The Captain (12 page)

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Authors: Lynn Collum

BOOK: The Captain
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“That won't be necessary. I still owe you a debt. You must give me time to think.”
But Jacinda didn't want him to think. “We want to return to Town—” she pushed past him, but the captain reached out and grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him.
He shook her, more to make his point than to hurt her, but his words were angry. “Did you not hear me? Don't be in such a rush. I owe you a debt and I fully intend to pay that debt, be it to a lad or a female. Stop being so pigheaded and listen. You won't go until we have—”
Suddenly a dark shape hurtled out of the woods. It slammed into Captain Morrow, knocking him to the ground. It was Ben, with a broom in his hands that he wielded like a weapon. He stood between the man and the woman and railed, “I won't let you hurt Jacinda!”
The name seemed to echo in the woods for a moment.
The captain sat up. “Jacinda!” A dawning look came over his features. “You are Jacinda Blanchett?” His gaze roved over her face and he seemed unable to connect that sickly child with the young woman before him.
Jacinda closed her eyes. How could she be mad at Ben? He'd only tried to defend her, but the masquerade was up, at least as far as the captain was concerned.
Captain Morrow stood and Ben raised the broom handle. “I won't let you kill her.”
“Kill her? Good God, lad, what would make you think I wanted to kill her? I've been looking for her so I can marry her.”
“To get her money.”The lad's eyes glowed with anger.
“No, Ben. Does it look as if I need someone's money? I own the
Flying Dragon,
I'm not a cursed fortune hunter.” The anger in the gentleman's eyes matched the boy's.
Ben cast a befuddled look at Jacinda, then back at the captain. “Seth said the villagers think you were involved in her father's murder.”
“I was onboard a ship in Bristol by five o'clock on that dreadful day. I didn't know any of this until I returned from Calcutta two weeks ago.” He looked from the lad to Jacinda. “Miss Blanchett, I swear to you I know nothing of your father's murder.” A frown settled on his face. “Is that why you came back to Somerset with me? To look for your father's killer?”
Jacinda hesitated a moment, then gave a nod of her head.
“Have you taken leave of your senses? You are more likely to get yourself killed than to learn anything.” He took a step towards her, and this time Ben didn't offer any threat.
There was genuine concern in the captain's eyes. It warmed her heart. “Not if everyone thinks I'm just your gardener. Only you and I and Ben will know the truth if you let me continue in my role.”
“And Martha,” Ben reminded.
“Who is Martha?” Morrow looked from the boy to Jacinda.
“My mother's maid. That was who I was speaking with at Chettwood this afternoon.” Seeing the doubt in the gentleman's face she added, “She can be trusted, sir, she has known me for years. She will tell us what is happening there.”
The captain shook his head, but whether from shock that she'd gone to her old home or to refuse her request to remain as the gardener was unclear. Before he could speak, Ben urged, “Please, sir. She deserves to be back at Chettwood Manor where she rightfully belongs, and it won't be safe unless the killer has been captured. Let us stay here while we look for the villain.”
Drew Morrow looked from one pleading face to another. How could he allow this gently bred slip of a girl to continue to do manual labor in his gardens? Yet, how could he subject her to the danger that would be hers if she returned to Chettwood with her father's killer still out there and presumably still wanting her dead? There had to be another way. He was torn as to what to do. He'd had the very woman he needed right under his nose for a week and had had no clue.
Still for the present, he had her here, and she was willing to stay as long as he continued to allow her to pretend to be a gardener. If he tried to force her back into skirts, she would likely run and everything would be back to the old stalemate.
“Very well, you may continue as you are until we come up with a better plan. But,” he held up his finger to silence their protests, “I want your promise not to return to Chettwood alone. It's too dangerous.”
There was rebellion in Jacinda's hazel eyes, but after a moment's contemplation the look faded. “Very well, I promise.”
The glen was growing dark so Drew ordered, “Go back to the cottage before you catch your death of cold, Miss Blanchett. We'll discuss matters in the morning. Ben, take care of her.”
There was an angry spark in the lady's eyes. It was obvious she was not used to being the one taken care of, but she offered no response. She walked up the path, her head held high and her back ramrod-stiff.
“I'll do that, captain.” The lad saluted Drew and followed after Jacinda.
 
 
“Lord Rowland wishes to see you at once, sir.” Clark, the valet, bowed and left the dining room.
Drew, lost in thought about having discovered Jacinda Blanchett under his very nose, blinked and looked about. He'd barely touched his supper. Lady Rowland had dined and left without so much as a word to him. Despite his efforts to try and be polite, theirs was not a friendly relationship. Perhaps she'd taken offence at all the missed meals but, in truth, he'd been too busy with estate matters to think about food. She'd resorted to a rather frosty silence, which he couldn't deny he preferred to her incessant criticism.
Much of his evening had been spent pondering how he'd been so blind. There had been moments over the course of the past week that he'd though “Jack” a rather delicate boy, but never had he questioned the lad's gender. Perhaps it was because there were too many such fragile lads in the teeming masses of most large cities, who were ill-fed or sickly to make one suspect a willowy boy with a pretty face was anything other than what he professed to be.
That, and the fact that Miss Blanchett made a rather plucky lad. She'd helped with their rescue from the Press Gang, endured the mad dash through the streets of London, and survived the terrors of the warehouse roof. Who would have ever suspected game young Jack to be the fragile child they'd all last seen eight years earlier?
The problem was what to do with her while they figured out the mystery of who wanted her dead. Logic told him that the murderer had to be someone after her fortune; this was why so many people suspected him and his father. He knew himself innocent and was fairly certain his father was as well, for there was no profit for them with Blanchett and his daughter gone. Which meant he could concentrate on her relatives. His thoughts returned to the tea he'd attended that afternoon.
Mrs. Devere, Giles, Mrs. Tyne, and the cousin, Miss Markham, had been present. Mrs. Tyne had been polite but openly flirtatious while her mother questioned him about his successes in Calcutta. Devere had been sullen and resentful, but whether because of his sister's immodest conduct or some grievance with Drew was uncertain. Only Miss Markham had greeted him with hostility. She seemed to blame him for the catastrophe that had befallen the family, and she'd barely spoken with him throughout his visit. She'd even rebuffed his request for information on the search for her missing cousin. Somehow he couldn't see sending Jack—no, Miss Blanchett—back into that house.
But he couldn't leave her out in the gardener's cottage while they searched for the truth. That could take months and, like Ben, Drew knew she deserved to be back in her rightful place or at least someplace safe and appropriate—which the gardener's cottage wasn't. But bringing her into the manor house here at the Park might cause even more speculation about his father and him if the truth were discovered.
Drew was at standstill. The long clock in the hall chimed the hour of eight, reminding him that his father was waiting and it was getting late. The summons was something of a surprise, for he'd not heard a word from the old gentleman despite the fact that he'd daily informed Clark of what was happening with the estate in the hopes the servant would convey the information to his father. It was an inspiration that had come to him on the first night after seeing how defeated the baron had seemed. The old gentleman's desk had been full of notes for improvements that the former bailiff had left but that his father had vetoed, mostly due to lack of funds. But it occurred to him that some of the refusals were due merely to the gentleman's resistence to change. What better way to get his father's blood up than to institute all the changes that he'd previously forbidden. In fact, most of them had seemed good modernization methods for the property.
Drew rose from the dining room and hurried up the stairs to his father's rooms. He knocked and entered to find the chamber well lit that evening. He hoped that was a good sign.
His father was sitting up against a stack of pillows, the
London Times
folded on the blanket beside him. The color on his face was much improved, but whether from recovering health or from a great deal of ire at his interfering heir was unclear. Either one was a good sign.
“Good evening, sir. You are looking in much better curl.”
“No thanks to you.” The old man's eyes blazed as they locked on his son. “What is this nonsense about building a new fence along the Wells road? And putting new roofs on
all
the tenant cottages. Why, that will cost a king's ransom.”
Drew resisted the urge to smile. Despite what his father had declared, he still cared about the estate and its expenses. “The fence, sir, has tumbled down in five or six places. Over ten sheep were lost the last year before Clifton disposed of the herd for you. It's in the ledgers. As to the cottages, they are unfit to let until they have been refurbished and all but two are vacant. We mustn't allow all that fallow ground to go unfarmed, sir. It's the lifeblood of the estate.”
A slender hand plucked at the covers a moment, then the baron grunted. “And you've funds enough to make these changes without borrowing the ready?”
“I do, sir.”
Lord Rowland settled back into his pillows. His face held a hint of pride at his son's accomplishment. “Tell me about your life since you went away.”
Drew pulled a straight-backed chair to the side of the bed and settled himself. He spoke for some thirty minutes, neither sugar-coating the hard times nor inflating the successes. He merely told a tale. At last, he got to the point where he had been pressed in London and rescued by Jack, then to his return home.
The old gentleman sat in silence for a moment, then said, “I'm not saying it wasn't hard, Andrew, but if I'd had half as much luck as you, I'd not be in my current straitened circumstances.”
Drew stared at his father a long time. It suddenly dawned on him that the baron was one of those men who thought life depended on luck and not on hard work and initiative. His belief in luck was perhaps the thing that made him a hardened gamester. Work was for others, not for titled gentlemen. Drew had learned long ago that one wasn't likely to change a man's philosophy or beliefs. Very often only time and learning from one's mistakes firsthand could do that, and even then not always, as his father had proven. Lord Rowland believed in luck and would likely continue to game until his dying day. He couldn't change that part of his father. He could only help him regain his health, hopefully.
An idea flashed in Drew's head. “Father, there is something I would discuss with you.”
Rowland's brows grew flat. “A bit late to be asking my opinion on anything. What do you want to know?”
“I have discovered the location of Miss Blanchett, and—”
The old gentleman sat up, there was a spark of interest in his eyes. “The sickly child is alive?”
“
Miss Blanchett
is alive and she is nether sickly nor a child, sir. The problem is that her circumstances are not good. Yet, I'm not fool enough to return her home and think she'd be safe.” Drew watched his father's face. There was no guilt there; only excitement that the terms of the betrothal might at last be fulfilled and the monies paid. It was rather disillusioning to find that his father wasn't a better man. At least it enforced his belief the gentleman hadn't been involved in the plot to murder Jacinda's father.
Lord Rowland reached out and grabbed his son's hand in a surprising strong grip. “You must marry the chit at once, Andrew.”
Drew's heart plummeted. When he'd first determined to come back, deep inside, he'd hoped he wouldn't be forced to fulfill the terms of the betrothal agreement. The document the solicitor had shown him stated that if Miss Blanchett wished she could refuse the marriage. Then his mind settled on the hazel eyes that had stared up at him at the glen, of the full, kissable mouth and the firm breasts outlined by the muslin wrap while she'd stood in the pool with the water cascading off her porcelain skin. Something stirred in him. Great heavens, he'd known she was a woman for barely two hours and already he was lusting after her. Would such a marriage be so bad? He might not love her but at least he admired her spirit. He was glad she was no longer the frail child he remembered, for this Miss Blanchett stirred his blood.

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