The Admiral's Daughter

SUBMERGED SECRETS

What was the cause of the handsome and noble Lord Ramblay's callous cruelty toward all those around him, including Maggie Trevor?

What was the real identity of the ravishing Blanche Haversham, the toast of Regency society and the woman who claimed to be Maggie's best friend?

What was the true goal of dashing Captain Morrison, who gallantly guided Maggie through the hothouse jungle of the fashionable elite and was so close to winning her love?

Maggie was in over her pretty head in a whirlpool of mystery and deceit—and now only her heart could save her. . . .

THE ADMIRAL'S DAUGHTER

The Admiral's
Daughter

A Regency Classic

by Judith Harkness

 

Copyright © 1980 by Judith Harkness

“Woman Wearing short Cape and Parasol” from “La Belle Assemblee,” London, 1813. In the Public Domain (PD1923)

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, 55 Fifth Avenue, 15th Floor, New York, New York 10003.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Print ISBN: 978-0-7867-5508-0

eISBN: 978-0-7867-5509-7

Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

About the Author

One

THE HOUSE TAKEN
by Admiral Trevor and his daughter upon the famous old officer's retirement from active service had much to recommend it. Situated well up on a stretch of rising ground, it afforded an excellent prospect of the surrounding hills and of the gentle River Orre as it wound its placid way among the pleasant farmlands of Sussex. On the north a wall of ancient cypress protected it from winter wind and summer heat alike, and in the evening was full of the trilling of nightingales. The house had thirty rooms, and was just that combination of grandeur and comfort which an elderly man, having spent his life in the service of his country and his King, might have welcomed for the passage of his old age. The Admiral's study, a well-appointed apartment on the second floor, possessed a charming view of the grounds, and beyond, of the rolling hills and river. Here a man more fitted to such an occupation might have stood for hour upon end gazing out over his property and congratulating himself upon his good fortune in discovering so delightful a situation for his retirement.

But Admiral Trevor was no great lover of views, nor of any of the other amusements favored by country gentlemen. His days were passed in recording the details of his many victories over Napoleon's fleet, and in the year since he had removed from Portsmouth, scarcely a glance had been accorded either the view from his window or the shrubberies directly beneath it. It was astonishing, therefore, that on this fine, bright October morning, he should have been stationed before that very window for nearly half an hour, staring down into the labyrinth of hedges below. On his handsome, fierce old countenance was a glower not unlike the one once said to have frightened a whole school of pirate ships off his bow without any aid
of cannon. The little mutterings and sounds which now and then issued from his throat were further proof that the sight of the earth, just beginning to be touched with gold and crimson, afforded him no joy at all.

The Admiral was not a man to hide his presence. By dint of courage and strategic brilliance he had risen from a penniless ensign to the highest rank in His Majesty's Navy without benefit of either friends or family; after a lifetime of command, he was hardly one to be found cringing before his own window in his own house. And yet the Admiral's huge frame did seem to be enfolded in the window draperies, and looked for all the world as if he was desirous of concealment. A guilty look now and then passed over his face, making a very comical effect in combination with the great shaggy gray eyebrows, the ruddy weathered jowls, and hawklike proboscis. For some time now his face had been working with emotion—whether from anger or distress it was difficult to discern—and when his great hammy fist was raised as if to smash through the leaded windowpane, the extent of his feeling was evident.

“Idiot!” he fairly choked. “Dyspeptic young coxcomb! Reminds me of a colicky sheep.” “By God!” he muttered suddenly, an idea causing him to leave the protection of the draperies and press his nose almost against the chilly glass. “By God, I hope she ain't encouraging him!”

A mirthless laugh hinted at the absurdity of this notion, but the terrified look did not leave his eyes at once.

To the disinterested observer, it might indeed have seemed that the Admiral's worst fears were justified. Directly beneath the spot where he had positioned himself for better observation, a scene was being enacted which might have softened a less cynical heart. There, walking among the neatly pruned hedges was what any casual observer might understandably have taken to be a pair of lovers. The young gentleman of the pair was waving his arms about in a most eloquent fashion. He was an ungainly looking fellow, whose extreme height and thinness forced him to bend nearly double to address his companion. His face was long and thin and pale, his eyes too small, and his mouth too large. His appearance was not much improved by an ill-fitting jacket and pair of trousers which, though evidently new, displayed more attention on the
tailor's part to speed than elegance. His companion, whose expression was hidden from view by a very comely bonnet of forest green (a cloak of the same shade being flung about her shapely shoulders), appeared to be immersed in an examination of her slippers. Just at this moment, however, she lifted her gaze to the young man's face and a look of intense pain was visible in her expressive hazel eyes. The corners of her mouth were twitching slightly.

The Admiral, however, was prevented by distance from seeing this minor point of his daughter's attitude, and when he saw her mouth open slightly, as if to say something, and the young man, ignoring her, break forth into an even more violent seizure of waving arms and eloquent glances at the sky, he could contain himself no longer.

“Good God, Maggie!” he burst out, heedless of the fact that he was now standing in clear view of the pair below, “make him stop! If you encourage him at all, he shall never have done! What! Ain't it enough that we must all be subjected to his pedantic sermons every Sabbath, without his haunting the very house and grounds? By Jove, is this what I brought you to the country for? So that you might be plagued by the attentions of a knavish curate?”

A sound—half growl, half groan—followed this speech, and the Admiral, seeing that his breath had fogged up the windowpane, made an ineffectual swipe at the glass with his handkerchief. The effort seemed too much for him, however, and turning away with every appearance of a man defeated, he went to his desk. The memory of the curate's unctuous expression, however, lingered for some while longer in his mind.

“There's nothing for it, my dear,” he muttered to himself after a moment. “I'd as soon see you dragged and quartered as subjected to that imbecile's company another day.”

So saying, the Admiral lowered himself into an armchair and taking pen and paper from amid the heap of notes and documents upon his desk, commenced to write a letter.

It is unfortunate the Admiral had chosen just this moment to turn away, for had he remained a little longer, he would have been privy to a drastic change in the scene below. Mr. Wayland—for such was the curate's name—had
been holding forth for the better part of half an hour without pause. His speech, rehearsed that very morning before his glass, had included all those graceful metaphors and references which the young man had culled from his readings upon the subject of love. The clergyman had a very high opinion of his own eloquence, however, and had taken certain liberties with some passages. One, in particular, which had struck him upon reading it as very pretty, having to do with a young lady's likeness to a summer's day, had had to be altered to allow for the actual time of year and to make space for one of Wayland's favorite themes, a variation of one used often in his sermons.

“Beautious creature!” he had cried out, as soon as he had been received and a walk among the shrubberies suggested. “Delightful, charming vision! So like in every aspect the dawn of a fair autumn morning! Walking across the meadow from the vicarage, I imagined you, tending your lovely rose garden, so like an angel! The clarity and sweetness of your expression is exactly what I imagine the Virgin Mary must have worn when she was approached by the Angel Gabriel! So like a saint in the way you devote yourself to your father's comfort. Ah, what a blessing it would be to have so solicitous a hand upon my own brow!”

“But I assure you, Mr. Wayland,” Miss Trevor had interjected here, in an astonished voice, “that my father has very seldom the benefit of my hand upon his brow! And while you are very kind, I doubt I bear any resemblance whatsoever to either the Angel Gabriel or any other saint. I am afraid I am not the least bit saintlike—as indeed you ought yourself to know. Save for wishing most earnestly that I could be better, I am afraid few girls are less saintly than myself.” As if in an afterthought, she added, “And roses are not in season any more, you know.”

Mr. Wayland suppressed his annoyance at this interruption, which seemed to him to have little to do with the point of his speech. With a coy expression, he begged to contradict her.

“You do yourself a great injustice, my dear Miss Trevor. Allow me, a man of God, to say that I have seldom known a more virtuous young lady in all my life. Why, did not you nurse poor farmer Drummond's lady back to health with your own sweet hand? I think you are really too modest!”

“I did send her a leg of mutton now and then while she was ill, and visited her as often as I could. But as to bringing her back to health—why, I think the surgeon must be thanked for that!”

Once more the curate was forced to suppress his real feelings and said with a great effort at patience, “Ah! This is just the kind of modesty I like! Most young ladies would have taken credit for everything themselves. But you—
you,
Miss Trevor, have such a keen devotion to the truth, and are so exceedingly modest, that you will not be thought better of than you deserve. Even, I should say, than you
think
you deserve, though others may disagree!”

Mr. Wayland, however, was not one of these. He had very little belief in Maggie Trevor's saintliness, and no desire to continue an argument with her upon the subject. As to her maidenly modesty and devotion to the truth, he heartily wished she had less of it, for it was continually causing him irritation. Try as he might to flatter her, she would not listen, but only stared at him with those clear eyes in a way that suggested she either did not understand, or did not wish to. If he paid her a compliment, she would instantly turn it around, which made him appear foolish, and to appear foolish was the curate's greatest dread. Had it not been for his acute desire to advance himself, Mr. Wayland would certainly never have subjected himself to the humiliation which his courtship had entailed.

The curate was not a man of huge perception, but in the matter of his own career, he was cleverness itself. Early in his life he had determined to be a member of the clergy, for it seemed to him that calling could best satisfy his constant urge to hear his own voice, and (presuming everyone else on earth loved the sound as dearly as he) he was desirous of increasing his audience. He wished, besides, to succeed someday to a bishopric, and with the same vanity which made him believe he was superior to other mortals, he had little doubt of one day securing one. Yet he was now two and thirty, and still held a living in a minor parish of Sussex. He was without family or influential friends, and possessed only those personal attributes herein described. Even Mr. Wayland understood that if he was to advance himself, he must have some aid from others.