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PART II

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MAY, 1780
BERKELEY SQUARE
LONDON, ENGLAND

“Let us walk,” Rathbone said, absently holding his arm out for Celia to take, which she did. Neither man spoke as they wended their way through the ballroom, down the stairs, and through the manor toward the garden. Lord Macaroni, however, did not spare any person they met along the way his fluttering and simpering attentions.

Why anyone thought this beast worth a tumble, she could not imagine.

“Kitteridge is dead,” Rathbone rasped.

Vlad the Impaler! Celia barely caught her startlement.

In the moonlight, she could see Tavendish’s—Judas’s—eyebrow rise, then he spoke equally low and in the manner she knew to be him. “Excellent. How did that come about and how do you know?”

“My return berth. We came upon the pay fleet still burning, and were becalmed long enough to search for survivors.”

“The pay fleet is gone?”

Good lord! He hadn’t been after the gold at all! And how she had lectured him! She was still ashamed.

Rathbone’s mouth tightened. “Aye. ’Tis a blow we may not recover from, as the Hessians are deserting.”

Celia nearly snorted. Pay the mercenaries before the regular infantry. Only the British.

“Have you any idea who might have done such a thing?”

“Judas,” Rathbone muttered.

“Ah, yes. The rogue Brit who’s been bedeviling your fleet and taken up with the American woman.”

“We think. He commands a British ship of the line, the lingua franca of the crew appears to be the King’s English, and he sails with every hallmark of a Navy captain.”

“Was Kitteridge the target, then? One of our fellow captives turned rogue?”

“Lud, I hope so,” Rathbone muttered, shocking the stuffing out of Celia. “Must admit I’d have liked to participate in that battle. But for the loss of the gold and the ships. Rather put a ball between his eyes, but sinking the entire fleet— No.”

“Means he may not have cared or known about the gold. Do you think he got it or did it go down with the ships?”

“We have no way of knowing.”

“Ah, well. To my mind, any amount of gold is worth Kitteridge’s death. To be sure, the poor bastards under his command are better off with Davy Jones. No one escapes—escaped—his command alive without a bloodied soul. Never mind the fact that half of Parliament will agree.”

Rathbone nodded. “Which is why no alarms have been raised. Whether Judas is working for the Americans or not, he has dispatched an enemy.”

HMS Ocean. Celia would have her men find out exactly what had happened that had seemingly bonded Judas and Rathbone so tightly. So much it had been a scandal in Parliament whose details had never gone outside its walls. So much Rathbone was happy about the murder of a noble and Navy fleet commander by a rogue English officer—and not incensed about the loss of the gold.

“The ship Judas sails is a third-rate with possibly seventy eighteen-pounders, but I cannot fathom how he could have taken that fleet alone. I suspect Fury’s and Gjaltema’s involvement, but of course, I’ve no way to prove any of it. I know of no active commanders who could have taken that fleet alone, and I’m not even sure you could have done so at the height of your career.”

“You wound me, Munro.”

Come to think of it, Celia also would like to know how he had managed it. Now she was doubly ashamed.

“That aside, Judas is a menace to us. There were rumors, but we weren’t certain he existed until he helped Fury evade capture.”

“Speaking of her, I’ve no idea why the Admiral requested my assistance in finding this woman. Everyone knows I’ve been up north ridding my coastline of smugglers, you and Lucien are always out to sea, and he has never found it seemly to forward me news. I don’t know what she looks like and I’ve’n’t the foggiest what I am looking for.”

Not a blink of an eye to betray him. He might be a barely competent actor to her observation, but he was defrauding everyone else brilliantly.

“You have a talent for spotting fakes.”

“Well? What does she look like?”

“She’s … beautiful.”

Celia’s breath nearly left her in a whoosh—by both his words and his wistful tone.

“Interesting,” Tavendish said with a bit of an edge to his voice Rathbone did not seem to notice, “but useless.”

Rathbone sighed in frustration. “She is tall. Mayhap nearly six feet. Her face is soft. Her breasts are … ” Tavendish’s jaw clenched, but Rathbone did not notice that, either, and abruptly ended with, “She has pink hair to her arse.”

Tavendish scoffed. “Pink hair.” Hair he loved to stroke and brush for her. “Pink wig, rather.”

But Rathbone shrugged away the earl’s feigned disbelief and said nothing more, leaving an uncomfortable silence between them.

“Say, Munro, why are we out here in some noble’s garden discussing this when we could be drinking whisky in your library?”

“It’s possible Fury has a spy in my house,” he said matter-of-factly. “Though I doubt it, I’d rather not take the chance until I am assured she does not.”

At this point, Celia’s spirits began to lighten.

“What, ho, then? What business of yours does she need? She’s a privateer, aye? She should be out hunting prizes.”

“I cannot imagine, but I must capture her, else I’ll not be assigned another command. Identifying her spy would be a good start.”

Celia would find a way to give him a “spy.” Her thoughts in that direction were belayed by Tavendish’s discreet clearing of the throat. “Ah, Munro … ”

Rathbone came to an abrupt halt, so Celia did, too. And Tavendish. “What do you know, Raxham?”

“Not what I know, but an opinion I hold.”

There was a long silence whilst Rathbone struggled with his temper. Celia could tell by the way his arm was trembling under her hand.

“Go on,” he finally said, his voice tight.

“Very well. Reacquaint yourself with your wife.”

Rathbone sucked in a shocked breath. Indeed, it was an egregious affront. “She is dead to me,” the marquess said flatly.

“Munro … ”

“By her edict, not mine. I will not be allowed back in her good graces until I find Sarah.”

Celia nearly swooned with shock, it was so great. She could not imagine that Aunt Harriet remembered it that way.

“Oh,” Tavendish said, bemused. “I thought—nay, everyone—thinks you have abandoned her.”

“I care not what the ton thinks.”

“Sarah’s capture was not your fault. I read the reports.”

“The further conditions,” he continued as if Tavendish hadn’t spoken, “are that she be brought back alive. I dare say she will also expect her well and sane, although … ” he drawled, tipping his head slightly toward Celia, “ … as we see, everyone but she knows that is not likely.”

There was no sound but the breeze stirring the leaves of the ornamental fruit trees and the boxwood hedgerows, though Celia thought her opinions of Rathbone’s lack of discretion could be heard if one listened carefully enough.

“She’s let my son go to rot whilst she rides every young stud in Town.”

Oh, Lord. Relations between her aunt and uncle were as complicated—and deceptive—as the ones amongst Mary, Bancroft, and Dunham.

More silence, then Rathbone sighed. “Say it.”

“I wouldn’t have said anything at all,” Tavendish murmured, “but I occasioned to meet someone who made me think one should bury one’s pride when confronted with situations such as yours.”

“A woman?”

“Her parents, rather. I’m willing to toss my pride for my inamorata, but my duty is not so easily jettisoned. So!” he said bracingly, “Since Lady Harriet is, in fact, your duty, too, p’raps you can use this time and … well, persuade her. She’s not wanting for amorous feelings.”

No answer. The three of them resumed their walk. There was a large park beyond the garden itself whose feature was a labyrinth. Celia didn’t like labyrinths, as she could not tolerate not knowing the way out.

“Munro,” Tavendish blurted, “the Admiralty has indulged your driving need to find Sarah all these years. But now the admiral tells me Fury’s bested you thrice, and, I think the latter possibly because of the former. They may look askance at that. Mayhap if you put your house in order, they will think your head is once again screwed on correctly.”

More silence as they drew closer and closer to the labyrinth.

“Celia,” the marquess said abruptly once they found themselves at the beginning of it, “I must speak with your aunt.”

Indeed he must, but he didn’t seem inclined toward amorousness and Celia couldn’t think her aunt would welcome any of his attention.

“I can see Miss Bancroft home,” Tavendish said low. “You don’t need a chi— You need to be alone, if ’tis your intent.”

A child.

“Are you certain?”

“Aye, and I hardly think we are in need of a chaperone, though do send m’sister out if you must.”

Rathbone grunted and cast Tavendish’s toilette a doubtful eye. “Can’t keep it up?”

Judas’s laugh boomed, and, at that moment, it was the most wonderful thing Celia had ever heard. “No,” he said with amused finality.

He turned, but then stopped. “Celia? Do you mind being left alone with Lord Tavendish? If so, I will escort you back inside.”

Time stopped.

Celia might have been able to forgive Judas’s lack of immediate recognition, but now she was furious he had refused consideration of marriage to her so soon after their introduction. He was desperate enough for an heir to sign his life away to a fifteen-year-old girl he had never seen, yet not desperate enough to spend a few days contemplating marriage to the daughter of a baron and admiral of the Royal Navy who was also his mentor?

Bastard.

Yet she would rather be anywhere but the ballroom. Bastard or ballroom? “Lord Tavendish does not seem the sort to take advantage of being alone with women, Uncle.”

They both stared at her in shock, then Rathbone began to chuckle. “Ah … right you are, then.”

“Munro,” Tavendish grated.

“At last he shows his true … glaring … colors.” He walked off laughing and now Celia’s mood had lightened from despondent to morose.

“Pay him no mind, Miss Bancroft,” Tavendish muttered. “How are you feeling after your swoon?”

Celia wrinkled her brow. Just a bit. “I have not swooned, my lord.”

“Indeed you have not. That was my point.”

This bore some thinking. He had nearly called her a child, yet he expected her to be chastened by higher logic than what Miss Simpleton was ostensibly capable of.

When she didn’t answer, his eyes rolled up to the sky and he sighed. “Never mind. Tell me, have you met with your father?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the details of your marriage have been arranged?”

“I am to wed Conde Covarrubias at Christmastide, my lord.”

“Elliott, please.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I want you to know how very happy I am for you.”

Of course he was. If Fury applied the same criterion to Rafael as she had to Judas, she would cut Rafael off permanently once he married Celia Bancroft. Yet Tavendish still needed a countess, whom he had admitted could not be her, so why he thought his lack of a fiancée would make a difference to Fury, she could not say.

“Ah … are you not happy, Miss Bancroft?” Not lately, surely. “You seem … melancholic.”

“Nothing makes me happy, my lord.”

He opened that vulgar red mouth to continue speaking, then stopped. Blinked. “Nothing makes you happy?”

“No.”

“Does anything make you unhappy?”

Everything. “No.”

“Ah. Hm. Well, then. I … I simply don’t know what to say to that.”

“Neither do I, my lord.”

He cast her a cautious glance as if he did not know whether to laugh. Aboard the Thunderstorm, they would have both burst into gales, but now, Celia was not in the least bit amused.

After a small moment filled with discomfort, he blurted, “I am indebted to your father. Helped in my acquittal.” She looked up at him blankly, and he smiled wryly. It was a mere shadow of the one he had bestowed upon her during their mid-ocean idyll, but it was not Lord Macaroni’s smile, either. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“My lord, you were tried for treason,” Celia said flatly, as if she were in the schoolroom dutifully reciting lessons that she had not truly learned.

He started. “Ah! Yes, quite right. Come,” he said briskly, leaning down to capture her hand and place it on his arm—big, finely muscled, encased in expen­sive, deceptive tailoring. She closed her eyes to remember how it looked pressed against her bulkhead while he plowed her the way his ship plowed her figurehead.

Celia, with no energy to resist, simply left her hand where he placed it. Had she been less weary, she may have been tempted to squeeze, to dig her fingertips into his flesh. He had left the Thunderstorm with a myriad of wounds from her nails and teeth, though none from her cat. She knew he hadn’t trusted her temper (especially when combined with her ignorance of his needs), which was really quite reasonable of him.

He drew her into the labyrinth, into which she would not have gone alone, but with him …

Oh, she knew very well why he wanted to go into the garden and labyrinth with her: He had broken character and could not regain it without some preparation. He was using her to rest from his exhausting persona, but she wondered what he would say if it were remarked upon.

She was careful to keep her voice flat. “Why do you dance attendance upon me, my lord?”

“You always look so sad and lonely,” he said murmured so softly she could barely hear him.

Celia did not know quite what to make of that. “Oh.”

“But now that we know this is your normal state of existence, we’ll not dwell on it. Surely you can catch some bits and pieces of joy, can you not?”

“I forgot what joy is.”

That stopped him cold and he looked at her with a pitying expression.

“Celia— May I call you Celia?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“’Tis a lovely name.” Too lovely for you. She heard it as plainly as if he’d said it. “Look up at the sky. Tell me what you see.”

“The moon. Stars.”

She released a quiet, longsuffering sigh when he began to wax rhapsodic about the joy of watching Venus from the quarterdeck of a frigate as he led her through the maze.

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Pirates!