The Pirate Next Door

  In a low voice he explained about the shop near Marylebone Street and his conviction that the king had been rowed to a ship waiting in the middle of the Thames.

  The duke swallowed. “I can have the shop searched, the proprietor questioned.”

  “Later. The girl there let drop a few names while she was trying to be ever-so-French and impress her English customer. I recognized those names, and I’d like to pry around a little longer. Then you can loose your men and search every ship on the Thames.”

  The duke sucked in his breath. “We need him soon, Stoke. News will leak.”

  “A day,” Grayson said. “If I cannot pinpoint his whereabouts by day after tomorrow, search away.” He did not like the idea of the duke turning out mobs of the Royal Navy to search ships from here to the Channel. His own ship was out there, and he did not want certain things about it coming to the attention of the Admiralty—like its secret holds and its lovely capacity for smuggling. Maggie could make a fortune with the Majesty, and Grayson wanted nothing to stand in the way of that.

  He glanced around as Henderson entered the dining room, spectacles gleaming. He was chatting with Lord Hildebrand Caldicott.

  “St. James’s, eh?” Grayson said in a normal voice.

  To his credit, the duke caught on at once. “The usual crowd will be there,” he said, pitching his voice to match Grayson’s. “Chaps you should meet.”

  Henderson approached, talking in a relaxed way with Lord Hildebrand, as if he were on friendly terms with every gentleman in London. But this was Henderson’s territory. Like the duke, Henderson knew the ins and outs of social rules—where what not to say was as important as what to say. Henderson could happily fall in with the plan to migrate to a gaming hell, while Grayson had no interest in watching the cream of London’s gentlemen slumming. The ladies there, he imagined, would be well-dressed and well-versed in the art of pleasuring—elegant and expensive. Just the type Henderson liked. Maybe Henderson would get lost there and leave Alexandra the hell alone.

  Grayson introduced the duke to Henderson. Henderson, he noted, had used powder to cover the remnants of the bruises on his face. Henderson also watched him in slight trepidation. He liked that.

  As the duke, Henderson, and Lord Hildebrand greeted one another and began comparing notes on who they knew, Grayson wandered away, snaring a glass of champagne as he went. He’d come here tonight to watch Alexandra and to keep an eye on Henderson, to make certain Ardmore did not try anything annoying, like kidnapping her again. He’d also simply wanted to gaze upon Alexandra, so beautiful and elegant in her silver and gold, with his jewels in her hair. He could look at her all night. Perhaps when the last of the guests departed, he would linger—

  Her suitors did not seem to take much interest in her. Terribly honored, they’d claimed, but they were content to talk about horses and sport and gaming and to stay well away from Alexandra. And she wanted to marry one of them! Good God.

  His own name was on that list. An idea began forming in his mind, one he was not certain Alexandra would accept. If he played it right, she would not have a choice in the matter. But it would give her what she wanted, as well as himself some peace of mind—that is if peace of mind were possible near Alexandra.

  “Lord Stoke, forgive me.”

  Grayson looked up, his thoughts scattering. A gentleman with silver hair and a quiet face stood before him. The man half lifted his hand, then clutched it into a fist and let it drop. “Forgive me for approaching you without introduction. My name is Gordon Crawford.”

  His gray eyes focused on Grayson intently, as if he expected Grayson to know the name. Grayson offered his hand. “Mr. Crawford.”

  Crawford shook it hesitantly. “You do not remember me.”

  “No.”

  “It is no matter. You were a child. You—” He dragged to a stop, his gaze raking Grayson’s face. “You so have the look of your mother.”

  Grayson’s heart ceased for an instant. “You knew my mother?”

  “She was—a dear friend to me. Many years ago.”

  Grayson felt cold congeal inside him. Try as he might, he could not call up a memory of the man’s face or voice, but he had the feeling he knew what Crawford wanted to tell him. He noted the formal elegance of his frock coat, the slick neatness of his gray hair, and the sadness in his eyes.

  He said abruptly, “Were you my mother’s lover?”

  Crawford faced Grayson like a recalcitrant schoolboy. “Yes.”

  Grayson looked away, hiding his thoughts. A link to his past. Standing before him. The fact that his mother had taken a lover didn’t surprise him in the least. The poor woman would have needed comfort while living with his father, a brute of a man. He looked back at Crawford. The man looked unashamed, and a touch defiant. “Did you love her?” Grayson asked.

  “Yes. Truly and deeply.” He paused. “You have her eyes.”

  Grayson shielded them. “She never spoke of you.”

  “I would not think so. She was terrified of your father.”

  “With good reason,” Grayson said, his words clipped. “Why did you approach me?”

  Crawford hesitated. “I do not know. I suppose I wanted to meet her son, the only thing left of her. To see if—to see if you were like her.”

  Grayson swallowed. Anger, grief, and anger again spilled through him. He said quietly, savagely, “If you loved her so much, why did you not help her, in the end?”

  Mr. Crawford looked stricken. “What recourse did I have? She was your father’s wife. What could I have done?”

  “Taken her away.” His voice was flat. “Taken her away from him. Far away.”

  “In disgrace and scandal? I could not do that to her. You would have felt that disgrace as well, all your life.”

  “But she would have lived.”

  They studied one another. “He did kill her, then?” Crawford asked quietly.

  “He did. He shot her.”

  Crawford flinched.

  “Right in front of me,” Grayson said.

  Crawford looked up in horror. “Good God. You were there?”

  Chapter Twenty

  The memories that Grayson had tried, and failed, to banish since five minutes after the incident occurred suddenly flooded him. He smelled the smoke of the pistol shots, heard the worried voices of the servants beyond the drawing room doors, saw his mother touch the red stain on her bosom in bewilderment. Her gaze—sad, blue, confused—found Grayson’s an instant before she crumpled to the floor.

  It had been Easter, and Grayson had returned from Eton to his father’s country house in Gloucestershire. The afternoon of his arrival, his mother had sent for him to visit her in the drawing room. When he’d sought her there, she’d smiled at her son, and, because they’d been alone, dared to embrace him. For a brief moment, Grayson had felt a boyish bubble of happiness.

  All happiness had shattered when his father had burst into the room from the garden. He’d been riding, and he’d carried two pistols because he liked to shoot at grouse, in season or out.

  His father had closed the door and ordered Grayson away from his mother. Then Archibald Finley began raving, as he’d done many times before, accusing his wife of unnatural behavior with her own son. The only thing unnatural, Grayson reflected now, was that his father had never allowed his mother to show Grayson any kind of affection. Affection and attention made a boy soft, he’d said. He must be hard and cold to survive in the world. Any mother who wanted to embrace and touch her son was disgusting, and filled with sin and weakness. His mother had been forced to creep to the nursery to see her rambunctious child, and bribe the nurse to secrecy. Even as Grayson grew, becoming taller than his mother at age eleven, they had had to plan covert meetings to even speak as mother and son.

  One shot had slain her. The other had been meant for Grayson himself. But Grayson, in grief and fear, had leapt to his father and wrested the second gun from him. The subsequent shot had been fired straight through his father’s hea
rt, with Grayson’s finger on the trigger.

  His motions had seemed dreamlike at the time, but they returned now with startling clarity. Grayson had pushed the pistol into his father’s hand and fallen down beside him just as the servants had broken open the locked door to the hall. Dazed, he had explained to the shocked footmen that he had wrestled with his father for the gun, and the gun had gone off.

  The servants had accepted his story at face value. To this day, Grayson had never been certain if the footmen had broken down the door right before or right after he’d pressed his father’s fingers around the second gun. He had not lingered to ask. After the inquest and the double funeral, Grayson had fled England, never to return.

  “You are right,” Crawford said brokenly, “I should have acted.”

  “It was a long time ago.” The past dissolved again, and Alexandra’s elegant dining room came back into focus. “You were not there that day. I was, and I could not stop it.”

  His throat felt thick and tight. Damn the man for making him remember.

  “I searched for you,” Crawford said. “For a long time. Thought I could look after you—as a favor to her.”

  Grayson gave him a dry smile. “You are not going to say anything dramatic, like you are my true father, are you?”

  Crawford did not return the smile. He shook his head. “When I met her, you were already seven years old.”

  “Pity. I have only known you ten minutes, and I like you better than I ever liked my own father. But you would not have been able to find me in any case. I was long gone. Shipped out on a merchantman sailing for India only days later.”

  “I cannot blame you for running away. You must have been terrified out of your wits. What I wonder is—” He paused. “Why did it take you twenty years to return?”

  Grayson idly drew his finger around the rim of his champagne glass. “I meant never to come back at all.”

  “But then you came into your title. Is that why you returned?”

  “Not exactly.” He lifted his gaze to Maggie. She had finished the macaroon and was eyeing the tray of bubbling champagne that a footman had just carried in. Grayson motioned to her. “Maggie, love, come here and meet someone.”

  Maggie abandoned the champagne and went to them, her eyes alight with curiosity. Grayson stood her in front of him and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Crawford, this is Maggie. My daughter.” He paused. “My reason.”

  Whatever Maggie thought of this statement, she gave no sign. She held her hand out. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crawford.”

  Crawford stared at her in mild shock. He gently shook her hand. “She is so like her.”

  Grayson nodded. He remembered his own staggering surprise when he’d first looked upon Maggie’s face and seen the eyes of his own mother looking back at him. Grayson the boy had been seconds too slow to save his mother from dying. But Grayson the man could save Maggie. And he was going to, damn anyone who got in his way.

  Crawford said to Maggie, “I was a friend of—of your grandmamma’s.”

  Maggie looked interested. “Truly? Will you and Papa tell me about her? Perhaps Mr. Crawford can come for tea. Mrs. Alastair and Mrs. Fairchild are teaching me how to pour tea.”

  Crawford nodded, hopeful. “I would like that.”

  Grayson looked him up and down. He wondered whether speaking to this man about the past would erase the hurt or make it worse. But Maggie appeared interested and eager. So did Crawford. He had run away from his mother’s memory; perhaps he owed it to her to keep the memory alive through his daughter.

  Before he had a chance to answer, something happened that altered the entire evening and made Alexandra Alastair’s end-of-season soiree the talk of London for years to come. Over Crawford’s left shoulder, Grayson saw Zechariah Burchard quietly walk past Alexandra’s dining room door, sipping champagne.

  Bloody hell.

  Henderson and the duke had left the room. Only the young girl and her eager suitor and a few frail old gentlemen who seemed determined to eat everything in sight remained.

  Grayson discarded his glass and shoved Maggie at Crawford. “Stay with him.” As he crossed the room, he assessed the weapons he carried—only a small dagger in his boot, deadly, but meant for a last-ditch effort, not an all-out attack. Calmly, he stopped at a sideboard, took up a silver candlestick, and removed the candle. He blew out the candle, tossed it down, then left the dining room, candlestick in hand.

  Burchard was heading for the staircase. He was not hurrying; he simply let his lithe form dodge through the guests.

  Alexandra still stood at the top of the stairs, greeting her admirers. Burchard climbed toward her.

  Henderson was holding court in the reception room door, closer to the stairs. But his back was turned, his attention engrossed in his new friends. He had not seen.

  “Henderson!”

  Henderson started and looked around. Grayson charged for the stairs.

  Henderson looked up and saw Burchard. His face went white. Hastily excusing himself, he mounted the staircase, his hand dipping inside his coat. He’d probably brought a pistol, but the man couldn’t use it here. He might hit one of the open-mouthed, bewildered guests, or worse still, Alexandra.

  Grayson pushed people out of his way as he hit the staircase, letting politeness go hang. Burchard climbed ever higher, Henderson just after him. The throng, damn them, impeded Grayson at every step.

  Burchard reached Alexandra. She saw him. Her mouth opened.

  Grayson’s fears ground through him. He saw his mother’s death all over again, only this time it was Alexandra falling limply to the floor, Alexandra’s bodice stained with her own red blood. A savage snarl sprang from his lips.

  Burchard passed Alexandra and ran lightly along the landing. Grayson desperately shoved his way to the top of the stairs and managed to reach them at the same time Henderson did. Burchard reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol.

  Lady Featherstone saw it. She screamed. The scream echoed up and down the stairs. Other ladies took it up. Gentlemen began to swear. Everyone below came running to see what was happening.

  Burchard spun and aimed right at Grayson, who stood exposed on the landing. The eyes above the pistol were hard and remorseless.

  “Grayson!” Alexandra dove at him, shoving him hard. Grayson toppled into Henderson, who toppled into another gentlemen. Like dominoes, the four of them tumbled to the floor, just as Burchard fired. A statue in a niche behind them exploded as the bullet hit the stone. Shards of marble rained over the guests.

  Henderson kicked and shoved himself to his feet. Grayson untangled Alexandra from him and pulled her upright.

  Burchard spun away and ran up the next flight of stairs. Alexandra started after him. Grayson pulled her back. She fought him. “Mrs. Fairchild is up there!”

  Grayson cursed. He pushed Alexandra into the caring hands of Lady Featherstone. Then he and Henderson charged to the next flight of stairs. They reached the bottom just as Burchard gained the top.

  A door burst open above them, and Lieutenant Jacobs sprang from the doorway. He carried a curved cutlass in one hand and wore nothing else. His bronzed torso glistened with sweat, and his long dark hair tangled to his shoulders. Several female guests dropped into gentle swoons.

  Burchard halted in surprise. Jacobs charged him, naked body gleaming. Grayson and Henderson flung themselves up the stairs. Burchard slammed his body between Henderson and Grayson, and the two men got in each other’s way trying to grab him. Burchard broke free. Grayson brought the candlestick down on Burchard’s narrow back. The man stumbled but kept running.

  Henderson drew his pistol, but the alarmed and curious crowd now filled the landing. Behind them Jacobs, oblivious of his nudity, shouted, “How the hell did he get in here?”

  Burchard grabbed the nearest female, Mrs. Tetley, Grayson thought her name was, swung her around, and threw her at Henderson. Henderson caught her like the gentleman he was, giving Burchard the lead.

/>   Grayson had no such scruples. He charged on, candlestick ready, flinging aside the unfortunate young lady Burchard tried to throw at him. She shrieked, and two young men rushed to her rescue.

  The guests seemed to catch on and started pulling the ladies out of the way. The gentlemen, on the other hand, got in the way trying to catch the man themselves. Burchard was quick. He twisted and turned to slide through the crowd like a snake, where Grayson’s bulk found no passage.

  And then the man reached Alexandra. Something glinted in his hand. Alexandra flung herself toward him, ready to stop him.

  “Alexandra, no!”

  Grayson’s shout was swallowed by the crowd. A blade flashed. Scarlet blood splashed the silver and gold of Alexandra’s gown. She stared at the blood, surprised. Then her face whitened, and she slowly crumpled to the floor.

  Burchard reached down and ripped the strand of opals and diamonds from her hair.

  Lady Featherstone lunged for Alexandra. Lord Featherstone lunged for Burchard. Burchard scrambled onto the staircase railing, balanced himself for a breathless second, then lightly dropped to the open hall of the floor below. Guests screamed and scrambled out of his way.

  Henderson raced past Grayson’s stunned figure. He set his backside on the rail, swung his legs over, and vaulted down in Burchard’s wake.

  Another set of footsteps thudded past—Jacobs, with his cutlass, ran unsteadily by. He’d donned white cotton underbreeches that clung to his hips and did little to hide the dark hair on his loins. He descended by the more common means of the stairs, scattering ladies and gentlemen before him. A few more ladies, and one slender gentleman, swooned.

  Alexandra lay in a heap at the top of the stairs. Blood soaked through her gown and her silver and gold bodice. Grayson, his heart beating in hard, aching blows, discarded the ineffectual candlestick and dropped to one knee beside her.

  She looked up, her face a mask of pain. Lady Featherstone held Alexandra’s arm. A deep gash slashed the white skin of her forearm, just under the lace of her sleeve. Blood splashed from the cut, dripping and running, rivulets flowing to stain her gown and puddle on the floor.