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PART III

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JUNE, 1780
THE PANTHEON
LONDON, ENGLAND

“DRAG YOUR TOES a bit,” Elliott whispered to the woman on his arm, attired as badly as she usually was, her eyes downcast.

“How does she tend to all these details?” Phoebe muttered resentfully.

“I don’t know, but you’re being well paid to emulate her emulations. Mind your charade and do not speak unless you are directly spoken to.”

Phoebe growled faintly but did, in fact, make a better effort to be Miss Simpleton. With the few days they had had to prepare, Celia had taught her as well as could be expected and she was not unaccomplished. She was, after all, a harlot.

The mask tied to her face helped. Her eyes were not quite the right color, but Elliott doubted either the admiral or marquess would notice, much less anyone else.

“Admiral Lord Hylton, Rear-Admiral Lord Rathbone, and … the Lady Captain Fury.”

Phoebe snorted, and Elliott almost laughed at the weary exasperation in the footman’s tone at announcing Marchioness Rathbone. She was the twelfth Lady Captain Fury to have arrived, and likely there would be a few more.

“Attend,” Elliott muttered, nudging her to pay attention to the grand entrance of Prime Minister Lord North’s ballroom. “The admiral is the shorter of the two men and that Captain Fury is Lady Rathbone. Those are the three we must deceive. Remember that Lady Rathbone is Jack’s blood aunt and is the one most likely to note any inconsistencies. The marquess is the one who will recognize Jack as Jack. As he does have some compassion for Miss Simpleton and has paid attention to her, ’tis possible he may notice something amiss. However, the pair of them are waging war against each other and may be too occupied to give you a second glance. As for Lord Hylton, ’tis unlikely he’ll notice anything at all, as he can barely stand to look at her.”

“Ye don’t expect much, do ye?”

Elliott ignored that. For all the woman’s grumbling, she had taken to this task with glee.

“Tavendish!” Rathbone called and pulled an angry Lady Rathbone along behind him, the admiral bringing up the end of the fleet.

“Munro,” Elliott simpered and flipped his kerchief at the marquess, once again in Lord Macaroni’s shoes and all too willing to play his part for the last time.

Rathbone ignored Elliott’s foppery, though the admiral curled his lip at the display. “Raxham,” Rathbone gritted, pressing close to speak as privately as could be had, “would you please dance with my wife before I murder her?”

“You’d be better served to fuck her,” Elliott replied wryly and felt Phoebe’s quelled laughter.

“I can’t get near her door.”

“God almighty, Munro, knock the bloody thing down and take her.”

“I may just. She cannot hate me any more than she does now.”

“Lady Rathbone!” Elliott called over Rathbone’s shoulder. “Allow me a dance later?”

She blinked behind her mask, surprised. “Why … of course, Tavendish. What sort of dance were you proposing?”

“For now,” he purred, “a gavotte or allemande.”

Marchioness Rathbone’s mouth curled seductively. “I look forward to … dancing … with you, Tavendish. Perhaps until dawn?”

“P’raps,” Elliott drawled with great amusement.

“Don’t you dare,” Rathbone hissed.

“Why not? You won’t.”

“My God, Tavendish!”

“Which is what she’ll be saying by dawn, I assure you.”

“Gentlemen!” the admiral snapped. “That is enough!”

Elliott and Rathbone turned as one to look at the baron with incredulity. “Hylton,” Elliott drawled, “again you forget yourself. We are not children to be chastised, and Rathbone here may still be under your command, but I am not. How many reminders do you need?”

“He’s overset you’ll not allow Celia out of the Gables, much less into his home,” Lady Rathbone informed him smartly, with a glare cast at Lord Hylton.

“Celia!” Hylton said, his tone suddenly bright and utterly conciliatory. On cue, Phoebe pressed against Elliott, away from Hylton, keeping her eyes downcast. He hoped what expression could be seen under the mask appeared satisfactorily frightened. “How have you found it at Mélisande Gables?”

She paused for effect, then made her answer flawlessly. “My ladies are very kind to me, my lord.”

“And what of Lord Tavendish? I see you are … close.”

“He has been at Parliament for most of my stay.”

“And have you any desire to return to Rathbone House?”

“Lady Tavendish has invited me and Mother to stay until Christmastide, but if Aunt wishes my return … ”

She wouldn’t. Mary had informed Elliott she was still angry at having been ordered to feed Celia more than she thought wise.

Hylton paused, his expression troubled. “Celia, what would you think of residing with me until your wedding?”

Phoebe squeaked and shook her brunette head violently, then skittered behind Elliott to hide.

“If only the court could have seen that,” the marchioness hissed at him. “I should have presented all your secrets, you blackguard.”

Rathbone started and turned to face his wife. “All of them? Do you mean to say he has some fault in her capture?”

Marchioness Rathbone snarled at Hylton, who paled. Clearly he had not thought Mary would confide in her sister. But instead of answering her husband, Lady Rathbone simply flicked her gaze up and down Hylton’s body with a sneer. “How is the … future Lord Hylton, Nathan?”

“Harriet!” Rathbone snapped. “Whatever this is, it can be sorted out later. Now is not the time to engage in battle.”

“Do you mean with someone other than you?” she asked sweetly.

“God almighty, woman,” he hissed. “I’ve a good mind to—”

Her eyebrow arched, she looked at her husband with challenge when he stopped. “To what?”

“Dance with you,” he snarled.

Her mouth curled up. “Try it.”

Elliott’s brow wrinkled up to his hairline. That was precisely the wrong thing to say to an experienced and intrepid battle captain—unless she knew exactly what response it would garner and wanted it.

“Hylton,” Elliott said smoothly, to forestall any further public marital discord. He was nonplussed to witness this rancor between two people who had loved each other once—so much Harriet had conspired to defy her parents to wed Rathbone. “My lords and lady. Must you insist on conducting business and airing all your personal grievances at public events? We’ve all libraries at the ready in which to have private conversations, and the Rathbones have their bedchambers.”

“As regards my purposes,” Hylton said stiffly, “it seems you are always unavailable.”

Elliott had made certain of it. “Ah. Well then. Do you fear for Celia’s welfare in my household?”

“I want to reacquaint myself with her. She is my daughter, after all.”

Elliott’s eyebrow rose. “Indeed,” he purred. Lady Rathbone coughed and Hylton’s jaw clenched. “Well, whatever Celia’s thoughts on the matter, my mother adores her and has come to look forward to the calls your … wife makes—” Lady Rathbone snickered at that and Elliott smirked at Hylton’s sudden pallor. Rathbone was watching carefully, but Elliott doubted Harriet would answer any of Rathbone’s questions once he got her alone. “—and would not take kindly to Celia’s absence. To which end I must ask if, given what I told you of Covarrubias, you have reconsidered breaking the contract in favor of me. Naturally, I will reimburse the sum you paid Covarrubias.”

Hylton started. So did Rathbone. “I have,” he said slowly, “and I intended to speak to you on that very subject tonight, since you are so very unavailable otherwise.”

“Excellent.” Elliott pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Sandy will be most happy to draw up a contract for us in the morn. We can have it all settled by midnight, the banns read Sunday, and the wedding within the month. Lady Hylton—” he drawled, but to no satisfactory reaction, “—will be returning to France soon and we would not want her to miss her daughter’s wedding, now would we?”

Hylton leaned to his right to peek around Elliott’s body. “Celia? Would this arrangement suit you?”

“Does your daughter have a choice?” Lady Rathbone gathered herself enough to snarl.

Hylton straightened and cast his nemesis a glare. “No.”

“Then stop this farce of concern, arrange the meeting, and leave the poor girl be.”

“The Lady Captain Fury,” boomed the bored footman’s voice. “Again.” No one paid any attention except Elliott and Phoebe.

“TAVENDISH!”

The female bellow filled the ballroom and, with studied detachment, Elliott turned toward the door.

All movement in the ballroom stilled and it was as if everyone had frozen in time and space, shocked at this … person.

And this … person … was so magnificent his breath left him.

Her long, muscular legs were clad in buff breeches tucked into high black boots. Her strong torso was barely covered by a white ruffled, blousy shirt tucked into her breeches—a shirt under which she wore absolutely nothing and had, furthermore, rouged her nipples. Her scars could be seen in the deep V of her shirt, but unless one knew what they were, it would seem that the light was playing tricks on one’s eyesight. The sash that held her sword was black as was the scarf she’d tied around her head. Gold hoops hung from her ears, wide kohl slashes across her cheekbones emphasized her burnt-sugar eyes, and her long orange braid was barely visible, so skillfully woven into the tails of her black head scarf it seemed a pattern in the fabric.

“I am afraid I have not had the pleasure of an introduction, Captain Fury,” Elliott drawled with an insouciance that impressed even himself.

“Not without great effort on your part to request one. You’ve had your men up and down the Thames looking for me, so I finally decided to satisfy my curiosity.” She looked him up and down, then curled her lip. “’Tis clear to me you can satisfy nothing else I’d need of a man.”

The crowd gasped, but Elliott almost laughed. “You might be surprised how well I could satisfy your needs, had you not appeared so disappointingly … overdressed.”

With that, Celia raised her hands to the neckline of her shirt and ripped it open, baring her magnificent breasts and even more magnificent scars—the only way she could prove her identity to Rathbone without exposing her resemblance to Dunham to the admiral.

The room burst into shouts and screams and swoons, the gathered seemingly moving as one away from her.

“By God, woman!” Rathbone bellowed, taking a step forward and reaching for his sword … that he had not worn.

“That’s her?” Hylton demanded.

Elliott waved a hand toward Rathbone. “I should rather ask Munro, since he is the only one here who has had any dealings with her. But he appears to be occupied at the moment.”

“Ah, Marquess Rathbone,” she said with a sweet smile. “So happy to see you again. Shouldn’t you be in the States attempting to kill my compatriots?”

“Raxham! Your sword!”

Elliott dutifully detached his scabbard and threw it to the marquess, who drew it with a ring.

She tsk’d. “Oh, Admiral, really. Did you think I would have come alone?”

Screams erupted when her men and half of Elliott’s current crew appeared behind her, pistols and swords at the ready. Steel rang as more men drew their swords.

“ELLIOTT!”

At the scream, Celia’s head snapped to the right. She took two steps and snatched Camille by the throat, then whirled her until she had Milly in her embrace, an arm across her throat and a pistol to her head.

“Rathbone,” she purred, “are you willing to allow me to murder this child? I’m not above it, you know.”

“How well I know,” he snarled.

Elliott strode forward, Phoebe dogging his heels until he whirled and bellowed, “Miss Bancroft! Return to your father!” then continued his course toward Celia. Phoebe ignored him, as instructed, and followed.

“Unhand my sister, you brazen piece!”

“Tavendish!” she chirped, pressing the pistol harder into Milly’s temple, “so lovely to meet you after all these weeks. I wish we could have done so over a bottle of rum.”

Elliott never broke his long stride, but suddenly Celia’s men swarmed in from behind her and swept around her, scattering terrified people hither and yon with their swords. Pistols were fired at the ceiling and plaster rained down upon the lot of them. Women screamed. So did men.

The crewman who had been monopolizing Phoebe’s bed picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, then spirited her out of the ballroom.

Her neverending cries of terror raised even Elliott’s hair.

Celia cast her glance to Admiral Hylton and sneered, “Set that traitorous dog Tavendish after me, will you? Foist your … imbecile … off onto my Spanish lover, do you? Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged, Captain!” Rathbone shouted.

“As usual, Marquess,” she said sweetly, “you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know I have no quarrel with you.” She looked first at Hylton, then Elliott, and sneered. “You two, however, I do have quarrel with, so I’m taking your women. Catch me if you can.”

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