The Pirate Next Door

  “Grayson,” she whispered. “He took the opals. I am so sorry.”

  He touched her hair, tangled where Burchard had yanked the jewels from it. “Hush, sweetheart.” He gently took her hurt arm. Stop bleeding, stop, please. Too much blood, and it would not stop spurting. The man had cut an artery.

  He yanked at his cravat, tearing the knot and pulling the strangling folds from his neck. His thudding heart made him sick to his stomach. He pushed up her satin sleeve, ripping the lace out of his way. He brushed against another hand holding her—Lady Featherstone’s. The lady looked on in consternation, her own thin face white.

  “Get me towels,” he commanded. “Fetch her maid. I need to stop the bleeding.”

  The lady rose without arguing. Grayson decided he liked her. As she sped away, her husband took her place. “Surely it is better to let her bleed. It will wash away the ill humors.”

  Grayson bit down on his response. He wound the cravat around her arm and knotted it tight, twisting the knot with his strong fingers. Alexandra made a soft sound of pain.

  “I know it hurts, love,” he said. “But it will help you.”

  Her pulse beat strong beneath his hand. She fluttered her fingers a little as the feeling went out of them. The spurts of blood slowed.

  He heard noisy breathing beside him. A woman in maid’s garb, her cap half hanging over her face, dropped to her knees beside him. “Madam,” she said breathlessly.

  She held towels. Grayson grabbed them and pressed the folded pad of them over the slash in Alexandra’s forearm. Alexandra closed her eyes.

  “Stay awake, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Give her laudanum,” someone else offered. Others concurred. Grayson ignored them. He glanced at Lord Featherstone.

  “Go next door and get my man, Oliver. Tell him what happened.”

  “We should send for a doctor,” the man replied.

  Grayson definitely preferred the man’s wife. “Oliver is a surgeon. I want him. Now go.”

  “I’ll go,” a breathless voice said. It was Henderson. Face white, chest heaving, spectacles bent, he appeared at Grayson’s elbow.

  “Good. Hurry.”

  Henderson gave Alexandra a longing look, then sped away.

  Legs and skirts moved aside and Jacobs stumbled into view, followed by the duke, Lord Hildebrand Caldicott, and Mr. Bartholomew.

  “He’s gone, sir.” Jacobs panted heavily, holding one arm across his abdomen. “Ran across the garden. Then just vanished.”

  Grayson looked up angrily. “How could you not find him? Henderson was right on top of him.”

  Jacobs shook his head, eyes worried. “I don’t know. He didn’t go through the gate. There was a lad just outside it who said no one ran through. He hit Henderson pretty hard, and then he dashed into the shadows and just vanished.”

  Grayson swore in the foulest sailor’s language he could muster. Another lady swooned.

  “He might have climbed over a wall,” the duke offered. “I did not see where he went after he struck Mr. Henderson. We were hard on his heels, but—” He made a futile motion with his hands. “Who the devil was he?”

  Mr. Bartholomew spoke. “Hu-hu-he da-dropped this.” He held out the strand of sparkling diamonds. The opals shone softly.

  Alexandra reached for it, her face lighting. “Thank heavens.” She pressed the glittering handful of diamonds to her lips, then cradled them against her breast. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she whispered.

  Then she fainted.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Alexandra convalesced for two days after the soiree. Her arm remained stiff and painful, but she found herself able to leave her bed on the third day and resume her normal activity.

  But everything had changed. Alexandra’s adventurous soiree was the talk of Mayfair. Several newspaper articles furnished lurid descriptions of it and boasted interviews with eye witnesses. Alexandra read a few of the articles, and concluded that the anonymous sources must have been trapped in the reception room for the duration and missed everything. According to these stories, several shots had been fired upstairs and then a hoard of pirates had descended from above, several of them naked, all of them carrying murderous-looking weapons. Their purpose, to rob all and sundry. The quick thinking of Viscount Stoke, the Duke of St. Clair, and several other gentlemen had saved the day, and the pirates had been chased from the house.

  Speculation about who the pirates were varied widely—from French spies to discontented English deserters to the viscount’s old enemies. The rumor that Viscount Stoke had once been a pirate, the notorious Captain Finley, was dredged up and splashed across the newspapers. Amazingly, the conjecture that the attacker was an old enemy was dismissed by most as being fanciful and unlikely. Alexandra, on the other, knew it to be utter truth.

  The mystery of why Mr. Burchard had been admitted to the house at all had been easily solved. Lady Featherstone had sent him an invitation long before Grayson had revealed to Alexandra that the man was a murderous pirate. Alexandra had left the guest list to Lady Featherstone, and she’d been far too busy to check it herself. Lady Featherstone had been startled and annoyed by Mr. Burchard at the theater, but perhaps had changed her mind and not withdrawn the invitation. Though Alexandra had made it clear to Jeffrey that Mr. Burchard was no longer welcome as a caller, the man had been on the guest list, which, in Jeffrey’s mind, was as sacrosanct as the Bible.

  Why Mr. Jacobs had been in Alexandra’s bedchamber, naked, was more of a mystery. Mrs. Fairchild, white-lipped, had called on Alexandra the next day and had tried to take the blame. Alexandra learned, to her surprise, that her beloved Mrs. Fairchild had once had an affair with Mr. Jacobs. The lady was clearly very much in love and quite ashamed. Alexandra’s heart went out to her.

  Mr. Jacobs had arrived looking for her. He’d charged into the bedroom, and stated angrily that the fault for the night before was all his. Mrs. Fairchild had wept. Grayson had come in after both of them, and the three had argued heatedly in the middle of the room while Alexandra watched from her bed. Mrs. Fairchild had tried to resign as Maggie’s governess. Grayson had growled that he refused to let her go. Mr. Jacobs also proclaimed he’d resign, and Grayson threatened to flog him.

  Then Maggie arrived, with Mr. Oliver in tow. Jeffrey and Annie and Amy had peered in, curious about all the fuss.

  Mr. Oliver, surprisingly, had taken charge. He was backed by Cook, who’d been drawn out of her kitchen by the noise. Cook ran them all out of the bedchamber saying that her lady needed rest—yes, even you, your viscount lordship; wasn’t it your lot what got her hurt in the first place?

  They’d gone. Not to return. Whether because of her dragon guardian or some other reason, not even Grayson had returned in the intervening time to speak to Alexandra.

  So she was a bit surprised to find that her first caller the day she descended to her drawing room to resume her routine was Mr. Henderson.

  Alexandra received him in the first-floor drawing room. Jeffrey bowed him in, then look disappointed when he was dismissed. Mr. Henderson’s spectacles were straight and clean, his dark suit was perfect, and every hair was in place. He was too perfect, she reflected, too studied. Grayson’s hair was always easily mussed, and it felt like silk beneath her fingers.

  Mr. Henderson came to Alexandra, gently lifted her hurt arm, examined the bandage, then brought her hand to his lips.

  “I tried to call on you three days running,” he said. “Your footman would not admit me. The cook’s orders, he said.”

  So it had been a dragon guard. “I was resting.” She slid her hand from his grasp.

  “I know.” He wandered from her, distracted. “I have been hunting for Burchard everywhere. I made Finley tell me the name of the hotel he’d tracked the man to, but he has not been there in days. Small wonder. Finley has been hunting him too, but without success.”

  “Why?” Alexandra burst out. Henderson raised his brows in surprise. She massaged her temples. “Why do yo
u try to find him if he is so dangerous?”

  “He hurt you, Mrs. Alastair. He must pay for that. Even your duke friend has hired Bow Street Runners to track him down. London will be too hot to hold Mr. Burchard.”

  “The duke is conscientious,” Alexandra said.

  “No, he’s potty in love with you.” Mr. Henderson smiled crookedly. “As I am.”

  She made a faint moan and rubbed her temples harder. “Mr. Henderson do not say such things to me.”

  “What, tell you I love you? I cannot help myself. I fell in love with you an instant before—well before that incident on your doorstep.” He paused. “I hope—I sincerely hope—that one day soon you will let me erase what I did by showing you how gentle I can be.”

  Alexandra tried to retain her composure, tried to be merely a lady who must gently turn down a hopeful suitor. But she was tired, her arm hurt, and her composure crumpled like wax under flame. She let out a frustrated cry and plunked down onto a chair.

  “Oh, God,” Henderson said. “The thought cannot be that awful, can it?”

  “Mr. Henderson.” Alexandra clasped her hands and spoke between tight lips. “I have been trying to think of ways to erase the events of the last two weeks from my mind. But what happened at my soiree now makes that impossible! I am the talk of the town—I am ruined. All because you pirates, and pirate hunters, decided to carry out your private war in my house.” She let her hands fall against her skirt. “My life used to be peaceful.” Dull, a tiny voice echoed. “Like clockwork.” Plodding. “Everything in its place.” Predictable and staid. “Until you—” She jabbed a finger at him. “Kissed me on the street, in front of my neighbors, and Grayson Finley asked me to sleep without clothes, and Mr. Ardmore abducted me to his ship. And then, at my soiree, I completely betrayed myself by crying Grayson’s name when I thought him in danger and weeping when the jewels he’d given me were stolen. I am certain the next time I open a newspaper, I will see myself in caricature with Captain Pirate Viscount Stoke, probably naked in his arms, with some clever words coming out of our mouths in balloons.”

  She ran out of breath and sank back into the chair, spent.

  Mr. Henderson came to her, his face a study of misery. He dropped to one knee and took her uninjured hand in his. “Mrs. Alastair—Alexandra—I so hate myself that I hurt you. You have no idea. I want to make everything up to you. I adore you.” He pressed a wet kiss to her fingers.

  “Please, Mr. Henderson,” Alexandra groaned. “You are only making things worse.”

  “Tell me how to make it better.”

  “Put back the clock.” She gave him a weary smile. “Can you do that?”

  He lifted her hand to his lips again, and she was too tired to pull away. “I would if it would make you forget you ever met Finley.” He sighed. “I am going to speak openly. Please forgive me if I offend you. Finley is a barbarian. He does not understand your world. You say you do not like violence—Finley lives in violence. I know in my heart that he has already taken you as his lover. He does not wait when he wants something. But he will never be your husband.”

  Alexandra felt as if she were falling. Any moment she’d crash right through the floor and land in her reception room. “Husband—”

  “He has his agreement with Captain Ardmore, above it all. Finley actually has some honor. He will present himself for his execution.”

  Alexandra’s breath hurt her. “You cannot let Mr. Ardmore do it. You must stop him.”

  “Me? Stop Ardmore? He stops for no one. Even Madame d’Lorenz cannot control him—he is using her, even though she thinks her schemes are so secret. But I imagine Finley has something up his sleeve. He generally does.”

  “Are—are you saying you believe Grayson will not let Mr. Ardmore kill him?” She seized on the hope.

  “I have no idea what Finley will do. He’s always been difficult to predict.” He squeezed her hand. “What I want is to take you away from all this. I am quit of Ardmore, and will return to Kent. I have plenty of money; you would never have to worry for anything. We can settle near your old home, have a fine life together. Children, dogs, anything you want.”

  Anything she wanted. She drew a breath. “I think, Mr. Henderson, that I no longer know what I want.”

  His look turned pained. “I know what you want. You want Finley. What I cannot fathom is why.”

  “I do not know.” She did not. Because he makes me feel joy, because he understood when I grieved for my son, because he took my husband’s horrible necklace and made it into something beautiful. Such feelings were beyond explaining. Certainly not to Mr. Henderson. Mr. Henderson was bound to Captain Ardmore, much as he tried to tell her otherwise.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Henderson,” she said softly.

  He clasped her hand. “Do not refuse me quite yet. At least consider my offer. I will leave you alone to think. You can send for me at the Majestic Hotel when you are ready. Let me hope, even if it is a futile hope.”

  She watched as he kissed her hand again, but she barely felt the press of his lips. She knew that she could give him no hope. Her heart had been lost to the man who had agreed to give up his life for the sake of his daughter. Which meant she had no hope at all.

  “Mrs. Fairchild is taking me riding in the park,” Maggie announced. “Will you come?”

  Grayson turned from the garden door as Maggie entered the dining room. She was dressed in a light-colored riding habit and wore a small bonnet that framed her beautiful face. Her eager smile lit her eyes.

  “Unfortunately, no. I have work to do for the poxrotted Admiralty,” he replied, seeing no reason to keep his feelings from her. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  Her smile dimmed. “When we were on the ship, we were always together. Remember, you and Mr. O’Malley taught me how to climb the rigging?”

  Amusement touched him. Maggie had been an eager pupil, and fearless. Ian O’Malley, forty-five years old, had gone white-faced a time or two at her antics.

  “I remember.”

  She came to him, her feet whispering softly on the bare board floor. “Papa, when we were aboard, I thought Mr. Henderson and Mr. O’Malley and Mr. Ardmore were friends. But since we’ve reached London, that has all changed.” She gave him a look that was too intelligent for her twelve-year-old face. “Something is wrong. What made them become your enemies?”

  He noted the use of your. O’Malley, who reported to Ardmore, was still enchanted with Maggie and she with him.

  “They have been my enemies for a long time,” he said slowly. “We agreed to put that aside, just for the crossing.”

  “I wish you would have told me.”

  He rested his fingers lightly on the table. “I did not want to frighten you. I must have been frightening enough.”

  The look in her eyes pierced him to the heart. “You did not frighten me. I knew you were my papa the moment I saw you, and that everything would be all right. I was much more frightened of staying alone forever. Even Mr. Ardmore was not as frightening as that.”

  “I will tell him you said so.” He let his gaze rove her. She was so heartbreakingly fragile, and yet, at the same time, so strong. “I am glad you don’t fear him. He can never defeat you, then.” At her puzzled look, he stopped. “I will never leave you behind, Maggie. You have my word on that.”

  She nodded once, as if she’d had no doubt he would be there for her forever. She announced, “Mrs. Alastair’s cook says she is much better. Mrs. Alastair, I mean. She says I may visit her tomorrow.” She gave her father a knowing smile. “Will you visit her, too?”

  He had a sudden vision of himself lying under Alexandra’s inquisitive gaze in his cabin on the Majesty. How her fiery tongue had traced his muscled torso, how her soft lips had pressed the tip of his arousal. He smothered a groan. “Yes, I will be visiting her.” Every day. For the rest of my life.

  “Good. Perhaps we may go together.” She came to him, gave him a brief hug, and hurried back to the door.

  The warmth of he
r childish embrace lingered long after she’d pulled away. He said, “Maggie.”

  She turned, inquiring.

  His entire heart went into his question. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”

  She hesitated, and he held his breath. She broke into a warm smile. “I love you too, Papa.” She gazed at him for a heart-rending moment, then turned and was gone.

  Grayson found Ian O’Malley in the kitchens with Oliver and Mrs. Dalloway, Alexandra’s cook. He drew O’Malley aside and gave him a series of messages to deliver.

  O’Malley whitened. “You want me to tell him that? Why don’t I just commit me own murder and be done with it?”

  Grayson’s impatience chafed. “Deliver the messages in that order. I want Madame d’Lorenz as soon as you can get her. If I haven’t returned by the time she arrives, keep her here. Have Oliver sit on her if you have to.”

  O’Malley scowled. “Damn your soul, Finley. I am second in command on the most feared ship on the seas, not a messenger boy to a trumped-up English bastard.”

  Grayson pushed his face close to the wire-haired man’s. “Here in London, you’re simply a nuisance Irishman with ties to the ’99 rebellion. I am certain the Admiralty would be interested in speaking to you about that.”

  “That’s blackmail, that is. Breaks me achin’ heart, Finley, you’d even say such a thing. After all we’ve been through.”

  “Just do it,” Grayson snarled, and then stamped away to Marylebone.

  Grayson was pleased to find Miss Oh-So-French waiting on customers again that afternoon. He seated himself in a chair and absently studied the wares on the shelves behind her counter while she assisted another Frenchman. After a time, the Frenchman left the shop, nodding almost cordially to Grayson as he passed.

  The girl looked upon him and smiled. The smile told him that though he might ask only to inspect the jewel boxes, he could easily ask to inspect something else, and be rewarded.

  Grayson stuck to jewel boxes. He examined three prettily gilded and painted ones that he thought Maggie would like. He laughed silently at himself. Each time Maggie unnerved him he bought her a present. At this rate, she’d have to rent a warehouse in which to store them all.