Chapter Two
Will Conway had never before entered the dingy portals of the Blackhaven Tavern. It took only one step inside the taproom to remind him why.
The place stank of stale rum, ale, tobacco smoke, and unwashed humanity. He could barely see through the thick fog of smoke, and those few people he could make out were not comforting. Even the whores, who appeared to ply their trade openly, looked as if they’d slit your throat for your necktie.
His chances of finding his quarry in this stew were minimal. Why couldn’t the wretched man have picked somewhere more salubrious? Somewhere they weren’t actually guaranteed to have their throats cut. Although, as he made his way slowly through the room, trying to peer at the patrons without actually catching their eyes, he didn’t like to think of his old friend as being reduced to this company. He didn’t want him to be used to it.
From nowhere, a stool appeared in front of Will’s feet, brushing his shin as it arrived, as if pushed there by someone at the nearest grubby table. Will halted and raised his eyes from the stool to the man watching him from the shadows.
Surely it wasn’t…
The man leaned forward, pushing a mug of ale across the table toward him. It wasn’t a comforting face. It was saturnine and hard. Even in the gloom, Will could tell it was weather-beaten and bronzed by warmer suns than Britain’s. An alien face, and yet that determinedly pointed chin and those turbulent eyes fixed so steadily on his, were quite familiar.
“Alban,” he said in relief, dropping onto the stool. “You can’t be so afraid of arrest that we had to meet here.”
Alban raised one brow and leaned back into the shadows. “No, I just like it here. Good place to pick up fresh crew.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Will dragged his gaze away from two sailors squaring up to each other and back to his old friend. His eyes must have been growing used to the poor light, because he could see his companion better now. “How are you?”
“Busy.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I wasn’t sure either. I bear you no ill will, my friend, but I don’t really care to be reminded of auld lang syne, as the Scots put it.”
“I don’t blame you,” Will said ruefully. “But I think there are some things you should know.” Taking a deep breath, he looked his old friend in the eye. “Your father is dead.”
Alban’s face didn’t change. He’d known already. “Rest in peace, old man,” he said flippantly. “You never did when you were alive.” He lifted his mug of ale and drank. It might have been a toast. “Did you really go through all this fuss to get me here, just to tell me that? It was years ago.”
“Do you know Nicholas is dead, too?”
That one got his attention. For an instant, the hard eyes stared into his with disbelief, and then a flash of pain so intense that Will felt it like a blow. Almost at once, Alban’s eyelids came down, hiding, protecting with those ridiculously long lashes. But it was too late. With relief, Will had already seen Alban still cared for his family. He hadn’t known about his brother.
“How?” he barked.
“Fever. Spread round the neighborhood like wildfire, the winter before last. Nicholas’s youngest died, too, as did my mother.”
Alban’s eyelids lifted. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Will nodded once. It was genuine, and it was enough for both of them.
Alban stirred. “Nicholas’s youngest, you said. How many children does he have living?”
“Two still living. Leo is his heir. He’s a good boy, full of life and fun. You’d like him.”
Alban said nothing. As if he knew he’d never get the opportunity. It was impossible to tell if he cared, but Will had hope.
“He’s the new Lord Roseley, of course, inheriting all the entailed property along with the title,” Will said. “But…you should know that Nicholas willed you the lands in Scotland, including your mother’s.”
Alban’s in-drawn breath was almost a gasp. At the same time as his eyelashes swept down once more, he pushed himself to his feet, clearly meaning to leave. “Tell them to give it to the younger son. Or daughter.”
“Daughter. Florence. I’m not sure how that can be done.”
“Well I can’t inherit it. I’m a criminal in my own name, and I’ve certainly added to those charges in another. Is that how you found me?”
“Alban isn’t such a common name. A smuggler and a pirate with hints of honor sounded just like you.”
Alban snorted, but at least he sat down again. “Honor? I’m a mercenary. Whatever I do, I make sure I get paid.”
“Did the Royal Navy pay?” Will asked with interest.
Alban’s lips twisted. “They will. Don’t confuse our childhood games with real life.”
Will sipped his ale.
Alban looked around him restlessly. “What the devil are you doing in Blackhaven anyway? They’ve turned a dreary little town into a fashionable spa for the sick and the gullible.”
“I suppose I must be sick. Or gullible.”
Alban threw him a piercing glance. It struck Will that his old friend had been too on edge to look properly before.
“You’re too thin,” Alban said at last. “And pale as a convict.”
Will shrugged. “I’m on the mend. I had a fever, too, this winter past. Couldn’t quite shake it off, and my doctor recommended I come here a few weeks. I was about to go home again when I saw your ship from the harbor yesterday.”
Alban finished his ale and pushed the empty mug away. “Who looks after Nicholas’s children?” he asked abruptly.
“His wife.” Will shifted on the stool. “Of course.” He took a deep breath. “Marianne,” he admitted.
Alban pushed out his breath. Once, it would have been a laugh, though perhaps not a very good one. “So, she married Nick in the end? Good for him. I hope she made him happy.”
“Happy enough,” Will said uncomfortably. “It was two years after you left.”
“You don’t need to defend them. We were children, and Nick always wanted her, too. So did you.”
“She was engaged to you,” Will retorted.
“I think running away without so much as a farewell constitutes a breach of contract. Why are you looking so glum? What more is there, for God’s sake?”
“Marianne remarried at Christmas. Her husband is Julian Radnor.”
“Never heard of him,” Alban said without much interest. Will guessed he really didn’t carry a torch for Marianne any longer.
“He’s ensconced his own servants at Roseley, and swanned off to London with Marianne and her money.”
“It’s not my concern,” Alban said impatiently.
“Isn’t it? When I left, there were only servants—his servants, not any of your people—in the house with the children.”
Alban’s frown deepened. “You mean they’re not with Marianne in London? Don’t they have governesses or tutors or something?”
“No. There was a governess, I believe, but she left. I can’t interfere, Alban, but you can. Nicholas named you their guardian.”
Alban stared at him. “What sort of idiot names a dead man as his children’s guardian?”
“A brother who trusts him to be neither dead nor neglectful.”
Alban stared at him. “Low blow, Will.”
“Think about it.”
Alban stood up, and this time, clearly, he meant it. “I have to go.”
“Perhaps I can return the hospitality. Tomorrow morning at the coffee house in High Street?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Alban said rudely. “Goodbye, Will.”
*
Arabella was so absorbed in her adventure with Captain Alban’s sailor—and his most improper farewell which she could still feel imprinted on her lips—that she didn’t pay any attention to the direction of her steps.
She didn’t even notice she was out of breath until she found herself back in the hotel, dragging her feet upstairs to the suite of rooms she shared with her aunts. By the time she stood outside the door, she couldn’t even hear the shouting over her own breathless coughing. Trying to disguise it only made it worse. But as she waited for the paroxysm to pass, the door flew open and Aunt Sarah hauled her inside.
“Where on earth have you been?” she demanded.
“Just out to take the air,” Arabella said as the coughing subsided. She was grateful that only Aunt Sarah was in the sitting room. Aunt Maria would have her in bed or at least wrapped in stuffy blankets. “It’s not necessary to take a maid here,” she added excusingly, “and at my age, I hardly need a chaperone.”
Unexpectedly, Lady Sarah brushed that aside. “I expect you’re right, dear. But I have had the most wonderful idea. We shall go to the Assembly Room ball tomorrow evening.”
“Oh no,” Arabella said instinctively.
“Now I know Maria will try to coddle you and bore you to death, but trust me, there is nothing like a dance to raise the spirits! And I know she will say we have no escort, but I’ve taken care of that, too.”
“You have?” Arabella said, sinking wearily onto the sofa. Only now did she feel the exhaustion of her adventures.
Aunt Sarah smiled, an alarming mixture of conspiratorial mischief and triumph. “I wrote to Smedley.”
Arabella blinked. “You invited Aunt Maria’s husband here to escort us to a ball?”
“Well, he’s staying with friends in the north. He might as well be useful.”
“Aunt Maria won’t see it that way,” Arabella murmured. Neither did she. James Smedley inclined toward bullying to get his own way, and Arabella rarely did what he thought she should.
“Well, it might stop her from smothering you and let you have some fun.”
“Truly, I’d have much more fun left alone with my books,” Arabella said faintly.
“Nonsense, you are still a young woman, and your father and brother are quite wrong that Sir George was your last chance. Dash it, the man’s so dull I wouldn’t marry him myself. He’s nearer my age than yours. Here in Blackhaven, I am convinced you will encounter a most superior gentleman. One who is kind to his sick old mother, perhaps. Or a grieving widower. A scholarly gentleman, who needs help with his great history of…something or other.”
“Aunt, who are these people?” Arabella asked in bewilderment. “I don’t believe they exist.”
“They do,” Aunt Sarah said firmly. “That is, they might. They are possibilities and quite likely to be encountered at the Assembly Room ball.”
“Ball?” Aunt Maria repeated, emerging from her own bedchamber in a mist of scarves and shawls. “What ball?”
Sarah cast her eyes to heaven before turning to face her sister. “The Assembly Room ball, of course. I know you are going to say she doesn’t deserve it and that she is too ill, but honestly, Maria, you must see that it would be good for her.”
Aunt Maria gazed somewhat doubtfully from her sister to Arabella. Arabella was tempted to look as ill as she could just so that Maria would forbid the ball. Only then, she would be coddled mercilessly and forced to stay in bed for days without any books. And it would only cause more arguments with Aunt Sarah, who’d clearly set her heart on the event.
“Why don’t you two go,” Arabella suggested brightly. “I can have an early night and you may tell me all about it in the morning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” they snapped in almost perfect harmony, and Arabella realized too late that she’d played her hand badly. All she’d succeeded in doing was uniting her warring aunts.
“I’m here as a punishment,” Arabella reminded them with a hint of desperation. “Not to go to balls. Besides, no one wants a dancing partner who will cough all over them.”
“Then you’d better not cough,” Aunt Sarah said tartly.
“Sarah! As if she can help it.”
“Of course, she can. She only does it when something she doesn’t like is required of her! Like going to a ball. Honestly, Bella, do you imagine you’ll get a husband just by sitting at home with your books?”
“I don’t want a husband.” She stood up in agitation, as the cough seized at her breath. “Look, why don’t I just go and stay with Frances? She will want help with the new baby—”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Aunt Sarah said, scowling. “Your sister has an army of paid servants to help her. As does your brother. Your father sent you here, and here you shall stay! Now, what do you have to wear to a ball…?” She barged off into Bella’s bedchamber without a by-your-leave.
Bella sighed.
Aunt Maria sat down beside her. “She means it for the best, you know. She can’t bear the thought of you ending up an old maid like her, at the beck-and-call of all your siblings’ families, with no life of your own.”
Arabella smiled faintly. “I don’t believe Aunt Sarah’s at anyone’s beck and call.”
“Don’t you?” Maria said at once. “She makes a fuss, but she always goes. And here I am too, because our brother sent us. In fact, it makes no difference whether you’re married or not. A Niven lady always does her duty.”
“Except me. It was my duty to marry Sir George Beaton.”
“Well, it was a mistake to refuse him,” Aunt Maria allowed. “You’d have had a fine home and an interesting life as a political hostess, and enjoyed much more freedom than an unmarried lady is permitted.”
Arabella gazed at her lap. It seemed to her she’d just have been swapping a set of chains she could manage for one she couldn’t. Her family—some of them at least—bullied her from kindness. Sir George, she was sure, was not a kind man. She didn’t care for the look in his fishy eyes.
Aunt Maria drew in her breath and metaphorically waved Sir George aside. “However, perhaps Sarah is right. We can use this time to find a different husband. He might not provide the kind of alliance my brother hoped for, but at this stage, I imagine Kelburn will no doubt be glad just to have you off his hands. He did say he’d washed his hands of you.”
Arabella raised her eyes thoughtfully. “He did, didn’t he?” Her thoughts began to race around the long-standing fantasy of her own quiet cottage full of books. And dogs, perhaps… It was possible. It could be done.
“So, we are doing nothing wrong in attending this ball and enjoying a little company along with your Blackhaven waters. I wonder if we know any gentlemen here who might escort us…”
Arabella smiled unhappily. “I’m sure someone will turn up.”
*
Alban, drawn by old and unwanted bonds, did row ashore the following morning and venture further into Blackhaven than he had in years. The old high street was barely recognizable in the impressive buildings that had since sprung up on either side of the road and extended it at either end. Smart shops selling gowns, hats, and fripperies flanked impressive Assembly Rooms, a hotel and even a theatre at the far end. Alban walked the whole length of the street, trying to bore himself into returning to The Albatross, but in the end, he turned and walked into the coffee house opposite the hotel.
This time, Will was waiting for him. Well, it was certainly a more salubrious place to wait. Making him come to the tavern had been unkind. Especially if he’d been ill.
Will grinned and stood up, thrusting out his hand. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Neither did I,” Alban confessed, gazing at the hand for an instant before he took it briefly.
Will called for more coffee and breakfast, and they sat opposite each other. Alban didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know. But he’d come ashore, he’d entered the coffee house, and he’d shaken hands. It was inevitable now.
“What have you been doing with your life?” he asked, reluctantly, and Will began to talk.
Alban had discovered this talent many years ago and it had often proved very useful. He asked a mild question, spoke a few words, and information flowed without him having to say or do much more. This was the first time he could recall doing it when the information wasn’t to his advantage. In fact, it churned him up, reminding him of the life he’d left behind. He’d learned very early on not to regret it, to accept the consequences of the actions he had chosen. Yet, hearing about the old neighborhood, old friends, and family did hurt. He didn’t know why, just let Will talk. He didn’t even want to shut him up.
Even more unusually, it took him a while to become aware of the curious glances of the other patrons. Not that the place was crowded. But when he glanced around the house, a few old soldiers at the back and a scattering of gentlemen with newspapers all looked away too hastily.
“I gather they don’t see many strangers here,” Alban said sardonically.
“Oh, people come and go all the time.” Will cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you being modest? Or do you really not know you are the popular hero of the hour?”
Alban frowned. “I’m what?”
“A hero. People are delighted to see the great Captain Alban with their own eyes.”
Alban cast him a look of derision. “The great who?”
“Captain Alban who entered the late battle in Biscay, scuttled one French ship and captured another, thus preserving the reputation, to say nothing of the survival, of the British naval vessels being attacked. It’s been in all the newspapers.”
Alban swore, dragging one irritable hand through his hair. “You knew who I was and where to find me. Surely they don’t all know?”
“Of course not. I guessed. I doubt anyone else has cause to. In any case, yours is an old scandal.”
Alban grunted and finished his coffee.
“I gather you’ve prospered in the years since you left,” Will said, just a little diffidently, as if he were eager to know but loathe to offend by unseemly intrusion. He kept it light and humorous. “Rumors of great wealth, secret treasure—and even piracy!—abound.”
“As I said yesterday, I’m a mercenary. I make sure I get paid well and I don’t ask too many questions. How much longer do you intend to stay in this wretched town?”
“Just a few more days.” Will smiled faintly. “You could come back with me. If you like. Stay. Visit Roseley, perhaps.”
“No,” Alban said. “But thank you. The Albatross put into Whalen today for repairs. I’ll be gone in a couple of days.”
“Then stay in Blackhaven and keep me company until you’re ready to leave.”
“I need to be with my ship,” Alban said shortly.
Will blinked. “Truly? Don’t you have underlings to take care of things like repairs? Or can’t you trust them?”
Alban, twisting the handle of his empty cup, regarded him without favor. “You’re still a manipulative bastard, aren’t you?”
“We have beautiful women in Blackhaven,” Will coaxed. “Guaranteed to gladden every sailor’s eye.”
“Then you have a whorehouse?” Alban said crudely.
“Actually, yes,” Will replied. “I was thinking of the Assembly Room ball, but the brothel is good, too.”
Alban stood, throwing a handful of coins onto the table. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”
“Devil a bit. This was meant to be my treat.”
“I couldn’t bear to be beholden,” Alban said sardonically, striding toward the door.
As he stepped outside, a figure across the road caught his eye and he paused.
If she hadn’t been wearing the same bonnet, he probably wouldn’t have noticed her, for her posture was completely different. She looked…frailer. Not cowed exactly, but vague. Without any of the vitality that had so charmed him yesterday when she tried to save a naked man from drowning and held her own quite impressively with that same naked man in her small boat. Today, she was neat and conventional. No soft, brown hair escaped the bonnet to fall so appealing over her cheek. No laughter lit her face and there was no sign of the humor that had lurked constantly in her bright, intelligent eyes.
The woman whose soft, gasping lips had opened to his with such instant passion—however shocked—should not look like…that. As if all the stuffing had been knocked out of her. Her shoulders seemed almost hunched, her head drooping. She didn’t look to the right or left as she walked between two smartly dressed, older women.
As Alban watched, she stumbled over some obstacle in the road. Both the other women grasped her arms and turned her into the hotel doorway. Like a prisoner, he thought irritably. The only sign of life in her was when she turned her head toward the doorman to thank him, a courtesy few would have bothered with. Her companions certainly didn’t. But the smile that went with her words was singularly sweet. He’d noticed that yesterday.
As the hotel door closed behind her, he became aware that Will stood beside him. “Who are these people?” he asked abruptly. He didn’t even know her name.
“No idea,” Will said. “They must be new here. I haven’t seen them at the pump room, or at the Assembly Rooms.”
“Don’t you stay at the hotel?” Alban demanded.
“No. I’ve borrowed a house on Harbor View, closer to the sea front. Which means I don’t always hear the latest gossip first. On the other hand, there is a spare room. Easy enough to squash you in.”
Alban regarded him in silence.
Will grinned. “Whoever she is, she’s bound to be at the ball tonight.”