Chapter 8
The next morning, after considerable thought, Beatrix was still flummoxed at how best to proceed. One could not easily be friends with a man. Not when one was unmarried. For instance, she couldn’t exactly go to his home, call upon him, and have tea. It just wasn’t done. Surely, there was another way to proceed.
She supposed she could write Captain Duke a letter, asking him to visit her again, but she had tried again and again to compose a missive. The words, the right words, just would not form themselves.
So, she’d spent a mostly sleepless night, wishing she’d been born a man. A man could come and go as he pleased. A man was not held captive in his home. Nor did he need a chaperone or servant to accompany him if he ventured out.
Dawn had arisen and nothing had magically altered through the night. Still at a loss, she’d come downstairs, poured herself tea, masticated a slice of toast and eyed her cousin, Lock, who looked as if he’d had a very good night out being a young man. It made her long to throw her toast at him, though it was no fault of his own. One could not control the gender of their birth after all.
“You told me he was a brigand,” she blurted.
Lock stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Good morning to you, too, Cousin. Of whom do we speak?”
Beatrix rolled her eyes. After all, how many brigands had they discussed? Butter knife in hand, she found she was exceedingly hungry after a night of soul searching. “Captain Duke.”
Lock shrugged as he ate his eggs. “He is.”
“He is not!” she protested. “He does the most important of work.”
Eyeing her carefully over his tea, Lock asked quietly, “You’ve been reading about him?”
She placed her knife along her plate which was painted with pink and blue flowers. “I saw him.”
Lock groaned.
“He called upon me yesterday.”
Lock thunked his silver fork, embossed with the ducal crest, down. “And he waxed poetic regarding his noble endeavors?”
“Hardly,” she replied, wondering why the devil her cousin so disliked the man. “But he did mention what he does and it’s not piracy. Well, it shouldn’t be considered as such, in my opinion.”
“I value your opinion,” Lock said evenly as he smoothed the front of his dark waistcoat. “I even agree with it, if you must know. Half the world does not.”
She sniffed. “Well, half the world is wrong.”
Lock smiled, but it was not a smile of amusement. It was one of great understanding of the machinations of the world’s misfortunes. “It often is.”
His look gave her pause. “If you feel thus, why would you say such dismissive things about him when he frees—”
“Because, he does break the law,” he cut in firmly. “Because he is at war with himself. And he flouts the rules of his own land. After rebelling against ours. He is a man without a country.”
“I thought he was an American,” she teased, hoping to bring the serious subject some lightness. “You clearly labeled him thus the other day.”
Lock snorted. “He was born there. His family supported the rebellion. What else is there to say?”
“Apparently a great deal since now you say he is a man without a country,” she said, taking up her tea.
“He is a rebel,” Lock said, as though it was the worst insult in all Christendom. “Through and through.”
A rebel.
How freeing. Again, she recalled how he had ridden through the park, not a care in the world. The envy she’d felt had nearly overwhelmed her.
Once, she’d had no desire to be anything other than what society expected her to be. Once. . . Now? Now, she knew that one was always a moment away from being cast out. Or, at least, set apart.
“He is not good company for a young lady,” Lock said, his voice almost pleading.
“I’m sure you’re correct,” she replied, mostly to avoid suspicion and because she had a definite inkling that her cousin disliked the American for reasons she could not fully appreciate. But Captain Duke seemed to be admired by most of those who knew him, or so her lady’s maid had declared when brushing Beatrix’s hair the previous evening.
So, she nodded at Lock and kept her counsel to herself. As she ate her own toast, she knew exactly what she was going to do. And love her cousin though she did, it was not going to be his advice that she followed.
*
Adam drank his coffee, absolutely loving the dark liquid which revived him each morning as if by magic. It was a beverage fit for the gods.
Last night, he’d been invited to several places for entertainments. He had not gone. He’d eschewed everyone, feeling a strange and unfamiliar turmoil. He’d had no wish to smile and make jests while so at sea. He should have gone. For, at least, if he’d headed out to the whirl of parties or even the danger of the docks, he might have been distracted. Instead of lessening, the emotions within him had only deepened.
What the devil had he done yesterday?
Even by his standards, he’d been remarkably forward with Lady Beatrix. And it had not succeeded.
Quite madly, he had waited, listening for the sound of a footman brining a note. Beyond all reason, he’d hoped that she might relent not long after he left and invite him to another meeting.
He couldn’t fathom why it mattered so much to him that she didn’t wall herself up and wither away. He’d done his best. Surely, that was enough.
Then again, perhaps. . . Perhaps, he felt that it was damned wasteful to throw away such a promising young life when his own little sister had never had the chance.
Was that it?
Was it so simple?
He closed his eyes, resting his hand over them, as if it might alleviate the pain of the past. He still missed the little girl who’d taken his hand and run through the fields, looking for frogs and rabbits. What an adventurer she would have been.
A soft smile pulled at his lips and he dropped his hand to his lip. The memory still hurt and, yet, thoughts of his sister could still fill him with joy. Opening his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, knowing he had to shake himself from his present state. Long hours alone did him no good.
Sharp, efficient knocking resounded on his door and he turned towards the sound, a traitorous hope springing up in him. Generally, he didn’t have callers at his London abode. Bachelor’s lodgings made unexpected visits a rarity, something he enjoyed.
Most of his cohorts were creatures of the night. Ellesmere and Tony were likely still abed. The two had gone out, carousing until all hours of the night.
There was a chance it was a business associate, but they usually left a message at the forming office.
When his man, Argyle, a big, red-haired, Scotsman, peered into Adam’s study, the man’s weather-beaten face was a mask of bemused astonishment.
The lack of a note in his hand instantly caused Adam’s spirits to drop. A dismaying thing.
“Yes?” he queried.
“Captain,” Argyle began, his burr thick with distress. “A young lady is waiting outside to see you.”
“Does she have a companion?” He wasn’t about to let a young lady into his house without a proper chaperone. Even he knew what disaster lay in that. It was damned odd for a young lady to call upon him at all given that he had few female friends in the capital and all those were the wives of either the recent family he had acquired through his brother, or of the dukes that seemed to come hand in hand with them.
“She does have accompaniment,” Argyle said tightly.
“Then send her in,” he said, hoping whoever it was might cause his thoughts to dance away from Lady Beatrix.
Argyle cleared his throat. “She says it will be too difficult to get back up on the horse.”
Adam’s brow furrowed. “She’s on a horse?”
“Yes. Her groom relayed the message.”
Adam shot up from his leather, wing-backed chair and headed for the window.
He searched the street clogged with hackneys and carts laden with produce for the markets. He grabbed hold of the windowsill, barely able to believe his eyes.
Surely not.
Lady Beatrix sat atop her saddle in haughty splendor, her scarlet red riding habit draped over the withers of a black mare.
She sat clasping the reins with ease with elegant black gloves, but her back was ramrod straight, the trail of her dark veil dancing between her shoulder blades. He could not see her face under the fine veil of her hat which was designed in the military style.
“Did she say anything else?” he asked, agog.
“She asks if you would like to ride in the park.” Argyle’s usually low, rumbly voice was pitched high, as if he couldn’t quite believe the message he was conveying.
“Have my horse brought around,” he said immediately.
“Captain?”
“Quickly.” Adam glanced back over his shoulder and gave the older man a reassuring wink, as if to say this was naught at all but another lady after him, as ladies often were. “After all, we mustn’t keep her waiting.”
Argyle’s eyes rounded into twin spheres, clearly not willing to believe that this was all above board. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
With that, the Scotsman headed back into the hall.
Adam whipped his gaze back down at her, a smile beginning to pull at his lips. The bloody courage of her. Despite his hopes, he’d been mostly certain he’d never see her again. But now? Here she was, inviting him for an outing.
Perhaps, he hadn’t been too forward at all. Perhaps, it had been just right and now that he had her here, what the devil was he going to do with her?
As he stared at her, sitting perched sidesaddle, an image of him pulling her into his arm, of tilting her head back, whisking her veil away, and taking her mouth in a passionate kiss came to his mind. That’s what he could do with her. A woman like Beatrix would be pure passion. He knew it in his soul.
He shook the wild thought away. They were to be friends. Pulling a young lady of good breeding up against his chest and having his way with her perfect, pink mouth didn’t induce friendship. It induced ruin or a quick march up the aisle, with her cousin, Lockhart, close behind, saber in hand.
Quickly, he headed for the door. The stairs were taken two at a time and his footman was waiting with his long coat.
As he slipped it on, he paused. Somehow, this seemed utterly mad and. . . Perfect.
It was what he had wanted. Wasn’t it? He’d pushed for it, yet somehow he felt if he opened the door to his house, went down those few steps and joined her, everything would change.
He’d always loved change, so this should not give him the slightest pause. He shook the unusual feeling away and, without another thought, he turned the brass door knob and bounded down the stairs.
Her face was tense. Her whole posture was tense. It had likely been some time since she’d attempted such a feat. But when she turned to look at him, she smiled.
Her groom held the reins at the mare’s mouth lightly, easily keeping the animal in place despite the carts and coaches racing down the road.
“My goodness, that was quick,” she said brightly. “Did you think I would change my mind?”
As his own stallion was brought around and he quickly mounted, he replied, “Lady Beatrix, I have a strong feeling, that your mind is anything but changeable.”
She laughed, a beautiful bell sound. “A terrible trait, yet true.”
“To know one’s mind?” he asked, tipping his hat. “There is nothing terrible in that.”
She glanced downward then gave him the cheekiest grin he’d ever seen. “I have been accused of stubbornness.”
He laughed. “Never.”
“Shall we?” she asked, no sign of reticent evident.
“Indeed,” he agreed, wondering if she had chosen absolute boldness to hide any fear she might have. It was a tack he knew well.
“George, will you ride with us?” Lady Beatrix asked.
Her groom, George, no doubt, gave a quick nod. “Of course, my lady.”
George let go of the bridle and mounted his own horse.
It was deuced odd to be accompanied by a servant on a ride, but he was glad of George’s young and seemingly capable presence. It suddenly hit him in a new way that she had not ridden since the accident and he wondered how difficult it had been for her to mount this morning.
Was she truly up to this?
He certainly wouldn’t ask. If she felt she could do this, as she clearly did, he would do all he could to support her.
They rode down Pall Mall and entered Hyde Park. Rotten Row was just before them. Several people were out riding along the dirt path and, just beside it, the promenades were full of beautifully-dressed people, hoping to see and be seen.
They walked the horses at a sedate pace, one that would have chafed him in normal circumstances. But now, he felt nothing but pleasure.
As they made their way along the path, her straight spine did not curve. But as if being on a horse again was the most natural thing, her entire body eased, taking on a self-assuredness few could ever hope to replicate.
She looked completely at ease.
He felt it then, the hundreds of pairs of eyes upon them. Not them. Her. Again. The people of London were watching her, and it was then he realized the full extent to which Lady Beatrix’s reputation had grown.
Had she always been so well known or had tragedy made her the focus of all? Perhaps it was both.
Whatever it was, it angered him. Couldn’t they just let her get on with things? To find normalcy again?
“Ah. You’ve noticed,” she said with a sly smile, barely turning her head in his direction.
“Noticed?” he asked, determined to be oblivious.
“That we are animals in a zoological exhibit,” she whispered in exaggerated confidence.
“I beg your pardon?” he queried. He’d never considered the position of a Bengal tiger in the Tower before. But now that she’d said it, it made a good deal of sense.
“We can’t see the bars, you know. But we are certainly being studied.”
“I did notice,” he sighed, wishing he could make them all go away. But if he tried, it would only cause a far grander scene and create more attention for her. “It must bother you.”
“I won’t deny it.” She winced and her horse took a quick step to the right as if it sensed her unease. She reached down and stroked the beast’s neck. “At one time, they stared out of envy. I knew it, and was always very careful in how I presented myself to society. My parents taught me how privileged we were. Now, they stare out of pity as if they are thanking God and heaven that they aren’t me.”
“Surely not. That can’t—” But then he stopped as he surveyed the gaping faces amidst the beautiful trees which lined the park. Was she correct? Were they all saying secret prayers of gratitude that her fate had not befallen them? For all her wealth and title, her life had become a shadow of its former self.
Suddenly, she took up her reins and gave him a devilish look. She widened her eyes and declared, “Let’s give them something to truly see.”
As his heart pounded in his chest at that sudden mischief displayed before him, he realized his wits had abandoned him. He had no reply. And suddenly, she urged her mare on.
A yelp of protest passed his lips to no avail.
Lady Beatrix raced away from him, her mare kicking up the dirt path. And she rode as wildly as he had ever done. The animal charged ahead as if it were the king’s own purebred on race day.
His heart shot into his mouth. Fear. He hadn’t felt fear in years. But now it grabbed hold of him harder than it ever had. What the hell was she doing?
He drew in a long breath as it hit him.
She was living.
That’s what she was doing.
And it was both frightening and wonderful to behold.