The Ransom (7 page)

Yet despite the lady’s strength, she seemed to bear the weight of the world upon her delicate shoulders. Finally she faced him, cynicism in her eyes.

“What is it you want, milord?”

“Want?” His voice came out too low. He coughed into his hand, forcing it higher. “Rather, Miss Juliana, you should be asking what I can give.”

She merely stared at him.

“Can I be forthright?” He set his cane atop the seat while he rested a hand on his silk breeched knee.

“I do not know, can you?” she returned with a lifted brow.

Munthrope hid his smile. “I could not help but notice you were—how shall I say—not entirely receptive to Captain Nichols’s advances.”

Her lips tightened. “I don’t see how—”

“I know the man.” Munthrope withdrew a handkerchief and waved it in the air. “He will not give up. He will pursue you until you give in to him out of sheer exhaustion.”

“You do me a discredit, milord, if you find me so weak.”

“On the contrary, I hate to see such a strong woman abused.”

The carriage pitched, and she gripped the seat. “I can handle the captain.”

“But why endure the struggle?” He leaned forward, tossing the curls of his blasted periwig over his shoulder. “Why not put an end to this annoying insect?”

The carriage lurched to a stop before her house. She hesitated, staring out the window at her home. “What do you propose?”

His footman, leapt down to open the door, but Munthrope waved him off. “A betrothal to me, Miss Juliana.”

♥♥♥

Fie, she knew she shouldn’t have allowed the fop to bring her home. Huffing at his impertinence, she reached for the door. “Good night, milord.”

He touched her hand. “Not a real betrothal, of course. A charade. A pretense to keep Nichols at bay until he sets his sights on another lady.”

She hesitated, studying him, but his eyes were lost to her in the shadows. A cloud of his perfume—a mixture of cinnamon and rose—enveloped her. Nearly gagging, she opened the door and attempted to step from the carriage, refused the footman’s hand, and tripped on her voluminous skirts.

Munthrope grabbed her elbow and settled her. How had he leapt from the carriage so fast when he’d seemed unable to dance a minuet without bumbling?

He released her arm. She felt his eyes pierce her. He stood so close—much closer than at the party—and she hadn’t realized how tall he was, how unsettled she felt in his presence. She took a step back. “And just what does this charade entail?” she said, mainly to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Begad. Nothing untoward, I assure you.” He raised a hand in the air, returning to his foppish stance, which did much to allay her fears. “I propose only that you allow me to escort you to society’s functions, accept my protection once there, and join me in an occasional stroll through town as required to satisfy flapping tongues.”

She watched him adjust the ribbons at his cuffs. Protection, indeed. Should they ever be accosted, no doubt he’d be the one screaming in the corner while she fought off the villains. How could she court, even in pretense, a man whom she found so fluff-headed and effeminate?

“I mean no disrespect, milord, but I am not”—she bit her lip and studied the way moonlight made the scarlet hibiscus lining her walkway look like blood—“I simply do not wish to …” Fie, how could she best put this?

“Engage yourself to me?” He chuckled. “’Twould that other ladies in town were of the same mind. I grow weary of their attentions.” He gave a sigh.

His vanity annoyed her. “Oh you poor man.” She turned to leave, but he caught her elbow.

“I chose you precisely because you’ve made your disinterest in me quite clear. Believe me, the last thing I desire is to marry. Nay, ’twould be like caging a wild falcon.” He twirled a lock of his white periwig and gazed up at the night sky. “And this falcon is having far too much fun flying free.”

“So the lion that turned into a sheep has now become a falcon. Soon we will have an entire jungle full of animals at our disposal.”

She thought she saw one side of his mouth curve upward. Still, she didn’t trust him. What possible benefit would this charade be to him? Moonlight shifted over his powdered face and landed on the small patch of a horse above his right eye. “If you wish to be free, be free, milord. Betrothing yourself to me would only hinder that.” A breeze fluttered the filigree lace at his collar as a bell clanged in the distance.

His expression grew serious even as an intensity claimed his eyes. “In truth, I must satisfy my father, the Earl of Clarendon.” He stomped his walking cane on the stone pathway. “He insists I choose a wife soon, or he threatens to bring me the first she-devil he finds in London.”

Juliana nodded, still hesitant. “Word of our espousal would stay his hand.”

“For the time being. So you see,” He held her gaze, “my proposal ’twould benefit us both.”

Her front door creaked open, sending a river of light onto the uneven stones. Mr. Abbot appeared, lantern in hand. “Miss Dutton, are you all right?”

“Yes, Abbot, thank you. A moment please.” She returned her attention to Lord Munthrope as Abbot remained in the entryway. Though she was anxious to hear the butler’s report of the day’s business, Munthrope’s proposal was not without appeal. How wonderful to be relieved of Nichols’s persistence. She could far better keep her business a secret without his constant meddling—without
any
suitors coming around. In addition, a betrothal with Munthrope would surely satisfy her brother and keep his schemes to see her wed at bay. And if Munthrope was telling the truth, he would require nothing more than making appearances in society, which she was forced to do anyway.
If
he was telling the truth. But why would he lie? What purpose would it serve? He could have his pick of any lady on the island, yet he chose the one who wanted nothing to do with him.

An insect hovered near his face. Shrieking, he leapt back, withdrew a handkerchief, and swatted it away. “Dreadful beasts.”

Juliana couldn’t help but chuckle. If anything, the man’s company would be entertaining.

He contained himself and handed the handkerchief to his footman. “If you would favor me with your answer, Miss Juliana?”

Chapter 6

Munthrope awaited her answer with more anticipation than he cared to admit. Finally the lady raised her gaze to his, wiggled her pert little nose and said, “I agree, milord.”

Before the lovely swan floated away, Munthrope raised her hand to his lips, wishing it was bare skin he touched rather than silk gloves.

She tugged it away. “I agree to a masquerade, milord—one in which you take no liberties.”

“Ah, but the masquerade must be convincing, does it not? Pray, a simple kiss on the hand is to be expected.” Though now, as a swath of light from her servant’s lantern alighted upon her moist lips, Munthrope longed to do more.

“In public, only, milord. We’ve no need for pretense otherwise.” She raised a brow before gathering her skirts and starting for the steps to her house.

“I do not gainsay it, Miss Juliana.” He smiled. “However, surely I should speak with your father. To ask for your hand? Will he not suspect otherwise?”

Halting, she faced him. A nervous flicker appeared in her eyes. “What need of it when ’tis naught but a sham. I shall speak to him.”

Munthrope dipped his head and started for his carriage, longing to extend the conversation with this enchanting woman. The footman opened the door. Munthrope spun back around, swinging his raised arms through the air. “Begad, we should announce our betrothal. Host a party. At my house, Saturday next. I’ll send out the cards.”

“Very well, milord.” Her mumble was devoid of enthusiasm as she exchanged an anxious glance with her butler. “Good eve to you, milord.”

“Good night, milady.” He forgot himself momentarily and his voice deepened. Twirling around, he entered the carriage with as much aplomb as he could stomach to cover the mistake. After the footman hopped on, the driver snapped the reins and they started down the street. Only a few seconds passed when Munthrope thumped his cane against the roof to stop him. “Wait here a moment.”

Munthrope didn’t move. That “moment” turned into several minutes as nothing but the neigh of horses, distant lap of waves, and hoot of an owl drifted through the carriage. But then it came, floating on a salty breeze, the most delightful sound he’d ever heard. Like the sweet caress of a lover’s touch, it swirled around him, easing his taut muscles, uncoiling his nerves, lifting unknown burdens from his heavy heart. The delicate siren of the violin.
Her
violin. The one she oft played before retiring. No doubt it helped her fall sleep as much as it soothed his soul.

Easing back on the leather seat, he closed his eyes and allowed the melody—a sad one tonight—to perform its magic on him. As it had so many nights before. But the pleasant notes ended abruptly, leaving him empty and forlorn.

Back at his home, he charged up the porch steps. The door opened as expected, and he marched inside, tossing his cane into the corner. He tore off his plumed tricorne and idiotic periwig and cast them over his shoulder to Mr. Whipple, who he knew would be behind him. The smug valet/butler followed Munthrope up the stairs into his bedchamber.

“Unpleasant evening, milord?” Whipple’s tone mocked.

“Aren’t they all, Whipple?” Munthrope snorted as he approached his wardrobe and began shedding his silly attire.

Whipple stood staunchly by. “If you would take a breath, milord, I could help you.”

“I loathe being attired like a swaggering popinjay!” Munthrope ran a hand through his hair.

“’Tis the fashion, milord. Albeit, you do take it a bit too far.”

“A fashion for fools.”

Mr. Whipple, a superior look on his face, opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of leather breeches, jackboots, a white shirt, and leather jerkin, “And yet you prefer to dress like a reprobate.”

Ignoring the man, Munthrope approached his chest of drawers and began scrubbing his face over a basin of water, ripping off patches and fake moles. “The itch and stink of this paste drives me mad.”

“Then don’t wear it. Most gentlemen do not.”

“You know I must or I might be recognized.” He grabbed a towel and dried his face, then stood staring at his image in the looking glass. No longer a dainty princock, Alexander Edward Hyde, Lord Munthrope, son of Edmond Merrick Hyde, the Earl of Clarendon reflected in the dim lantern light. He slicked back his moist black hair.

Also known as the Pirate Earl.

“Why you carry on with this pretense, I have no idea. Your father would be appalled.”

“My father is not here.” Alex spun and took the clothing from Whipple.

“A fact I regret every day.” The valet stared at him with more boldness than a servant should.

But he wasn’t truly a servant.

Indeed, Alex’s father had sent him to Jamaica with the title of valet, but Mr. Whipple had been with their family for as long as Alex could remember. A trusted confidant of Alex’s father, he’d been a valet, butler, protector, even school-master whenever Alex’s father had been away. He’d also been a friend. Why, he’d even spent some time sailing on Alex’s father’s ship,
The Redemption,
years ago.

However, his present assignment was to help Alex do God’s work in Port Royal. How long had it been since they’d arrived in the “wickedest city in the Caribbean” full of foolish hopes and unfounded zeal to save the lost? Five years? Alex could hardly remember those days, though Whipple reminded him of them often. Still, the valet was the only man Alex could count on, the only one besides Alex’s quartermaster who knew of his dual identity. He took care of Alex and kept his secrets. No matter how far Alex descended into the pit of hell.

Shaking off the thought, Alex quickly donned his leather breeches, jerkin, and cotton shirt, then stretched his back, relishing in the familiar feel of comfortable clothes.

“Why bother with the charade? Why not just remain”—Whipple scrunched his nose in disdain—“
what
you have become.”

“A pirate you mean?” Alex grinned, shoved his feet into his jackboots, then strode to a cupboard and flung open the doors. Inside, rows of cutlasses, short swords, pistols, and muskets stared back at him.

“Let us not mince words, Whipple.” He selected a cutlass and shoved it into his scabbard then picked up two pistols and hooked them in his baldric. “Just because I am a pirate doesn’t mean I wish to spend my idle time cavorting with ignorant curs. My intellect requires more stimulating conversation.”

“And have you found it in society?” The chink of glass sounded.

Alex frowned. “Very little, I’m afraid.” He closed the cupboard and faced Whipple with a grin. “I do, however, find myself entertained by the imbecilic performance most of them put on for one another. Besides there are only so many ships to plunder. What else am I to do when I’m in port?”

“Your brandy, milord.”

He took the glass and sipped the amber liquid. Heat stroked his throat and radiated through his belly as he strode to the open window and gazed at the distant bay. Bare masts rose like candlesticks dripping with waxy moonlight—dozens and dozens of them. Merchant ships from England, the colonies, East Indiamen, fishermen, privateers, and
pirates
. He couldn’t locate his ship among the others, but he knew she was out there. He could hear her call to him on the wind.