena to get within inches of each other. Not while he was alive, at any rate. His hand shook slightly. Sirena could always remedy that situation if she took it into that unreasonable Latin head of hers.

The hired carriage came to a creeping stop and Regan helped his fiancée disembark to the cobbled drive. Music spilled into the grounds from the Sinclair mansion and every window was aglow with light.

Inside, the vast ballroom was decorated with fresh-cut flowers and massive tubs of ferns. Small, gilt, velvet-seated chairs lined the perimeters of the room. Everywhere servants carried trays bearing cups of punch and sweetmeats of marzipan. A toast was being made as Regan and Camilla entered the room. The guests tipped fragile, long-stemmed glasses to their lips in celebration of the night's festivities.

As the musicians resumed their playing, Regan and Camilla were announced. The couple worked their way down the receiving line to the Baron and Baroness. A portly gentleman behind Regan was heard to mention that everyone seemed present save the guest of honor. He also mentioned it was Sir Sinclair who was the lady's escort for the evening.

Regan's gut churned at the softly spoken words. Where was she? If his guess was correct, she was deliberately going to make a grand entrance on the arm of the dashing rake, Tyler Sinclair.

 

Tyler apologized for his tardiness for the tenth time. “It was this blasted shirt, you see,” he explained again. “Two of the servants are ill and my personal valet among them. So, instead of obeying my instructions concerning my evening clothes, my mother interfered ... Oh damn! You see,” he joked, “if I were a highwayman, this would never have happened. Mother will be having an attack of the vapors about now, seeing how late we are.”

Sirena smiled. “So long as it is you who are the reason behind her vapors and not myself, you can save your apologies, Tyler. I really don't mind since it took longer than I expected to complete my toilette.”

“And the results are quite fetching, to say the least, Sirena.” Tyler glanced at her approvingly. “Green does incredible things to your eyes. You'll dazzle every man at the ball. I intend to keep a sharp eye on you, so be warned. I want to keep you all to myself.”

“I won't mind, Tyler, if it's a plan you intend to keep,” Sirena laughed softly, edging closer to him on the luxurious seat in the Sinclair coach.

“Sirena,” Tyler said seriously, “Regan van der Rhys and Camilla Langdon will be there. I feel it only fair to warn you that you're bound to meet them in the course of the evening. I'm certain you'll be able to carry it off and no one need know you were formerly married to him. Mother and Father both think it's in your best interests not to make mention of the fact. Divorce is still a social blight in England, regardless of the Crown's policies. I'm also certain that Regan has kept the fact under wraps. I doubt if even Camilla knows, otherwise it would be a matter for gossip. It's not a piece of information she could keep to herself.”

“Tyler, do you mean to say Camilla is a gossipmonger?”

“When it doesn't affect her own reputation, yes,” he answered, the touch of bitterness in his voice raising Sirena's curiosity.

“Surely the girl's mother would have taught her better.”

“She lost her mother when she was very young and her father, Sir Stephan Langdon, has never remarried. It's true, Camilla could have done with a firm female hand in her upbringing.” Sirena thought Tyler was about to say more on the subject of Camilla, when he glanced out the window and saw they had arrived. “Here we are. The Baroness will be in a carefully controlled rage, if I know my mother. We'll both have to put our best foot forward.”

As Sirena and Tyler moved through the spacious hallway of the Sinclair home, Tyler led her directly over to the receiving line. All heads turned to see the elegant couple and Sirena noticed out of the corner of her eye that the women were whispering and the men were smiling with interest. Where was Regan? All she had to do was turn her head and look for the tallest of men with a thatch of gold hair. It was too late. Tyler was introducing her to the Baron and Baroness. Sirena was at her most gracious as she spoke softly, a lilt in her voice, her eyes demurely downcast. Baron Sinclair was obviously entranced and the Baroness liked her immediately.

“My dear Señorita,” the Baroness said delightedly, “you are quite the most exquisite creature in the room this night. Tomorrow you'll be the talk of all London. Come, stand beside me and receive my guests, they're near dying to meet you.”

A thousand greetings and polite exchanges later, the Baroness took Sirena upstairs to a tiring room where she could refresh herself before the dancing began. Baron Charles took his son by the arm and led him to the punch bowl where several elegant young ladies eyed Tyler seductively. Tyler accepted his drink and complimented the ladies with his attention in his own gallant way before joining his father at the far side of the room.

“The Dutchman must be blind,” the Baron blustered. “She's lovely, simply lovely, eh Tyler?” he jostled his son's arm enthusiastically, nearly spilling his punch.

“Without a doubt,” Tyler answered as he stretched his neck to see Sirena descending the stairs beside his mother. Why he felt this concern for her he could not imagine. With the formidable Baroness at her side, nothing could go amiss. “Father, look, Camilla is dragging van der Rhys to be introduced to Sirena.”

“Not to worry, my boy, she has the situation well in hand. Even my faded eyes can see that she's every inch a lady and won't give herself away.”

It was Regan who wore the wary look. When he met Sirena's amused emerald eyes, his chest constricted. He felt his muscles tense when he saw how graciously she inclined her head to acknowledge the introduction. His throat closed entirely when she purred softly, “From Batavia, Mynheer van der Rhys! Someday you must tell me of the nutmeg trees which grow there. Why,” she trilled, “I've heard tales of women working their hands raw in the fields for their husbands. And then the ungrateful wretches leave them somewhere by the wayside when they are of no further use. Have you ever heard of anything more inhumane?” she asked of the pink-cheeked Camilla.

“Never! What a terrible thing to do. The men must be beasts!” Camilla said, properly horrified.

“Tell me, Mynheer, have you heard this tale?” Sirena asked. “I'd always heard the Dutch brought civilization to Java. Obviously, such is not the case. Don't you agree? Excuse me, I seem to have forgotten your name.”

The Baroness hastened to refresh her guest's memory while Camilla looked properly aghast. “I couldn't agree with you more.”

“And you, sir?” Sirena pressed of Regan, a sly smirk at the corner of her mouth.

Regan chose his words carefully, his eyes on the creamy shoulders and voluptuous bosom revealed by the cut of Sirena's gown. He felt light-headed and his palms were perspiring. “I believe it is said the tale you speak of involved only one woman and she was a notorious pirate in the Indies waters. A woman who was a skilled liar, a master of deceit, a murderer, and when she reformed her ways, she contented herself with her rosary.” Regan cocked his head and stared intently at Sirena. “It was said this lady professed to love the man she planted the fields for; but, when he was forced to leave Java, she refused to go with him. So you see, Señorita Córdez, he did not cast her by the wayside, she preferred not to stay with him.”

“How sad. Isn't that a sad tale, Baroness? But it seems to me the tale goes even further. Wasn't there something about the man stealing this woman's fortune and then offering to pension her off with her own money?”

The cords in Regan's neck threatened to burst. Before he could utter a reply, Sirena pressed her advantage. “Miss Langdon, have you ever heard of a more despicable act?”

“Never!” Camilla said forcefully.

“Nor I!” the Baroness interjected. “The rascal should be hanged by the neck!” She was happily enjoying every moment of this playacting.