Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (19 page)

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be!

Yet James had been acquainted with Bramwell for most of his life. They’d gone to school together as boys. He wasn’t the type to spread rumors.

“What makes you think so?”

“His ship was attacked by pirates, off the coast of Spain.”

“How do you know?”

“We came upon the survivors, and they told us what happened.” Bramwell scowled and cleared his throat. “Supposedly, the pirate’s captain had been following Tristan. Tristan and his crew fought like the dickens, but they were overpowered.”

“Did Tristan die in the battle?”

“No. He was put in a longboat and set adrift. There was a woman on the ship. She was set adrift with him.”

“A woman!”

“I guess she was a stowaway. The pirate ensured that they had no provisions. He wanted them to perish out on the water.”

“But...why?”

Bramwell flushed. “I’m loathe to tell you this, Westwood.”

“Just say it.”

“The fellow claimed to be...ah...your half-brother.”

“My...half-brother?”

It took an eternity for James to figure out to whom Bramwell referred, and he gasped.

“My mother’s son? He said he was my
mother’s
son?”

“Yes.”

James felt sick. Would the events from his childhood never cease to plague him?

“My mother passed away when he was a young lad. We were never apprised as to what became of him.”

“Well, now you know. He’s embraced a life of crime. Before he sailed off, he bragged that he was
Le Terreur Franҫais.”

The French Terror....

His identity had remained a mystery, but he was currently the scourge of the Seven Seas. He only harassed English merchant ships, and the entire British Navy was hunting for him.

That man—that conniving, elusive felon—was the boy James’s mother had birthed? That man was James’s brother? That man had
killed
Tristan?

He staggered back and fell into a nearby chair.

It was too preposterous, too bizarre, and he was at a loss as to how he should proceed.

He couldn’t envision a world without Tristan in it. From his earliest memories, Tristan had been by his side, the one constant. Tristan was the sole person who comprehended what James had been through. He was James’s only friend.

“Is the story all over London?” James inquired.

“It’s spreading—even as we speak.”

“So everyone will hear about it. The gossip will be horrendous.”

“I’m afraid so. There were too many people about when we docked. I ordered my crew to keep silent, but the tale is too risqué. They’ll never obey me.”

“I understand.”

“I’m very sorry, James.” James accepted the condolence with a nod of his head. “Who was the woman with him? What was her name?”

“No one seems to know.”

James was quiet, unable to wrap his mind around the catastrophe.

Finally, he asked, “Do you think he could be alive? Don’t spare my feelings. I have to know the truth.”

“No, I don’t. He fought valiantly, and he was gravely wounded. I doubt he survived the first night.”

James stood and walked to the window, and he stared out at the garden. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, the sky blue with fluffy clouds. Miranda was picking roses, a basket of colorful flowers on her arm. It was such a peaceful, serene sight.

How could it be that on one side of the glass, her world was still exactly the same, while on the other, his world had been completely shattered?

How would he ever tell her?

He glanced over at Bramwell.

“You said he was attacked off the coast of Spain?”

“Yes.”

“How many miles out?”

“Not many. Four or five, I suppose.”

A burst of hope flared.

“Could he have drifted to shore? Could he have landed somewhere? An island or a rocky outcropping?”

Bramwell sighed. “Anything is possible, Westwood, but I would be remiss in my duty to you if I let you imagine another ending. You have to admit the reality of the situation.”

James gazed out the window again, watching Miranda. He thought of the conversation they would have to have, of the plans they would have to make.

When there was no body, did one hold a funeral?

He couldn’t picture such a grim event, and a wave of stubbornness washed over him.

What if Tristan had floated up on a deserted Spanish beach? He didn’t speak Spanish. What if he was injured and had no way of sending for help? What if he desperately needed James, but James gave up on him and rescue never came?

James turned, bolstered by a renewed sense of purpose.

“I want to hire you, Aiden.”

“For what job?”

“I’d like you to travel back to the spot where you found Tristan’s ship, and I want you to search for him.”

“James, listen to me. It’s pointless.”

“I’m sure you’re correct, but I want you to do it anyway. For six months. Name your price, and I’ll pay it.”

He was already calculating the card games he’d have to play, the money he’d have to win.

“Give over, James. He’s dead!” Bramwell declared. “I know it’s difficult for you to—”

“What if he’s not? What if he’s alive and he needs me? You have a younger brother, Aiden. What if it was Jonathan? What would you do?”

Bramwell pondered and stewed, then he shrugged. “All right, I’ll try, but it’s a fool’s errand. Don’t forget that I warned you.”

“I won’t forget. When can you sail?”

“I’ll have to take on provisions and round up my crew. I should be prepared in two weeks.”

“Make it three days. You must get back to Spain as fast as you can.”

“Miranda, sit down please.”

“What is it, James?”

She flashed her sweetest smile and walked to the sofa next to where he was standing. He hemmed and hawed, appearing genuinely distraught. What could have happened?

“My goodness,” she said, “you look positively stricken. It’s not bad news, I hope?”

“It’s very bad news.”

“My aunt Bertha? Is she ill? Is she—”

“It’s Tristan.”

“Tristan! What about him?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“His ship was attacked by pirates, and he’s presumed to be dead.”

“What do you mean
presumed
to be?”

“Some of his crew were killed, and he was set adrift in a longboat. He was mortally wounded, so his chances of survival are very slim.”

She was stunned to silence. How was she to assess the awful information?

She’d known Tristan all her life, but she was hardly in love with him. Theirs had been a business arrangement, a family arrangement, and emotion had played no part.

Still, she supposed she ought to feel
something
. But what?

With him out of the way, she’d be free to marry James. If, however, she couldn’t wrangle a proposal out of him, what then?

She would have lost her fiancé, an earl’s brother, and while her dowry could buy her another high-born husband, there were few men like dashing, handsome Captain Tristan Harcourt.

She’d bragged about her betrothal so many times, and now, if she had to go about London with everyone tittering over how she’d failed to land her grand catch, she’d die of mortification.

“Say something,” James urged.

“I...I...I am in a state of shock. I can’t think of a single remark that would be appropriate.”

“There’s more,” he murmured.

“More?”

“The details are all over town, and I want you to hear them from me.”

“What is it?”

“There was a woman with him.”

“On the ship?”

“Yes. They were placed in the longboat together.”

“Was she his...his...mistress?”

“The crew insists she was a stowaway discovered after they’d sailed.”

Miranda studied him, and his gaze never wavered. If he was prevaricating, he was hiding it well, but despite what he asserted, the woman’s allegedly innocent role had to be false.

A stowaway indeed!

While Miranda had never imagined that Tristan was a saint, she’d never been apprised that he had a mistress either. It was the sort of vicious rumor upon which Society thrived.

The notion that he’d vanished with his paramour was daunting. In the impending gossip, the little Jezebel would take on mythic qualities. How did one compete with a legend?

“And”—his shoulders slumped with resignation—“there’s still a bit more after that.”

“More than the possibility that my fiancé perished with his harlot and all of London knows it?”

They both sighed. “Yes.”

“What is it?”

“The pirate claimed to be...well...our half-brother.”

She scowled. “I don’t understand.”

“He is the son sired by Charles Sinclair on my mother. When they were in Paris, remember? She had a son.”

“I thought he died as a boy.”

“No one ever knew for sure, and Father wasn’t about to waste money or energy trying to find out.”

“Your half-brother...” she reflected. “Why would he do such a thing? Why would he murder Tristan?”

“Apparently, it was vengeance—on behalf of his mother. Or I guess I should say on behalf of
my
mother.”

“Unbelievable.”

She was quiet, plotting, her mind awhirl with options. What did she want? What should she do?

“I’m not certain what should happen next,” she said.

“We don’t have to figure it out today.”

“Will we have a funeral? Will we bury him?”

“Not yet. I’ve paid to mount a search. An acquaintance of mine is going to look for him.”

“Is there any hope he’ll be found?”

He shrugged. “I have to try.”

“So we won’t hear anything for months.”

Or perhaps years!
She could drag it out forever!

“No.”

“May I...may I stay in London? I’d like to be close in case there’s any news.”

“Of course you can stay. For as long as you like.”

Outside, in the window behind James, she could see Miss Stewart approaching from the garden.

Fate had provided Miranda with a marvelous opportunity to seize the life for herself that she’d always craved, but Stewart could wreck everything.

James was so bewitched by Stewart that he would never fire her, and the blasted woman was too stupid to leave on her own. Miranda had to up the stakes, had to force Stewart out of their lives.

Stewart was about to enter the house through the same door Miranda had just used. Her path would take her directly past the parlor where Miranda was sequestered with James.

If Miranda was lucky, Stewart would glance into the room, and Miranda realized the precise scene that Stewart needed to witness.

Miranda buried her face in her hands, and she blinked and blinked until her eyes watered.

It was an old trick, one she’d perfected as a girl when her gullible parents had refused to let her have her way. By the time she stood, she’d worked up a good sheen of tears. She turned to James, swiping at her cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he soothed. “It will be all right.”

“What will I do without him? What will become of me?”

She staggered over to him and snuggled herself to his broad chest.

“I’ve been shopping for my trousseau,” she said, “and it’s almost complete. Now there’s to be no wedding. It all seems so sad.”

“I know.”

“I feel so frivolous. I spent yesterday visiting friends and drinking tea, but poor Tristan was dead at the bottom of the ocean. I wish I could die, too!”

“Hush. Don’t talk like that.”

She pulled away and peered up at him. Their position was scandalously romantic. If they were observed, only one conclusion would be drawn. He was gazing at her so tenderly, and she froze, on pins and needles, positive he was about to kiss her.

She waited...and waited...

Behind her, a gasp sounded, and James frowned and stepped away.

Miranda peeked over her shoulder, delighted to see Miss Stewart in the doorway. She was so pale that Miranda wondered if she might swoon.

Aware that her expression was hidden from James, Miranda flashed a sly, triumphant grin.

Miss Stewart studied them carefully, not missing a single detail, then she whipped away and fled without a word.

A charged silence ensued, and Miranda said, “Well, I declare! She is so moody! What has gotten into her now?”

James clasped Miranda’s arms and eased her away.

“Would you excuse me?”

He hurried out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Harriet sat on the deserted beach, her toes curled into the hot sand. Waves lapped in lazy surges. A warm breeze ruffled her hair. The sun was so bright, the sky so blue, that her eyes ached.

Off in the distance, she could see several other islands poking out of the water, and on the horizon, it seemed as if she was staring at the Spanish mainland, but she couldn’t be sure. The sight might have simply been an illusion. In any case, it was all too far away to be relevant to her current predicament.

“Harriet,” Tristan called from behind her, and she glanced around.

He was up above her on the dunes, lounging in the shade. He gestured for her to join him, but she didn’t move.