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PART II

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MAY, 1780
COVENT GARDEN
LONDON, ENGLAND

SHE TURNED HER ever-blank face to him and said, “About what, my lord?”

About what.

By God, if this woman weren’t so emaciated he’d swear she was his lover, but Fury would never be able to squeeze her magnificent breasts and strong torso into a bodice that small, no matter how tightly her stays were laced.

And Elliott should know.

What he also knew was that this woman, Celia Bancroft, was not as simple as everyone thought, affidavits be damned.

The manner in which Celia spoke to him could be construed as the sort of wordplay Fury enjoyed. Those eyes …

… and the way she had looked at him a moment ago, as if she wanted to swallow him whole. It was dark, however, and he must have imagined it, for what former captive would invite such intimacy?

That was not the most pertinent question, however, which remained:

How could she be two men’s daughter?

If she were Fury, how could she live under Rathbone’s roof and, further, how could she have knowingly fired on her own brother with the intent to sink his ship, if not kill him?

Elliott didn’t know Fury’s loyalties well enough to be able to judge precisely how ruthless she could be. Was it enough that everything he knew of her and from her told him that if she were pushed to it, she might do just that?

“Do you sing, Celia?” he asked abruptly, earning the shushings of the marchi­oness, who would rather pay attention to anything but the man at her right.

Celia looked at him with that damnably, impossibly blank face and said, “No, my lord.”

Ah, that was an idiotic question. If she were Fury, of course, she would lie, and she would know that he suspected her identity.

He sighed. “Celia, please. Call me Elliott.”

She looked up at him then, her golden eyes unblinking. “I am not comfort­able with your requested arrangement, my lord. You are being kind to your friend’s simpleton daughter. I understand my place.”

His eyebrow rose, but he did not answer that. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Yes, my lord. Her dress is pretty.”

Not a word about the music. And it was said with just a hint of wistfulness that could be genuine or the product of an artful actress.

God, how he missed Fury. What a ripping time they could have had together here, disguised, playing the most risky game he had played to date—and possibly, for her, riskier than blowing the blockade.

His only consolation was the figurehead, which was now back on the Silver Shilling, her solid mahogany body having been hollowed out and packed with Elliott’s share of the gold, as he had bid Hugh.

Elliott, why not sell your ship? You’ve no more use for it.

I will not sell that ship, not so long as I have possession of that figurehead, and I will die before I let it out of my hands.

“Pardon, my lord?”

He started. “What?”

“Whom do you miss? You said you missed her.”

Elliott blinked and his jaw hung open. “Ah … My … lover, Celia,” he murmured. “I miss my lover.”

“Your … lover, my lord?” she said in a very small voice.

Elliott’s head snapped to her and raised his eyebrow. “My lover,” he said flatly. “Is it so impossible to believe?”

“No, my lord. I thought everyone was your lover.”

That shocked a laugh right out of Elliott and he grinned at her. “Why, Seeeleea, was that a jest?” She simply stared at him, her face blank. Elliott’s amusement abated and he muttered, “No, I s’pose not.”

Do you not desire my companionship?

Of course I desire you, my lord.

If any other woman had said that, the meaning would have been clear, but with Miss Bancroft …

He said nothing while he continued to look in her eyes, trying with all his might not to see Fury’s. They were the same beautiful caramel, but Celia’s held no light. There was no hint of joy in her expression, not a whit of color or vivacity to her person or voice that would allow him to breathe Fury’s life into Celia Bancroft.

Why, then, did he continue to want to attempt it? Was he that desperate to find her?

“My lord?”

“You have pretty eyes,” he said abruptly.

That made her blink them. “Oh. Thank you. What is your lover’s name?”

Elliott, stunned by her persistence, answered her. “Jacqueline.”

“Oh.”

“’Tis a lovely name, my lord,” came the soft voice of Lady Hylton. He looked at her sharply, just then realizing that she had been listening to his conversation with Celia. But Lady Hylton was looking at Celia. “Isn’t it, my sweet?”

Celia looked straight ahead, not a flicker of emotion on her face, as usual. “I don’t care for the name, myself.”

Was that an independent opinion The Simpleton had expressed?

And just happened to be the same as Fury’s on that particular name?

“Do you love her, my lord?”

Elliott stared at Lady Hylton, wondering at her softened attitude, wondering if, now that he had admitted to a lover—a female one—she no longer saw him as a feckless coquet or an indiscriminate predator.

“Yes. I do.”

Celia hiccupped and his attention returned to her. “Please excuse me,” she murmured as she brought the fingertips of her left hand to her lips. Yet it was her right hand that curled over her thigh and crushed the silk of her skirt in her fist. He did not miss the slight tic in her jaw. The next hiccup, and the next, and the succession that followed, were fake.

“Shall I bring you another lemonade, Miss Bancroft?” he asked smoothly.

“I would be most—hic—appreciative, my lord.”

“Hold your breath for a moment or two. They may go away.”

Celia’s hiccups had miraculously disappeared by the time he returned and her hands were folded primly in her lap as she watched the opera. She thanked him properly for his thoughtfulness.

“Where is your betrothed?” he asked abruptly.

“In Spain,” she answered dully.

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

“I believe him to be true, my lord.”

Elliott looked at her sharply. “So,” he drawled, looking pointedly at her forehead, “there is more up there than anyone gives you credit for. First you feign a swoon, then you insult me with all the guile of an infant, you bid me mind my persona, and now you catch a subtlety. I’ve been observing you these past three days, Celia. You watch everyone. You follow certain people. You eavesdrop on their conversations. I’ll wager you know all the ton’s secrets.”

“I do not take your meaning, my lord,” she murmured, and refused to be drawn into conversation for the rest of the performance.

• • •

ELLIOTT IMPATIENTLY awaited his next chance to quiz Miss Simpleton, but was foiled by Lady Hestia Grisham and Mrs. Constancia Aynesworth, who burst into his box to greet her after the curtain fell.

“There you are, Miss Bancroft! Oh, and Lord Tavendish! What a surprise.”

Elliott was immediately on edge. “Ladies!” he trilled as he stood and pranced toward them. “Why on Earth would it be a surprise to see me in my box?” He took their hands with a flourish and bowed low before kissing them. “So lovely to see you!” He leaned toward them. “I hear you have impressed upon Miss Bancroft to give a salón tomorrow evening?”

They exchanged calculating smirks. “Why, yes, Lord Tavendish, and she has graciously accepted.” He felt Celia’s skirts before Lady Grisham looked over his shoulder. “Haven’t you, Celia?”

“Yes. I am delighted to do it.” As delighted as a slug in seawater. Elliott was about to refuse for her, but she continued. “Would you be kind enough to call upon me tomorrow at nuncheon so that I may ask your advice on the matter, however? I am simple, you see, and some things are a bit beyond me.”

They tittered. Celia watched them with vague interest. Elliott decided to see if Miss Bancroft did, indeed, need rescuing from this evil pair, if she even cared, or if she was bamming them all—him, her father, the Rathbones. There could not be that many people bound up in some masquerade for some unfathomable purpose.

“Of course, Miss Bancroft. Lord Tavendish, please consent to attend!”

He splayed his fingertips over his chest and sighed, “I thought you would never ask, my darlings!”

Lady Grisham’s eyes grew wide. “But—we sent an invitation!”

“Oh, la! My mother sifts through those, you see. Likely she thought it scandalous.”

“No more scandalous than you, my lord,” Mrs. Aynesworth purred, hooking her arms in his. He pulled her to him.

After much exclaiming and giggling and trading of small slights toward Celia, Lady Grisham and Mrs. Aynesworth departed.

“Celia, darling,” he simpered for their audience’s benefit, “I did offer my assistance. You need not concern yourself with theirs.”

“They are my friends, my lord,” she responded stonily.

“Your definition of friendship leaves much to be desired.”

“I don’t take your meaning, my lord.”

It was a long promenade from his box to their carriages, Celia on Elliott’s left arm and her mother on his right. Neither spoke, leaving him to his obligatory flirtations as they passed slowly through the crowd.

“Marianne!”

Lady Hylton halted and turned to look at Lady Rathbone scurrying toward them in her Captain Fury gown, her battle-worn husband behind her and sneering at her skirts. Once he drew abreast of the marchioness, who had immediately begun chattering mindlessly at her sister, he simply stared through her.

Elliott observed this with some interest. His father and mother had had a love match, like the Rathbones, and, though the countess had been angry with the earl for forcing Elliott to sea, her love for him had never wavered.

In fact, his father had been earl when he had cast aside his contracted fiancée to wed a French duke’s daughter. To hear his mother tell it (with unabashed glee), it had been the scandal of the decade. But between her golden beauty, exotic—enemy—pedigree, and irresistible charm, she had become the darling of the ton within two Seasons. Further, it was well known that Lord and Lady Tavendish shared a bedchamber.

But the raw grief in Rathbone’s expression was painful and reminded Elliott that even the strongest of love matches could fail. Might it be better to wed for duty and therefore have no expectations at all?

Elliott glanced down at Celia, who stood dumbly beside him staring at nothing. Indeed, she was far away, and Elliott fleetingly wondered where her mind took her. Certainly, he could not imagine wedding her, but now it was a moot point.

“Celia, are you listening to me?”

Elliott started a bit, but Celia simply turned her head to look at her mother blankly. “I’m sorry, Mother. What did you say?”

“I said I shall return home with Harriet and the marquess.”

“Very well.”

Rathbone’s mouth tightened as he offered his free arm to his sister-in-law, but cast an angry glance at his wife when she attempted to pull her hand out of the trap he had made of his elbow.

“There will not be enough room in the coach for all four of us. Lord Tavendish, would you be so kind as to see Celia home?” Of course he would. He could not have asked for a more perfect circumstance in which to quiz Celia.

He glanced at the marquess, who looked away, likely embarrassed by Elliott’s knowledge of the situation and why the marchioness would press her sister to accompany them home.

“I have no objection,” he said slowly. Celia herself made no objection. Certainly nothing about her expression or the way she held her body indicated that she had any feelings on the matter whatsoever. “But I am more than happy to deliver the both of you.”

“Oh, no!” trilled both sisters, which struck Elliott as quite odd. He knew Lady Rathbone’s motives, but Lady Hylton’s were a mystery.

His eyes narrowed. “Lady Hylton,” he said crisply, “as I recall, when we last spoke, you were rudely overzealous in your attempts to rescue Celia from my lecherous clutches. Yet this evening, you’ve been most kind and now you are practically pushing her into my coach without a chaperone. What changed?”

“I requested her company, Tavendish,” the marchioness snapped, to which Lady Hylton gave a single, confirming nod. “Is that not enough?”

No. But he simply shrugged. “As you wish.”

But Lady Rathbone wasn’t finished. She swatted his arm with her fan and tsk’d. “She is betrothed, Tavendish, and ’tis not as if you haven’t been alone with her before.” Here she cast Rathbone a withering glance, whose face hardened in return until she sniffed and returned her attention to Elliott. “She is also your commander’s daughter and she trusts you. I hardly think her reputation will suffer too greatly with you now.”

“Or any at all,” Elliott drawled, at which Celia tensed the slightest bit, though only he would notice because he was closest to her. “Shall we, then? Come, Celia.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He gestured for the three of them to precede him and Celia. Once he had called for his carriage, it took only a few moments for it to arrive and for Celia to be handed in by the footman.

They were well ensconced on the seat together, and on their way when Elliott said, “Celia.”

“My lord?”

“What game are you playing?”

“Game, my lord?”

“Every word out of your mouth is rife with innuendo.”

She blinked, but said nothing, staring at him with the same vague expectation she had displayed for Lady Grisham and Mrs. Aynesworth, awaiting anything he wished to say.

He closed his eyes and dropped his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “I must be truly mad.”

“My lord?”

He raised his hand to forestall her curiosity— Well, if she had any curiosity. She didn’t. That was the problem. “Celia, you are—” He stopped.

“My lord?”

“Stop saying that!” he roared, raising his head to glare at her. “‘My lord? My lord? My lord?’” he mocked. “My name is Elliott! Use it!”

Nothing. Not a shred of fear, of interest, of curiosity— Nothing. She hadn’t shrunk from him, either. She simply watched him and waited for his next words.

“You are maddening,” he said flatly.

“That is what I am told, my lord.”

He’d never wanted to strangle a woman so badly in his life, but she was no better than a new pup, really, who could not be blamed for shitting itself on the drawing room carpet. “I said maddening, not mad.”

“Oh.”

“What must I do to get a reaction from you?”

“Tell me of Jacqueline.”

Elliott’s jaw dropped, and he scrambled for a word. One. Any word at all would do. Good God, it was a wonder he’d survived his first year at sea, he was such a lackwit. “Ah, Celia … Ah, well … Why?”

“She is the reason you refused my father’s offer, is she not?”

Was it possible a simpleton could have made such a correct leap in logic? “Not … precisely. Or, rather, not completely.”

“You need a countess, my lord.” Was that a request? Or an observation? Or an obvious thing to say by someone who only said the obvious?

He stared at her for a long moment, as this woman was far too dogged on the various aspects of his matrimonial prospects. “Are you … jealous?”

She looked confused. “I have no reason to be, my lord. I am betrothed, as Aunt Harriet said.”

Elliott felt a veritable dolt in this woman’s presence, and she was the dolt!

She was also right: He did need a countess. It was his duty. But who would have him? Neither a fifteen-year-old girl nor a simpleton had any need of him. Indeed, other than begetting the next earl, no one needed him for … anything at all.

Fury professed to need him, but not enough to continue as his mistress.

Elliott looked at the floor, remembering the glimmer of desperation in the marquess’s manner toward his wife. He remembered how shocked he was when, at eighteen, he learned that proper lords and their ladies did not share a bed for more than a hurried, dutiful coupling, much less share a bedchamber. He remembered his imaginary wife and imaginary home, planted squarely in the middle of a very real valley.

There is nothing in this world that cannot be torn asunder, my boy.

Quite right.

He had had enough of this … nincompoopery, as his lover would say. He was finished with the lot of them. He crossed his arms over his chest, looked out the window, and muttered, “My brother is my heir, Miss Bancroft.”

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