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PART IV

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JANUARY, 1781
RATHBONE HOUSE
LONDON, ENGLAND

CELIA CAME TO, but did not allow herself to reveal it until she had ascertained her whereabouts.

She was tied up in a soft wingback chair.

Blindfolded.

Still clothed.

Her jaw hurt like the very devil, from the blow Rathbone had landed when he realized exactly whom he had caught.

She took a deep breath and—

Bloody hell.

She knew exactly where she was: Marquess Rathbone’s library, likely in the very chair she had sat when Marcus Zimmerman had sealed the warrant for his death.

“Ah, she’s alive.”

Celia raised her head and let it fall back against the cushion. Now her neck hurt, too.

She did not know how long it had been since Rathbone had caught her square in the middle of her recent rash of bad luck, but she was well and truly caught.

Doonna get yerself executed.

She snorted.

“Do you care to share the jest?”

“No,” she drawled. Her blindfold was removed and she blinked against the sudden brightness. “What time is it?”

“Just past six bells. We await Admiral Lord Hylton.”

Celia yawned, then winced. “Ow.”

Other than the hustle and bustle of couriers and aides from the Admiralty, Rathbone House footmen, the butler once or twice, there was silence between them.

Until—

“The admiral has arrived, my lord,” intoned the butler from the threshold, to which Rathbone simply gestured his admittance.

Celia was not facing the door and the chair back was higher than her head, so Bancroft did not see her when he strode into the room.

“What is this about?” Bancroft demanded, planting his hands on Rathbone’s desk and leaning over it. “You roust me out of bed at sunup, summoning me like the lowliest sailor, and then refuse to give me proper respect?”

The marquess tsk’d. “You forget yourself, Baron. You are not my commander anymore.”

Bancroft stiffened, his expression immediately one of wary anger, and Celia pursed her lips. The marquess had just asserted his high rank, thereby trumping Bancroft’s status as one of the highest officers in the Navy and as a noble in his own right, albeit a lowly one. This would not go well for her, but she trusted Rathbone far more than she trusted Bancroft.

“What did you need, my lord?” Bancroft asked tightly.

The marquess slid a pointed glance at Celia, and the admiral’s head snapped toward her.

Her stomach began to roil as she watched his face, which was completely devoid of any emotion. He may have misspoken his intent when she was eight, but he would show her no mercy now.

But his chest began to heave and he blinked rapidly. “Celia!” he finally cried. “Oh, my child! Thank God you have been returned to me!”

Rathbone started. “Celia?!”

“Here,” Bancroft said as he stepped to her and knelt at her feet and began to work the knots at her ankles. “Let us unbind you.”

Rathbone stared at Celia stonily, the way any commander would stare at a new sailor who had committed an egregious faux pas. She smiled sweetly. “Unbinding … Celia … would not be wise, Hylton,” he drawled.

“Nonsense, Rathbone,” Bancroft muttered as he finished untying her feet and moved to her right hand. She smirked when Rathbone began to tap the edge of his glass on his desktop. His nostrils flared. “You’ll not carry on now, will you?” Bancroft muttered. “There’s a good poppet!”

No sooner had the knot fallen away than she drove her fist into his mouth.

“Footman!” Rathbone bellowed.

She paid no attention to the man now tying her hand to the arm of the chair and looked at her stepfather, who, having fallen on his arse, stared at her with vague insult.

“That was not necessary, Poppet,” he muttered whilst dabbing at his fat lip with a kerchief. “I would hope you would not treat your husband thusly once you are wed.”

She gave him a beatific smile. “Only upon his request, Nate.”

Rathbone coughed.

Bancroft blinked, his face falling into confusion. “Nate?” he asked slowly. “Why would you address me thusly? That is most unseemly, Poppet. The proper address is Lord Hylton, but that is neither here nor there. Call me ‘Papa.’”

“May God cast me into hell if I ever address you as Papa again, much less by a bloody title. Not only am I not your spawn, you buffoon, I’m an American.”

His mouth dropped open. “You— You—”

She sneered. “Aye, I have all my faculties and then a few besides. I am not bound for reasons pertaining to my safety, but yours, which you still do not ken.”

“Baron,” Rathbone repeated pointedly.

“My lord,” Bancroft replied stiffly as he arose, staring at Celia warily.

“Explain to me how you see in front of us your daughter, whom you have not seen but a handful of minutes in the last twenty years—yet I, who have hosted and squired Celia Bancroft about London since the beginning of this very Season, do not see anything of my niece in this woman? Further, that she decries being your daughter?”

The admiral’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“It is because I am the very image of my sire and thus remind him of his cuckold—”

Pain once again exploded in her face when Bancroft slapped her.

“Admiral!” Rathbone barked. “I expect you to control your anger, whether she deserves it or not.”

Celia said nothing whilst she attempted to recover from her dizziness, then opened her eyes again. “Next time, Nate,” she snarled up at him, “respect me enough to use your fist.”

To her shock, he looked down at his hand and whispered, “My God. What have I done?”

Celia heaved a longsuffering sigh. “Ahoy, Uncle Charlie.”

Rathbone began to laugh, sounding genuinely amused. Yet it was tainted with the madness of a man who had had far too many calamities to bear and laughter was his last resort.

Bancroft raised pained eyes to hers and croaked, “Who are you?”

Rathbone swore and slammed his glass down on his desk so hard it shattered. He was oblivious to the blood oozing from his hand and the glass shards creating his wounds.

“For God’s sake, Hylton! If you do not by now know who she is, you’ve gone ’round the bend just as Raxham and I had suspected.” He looked at Celia, his face hard. “Explain yourself, Captain.”

Gladly!

“The story that I was taken by pirates when I was eight years old is true. Rather, one pirate took me. And the pirate hell I am said to have lived through consisted of daily French and Arabic lessons, astronomy and mathematics, swimming and swords, cards, dice, drinking, and … pirating. And let me tell you—learning how to write in Arabic was, in fact, hellish.”

Rathbone groaned. “Oh, good God. Dunham.”

“Just so. When I was ten and four, he sent me to Coimbra, where I studied under Rafael Covarrubias for five years.” She flicked her gaze back up to an obviously tortured Lord Hylton. “Under him.”

Bancroft’s fist clenched, though he spoke calmly. “So you get that from your mother.”

Celia reared to her feet with a roar, carrying the heavy chair on her back like a tortoise, startling him so badly he stumbled backward, again landing on his arse. She attempted to raise her bare foot and crush his bollocks, but her balance was too precarious—and then she found herself forcibly dragged away and her ankles being bound to the legs of the chair.

Her chest heaving, she spat across the distance at him.

He clenched his fist, but simply watched her and wiped the spittle from his face with it.

“I have no words to express how much I despise you,” she hissed. “For that one moment in time in your library, when you explained your plan to Miss Simpleton, I nearly forgave you because you were so tortured. Regardless how it inconvenienced me, your intentions were honorable. And then—”

She clamped her mouth shut, afraid she would say something far too revealing, but Rathbone said quietly, “And then?”

“And then,” Celia continued softly, seething with rage she directed at Bancroft, “Tavendish confronted your negligence in never having looked for me the way Rathbone has searched for Sarah for twenty years. The difference being, of course, that you knew who had taken me, where he had likely taken me, and further, that once you made admiral, he was marginally under your command. You could have ordered him to drop me on your doorstep at any time, but you did not. When you refused to explain yourself, I realized: You did not want to look at me, and you were willing to risk being wrong about Dunham’s character so you would not have to.”

Rathbone sucked in a harsh breath while Bancroft’s expression betrayed nothing.

“You knew Dunham would at least attempt to take care of me and so you were not penitent until you learned what your temper had wrought. Now that you see that is not the case, you show your true colors.” She looked at Rathbone. “And he accused Tavendish of being Judas.”

Rathbone’s jaw dropped and he turned his attention to Bancroft. “How dare you,” he whispered, his nostrils flaring and his face red.

“Then I was forced to kill the man, of course, but then that is what I do. Do not think I was happy about it, either. He was intelligent and amusing and kind to Miss Simpleton. I liked him. I would have wed him, Rafael and Judas be damned.”

Rathbone leveled his steely glare on her. “And who is Judas, by the way?”

“Surely you don’t expect me to answer that.”

“Enough!” Bancroft bellowed, hopping to his feet, then bending to plant his hands on the arms of Celia’s chair, nearly pressing his nose to hers. “Why are you here?”

She tilted her head left to look around the admiral at Rathbone. “Offering my adversary an olive branch he refuses to take.” She looked back at Bancroft. “I have Lady Sarah. I stumbled upon her in Algiers, and she made it very plain she would like to see her papa. I would like nothing better than to assist in a little family reunion, and then be upon my way.”

“Why would you do such a thing? Rathbone is, as you say, your most dire enemy.”

“No,” Celia drawled, “Rathbone is an honorable and worthy opponent. You are my most dire enemy.” He withdrew from her slowly. “You deserve to burn in hell for what you did to my mother, leaving her alone to fend for herself, forcing her to service men so she wouldn’t die cold and hungry that first winter—”

“God almighty,” Rathbone whispered, appalled, whilst Bancroft choked and turned away to pace slowly, rubbing his hands down his face.

Celia glanced at her uncle. If she knew anything about him, it was that he would not suffer such dishonor in his presence. Thus, she quickly began, but soon enough—

“Stop,” he commanded, his hand in the air. “Do you mean to say Marianne ran away so that Harriet and I could wed?”

Celia blinked, stymied in her tale. “Ah, as I apprehend, she and Papa were in love, and she would have run off with him anyroad if they were not allowed to marry. Her father’s unexpected understanding with yours gave her haste and gave Aunt Harriet a reason to assist. Mama was desperate to marry Papa and Aunt Harriet was desperate to marry you.”

Rathbone’s skin paled and his mouth tightened, but his gaze was focused on something just above Celia’s head and, likely, seeing something long ago and far away in Northumberland.

But then he shook his head and said low, “Go on.”

After some time speaking, she concluded with, “Dunham thought Bancroft loved Mama enough and was honorable enough to either overcome the difficulties or, at the very least, quietly send her to the country to rusticate, as any number of nobles do. Papa never intended to make trouble for either of them and therefore forfeited his claim as her true husband. That is how much he loved her, but Bancroft here cast her to the wolves as surely as he did me and for what? His pride—and now we see time has not even dented it!”

“Hylton,” Rathbone rumbled. “Is this true?”

“More to the point,” Celia snapped. “Does Lucien know he’s a bastard? That I am the legitimate child?”

“Nay,” Bancroft replied barely loudly enough to be heard.

“I understand Lucien barely acknowledges you now. What would he say or do if he knew Mama’s circumstance after you left her?”

“Good Lord,” Rathbone again whispered. “He’d kill him.”

She snarled at the admiral. “I would have killed him four years ago when I went back for her had Washington not expressly forbid it.”

The admiral flinched.

“Fury,” Rathbone growled. “What does Washington want with Hylton’s life?”

Celia cocked an eyebrow and turned an overly exaggerated expression of interest at Bancroft. “That is a question I’d like an answer to myself.”

Rathbone’s head snapped to Bancroft. “Explain.”

Hylton sniffed. “We served together during the Seven Years’ War and became good friends. He was still a loyal servant to King George when I left Philadelphia.”

“Are you in correspondence with him?”

“I was until he turned. We could not then correspond without strong disagreement on the issues and thus, we allowed our friendship to wane so that we would not become bitter enemies. There is no reason my loyalty to the Crown should be questioned.”

Celia was so angry she attempted again to kick him, then grimaced in pain once the ropes reminded her her feet were bound.

Rathbone sighed wearily and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. “God, what a hash you’ve made, Hylton.” He opened his eyes and looked at Celia with more weariness than she had ever seen him bear. “You have many things to answer for, Captain, but we can visit anon. Tell me: You said Sarah asked for me. Did she ask to see her mother?”

“No. And I would not recommend it anyroad. You know my opinion on the matter, Rathbone, as ’tis not a duty I take lightly, particularly since I’ve found myself well and truly caught.”

“And you will remain well and truly caught until my men find Sarah or you tell me where she is.”

“Oh, give over, Rathbone. Surely you ken I now have no idea where she is. The matter is in my leftenant’s hands.”

“You will remain well and truly caught,” Bancroft growled, “until such a time as we see fit to release you. If we see fit to release you, as the Crown does not take kindly to pirates.”

“Privateer!” Celia snapped. “And you will treat me as a prisoner of war, or your precious nobles’ sons in my commander’s possession will die. You know as well as I Washington will not hesitate.”

Rathbone’s face hardened and he turned a steely glare on Hylton where he sat. “Hylton, you have no room for command in this matter. She is my capture and, further, I will take the full matter to Parliament and let them decide as to her fate. And yours. Think on this: No matter that she is my enemy, at this moment, I trust her more than I trust you. Now get out of my house. You,” he said, gesturing to the footmen and aides, then pointed at Celia. “Cart this baggage off to the Tower.”

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