Taste of the Devil (2 page)

Ginny frowned. “So... no one was actually killed or otherwise harmed?”

Dead silence followed her comment.

“Well, no,” Gingridge blustered. “But they might have been!”

Balderdash! This Panther sounded more like a pussycat to Ginny. Scared them all to death with his bone-waving hair and probably laughed his way home a much richer man. She was not impressed. She told Henley what she thought of this so-called panther.

“I wouldn’t dismiss him so lightly, dearest. There are stories of him that would curl your hair.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows in interest. “Really?”

“Really.”

Lady Flumia, recovering from her scant brush with the horrors of reality, removed the table napkin covering her chest and adjusted her bodice.

Unperturbed, she addressed the room at large. “Have you heard the latest on dit concerning the Duke of Islemoor’s grandson?”

“Lord Devon?” Jediah asked, suddenly showing more interest in the conversation.

“Yes, quite.” Lady Flumia looked askance at Ginny, lowering her voice in deference to innocent ears. “It seems he was caught in flagrante delicto with Lady Heathrow.”

A round of ‘tsk-tsks’ and shaking of heads circuited the table.

Lady Flumia savored her juicy bombshell a moment before following up with her second, even juicier borage. “And her sister!”

Gasps choked the room.

“A ménage a trois.” Henley beamed. “How very inventive of our Lord Devon.”

Gingridge shook his head, his double chin following a second behind. “What a scoundrel!”

“But such a handsome scoundrel,” murmured Lady Simmons. Still attractive at the age of forty-one, the widow drew many an admirer. Her reputation in the boudoir was well-deserved. It was well known that ten years past when Lord Devon was just a youth of twenty, Lady Simmons had taken him to her bed. It had shocked all of London society and set the young lord’s reputation when Lady Simmons later confided in a friend of hers– a notorious gossip– that there had been nothing she could teach the delicious boy. In fact, she had learned a few things herself.

Ginny had never met the infamous Lord Devon.

Nor did she wish to.

Indeed, he was the last person her uncle would allow her to come in contact with. A notorious rake and libertine, it seemed that all she ever heard at these gatherings was the scandal the man caused. Moreover, it had been going on for some time. Since she had been a young girl, actually.

She was faintly surprised he hadn’t been shot by an irate husband in some duel by now.

“Can you imagine the Duke having to pass his title and holdings on to that ne’er-do-well?” Lord Brock shook his head. “Must be killing the old fellow.”

Lord Gingridge shrugged fatalistically. “He is his heir. One can choose one’s friends, but not one’s heir, eh?”

“Good God, Ginny,” Henley whispered. “Is there no stopping him? Now Gingridge imagines he’s a philosopher!”

Ginny pinched his arm. He was going to make her laugh out loud again. She briefly glanced across the table catching her uncle’s eye. For some reason, he began to examine the tablecloth, refusing to meet her gaze.

How odd. Usually the Toad puts on a severe, squinting expression to stare at me disapprovingly.

Ginny’s attention was brought back to the conversation when someone mentioned changing the subject back to pirates, a perennial favorite, it appeared.

“Let’s do!” Agreed Lady Simmons.

“Oh, I beg not!” Lady Flumia wailed.

Her objection was overridden as Lord Slocum said, “I hear this Panther fellow has even secured the attention of the Queen.”

“How so?”

“It seems a gift to Her Majesty was being transported via one of the ships he had pillaged and then sank. The scoundrel actually had the audacity to send her the parcel along with a note apologizing for the untimely delay.”

“What impudence!” Sputtered Lord Brock.

“What gallantry!” Demurred Lady Simmons.

Gingridge placed his palms on the table, leaning forward, jowls red with righteous indignation. “If I were the Queen, I wouldn’t rest until justice had been metered out and the rogue hung!”

Henley– pretending not to have heard all of their host’s words– threw up his hands, in mock horror. In a high, nasally voice, he squealed, “Sink me! Gingridge is a queen!”

Everyone at the table– including Lord Gingridge–

roared with laughter.

* * *

The carriage ride back to Tareton Court was long and boring.

In the darkness Ginny stared broodingly at her uncle. He was snoring loudly in the corner seat, his head lolling back and forth with the sway of the coach like a ripe pumpkin caught in cross-breeze.

In her mind she could hear her father’s opinion of the man: ‘What is that toad doing in my home!’ That is what he would have bellowed. She recalled her father’s vibrant, commanding voice to this day and could well picture her mother running over to shush him up before he caused a scene.

The fact that her uncle had been in control of her inheritance for the past seven years was nothing more than a fluke. A fluke she had to endure. Jediah was not really her uncle. Not her blood uncle anyway. He was her mother’s stepbrother. Like a mismatched set of china one inherited but didn’t know what to do with, he had come with her grandfather’s second marriage. Her mother, being a kind and generous sort, looked past his obvious failings to welcome him into their familial home.

Her father had not proved so tolerant.

He had never liked Jediah and made no bones about it.

After marrying her mother, he had made it clear that while he would not prevent his wife from visiting or socializing with the Toad (as he called him) he was not welcome in his home. Over the years he had relented somewhat due to the entreaties of his softhearted wife and uncle had come to visit on the rare occasion.

Ginny had shared her father’s viewpoint. Uncle Jediah always seemed to be wanting something. Most often money.

Then her parents had been lost at sea.

Ginny blinked back tears as she remembered those pain-filled days when she realized that both parents were lost to her forever. They had been so young, so vibrant. So much alive.

They had taken a trip to see her grandfather, having heard that the elderly man was on his death bed. There had been an accident...

In one fell swoop, Ginny had lost everyone dear to her, for word came to her shortly after the news of her parents’ death that her grandfather, upon learning the fate of his beloved daughter and son-in-law, had quickly succumbed to his heart ailment.

In walks the Toad, Ginny remembered with a grimace.

She exhaled. Except for her parent’s marriage, what she had seen of the exalted state of wedded bliss was nothing more than indenture for a woman. An indenture one could never buy out of.

No, thank you.

Next year she would reach her majority and kick good ol’ Jediah out on his big, lazy rump! For her unconventional, wonderful father had done an unprecedented thing; he had willed control of the estate directly to her once she reached the age of twenty-one– provided she hires a reputable firm to help her administrate it.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to worry about marriage offers. Uncle made sure they were not forthcoming. He wanted to hold onto the reins for as long as he could and, therefore, would never consent to a betrothal knowing her husband would gain control of her funds.

Ginny smiled secretly. Jediah could have saved himself the trouble for she had no intention of ever marrying. And Uncle’s time was quickly running out.

All she had left to her now was her maid, Mabel, and dear Henley Henry– a distant relation at best, but a beloved one. Ginny didn’t know what she would do without her Lord Henry. Since they were children, it seemed he was always there when she needed a shoulder to cry on or a partner in mischief.

Henley. He led such an interesting life! All the fetes and soirees he attended, the people he met, the places he visited...!

She longed for nothing more than to be free to do as she chose, and she hungered to be a writer. A humorist of grand adventures. Oh, how she longed to travel and see exotic places... The China trade... The spice routes... Her eyes dilated, dreamily.

With the help of Lord Henry, she had already secretly published one article under the nome de plume Reggie Moore. Her first composition had been a witty observational essay regarding a young man’s first experience behind the closed doors of the male rite of post-dining port. The article was entitled, ‘Methinks I am a Man At Last.’

It had been a smashing success.

Mr. Swift, the newspaper owner, was already pressuring Lord Henry for additional ‘Methinks’

articles from his friend, Sir Reggie.

Which was all well and good but a writer needed grist for mill and Uncle Jediah was keeping her so close to home that the ability to observe her subject matter was being severely hampered. That first article had involved quite a bit of machination on both her part and Henley’s. Ginny first had to escape the ladies in the parlor by sneaking onto the balcony facing their host’s dining room. Then it was Henley's turn to make a great show of being too ‘warm’ as he opened the doors, letting fresh air in and their conversation out.

Worked like a charm, though. Without being in the room, she had been able to observe the entire experience and could write about it as someone partaking of the custom.

Ginny fumed. Her dear friend wasn’t held back by an overbearing uncle and the dictates of society! No, he enjoyed his life to the fullest.

Just one more year.

Why did it seem so interminable to her? If only she could have a little freedom! If only she could live more like Henley. If only...

She sat up straighter and blinked. It could work, she thought. I know it could!

Relaxing back into plush velvet cushions, Ginny grinned into the darkness as the coach-and-four clipclopped down the road. She had just had her first epiphany.

An outrageous idea had been born.

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The talk of pirates was long forgotten as I rode home in the carriage. I had no idea that the very topics discussed at Lord Gingridge's table would soon affect the narrow course of my life. A meeting was taking place that very night in a darkened corner of Portsmouth...

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Chapter Two

There he sat.

His bold shadow danced across a scarred wooden table in the flickering candlelight. As a portrait, it was well-captured. Dark and undefined.

He had chosen his spot with care that was obvious.

Hidden in the murky corner, he enjoyed a full view of every angle in the tavern. The shrewd positioning was not surprising, considering his keen reputation. Most likely the devil knew the exact placement of every person in the room as well.

The shadow slowly sipped at a thick mug of grog– as did the man. An unsettling image; as if the shadow were the man and the man his shadow. Neither deigned to look up as he approached; although ‘twas certain one of them was aware of the present company.

Nothing took this one by surprise, Creaze knew. No, not bloody him. “I see you got my message, Capt'n.”

The mug, clasped in a hand that was strong enough to lift a man by his throat several feet off his moorings, was lowered nonchalantly.

The bloke took his own good time acknowledging him.

Which was just as well.

For when those cold, catlike eyes fell on a body, well, they sliced you from stem to stern, laid you bare, read your innards, and found out your tainted places.

No adversary had ever stood beneath the judging strength of those eyes and lived long to tell the tale.

The fearsome pirate’s pale orbs glinted like twin blades slicing through the murky room.

The infamous man before him was named the scourge of the seven seas for fine reason. That reputation had been well-earned. Creaze knew that first hand. Had seen what he could do first hand.

He swallowed convulsively.

Dammit to hell, he was his own man now! Sailed under his own flag. He was a ruffian and a bully, a murderer and a back-stabbing thief; yet he still quaked under the Panther’s stony regard like a lad in knee pants.

Creaze knew that if he ever planned on crossing such a dangerous mate, proper timing– the where and when of it– was the crucial element of the thing.

This wasn’t that time.

But it would come.

Aye, it would.

The Panther was worth a lot of coin to the right party, and he intended to collect his due.

“Aye.” The Panther’s voice was low. Rather had a silky quality to it if one were foolish enough to miss the iron-hard undertone. The measure of the Panther’s command resonated through that smooth, almost friendly timbre.

Creaze recalled that the pirate rarely raised his voice to his crew. Never had to. The water dogs all leapt to do his bidding. He had always wondered what made the man tick.

“You might be a mite hospitable, Panther.”

The corners of the pirate captain’s mouth curled up slightly; he mockingly gestured to the slat back chair on the other side of the table.

Creaze gingerly took the proffered seat.

“Well?”

The one word prompt was enough. Willy Creaze knew he best be selling himself quick before the Panther up and left. Even in lawless, dockside parts of town such as this, pirates– especially ones with high prices on their heads– did not put any faith in staying in one place overly long.

Creaze motioned to the serving wench for a tankard of rum. “I figured mentioning the Lion’s name would flush you out from under your rock.”

The pirate’s eyes narrowed.

Willy quickly added, “So to speak, Panther.”

Oh, it was plain and clear the man detested Willy Creaze. Always had. Thought himself his better, he did. Believed in a certain code amongst pirates and ‘twas how he trained his own men.

Honor amongst thieves was naught but fairytale.

Willy scoffed at the toff-like notion. Cutthroats and scoundrels they all were! No matter how you dressed the fowl, it would flock the same.