The Pirate Next Door

  “I drew the conclusion. Mr. Ardmore told me she worked for Napoleon, and he lied about her when I first met her. Or did not tell the whole truth anyway. Mr. Henderson said something about her trying to use Captain Ardmore for her schemes. I imagine that the king is on Captain Ardmore’s ship, awaiting transport to France.” She shook her head. “Why you men believe this is all so secret, I do not know.”

  He scowled. “A very long talk.”

  “If you wish, but I am quite busy myself. I will have to shut up my house for the rest of the summer, whether I marry or simply return to Kent with the Featherstones.”

  A muscle moved in his jaw. “I will have everything resolved by tomorrow. And then we will converse.” He paused. “But first, I want to kiss you.”

  She looked up, her pulse speeding. “Should you not go and speak to Madame d’Lorenz about the French king?”

  “Yes, I should.” He leaned down, nuzzling the curve of her neck. He touched his lips to her throat. She closed her eyes. “On the other hand,” he whispered into her skin, “she can wait a little while longer.”

  Excitement laced through her. She bunched his sleek hair in her hands and sought his lips with hers. His arms came around her, and he lowered her to the chaise, his warm, hard body molding to hers once more.

  Alexandra returned home via the garden and the gates that connected to the mews. She fervently hoped that no stray stableman or night soil remover would choose that moment to use the path, as she scurried through the gate and across the green patch of lawn to her back door. The twilight air hung heavy with the scent of roses, and the fountain trickled a soothing stream.

  Her body felt loose and supple, as though she could stretch like a cat, then curl in a ball and drift to happy sleep. But unlike a cat, who could choose when it liked to repose on a hearth rug, Alexandra had things to see to. Mr. Ardmore had said he’d send Mr. Henderson that evening. If so, Alexandra could have a firm talk with Henderson and persuade him to help her. It was all very well for Grayson to vow he would never let Mr. Ardmore kill him, but what Ardmore could do in retaliation worried her very much. She really needed to speak to Mr. Henderson.

  First, however, she must bathe and change her dress. She had not yet spoken with Joan about her letting Mr. Ardmore into the house, and the thought of doing so wearied her. Mr. Ardmore did as he pleased, just as Grayson did. Poor Joan was as much Ardmore’s victim as was Alexandra.

  She lifted her crumpled skirt and glided upstairs to the sitting room. Grayson had helped her back into her chemise and bodice, but the gown was wrinkled beyond hope. Her hair, she saw in the hall glass, was a mess. Anyone glancing at her would guess what she had been doing.

  As she passed the sitting room on the first floor landing, she thought again about her list of suitors reposing there in the drawer. Such silliness. Why hadn’t she remembered that many a couple in the fashionable world chose their mates by a careful set of criteria, to their mutual unhappiness? Their lists were satisfied, but their hearts were not. No wonder so many men took mistresses and so many ladies took lovers.

  She would destroy it. Determined, she opened the sitting room door.

  Mr. Bartholomew and Lord Hildebrand rose from their respective chairs and faced her.

  She stopped, stunned. As one, the two men looked her up and down, and she blushed to the roots of her hair. Why hadn’t she first hastened to tidy herself? At the soiree, her suitors might have suspected that she and Grayson had become lovers; her dishabille now would remove all doubt.

  “Madam,” Jeffrey called up the stairs. “His lordship and Mr. Bartholomew came to call. I put them in the sitting room.”

  Alexandra winced, suddenly understanding why Grayson became so enraged with guards who let enemies slip past them.

  Mr. Bartholomew was studying her, looked slightly shocked. Lord Hildebrand raised an ironic brow and made a delicate sniff. Alexandra felt as though she were boiling inside. She remembered the scent of lovemaking that had clung to Mr. Ardmore. No doubt the same scent clung to her now.

  She could run. She could scream and dash up the stairs and lock herself in her room. Or she could square her shoulders and face them. Perhaps she could claim she was climbing trees with Maggie. They would believe that, would they not?

  Would climbing trees explain the mark Grayson had left on her neck when they’d made love a second time? A love bite, he’d called it. She’d never heard of such a thing. But she’d seen it on her throat, stark and nearly purple, as she’d buttoned her bodice before the mirror in his drawing room. Did her loose hair cover it sufficiently? Did she dare pull the locks over her shoulder to make certain?

  She made her choice. She squared her shoulders and entered the room.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, giving them her best duke’sgranddaughter stare. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  Mr. Bartholomew’s face screwed up with effort. “Wa-wa-wa-we—Th-thatis—”

  “What he means to say,” Lord Hildebrand broke in smoothly, “is that Mr. Bartholomew desired to call on you. I agreed to accompany him, to speak for him.”

  She inclined her head, then turned to Mr. Bartholomew. “What is this about?”

  Her calm voice belied her trembling knees and the slick sweat on her palms. She hoped they didn’t notice she was about to crumple to the floor.

  Mr. Bartholomew opened his mouth, then shot a helpless look at Lord Hildebrand. Lord Hildebrand took the cue. “Mr. Bartholomew wishes to convey that he very much admires you, Mrs. Alastair.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Bartholomew. You are kind.”

  Mr. Bartholomew blushed.

  “And that he has rented an elegant townhouse in Cavendish Square,” Lord Hildebrand continued, “but he will understand if you wish to remain here.”

  Her pulse began to throb in slow, painful beats. “Remain—I do not understand.”

  Lord Hildebrand smiled. “Actually, I have begun paying half the rent on the house. Only fair, if I am to act as his speaker, that I should get a proper share.”

  Little chills made their way up her spine, dampening the sweet, relaxed looseness. “Lord Hildebrand,” she said. “Tell me what you mean and please tell me plainly.”

  Mr. Bartholomew had gone very red. Lord Hildebrand’s smile deepened. “Mrs. Alastair. We are in love. We both submit ourselves humbly, at your feet. If you will agree, we would be happy of your company in the Cavendish Square house.” He glanced about. “Perhaps Bartholomew could meet you there, and I could meet you here.” He added dryly, “And if it is jewels you like, we can certainly furnish you a supply.”

  A scream welled up from the depths of her, but only a dry croak emerged from her open mouth. She regarded them with horror. They were propositioning her. They were standing in her elegant sitting room, so carefully appointed with graceful furniture and costly paintings, and asking her to become their mistress. Both of them.

  She was going to be sick. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand, tears of rage pricking her eyes.

  A voice sounded behind her. “I believe, gentleman, that you should both depart.” The Duke of St. Clair glided into the room and bathed both guests with a reproving glare. “If you remain, I will be forced to ask my seconds to call on you.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Mr. Bartholomew’s flush deepened to brick red. Lord Hildebrand merely looked annoyed. For the first time, Alexandra was grateful for Jeffrey’s habit of admitting visitors he was too timid to turn away. The duke stood between her and the other two gentlemen like a guard dog protecting its mistress.

  “I-I-I, wa-wa-we ma-meant—”

  “I heard what Caldicott said,” the duke said sharply. “I advise the pair of you to leave. Now.”

  Mr. Bartholomew, looking ashamed, made a jerky half bow, and nearly fled from the room. His harried footsteps rang on the stairs. Lord Hildebrand remained. “Only dukes and viscounts for you, eh?” he said, raking an impudent gaze over Alexandra. “I suppose they can gi
ve you better jewels.”

  The duke’s gaze hardened. “Please name your seconds, Caldicott.”

  Lord Hildebrand’s look turned slightly alarmed, which he hid with a sneer. “Dueling is for fools. Good evening, Mrs. Alastair.”

  He moved past the duke and into the hall. The duke, muttering something under his breath, closed the door.

  Alexandra felt suddenly ready to burst. She wanted to scream and rant and say colorful phrases like Grayson did. At times, being a lady was reprehensibly inconvenient.

  Her gaze fell on her writing table. With a smothered scream, she dashed to it, yanked open the drawer, and snatched up the list of suitors. She ripped the innocent paper into shreds and hurled the pieces to the floor. “Men!” she snarled. She dug her heel into the creamy white pieces, grinding them into the gold and ivory oriental carpet.

  The duke watched her in surprise. She sank into the nearest chair, her legs shaking uncontrollably, and pressed her face into her hands.

  She heard the duke cross to her, sensed him drop to one knee before her. He did not touch her. “Mrs. Alastair, are you all right?”

  No! she wanted to shout. Of course I am not all right! They insulted me horribly. And the worst part of it was, they were right. They believed her a doxy, and she was. She had so gladly let Grayson tumble her, had so eagerly run to his arms. And she would do so again and again, so willingly becoming his whore.

  She drew a long breath before she looked up. “Not really, your grace. But I thank you for arriving when you did. I did not know quite what to do.”

  His usually mild eyes were filled with anger. “They are boors. And fools. Good God, I thought Bartholomew had some manners.”

  Alexandra did not want to talk about Mr. Bartholomew. She had also supposed him kind and somewhat foolish, but even he had decided what he’d seen at her soiree. And then she had come dashing in today, all flushed and tousled from her lover’s bed. What else were they to think?

  Shakily, she wiped her eyes. “How did you know I wanted you to come, your grace? I hadn’t sent for you yet.”

  His brows drew together. “You meant to send for me?”

  “Yes. It is most convenient you have come on your own.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.” She struggled to sit up. “Now all we need do is wait for Mr. Henderson.”

  Grayson amused himself bullying Madame d’Lorenz for a time, then let her go. She would go straight to Ardmore, he knew that. But while she kept Ardmore busy with her frantic worries about what Grayson would do, Grayson could carry out his own plans.

  “Jacobs,” he said as he emerged into the hall again after sending Jacqueline on her way. “I need you for this one.”

  Jacobs raised his brows. “What about Maggie and Mrs. Fairchild?”

  Grayson peered up the dim staircase to the where both Mrs. Fairchild and Maggie watched over the banister, listening to every word.

  He decided to be plain. “Oliver will remain here and look after them, and also keep an eye on Mrs. Alastair’s house. They will be safe here because anyone dangerous will be chasing me. I need you on the Majesty. She needs to be ready to sail on an instant. I already have Priestly readying her. For my first errand, I only need Ian O’Malley.”

  Jacobs was not listening. He was already skimming his way up the stairs to Mrs. Fairchild. He held out his hands to her, and she came to him. He kissed her lightly, without heat, and pressed his face to hers. All under Maggie’s delighted scrutiny.

  “I will try to be quick as I can, love.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yes.” He kissed her again.

  A longing tugged at Grayson’s heart. His first officer was saying everything to his lady that Grayson longed to say to Alexandra. He looked up at Maggie. “I will be home again, soon,” he said. “And then we shall never be apart. Promise.”

  She grinned down at him. “I know, Papa. You are very smart. And very brave.”

  His heart swelled. His daughter was proud of him.

  He realized, as Jacobs hurried downstairs to join him again, that he was grinning like a fool. He clapped Jacobs on his shoulder. “You and Mrs. Fairchild,” he said. “Me and Mrs. Alastair. I would say things are working out well.”

  Jacobs returned the grin. At that moment, Ian O’Malley came waltzing in the front door without knocking. He gave them an impudent smile.

  Grayson scowled at him. “You are late.”

  “I know.” His smile turned smug. “I fell in love with a barmaid,” he said. “Decided I’d linger. I think I’ll marry her.”

  Jacobs gave a short laugh. “You, too?”

  Ian gave him a puzzled look, and Grayson, growling now with impatience, shoved them both out of the house.

  The duke looked puzzled. “Mr. Henderson?”

  Alexandra nodded. Her shaking had subsided a bit, now that she could focus on her plans again. “Yes. I need to ask him a question. Then I will reveal to you what it is all about.”

  The duke looked nonplussed. “Very well.” He hesitated, then he reached out and gently lifted one of her hands. “In the meantime, may I tell you what I came here to say?”

  She blinked. “Of course. How rude of me. You must have arrived for a reason.”

  “I did.” He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest. The stiff ends of his cravat touched her fingers. “Mr. Bartholomew and Lord Hildebrand made you a dishonorable proposal,” he said. “I mean to make you an honorable one.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Mrs. Alastair, please tell me you will make me the happiest man in the world. Become my wife.”

  Dizziness swamped her and her head throbbed and ached. “Your grace—”

  “I have admired you for a long time, Mrs. Alastair.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I must have given myself away a dozen times over.”

  Given himself away? What was he talking about? The duke had never slanted her a smile full of sin, had never begged her to sleep bare for him, had never given her gems gleaming with the fire of his eyes. Possibly she had not noticed the duke’s attentions because the poor gentleman had been completely eclipsed by Grayson. Since the dratted pirate had moved in next door, she had not been able to focus on any man but him.

  She drew a shaky breath. “You have taken me by surprise, your grace.”

  “Have I? I had thought my admiration so obvious.” His fingers tightened. “We would do well together, I am certain.”

  She had once been certain of that herself. “Your grace, I sincerely wish you had spoken to me three weeks ago. If you had, my answer might be different.”

  He began to whiten. “Three weeks? Why three—” He broke off. “Ah.” His voice went bleak. “When Lord Stoke moved in.”

  “I am truly sorry. But my answer must be no.”

  Lines tightened about his mouth. “I had fooled myself into thinking you rather fond of me.”

  “I am. You are one of the kindest gentlemen of my acquaintance. You were at the top of my list.”

  “But you have lost your heart to Stoke,” he finished for her. A grim light entered his eyes. “I will be plain with you, Mrs. Alastair. I know you are Lord Stoke’s lover. Has he asked for your hand in marriage?”

  She had to shake her head. Her hair tickled her neck where Grayson had nibbled her flesh.

  “Then you would do as well to accept me, to save your honor if nothing else. I will not ask you to love me.”

  Her heart constricted. “I cannot. Please do not ask me. It would not be fair to you.” She straightened her spine, letting her shielding hair fall behind her shoulders. Let him see what he would see. “It is true he has not spoken to me of marriage, but I am not ashamed of loving him.”

  The duke looked unhappy, but he did not release her hand. Alexandra hurried on. “I have a confession to make, your grace. I had planned to send for you to arrive at the same time Mr. Henderson did. I know where the French king is.”

  It was the duke’s turn to be surprised. He stared, alarm building
in his mild brown eyes. “Good lord. Did Stoke tell you about that?”

  “I overheard a conversation I was not meant to. But I have learned many things in the meantime. Grayson—the viscount—actually discovered the king’s whereabouts. Do I understand correctly that in return for his help you will erase any deed he and his crew did against the crown far away in the Pacific?”

  “I did make that promise,” he answered glumly.

  “Regardless of what you think of him concerning me, he does have a child to take care of. Please promise me you will not go back on your word.”

  He frowned, rubbing his lip, then sighed. “Of course I will not. If I were a cad, I would force you to marry me in return for releasing him.” He shook his head. “But I could not live with myself if I did that. I do not want you to come to me under coercion.”

  He seemed to be the only one, she mused. Captain Ardmore was perfectly willing to coerce her into all kinds of things.

  The duke bowed his head and at last withdrew his hand. When he looked up at her, his eyes were clear, businesslike once more. “Please, Mrs. Alastair. Tell me where the French king is.”

  “I will take you to him.” She cocked her head, listening. “And if I am not mistaken, Mr. Henderson has arrived. We will need him to show us the way.”

  Grayson was waiting in the sitting room of Zechariah Burchard’s lodgings when the slim gentleman opened the door and stepped inside.

  He stopped short, his eyes widening in sudden panic. He swung around, ready to flee, but Ian stepped in front of the door, closed it, and locked it.

  Burchard swung back around. “Finley.” He filled the word with more venom than a viper imparted to its victims.

  Grayson folded his arms, enjoying Burchard’s discomfort. “I reasoned you must return sooner or later to these rooms. My informer watching this hotel told me this morning that he’d seen you. You would need your clothes. It would be difficult for you to go to a tailor without causing a stir, am I correct?”

  Burchard’s lips pulled back into a snarl, but his face whitened. “What the devil do you mean?”