An Improper Proposal (16 page)

Ross noticed that Georgiana was looking at him accusingly. “What?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing.” Georgiana looked away. “I was just wondering where she could have picked up that kind of language.”

“Well, not from me!” Ross, though clearly outraged, still did not let go of Payton. “I don’t allow swearing on my ships. If she picked it up anywhere, it was in port somewhere.”

“Sir Marcus Tyler,” Payton said.

“In port?” Georgiana glared at her husband. “And in which port, pray tell, is the term she just used employed with any frequency? That particular word isn’t Chinese, you know. Nor is it Tahitian, Jamaican, or French. She obviously learned it from an Englishman, and I suspect it might have been an Englishman in her very own—”

Ross held up his free hand. He was staring down at Payton curiously. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”

Payton said, again, very slowly, “Sir … Marcus … Tyler.”

Georgiana looked from brother to sister. “Sir Marcus Tyler?” she echoed. “What are you talking about?”

“You saw,” Ross said, “Marcus Tyler? Here? At Daring Park?”

Payton nodded emphatically. “Coming out of the hedge maze. He and Miss Whitby were talking. Then they both went away. In separate directions.”

Ross shook his head, the way a dog did when it had water in its ears. “No, no,” he said. “You must be mistaken. What would Sir Marcus be doing here? Drake would sure as hell never invite him.”

“Right.” Ross had let go of her, and now Payton was able to sit up. “I’m thinking Miss Whitby did.”

“Why would Miss Whitby invite Marcus Tyler to her wedding?” Ross, clearly bewildered, sat down beside Payton on the bed. “She doesn’t know Marcus Tyler.”

“How do you know she doesn’t know him?” Payton shook her head. “What do any of us know about Becky Whitby, except what she’s told us?”

Georgiana, still standing, said, “Wait. I don’t understand. Payton, are you saying you saw Sir Marcus Tyler, the owner of Tyler and Tyler Shipping, outside in the hedge maze with Becky Whitby just now?”

Payton looked up at her. “Yes,” she said somberly.

Georgiana was not a slow woman, but she was new to the family, and needed occasional clarification. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Tyler and Tyler—”

“Our chief competitors.” Ross shook his head. “Payton, it couldn’t have been Marcus. It was just someone who resembled him.”

“I think I would know what Marcus Tyler looks like,” Payton snapped. “After all, I was there last summer, too.”

“Last summer?” Georgiana echoed, her pretty forehead knit with bemusement.

“Last summer,” Ross confirmed grimly. “Those pirate raids I told you about, on our ships down in the Bahamas. We can’t prove it, of course, but we’re pretty certain Marcus was behind them. We think he’s got Lucien La Fond in his pocket. He denies it, of course, and we haven’t any proof, so we can’t prosecute. But the raids have all occurred on Dixon ships, not Tyler ships, and most especially Dixon ships carrying cargo belonging to commercial accounts for which Tyler and Tyler is in competition with Dixon and Sons.”

“Oh.” Now it was Georgiana’s turn to sink down onto the bed. “I see. And Lucien La Fond? Isn’t he that French pirate captain who hates you so, Ross?”

“Not me,” Ross said. “Drake.”

“He hates Drake? But why? What for?”

Payton and Ross said, at precisely the same time, “It’s a long story.”

Georgiana said, “Oh,” again, and was silent.

“It couldn’t,” Ross said, after a moment or two, during which the three of them sat, thinking, “have been Marcus Tyler, Payton. The whole idea’s ludicrous. Miss Whitby doesn’t know him. I mean, my God, she lived in our house. She heard how we spoke of him.”

“Exactly why,” Payton said, “she’d have kept her mouth shut if she did know him. She probably thought that if we found out she was friendly with Sir Marcus, we’d give her the old heave-ho.”

“But if she’s friendly with Tyler,” Ross said, “why wouldn’t she have turned to him for help, after she was robbed? Why throw herself on our mercy?”

Payton said, “Perhaps because she’s a Tyler spy.”

Georgiana cleared her throat. “Um, Payton. Forgive me, dearest. But are you certain you aren’t letting your imagination run away with you? Perhaps what you saw was just … wishful thinking.”

Payton stared at her sister-in-law. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, darling, we know you aren’t very fond of Miss Whitby. And you’re quite understandably … attached to the captain. I mean, you’ve known him forever. It’s only natural you would come to feel … something toward him. Don’t you think it isn’t the slightest bit possible you only thought you saw Sir Marcus in the garden with Miss Whitby?”

Payton said, “No.”

Ross raised his eyebrows. “Payton’s got dammed good eyes, Georgie. She can spot a whale miles off.”

“I’m not denying that if Sir Marcus were in the garden with Miss Whitby, Payton could have spotted him. All I’m saying is perhaps Payton only wanted to see Sir Marcus in the garden with Miss Whitby, because that way there’d be a good reason to urge Sir Connor to call the wedding off—”

“Georgiana!” Payton burst out. “This has nothing to do with that! I saw him, I swear it! I saw Marcus Tyler in the hedge maze!”

Even to her own ears, she sounded like a crazy woman. Ross noticed, but didn’t react right away. Instead, he stood up, and very calmly reached into his waistcoat and drew out his pocket watch. When he saw the time, he gave a low whistle. “If we’re going to get to the church before the ceremony begins, we’d better go.”

Payton, feeling tears in her eyes, stared up at him astonishedly. “Ross … you can’t mean … you don’t believe me? You think I’m making it up?”

Ross cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, Pay, you have to admit, it’s a little convenient, your seein’ Miss Whitby with Marcus Tyler the day she and Drake are about to sail off on the ship you thought you were goin’ to get for your birthday.” Ross shook his head. “I know you want that boat, but really. Pay. You’ve gone a little too far. Even if he does call the weddin’ off, he still gets to keep the
Constant
. You’re not gettin’ your hands on it, wedding or no wedding.”

“But Ross—”

‘That’s enough, now. You’ve told some whales of a tale in the past, but this one tops ’em all. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you’re marryin’ Drake.” This seemed to strike him as extremely amusing. “Right! You’re marryin’ Drake, in order to get your hands on the
Constant
! Wait’ll I tell Hudson and Raleigh!” He laughed for some time before finally reaching down to hold out a hand to his wife. “Come along, Georgie, before she thinks of a new one …”

Obediently, Georgiana took her husband’s hand and stood.

Payton, on the other hand, stayed exactly where she was.

“Ross,” she said angrily. “I am not making this up. Don’t you think we ought to at least tell Drake? I mean, don’t you think he has a right to know?”

Ross was still chuckling to himself over his little joke—which Payton couldn’t say she’d found very funny. “Payton, you didn’t see Marcus Tyler with Miss Whitby in the garden just now. I’m sure you saw her with someone, but it was probably just one of the gardeners.”

“One of the gardeners!” Now Payton did stand up—stood up and put both hands on her hips. “Are you trying to be funny? Because unless Drake’s started dressing his gardeners in frock coats and stovepipe hats, I don’t think that’s who I saw—”

“Well, I do.” Ross looked down at her. He attempted to look stern. “Listen to me, Payton. I know you don’t like Miss Whitby. But I must say, I don’t find it very sporting of you, making up these outrageous stories about her—”

Payton exploded. “I am not making it up!”

Georgiana was chewing on her lower lip. “Well, Payton,” she said, after releasing it. “You are … fond of the captain.”

Payton narrowed her eyes at her sister-in-law, daring her to go on. “So?”

She shouldn’t have dared her. Georgiana went on, although, to her credit, it must be admitted that she did so reluctantly. “Well, it only seems natural that, as … fond as you are of Captain Drake, you might want to … well, I don’t know. Stop him from marrying someone else, perhaps.”

For the first time since her brother had brought Georgiana home, Payton thought she might just have to kill her. Up until now, everything had been going well, but a girl simply couldn’t say something like that to another girl, and not expect reprisal of some nature.

Especially for having said it right in front of her brother.

Ross snickered. “Now, now, Georgie,” he said, patting his wife’s shoulders. “Let’s not go too far. Payton doesn’t like Drake in that way.”

“No,” Georgiana said slowly. She must have seen the murderous glint in Payton’s eyes. “No, I’m sure she doesn’t.”

“We all know Payton isn’t overly fond of Miss Whitby, however. I’m certain that if she’s loath to see Drake get married, it’s only because of that.”

“Oh,” Georgiana said. “Of course. I only meant that Payton’s … affectionate nature might make her feel that perhaps Miss Whitby isn’t the most suitable bride for someone for whom she entertains such … sisterly feelings.”

That was a little better. Payton decided she might not kill her sister-in-law, after all. The truth of it was, she was getting to be rather useful. The corset had certainly done its work, hadn’t it?

“Right. And besides.” Ross draped a heavy arm over his sister’s shoulders, and gave her a squeeze that was as much affectionate as it was restrictive. “Drake knows that if it ever entered his head to lay a finger on Payton here, we’d be forced to chop ’im up and feed ’im to the sharks. Right, Pay?”

Payton swallowed, and uttered a swift and silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t been observed with Drake in the garden  the nightbefore.

“Um,” she said. “Right.”

T
he vicar, standing before them on the dais, prayer book in hand, cleared his throat. He was a big man, who evidently hadn’t turned down an offer of dessert in quite a while. He seemed an enormous figure in his little sunlit church. Small—hardly big enough to fit fifty people—it was nevertheless quite a beautiful chapel, with its stained-glass windows, and the scent of rose blossoms hanging so heavy in the air.

Still, big as the vicar was, he was dwarfed by the four gentlemen standing to his right: Drake, Ross, Hudson, and Raleigh each stood a little over six feet tall, and with their deep tans and broad shoulders, radiated manly good health—well, except for the pallor of sleeplessness worn by Drake and the two middle Dixons. None of them looked very comfortable—they were all of them used to wearing considerably less clothing—but they were undeniably handsome.

Of the four of them, Payton supposed that Ross looked the least unhappy. He even, as Payton gazed at him, managed to give her a little wink, causing Georgiana to frown.

Drake looked the sickest. He looked, in fact, as if he might lose his breakfast at any moment. If he’d even had breakfast, which Payton supposed he hadn’t. Well, except for that cup of coffee she’d made him drink.

Since she was seated in the first right-hand pew, he stood directly in front of her, not four feet away. She felt his gaze on her, though she refused to look up. Only the blush she could feel suffusing her cheeks gave away the fact that she was aware of his gaze, and she tried her best to tamp the color down. Think about something else, she’d urged herself. Anything else.

The letter. He hadn’t acknowledged it. She’d scrawled a few words—a warning about what she’d seen—on a piece of foolscap, and stuffed it into Hudson’s hand as soon as she’d entered the church. “Give this to Drake,” she’d hissed, careful not to let Ross see her. “It’s important.”

Hudson had been busy leering at Drake’s attractive cousins, whom Ross and Raleigh had had the privilege of ushering to their seats. “Right,” he’d said. “Anything you say, Pay.”

But if he’d succeeded in getting her note to Drake, Drake had obviously not taken it very seriously. There he stood not looking exactly as if he felt well, but surely not looking as sick as a man who’d just learned his bride was a spy for his mortal enemy ought to look. Hadn’t he been able to decipher her handwriting? Payton knew she didn’t write as beautifully as Georgiana, but her cursive was surely legible …

A lace-mittened hand settled upon her right knee, which Payton had been jiggling nervously up and down. When she looked up, she saw Georgiana smiling down at her.

“Don’t,”” Georgiana whispered from the corner of her mouth. “You’re shaking the whole pew. Lady Bisson keeps looking this way.”

Payton turned her head a little. Georgiana wasn’t lying. Lady Bisson was looking their way. Or Payton’s way, at least.

And there wasn’t the least bit of warmth in that look, either. In fact, if half a dozen poisoned darts suddenly embedded themselves into the back of Payton’s neck, she’d have no doubt at all who’d launched them.

“I can’t help it,” Payton whispered back miserably.

“You can, and you will.” Georgiana removed her hand. “He can take care of himself, you know. He’s a grown man.”

Payton felt her cheeks turn crimson. “I know that. You think I don’t know that? But if you’d just have let me see him, just for a minute—”

“Too late now.” Georgiana looked past her, nodding graciously at a mutual acquaintance.

“Well, you could have at least let me confront Miss Whitby—”

Georgiana let out a sound that might have been a snort. But that was ridiculous. Georgiana was far too ladylike to snort. “And had you blacken her eye before the ceremony? I think not.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt her,” Payton insisted. “I just wanted to talk to her …”

“Certainly you did.” Georgiana turned her face back toward the front of the church. “The vicar’s looking this way. Be quiet now. We’re in a house of the Lord, remember, so try not to swear.”

Payton fell silent, chagrined. A house of the Lord. Do you hear me, Lord? Payton raised her eyes toward the raftered ceiling. I just wanted to thank you very much. No, truly. This is just the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me, forcing me to sit here and watch Drake marry that harpy. Really, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thanks for singling me out for this honor …