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 | 46A | 46B | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51
PART II
MAY, 1780
RATHBONE HOUSE
LONDON, ENGLAND
“CELIA, I DO NOT like this,” Mary hissed as she scurried to ready herself and Celia for their opera appearance with Earl Tavendish.
Celia grunted as Mary laced her tight, one foot on Celia’s arse, and one braced against the floor. Each pound Celia shed made tightening her stays that much more difficult, for there was only so much a corset could do when her ribs were in the way.
“You need new stays,” Mary muttered as if she could read her mind. “Again. These are simply too big now.”
“You’re probably—”
“Suck in.”
“—correct.”
“Celia!”
“Mama, may I catch my breath? What is the matter? You like the opera and I thought you would enjoy it.”
Mary’s mouth tightened. “I cannot stand that fop. Lord Macaroni, indeed.”
Celia’s temper flared. First Rafael and now Elliott. “You cared for him well enough aboard the Thunderstorm,” she snapped.
Mary’s pull slackened immediately. “Do you care to explain that, Little Miss?”
Her teeth ground at the childish appellation. “Tell me something, Mother: Is there any man you would approve of? If not, tell me now so I may avoid bringing any to you.”
She sniffed. “You know I liked Talaat well enough.”
Celia hooted. “You never met him. You liked the idea of Talaat.”
“And what is wrong with a mother wanting for her daughter a man who will love and appreciate her for who she truly is, instead of one who loves her as his creation—yes, I stand by that assessment—or one who is idly amusing himself? Judas. Bring him to me. I may approve of him if he continues to appreciate you the way he did in March.”
She sighed. “Would you even recognize him if you saw him dressed in finery?”
“I have seen him dressed in finery.”
“Methinks you didn’t get the full flavor of him whilst we were becalmed.”
“How could I? You two were holed up for most of it. Nevertheless,” she continued haughtily, “no woman would forget those eyes. So cold they are hot. He’s a dangerous man, my love, but if anyone could match him and tame him, it would be you.”
“Dangerous?” Celia asked incredulously. “He’s utterly harmless. And cheerful. And funny!”
“Do you not remember he consigned more than one hundred men to their deaths without a blink?”
Celia’s brows drew together. “When?”
“The mutiny!”
She waved a hand. “Oh. That. ’Twas nothing I wouldn’t have done could I heft a man in shackles.”
“Ah, see! That you cannot see how dangerous he is only speaks to how well you are suited.” Mary muttered, “Reminds me of your father in that respect.”
Celia smirked. “We’re back to that, are we? Dunham versus Bancroft? Savagery versus gentility?”
Her mother growled.
“Please, Mama. Ignore Lord Macaroni and enjoy the music. Certainly he is harmless to the point of impotence.”
“Tavendish would use you, The Simpleton, for his own purposes, likely to cover for his proclivities—” Celia snorted. “—and I cannot see you happy in such an arrangement nor carrying out your charade that long. Whereas clearly Judas would challenge you whilst indulging you.”
“Ah. Like Rafael.”
Mary growled, and Celia slid a sidelong glance at her. “You say you would not forget his eyes?”
“No woman with a pulse would forget those eyes.”
• • •
“MOTHER OF GOD,” Mary whispered not an hour later, staring in utter horror at the retreating form of Lord Macaroni.
Celia settled into her seat in the Tavendish box at the Opera House in Covent Garden, fully aware that she and her mother were the current recipients of the attention of the ton. But it waned quickly enough once The Imbecile and her scandalous but sickly mother had been identified.
“Celia,” Mary breathed incredulously.
“I suppose that means you have a pulse?”
“Oh, I could slap you, Little Miss.”
Celia flashed the tiniest smirk at her.
Unexpectedly, her aunt flounced into the box in yet another Lady Captain Fury gown (which had become quite the fashion if this morning’s callers were to be believed), followed by Lord Rathbone.
Every eye in the opera house was upon them.
“What’s that, Marianne?” Aunt Harriet asked absently in an attempt to ignore her husband. “Something has distressed you?”
“Not at all, Harriet. Not at all.”
Lord Macaroni returned to his box and, with some great flourish and no small number of giggles and exclamations about how pleased he was the Rathbones had accepted his invitation, he presented all of them with lemonade, then sat on Celia’s left.
Her heart pounded, for she had had no opportunity to rendezvous with Papadakos. She wanted—nay, needed—to know how Judas had taken the news of her departure, or even if her second mate had been successful in his task.
“Celia,” Tavendish said abruptly after the lights had gone down.
“Yes, my lord,” Celia murmured, her head down, encouraging him to lean close. He did, his mouth brushing her ear as he spoke, his smooth baritone soft and calm.
Come for me, Fury …
Her heart raced.
“I have matters that require my attention this coming fortnight. I may not be able to dance attendance on you as I have been.”
Ah, so Paulo had gotten word to him, but now she must await an opportunity to get word from him. “Please do not feel as if you are obliged, my lord.”
“I don’t, else I wouldn’t. I am merely informing you of my potential whereabouts.”
She drew away to look him in the eye, wishing they were anywhere but here and she free to press her lips to his, spread them for her tongue, their noses moving together as they kissed.
“Celia, are you listening to me?”
Not a whit.
“Yes, my lord,” she said dully. “Thank you for informing me.”
“You do not object? In the slightest?” He sounded disappointed. God’s bones, what was wrong with the man?
“Should I?”
His mouth tightened a fraction. “Should you, indeed,” he muttered and relaxed back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and folding his arms over his chest. He stared down at the stage with a scowl on his face. It was an entirely Judas thing for him to do, and it had not gone unnoticed, even in the relative darkness of the opera house.
“My lord,” she murmured tonelessly, “perhaps you should look to your comportment.”
He glanced at her sharply, then tittered and lightly batted her arm as if she had said something witty. He sat up and began scanning the other boxes with a heretofore hidden lorgnette.
He waved at someone with his lacy handkerchief and muttered, “I suspect you and I need to have a little chat, m’dear.”
If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!
How exactly does Rathbone tolerate the insolence of his wife wearing gowns meant to taunt him?
I have always thought of their relationship as a trauma bond. Not originally, of course, because SPOILERS. In short, she’s throwing a tantrum and he’s waiting her out.
I could understand that privately, but she is publicly humiliating the man isn’t she?
She’s TRYING. Hard to humiliate a man who doesn’t give two shits.
Perhaps not about her feelings toward him, but I would think this near scandalous for his position in HMS’s government as well as amongst their peers. I don’t imagine him having the same sense of ‘liberation’ from that loyalty that Judas does.
That’ll be a fun chat.
“We never did too much talkin’ anyway…”
A really nice Ozzy man,
https://youtu.be/vBsPoGzQPxA?si=fb9Xr5lGw6aVXodm
At the close of the year:
Thank you for these, Mojeaux.