To Love a Scoundrel (47 page)

Brent stared out the window of the
Dawn's,
pilothouse and thought the city of St. Louis had never looked so bleak. He began counting the other steamboats tied up at the levee, but stopped after he'd tallied only twelve. Nothing was going to divert his troubled mind, he knew, certainly nothing as tangible as his competition's growing numbers.

His mood as dark as the circles beneath his lusterless eyes, he straightened his charcoal waistcoat. As he adjusted his new gray and white striped cravat, he watched the first of the
Dawn's
passengers start up the gangplank.

He ought to have been overflowing with enthusiasm. The ship's maiden voyage had more than fulfilled his expectations financially, and now she was booked to near capacity for her second trip down the Mississippi. He should have been delirious with joy, filled with optimism for the future. Happy, at the very least.

Instead, Brent Sebastian Connors felt depleted of energy. Thoroughly drained, as if some vicious claw had torn the cork stopper from his aorta.

"Mr. Connors?"

Brent turned his head toward the voice and struggled to focus his weary eyes on Captain Randazzo. Sighing wearily, he muttered, "Did you say something, Dazzle?"

The captain shook his bushy head and pointed out to the landing. "Don't you think it's about time you went down to greet the newest load of cattle?"

"Passengers," Brent corrected, "clientele, even, but not cattle, Dazzle. You talk like that in front of me, you're bound to slip up in front of the customers. Won't do. Simply won't do at all."

"Do as well as the hound dog face you been wearing for the last week," Dazzle grumbled. "You look like someone poked you in the eye with a sharp stick."

Brent uttered a short chuckle and wondered where he might find a bandage large enough to cover the wounds inflicted by one bouncy green-eyed heartbreaker called Jewel Flannery. Shaking off the thoughts, he forced a grin as counterfeit as the captain's hat he sometimes wore, and said. "Is this better, friend?"

Distracted, Captain Randazzo kept his gaze on the docks below and suggested, "Might have to pump yourself up a little more than that. Looks like we got royalty coming on board."

Brent moved back to the window and looked down at the commotion. An elaborate carriage drawn by four white horses had just arrived, and already a crowd was beginning to form. The liveryman opened the door, and a portly old gentleman climbed out of the covered rig. He extended his hand to receive the elbow of a heavily veiled woman, then carefully helped her from the fancy carriage.

"What the hell?" Brent said, guessing the white satin gown and billowing veils were her wedding costume. "Give me a copy of the passenger list, Dazzle," he said, watching as the couple made their way up the gangplank.

When the captain handed him the long sheet of paper, Brent tore his gaze from the odd couple and ran his finger down the list. Nowhere could he find any mention of a wedding to be performed aboard the
Dawn,
or any names that even suggested royalty. After rereading the document, he glanced back out at the dock, but the man and woman were gone.

Determined to find and question the mysterious pair, Brent started toward the doorway, then nearly collided with a young deckhand as he rounded the corner.

"Sorry, Mr. Connors," the lad gasped, out of breath. "But there's a king or somethin' wantin' to talk to ya. Johnny Roy is takin' em to the sittin' room outside your office."

"Thanks, Billy," Brent muttered. "I'm on my way."

One deck below, Jewel settled onto the couch next to Harry. "This is insane," she whispered under her breath. "It's never going to work. We'll be lucky if the only thing Brent does is toss us overboard."

"Relax, princess, and please do us both the favor of keeping your very lovely mouth shut until you hear your cue. I know what I'm doing." Harry tugged at the ties securing the bustle he wore as padding for his trim middle. "Trust me, dear," he added.

"But—" Harry's elbow nudged her ribs, but the act was unnecessary. The sight of Brent,
her
Brent, as he strode into the sitting room, was enough to take the words, and her breath, away. Jewel watched him through the heavy veils, wishing she could tear the yards of lace from her face and gaze into his dreamy brown eyes. Instead, she slumped her shoulders and lowered her head.

Harry slowly rose from the couch. "Mr. Connors, I presume," he said, rolling the
r
in a thick Spanish accent. Extending his hand, he introduced himself before Brent had a chance to respond in kind. "I, sir, am Duke Alfonso, directly descended from Queen Isabella the Second. My daughter, the duchess, and I would like a word with you in private."

Openly staring at the pompous man, Brent returned the brief handshake, and wondered if he could be for real. The duke wore a tall stovepipe hat that covered most of his head but allowed a crop of coarse white hair to hang down from the brim to the top of his jacket collar. His thick mustache and full beard, the same bluish white as his hair, covered the lower half of his face. One of the duke's eyes was covered with a chic black leather patch, but the other bloomed larger than life, appearing grossly distorted as it peered through a silver-framed monacle.

Brent took a backward step as he stared at the large, unsightly mole blocking the man's left nostril, then turned and opened the door to his office. "Please, do come in sir."

Harry reached for Jewel's hand and pulled her to her feet. "Please call me Duke Alfonso," he said, his nose cocked at a lofty angle as he escorted Jewel through the doorway and into the room.

When the regal pair swept by him, Brent's sensitive nose caught the scent of violets. His heart constricted, and he had to bite his lip to keep from calling Jewel's name. The woman, her head bowed in submission, glided over to the farthest chair and eased down onto the cushion.
God help me,
Brent's heart cried out. Would he ever be able to bear the scent of violets without thinking of Jewel, without wanting her?

"Sir?" Harry rapped the long black umbrella he carried against the glass-topped desk. "We come on a mission of the utmost importance. Our meeting must be concluded before this ship leaves the dock. Please join us."

Brent shook his head in a vain effort to rid his mind of Jewel, then walked over to his desk. His dislike of the grandiloquent man growing, he said, "This ship and her passengers are my most immediate concerns, sir. I have already checked, and your name is not on our passenger list. Please state your business. The
Delta Dawn
will be heading down river soon, whether your mission is concluded or not."

"That, sir
,
remains to be seen."

Brent inflated his chest and stiffened his spine, stretching to his full six feet two inches. "Just what is it you want, Duke?"

"That's Duke Alfonso, to you," Harry said, sniffing the air with disdain. "And what I want is justice."

Again he rapped the cane against the desk, and when he stared up at Brent, the distorted eye appeared to be wobbling in its socket.

Trying not to stare at the stranger's bizarre features, Brent warned, "I'll give you exactly five minutes to explain yourself."

Harry grinned. "I'll give you two minutes to do the same."

Some of the air seeped out of Brent's lungs as he tried to make sense of the strange conversation. "You'll have to make your business clearer than that. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about honor, sir. You southern gentlemen are supposed to know all about that. I've come to avenge my daughter's honor, to extract my pound of flesh from your silver-tongued hide."

Brent leaned forward and gripped the edge of his desk.
"
Excuse me?"

"I doubt that I shall ever be able to do that, but I'm willing to try if you'll accept your responsibility and restore my daughter's good name."

"Your daughter?"

"Yes," Harry hissed. "You have stripped her of her good name and compromised her exemplary reputation. For that, sir, you shall pay one way or another."

"But—"

"To that end," Harry went on, stepping on Brent's words, "I've taken the liberty of procuring the services of a preacher and the sheriff. Both are waiting in the carriage below. At my signal, one of them will board this ship and perform his duty. Which gentleman shall I summon, sir?"

Again Brent's mouth dropped open. Then all he could manage to say was "What the hell is going on here? I've never even seen your daughter, much less compromised her."

Barely able to hide his delight, Harry turned to Jewel.

"Daughter? Is this or is this not the man who used you in such a vile manner?"

Slowly, dramatically, Jewel rose from the chair. She took dainty, halting steps over to where her father stood, then straightened her shoulders and looked across the desk at the man she loved. Unable to contain her grin or the pulse that seemed to be leaping from her throat, she tore off her headpiece and the mounds of veil connected to it.

"That's him, Daddy," she cried, pointing to Brent's chest. "I swear on my word as a fine young lady, that's the man who robbed me of my honor."

"Jewel?
" Brent's throat, his entire system, seemed to shut down.

"Did you say Jewel?" Harry chuckled, dropping the Spanish accent. "Are you prepared to admit that you are acquainted with my daughter and, therefore, guilty?"

Before Brent could compose himself enough to answer, Jewel repeated her claim. "Don't listen to his lies, Daddy. That's him all right. In fact, right here in this office—"

"
Jewel
,
" Brent warned, finding his tongue.

She shrugged and turned to Harry. "Would it be indelicate of me to mention that right here in this office is where Mr. Connors gave me my first kiss?"

"Quite." Keeping his tiring eye trained on Brent, Harry issued his ultimatum. "Well? Which is it? Do you wish to speak to the sheriff, or would you prefer to restore my daughter's good name?"

His initial shock wearing off, Brent stared through the monacle at the smoky green eye and said, ''Harry? Is that you under all that hair?"

Harry flipped the patch up to his forehead, then popped the monacle out of his eye socket. "I believe," he said, tipping his hat and the gobs of silver hair attached to the inside band, "you'll find me inside of here somewhere."

Steadying himself, Brent straightened his spine and hooked his fingers through the spindles of his chair back. Slowly shaking his head, he said, "I just don't know what to say. This is the last thing I expected." He glanced from Harry to Jewel, lingering there as he saw the contentment, the happiness, shining in her eyes. Then he looked back to Harry and adjusted his vest. "Yes, I do know what to say. You can rest assured that I will do the right thing by your daughter, whatever that may be."

Harry nodded, then turned to Jewel. "I don't believe we can ask more from the man at this juncture. I think it would be in your best interests if I were to allow you to spend a few minutes alone with Mr. Connors so you can explain the type of commitment we expect from him. I shall be downstairs visiting a special lady at the bar if you need my further assistance."

Harry leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then he tipped his hat and his hair, spun on his polished bootheel, and strode over to the door. Just before he crossed the threshold, he turned back, a thoughtful finger pressed into his cheek. "One more thing, old chap. You wouldn't happen to know how Reba feels about poetry, do you? To be more precise, rhyme?"

Utterly confused, Brent could only shrug and turn his palms upward.

"That's all right. I suppose it is something one should find out for oneself. Let's see," Harry muttered as he resumed his retreat. "I wonder how she'd respond to 'Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the..."

The door closed behind him, muting his voice, leaving Jewel to face Brent alone. He stood there slowly shaking his head, muttering, "What the hell is going on?"

Jewel shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't explain Harry's sudden interest in poetry. He recently suffered a severe blow to the head."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Brent said, finding his voice, finally understanding that the woman standing before him was no mirage. He circled the desk and drew her into his hungry arms.

"You," he growled, unable to find his normal timbre, "Harry. Me. Tell me what's happening here. Can all this be true?"

Jewel grinned up at him and slid her arms across his shoulders. Indulging herself, she wound the dark curls at the back of his neck around her fingers as she said, "I guess you might say I finally had a spring thaw." She withdrew one hand and placed it on her breast. "In here, Brent."

He found he couldn't speak. He closed his eyes, drew in a huge breath, and hoped he understood what she was trying to say.

Jewel sensed his apprehension. She brought her hand back to his neck, then plunged it into the thick waves of sable hair just behind his ear as she explained. "I find I'm suddenly full to overflowing with love for both you and my dad. I've found enough runoff in me to keep the Mississippi high for the next twenty years. Please tell me," she whispered, the words low and dark, "that I'm not too late."

"Oh, my Jewel," he breathed, his own heart full to the point of bursting. "My beautiful gypsy Jewel. You could never be too late to become part of my life."