My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (3 page)

“Sykes?” Her brain numbed to all thought and her heart spasmed. She closed her eyes, trying to remember where she’d heard that name.

“Heavy seas separated the
Pickle
and
Nautilus
as they sped toward Falmouth after Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar. Thinking the
Pickle
lost, perhaps even sunk, Admiral Young sent Commander John Sykes with another round of dispatches.”

She put the back of her hand over her mouth and swallowed a sob. The whole affair was like something in an opera. “And did you receive those as well?”

“Yes. Sykes arrived an hour after us at two this morning.”

When Gillian started to shake, Garrick rose, fumbled to grab a porcelain cup, and carefully poured her more tea. He returned with the teacup, his hand surprisingly steady. “Now drink this.”

Gillian gripped the cup and saucer with her fingers, rattling the dishes only slightly. She couldn’t help but admire Garrick’s quick take-charge demeanor. Perhaps she needn’t have worried about him.

“We have more urgent matters to discuss.” His gruff voice took on a harder edge bringing her more doubt.

What more could be done? Nelson was dead.

“Where’s Simon? Why isn’t he here?”

Gillian inhaled a steadying breath. After the information she’d just been given, she hated to be the bearer of more bad news. “You haven’t heard, then?”

“Heard what? Devil damn me, has something else happened?”

“Oh, Garrick, Simon just buried his wife.”

Garrick’s confusion was apparent. “Lady Danbury… is dead?”

“Yes.” The admission cost a piece of her soul. “Though we all knew it was inevitable, her passing has shaken Simon. I cannot think what
this
news will do to him.”

But there was more, much more that she couldn’t speak aloud. What would Nelson’s demise mean to her personal relationship with Simon? With Lady Danbury gone, Gillian had hoped she and Simon could continue to work within Nelson’s Tea and slowly bring their love out into the open once the formality of his mourning was at an end. That had been her plan, her fervent desire for so long. And yet Admiral Nelson’s death dashed her hopes onto brittle stones. Could their love withstand such a blow?

Tears welled in Gillian’s eyes. She fought them back with all the strength she possessed, but her rebellious, too-long hidden emotions wouldn’t be denied.

When she’d fallen in love with Simon only to learn he was married to another woman, her heart had been broken. Since then, she’d strived to be invaluable, worked diligently by his side. Now with Nelson gone, the world she and Simon had created and co-existed in neared collapse.

Good God! She’d waited nine years to be with the man she loved. She’d promised to love him through good times and bad, through sorrow and pain, danger and loneliness. With that vow never far from her thoughts, she’d believed being a part of Nelson’s Tea would be enough. How pitiful were the hands of fate? Just when her world, his world seemed to finally align —
this
happens. Admiral Nelson… dead.

The dam broke. Her shoulders tensed, and her body shook with agonizing spasms. When the rattling dishes in her hands threatened to break, Garrick, gentleman pirate that he was, took them from her and embraced her. The man who hated to be touched held her close, absorbing her sobs. Without Simon, Garrick was an anchor she desperately needed to keep her from dashing upon the rocks.

What would become of them? How would Simon and Nelson’s Tea ever survive this?

With grief soon she learn’d that her Hero had died,

The tears gush’d in floods from her eyes;

His deeds were too bright for a mortal, she cried,

Then bore him aloft to the skies.

The warriors that fell, still exclaim from their graves,

“BRITANNIA forever reigns Queen of the Waves.”

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

Simon ground his
teeth together until his jaw ached abominably. The ride from Throckmorton Manor to Bolton Street had been irritatingly slow.
Confounded traffic.
He tapped his cane near his feet and harrumphed.

Several weeks had passed since Edwina’s funeral. Since that time, he’d found himself squired away in Byron’s study with family solicitors, who’d insisted he reside at Throckmorton and take the necessary steps to settle Edwina’s affairs. Putting his marriage to Edwina behind him provided closure, but it also meant the sooner he’d be free to see his beloved Gillian. He felt little guilt in tendering his emotions. He’d had eight years to prepare for the eventuality of Edwina’s death. Now he felt like a man driven mad to set everything to rights.

Bolton Street. Nelson’s Tea. Gillian. Fate had always been cruel to him when it came to Gillian. But, he conceded with long withheld jubilation, nothing stood between them now.

Today he meant to cross the marital divide and take Gillian into his arms. Hold her. Kiss her. Speak the loving words she’d spent years waiting patiently at his side to hear. She was his shoreline when he found himself adrift, his light guiding him through the murky depths. Her brilliance kept him afloat when the world closed in from all sides. With Gillian at his side, he could withstand anything.

Simon smiled and straightened his cravat as the carriage rolled to a stop at Number Eleven. He gazed out the frosty window pane, ground his teeth together impatiently, and waited for his footman to open the carriage door.

Ormund took his leisurely time descending the conveyance, if the infrequent jostling of the springs was any indication. Ordinarily, caution didn’t warrant a reprimand. The footman had been trained to counterattack any attempt on Simon’s life and pauses in activity usually indicated the need for it. Today however, Simon’s impatience got the better of him. He tapped his cane on the floor, counting the seconds preventing him from reaching the woman he loved.

The carriage handle jiggled, and the door was pulled wide not a moment too soon. “Number Eleven, my lord.”

Simon sprang out of the vehicle and paused mid-step, fastening his gaze on the stoop of Gillian’s townhouse. He glanced at Ormund. “That will be all,” he said, springing down as if hounds were at his heels. He bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time, then rolled his shoulders to regain his bearing. Raising his gloved hand, he rapped on the door, using the secret code Goodayle recognized.

TapTap. TapTap. Tap. Tap. Tap. TapTap.

He paused and looked to his left then right before finishing the rhythm.

TapTap. Tap.

Goodayle opened the door soon afterward. He executed a bow and stepped to the side, opening the door wider.

“Good morning, my lord.”

Simon nodded. “Goodayle.” He stepped over the threshold, discarded his hat, gloves, and cloak, and handed them off to his trusty servant before striding down the foyer intent on surprising Gillian by joining her for breakfast. Notably an early riser, he already knew where he would find her this time of day — alone.

Sounds drifted down the hall.

Simon blinked. It took a moment for him to gather his wits. Gillian wasn’t alone? Who was in the townhouse beside Goodayle and the servants? He followed the voices to the dining room — a man and a woman’s. Curiosity taking hold, he walked closer.

Did he hear Garrick’s voice?

Stunned and more than a bit intrigued as to why Garrick had arrived sooner than expected, Simon entered the dining room. The exclamation of joy he’d reserved for Gillian died as soon as he spied them together. Gillian was fully embraced within Garrick’s arms, his head bent toward hers. A flicker of disgust rifled through Simon. What had happened in the weeks since Edwina’s death?

All the air went out of his lungs.
Am I too late?

Jealousy reared its ugly head and tumultuous fury possessed him. Since his captivity, Garrick had not allowed anyone to touch him. And yet there Gillian was, her arms wrapped around him. Had she given up waiting for Simon to put his past behind him? Had she formed an attachment to Garrick while administering aid to him during his confinement? Impossible, wasn’t it? Gillian wasn’t the flirtatious type, unless a specific job called for it and Garrick wasn’t a target — yet.

There was only one reason the woman who’d vowed to love him would be in Garrick’s arms — something had worn down her hard won reserve and driven her to it.

My indifference?
Aye, he was sure of it!

He glowered at them for a number of minutes, incapable of speech, hesitating to interrupt, tightening his fists until nails bit into his palms. Well-honed instincts convinced him not to attack, but with the self-control of a saint — hardly the right term he’d use — he regarded Gillian more closely. Her back was to him. Her ribs expanded and retracted erratically as her body shook. Garrick’s face buried deeper in her hair. The two appeared afraid to let go of one another. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, both were enraptured by emotions of the moment.

Whatever the cause for their brief loss of etiquette, the embrace had gone on quite long enough. If something was wrong,
he’d
be the one to comfort Gillian, not a devil-may-care pirate.

Simon cleared his throat loudly and stepped further into the room. “Gillian. Garrick.” He hid his fists behind his back. “Is something amiss?”

Garrick jerked his head up then tilted his head to the right, better to see him. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, Simon beheld the man he’d suggested as a prospect for Nelson’s Tea — industrious, courageous, a nefarious rogue. A flicker of sadness reflected in Garrick’s blue eye before he quickly recovered and set Gillian away from him. Without looking again at Simon, Garrick straightened his lapels, strode to the bow window, giving Simon his back, and lifted the damask curtain to observe passersby.

Gillian inhaled several deep breaths, her ribs expanding with the effort. She stood silently for immeasurable long minutes then ever so slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were red and swollen.

Lucifer take it, why is Gillian crying? She never cries.

“What the devil is wrong?” His attention returned to the man near the window. “If you’ve done something to upset Gillian, Garrick, I’ll—”

“Garrick has done nothing untoward.” Her deeply pained voice didn’t reassure him.

Was she upset with
him
? Had he miscalculated? Should he have allowed her to be by his side during these past few dizzying days of legalities? Had she feared he would never return to her? Impossible! Surely by now the woman knew his heart and to whom it belonged.

“Gillian, you are unwell?” He reached across the distance between them and grabbed her trembling hands.

“Simon,” she said, wrenching her hands free, stiffening her arms to make sure he kept a proper distance between them. Her body shook as sobs tore through her. “I’ve just been given the gr-gravest n-news.”

He cocked his brow in query, caught between losing his patience and feeling the need to throttle Garrick, no matter how much younger and bigger the man was. He hated feeling helpless, and that’s exactly how he felt now, ignorant of how to remedy Gillian’s plight. The hair on the back of his neck spiked unreasonably high.

Words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. “What news could make Garrick hold
you
so intimately?”

Garrick shot him a seething glare. “Go to hell.”

“What?” she shrieked. Her absolute horror at his cruel slight against Garrick made him feel completely ridiculous.

Damn libido
. He changed tack. Surely this was all a misunderstanding easily sorted out, if he’d put his jealousy aside. “My letters did arrive, didn’t they? I distinctly told Archer to deliver my notes personally. If he—”

“You misunderstand, my lord.” She stared at him strangely. “Archer’s services aren’t in question here. I received your missives. I have never doubted your reasons for staying away from the townhouse as long as you have.”

He stepped closer and slipped his fingers over her hands. “Then what, pray tell, is going on between the two of you?” He nodded toward Garrick. “What has unhinged you so?”

She guided him to a chair. “Sit down, my lord. You will not want to be standing when you hear the news Garrick has brought from Cornwall.”

“News? Cornwall?”
Lucifer take it! What have the Seatons done now?
Flint couldn’t ignite powder more readily than his emotions grappled for clemency. “Humpf. I assure you, I can take whatever Garrick has to say standing up.”

He was a man, after all, with a sound constitution. He wasn’t subject to collapse and mania over a bout of bad news. He’d dealt with Earl Pendrim’s bunch for nigh onto five years now. When it came to Gillian, however, he had an ego to protect, by God. And he would vault over any hurdle to do it.

Gillian shot a quizzical glance in Garrick’s direction. “Garrick,” she said, pointing to Garrick’s coat. “Tell him.”

Garrick swore under his breath. He walked to the sideboard and fumbled with two tumblers. He cocked his head at a weird angle, grabbed a decanter with both hands, and then slowly poured the brandy. After a few minutes, he strode forward with two half-filled glasses.

“You’ll need this.”

Simon hesitated before reaching out to accept the offered drink. Whatever news was about to be imparted was obviously of graver import than Simon had given either of them credit for.

“I’ve a mind to put you both in Bedlam. Or myself if I don’t find out what is going on.”

Garrick stuck his hand inside his coat and pulled out a sealed missive.

Admiral Collingwood’s seal.
What the devil?

“Why do you have one of Collingwood’s communiqués? Surely Nelson has not been in need of me while he’s been hunting down Villeneuve. But if he had, couriers have been instructed to bring those directly to me.” Gillian reached out to him. “Simon—”

“
I
am your courier,” Garrick admitted gruffly.

“You?” The idea was absurd. Garrick wasn’t ready for this level of work. None of this made sense. “What happened to Brooks? The man is above board.”

“And I’m not?” Garrick shook his head dejectedly and ran his fingers through his hair.

Gillian took a step toward him, a protective look mirrored in her red-rimmed eyes.

Simon fumed with disgust, trying unsuccessfully to bury the alarm pulsing through his veins. “Give me the note.”

“Read it.” Garrick’s order was like a clap of thunder on a clear day.

Simon’s anger flared, and he almost called the pirate out to Green Park for goading him. Was he mad? Where had that ridiculous notion come from?

Now is most certainly not the time to mix emotion with business.

“Simon.” Gillian’s voice cultivated his misgivings like a soothing silken caress. “I must warn you. We have never before encountered anything like what is in Collingwood’s dispatch.”

Simon sobered. “How do you know? Have you read it?”

“No.” She dabbed her leaking eyes. “I have read something,” her gaze flicked to Garrick, and something secretive flashed between them, “similar.”

Simon’s gut twisted cruelly.

“I’m quite certain Collingwood’s dispatch will explain everything to you in detail.”

Gillian’s assessment would be right. Collingwood was a reliable man. Nelson faultlessly trusted him. He inhaled deeply and broke the red seal. The telltale crack shot through the room as he opened the vellum. Garrick and Gillian were already aware what awaited him. Or were they? Even so, Simon read Collingwood’s writing silently to himself in case there was a vital security risk involved. He raised his head in disbelief. At Garrick and Gillian’s nod, a lump rose in his throat. No longer concerned with protocol, he began reading Collingwood’s writing aloud.

“The ever lamented death of Vice Admiral Lord Viscount N-Nelson—” A sense of lightheadedness assaulted him, and his heart took up a heavy thudding against his ribs. Disbelieving, he read the first line again.

“Go on,” Gillian urged slowly making her way to his side.

“N-Nelson, who, in the late conflict with the enemy, fell in the hour of victory...” He glanced up at Garrick and Gillian. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake, my l-lord,” Gillian said, her voice cracking as fresh tears made their way down her cheeks. “Keep r-reading.”

Nausea welled in the back of his throat. He gripped the paper more firmly, not trusting his fingers, willing his hands not to shake. Absentmindedly, he sank into the chair Gillian had provided him and read the entire missive until he reached the last line.