A | B | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14A | 14B | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30A | 30B | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41A | 41B | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45A | 45B

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PART II

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MAY, 1780
BERKELEY SQUARE
LONDON, ENGLAND

CELIA STOOD ALONE on the edge of the ballroom, waiting for Rear-Admiral Lord Rathbone to bring her the cup of lemonade she’d expressed a desire for.

It wasn’t an idle desire, either: Her need for citrus was reaching crisis proportions such that the last time she was able to get to her office (which opportunities had become nonexistent), she ate oranges and sucked on limes until she was nauseated. Fortunately, because Rathbone was a sailor, he recognized this about her once she had managed to call his attention to it.

“Here you are, Celia,” Marquess Rathbone murmured when he appeared at her side. “You look rather like a sodden mop.”

If it had been any other time and place, Celia would have laughed. Tonight, she merely said, “Thank you, Uncle,” and took his offering.

“I shall instruct the staff to provide you with fruit if you wish.”

She never thought she would find Rathbone a godsend. “I would be very grateful. Thank you.”

“The music is atrocious,” Rathbone grumbled.

Celia couldn’t agree more, but why was she was shocked he could discern it? He had a library full of textbooks on the subject. She made no comment on that. “Please do not feel obliged to stand with me, Uncle,” she said dully.

Go away.

“I don’t,” he muttered absently. “I’m waiting for Lord Tavendish.”

Celia nearly choked. “He is your friend?”

“He served with me on the HMS Ocean,” he answered, apparently unaware The Simpleton would not engage in idle chatter or attempt to solicit information. He was paying too much attention to the ballroom doors. “I was a first leftenant and he a third. We … endured … much together.”

Asking What? would give too much of her away. The Simpleton would not think to ask. Besides, his tone informed her that he would not provide details. Was it possible Judas had endured something worse than being tried for treason, locked in Newgate for two years whilst he stood trial?

They stood silent for quite a while, and Celia let her mind wander. She knew she should stay alert, considering her most dangerous adversary was at her elbow, but this sojourn had managed to beat her into the deck in ways Skirrow had only dreamed.

All her plans had been set asunder by others’ machinations—unwittingly yet! and with the best of intentions!

She had bedded a man who was exactly to her taste and, predictably, she had fallen in love with him and, even more predictably, she had promptly gotten her heart broken.

The opinion of her stepfather she had held close all these years, the foundation upon which she had built her anger, had shattered into pieces so tiny she could not see them. (At least Dunham was not present to crow that had she listened to him, it would never have built in the first place.) She was mired in rage that had nowhere to go except toward Mary because she had created this mess, but that Celia would not do.

Her mother was livid at everything in general and Celia in particular. No, perhaps Bancroft. Or Dunham. Rafael? Judas! Mary was no more prepared for the mess Celia’s life had become than Celia was and had no idea where to direct her frustration. Celia could expect more enraged mutterings from Mary’s side of the bed tonight.

Her uncle had received no word of a new assignment and he was chewing the walls to get back out to sea. Celia would have chewed them with him if it meant she could return to the library and Maarten’s task—the very reason she was in this stew in the first place. The marquess was still regularly rousing the house to find wayward Cousin Edward, bellowing threats to take him to sea, but he had to have a ship to make that good.

She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since they arrived at Rathbone House and she was weakening from lack of adequate rations. Those few nights she managed to sneak out and take supper with her men were not enough to assuage her gnawing hunger—never mind her lack of citrus.

Meanwhile, her ship and the rest of her crew were in Rotterdam at anchor, doing absolutely nothing productive. Celia loved to spend money, but even she, with her spendthrift ways, chafed to waste any.

On top of all that, instead of tossing That Man overboard as she had intended, he had further wrapped her up in his life and troubles whether she wed him or not, with the missive he left her before departing for Spain.

4 May 1780
Celia. Should I die before I return, this is what you must do to avenge me, as you swore: Go to Spain. Kill every male in the Covarrubias line. What you do with the women I will leave to your discretion, as long as none of them are increasing. Those, you kill. You will then go to Carlos and inform him of the condadó título’s demise. He will be so thoroughly delighted to have those entails returned to him, he may not insult you overmuch. As a second point of business, I have been made Rector of the University of Coimbra. I will take the seat at the new year.

Rector! That shocked her. It had been his lifelong dream, and he had finally attained it.

I promised you may go back to the sea, but I do want you to be my wife in every way and I will do everything I can to persuade you to stay with me. I have only one thing to offer you, which is my vow to learn to love Captain Fury the way I have loved Celia Bancroft for fourteen years.

Celia’s lower lip dropped a little and she re-read the last sentence. Then read it again. She blinked rapidly, for there were tears gathering in her eyes. Was it possible? He vowed, which meant he would apply himself to the endeavor.

Something in the depths of her soul stirred, for being wed to Rafael and treated as a woman and not a pupil had been her dream from the first morning she had awakened in his arms.

’Twould seem her girlish infatuation was far more powerful than she had suspected for this to tempt her. Tavendish’s unavailability made Rafael’s promises even more tempting.

Then came the final blow that might drive her back to Portugal after the war:

Remember these things: I love you. I have never lied to you. I have never reneged on a promise I have made to you.
RC

Fortunately, he had had the foresight to write the missive in Arabic, for when it had been delivered, Aunt Harriet had taken it upon herself to break the seal and attempt to read the letter first. Her confusion and frustration may have been comical but for the fact that Celia had panicked in truth.

With a screech about my things! Celia had snatched the letter out of her hands and run to her room, slammed the door, and locked it, wailing the entire time. Woman had popped out of her apartment and loudly demanded Celia be sent to the madhouse, at which point Aunt Harriet had offered to help Woman arrange other lodgings if Rathbone House did not suit her.

So between Celia’s hunger, her lack of citrus, Woman’s continued residency, Rafael’s devastating missive, and Aunt Harriet’s appropriation of it, Celia had been unable to stir herself from her bed for an entire week after its delivery. She would have preferred to stay abed, her sparse meals brought to her, but Aunt Harriet would not allow her to. Convinced Celia could be cheered with good music and pretty dresses, she had hounded and harried Mary to outfit Celia for the night’s rounds, ignoring any protests that Celia was fatigued and generally unwell.

“Ooooh, la! What a perfectly lovely gathering!”

And now, on her first evening out in over a sennight, she had to face that disgusting … thing. The one she had tupped for five days straight. The one who did not recognize her.

“Good God,” Rathbone whispered, horrified.

She didn’t start. Didn’t turn away. She was too weary and numb for Lord Macaroni’s appearance to make a difference in her mood to the good or ill.

His yellowish wig—and the miniature tricorn perched upon its pointy peak—added near a foot to his height, already heightened by his heels. There were two enormous sausage curls just over each of his ears. His coat was scarlet, his waistcoat and stockings a glaring turquoise, and his breeches saffron.

She blinked at the color of his heels: scarlet. She could not be certain, for the practice of wearing scarlet heels to signify that one had the king’s ear was French, but no macaroni would hesitate to flaunt such a thing.

The beautiful young woman again on his arm was exquisitely attired, and immediately borne away by a cloud of suitors.

“If he wanted to convince everyone of his madness, he’s doing a bang-up job,” Rathbone muttered in disgust.

A bit of panic worked its way through Celia’s numbness. Of course he would know this for a façade as well as Celia did.

“It appears as though his sister will be able to make a good match this Season in spite of him.”

Sister?

“Lord Tavendish is not mad, like me?” Celia ventured. “Aunt said … ”

“He is as sane as I, my dear. He must have a reason for this, though I could not fathom what.”

Celia was floating as if trapped in a soap bubble that would never land or pop. The sounds around her were muted, the colors dull, the scents flat, the shapes distorted. She observed everything around her with some measure of detachment.

Was this what it was to be truly mad? she wondered as she watched Lord Macaroni’s flamboyant toilette and even more flamboyant entrance.

She ought to be angry with him, but she was far too weary and heartsick for that.

Some time in the past week, whilst she kept to her rooms, Lord Tavendish had become, quite unexpectedly (and, to Celia’s mind, inexplicably), the ton’s darling. Even Aunt Harriet had been culled by some prurient charm that made everyone he spoke to—everyone he touched—think he or she might be the lucky one the earl chose to debauch that night.

Salaciousness oozed from his every pore as he slowly made his way around the room, greeting everyone, touching them in nearly intimate places, standing too closely, whispering things, laughing …

Every greeting was false. Every touch was anathema to him. Every move closer to a body made his more tense. Every giggle was forced.

To her, it was so obvious.

Would she be able to see this if she had not known him for who he was?

She did not know.

What she did know was that at this pace, he would tire of the act fairly quickly. He did not seem to have the stamina to continue such a ruse, most particularly because he found it so distasteful.

Ah, there. His sister—foil and accomplice, rather, Celia realized now—came to press him for a dance, during which he allowed himself to relax a bit.

“He’s been at every soirée this past week,” came the whisper from somewhere to Celia’s right. “’Tis as if he is in a frenzy.”

“My husband said ’tis as if he were looking for someone.”

“La! A girl to wed.”

“Nay. Someone he knows.”

Rathbone stiffened.

For a certes, he was looking for someone.

He wants to see you, Captain.

Aye, I know, but don’t let him near me.

He had me followed last night, but I lost the chap.

That had stopped after Celia had bestirred herself one night to follow the man who was following Papadakos. She had slipped a garrote around his throat, put her pistol to his head, and jerked him into the nearest dark alley.

You tell your captain to cease this nincompoopery immediately. I’ll not tolerate it.

Cap’n Jack, please just speak widdim. He’s pinin’ for ye, ’e is. He ain’ ’isself.

Oh, I know exactly who ‘hisself’ is. I’m sure you and the rest of his officers had a good laugh at my expense.

No, Cap’n, we didn’t, I swear.

If the Earl of Iscariot wants to find me, he needs to keep a weather eye on his milieu and a grovel in his pocket. No more following my men. No more rattling every doorknob of every brothel in London. No more raiding every vessel on the Thames. I—am—not—there. The next man, save the earl himself, who thinks to find me by any other means is a dead man. Understood?

Aye, Cap’n.

“Seeeleea, my darling! Where the devil have you been all week? I’ve missed you dreadfully! May I write my name on your card?”

No acting was required to play the part of dullard. She slowly raised her eyelids until she looked into ice blue eyes that were out of place with his yellowish wig and stark white face. She dully offered her card, where he wrote his name with a hand so artfully powdered it appeared fragile, weak.

Most people in costume neglected to disguise their hands, but not Judas. Oh, no.

“Miss Bancroft?” he asked, his voice wavering between cautious tenderness and however he thought his persona should act. “Do you not remember me? We met last week.”

“Oh,” she said, and slowly dropped a curtsey. “Apologies, my lord. I … forget to … ”

His voice pitched lower and quieter from the raucous falsetto he had been using since he arrived in Town. “’Tis quite all right, my dear. I understand such lapses all too well.” He paused. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

“Lord Tavendish.”

“Why, yes,” he cooed with a false smile, his mouth rouged a shocking red against the thick layer of white powder needed to hide his dark tan. He had no fewer than five patches adhered to his face.

“Tavendish,” Rathbone said low.

“Ah, my dear marquess!”

“Don’t,” he returned with the barest movement of mouth, the barest of breaths. “We have the same goal.”

They were working together? Surely not for the same reason?

Could Celia’s life get any worse?

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If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!