Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (26 page)

‘Has she said anything about Doña Carlota's views on the embarkation proceedings?'

Mary thought of rumours of Doña Carlota, the Prince Regent's long-estranged wife. She was the daughter of the Spanish King, but had been sent away to marry her cousin when she was only ten years old and was said to have never given up hope she would return to a larger political stage now that her large brood of children were growing. She lived apart from her husband, with her own courtiers, her own schemes. Surely such ambition would follow the Princess across the ocean. ‘Just that the Princess has her own—arrangements. She likes having her own court and keeping in contact with her family in Spain.'

‘And having her own grand ambitions, I'm sure,' her father said. ‘She is certainly a sly one. But she'll have to go to Brazil, too, will she or nil she. I doubt her Spanish family will want the nuisance of her now, they have their own battles to fight. We must preserve British trade with Portugal, especially their South American holdings, at all costs. You will let me know if you hear anything from Doña Teresa at Queluz?'

Mary only had time to nod as Adriana came in with the tea tray.

‘You must eat now, Papa,' Mary said, pouring out a cup of tea and cutting a slice of the almond cake. ‘You will need your strength.'

‘Yes, and I need sleep, too, I fear. I'm not as young as I once was.' He leaned closer as Mary handed him the cup, and whispered, ‘You have been packing?'

She nodded. ‘Just as you instructed, Papa. I also burned the papers you had marked.'

‘Good girl. I don't know what I would do without you.' He sat back in his chair with a weary sigh. ‘You should think of marrying, my dear.'

She gave a startled laugh. Her father had never pressed her on such things, not even when she came home from that ball in London red-eyed and silent. ‘Who would I marry?'

‘Oh, any number of young men. You would make a perfect diplomat's wife. Or maybe a Portuguese aristocrat? Your mama would have liked that. Doesn't your friend Doña Teresa have a handsome brother all the ladies giggle over?'

‘Dom Luis Fernandes. Yes. He
is
rather lovely. Too much for a plain English wren like me,' Mary said, still laughing. She thought of Teresa's brother, his handsome dark eyes and flirtatious ways. He was handsome indeed. And he had never betrayed her trust.

But another face intruded on the thought, an image of brilliant green eyes, and a beautiful smile that had proved so false.

‘I shan't marry, Papa,' she said.

‘Nonsense! You have your mother's pretty eyes and you are very clever. Much better than all those silly gigglers, eh?'

Mary shook her head. She had certainly not been so ‘clever' when it came to Sebastian Barrett. ‘Then perhaps I shall find a wealthy planter in Rio de Janeiro, yes? Live my life out in tropical leisure.'

‘You laugh, Mary, but you know I'm right. You can't wait on an old man like me for ever.'

Mary swallowed hard. She hated to think of the day when she didn't have her father, didn't have their fascinating, peripatetic life together. ‘You said yourself—you can't do without me now. Especially now that we have such a great undertaking as a sea voyage ahead of us.'

‘Yes, of course.' Her father wearily closed his eyes. ‘A great undertaking indeed...'

Chapter Six

‘S
hall we avert disaster tonight, do you think?'

Lord Sebastian Barrett glanced across the darkened carriage at his friend Nicholas Warren and laughed. Outside, beyond the curtained windows, he knew the faint lights of Lisbon were falling away as they lurched up into the hills. Rolling meadows and citrus groves, farmhouses and crumbling medieval churches, dashed past, mere shadows in the night as the storm crawled in. But in the carriage, faintly lit by one lamp, was a clutter of letters and diplomatic papers they were supposed to study before they reached the royal palace at Mafra. They had only just arrived and they were being tossed into the maelstrom.

‘You and me, Nick?' he scoffed. ‘Not bloody likely.'

Sebastian wasn't even entirely sure what he was doing there in Portugal. It had been many months since he left the Army life, a life of long marches and camp life, a hard existence he loved, to take up his late brother Henry's role in the diplomatic corps.
‘You must do it,'
his father had raged from his sickbed.
‘There have been Barretts controlling the fate of Britain, the power behind the throne, for generations! No more playing soldiers for you. There is real work to be done now'.

The unspoken words burned in his father's feverish eyes and both Sebastian and the earl knew what they were.
You won't be as good at it as Henry. But you're all there is now. Your older brother must run the estate and he cannot leave the country. But you can.

So, no—he was not as good at it as Henry. He and Henry had always been the most different of brothers. Sebastian loved his horses, his brandy, pretty women, excitement, danger. Henry was calm, intellectual, methodical. But Sebastian had known his father's words were true. England was balanced on the edge of a stony precipice, with sharks circling below. Many could be soldiers, could take his place in the Army. Fewer could do what a Barrett could do.

So Sebastian had gone through a quick education, learning to do what Henry had been prepared to do—to win England allies to help her stand strong against the might force of Napoleon. Months in Spain and Vienna had sharpened his skills, honed his senses to where he could see what was
not
said, what was only hinted at behind either polite smiles or threatening words.

The skills he had developed over so many card games and drinking bouts where he outlasted his opponents, the ability to read others and make them like him, even against their wills, stood him in good stead now. All those ‘deplorable habits' his father once raged against now helped knit England's allies closer to her side as the French tightened their noose around them all. Army life had taught him how to work as a team with others towards a common goal, as well, how to measure his words when needed. How to gauge whether someone was friend or foe.

But still—could Henry have done better? He had done another of his duties to their father when he married the daughter of a viscount and took her with him to Madeira, even though Henry had died soon after the marriage. Their father had tried to get Sebastian to marry a ‘suitable' girl as well, had even suggested the sister of Henry's widow. Luckily none of those matchmaking schemes had come off before he had to go to Portugal.

For just an instant, a memory flashed in his mind. A pair of soft, wide grey eyes filling with raw hurt. A small hand turning cold in his, slipping away. Mary Manning turning her back to him when she realised the stark, jagged truth of what he was. A careless rake.

The truth of what he
had
been. Sebastian's fist tightened around the letter he held, crumpling the paper before he even realised it. He was no longer that heedless man. He fought against it every day. Yet remembering Mary Manning, her lovely, heart-shaped face, the way her innocent kiss tasted, made him fight against it all the more. He would never forget the wounded look in her beautiful eyes the last time she had looked at him.

Perhaps his work could now protect more innocents like her. Perhaps, in some small way, he could make amends to her. Not that she would ever know. Surely she was married to some worthy country squire now and never thought of Sebastian at all.

But he thought of
her
all too often.

‘Eh, Seb?' Nicholas asked, the tinge of worry in his voice, and Sebastian realised he had been lost in his own thoughts for too long. He tossed aside the crumpled letter and looked across at Nick again.

‘What was that, Nick?' Sebastian said.

Nick tried to smile. ‘I merely asked if we were going to avert disaster tonight? Or has it already happened?' Like Sebastian, Nick was a more junior member of the Lisbon delegation, though he had been in the diplomatic service longer. In Sebastian's view, there was no one more well-meaning than Nicholas Warren, but also none worse at hiding his own worry.

And when dealing with someone as weak and indecisive as the Portuguese Prince Regent, worry should never be glimpsed at all.

Sebastian gave Nick his most careless smile. ‘I certainly hope so. If the Prince will agree to get himself and his government out of Napoleon's clutches before it's too late, something can be salvaged.'

‘And will he?' Nick swallowed hard.

‘I certainly hope so. I am rather eager to see Brazil myself. They say there are the most extraordinary dark-eyed women there...'

Nick looked comically shocked. ‘Seb! Can you never be serious?'

‘Never.' Sebastian knew very well he had to be serious, though no one could see it. People revealed so much more to him if they thought him silly and careless. It had become an unexpected asset.

Thunder crashed down over their carriage, as loud as a cannon shot. The storm that had been threatening ever since they docked at Belem was about to break.

‘Here, read these,' Sebastian said, tossing a handful of the documents at Nick. ‘We'll be at Mafra soon and Lord Strangford says there's much to be done once we get there.'

Those documents were all from Strangford, the British envoy to Portugal who had been working tirelessly for months to get Prince Joao to formally ally with Britain and embark for Brazil to get out of Napoleon's clutches. Sebastian had been briefed on all that had happened in Lisbon: Joao's dithering, the affairs and machinations of his estranged wife, Doña Carlota of Spain, the English blockades and French threats, and now the fleet that was gathering in the Tagus River to carry them all to the New World.

If Prince Joao could be brought to agree. And he had to agree.
Now.

Portugal had so far been able to maintain neutrality, but those days were coming to an end. She was hemmed in by Spain, now France's reluctant ally, her warm-water seaport was vital for Atlantic trade and it held as a breach in Napoleon's Continental hold. Strangford was certain this was one of the most important missions of the wars.

At the bottom of one of the letters, the signature was not Strangford's. Sebastian was shocked to see the words
Sir William Manning
.

Mary Manning's father. Sebastian quickly scanned the document, a briefing on a meeting with Joao only the day before, but of course there was nothing about the man's daughter there. Surely she was back in England?

But—what if she was not? What if she was in danger here in Portugal? A rush of protectiveness surged through him, a protectiveness he knew he didn't deserve.

He sat back on the seat as the carriage jolted along the narrow mountain trail. The letter fell from his hand. He looked out the window to see that the palace complex of Mafra, enormous, silent and dark behind impenetrable stone walls, loomed before them. If only he knew where Mary was, could see her again...

‘Oh, yes,' he said quietly. ‘We shall most assuredly avert disaster here.'

Chapter Seven

M
ary was quite sure she had never been to a more dismal ball. She knew she would have to write Louisa of it and tell her that she hoped London balls were more merry.

She stood near one of the tall, brocade-curtained windows of the royal ballroom at the palace of Queluz, studying the scene before her. It was a beautiful room, of course, as all the Portuguese palaces were, lavish and splendid, full of gilded furniture and priceless paintings, marble and gold and scarlet brocade.

And the guests were equally splendid, the ladies in their French fashions of fine muslins and thin silks embroidered with gold and pearls, the hair curled and twined with jewels, the men in their satin breeches and white stockings. Social life at the Braganza court was never exactly sparkling, hampered as it was with elaborate and rigid ritual that was hundreds of years old, as well as fractures in the royal family itself, with Queen Maria mad and her son Dom Joao and his wife, Doña Carlota, estranged. Everyone always took refuge in the latest fashions and in constant whispered gossip.

There were barely even any whispers that night. An orchestra played in their gallery and couples moved across the floor in an elaborate quadrille, but it all had a strangely dreamlike, automatic air. The people clustered around the walls and in the corners stood close together, as if they felt more secure in tight little groups, but they said almost nothing to each other. The only sound was the music, the whisper of silken skirts over the marble floor.

On their gold satin-draped dais at the far end of the room, the Prince Regent Dom Joao and his wife, Doña Carlota, watched the dancing with their oldest children, the royal Princes and Princesses, beside them. The princely couple had long lived apart and only came together for ceremonial occasions, so surely for some reason they deemed tonight to be of some importance. Some unity of the royal family had to be shown in the face of the French threat, of English pressure to flee.

They wore the finest of velvets and satins, yet their faces looked most glum. The royal family were never the prettiest, most jolly of people, but today they looked as if they trudged to their own funerals.

Mary studied the expressions of the people around her, searching for her father. He had brought her to the ballroom, but then he had vanished with Lord Strangford and the others of the English diplomatic group, and she couldn't help but worry about what might be happening.

A cluster of newcomers appeared in the doorway, and Mary glimpsed her friend Teresa Fernandes among them. Teresa was a lady-in-waiting to Doña Carlota, one of the prettiest and most popular ladies at court, and she always seemed to know the latest news. Mary was most happy to see her, to no longer be alone in the crowded ballroom.

After Teresa made her curtsies to the royal couple, Mary found her by the refreshment tables.

‘A rather quiet party, isn't it?' Mary whispered as Teresa handed her a glass of punch.

‘You should see Her Highness in her own rooms,' Teresa whispered back. ‘She paces back and forth, muttering, writing letters to her parents in Spain, then burning them. She does not know what to do.'

‘Have you heard anything about the French? About what is happening?'

Teresa shook her head. ‘Rumours, of course, but nothing certain. Have you? Has your father said what the negotiations are accomplishing?'

‘Not at all. I seldom see him now.' And she worried he had so little rest. Over the rim of her glass, Mary studied the gathering, the dancers who moved through the automatic figures of the stately court dance, the stifling heat from the fires, the crowds in their stiff gowns and satin coats. Everyone's face looked pale, watchful, frightened, no matter how much they tried to pretend this was a normal evening.

The doors at the end of the ballroom opened and a new group entered. Everyone looked towards them with something like relief, gratitude at the interruption.

Mary hoped it was her father and turned to study the men who waited for the footman to announce them. Suddenly, time seemed to slow and blur, and the crowd vanishing around her. For it was Sebastian Barrett who stood there, the tallest of the group, handsome and watchful in his black-satin court coat.

Mary swallowed hard and looked away for a moment, sure she must be imagining things. But when she turned back, he was still there and it was truly him. He looked startled to see her, as well, and he gave her a bow. Or perhaps it was not even a bow for her.

Mary didn't know where to go, or what to think. It had been so long since she had seen him. She had worked so very hard to forget him and had thought she had mostly succeeded. Now here he was again and she felt just as confused as ever. Just as young and silly.

‘I must find my father,' she murmured to Teresa.

‘Are you ill, Mary? You look so pale suddenly. Is it this dreadful punch?' Teresa cried. ‘Here, let me help you. I need to find the ladies' withdrawing room myself. We can find my brother Luis and have him see us home.'

Mary nodded. She wanted desperately to be out of that overheated ballroom, to be away from Sebastian. She let Teresa take her arm and lead her towards the door, the door which was blessedly empty now. She couldn't see Sebastian and the others, they had vanished into the crowd. She shivered, hot and cold all at the same time.

She and Teresa curtsied hastily to Doña Carlota, who watched them with cold, narrowed dark eyes. Dom Joao leaned over as if to say something to her, but she looked away, smiling at the liveried footman who stood behind her chair.

As Mary turned away, she saw Sebastian waiting to make his bows to the royal couple. But he did not watch them. He watched Mary and a small smile touched his lips.

She hurried away, wishing the marble ballroom floor would open and swallow her whole. Behind her, she heard a sudden rustle move through the room, across the brocaded and jewelled crowd, and Doña Carlota hurried away from the dais, not even looking at her husband.

Mary wondered if the French were near and her worries about her own heart fled.

* * *

It
was
her. Miss Mary Manning.

Sebastian had hoped to catch a glimpse of her there in Lisbon, perhaps even to talk to her again. To make sure she was well, to tell her how he still regretted his youthful folly. To tell her—he wasn't even sure what he would say, what could make it better. He only knew he wanted very much to try.

But now that he really did see her again, he really had no words. All those years of only flirtations had seemingly left him ill prepared for sincerity.

Miss Manning was even lovelier than she had been in London and looked not a day older, even in the stiff formality of the pale-blue satin ballgown trimmed with gold lace, her hair piled high and bound with a lace band. But back then she had a pink glow to her cheeks, a shy smile. Now she seemed pale, solemn, very still and perfectly composed. Her beauty had deepened into that of a woman.

Yet her eyes didn't hold that same light of hopeful innocence that had once drawn him in. He felt a sharp regret, a sudden, burning need to make her smile like that again.

He only had that one look at her, glimpsed through the thick crowd, before she vanished. The ballroom was packed with people in their court satins and velvets, the sparkle of jewels, the faint sound of music, yet no one spoke. They only looked at each other with frightened eyes, moved aimlessly from one group to another.

‘This is awfully joyless, eh, Seb?' Nicholas Warren said as he came to Sebastian's side. He took a glass of wine from a waiter's tray, making a face on the first sip. ‘I suppose we can't blame them, though.'

‘I don't think the Portuguese court has ever been known as an especially mirthful place,' Sebastian answered. ‘But now they are faced with leaving their homes...'

Nicholas murmured an agreement. ‘At least there are still a few pretty ladies to look at, eh?'

For an instant, Sebastian wondered if Nick had spotted Miss Manning. ‘Are there?'

‘That one, for instance.'

Sebastian looked towards where Nick gestured with his glass. It wasn't Mary he saw there in the doorway of the ballroom, but one of Doña Carlota's ladies-in-waiting. She was pretty, it was true, and younger than most of the court ladies, with curling dark hair and brown eyes, but she didn't have Mary's delicate sweetness. She went up on tiptoe to whisper to a man beside her, a gentleman just as dark and lithe as she was.

Nicholas sighed and Sebastian laughed at him. But as he started to turn away, another lady joined the pair in the doorway and he realised with a jolt of pleasure that it was indeed Mary. And now she smiled at last—as the dark gentleman bowed over her hand.

Mary laughed at whatever he said to her and Sebastian found himself scowling. He quickly made himself smile again, as he had learned to do so often in the last years, but still he wondered who the blighter was that could make Mary smile.

‘Oh, I say—I remember now. Surely that's Doña Teresa Fernandes, whom we met when we presented our credential to the court?' Nicholas said. Before Sebastian could stop him, he made his way across the room to Doña Teresa's side, as unerring on his path as a bee.

Sebastian followed, realising this could be his chance to talk to Mary again at last.

‘Ah, Senhor Warren!' Doña Teresa cried, fluttering her lace fan. ‘And the Lord Sebastian, yes? It is good to see you again.' Nick bowed over her hand and she laughed. ‘Have you met my brother, Dom Luis Fernandes? And my English friend Miss Manning, who I am sure you must already know.'

‘I am most honoured to meet you both,' Luis said, with an elaborate, courtly bow. Sebastian realised the man, the one who had made Mary smile, was too damnably handsome. ‘You must have come to liven up this dreadful ball, yes?'

As Nick said something, Sebastian realised that Mary watched him, her calm, cool grey gaze never wavering. She did not smile, nor did she frown. He wondered if she even remembered him at all. ‘We have met, yes, in England. A long time ago. Lord Sebastian was in the Army then, I remember.'

‘So I was,' he answered quietly. ‘It is kind of you to recall, Miss Manning. I have long wanted to see you again.'

‘Have you?' she murmured.

‘What an exciting life it must have been, Lord Sebastian,' Luis Fernandes said. ‘You must find Lisbon most dull after the battlefield.'

‘I doubt life could ever be dull for Lord Sebastian,' Mary said. ‘I do recall many found him most charming indeed in London. Not that everyone would have agreed...'

Sebastian gave her a little bow, as if to acknowledge her small hit. He deserved worse. ‘I hope I might be allowed to try to change your mind, Miss Manning.'

‘I doubt we will have the time. Or indeed the inclination,' Mary said. With one more cool, sweeping glance over him, she pointedly turned away. ‘I think our carriage should be here by now, Teresa? I am quite weary, and must beg to go home.'

‘Of course, of course,' Doña Teresa said quickly. ‘It
has
been a long evening. Luis, will you see us out?'

‘It shall be my great pleasure,' Luis said, offering his arm solicitously to Mary. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Senhor Warren, Lord Sebastian. I am sure we will see much of you at court now.'

‘Perhaps at the next ball!' Teresa said.

‘I am sure they will be too busy to dance, Teresa,' Mary said with a smile. With that, she took Luis's arm and strolled out of the ballroom, her shoulders very stiff and straight.

Sebastian watched her go, unable to look away from her. Dom Luis was very solicitous of her indeed, taking her lace shawl from a footman and draping it over her shoulders as she smiled at him. She would surely never deign to smile like that at Sebastian again.

‘So that is Sir William Manning's daughter again,' Nicholas said. ‘She doesn't seem any fonder of you after all this time, Seb. Not that I can blame her...'

‘No, nor can I,' Sebastian answered quietly.

‘But you have changed, my friend!' Nick said with too much heartiness. ‘She will come to see that very soon.'

Sebastian tried to laugh, but he feared it came out much too strained. Perhaps he
had
changed—he had grown into himself, into doing his duty. Not that it could make Mary Manning smile at him again.

And his diplomatic skills obviously still needed much honing indeed.