Not Quite Married (29 page)

“Burned.” Brien was jolted by the news.

“The cause of the fire is unknown,” Silas continued, looking at Aaron. “The stock was destroyed, but the building is repairable.”

His hands dropped helplessly to his sides. “Thank God no one was hurt. Terrence Harvey, the shopkeeper, was unharmed. He’s a good man—and honest.”

“What could have caused it?”

“I suppose there could be a thousand reasons for a fire in a store with such varied inventory,” Silas answered.

“Well, it’s a bad time to have a fire.” Her lips drew into a thin line as she stared at the paper in her hand, and rose. “That shop was one of our smaller ones, but it will still mean a loss. If another of our shops should suffer a similar fate, it might frighten away potential buyers.”

“Which means it would be prudent to take steps to protect your investment,” Aaron said, inserting himself into their lines of sight.

“‘Steps’?” she said, struggling with competing urges to tell him to mind his own business and to give thanks that he was both present and qualified to offer an opinion.

“If it were me”—he watched her reaction to his suggestion closely—“I would want to post a night watch at each of my other shops.”

“But surely you can’t think . . .” Brien halted herself. It was ridiculous to dismiss the idea that the fire might have been intentionally set just because Aaron was the one to suggest it. She glanced at Silas and even he was nodding agreement.

“Accident or not,” she said, facing the unpleasant possibility head-on, “we must see that it doesn’t happen again. Will you see to the watches, Silas?”

“Of course, Brien,” Silas said, showing relief at her decisiveness.

Aaron watched her coolness and resolve with admiration. A metamorphosis from stubborn young woman to pragmatic business owner had occurred before his eyes. Hope spread over his face in the form of a grin. If she could change her mind about business, then she might yet change her mind about him.

As if reading his thoughts, she straightened. “I have allowed this business to languish of late, but no more. I want you to make up a list of prominent business owners in the Boston area, Silas. We’ll find a buyer, if we have to go door to door.” Then she turned to Aaron. “Thank you for the lovely picnic, Captain. Let me see you out.”

The minute they were in the hall and out of Silas’s hearing, she tossed him a glare.

“Don’t you dare say it,” she ordered irritably.

“Say what?” He gave her a look of supreme innocence.

“I told you so.”

“But I did
caution
you to be careful in your dealings with—”

“There’s no proof that Van Zandt had anything to do with this fire.”

“True. But it’s hard to overlook the fact that he
burned
nearly every ship he intercepted and plundered during the war. Fire is the man’s trademark.”

That alarming little tidbit caused a hitch in her stride and a moment later she halted in the middle of the hall, lifted her chin, and extended her hand to him. “Thank you for the warning. Now be so good as to keep your nose out of my business.”

She lifted her skirts, wheeled, and hurried up the stairs.

Aaron watched her go with a mixture of admiration and frustration. The good news was, she wasn’t easily intimidated.

And the bad news was, she wasn’t easily intimidated. She was unholy stubborn and she had no idea how ruthless a man like Van Zandt could be. It could prove to be a deadly combination.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON a message arrived by courier for Brien. Thinking it was from Aaron, she tore into it. The coarse scrawl and improper English left no doubt as to the authenticity of the signature—“Horace Van Zandt.” Her throat tightened as she read his proposal that they meet the following day to negotiate the final sale of Weston Trading’s colonial holdings.

The timing of this new offer, so soon after the fire, was suspicious, but thus far, Van Zandt was the only buyer who had shown both serious interest and ready coin.

“When can we meet?” she asked Silas, who worriedly began to clean his spectacles with a handkerchief. “Will Friday be too soon for you to arrange a meeting with the solicitors in your offices?”

So it was that on a sultry, early July morning Brien sat once more in the offices of Weston Trading, awaiting the final bargaining for property she was increasingly reluctant to sell. Silas and two of their local solicitors were present to witness the agreement and bind it with appropriate written documents.

The groan of boards and the scrape of chairs in the outer office announced the buyer’s arrival.

“Welcome, Mr. Van Zandt,” Brien said tersely, waving him toward the stout chair in front of Silas’s desk and then seating herself in Silas’s chair. “May we offer you some tea?”

His nod set his jowls quivering, and she focused on serving.

“Perhaps you have heard of the recent loss of our Cambridge shop,” she continued.

Van Zandt showed no surprise. Her hand was steady as she offered him a steaming cup of tea, but she noted a tremor in his as he accepted it.

“Of course, we shall adjust the price accordingly,” she said reasonably. “We have reconstructed an inventory of the goods destroyed in the fire and calculated it to have been worth two thousand.”

“Ja, ja.”
He waved his hand disinterestedly.

Brien’s composure was strained by his arrogance. “Then, have you an offer, Mr. Van Zandt?”

“I gif you offer.” His bilious eyes became fat-framed slits.

“Privately.”

Brien was relieved to be able to show incredulity.

“These men are my advisors.” She gestured to Silas and the solicitors. “They are privy to all my affairs, sir. You may speak freely and in confidence before them.”

“Vhat I say, I say to you alone.”

He was so adamant that Brien’s resolve to keep Silas beside her wavered. She asked him and the lawyers to leave them. They quitted the room reluctantly, with Silas commenting pointedly that he would be just outside.

Cynical amusement played at Van Zandt’s mouth as the door closed on them.

“Now ve talk.” He rolled forward on the creaking chair.

Brien folded her hands on her lap, mostly to control their trembling. She could see now that everything Aaron had said about him was true; he was a man without moral or social restraints. His next words sent a chill through her.

“You vill sell to me for nine t’ousand pounds.”

Stunned by the absurd figure, Brien stared at him. “If you mean nineteen, sir, you are still well below my minimum price.” Brien knew she had heard him correctly, but bought time in which to react more carefully.

“No,” he declared. “Nine t’ousand. Und you vill sell to me for dat.”

“Never.” Brien’s coolness surprised them both. “Your last offer of eighteen thousand was unacceptable. What makes you think I should agree to half that?” Her eyes burned with the volatile combination of anger’s flint on will’s steel.

“You agree because your noble name cannot stand a scandal.”

Seeing her frown, he raked her with an insultingly personal stare.

“You haf visitors at night in your rooms—all night. What vill Boston think of a highborn English tart who parades around—high-and-mighty—but spends nights rutting vit men?”

“Men?”
Brien was incredulous. He had somehow learned about Aaron’s visit . . . and enlarged upon it. Her mind raced to match and anticipate his moves. His intention was clear: blackmail. She shoved to her feet, her face taut with outrage.

“How dare you call me foul names and try to bully and coerce me into giving you my property?”

“For all I know, you haf many men,” Van Zandt said with a snarl.

He meant to disgrace her by bringing forth a throng of “lovers” to attest to her debauchery and ruin her reputation. The panic that gripped her throat kept her from a hasty response. What of Silas and Helen? They would know it for a lie, but there were others in these colonies all too willing to believe the worst about any well-born English. Dear God—what should she do? Then she realized that her lengthening silence was fueling Van Zandt’s sneer.

Her eyes narrowed. She thought of Aaron’s warning and of what he would do in such a circumstance. There was only one course.

“Immorality, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, sir. You see sin and degradation in others’ actions because you can only imagine that they will behave as you would.” She stepped partway around the desk, her head high and her eyes flashing. “I would not sell my American holdings to you now at any price.”

She flung a finger toward the door. “Get out of this office and never again foul Weston property with your revolting bulk!”

In a flash, his hamlike hand grabbed her outstretched arm and pulled her partly across the desk toward him. As she struggled, she felt the pot of tea beneath her and instinctively grabbed it up and flung the hot liquid in his face.

Bellowing, he released her to grab at his scalded skin.

Dyso burst in through the side door and, seeing Brien unharmed, flew at Van Zandt. The Dutchman was knocked back against the shelves with a cry, and the office was suddenly filled with Silas and solicitors and shouts and confusion. Furiously, Dyso shoved the panting, cursing Van Zandt through the side door that led to the alley. Still reeling from the assault, Brien caught only snatches of the wretch’s ravings.

One word stood out from the rest.

Burn.

Twenty-One

A LARGE, MUSCULAR FIGURE MOVED stealthily toward
The Lady’s Secret
as she lay berthed in Boston’s docks, emerging from the shadows to challenge the watch on the gangway. Before the watchman could call for help, he was knocked unconscious and dragged back up the gangway to the deck. Depositing the seaman carefully on the deck, the intruder silently made his way to the hatchway and entered without hesitation.

Aaron sat poring over manifests in his cabin when the door slammed open. Instinctively he reached for a nearby sword, baring its cold blue edge.

“Dyso?” He blinked, still coiled for action. “How did you get past the watch?”

The big bodyguard stopped just at the naked point of the blade, pointed to Aaron, then swept his hands toward the door. Seeing the puzzlement on Aaron’s face, he repeated the sequence more slowly.

“You want me to come with you?”

A quick nod was the only confirmation.

“Did Lady Brien send you?”

Dyso shook his head and one massive hand pointed to Aaron, then closed in a fist that tapped his chest above his heart. Dyso came because he knew Aaron cared for her.

“Is she in trouble?”

Some of the tension in the big man’s face drained as he nodded.

“Take me to her, my friend.” He clasped Dyso’s mighty arm and started for the door, but the servant grabbed his arm and held it.

Aaron scowled. “If she is in trouble, I want to help. But I must know what has happened.”

Dyso’s glare softened and his eyes darted as he tried to think how to portray it. His free hand flew in a series of gestures that indicated a belly grown large.

“Is she with child?” he asked, feeling his throat tighten at the prospect.

The enigmatic hulk smiled, then shook his head slowly. He repeated the gestures, adding an almost comical puffing of the cheeks to the routine. It was crystal clear.

“Van Zandt!”

A terse, relieved nod told Aaron much.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I warned her! Have they quarreled?”

Another nod. The large black eyes burned now as the two massive fists pounded together. Aaron stared at them, marveling at their potential.

“Has he tried to hurt her?” Anger was rising inside him. When Dyso shook his head, Aaron went on. “He’s threatened her?”

“I feared as much.” Aaron paced the cabin anxiously under the protector’s gaze. “I tried to warn her.” Turning to the puzzled Dyso, he mused, “I’ll wager the confrontation was most interesting. I’m surprised we didn’t see the fireworks two days out of port!” Grabbing a long dagger that lay on the desk, he tucked it into his boot.

“Perhaps we should pay a late call on Mr. Van Zandt.”

The streets were quiet now that it was well on toward one o’clock. After a short distance, Dyso gestured suddenly to an alleyway and was moving quickly down it before Aaron could utter a word. Dyso led him through a maze of streets until at last he slipped through a partly opened gate. Dyso pushed him back against the fence and Aaron saw that the rear door of the large brick house before them was guarded by a burly seaman armed with a brace of pistols. Van Zandt’s residence. How the hulk had known where it was and that it was guarded, mystified Aaron.

They waited as the watchman yawned and began to doze before creeping in through a side door. The house was not difficult to navigate in the dimness. Up the stairs, they tried only one empty bedchamber before finding the one where Van Zandt slept, propped up on pillows in a huge bed, snoring loudly.

Aaron lit a candle as Dyso drew the drapes at the window. Then he approached the sleeping figure, pulling the dagger from his boot and motioning for Dyso to keep watch at the door.

“Wake up, Van Zandt.” Aaron touched the point of his dagger to the wattle of red flesh overlying the Dutchman’s neck. “We have business, you and I!”

Van Zandt came up with a start but, encountering the point of the blade, blinked and sank back under its pressure.

“Vas meinst du?”
he rasped.

“Remember me?” Aaron’s exaggerated politeness gave evidence that this task was not altogether unpleasant for him. “I was first officer on a brigantine you ran afoul of during the war—the
Challenger.
Aaron Durham is my name.”

Recognition crossed Van Zandt’s face. “I remember.”

“I haven’t come to discuss old times.” He pressed the sharp point harder against Van Zandt’s neck. “You have dealt dishonorably with a friend of mine. That ends now, before real harm is done.”

Van Zandt’s bilious eyes flickered with recognition. “Dat English whore.”

“Lady Brien,” Aaron corrected him coolly. “You will not press her to sell to you, nor will you make good your threats.” Aaron gambled that he would soon draw out the nature of those threats from this miserly mass, and he was soon rewarded.