Twenty-two

Dare went back to his chamber in defeat and did take a rest. He needed to regain his strength, and fast. Somewhere, there was a group of men who were determined to do him, and now possibly Emma, harm. He suspected they would not give up, whatever their plan had been. When he met them again, he would be ready.

It was late afternoon by the time he slowly got out of bed again, taking his time against the pain. It hurt considerably, but it was better than the day before, which was encouraging.

A knock came at the door, and he stood taller, thinking Emma had come to check on him. He struggled into his coat and called for her to enter, but it was Wynbrook who opened the door.

Dare sat down in a chair in disappointment. “How did things go with Kate?”

Wynbrook slouched into the chair on the other side of the fireplace and stretched out his long legs. “I fear my efforts to win the hand of your fair sister have not proven successful. But I shall continue the pursuit. Can you offer any advice for a hopeless case such as this?”

Dare carefully chose his words. Kate had experienced more than her fair share of troubles, but it was for her to choose what to tell Wynbrook. “Kate has lived a hard life. I fear I have failed to provide the type of upbringing a lady deserves. She has erected battlements against pain, but her heart is true. Do not attempt to breach the walls, but wait for her to open the gate.”

“Any chance of that happening in my lifetime?”

Dare shrugged. “She likes you. It is possible.”

“Well, that tepid hope will be all I have to cling to,” laughed Wynbrook. “And how is your pursuit going, if I might be so bold as to inquire? I assume you made an offer to the lovely Miss St. James.”

“Yes.” Dare did not wish to elaborate.

“And may I wish you every happiness?”

“She refused me.”

“Well, what a pathetic lot we are! Two peers of the realm, plump of pocket and fair of face, and we cannot get a single damsel to accept our names and titles. That is a sad state of affairs in England, I tell you!” Wynbrook jumped up at his proclamation. “There is only one thing a true Englishman, lord, and master can do at such a time.”

“Drink.” Dare knew his friend well.

“Drink!” proclaimed Wynbrook, and pulled the bell for the butler. Mr. Foster appeared at once. “The makings of wine punch, if you please. Only substitute rum for the wine, come to think of it.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed himself out the door.

Wynbrook continued to pace the floor, lamenting their misfortunes in good humor. “I tell you, I am shocked that sweet Miss St. James refused you. I saw that way she looked at you and I could have sworn her affection for you was sure.”

“I cannot begin to pretend to understand her heart, but she has informed me that she is engaged to another.”

“Yes, so she said. Seems rather havey-cavey, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Quite dodgy. But she’s determined to go through with it.”

“Oh, well, there you have it. Tough luck, old man.” Wynbrook slumped back down in his chair with the sigh.

“I have…I have not entirely given up hope. The marriage has been arranged, but she has never actually met the man in question.”

“Well then! Seems an easy fix. Surely her papa would rather her wed a peer of the realm than be shipped off to the savage Americas.”

“Her parents have passed and she has a stepmother with an elder son who have acted as her guardians. Now that Miss St. James has come to majority and will inherit the estate, they wish her to Jericho, hence the foreign groom.”

Wynbrook leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Ah, my friend, your life could be the basis of one of those horrid novels that I secretly love so much. So tell me, what do you plan to do next?”

“Don’t know. In truth, I have no standing in this case at all unless Miss St. James wishes me to become involved. But how does one contrive to convince a lady to accept your proposal?”

“I fear I cannot be of much assistance on that count!” laughed Wynbrook.

“If you have any advice to offer, I would appreciate it. I know I am poor company, especially with ladies, but I should like to improve myself.”

It was not an easy request for Dare to make. He had spent his life avoiding company, particularly female company, and had assumed that he could find a wife who would fulfill her obligations without putting demands on his company or his time. The thought that he had found someone for whom he would be willing to step into the unknown abyss of human relations was something foreign and unnerving to him.

Wynbrook opened his mouth, his eyes laughing, and Dare was sure he would be the recipient of another glib reply. Yet Wynbrook stopped himself and gazed at Dare more thoughtfully. “Miss St. James seems a very good sort of gentlewoman, and very capable too,” he observed. “Though I do not know her in particular, it has been my understanding that females like to know that they arouse a special feeling of affection in their prospective husbands. They want to know that you will care for them and treat them with a special kindness.” Wynbrook had lost the irreverent playfulness that often accompanied his speech and spoke with less confidence.

“And how does one express or show this special feeling of affection to the lady in question?”

“Damned if I know,” muttered Wynbrook. “Tokens of affection? Demonstrating your care by being steadfast and kind? Stealing a kiss?”

“Is that why you and Kate…”

Wynbrook glanced up and swallowed hard. “You know?”

“That you kissed my sister? Yes.”

“Is it pistols at dawn or have I your forgiveness?” Wynbrook laughed with a tremor of nervous energy.

“You have my blessing to marry her.”

“Which is what I am trying to do if she were not so recalcitrant! I mean, not that your sister is not delightful. She is very… Well, that is to say… Oh, here is the punch! Thank goodness. I was drifting out to sea.” Wynbrook jumped up and directed the butler into the room. “Put it here by the fire, my good man, and I will mix it for us. I do not wish to boast, but I am said to have a clever hand with punch. Are you a married man, Mr. Foster?”

“No, sir, I have not had that honor.”

“Well then, by the master’s leave, grab a glass and join us in a bachelor’s toast!”

The butler looked to Dare, who gave a nod.

“Perfect!” announced Wynbrook, who stood and poured glasses for the three men. Dare rose for the occasion and Wynbrook held up his glass for a toast. “For the bachelors three, may we live forever in blissful harmony, until such time as we embrace matrimony!”

* * *

Esqueleto bit into the end of his cheroot in anger, half smoking, half chewing his cigar. He had boldly sailed into Portsmouth flying an American flag on board the renamed frigate, the Kestrel. He dared not show his face in the harbor, not with its Royal Navy shipyard and so many officers, marines, and sailors about. He was much too crafty to be caught so easily. No, he remained in his cabin, relying on his agents to carry out his orders.

He had been informed that his son, a man he now considered dead to him, had lost their fortune to the Earl of Darington. That same son had run from him, not telling him of the loss, and instead sailed to England. It had taken a month to find him, but Esqueleto had his own cruel means, and had his men drag his son to him.

“You lost everything! My gold. My jewels. My silver. You lost it! Lost it to that bastard Darington, the only man I hate more than you!” Esqueleto hit his son hard across the face. Again. Silas stumbled but did not go down. He stood before him, and it was all Esqueleto could do not to wring the life out of the man with his own hands. “And then instead of coming to me, you ran.”

“I was trying to retrieve the treasure.” Silas wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

“What have you retrieved?”

“Well…nothing yet.”

“Nothing?” Esqueleto bit through the end of his cigar and spit it into his son’s face.

“I have his signet ring,” offered Silas.

Esqueleto grabbed the ring from his hand. “This will not repay me, though it may prove useful. Where is Darington?”

“I…I…am not certain to his exact location.”

“You let him get away?” Esqueleto clenched his hands so tightly they began to shake. “You let him get away?” he shouted into the face of his son.

“Darington cannot have gotten far. He is shot. He may be dead by now.”

Esqueleto backhanded his son, this time sending the man sprawling. “Idiot! He is close to Greystone and must have gone there. Should be easy enough to determine if the master is at home, even for one so pervasively stupid as you. I don’t care what you have to do, but bring me back my money.”

“There may be another way,” stammered Silas as he struggled back to his feet. “I saw on the deck of his ship a piece of wood with the word Merc on it.”

Esqueleto’s interest was instantly captured. “Did he find the ship?”

“He must have found something, but not the treasure. I would have heard if he had.”

“Where is the ship?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? It will be in his damned captain’s log. Go get it, you fool!”

“Aye, Father.”

Esqueleto lunged forward until the tip of his lit cheroot singed the tip of his son’s nose. “Kill every bloody bastard in the house if you have to, but don’t come back without that damn book!”