The Ransom (33 page)

The pirates’ faces twisted as they pondered this new revelation.

Gaining Alex’s attention, Jonas nodded toward the frigate—clearly Nichols’s ship, HMS
Vipe
r—which was nigh upon the merchant brig.

And far too close to them now.

“Then let’s have that vote, shall we?” Bracing his boots on the rocking deck, Alex fisted hands at his waist and waited for the pirates to realize they had lost their chance to take the merchantman and escape. One by one, their gazes drifted aloft and one by one their eyes widened until finally they sprang into the shrouds. Larkin—after casting a seething look toward Alex—began braying orders to hoist all sail.

♥♥♥

Something sharp pounded through Rowan’s head, like the galloping of a dozen horses. Horses with spikes on their shoes, apparently. He moaned and attempted to push himself up from the settee onto which he’d fallen late last night. Or had it been morning?

“I asked you a question, sir.”

Rowan held up a hand at the hazy form of Captain Nichols, who had suddenly appeared before him—disturbing a rather pleasant dream of a tryst with two doxies. “Please lower your voice, Captain. No need to shout.”

“I’m not shouting, you fool.” The captain frowned. “You’re drunk.”

Nay, if Rowan was drunk, his head wouldn’t be splitting and his stomach wouldn’t feel like he’d consumed a keg of sour milk. He belched, the smell confirming his suspicion about his stomach. “To my utter dismay, I fear I am not drunk, Captain, but do give me a minute.” Shoving to his feet, he ignored the spinning room and stumbled to the cupboard, where a decanter of rum sat sparkling in a ray of afternoon sun angling through the windows.

He tossed a glassful to the back of his mouth. “Ah …” The pungent liquid spiraled through him, untying knots where knots ought not be and numbing places that were too painful to consider. For the past two weeks—or had it been three?—Rowan had dwelt in a murky world of cards, rum, and women: the only alternative to facing the death of his father along with the mounting responsibilities left him for the welfare of his sister and Dutton Shipping.

“What has you in such a pother, Nichols?”

“What has me in a pother? I’ll tell you. It’s that infernal Pirate Earl. Do you recall the trap we set for him with one of your ships?”

Rowan searched his memory, dull as it was. “Ah yes. The rumors we spread about the dowry on board.”

“Yes, that one. Does your curiosity not demand to know what happened?”

Rowan opened his mouth to inform the man that his curiosity had been sated with rum, but Nichols proceeded with his tirade as he took up a pace before the window. “He protected your ship.”

Rowan poured another drink and lumbered back to his seat, unsure he heard the man correctly. “Protected?”

“Can you believe it? I certainly wouldn’t have, unless I’d seen it with my own eyes.” Sunlight gleamed off Nichols’s white periwig as, with hands clenched behind his back, he made good work of the rug before the window. “He protected your brig from another pirate intent on taking her. And then proceeded to sail away, leaving her be.”

“Astonishing.” Rowan’s chuckle faltered on his lips beneath Nichols’s glare. He sipped his drink, relishing in the sudden apathy that swept through his brain, dulling his pain with it. “Seems your Pirate Earl has outwitted you once again.”

“Don’t be absurd. He has no more wits than morals.” Nichols’s face reddened. “Nay, there is something else afoot.” Halting, he tapped his chin. “Why would a pirate not capture prey?”

“Mayhap he was tired.”

Nichols’s look of disgust could melt iron.

Rowan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He must have spotted you.”

“He had plenty of time, I tell you. Plenty of time! Nay, there is something going on here, and I intend to discover what it is.” Nichols stormed toward Rowan and took a seat in a chair, leaning toward him. “In the meantime, what have you learned about Lord Munthrope? Or have you found time to pull away from your
affair d’coeur
with rum and gambling to earn your pay?”

Rowan frowned. He was going to need another drink if the man didn’t leave soon. “I’ve done as you asked, but there’s naught to learn. The man is simply who he appears to be: the wealthy son of an earl squandering his father’s fortune on high living. Besides, he hasn’t appeared in society for nigh three weeks. Every time I called upon him, he was not home. Nor has anyone in society seen him. He was neither at the Chilling’s Tea nor the Bedford Soiree, nor the play at Chaucers. His butler merely says His Lordship is busy with business.”

“Business? What business?”

“How should I know? Mayhap something of his father’s.”

“His father was a”—Nichols froze, a tiny smile forming on his impervious lips—“pirate.” He grabbed his tricorne from the table and started for the foyer. Halting at the door, he glanced up the grand staircase. “I don’t suppose your sister is home?”

“I have no idea.”

“Your butler said she wasn’t, but I haven’t seen her in quite some time.” Nichols gazed at him suspiciously. “Nor your father, for that matter. Odd.”

His headache worsening, Rowan took another sip of rum and struggled to rise. “The whereabouts of my family is none of your business, Captain. And though I marvel at your concern, I assure you they are both well.”

“Humph.” Nichols assessed him for a moment, then slapped his hat atop his head. “Then I bid you good day.”

“What of my pay?” Rowan held out a hand. “You promised me ten shillings a week.”

Nichols snorted. “For what? You’ve produced nothing of value. We’ve not caught the Pirate Earl nor have you dug up any skullduggery on Lord Munthrope. Our deal is off, sir. And might I make a suggestion?”

Rowan would rather he not, especially after hearing he was completely and utterly destitute once again.

“Clean yourself up, man. Do away with this roistering and assist your father with the family business. Or better yet, join His Majesty’s Navy. Make something of yourself. This idle dissipation is no way to live.”

Rowan’s glare followed Nichols out the door. His idle dissipation was a far better way to live than slaving one’s life away at hard labor only to die young and leave it all behind. As both his parents had done.

Or perchance Rowan was simply what his father had always claimed—a useless sot.

♥♥♥

Juliana gestured toward the stone bench in her mother’s garden. “Won’t you have a seat, Lord Munthrope?”

“I wish you’d call me Munny, sweetums, like all my friends.” Sunlight dappled glitter over his beribboned sleeves as he twirled, arms lifted, and promptly took a seat.

“And I wish you’d call me Miss Juliana, as is proper.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Not for my betrothed.”

Turning her back to him, Juliana dipped her nose to her mother’s heliotrope and breathed in the sweet vanilla scent. If only for the courage to ask what she must of this foppish man. “But ours is not a true engagement, milord, now, is it?” She spun to face him, her skirts brushing against a nearby shrub. “Otherwise you would have answered my many urgent requests to see you these past three weeks.”

His dark brows rose, lifting the silly horse patch atop his right eye. “I came as soon as I could, mil—Miss Juliana.” His frown held regret as he suddenly stood, flipped the long curls of his periwig over his shoulder, and took her hand in his. “I am here now.” He leaned to gaze into her eyes, surprising her with how blue his were—deep blue like the sea, yet with specks of gray that glimmered with concern.

He pulled her down to the bench and sat beside her, still gripping her hand, running his thumb over the tops of her fingers. Odd, but his skin felt rough and scratchy. So unlike the hands of a man who lazed about town.

“Something has happened.” He peered at her again. “Pray, what has you so vexed?”

Juliana swallowed, absorbing the strength of his touch—the strength that oddly surrounded the capricious man—and desperately longed for someone to lean on, someone to trust. But he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him. Just like everyone else. “I had hoped to acquire your help, milord, with a personal matter.” She looked down.

“Anything. I will do anything you ask of me.” His voice caught, momentarily plunging into baritone. She raised her gaze to his, squinting at the sun reflected off the white paste on his face, off the glitter in his periwig and the satin cravat bounding beneath his chin.

But his eyes … his eyes held a strength, a conviction, an intensity he rarely revealed. They reminded her of someone … Nay. She nearly laughed. A foolish notion.

A bird landed on a branch above his head and began a cheerful tune, drawing both their gazes and a smile to his lips. “You see, sweetums, even the bird wishes to bring you good cheer.” His voice raised an octave once again.

“I fear there’s nothing to be done.” Juliana drew back her hand, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She prided herself on being strong, being capable. In her world, there was no time for self-pity. Not when she had a business to run and a family to provide for. Regardless, sitting in the garden with her mother’s love surrounding her and this man’s genuine concern, a single rebellious tear slipped its lashy perch and slid down her cheek.

Raising his hand, Munthrope wiped it away with a calloused thumb as a rare seriousness came over him. She did not wish to be pitied. She rose and strolled to a gardenia bush, turning her back to him, collecting her wayward emotions.

“This was my mother’s garden. She spent many hours here.”

“La. I can see why. ’Tis lovely. And peaceful.” She heard him move behind her. “You miss her.”

Juliana fingered a leaf, still fighting back tears. “More than you know.” The air felt as thick and heavy as her heart. Perspiration slid down her back. She had brought this man here to ask his help, but now she feared ’twas not wise. For all appearances he seemed capricious and whimsical, not someone worthy of her trust. Yet … something in his eyes, in his presence, set her at ease. Oh, fie! What to do?

She spun on her heels. “Lord Munthrope. Do you have access to a grave?”

The man, who had inched behind her, leapt back in surprise. “A grave?” He gave a humorless laugh. “For whom, my pet?”

“Someone who has died, of course.” She stared at him, hesitating. “Someone who needs to be laid to rest.”

He ran a finger and thumb down the sides of his mouth and looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “A grave is no difficulty. The family has but to go to the city council and purchase a plot at the Palisadoes. Not someone close to you I hope?”

“I can’t go to the council.” She batted away a bug. “I must bury this person in secret.”

“Indeed.” One brow cocked. “Now you have me worried, sweetums. You didn’t murder someone, did you?”

Juliana wove around him, in no mood for jokes. “Don’t be absurd!”

“Then, who is it?”

“Milord, can I trust you?” She turned to face him, wringing her hands. “I mean, can I
truly
trust you?”

He studied her a moment, his brow darkening, his eyes searching hers. “If you would do me the honor of that trust, milady.”

The sincerity in his tone sank her to the bench. “’Tis my father.” Saying it out loud brought the tears back, this time shamelessly streaming down her face.

He moved toward her, and a handkerchief fluttered in her vision. Grabbing it, she wiped her cheeks.

“My utmost condolences, Miss Juliana. ’Tis a tragedy not to be borne alone.”

“If word gets out …” she sobbed. “I will lose everything and be tossed onto the streets.”

“There, there, now.” He sat beside her. “That will never happen.” Circling an arm around her shoulder, he drew her close. She buried her nose in his silk doublet, drawing in the scent of rose and cinnamon that always accompanied him. Her tears flowed freely as he rubbed her back. Beneath the preened layers of fluff, his chest felt firm, not fleshy, his arm as thick and sturdy as a pole.

For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. And cared for.

“Where is your fa—where is he?” he finally said.

“In a sealed coffin in his bedchamber.” She hiccupped.

“I’ll make the arrangements this afternoon.” He nudged her back, gripped her shoulders, and gave her a look of assurance. And, oddly, authority. “Be ready at midnight.”

She sniffed and drew the handkerchief to her nose. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Lud, my pet. You do use me poorly.” He tsked, then grew serious. “Nay, no one will ever know.” He took her hand in his. “What about your father’s shipping business?”

“It is well and not your concern.” She didn’t mean to sound curt, but the less the man knew, the better. Though, she could tell from the look in his eyes he understood the situation well enough. Thankfully, he intruded no further.

“You have naught to fear from me, Miss Juliana. Mum’s the word.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, milord.”

“Pshaw, ’tis nothing. I could use a little intrigue to spice up my life. Besides, we are friends, are we not?” He eased a finger down her jaw.

Were they? Where once Juliana thought him a selfish peacock, now she wondered at the lengths he went to please her. To help her. When it benefited him naught. She’d witnessed his charity as well. And despite his ridiculous attire and flamboyant gestures, she found herself drawn to him, even enjoying his company. “Yes, we are friends, Lord Munthrope.”