My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (2 page)

Her course, overjoy’d at his praises, she steers,

To see her brave Son, o’er the main;

When off Cape Trafalgar, exulting she hears

The Hero’s victorious again!

And tells the proud Despot to rule o’er his slaves,

Nor strive with his Queen for the Crown of the Waves.

~Song, Anon, Horatio’s Death, The Morning Chronicle November 22, 1805

November 6, 1805

Gillian set her
tea cup down on the saucer with a clatter, nearly breaking it, and bolted from her seat. Lord Garrick Seaton, eldest son of Earl Pendrim, one of Simon’s strongest allies on the Cornish Coast, strode into the townhouse dining room unannounced like an unsophisticated beast. Her heart raced. Garrick understood polite society even though he continuously found ways to circumvent rules of the
ton
. And since his captivity in Spain, he’d taken great pains with his appearance to divert attention away from his scars. Constantly heedful of the need for security, he would never burst into the townhouse unannounced ― unless something was terribly wrong.

She placed a trembling hand over her heart. “Garrick!”

He stopped suddenly and leaned wearily on his cane. He looked down at his muddy boots and tailored overcoat then attempted to straighten the cravat that had been tied and untied numerous times, if the wrinkles were any indication. More telling, the anguish on Garrick’s face when he raised his head, filled her with foreboding. This shaken man wasn’t the stalwart pirate she’d sent home to convalesce in Talland Bay. After being captured, ransomed, and tortured in the Bay of Biscay, his recuperation had progressed significantly enough to allow him to divide the past several months between Abbydon Cove and the townhouse on Bolton Street.

What explained the sheen of sweat on his forehead?

It had been her job to ease his transition back into service. The task hadn’t been easy for a man who’d been so violently and coldheartedly maimed. How did one adjust to losing an eye? How did a man venture out into public with his once handsome face so visibly altered?

“Garrick?”

He didn’t answer, and his punishing silence filled her with dread. What in heaven’s name had brought him to London so unexpectedly? “You’re two weeks early and I fear you’ve taken me by surprise. Allow me to—”

“Surprise?”

She froze at the sound of his grief-stricken tone. Good God! He stared at her, half-fury, half-pain.

Something was wrong — terribly wrong. But what?

Her smile faltered. Garrick had been combating horrible details of his captivity and disfigurement aboard
El Aguila, Capitan
Delgado’s ship, for long, unending months. Had he returned to London only to relive his violent past? Not the pirate she knew. She’d seen him fight back Delgado’s demons on too many occasions to count. She’d carried his pain as if it was her own. Now as she watched him, she realized with frightful clarity Garrick suffered from something else entirely — anguish. Had he heard of Lady Danbury’s death? Even if he had, that didn’t explain his reaction. He had never been close to Simon’s wife.

Light in the room cast an unhealthy pallor on Garrick’s skin. Under her inspection, his brows furrowed together, emphasizing the dark circle rimming his good eye. Skin stretched cruelly around the other tugging at his black eye-patch. His lips pinched closed as if he held back words he didn’t want her to hear.

Gillian twisted her hands in the folds of her gown already hating whatever had driven Garrick from the sanctuary of his family. With Lady Danbury’s death and Simon trying not to blame himself for her demise, none of them were equipped for more bad news.

She armed herself for battle and maneuvered the conversation back to his original question. “I had imagined you’d be in Cornwall for at least another fortnight.”

“So had I.”

“What changed?” she asked.

“Business. I happened upon Lieutenant Lapenotiere and
this
,” he said through clenched teeth. He raised white-knuckled fingers clenching a piece of wrinkled parchment.

Paper had no power over her physically. But experience had taught her what could be scrawled on vellum had weightier control on innocent lives, including her fragile emotional state. The written word bound women to men, accountability, and cartels of fortune. In her line of work, missives that created Garrick’s emotional reaction forewarned sinister events to come.

Fear tightened its grip on her heart. Hadn’t they suffered enough?

“Has something happened?”

A low growl rumbled from Garrick’s chest, and he smacked the letter against his palm. “We acquire wool in Exeter for our
ventures
,” he said, giving her a wry smile. “If I hadn’t left the warehouses as late as I had… well, I was a hairs-breadth away from missing Lapenotiere.”

“Lapenotiere!” She put her hand over her heart. “Isn’t his ship in Nelson’s fleet?”

“Yes,” he said, audibly distressed. “Instead, I find him switching out his post-chaise team for four fresh horses.”

“I must confess, I-I’m quite confused,” she said, reaching up to tug on her ear. “Why isn’t he at sea? Why on earth did you approach him? You and Lapenotiere haven’t been on speaking terms since he attempted to take the
Priory
as his prize.”

His nostrils flared. “We still aren’t.”

“Then what has changed?”

She glimpsed a formal Royal Navy seal on the parchment, but curbed the urge to snatch the letter out of Garrick’s hand. She chewed her bottom lip, hating the power the wax stamp held over her.

“Do sit down, Garrick,” Gillian said, pointing to a chair. “You are obviously exhausted. When is the last time you slept?” She glanced at the missive again, immeasurable curiosity webbing through her mind. When had Garrick ever rushed to London? The man doted on his family, preferred a life at sea, and more recently, despised the way people cringed in his presence. And how had he managed to obtain a note from the Admiralty in the first place?

After several moments of unbearable silence, she’d had enough. “Tell me what has happened to affect you so. What is in that letter?”

“I… that is to say…”

Gillian froze. Bile rose in her throat. The tell was written all over Garrick’s body. He glanced at an empty dish, refusing to look at her. His shoulders cocked at an awkward angle, and his fists tightened then relaxed only briefly. He shifted his feet forward and back. Her instincts were spot on.

“Forgive me,” she offered nervously, hoping to relieve his distress. “Where are my manners? You must be famished. Can I get you some water?”

He blanched.

“Tea?”

He coughed miserably.

“Brandy, then?”

At Garrick’s wave, she turned for the liquor cabinet. “There is also plenty of food on the sideboard to break your fast, if you are hungry.”

He didn’t answer but held his hand aloft for the tumbler she offered upon her return. As she handed it to him, he grabbed the glass and brought it to his lips, swallowing the contents in one swift motion. It wasn’t even noonday.

“Garrick.”

He didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence.

“You’re frightening me.”

Garrick’s gaze slowly traveled over her and clung with freakish fervor to her face. “Forgive me, baroness. Bad news. Damned unfortunate bad news.”

Tell me something I do not know.

Banded knots tightened around her heart, gripping with such intensity she almost fainted. To the normal layman, bad news might mean a broken carriage wheel or an empty tea canister. To spies, bad news meant something more cataclysmic — death. Gillian shivered. What wasn’t Garrick telling her? Had something happened to Simon?

Good God, no. I’d know it before anyone else.
Wouldn’t I?

Tiny sharp needle pricks snaked along her spine. She struggled to breathe. What if she was wrong? What if something had happened to Simon? But if it had, why would Garrick learn of it first? He had been in Cornwall. Simon was safely ensconced at Throckmorton, where his brother, the duke, and their solicitors aided in the reading of Lady Danbury’s will. Percy was also there, which gave her no alternative but to believe Simon was safe and that whatever was in the letter had nothing to do with him. She released a sigh. But if the missive didn’t involve Simon, who was it about? Why had Garrick brought it there, and what influence did this portent of doom have on their lives?

Gillian’s attention returned to the missive in Garrick’s hands. Thoroughly distressed and out of sorts, she began to pace, wringing her hands in front of her. She was at her wit’s end. Why didn’t he get on with it? Why wouldn’t he confide in her? Blood thudded in her ears, the pulse bordering on frenzied. Her heart flip-flopped. Tired of the suspense, she quickly snatched the paper from Garrick’s hand.

“If you cannot tell me, I’ll discover the source of your torment myself.”

She flicked away the opened seal and stretched the parchment wide. As she comprehended the first few words, her knees buckled. Her composure snapped. Her eyes instantly misted. She took a mindless step back in search of her chair and splayed her hand over her throat then read the words again — disbelieving.

To Lord Garrick Seaton

Euryalus, off Cape Trafalgar, Oct. 22.

My Lord,

It grieves me to inform you that Vice Admiral Lord Viscount Nelson, our Commander in Chief, whose name will be immortal and his memory dear to his country, fell in the hour of victory, leaving me the duty of informing you and my Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty, that on 21 October, 1805, Admiral Nelson succumbed to a wound incurred at Trafalgar aboard the Victory. My heart is rent with the most poignant grief for the death of a friend, to whom, by many years intimacy, and a perfect knowledge of the virtues of his mind, which inspired ideas superior to the common race of men, I was bound by the strongest ties of affection; a grief to which even the glorious occasion in which he fell, does not bring the consolation which perhaps it ought; his Lordship received a musket ball in his left breast, about the middle of the action, and sent an officer to me immediately with his last farewell; and soon after expired.

As my courier, John Lapenotiere, rides to London with my detailed communiqués to His majesty, King George, my Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty, and Lord Danbury, I ask you to assist him in every way possible. The information I’ve put in his hands is of grave importance to the crown.

I am & c

C. Collingwood

Gillian’s hands shook badly. Without realizing it, she crumpled the missive. “No no no. This cannot be real.” Consumed with shock, her gaze locked on Garrick. “There must be a terrible mistake.” Nausea coiled in her stomach as she inwardly willed him to declare the letter a poorly conceived joke. She shook her head vigorously. “I refuse to believe it.”

“No mistake,” he said, his voice losing power. “We’ve known all along this might come to pass.”

“Yes, but…”

Garrick’s good eye darkened with grief, the same flood threatening to undo her.

Heaven help us, the dispatch is very real.

Were Lady Nelson and Lady Hamilton receiving the same news? Having watched her own husband die in her arms, Gillian didn’t have to be told what this would do to the women who loved the admiral. Lucien’s death had nearly done her in, and hers had been a marriage of convenience. While the admiral had affirmed his relationship with Lady Hamilton by producing a child, Horatia, Lady Nelson’s staunch support of her husband had earned public admiration destined to buttress her grief. Lady Hamilton, on the other hand, had no one but a fatherless child to support and an unwedded union leading to little compensation.

“Simon.” Had she spoken? She hardly recognized the wail.

The room darkened, and a sinking feeling she remembered all too well washed over her. Garrick caught her and ushered her to sit in a chair at the table where she and Garrick, as well as twenty others, had once vowed to serve the courageous Admiral Nelson.

A vision of their first meeting flashed before her eyes. Expectant faces materialized before her, Nelson’s enigmatic and intelligent spectral visage included.

Everyone cheered. “Hoorah! Hoorah!”

Nelson raised his glass of port, his spirit vibrant. “England expects that every man and woman,” he said, giving Gillian a nod, “will do his duty. Bellerophon!”

“Death and glory!”

“Death and glory,” she repeated aloud with tears in her eyes. Yes. The heroic Admiral Nelson had died a glorious death, a fitting end for a man who followed his own judgment rather than the opinions of others.

Nelson, the man who’d united them under one banner, was gone — and too soon. His voice but an ethereal echo around them.

Gillian began to shake uncontrollably. “No!” What would become of them, of Nelson’s Tea? What would become of England?

“There. There,” Garrick said, kneeling before her, gallantly pushing aside his own anguish. He took her hand in his. “We are all in shock. I barely had time to read the note before Lapenotiere received fresh horses and was on his way. Knowing what this meant to all of us, I insisted on accompanying him. I couldn’t allow the information to arrive before me or for you to hear it from Sykes.”