Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3) (16 page)

“Mr. Paine was English. He went to America, but his work was first printed in England. Gareth’s thoughts are of a similar tone. I thought the publisher in London who accepted Mr. Paine’s works would also be interested in Gareth’s writings. But there is a problem, you see.”

“Yes?” Jack leaned closer, feeling a strong sense of concern as she spoke. He noted that the other men were leaning forward in their seats as well, waiting on baited breath for the divine goddess named Chloe to enlighten them. “What sort of problem, my dear?”

“So much time has passed.
The Age of Reason
,
Common Sense
, and
The Vindication for the Rights of Man
were all written more than twenty years ago. I’m wondering if it is still the fashion to write challenging essays in Paine’s tradition. Perhaps Gareth’s writing is outdated.”

“I couldn’t say,” Jack repeated, feeling inadequate in his inability to advise her. “We’ll be in London soon. Perhaps you and I might make an appointment to meet with someone who can help us. Mr. Jamison, perhaps? He is the count’s solicitor.”

“Yes...but,”  Chloe’s lovely face lost some of its glow. “I don’t wish Gareth’s writings to be lost or misplaced. I’ll be in Spain. How am I to be assured the work will be published intact, not in bits and pieces? Mr. Jinx suggested America might be better, as we could contract with a printer such as your Mr. Franklin, whom he says would surely print the work as it stands. Jinx tells me Mr. Franklin has always been a remarkably free-thinking person.”

“Mr. Benjamin Franklin?” Jack glared at Jinx with vexation. “Tell me, Jinx, have you met Mr. Franklin?”  Jinx was a former school teacher. He liked to think himself witty, and so it stood to reason the man would try to set himself up as an authority on the question in Chloe’s mind.

“No, sir.” Jinx bristled a little at his implication. “Yet, I don’t think it would be hard to write the fellow, seeing he’s so famous for being open-minded and all.”

“That might be difficult,” Jack responded, tired of being the butt of Mr. Jinx’s jokes for the duration of the voyage, be it in private or in front of the esteemed Mrs. O’Donovan. “Mr. Franklin died several years ago, Jinx. The count knew him and was grieved to hear of his death. And as for Mr. Paine?” He shrugged. “He’s ill I hear, as his lordship also exchanges letters with the man. So, I would not advise trusting such an important set of documents with an aged man living in obscurity in rural New York State. An established London publisher would probably be the place to start.”

Chloe was watching him with amazement. She appeared to be impressed by his words.

He wished for once that he were an educated fellow, like her beloved Gareth. All these years, he'd imagined what it might be like having Chloe for his wife; he'd imagined living an unpretentious life together as a sailor and a simple maid. Well, she was not a simple maid any longer. She was a quick intelligent woman who had been tutored by her intellectual spouse and by the wealthy family who had embraced her as one of their own. Chloe was more like the Beaumonts and Mr. O’Donovan now.

Ten years ago, they may have suited. Today, she was completely out of his orbit, as far above him as the moon was above the ocean swells. 

Chloe returned to her cabin after dinner and stood at the window gazing out at the stars.

Jack’s image appeared in her mind as he sat across from her at dinner. “
That headpiece alone is enough to bedazzle a man. A net of diamonds cast over jet-black silk. It reminds me of sky at night, a velvety black above the sea, with stars glittering to guide a sailor home
.”

She placed her palm on the cool glass pane. “Jack. Oh, Jack.”

Their kiss last week was but a memory. He obviously regretted his lapse, as he made certain they were never alone again.

Perhaps it was for the best. She was destined to settle in Spain. He would sail back to the Indies. They would have an ocean between them.

Her mind was swept back to that night years ago, in a tropical garden lit by the moon and stars. The garden scented with late blooming roses, frangipani and spicy hibiscus flowers. She thought of Jack, so wisely taking her away from the heat and the overwhelming crowd. Of Jack, trying to help her find a measure of calm. He rescued her from her own folly. She cast a spell in foolishness and had men tripping over each other to dance with her. It was horrible. Her only design had been to get Gareth to fall under her sway and he ended up being the only man immune to her magic—Gareth--and Jack Rawlings.

In the days following that fiasco, Barnaby helped her reverse her ill-conceived spell by creating another potion. She had to chase down each man who ate those little biscuits to give them the potion that would make them fall out of love with her.

There had been Mr. O’Leary, Mr. Duchamp, and that dreadful old tutor Marceau. The head footman, Rupert, had snatched up a biscuit--and there was a fifth man, she couldn’t recall his name now. All in all, she had managed to un-enchant each of them.  Mr. Barnaby, the old apothecary, had taken charge of the three remaining biscuits after all those men kept stealing her treasured pastries. Barnaby told her he’d see they were given to the proper fellow.

Was that why Gareth proposed to her that night and they wed in secret the following morning? It had been such a rushed affair. She assumed her magic affected the man she intended it for. She'd never asked Barnaby if he gave those last three biscuits to Gareth. She’d been swept away in Gareth’s devotion and all seemed right in the world.

Ah, but that moment in the garden alone with Jack---would he have kissed her?

“Jack,” she whispered, savoring his name on her lips. “Jack, my golden fellow, I would like to know more of your kisses. If only we weren’t destined for separate shores.”

“Ma’am?” Marta rolled over in her small pallet in the corner. “Did you need something?”

“Go back to sleep. What I need, I cannot have.” 

Chapter Fourteen

London
. Chloe had heard the countess talk of the place wistfully for years, in a tone that implied the entire world revolved around the mysterious city of her ladyship’s birth. A place where the rich flocked for the seasons. Where balls were held weekly, musicales, plays and every form of entertainment imaginable. A person could buy anything in London, the countess oft complained when she had to wait months for a special item to arrive in the Indies.

London. Chloe could feel the energy of the city. She watched from the ship’s forecastle deck as the throng of people moved past the wharf. Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts, was nothing like this. It was much colder here than in the Caribbean. It was the last day of February, and grey skies seemed to threaten more rain. 

Chloe wanted to leave the ship and walk about. She was informed it was impossible by the captain. A woman could not walk alone without being accosted here on the wharf, he said. She would be considered a prostitute if she walked alone on the wharf. Jack offered to escort her through the rough streets to the more civilized part of town later today, after lunch.

She felt like a child, impatient to be set free to explore her surroundings.

“Did you see that one, ma’am?” Red, the cabin boy was perched on the ship rail like  a bird. He pointed toward a strange fellow with long black braids and odd facial markings that resembled ink drawings. He looked like a wild man described in a children’s book on the American wilderness. Gray and white feathers were sticking up out of his hair. He wore an animal skin cape over his tan seaman’s shirt, elaborate chains of colorful beads swinging over his chest as he walked. His unusual attire made him stand out among the English sailors. His trousers were made of leather. Leather slippers on his feet that seemed more comfortable than the hob-nail boots most men wore.

Sensing her curiosity, the bizarre man stopped and gazed directly up at her and Red. He lifted his arm in a somber salute. 

“Did you see that, Mrs. O!” Red said with excitement. “I love coming into the docks. I tell me sisters about the strange sights and they think I’m making it up. Just see if I ain’t.”

“Those men are fighting.” Marta pointed further down the wharf, where several rough fellows tussled like boys but with more fury. Chloe was accustomed to the brawls between the Beaumont twins and the O’Reilly boys; the children were fast friends one day and bitter opponents the next. It was amusing to see grown men squabbling and arguing like little boys.

“Oh, ho!” Red leaned over the rail to get a better view. “The little one’s got a good aim. He struck the fat man clean in the nose. I bet he broke it, too.”

“What’s this?” Captain Rawlings came up behind them. “Watching the savages?”

Red jumped down from his perch on the rail. “Aye, Cap’n. Mayhap I should get me a sketchbook, like Master Michael and draw me some pictures for the girls back home.”

“I believe your sisters would find the market more to their taste than the docks and the rough fellows squabbling here. We’re off to shore now, Red. I’ll buy you a journal and some drawing tools. Are you ready, Mrs. O’Donovan?”

“Yes.” Chloe held up the portfolio for him to see. Several of her husband’s works were held within the leather case. “I’ve brought a sample of Mr. O’Donovan’s writing.”

“Can’t I come?” Red begged, hanging on the captain’s arm. Chloe thought it sweet of the captain to be so indulgent with the lad. He must be fond of the boy.

“Not this time.” Rawlings replied. “I instructed Jinx and Morgan to take you about town after your chores are finished. My cabin wants cleaning, and so does the first mate’s.”

The pout on the young lad's face was dramatic. That lower lip jutted out so far it competed with his nose for attention. Chloe thought the boy must practice it for effect in the mirror when he was alone. The captain was not moved by the lad’s antics. He shook his arm free of Red's hand and extended that arm to Chloe to help her walk down the plank.

Marta was staying behind as well. She was not happy with the arrangement.

“He’s good at his game, isn’t he?” Chloe remarked as soon as they were out of earshot of the boy. “He’s another Cherie, that one. She’s adept at manipulating others with her pouts and fits of temper.”

“Aye, he’s a handful. His father indulged him a fair way too much, in my opinion. Red Jamie is the youngest of the brood." He glanced at her in disbelief. "Little Cherie has a temper? Why, I had no idea. She’s always so sweet when I encounter her.”

“And how long is she in your company when you’re visiting us? Ten minutes, Captain, or is it as much as twenty?”

“Quite right—fifteen at most. A quick hello, a peck on the cheek and a few words and she’s off again. She is very precocious.”

“That’s a polite way to put it,” Chloe agreed. “Cherie is her father’s daughter, through and through. I envision a female version of the count in about twenty years.”

Jack stopped at the edge of the wood planking and artfully guided her past the group of rough seamen standing at the rope pylons. “She’ll be another Alicia. That woman commands respect, despite her demure size.”

The thought was a new one. The count’s mother was as intimidating as her son. Put in that light, Cherie’s tendency toward natural dominance seemed an expected outcome, considering her parentage. “If she turns out like Alicia, she will do well for herself in life.”

“Indeed. She will always be on top,” Jack quipped, giving Chloe a saucy smile.

Conversing with the captain today was easy. He seemed to be in a pleasant mood, now that they had reached their first destination.

They left the topic of children behind as they entered the city. Rawlings hailed a hackney cab, and they were swiftly taken into the interior, where offices and shops lined the congested streets. Chloe watched the people with interest from the coach window. They all seemed so busy, so determined in their endeavors. People walked as if they feared their destination would be gone before they arrived.

Compared to the more relaxed atmosphere of the Indies, she felt decidedly slow and off balance in this hectic place. She fanned herself and tried to remain calm as she watched the congestion in the streets about her.

“We’ll stop at Jamison and Higgins first,” Rawlings commented. “The count’s lawyers. I sent word ahead, we are expected. I gave the matter some thought last night. I believe it would be best to leave your husband’s writings in their capable hands and have them take up the challenge of finding a publisher. That way you won’t need to worry about someone taking credit for them unjustly. I gathered that was your concern?”

"Thank you for arranging this.”

He nodded, as if it were of no significance. Perhaps it wasn’t. He was Donovan’s envoy, given the task of looking after her and helping her in her quest. Chloe studied his still form as he glanced out the window. She found it calming to focus upon Jack Rawlings and the small carriage drifting slowly through the sea of busy humanity.

His blond hair was tied back in a neat queue. She liked his hair long. It suited him. The younger men wore their hair short and fashioned in elegant waves about their brow and cheeks. The men of his generation did not fuss with their hair other than to restrain it; at least that was the way of the men in her limited sphere. Perhaps men of high rank at court wore their hair in elaborate styles, but not those who visited the island of Ravencrest.

Rawlings was dressed in a green velvet jacket and tan breeches. He looked as if he were a businessman, not a sea captain. He reclined against the squabs, carefree and unaffected by the chaos beyond their coach window. The shouts beyond them, and the constant jerks and stops of the vehicle as they tried to make their way through the crowd was jarring to her nerves.

“It’s not always this busy,” Jack commented. “There are several ships heading out this afternoon, I’m told. Soldiers, off to Portugal to shore up the situation there. People are out in droves to say goodbye to their boys. Napoleon stirred up a hornet’s nest, I’m afraid. Toss dirt in John Bull’s face and he’ll plant his fist in yours without hesitation.”