Elizabeth Powell (24 page)

“But you like the way I grin at you.”

“Read, or I shall loft this scone at your head.”

“Well, I shall spare you the details—and all the invective involved. Egad, he
must
be upset.”

“Will you stop teasing me?” Jane demanded. Her hand hovered over the scone.

Sebastian laughed. “All right, all right. Apparently, he paid so much attention to your mother while we were in London that Lady Portia now believes herself in love with him.”

Jane nearly inhaled her tea; she gasped, then began to cough. “Oh. My.”

“Worse yet,” he continued, “she is convinced that he returns her affection. He has fled over half of England trying to avoid her, but she will not relent. She wants him to marry her.”

“Marry her? Poor Nigel. I think I actually feel sorry for him. When Lady Portia decides she wants something, she will not be gainsaid.”

“Ah, and here is something else. His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Wexcombe, wants to marry him off to the daughter of an earl whose estate marches with his.”

“Oh … that sounds too familiar for comfort,” Jane said, and made a face. “Does the thought of marriage itself horrify him, or is it that everyone seems to want to choose a bride for him?”

“Nigel is a confirmed bachelor. Wild horses could not drag him to the altar.”

Jane rose from her chair and came to look over her husband’s shoulder at the cramped, hastily written script on the letter.

“Marriage is not so bad when you find the right person,” she commented, casting a sideways glance at Sebastian’s handsome profile.

“Is that so?” The viscount swept her off her feet and into his lap.

“Behave yourself, sir!” Jane sputtered in mock outrage.
“We have only just removed your bandage; I will not have you injuring yourself again.”

“Have
you
found the right person, madam?”

She smiled up at him, bathed in the radiant glow of his deep, slate blue eyes. “I suppose I have. Would you like to hear the list of his merits?”

He grimaced. “As long as you do not mention his drawbacks. Otherwise we might be here all day.”

“Of his merits, I find him … handsome. Charming — make that very charming. Honorable. Brave. Passionate. And virile.”

“Virile?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

“Virile,” she confirmed. “The product of which will arrive in about seven months.”

“A babe?” A slow smile spread across his face. “Really?”

“For a man who prides himself on his wit, dearest, you can be remarkably dense.”

“But you cannot fault my love for you,” he murmured, pulling her close.

Jane smiled and kissed him. “No, my love. Never that. That is your greatest merit of all.”

Keep reading for a special excerpt from another Regency Romance by Elizabeth Powell

THE TRAITOR’S DAUGHTER

Available now from InterMix and Signet Regency Romance

London

September, 1811

T
he rising wind carried with it the tolling of church bells. Every peal reverberated through Miss Amanda Tremayne like the dull thud of cannon fire. Half past ten—Harry was late.

The young woman stood on the shore of the Serpentine, oblivious to the curious stares of passersby, her eyes as glassy as the lake’s surface. What if Harry had not gotten her note in time? What if his shipboard duties had delayed him? What if she had to do this without him?

The dank breeze lifted the hem of her cloak and chilled her; she wrapped her arms around herself and gazed up at the oppressive clouds scudding overhead. A storm was brewing, no doubt about that. Children pulled their toy boats from the water with obvious reluctance while their nannies hovered nearby. Equestrians turned their mounts for home. Coachmen pulled up the hoods of fashionable barouches to protect their occupants from the weather. Amanda grimaced and stamped her feet against the cold. Where was he? She couldn’t wait much longer; she needed to get back. Heaven knew she was in enough trouble with her employer as it was.

Her eyes scanned the expanse of park around her with growing agitation, but nowhere did she spot Harry’s tall, lanky form. Another gust knifed through her cloak and beneath her serviceable linsey-woolsey dress. Gooseflesh rose on her skin. She turned her back to the wind. If she were a ship, she would have lowered her sails and sought
safe harbor long ago. Her face was cold, and so were her hands and feet. Enough was enough.

“Blast you, Henry Augustus Morgan,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “You promised. I should keelhaul you.”

“Amanda?” The wind bore words with it. “Amanda, that had better be you. By God, why did you want to met me out-of-doors in weather like this? Have you gone completely around the bend?”

Amanda whirled to meet the source of the voice.

Lieutenant Harry Morgan approached her with long-legged strides, his tall fore-and-aft bicorne worn low on his forehead, his heavy officer’s cloak pulled closely around him. Months at sea had gilded his auburn hair and lined his face, but the most prominent lines this morning came from his downturned mouth and furrowed brow. Amanda would swear he was angry with her for meeting him out in inclement weather. Even after years at sea, Harry was still Harry—ever since childhood, he had blamed her for getting him into scrapes that were as much his fault as hers. Her own temper flared.

“If you’d been on time, I would not have stood here for the past half hour and risked getting pneumonia,” she snapped. “And if I weren’t freezing already, I vow I would box your ears. I told you the matter was urgent!”

The young officer seemed taken aback by her vehemence. “I’m sorry, Amanda—Captain Bennett was delayed at the Admiralty, and I couldn’t just brush and lope without his permission.” He squinted up at the roiling sky. “We’re in for a good blow any minute. We should get under cover.”

The church bells tolled the three-quarter hour. Amanda shook her head. “There’s no time, Harry. I’m supposed to be on an errand, and I’m late as it is. Please, just hear me out.” Her control slipped, and desperation tinged her words.

Harry’s honest hazel eyes widened. “Your grandmother has not taken ill?”

“No, Grandmama is fine. Harry, when I saw you last
you promised you would do anything in your power to help me. Did you mean that?”

“Of course I did.” Affronted pride warred with suspicion on Harry’s tanned face. “What is it, Amanda? I know that look—you’re up to something.”

Amanda bit her lip. Harry knew her well enough that he might see through her fabrication. No time to worry about that now. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I need you to take me to Admiral Locke’s ball tomorrow night.”

The young lieutenant’s expression evolved from concern to confusion to consternation in quick succession. His brows arched skyward, and his eyes widened until the pupils were mere pinpricks in a sea of startled green and gold.

“You want me to what?” He drew away from her. “Is this a joke, Amanda? If it is, it’s in very poor taste.”

She glared at him, her jaw set at a stubborn angle. “This is no laughing matter. I need to get to that party, Harry. I will go alone if I must.”

A gust of wind tried to unseat Harry’s bicorne. He slapped it back onto his head, then steered Amanda beneath the sheltering branches of a nearby oak. “That’s a little better. Now, care to tell me why is this party so important to you?”

“I need to speak with the First Lord.” She cringed inwardly, hating herself for the lie.

Doubt creased Harry’s forehead. “At a party? Why not just go to the Admiralty?”

“I’ve tried several times, but they won’t let me into the building anymore. The guards at the door have standing orders to deny me entrance.” This much was the truth. The memory resurfaced without warning, and tears of shame threatened the corners of Amanda’s eyes. The red-coated marines had been apologetic but unrelenting when they escorted her out into the street. The hateful words of the sneering, self-important prig of a clerk who’d issued the command still echoed in her ears.

“I say,” Harry protested. “They can’t treat you like that—you’re a lady.”

Amanda made a little moue. “You forget that they don’t consider me a lady. Since I can’t get into the Admiralty, and I can’t very well call on Lord Hardwicke at his home, this is my only option. The article in the
Morning Post
said the ball is to be a huge affair, and that many navy officers were invited. He is bound to be there. And I will certainly have more credibility if I’m with you.”

“What about Admiral Locke? He was your father’s commanding officer. Are you not worried that he might recognize you?”

She shook her head. “Admiral Locke has never met me. He won’t know who I am, especially if I attend under an assumed name.”

“To what end, Amanda?” Harry’s tone was gentle. He took her gloved hand in his and squeezed it. “Your grandmother would never approve. This is foolish. Just let it go.”

The young woman pulled away, her shoulders hunched. “I can’t let it go—you know that. I will never accept what happened. And whether Grandmama approves or not, I am determined. I have to discover the truth.”

Harry sighed. “What you’re suggesting is dangerous, Amanda. Admiral Locke is one of London’s most celebrated heroes; the cream of London society will be there. You can’t think to accost the First Lord of the Admiralty at this party—you’ll make a complete cake of yourself.”

“I realize that, you nodcock.” She frowned up at her friend. To hear Locke called a hero turned her stomach, but she could not reveal her purpose—not yet. “I promise to be discreet. I just want to ask him to reopen the investigation. Will you help me?”

Harry rolled his eyes with a hint of growing impatience. “Amanda, you have all the discretion of a first-rater firing a full broadside.”

Amanda’s cheeks grew hot. She took another deep breath and counted to five, unclenched her hands, and silently reminded herself that she needed Harry, no matter how much she wanted to slap him.

“You told me that you’d do anything to help Grandmama and me, especially now. Are you a man of your word?”

Harry started and drew himself up indignantly. “Of course.”

“Then you know how much this means to me.” Amanda spread her hands. “Please, Harry—I need you. If I don’t succeed at the party, I will take Grandmama back to Dorset and put all of this behind us.” She hated herself for spinning this web of lies, but she had to circumvent Harry’s stalwart sense of honesty. He would never agree to help her if he knew the truth.

Harry wavered. He tugged at his black neckcloth. “What makes you think I can get an invitation?”

“Because you come from a family with a lengthy history of naval service, because your father is a viscount, because your captain is one of the most well-respected in the entire fleet, and because you’re a promising young officer.” She ticked off each item on a gloved finger.

Harry thought about that for several moments, then sighed. “This cork-brained scheme is one of your worst, Amanda,” he groused. “Promise me at the very least that you won’t cause a scandal.”

Amanda rewarded him with her best, most dazzling smile. “I promise I won’t do anything to hurt your career, Harry. I know how fond you are of that new lieutenant’s uniform.”

A telltale flush rose from the young man’s collar. He threw up his hands. “All right, though I’m the biggest sapscull in the world for going along with this. I’ll pick you up at your lodgings, then. What times does this folderol start?”

“Nine o’clock.” Exhilaration cascaded through her. “But do not come to our rooms; I will meet you down at the street.”

Confusion creased Harry’s brow. “Eh? Why? Afraid of what your grandmother will say?”

Amanda dropped her guilty gaze. “Partially. She doesn’t know about the party.” Or about her granddaughter’s plans…

“But what worries me most,” she added, “is that Mrs. Jennings has the ears of an elephant, the tongue of an adder, and enough curiosity to kill a hundred cats. I mustn’t give her any reason to start asking questions about Grandmama and me. The last time our landlord found out who we were, he barely gave us time to gather our belongings before he threw us into the street. I can’t take any chances.”

Harry cast her one last, probing glance, then nodded. “Deuced queer, if you ask me, but I gave you my word.”

“Thank you, Harry!” Amanda threw decorum to the wind; she stood on tiptoes and placed a quick kiss on his weather-roughened cheek. “You are my very dearest friend.”

“You said that just before we raided Squire Templeton’s prized orchard,” grumbled Harry, his face now quite red. “I couldn’t sit down for a week after that. And you said it again before the incident at the mill, and the fracas with Throckmorton at the pond—”

Amanda sobered. “You have always been my dearest friend, Harry. I would never say such a thing lightly. And I would not ask you to do this unless it were of the utmost importance.”

Harry muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Just don’t make me regret this.” He straightened and tugged at his jacket. “If we fail, it’ll mean far worse than a tanned hide—we’ll both be in the suds.”

“We won’t fail, Harry, I’m sure of it.”

Amanda gave him another quick hug, then took her leave and hastened back toward Oxford Street. Dear, dear Harry! With his help, she would spike the enemy’s guns and reveal him for what he truly was. She lowered her head against the first volley of raindrops that pelted down from the ominous bank of clouds overhead, and quickened her pace. She had to hurry; she had plans to make.

Captain Jack Everly did not need to look up at the leaden sky or smell the wet breeze to know that a storm
was imminent. His right leg throbbed with a deep, teeth-gritting ache; the wound was mostly healed, but his refusal to remain sedentary and damp, chill conditions aggravated the pain. He knew when it would rain even before clouds appeared in the sky. A supreme stroke of irony, this. His own body was now more reliable than any ship’s glass.

He descended gingerly from the carriage and stared at the flight of steps before him. If he had been thinking at all this morning, he would have ignored his pride and brought his cane with him. Like it or not, there were days when he needed its support. But he could not put off the admiral’s summons, nor would he. He was recovered and ready for command, and this was his opportunity to prove it—if he had to spend any more time ashore, he would go mad. He straightened his jacket, placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and, his face grim, made his way up the stairs to the town house door.