JoAnn Wendt (37 page)

No, the adoption must wait until Garth had a wife. As for the wife, he supposed he could make no better choice than Eunice Wetherby. Some of her ways were damned irritating; but on the whole, she seemed eager to please him. And she covered that night at Bladensburg—if ever that night should need covering. Her family tree was sprinkled with titles. In later years, the tie to Lord Wetherby might prove a boon to Trent. If Trent chose to do so, he could enter the highest social circles in England. Flavia would have liked that for her son, would she not?

Well, he would have to decide. And soon. Eunice was becoming increasingly resentful of his offhand manner. If he intended to marry her, it was time he played the proper suitor. What was he waiting for, he wondered cynically. Love?

No, he’d not love again. Not like Flavia.

Two days later, the scales tipped, once and for all, to Eunice.

Early on the day of the Silver Cup Races and the governor’s ball, his first mate, Jenkins, rode in from Hampton. Catching a first glimpse of the man, Garth’s initial reaction was irritation. Jenkins meant work was on the agenda. Garth had intended the festive day for play. But quickly he shrugged off his irritation. Jenkins was his best man, quick-minded and intelligent. Trustworthy. Both he and Jenkins knew that the next ship purchased by McNeil & McNeil would find Jenkins as its master.

Garth led the way to his study. When he’d shut the door and dropped into his chair behind the writing desk, he said, “Sit down, Tom.”

Jenkins didn’t sit. He riffled one hand through his dark hair, then spread his hands on the writing table and leaned forward.

“I thought you should know,” he said quietly. “The duke of Tewksbury has landed in Hampton.”

For a long time, McNeil listened to his own heart thud. At last he drew a deep breath.

“The duke’s business?”

Jenkins nodded. “I took money from the
Caroline’s
cash box and went taverning to find out.” A wry half-smile twisted his lips. “A man finds himself a lot of new friends when he goes taverning with a fat purse.”

Garth nodded, leaning forward,

“First I cozy’d up to His Grace’s wardrobe man and then to a young footman. Oiled ‘em well at your expense, Captain. 'Twas the footman’s first taste of good French brandy. The young braggart sang like a nightingale.”

Jenkins straightened up, loosely hooking his fingers on his belt.

“When the duke’s steward come into the tavern, I made his acquaintance careful-like. He’s a pridey man. But not so pridey as to look down his nose at a free bottle. So we punished the bottle for a bit. A tight-mouthed fellow, the steward. Still, he let a thing or two slip.”

“Such as?”

Garth pushed his chair back with a loud scrape, got up and went to the window. Trent and Sarah Bess were playing outside, shrieking and chasing a butterfly. Anxiety prickled through him.

“Puzzling out what each man said, I’d guess His Grace is here on a large matter and a small matter. The small matter is a bondslave he wants punished. She—”

Garth flicked his hand.

“That is of no account. The large matter?”

Jenkins smiled grimly.

“You know the ships
Bountiful Lady
and the
Virtue?”

Garth nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Both ships from Norfolk. Both with rather unbelievable navigation records. Long crossings to London, long enough to first put into the Irish sea and pay a visit to the Isle of Man.”

“Ay, Captain. The smuggler’s island.”

Garth mused. “When the ships finally make it to London, the waterline on the hulls stick out like a sore thumb. Even a blind man can see that a few ton of cargo have vanished between Norfolk and London.”

Jenkins added, “Yet the ships’ paperwork is in order, the cargo tallying with the Norfolk royal customs officer’s certificate.”

McNeil drew a sharp breath, wondering where Jenkins was heading, but trusting the man to deliver.

“A dangerous game, smuggling,” Garth said. “Especially with England tottering on the brink of financial collapse because of lost revenues, Parliament screaming for smugglers’ necks and the royal customs force doubling daily.”

Jenkins’s eyes met his. “Not dangerous if the ship’s captain
has a friend on the Board of Trade.”

Garth’s eyebrows shot up. “The duke of Tewksbury sits on the Board of Trade. Are you saying the duke is involved in smuggling?”

Jenkins shook his head. “I’m only sayin’, sir, that the duke received two interesting callers as soon as he arrived. The captain of the
Bountiful Lady
and the master of the
Virtue.”

Garth whistled. It was a whistle of both surprise and relief. So it wasn’t Bladensburg and the supposed drowning of Flavia’s son that brought the duke to America. Thank God! Garth had heard rumors that the smuggling network extended into high places, but he’d never suspect the network went
this
high. The duke of Tewksbury . . . No wonder the man was so rich.

He turned to Jenkins and shook the man’s hand in dismissal.

“Thank you, Tom. Well done.”

For a long time, he sat in his study, thinking. He was annoyed that his inner tension didn’t dissipate, but instead, increased. Tension dug its teeth into the deep muscles of his neck.
He
rolled his head, irritably rubbing his shoulders, seeking relief. He got up, went to the window and watched Trent play.

Tewksbury would pay a formal visit to Williamsburg, of course. His position on the Board of Trade would make a call on the governor
de rigueur.

Entrenched in Williamsburg’s highest social circle, Lady Wetherby, Eunice and Mouse would flutter to parties given in the duke’s honor. The subject of Bladensburg would come up. Garth broke into a cold sweat.

Get your ducks in order, McNeil. Trent’s life depends upon it. Set the damned wedding date!

* * * *

“You look very pretty, Eunice.”

It was the best Garth could do. A poor start, perhaps. But a start.
It’ll never go down in the annals of great courting speeches, McNeil!

He was in the drawing room, taking wine and a cigar as he waited for the ladies to assemble for the governor’s royal ball. A spring breeze wafted in through the open window, stirring Eunice’s dull green draperies. Outside, the landau waited, fresh washed and gleaming in lamplight. He could hear the horses shaking their traces as Toad clucked to them.

At his compliment, Eunice lit up with pleasure.

“Why, Garth! Thank you. That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me since I arrived.”

“Then I’ve been remiss.”

She blushed happily, dropping her shining gaze to her gown.

“You really like it?”

“Yes.”

The gown suited her, he admitted. Its rosy color cancelled the sallowness of her complexion. She was slightly chicken-breasted—breastbone protruding a bit—and the gown’s fussy neckline hid this feature in laces, ribbons, rosettes. A traditionalist, she wore a formal white wig. She looked like . . .  like a wife, he thought bleakly.

Encouraged by his attention, Eunice burst into a flurry of the silly chatter he’d come to expect of her.

“Garth, you
do
look handsome in dark blue brocade. I can’t wait to stroll on your arm at the ball. I shall be the envy of every woman. Oh, I do so admire dark blue on a man, but I wonder, Garth, if you might not be just the tiniest more handsome in your
light
blue brocade.”

He swallowed his rising temper, trying not to envision a marriage that had as its stability “handsomeness” and “brocade jackets.”
Get on with it, man. Do it.

“We must set the wedding date,” he said briskly.

Eunice’s mouth fell open. She blinked in astonishment.

“Garth! Dearest! I had begun to fear—”

For answer, he went to her and lightly kissed her tight cool lips. The fragrance of heather rose from her. Flavia’s scent.
Flavia . . . Flavia.
Abruptly he pulled back.

“June,” he snapped with harsh decisiveness. “When I return from my next sailing.”

“June,” she echoed in awe, whirling to face Auntie and Mouse as their ball gowns rustled into the room.

“The wedding is be
June,”
she cried out in giddy triumph.

Elated chatter erupted. Coos and kisses swirled round Eunice. Garth returned to his wineglass and drained it. He slung the suddenly tasteless cigar into the fireplace. He’d set his course. The rudder was locked. No turning back. Still, the scent of heather lingered in his nostrils.
Flavia . . . Flavia.

* * * *

Torches blazed along the boulevard leading to the governor’s mansion. Torchlight played upon the sleek rippling rumps of carriage horses, burnishing each hide to a rich dark luster. The boulevard was noisy, crowded with conveyances. The going was tortoise slow.

Had Garth been alone, he’d have walked the distance and found it a fair night to do so. Spring had arrived in Williamsburg. Fruit trees bloomed with masses of pink and white blossoms. The sweet fragrance of the evening air teased the senses and almost coaxed away the tension that had gripped him all day, following Jenkins’s visit. The duke of Tewksbury in America. It might mean nothing, but Garth was on edge, worrying about Garth. Suppose the duke suspected . . .

“Oh, look. The cupola is lighted,” Eunice cried out, pointing her fan down the palace green toward the governor’s estate.

Mouse and Auntie “oohed,” and Garth stirred himself, trying to be attentive. At the terminus of the boulevard, beyond the black iron grill-work gate with its crowned royal lion, the governor’s three-story brick mansion glowed in torchlight and lantern light. On the flattened, topmost section of the slanted roof there marched a square of fencing. Within the fencing, a two-story cupola glowed in lantern light, shining out over Williamsburg like a beacon.

“The cupola is lighted for special occasions,” he said. “For royal birthday balls and, tonight, for the Silver Cup Race Ball.”

Lady Weatherby gushed, “It is a beautiful estate, simply beautiful. I’m sure I do not comprehend why you Virginians look down your noses at it, why you sneer and mock at it, calling it the governor’s palace.”

“Because we Virginians
pay
for it,” Garth said more tartly than necessary, “in unreasonable taxes.” The landau swayed as a wheel caught a rut.

Eunice wrinkled her nose and tapped him on the sleeve with her fan. “Politics! Garth, I do hope the talk at the ball will not center on the Virginia frontier again. Such a bore. I shan’t allow such talk at our wedding party.”

His temper flared at her stupidity. Or was it the Tewksbury thing that made him edgy, impatient? He made an effort to be civil.

“Eunice, were you a settler on the forks of the Ohio tonight, you would pray that conversation at tonight’s ball centers on exactly that.”

The women scrambled back to wedding talk, and the landau bumped indolently along. He was glad when Toad finally made his way up in the queue of carriages, and they could alight at the gate. Scarlet-coated British regulars handed the ladies down. Offering one arm to Eunice and one to Auntie, Garth led the ladies past the flanking buildings, up into the courtyard to the main house. Mouse trailed behind. He supposed he made quite a sight—a goddamned rooster with his clutch of hens. Raven’s grin, when Raven saw him in the noisy, crowded antechamber, corroborated Garth’s impression.

“Well, well, well,” Raven began predictably as he sauntered up with Maryann on his arm. “And have we set the—”

“June,” Garth snapped.

“June!” Eunice trilled, echoed by Auntie and Mouse’s cries of, “June! June!”

“June!” Maryann cried out in delight, and another flurry of wedding chatter burst forth as Maryann embraced her future sister-in-law and generously hugged the twittering Auntie and Mouse, too. All of the ladies began talking at once, like a flock of noisy chickens.

“June!” Raven mimicked, grinning like a cat who is satisfied that the rat is trapped. “Well, well, well.”

“One more well,” Garth muttered, “and you’ll find yourself eating it.”

Raven continued to grin, but a flash of anger lit his eyes.

“As
you
will eat
your
words, Garth, if ever again you speak up and interfere in my personal affairs.”

Garth drew a sharp breath. The bondwoman again.

“It was for your own good.”

“You were misnamed. Your name should be Judas.”

The women bubbled on, talking trousseau and wedding trip, proposing parties in honor of the event. Garth’s head ached. The worry about Tewksbury consumed him. Now this damnable wedding.

“Raven, let’s be done with warfare!”

“Done? Not by half. I want my pound of flesh, I want—” Raven’s jaw tightened as their eyes met. “What’s wrong?” Raven demanded, his voice changing. “Trouble?”

Garth nodded. Raven darted a look at the happily engrossed women. Their laughter rippled in the air.

“Business?” Raven asked with concern, his boyish facade falling away as the shrewd, canny businessman in him emerged.

“No. Personal trouble.”

Raven lifted his hands slightly.

“If I can help, Garth...”

He shook his head. “Some squalls have to be weathered alone.”

New arrivals poured into the antechamber, the ladies ridding themselves of evening wraps. Candles burned brightly, reflecting the iridescence of silk. The air smelled of hot melting candle wax and musky perfume. Laughter rang out.

Garth wished the ball were over, wished he could turn the clock ahead; or, he mused, turn the clock back. Back to a time when his life had been a simple and controllable matter. When the thought of marriage had made him laugh, when the sea was everything, when women were bedded and discarded, when his brother had been a malleable youth.

Abruptly, Garth turned to Raven.

“The habit of ‘fathering’ you is damned hard to break. You were eight when Father died, twelve years old when Mother fell sick.”

A wry half-smile twisted Raven’s lips. Over Garth’s shoulder, Garth heard Maryann’s shy, excited, “We will fete you and Garth at an elegant dinner to celebrate your wedding, Eunice, and then—”

“Apology accepted,” Raven said.