Historical Novel: Her Master and Commander - Karin Hawkins - الصفحة 2

08-01-08, 05:16 PM

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[ COMPLEAT GUIDE FOR
BEING A MOST PROPER BUTLER
by Richard Robert Reeves
As I reach my thirtieth year of service as a butler in a gentleman’s household, I find myself looking back. Between my secret recipe for boot blacking (an indispensable tool for a butler), and a vastly superior method to remove wine stains from velvet (which some will erroneously hold to be an impossibility), I find my memories salted with some faint wisdoms, a few tested experiences, and many, many interesting stories.
My only regret is that, due to my devotion to this profession, I have no children into whose hands I might deliver my wisdoms and memories. Therefore, in writing this book, I have decided to dedicate it to all the young men who are considering accepting a position in a well-bred establishment as a butler. In many ways, you are my sons, all of you.
Thus, I begin…
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08-01-08, 05:17 PM

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Prologue

A servant—any servant—should never overstep the boundaries of his profession unless required by the utmost necessity. Even then, he should do so with extreme caution. It has been my experience that when a servant haphazardly crosses the lines of propriety, society—or some force within—will often shove him right back.

A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

The White Thistle Inn
Yorkshire, England
1781

“He will come.” Ten-year-old Tristan Llevanth leaned his forehead on the cool pane of glass. Below him, across the muddy inn yard, lay the road to London. Long and narrow, a brown ribbon threaded through the scraggly countryside, it stood heart-wrenchingly empty. “I know he will,” he whispered, his breath fogging the damp glass. “Our father never lies.”
“How do you know?” Christian said with a disgusted curl of his lip. “The earl never speaks to us. He doesn’t even consider us his children.”
Tristan turned to face his brother. “The earl of Rochester is a busy man. And he does, too, consider us his children for he gives Mother money to pay for our upkeep and the tutor.”
Christian didn’t look impressed. “He wouldn’t be too busy to see us if we were his legitimate heirs. And he certainly wouldn’t leave us here where it’s cold and boring.”
Legitimate. The word burned into Tristan’s soul and he had to grit his teeth against the threat of tears. “He will come to save us. He must.”
Christian met Tristan’s gaze for a long moment, his expression skeptical. One would scarcely know they were twins to look at them. Whereas Tristan was blondish with broad shoulders and fists the size of ham hocks, Christian was black-haired and slender, though every bit as tall.
The only commonality the two shared was the color of their eyes, an oddly light and compelling green, like that of a newly bloomed leaf. An elfish color, one of the chambermaids had called it.
Tristan rather liked that. Perhaps he was magic and if he tried hard enough, their father would come riding through the fog and save them all. Especially Mother, who needed saving more than anyone else.
At the thought of Mother, locked away in a damp prison all alone, Tristan rubbed his chest where an ache lodged and grew. He knew what the ache was— fear. And it was the enemy. If he let the lump grow too large, he would not be able to make decisions, find a way out of their present difficulties. And Christian, for all his posturing otherwise, had to be as frightened as Tristan.
In the taproom below, the sound of raised voices echoed up the wooden stairwell, rising with Tristan’s fears.
Christian glanced uneasily at the closed door. “We should leave. This place is not safe.”
“We cannot,” Tristan said sternly. “We wrote Father that we’d be here, waiting. And we will be.”
“Tris… Brooks said the earl’s men would not let him in. They just took the letter and sent him on his way.”
“Father is an earl. He is a very important man. I am certain when he finally had time to read the letter—”
“He wouldn’t even see Brooks. What makes you think he’ll read our letter?”
Tristan shook his head desperately. “No. You are wrong. Father will come. He has to, Chris. He has to.”
Christian’s brows lowered. “You… you aren’t going to cry, are you?”
Tristan pulled himself up, fighting the tears that choked him. After a moment, he rasped out, “I do not cry.”
Christian met his gaze straight on. “Neither do I.” Yet after a long moment, his shoulders sagged and he turned back to the window, staring sightlessly out at the graying evening.
Hands curled into fists stiffly held at his sides, Tristan said in a quiet voice, “If Father does not help, Mother could—” He swallowed.
Christian rubbed his forehead. “Brooks knows that. It is why he has been acting so strangely of late. He… he is afraid.”
Tristan knew that Mr. Brooks only stayed with him and Christian because the tutor believed that once Mother was freed, she’d reward him for his assistance in watching over her sons. At first, the tutor had been rather benign in taking care of them. But as each day passed and the likelihood of Mother returning seemed more remote, Brooks’s temper had changed.
Last week, after he’d been turned away from the earl’s house, Brooks had become more noticeably sullen and cross. He drank heavily and no longer pretended to be polite in speaking to his charges. There were times, in fact, when he was anything but. Tristan rolled his shoulders and winced where a bruise lingered there from the stick Brooks had applied to Tristan’s shoulders for asking yet again if perhaps they should write another letter to Father.
“Does it still hurt?” Christian asked quietly.
“It’s just a bit stiff. I almost forgot about it.”
For a split second, emotion flashed hot and ready across Christian’s eyes. Raw, bloody fury that made Tristan gape in surprise. But in the blink of an eye, the expression was gone and Christian had turned to look out the window once again.
Christian was like that; he hid his feelings well. Mother always said he was like a lake, calm on the surface though a powerful current rumbled beneath. Tristan, meanwhile, was the ocean—his feelings frothed and foamed on the surface, crashing like waves into every situation. Even this one. Especially this one.
The distinct roar of drunken laughter erupted from the taproom below. As one, Christian and Tristan turned to look at the closed door. The roar faded a bit, though the noise level was noticeably higher. Somewhere in the midst of that roar was Mr. Brooks, drinking and gambling away what precious little they had left.
Tristan leaned his forehead against the glass. “I hate this.”
Christian turned and looked at his older brother. He loved Tristan and looked up to him, but there were times when his twin seemed to cling to hope when there was none. “We cannot stay here.”
“We have to. For Father.” Tristan sighed, his breath frosting the glass. “Maybe Mr. Brooks can write Father’s man of business and find out why he hasn’t replied—”
“Mr. Brooks has done enough,” Christian said more harshly than he intended. Tristan’s mouth thinned, a wounded look shone in his eyes. A surge of guilt made Christian clasp his hands behind his back. He squeezed his fingers so hard they burned. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see how much his hands were shaking. When he’d sat at the top of the stairs last night, he’d heard far more than he’d shared with Tristan. Mr. Brooks had been talking to a man in a long coat. The tutor owed the man money—a lot of money. Brooks had already sold everything they had of value. All he had left was—
Christian pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t think of it right now. Later tonight, when Tristan was asleep, Christian would think of a way to leave before the tutor decided to sell the only assets they had left. He and Tris would escape, perhaps go to London themselves and find one of Mother’s friends. Perhaps they could even find someone to help her. Someone who cared more than their father.
The thought of the earl burned a hole in Christian’s stomach. He hated his father. Hated him so much that seeing the old man dead wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the bile that flowed in Christian’s veins. One day, he’d kill his father for what he’d done to him and Tristan. For what the old man hadn’t done for Mother. There the old man sat, surrounded by his title, his lands, his fortune, yet he could not be bothered to keep watch over anyone who was not in his immediate favor. Not even Mother, who had once been wildly in love with the man.
The thought of Mother raised new shadows. It had been almost six months since she’d been dragged from her bed and arrested, thrown into gaol without a word of explanation. For weeks, no one would tell them why she’d been arrested. When Christian had finally overheard the butler telling the housekeeper that Mother had been imprisoned on charges of treason, he’d thought he’d misheard. But he hadn’t.
Even now that day seemed a horrid dream. Mrs. Felts, the housekeeper, had cried, and Melton, the butler, had looked pale and grim. Neither of the boys had understood, of course. All they knew was what Mr. Brooks told them, that Mother was gone, but would come home any day. That the charges could be fought, refuted. But somehow, as the days passed, those words were spoken less and less often, until now, when they weren’t spoken at all.
From the second Mother had been imprisoned, the funds from the earl had stopped. Not a single pence arrived. The servants had gone away, one by one, until only Mr. Brooks was left.
One day, a burly, unsmiling man had arrived at the house and nailed a sign on the front door saying the premises were reassigned back into the care of the bank because of arrears on the property.
Christian wasn’t sure what “arrears” were, but within hours, Brooks had all of the silver in the house packed into a cart, and they were on their way. The family silver didn’t last long. Slowly, as the weeks passed, the quality of their lives lowered. They no longer went to the inns in the center of town, but to the ones on the outskirts. Dirty and damp and vermin ridden, the feather mattresses gave way to hay ticking. And then to the hard floor.
Now, they were down to the last two candlesticks. Christian wondered what would happen when those were gone. What would they do then? More importantly, what would Brooks do?
A hand settled on his shoulder. “Don’t look like that,” Tristan said. “I will think of something.”
Christian turned to look at his brother. “I hope so.”
Tristan squeezed his brother’s shoulder, suddenly filled with an aching determination to fix things. “We will manage. Wait and see if we don’t.”
Christian pushed his hair from his eyes. The light slanted over his face, touching the dirty lace at his throat and shining on the worn velvet of his coat. “Tristan, there is something you should know. The other day, on the steps… I heard Brooks talking to a man. About us.”
Tristan’s heart thudded an extra beat. “What did he say?”
“Brooks owes the man a lot of money. The man asked if we were strong. Tristan, he said—” Christian swallowed loudly, visibly collecting himself. “He said the last two recruits he’d pressed had died before they’d even made landfall.”
Tristan’s chest burned with the effort to breathe. Life at sea was difficult and deadly. Ships often sent gangs to capture able-bodied men and boys who were then dragged on board and pressed into service as sailors. It was perfectly legal to do so, even though many never returned to their homes.
Urgency tightened Tristan’s throat. Surely they had a few more days to find a way out of this fix. Perhaps they could take the candlesticks and leave Brooks behind. Yes. That is what they should do—
Tristan stiffened. Over the noise of the crowd, he thought he heard—there it was again. Brooks was coming up the stairs, and he was not alone. There was no time. “Christian! Quick! Out the window.”
“What—” His brother’s eyes widened as Brooks’s voice carried into the room. Christian whirled to the window and frantically began to work at the latch.
Tristan took the one chair that graced the room and rammed it under the doorknob. Pitifully wobbly, it was all he had.
The window latch gave with a loud snap. Christian pushed the window open and leaned out. “Tris, it’s a long way down—”
The door rattled. Brooks’s angry voice rose. “Damn it! Open up!”
Tristan ran to the bed and pulled a small red bundle from beneath it, the candlesticks clanking together. The door rattled louder. Brooks’s voice rose with each word. “Open this bloody door or I’ll beat the both of you!”
Another man’s voice said something low and Brooks agreed. “I can do that.”
Tristan grabbed up the bundle and ran to Christian. “Here.” He thrust it into his brother’s hands. “Take this.”
“Tris, we’re two stories up.”
“We have no choice. I’ll be right behind you—”
The door burst open. Mr. Brooks stood in the entry, his cravat mussed, his eyes wild. Behind him stood a large, cadaverous-looking man with eyes red-rimmed from drink.
Panic freed Tristan. He acted without thought, without direction. Whirling, he shoved his brother out the window. Christian clutched convulsively at the bundled candlesticks as he fell backward. A lone scream pierced the night.
“Good God!” Brooks said, leaping forward, his face pale.
Tristan made a mad dive for the window, but the man with Brooks was faster. “Ye bloody bugger!” the man yelled. He grabbed Tristan and jerked him back inside, the windowsill cruelly scraping his chest.
Tristan kicked, his boot landing solidly on the man’s shin.
“Why you— Nobody treats Jack Danter like thet!” He tightened his grip even more, his strong arms pressing the air from Tristan’s lungs.
“Careful, Danter!” Brooks said, looking ill. “You— you said they’d come to no harm.”
“Stop yammerin’ and fetch t’other!” Danter snapped, his lips tight over yellowed teeth. “I’ll deal with this one.”
The tutor swallowed. “I don’t believe I should—”
“Then pay what ye owe!” Danter’s gaze narrowed, his arms tightening even more cruelly around Tristan.
Tristan gasped for breath. His chest burned, his eyes blurred and wet. Run, Christian! Save yourself! He thought it over and over, as if by repetition he might make it happen.
Brooks’s gaze moved back to Tristan, something dismally sad in their depths. For a second, Tristan thought the tutor might save him after all. But instead, the man’s shoulders slumped and he turned and went silently out the door.
Anger exploded behind Tristan’s eyes. He sucked in a deep breath and lurched free from Danter’s grasp. “Christian! RUN!”
Danter grabbed Tristan by the throat, his fist drawn back, his face twisted in anger.
As if in a dream, Tristan saw the fist coming toward him. There was nothing to be done. He was lost. All he could do was hope that Christian had made it, that Tristan hadn’t killed his only brother by shoving him out the window.
It was the last thought he had before the fist met his temple and, with an explosion of white pain, blacked his mind to everything else.

10-01-08, 03:48 PM

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cant wait until u finish it
thank u so much look forward reading all of it

10-01-08, 05:49 PM

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Chapter 1

A butler’s primary purpose is to serve his employer thoroughly and discreetly. Valor is the first part of discretion. It also helps to possess a large dose of tolerance and a very, very short memory.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Rochester House
Somerset, England
1806

Pristine and perfect, the river wound through carefully tended forests, flirting here and there with the stone-paved path before gently toppling into a wide, crystal clear pond. The deep blue waters reflected the flawless outline of a meticulously planned rotunda decorated with several columns and a pink marble fountain. Over the years, the rotunda had served as a trysting spot for lord, lady, prince, and pauper.
Over this astonishingly well orchestrated bit of idyllic beauty rose a nearby hillock. On it, set like a crown on a velvet pillow, sat a massive and stately manor house of lush gold brick, the mullioned windows sparkling enticingly in the late afternoon sun.
Rochester House was widely agreed to be the epitome of culture. The king himself had lauded the house and its furnishings as “the most exquisite in all of England.”
The comment had been made almost two score years ago, and at the time, the sixth earl had merely bowed his head ever so slightly to acknowledge it. Privately, of course, he’d been quite pleased, but it would have been ill-bred to have appeared so. And a Rochester was never, ever ill-bred.
Still, the earl allowed himself a generous amount of time in private to savor the king’s admiration. Each night, before closing his eyes, he remembered the words and the exact expression on the king’s face as he uttered them. It helped Rochester fall asleep and often gave him the most delightful dreams.
Except now, of course. Now, he was far too busy with the irritating duty of dying with dignity.
The dying part was, he thought, rather simple. It was the “with dignity” portion that was a struggle. But then, anything worth doing was worth a good fight. The earl had learned that caveat long, long ago.
To be honest, Rochester should not have been surprised that he was dying. After all, he was well past his seventieth year of age, a fact he attempted to hide from his peers by keeping to powdered wigs for as long as fashion allowed, the liberal use of rouge, and a superb wardrobe that dazzled the eye and removed notice from his sagging skin and wrinkled brow.
To further add to the illusion of youth, he’d married a woman who was, by any count, more than half a century younger than he. Ostensibly, he’d married the lovely, vapid Miss Leticia Crowell for the express purpose of adding a beautiful woman to his household, much like purchasing a certain type of orchid to decorate one’s dinner table.
The truth was, Rochester was desperate for a child. He’d thought to marry, produce a son, and thus secure his lands, fortune, and title. He winced even now at the crassness of it all. It was so tawdry, this breeding aspect. Sex for the purpose of pleasure was an art. Sex in an effort to bring forth a mewling child—Rochester curled his lip.
He’d never thought he’d have trouble fathering a child. After all, he’d managed to father brats before he was married, why would he have any difficulties after? Which was why he’d waited so long before tying himself to the demands of some silly chit who had to be told twice that one did not wear diamonds to a morning visit. Yet as much as he’d disliked the notion, he knew his duty and so, with the greatest reluctance, he’d married.
Unfortunately, fate had a cruel sense of humor. Now, here he was, gasping his last breath, married to a chit with more hair than wit, and not a single legitimate son to inherit either his wealth or the Rochester name. The name he’d worked so hard to build into something unique, something memorable, much like this house, was destined to die with him.
His fingers curled over the single sheet of paper resting in his hand, the noise drawing his gaze. Ah, yes, the list. He smiled a little, relieved. There was hope, after all.
He would make right all the things he’d done wrong. Even from the grave, he would maintain the quality of the Rochester name and keep the house in the family. It was a bold plan. But then… he was a bold man.
He smiled, wincing when a sharp pain rattled through his shoulder, the pressure on his chest increasing. Damn it, he had so little time left. Why had he waited so long?
The huge mahogany door that led into the earl’s chamber opened and a tall, perfectly groomed individual entered. The man was dressed in the deep black of a butler, his air stately and calm. He carried a silver tray covered with a linen cloth.
Rochester never allowed any but the most elegant of servants in his employ. Yet even he had to admit that his butler, the indispensable Reeves, was a gem among gems. There was something startlingly commanding about Reeves. Dark and slender, his hair traced over each ear with a distinguished stroke of gray. And his wicked way of putting a shine on boots had caught even Beau Brummel’s attention.
Rochester had the world’s best butler and the entire ton was aware of it. Four times in the last two months alone, other members of the nobility had attempted to hire Reeves away, but Rochester knew the man’s worth and he paid the butler a fortune.
Reeves set the tray on the table beside the bed. He removed a silver cover to reveal an amber-filled glass.
Rochester’s hopes rose even more. “Bourbon?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“But Letty said she’d poured my bourbon out the window!”
“Had I realized what my lady was about, I might have been able to talk her into a more rational act, such as sending the bourbon to your summer estate. Alas, I was too late.”
“Blasted interfering chit!”
“Lady Rochester was distressed you refused to listen to the doctor’s good advice and continued to imbibe.”
“I may be ill, but I am not yet dead!”
“No, indeed, my lord. Fortunately for all concerned, I just this moment recalled I had hidden a stray bottle of bourbon in the cellar in case the troubles with France worsened and our supply dwindled.”
“Reeves, you are a godsend,” Rochester said fervently, wetting his dry lips and struggling to sit upright.
Reeves assisted him, plumping the earl’s pillow and smoothing the sheets, all the little touches that made Reeves so indispensable.
It took Rochester a few moments to catch his breath after such an effort, during which time Reeves discreetly pulled a small vial from his pocket and held it over the coveted bourbon. A few drops plopped into the glass.
“Hold!” gasped Rochester, appalled. “What are you doing?”
“Putting your tonic in your bourbon, my lord.”
“I don’t want that damn stuff!”
Reeves calmly picked up a waiting spoon and gently stirred, the silver clinking against the fine glass. “No bourbon, my lord? None at all?”
“I want the bourbon, damn you! But not that vile tonic.”
“I realize that, my lord. So did the doctor when you had him ejected from the house by the footman.”
That had been a bit rude of him, Rochester realized, though the charlatan had deserved it. “I don’t need tonic.”
Reeves looked at the earl’s hand.
Rochester became aware that he was rubbing his chest with his palm, trying to erase the constant pressure. He dropped his hand. “Take that poison away! I won’t have it now.”
Reeves put the spoon back on the tray and replaced the silver cover over the glass. “Very well, my lord.” He picked up the tray. “Will there be anything more? Some sherry, perhaps?”
Rochester sent his butler a sour glare. “Sherry is horse piss and water! Just leave. My valet, Miller, will fetch me a fresh glass of bourbon.”
“Your valet would indeed fetch you a glass of bourbon …if he knew where to find it.” Reeves walked sedately to the door. “Which, of course, he does not.”
“You said you found the bottle in the wine cellar, so I shall have him look for it there,” the earl said testily.
Reeves paused at the door. “Was, my lord. The bottle was in the wine cellar. Now however, it is not.”
Rochester cursed, loud and long.
The butler’s bland expression never changed. But as soon as the earl’s outburst subsided, Reeves said, “I shall tell Miller to bring some tepid milk, to help with your bilious stomach.”
“I don’t have a bilious stomach and you know it! Oh blast you to hell, bring me that damn bourbon. I only hope you have not completely ruined it with your poison.”
The glass of bourbon was in Rochester’s hand in a remarkably quick space of time. He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a sip. A warm tingle settled in his chest as the flavor flooded across his tongue. “Ah!”
Reeves smiled. “The tonic did not alter the taste too much?”
There was hardly any trace of the bitter tonic in the bourbon at all. Still, it would not do to let Reeves become too self-important. Rochester needed the butler’s services too badly for that. Now more than ever. So instead of agreeing, the earl said testily, “It will do.”
Rochester took another sip, then lowered the glass and looked at his butler. “I’m glad you’re here, Reeves, for I’ve something to ask.”
Reeves picked up his lordship’s robe and placed it neatly in a large, gold leaf wardrobe. “Yes, my lord?”
“You are paid better than any butler in England.”
“Yes, my lord. And I am worth every pence.”
He had a point, Rochester thought grumpily. “I am not suggesting that you are not valuable. I only stated that you were paid well.”
“How good of you to differentiate those two items, my lord,” Reeves intoned.
Rochester eyed him narrowly. “That sounded like sarcasm.”
Reeves gave a faint smile. “Sarcasm has a certain value, does it not? Perhaps I should ask for more wages for possessing such a sense of humor.”
Rochester stared. “I should pay you for sarcasm?”
“I would rather think of it as compensation for putting up with yours, my lord.”
Despite the ache that set on Rochester’s chest, a laugh burst from him. “Damn you, Reeves! I should horsewhip you for being so cheeky.”
“Ah, but I know where the last and only bottle of bourbon is hidden.”
The medicine and bourbon was beginning to have an effect; the pressure in the earl’s chest lessened a little and a gentle glow enveloped him as he set the empty glass on the table beside the bed. “Reeves, I must speak to you. It’s about all of this—” He waved a hand to the room, indicating the entire property. “—when I die.”
“Shall I fetch her ladyship—”
“Good God, no! Why would I want to do that? All that caterwauling—Reeves, I wish I hadn’t married. Not that I’ve anything against Letty, mind you. It’s just that, without an heir, there’s really no reason for me to have been married at all.” The earl attempted to smile. “But that is neither here nor there. Reeves, you have gone above and beyond your duty since the day you arrived.”
“Thank you, my lord. It has been a privilege.”
“That is why I want you to find my successor.”
Reeves paused in folding the sheet to a more comfortable length beneath his lordship’s pale hands. “My lord?”
“I am dying, damn it! I don’t have time for quibbling.”
Reeves’s lips twitched. “My lord, whether you have time to quibble or not, I do believe I shall need more information than what you’ve offered thus far.”
For some reason, the gentle tone made Rochester’s throat tighten. “It’s quite simple. I want you to find my heir and see to it that he does not embarrass the Rochester name.”
“Your heir, my lord?”
The earl reached for the folded sheet of paper he’d set aside. He opened it now and consulted the scrawled list. “While I was unable to have a child in wedlock, I have been more than blessed without.”
Reeves’s brows rose. “My lord?”
“The eldest of my bastards—though he won’t be one forever—will be the next earl.”
“But… Pardon me, my lord. I am somewhat confused.”
The earl took a deep breath. “Reeves, I just remembered I was once wed.”
Rochester watched the butler closely, looking for some expression of surprise, but all Reeves said was, “Ah!”
The earl waved a hand rather lamely. “It was a… a rather secret marriage, but my man of business has the details well in hand. The priest who performed the marriage has been found and has been made to recollect the event. We’ve even found the register it was recorded in—but you don’t need the details. Just know that it has all been taken care of.”
“I see. How, er, fortuitous for your son. Do you think society will accept this story?”
“They have to. The priest is now the archbishop of Canterbury.” Rochester chuckled. “He’s a hot-tempered man, too. If one of my distant relatives comes crawling out of the woodwork and attempts to nay-say him, he’ll toss them right out of the church and onto their arse.”
The earl grinned. “Damn! I’d like to see that! I almost wish I wasn’t dying so I could watch!”
“Perhaps your son will enjoy the sight for you, my lord.”
“Not ‘son.’ Sons. They were twins. The oldest has been going by the name of Tristan Paul Llevanth.”
“Llevanth.” Reeves said the name quietly, thoughtfully. “That name is familiar.”
The earl grimaced. “I know, damn it. The blasted fool had to go out and make a name for himself, which was extremely ill-bred. But I cannot do anything about it now.”
“No, my lord,” Reeves said, his brow drawn as he tried to remember where he’d heard the name before.
Rochester frowned peevishly. “I did love Pauline and if I could have saved her—she was unjustly charged with treason. That is what comes of such an unconventional upbringing. Her father had untenable political beliefs and encouraged her to read all sorts of rubbish.”
“Rubbish, my lord?”
“All sorts of political foolery. He died well before I was around, which was a damned good thing. She had very strong opinions that did not always do her beauty justice.”
“Yes,” Reeves said. “Strong opinions are so unbecoming.”
Rochester shot a hard look at the butler. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing, my lord. Nothing at all.”
“Humph. Pauline and I eventually parted, though I sent her funds for the boys.” The earl frowned. “Damn it, why couldn’t Letty—but no. That does not matter now.”
He sent a faintly regretful glance at Reeves. “I perhaps did not visit my by-blows quite as I should have.” The earl fretted over this a moment, then sighed. “I cannot fix that now. Anyway, as I was saying, all was well until Pauline was accused of treason. It was a very nasty business.”
Reeves adjusted his lordship’s pillow. “I am certain you did all you should have, my lord.”
“I wasn’t here to assist her. If I hadn’t been out of the country—” Rochester didn’t speak, emotion tight in his chest.
“My lord?” Concern etched Reeves’s voice.
“I was in Italy. It took me weeks to get back. As soon as I landed, I went to see the king, but… I was too late. She had died in prison the previous week and the boys were gone. Vanished! I tried to find them, but there was no trace to be had. Until—” Rochester pressed his lips together.
“Until?” Reeves prompted gently.
“I read Tristan’s name in the blasted paper. I cannot tell you how horrified I was, to see someone of my own blood, his name bantered about as if he were a commoner!”
“Yes, my lord.”
The earl tried to remember his sons, but could only dredge up the faintest picture. “I seem to remember that they were handsome youths, though quite different in coloring.”
“If they had the Rochester looks, I am certain they were very handsome indeed.”
“All of my children are extraordinarily well-looking,” Rochester said sternly, hoping it was so.
“All of them, my lord?”
Rochester looked at the list in his hands, a faint flush coloring his pale cheeks. “Dying is so damned unfair! Here I am, a leader of society, known to all, an intimate of the prince’s, and what happens but—” He gestured angrily at his thin and wasted frame. “—this! I never thought things would come to such a pass.”
“Yes, my lord. Dying is wasted upon the well dressed.”
Rochester’s eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me?”
“Never, my lord. It’s just that I find it somewhat disturbing that you thought you’d never die. We all die, my lord. It would be unnatural, otherwise.”
The earl’s shoulders slumped. “I know, I know. I just— Damn it, I’m not finished yet! I was also going to hold a ball for Letty’s birthday, and the prince had promised to attend, which would make it quite the event of the season— But it is too late for all of that, damn it.” The earl handed the list to Reeves. “Here. These are my children. I was going to find them myself, but— Well, it is not to be.”
“One of the ironies of this business of living is that we never really finish. Whatever time we have, we fill it, and when it empties, we fill it yet again.” Reeves unfolded the paper. “I do not believe there is such a thing as enough time, my lord. For anyone.”
“No, there’s not.”
“Although…” Reeves looked at the list. “Perhaps some things should have taken more priority. You had children out of wedlock and yet you’ve never mentioned them once in all the time I’ve served you.”
Rochester’s face heated. “The duke of Richmond is said to have more than twelve illegitimate children. Nine is not such a high number.”
“Hmmm. Is this the same duke that you refer to as the ‘Prince of Chicanery’?”
Rochester eyed his butler glumly. “You have a damnable memory, did you know that?”
“A moment ago, you were lauding my memory even as you drank your bourbon.”
The earl fought a smile. “Pray do not attempt to divert me. I have requested my solicitor, Mr. Dunstead, locate the children. I am leaving them each something from my will, providing, of course, they prove themselves worthy of the Rochester name.” The earl took a steadying breath, wincing when a pain shot up his arm. “That is where I have need of your services. Dunstead is to find them, but you are to civilize them.”
“Civilize? But my lord, I don’t—”
“Reeves, this is important.” Rochester moved restlessly. “My children must be brought to heel. You see, Tristan Paul Llevanth, the next Earl of Rochester, was once a pirate.”
Reeves blinked and the earl had the felicity of shocking his butler for the first time in twenty years’ service. “A pirate?”
“Well, not anymore. He is naught but a sea captain now.”
Reeves’s brows rose. “Llevanth! I do indeed know that name; all of England knows it. Captain Tristan Llevanth sailed the Victory with Nelson at Trafalgar but a year ago. His name has been in the Morning Post and—”
“Do not remind me that he has become a public figure. It was excessively ill-bred of him.”
“My lord, he is a hero. I know it has been said he was once a privateer—”
“Pirate. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
“Pirate, then, my lord. But Nelson won Llevanth a pardon so he could fight with the admiral at Trafalgar. That says quite a bit about his character.”
“The fool is a sea captain,” the earl said in a waspish tone, “which isn’t much better than a common pirate in my book. It would not surprise me if the next earl picks his teeth at the table and rarely bathes.”
“Have you met many sea captains, my lord?”
“That fellow, Nelson. He was at a soiree. A small, rude man, if I remember rightly. With no sense of style, as well.”
“I daresay your sea captain is better favored. The Rochester family is notoriously well formed.”
“Yes, but if what Dunstead has discovered is true, the next earl is also injured.” Blast it, was he to have no luck at all? A sea captain with some sort of unfavorable injury. The earl could only hope his son was not badly scarred as well. That would be too much indeed.
“I read about that, too,” Reeves said, still looking somewhat startled. “I don’t know the severity of the injury, but it was enough that he was forced to resign his commission. I heard that Admiral Nelson himself would have been saddened by that, for he thought quite highly of Captain Llevanth.”
“Humph. Well, I can only hope he comes to his senses and accepts my conditions for the inheritance.”
“My lord, pardon me, but you say that as if you’d spoken to him rather recently?”
The earl plucked at the coverlet.
“My lord?”
“Yes, yes! I heard you! I wrote to the fellow. I thought it was the least I could do, seeing as how I’m not getting over this illness and I haven’t had much commerce with him.”
“May I inquire as to his response?”
“No.”
“I see. What, exactly, did you write to him?”
“I told him I hoped he knew what was expected of him once the title was his. His answer was most rude.”
Reeves sighed. “My lord, this is quite a large task.”
“I don’t see what is so difficult,” Rochester said testily, suddenly feeling quite tired. “Just find Llevanth and convince him to take on the mantle of earl. Then teach him what he needs to know that he may do it with the taste and breeding I have worked so hard to attach to the name.”
“But… if he is a sea captain—”
“If you do not prevail, he is lost. The title and lands will be his, but his sibling will get the fortune if, of course, he becomes more civilized as well. He must be made to accept his duties. I refuse to have all my work undone in one generation.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The earl leaned back, his chest easing somewhat. “Thank you, Reeves. I knew you would not let me down. Once I have died, your salary will be doubled. When you finish turning the oldest into a true Rochester, you are to go to Christian, the younger one, and do the same for him. It should not be too difficult. None of my children can have anything less than a superior understanding.”
Reeves folded the list neatly. “Has Mr. Dunstead found them?”
“Not yet.” The earl yawned. “I fear my second son might be in hiding. There is some indication he might be something more—shall we say, ‘memorable’ than his brother.”
“More memorable? Than a hero of a naval battle?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” The earl pressed his lips together. “I will leave Dunstead to explain it to you.”
“My lord, I hate to ask this, but, ah… has either of your sons shown any violent tendencies? I mean no disrespect; it’s merely a matter of personal safety.”
“If they did, you may be assured they had good reason. My sons may not know how to dress, but they are still my sons. No Rochester has ever been involved in anything truly unsavory.”
“Thank you for your reassurance,” Reeves said dryly.
The earl yawned again, his lids sliding half closed. “Blood will always tell.”
“Yes, my lord.” Reeves tucked the list into his pocket and began drawing the heavy draperies about the huge gold bed. “You need your rest, my lord.”
“Thank you, Reeves. I shall sleep well knowing you will be working to reclaim the lost Rochester heritage.” The earl forced his heavy lids open. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot. In addition to your wages, I will supply you with a generous allowance that you might take whatever supplies you deem necessary. You may wish to take a few of the others with you, as well.”
“Others, my lord?”
“I can’t imagine a sea captain will have either a decent cook or valet.”
“Perhaps he has both.” Reeves dimmed the lamp.
Rochester was barely aware of it. The tonic combined with the bourbon had taken hold and he was already drifting off to sleep. He’d set things as much to rights as he could and he was confident that his man Reeves would take care of the rest.
Reeves always did.

10-01-08, 05:50 PM

المشاركة رقم: 10

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الكاتب:	darla
اللقب:	سندريلا ليلاس

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التسجيل:	Aug 2006
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كاتب الموضوع : darla المنتدى : الارشيف

Chapter 2

Resist the urge to overstarch your employer’s cravats or muddy his boots in retaliation for some real or imagined slight. If you feel you must make a statement, it is most expedient to do so when the gentleman is eating. He will be in a more temperate mood and, at times, his mouth well-filled. For an astute butler, that could well be a Very Good Thing.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

The blue waves hurled themselves against the jagged cliff face, thundering with fury across encrusted rocks. High on the cliff top, far above the ocean, sat a large cottage. Built of the same black rock that decorated the shoreline, it was almost invisible except for the thick curls of smoke that puffed from all three chimneys.
Captain Tristan Paul Llevanth stood before the cottage, staring into the wild black water below, fascinated as ever by the swirling, foaming madness. The wind flapped his cape, tangled and damp, about his legs. A dull ache lifted from his heel through his knee and his fingers tightened over the brass knob of the hated cane. “Blast it, even standing pains me,” he growled, cursing his wounded leg to the deep blue and back.
He took a deep breath, lifting the damp scent of the ocean into his lungs, releasing the pain into the air even as he allowed the coolness to replenish his spirits. The breeze tussled the one lone tree that stood on the cliff, sending a smattering of brown leaves swirling to the ground.
Behind him, the familiar slam of the door rang out. In a moment, one of the men would be there, pretending to ask an innocuous question. Ever since he’d been wounded, his own bloody crew—the ones who’d remained with him—had taken to treating him like a scabby, new to ship and wet behind the ears.
It was galling. It also reminded him of the early days, when he’d been naught but a soft landlubber with no calluses and less understanding of what it meant to be at sea. At first, he’d fought. Fought his destiny with his entire being. He’d been sad and frightened and sick with worry about Christian—
No. He wouldn’t remember those days. He’d remember the later ones. When he’d finally made his peace with the sea and life on board.
Though he grew to hate his first captain, a harsh, unjust man given to beating his men for the slightest offense, Tristan loved life at sea and reveled in the wildness of the crashing ocean that had once terrified him.
Though Captain Reynolds had no place in Tristan’s heart, the crew had been beyond compare. Many of the men from that first assignment were with Tristan still, having weathered storms, faced raging seas, and fought the fright of being becalmed hundreds of miles from shore with too little water. They were stalwart of heart and generous of spirit and had stood with him against marauders of all sorts and sizes.
A faint smile touched his lips. There were those who cursed pirates and he was certain some of them were unworthy men indeed. But to Tristan, stolen from the safety of shore and forced to the sea under a harsh captain given to regular beatings and worse, pirating wasn’t as horrid and undesirable as it might have been under different circumstances.
Indeed, when his first ship had been overrun in a bloody battle, the captain killed and Tristan’s crew-mates taken prisoner, he met with more generous behavior than he had when serving Captain Reynolds.
The captain of the pirate ship, Captain Ballaliet, a former French naval officer reduced to pirating to pay his gaming debts, had invited the English crew to join his own. With the promise of plunder, better food than Tristan could remember, and a benign master, the invitation was too good to miss. Thus Tristan made the painless transition from English sailor to roving pirate.
Tristan looked out over the roaring ocean with unseeing eyes. He was no saint and he’d done things he now regretted. Though it had been an amoral life, he’d prospered and eventually Captain Ballaliet had captured a ship and given it to Tristan. Together, they’d sailed and had been nigh unstoppable. Had a stray bullet during a particularly difficult boarding not caught Captain Ballaliet in the chest, Tristan might even now be sailing the seas, looking for a tempting frigate to capture.
But once Ballaliet had died, the fight had left Tristan and he’d drifted aimlessly. The crew had not been happy, for they were paid only when they captured a juicy prize. Had he not overtaken a certain ship off the Rock of Gibraltar and met Admiral Nelson, Tristan’s life would have been different. Nelson had seen something in Tristan worth saving. To repay the Admiral, Tristan had pledged his ship and men to the Battle of Trafalgar. It had been a stunning victory, but at what cost? Nelson was gone, taken by a sniper’s bullet while countless others had died or been left maimed, wounded beyond salvage.
The wind whipped through Tristan’s hair and tried to pull it from the ribbon. He closed his eyes and let the damp air brush over him. If he held very still, it almost felt as if the ground were moving like a ship in a near calm sea. He could almost hear the creak and groan of the rigging, smell the pitch and tar of a newly scrubbed deck. Reflexively, Tristan rolled back on his heels—
A red-hot pain lanced through his leg. “Bloody damn!”
“Cap’n!” First Mate Stevens grasped Tristan’s arm.
Tristan shook off the first mate. “Blast you to hell, Stevens! I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“I know, Cap’n. I just didn’t want ye tossed overboard like an empty barrel. ‘Tis a far drop off’n this cliff.”
Teeth clenched, Tristan lowered his foot back to the ground, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. “I am not in any danger of falling off the cliff, you blasted ass. I may not be able to keep my crippled foot solidly on the deck of a seaworthy ship, but I damned well can navigate dry land by myself.”
Silence met this outburst. Tristan knew without looking that his one-time first mate’s face would be as long as the sea was wide. Damn it, he hadn’t meant to wound the man’s feelings. He silently cursed his uneven temper; every little incident was a burning swab to a primed cannon.
“Sorry to disturb ye, Cap’n,” Stevens said in a miserable voice. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t,” Tristan said abruptly, willing the pain in his leg to subside. “ ‘Tis me and naught else. I’ve a bit of a temper. This weather—” He pressed a hand to his thigh.
Stevens nodded. “Indeed, Cap’n! Master Gunner Thurwell was sayin’ his arm was painin’ him jus’ this mornin’.”
“Thurwell spends a lot of time complaining of his injured arm even though the doctor found nothing amiss.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Stevens looked out over the ocean, his face easing a bit at the sight of the swells. He sniffed the air. “A nor’wester is comin’.”
“Aye. A fierce one unless I miss my guess.” Tristan looked down at the small man and gave him a twisted smile. “I miss the sea on days like these. She’d have roiled beneath us and given us a merry ride.”
“Aye, so she would have, Cap’n,” Stevens said wistfully. “The men and I don’t feel the same as we used to, back when we were sailors.” Stevens leaned against the tree and tugged a bit on the knit hat that covered his wispy white hair, a sad look in his eyes. “I never knew how much stock I took in bein’ a first mate until it was gone. One day ye’re a sailor, the next day”—he spread his hands, a faint shake visible in his callused fingers— “ye’re nothing. Nothing at all, it don’t feel like.”
Tristan clenched his jaw. Something happened to a man once he was forced from the sea and left to hobble about land like a commoner. It left one feeling empty. Useless. Like flotsam tossed upon the shore and left to rot. Which was why he never slept. Or rarely, anymore. He knew with an odd certainty that he was going to die wrapped in loneliness.
The only place he felt at peace was here, on this ledge, the wind and spray buffeting his body. If he closed his eyes and let the feel and sound carry him away, he could almost pretend he was back at sea.
His leg twinged when he accidentally put his weight on it. For a moment, he welcomed the familiar ache. It filled the emptiness of his soul, pulled his thoughts from the hollow days that spread ahead of him.
“Lor’ Cap’n!” Stevens exclaimed. “Batten the hatches. There’s a Lady O’ War headed this way and she looks ready to fire in our direction.”
Tristan looked in the direction of Stevens’s stare. There, marching down the ragged path that led into the garden, was a familiar figure. Smallish in size, shorter by a head than even Stevens, was a woman. She marched along without even looking at the path before her, attesting to the number of times she’d made the trip.
She reached the garden gate, flicked the latch to one side, entered the garden, and shut the gate smartly behind her. The wind tickled the bottom of her blue cloak, swirling it about her booted ankles and tugging at her tightly pulled hair.
Tristan glanced at Stevens. “I thought we were going to put a lock on that gate.”
“It’s on me list, Cap’n.”
Tristan sent the first mate a flat stare.
“I mean t’say,” Stevens added hastily, “that I’ll see to it first thing this afternoon.”
Tristan nodded. When he’d first bought the cottage on the cliff, he and his men had been the only occupants for miles. In fact, other than an abandoned house that was almost hidden by brambles just a half mile down the rim of the cliff, his house was the only structure in sight.
Tristan had liked the solitude and it had been with a sense of foreboding that one day, while looking out over the sea, he’d noticed that someone had cleaned away the brambles from the front of the empty house. His paradise was about to be invaded. Three months ago, a heavily laden cart had pulled up to the cottage and two women and their servants had alighted. Tristan’s life had taken a decided turn for the worse. “I don’t know why she insists on coming here.”
Stevens pursed his lips. “Perhaps she fancies ye.”
“And has decided to attract me hither by stealing my sheep and then hurling accusations at my head? I scarcely think it.”
“Ye’re probably right,” Stevens agreed, watching their visitor’s progression up the path with obvious interest. “ ‘Tis said the young doctor is wishin’ to sail into that port.”
Stevens lifted up on his toes as their visitor tramped up the path and out of sight a moment behind a large yew bush. “They say the doctor is smitten and wishes to marry the widow—the younger widow, not her mother, that is.”
Tristan flicked a hard glance at Stevens. “You have an uncanny ability to ferret out inane gossip. It’s a pity we were never sent to spy on the French. I’m certain the war would have been shorter simply by your efforts.”
“ ‘Tis one of me many good qualities,” Stevens said serenely. “Ah, here she is. Full sail over the hillock, right on course.”
Stevens shook his head. “Gor’ help ye, Cap’n, but looks as if a bee has gotten up Mrs. Thistlewaite’s bonnet all the way to the foremast. Must be that blasted sheep again.”
Tristan looked back over his shoulder at the woman now struggling against the wind as she climbed the last leg of the path. For all her forceful movements, she appeared rather waiflike, with a heart-shaped face beneath a tightly pulled bun of brown hair that still managed to spring forth with a curious curl or two at the brow.
Of her shape he knew nothing, for he’d never seen her without her voluminous cloak, though he suspected from the delicate lines of her face and throat and the slender shape of her hands that she was as trim a ship to ever sail the seas.
Not that he cared, of course. He was perfectly happy alone, slacking his lust with an occasional trip to the small town located at the base of the cliff. The inn there sported two exuberant maids, either or both for the taking, had one enough coin.
Besides, he recognized the cut of this woman’s jib. She was a stern, strict sort, the type of woman one might marry if one prized well-beaten carpets and hot food all for the mere price of listening to an endless line of chatter over the dinner table. Tristan liked eating his dinners in silence. As for his carpets, they were underfoot, so who cared of their cleanliness?
She reached the end of the path and planted herself before him. Every line of her body, every nuance of her expression bespoke acute irritation.
Stevens nodded merrily, his sharp blue eyes watering a little in the blustery wind. “Ahoy there, Mrs. Thistlewaite! And what brings ye forth on such a day?”
“I came to speak with the captain.”
Tristan looked at Stevens. “You may handle this.”
“No, he may not!” Their visitor crossed her arms, her gloved hands gripping her elbows. “Captain Llevanth, I came to speak to you and no one else.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Her gaze narrowed, and despite his irritation, Tristan found himself noticing her eyes. They were wide and slightly uptipped at the corners, and of a remarkably rich brown color, rather like the darkest swells of a storm-lashed sea and lined by the thickest of lashes overset by a lilting slash of brows. The lady’s frown grew. “You know why I wish to speak to you.”
Stevens leaned forward to say in what he probably considered a conspiratorial whisper, but was fairly close to a normal voice. “Cap’n, I daresay ‘tis the sheep once’t again. One of ’em has a likin’ fer the lady’s garden, he does.”
Tristan shrugged. “What does she expect me to do about that? You cannot tie up a sheep. A wolf would get it.”
Stevens pondered this. “That’s true. There’s no real way to tether them that they’d stand fer. If ye used a rope, they’d just eat it. And ye can’t chain ‘em fer fear of rubbin’ sores on their little legs. We’ll have to tell her we can’t—”
“Oh!” The lady threw up her hands. “Please do not talk about me as if I were not here!”
Stevens looked from the lady and then back at the captain. “Cap’n, did ye think we were talking to Mrs. Thistlewaite as if she wasn’t there?”
Tristan pretended to consider this, aware the lady’s temper was rising by the moment. Just to irk her further, he let his gaze wander up and down her, lingering on certain areas as if he could detect her shape beneath the voluminous cape. “No,” he said finally, “I do not think we were talking to her as if she were not here since, if she were not here, we would not be talking about her—or to her—at all.”
“Oh!” She planted her hands on her hips. “Captain, if you wish me to take this matter to the constable, I will!”
Tristan sighed. “Very well, Mrs. Thistlewaite.” He reached into a pocket and found his pipe. “Tell me the sins of my unruly livestock. I hope they are not partaking of spirits. I will not stand for public drunkenness in my sheep.”
“Oh, stop being so absurd.” She eyed his pipe with disapprobation. “Must you do that?”
“Yes.” He packed the bowl with tobacco and tucked the leather pouch back into his pocket.
Her lips thinned. “Captain Llevanth, I moved to this location to establish a teaching seminary for young ladies. My mother and I are working hard to have things readied, including the placement of some tiles in the garden to make a walkway. We cannot do that when that sheep traipses in over and over, eats our herbs and sends our housekeeper into hysterics.”
Tristan lit his pipe, shielding the tinderbox from the wind with one hand. Fragrant smoke drifted from the embers, and was immediately whipped away in the stiff breeze. “Do you know what I’d do if a sheep was causing my housekeeper to have hysterics? I would rid myself of the housekeeper. She is obviously unfit for duty. Pity you’re not on a ship, you could just have her keelhauled and stop her caterwauling that way.”
“Captain Llevanth, this is not a matter for levity.”
He raised his brows. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I did not, nor do I now, wish you to be here. Which is why I also have no desire to see you successful in your endeavors to bring even more feminine distractions to this peaceful corner of the world.”
The widow lifted her chin. “Is that why you’ve been placing your sheep in our garden? To make us leave?”
“I don’t want you here, true. But I don’t care enough to go to such trouble as transporting a sheep anywhere. My sheep are marked and well within the free-range law of the borough. They may go wherever they wish.”
The woman’s back stiffened. “Someone is putting them in our garden. They cannot be opening the gate themselves.”
He flicked a gaze over her face, noting the proud curves and pure line. It really was a pity his sheep weren’t behaving. He’d only purchased them to give the men an occupation.
Tristan hadn’t expected to be responsible for his crew once he’d left his ship. But somehow, after moving to the house on the cliff with only Stevens for assistance, the men had shown up, one and two at a time. At first all was well, but every sea captain knew the dangers of idle hands. To head off any potential trouble, Tristan set his men to the occupations available, including caring for the sheep, cleaning the galley, scrubbing the little cottage top to bottom, and anything else he and Stevens could come up with.
Tristan took a calming draw on his pipe, the warm glow of the ashes stirred by the wind. “Madam, perhaps you aren’t aware of this, but I am a captain. Captains do not concern themselves with sheep.”
“Who does, then?”
“Stevens!”
The first mate stepped forward eagerly. “Aye, sir?”
“Listen to the woman for me. Pray let her think you are paying her the strictest attention. Meanwhile, I am going inside, where it’s warmer.” Tristan turned and walked back toward the house, leaning slightly on his cane.
The flash of a blue cloak halted him in his tracks. Mrs. Thistlewaite once again stood before him, only now she spread her arms to either side as if to block his way. Tristan shook his head at the futile gesture. Really, the woman had more tenacity than… well, just about anyone he knew. She was also rather pleasant to look upon if one ignored the fact she always seemed to be frowning.
She fixed those great brown eyes upon him once again and he noted that they sparkled angrily. Oddly, some of his own distemper melted at the sight.
“Captain Llevanth, I do not wish to speak to your butler. I always speak to Mr. Stevens and nothing is ever fixed.”
“Fixed? Is something broken?”
“My patience.”
“Your patience is not my concern.”
“Oh! You—you—you—”
“Brilliant return volley. Almost as good as shooting pea shot in retaliation for twenty-pound cannon fire. Surely you can do better than that?” Tristan wasn’t sure why he was goading the lively widow but… a faint smile edged onto his face. It was an enjoyable pastime for all that. Surely it said something about the sorry state of his affairs that he both enjoyed and loathed arguing with his nearest neighbor.
Her arms dropped to her sides, though her posture remained charged with acrimony. “I did not come to exchange pleasantries with your first mate or to discuss cannon fodder.”
“Shot. Cannon shot.”
“Whatever you wish to call it.”
“Madam, I’ve said it before and again; this is not my problem. Shut your blasted gate—firmly. There. Your problem is now solved.”
She stamped her foot, her boot landing in a puddle and splashing mud upon the edges of the moss green skirts barely visible beneath the voluminous blue cloak. “Captain, the gate was shut. Firmly.”
“So my sheep are jumping the fence into your garden?”
“Yes. The white one with the black face.”
Tristan looked over his shoulder. “Stevens, do I have a white sheep with a black face?”
Stevens scratched his chin, his brow furrowed. “Hm. Seems I seen one of that cut not too long ago.”
“Is it possible that this particular sheep can jump a fence the height of the one surrounding Mrs. Thistlewaite’s garden?”
“By Peter’s watery grave, no!” the first mate said, chuckling at the thought.
She frowned, her flyaway brows looking even more elfin. Before she could say anything, Tristan continued. “Stevens, is it possible for a sheep to fly?”
Stevens snorted.
“What about crawl? Could they crawl beneath a gate?”
“Lord, no! They’re too puffed up. Why they can barely fit through the gate upright and with it open as it is.”
Mrs. Thistlewaite’s full lips pursed into a scowl. “Captain, I do not know how your sheep manages to creep past my fence, but he does. And then he grazes through my spice bed like a great scythe, eating all of my herbs and—”
“Stevens?”
“Aye, Cap’n?”
“Do we have a garden?”
Stevens looked around them and blinked. “Why yes. Ye’re standin’ in the middle of it.”
Tristan took a draw on his pipe as he eyed the foliage that lined the path. “Are these herbs?”
“Aye, sir. Some of them.”
“Do any of our sheep cross the fence to eat these herbs?”
“Why no, Cap’n. Not once, that I can remember.”
“Hmm.” Tristan noted the rising color in the widow’s face. Perhaps he enjoyed teasing her so much because she looked so very prim and perfect, her hair so severely bound, her cloak buttoned to her throat, her mouth a determined line that almost dared to be invaded. Plundered. Tasted.
He found himself staring at her mouth. The bottom lip was fuller than the top and gently rounded. He wondered if it was as sensitive as it looked, how she would react if he kissed her, and then gently—
Startled at the direction his thoughts were taking, he pulled himself back into the present. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, sheep do not jump good fences, nor do they crawl beneath closed gates, nor do they fly through the air to land in the midst of a garden. I, myself, have a garden, and the sheep never bother it, so I feel there are no grounds for your complaints. You will have to deal with the sheep issue on your own.”
“Captain,” Mrs. Thistlewaite said, her voice frigidly perfect, “I see I wasted my time coming here.”
“You not only wasted it, but you have made yourself unwelcome. If you keep pestering me, I shall train my dogs to herd all of those silly sheep onto your land every blasted morning. Then you shall have real cause for complaint.”
“Oh! I cannot believe you’d—How dare you?” She drew herself up, her eyes flashing fire, her mouth set. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
No gentleman. The words flamed across his mind. His father had been a gentleman. “I’ve never wished to be a gentleman. Not now. Not ever. From my experience, gentlemen are not worth knowing.”
“I daresay you know so many.”
“I know more than I wish I did,” he snapped, his temper rushing to the fore. “But what about you? If I am no gentleman, are you so much a lady? Where is your sense of propriety, coming to visit a single man, no chaperone in sight?”
Something flashed through her eyes, a spark of… was it hurt? Tristan instantly regretted his hasty words, for he’d meant to spar, not wound. But before he could say anything, she’d turned and sailed away. Her skirts swished around her ankles, the wind tugging on her hair as she rapidly made her way down the path, back to the gate and the safety of her own home.
The first mate watched her march away. “That is a fiery wench, that is. Stormy like the sea and just as unpredictable.”
There was admiration in the man’s voice. Tristan had to admit that he rather admired the spirit the young lady displayed as well. And that mouth of hers… so sweetly curved and gently plumped. He wondered what she’d feel like, beneath the voluminous folds of her ever-present cloak. She might be fat.
He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until Stevens shook his head. “Lud, Cap’n. Indeed she is not! She’s a trim rig and full-sailed like a proper woman should be. Not a bit of extra leeway to her. In fact, she’s—” Stevens caught Tristan’s incredulous look and colored deeply.
“When have you seen Mrs. Thistlewaite without her cape? I’ve never once seen her without the blasted thing.”
“ ‘Twas when ye asked me to fetch the physician fer Mr. Thurwell. The doctor was at the widow’s house.”
Damn that doctor. Still… Tristan wondered why the widow had reacted so strongly to his barb. Something had definitely caused the wind to fall from the widow’s oh-so-righteously filled sails. He frowned, still perplexed. There was a mystery there. One that needed solving.
“Cap’n?” Stevens was now leaning far out over the rock, looking down to where the road wended up the cliff face from the village.
“Aye?” Tristan answered absently, his mind still on the lovely widow. What secrets were hidden behind her eyes? he wondered.
“Ye’d best come and see this.”
Tristan sighed and limped over to join the first mate, pausing to knock the dying embers from his pipe against a rock. “What is it?”
“There, sir. Two coaches and three wagons, full of things, all climbin’ up the path to here.”
Tristan’s frown grew. Who the hell would be coming to visit him on such a day as this? Indeed, who would come to visit with such an entourage? The front coach was huge, tied to six lumbering horses as they struggled to make it up the winding road. It was a fine equipage, he noted, much strapped with trunks and bags.
The cumbersome coach was even now slowly clambering up the steep, curvy road that traced the face of a treacherous cliff. As he wondered who it might belong to, the crest on the side panel flashed dully in the overcast gray sky.
Tristan’s heart turned icy. He knew only one person who possessed such fine coaches and horses. Only one person who would show up unannounced and bring an entire household of servants with him, to oversee his every want and need. And that was the last person who would come and see Tristan.
Or was it? Heart thundering an odd beat, Tristan straightened and turned back to the cottage. “Whoever it is, they will be an hour, perhaps more before they make landfall. Long enough for us to bite off the edge of this chill with something substantial.”
Stevens grinned, displaying a row of missing teeth. “A pint of the house’s best?”
“Or two.” Tristan hurried his step as much as his limp would allow, the wind ruffling the capes of his cape. The cold was beginning to affect his leg, making it ache even more. Whoever was coming to visit would be met with the same reception he gave everyone—nothing.
He had no need for people, other than the ones the sea had already thrown upon his shores. Those, he understood. Those, he would help. But for everyone else… he just wanted to be left alone.
He only hoped that the occupant of the coach did not expect a welcome of any sort, for the bastard would not get it, earl or no. Not from Tristan, anyway. Not ever.