Amy entered the room at that moment, bearing a tea tray. She set it down on the table near Alexandra, shot Mr. Henderson a flirtatious look—he reddened—then she departed.
Alexandra was too absorbed in the story to reach for the tea. She said, “So Captain Ardmore truly is a pirate hunter?”
“He is. That is why I joined him. We search for pirates, overcome them, and turn them over to whatever government wants them most. When we come upon them besieging a ship, we show them no mercy.” His words were clipped.
She hid her shiver by reaching for the tea, warming her suddenly cold fingers on the pot. “What happened to Captain Ardmore’s brother?”
Henderson rose to accept the cup Alexandra handed him. He remained standing, fingering the cup’s handle. “One day, Paul Ardmore decided he would bring in or destroy the crew of the Majesty, Finley’s ship. He was a bit mad by that time. He knew that Ardmore and Finley were enemies; or at least, deadly rivals. Ardmore was not with him. He might have stopped him.” Henderson’s voice went soft. “I think Ardmore is torn between blaming Finley for what happened and blaming himself.”
“What did happen?” Alexandra asked, her throat tight.
Henderson looked at the cup in his hand as if just remembering he held it. He abruptly seated himself on the nearest chair. “Disaster happened. Paul Ardmore, as I said, was a bit mad. Finley warned him off, or at least that’s what Finley claims he did. But Paul should have known better than to approach Finley. Finley is—I beg your pardon—a mean mother’s son when he is provoked. Only a fool would try to take him.” He sighed and lifted his teacup, correctly crooking his slender fingers. “But Paul was a fool by then, so I am told.”
Alexandra gripped the arms of her chair. “Grayson sank the ship?”
Henderson shook his head. “He says he veered off, knowing it was Ardmore’s brother and not wanting to engage him in battle. But Paul drove straight at him. He had the wind on his side, and he rammed the Majesty. There was no chance to avoid him.” He took another absent sip of tea. “They fought, ship to ship, man to man. In the end, Ardmore’s brother died, shot through the heart. Finley has always maintained that he himself was shot early on, and that he spent the entire battle writhing in agony on the deck. He says he had no idea what went on in the fight. Ardmore, of course, doesn’t believe him.”
“He carries the scar,” Alexandra said, staring into the middle distance. She touched her fingers to the place just under her own left shoulder, where the jagged round mark rested on Grayson. “Of the bullet. Just there.”
She heard in her mind the frantic shouts, the boom and roll of cannon, the crack of a pistol shot, the stink of gunpowder and smoke. She could see Grayson crumple to the deck, his linen shirt stained red, writhing in pain, helpless.
There was a marked silence. Alexandra returned her gaze to Mr. Henderson. His gray eyes behind his spectacles told her he knew perfectly well under what circumstance she’d seen the bullet scar on Grayson’s chest. Her face heated. He remained still, his eyes hard as polished stone. She reminded herself that for his innocuous looks and his curate-like clothes, he hunted pirates for a living. Hunted them, and won.
She went on hastily. “How did all this lead to Maggie returning to England on the Argonaut?”
Mr. Henderson’s look did not thaw. He had changed from the decorous gentleman who knew how to hold a teacup to a dangerous man who shared his master’s hatred. “Ardmore finally caught up to Finley again this past December in Jamaica.”
Alexandra connected the pieces. “After Grayson had found Maggie.”
“We caught him alone, Ardmore and O’Malley and Forsythe and me.” His lips went tight, his eyes remote as he watched a distant memory. “I am not terribly proud of what we did to him, but we did not know about Maggie then.”
Chill spread through her body, coursing through every limb, cooling her blood to her very fingertips. Her closed, protected little world recoiled at this invasion of violence and black hatred. She remembered the tension in Captain Ardmore’s cabin, the quavering moment when Grayson had stared with hot rage into Ardmore’s eyes, and Mr. Henderson had trained a loaded pistol on Grayson. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and death would have descended upon them.
“Captain Ardmore let him go,” she said, with difficulty.
Henderson nodded once. “Because of Maggie. Finley used her to bargain himself out of a tight spot and save his own worthless skin.”
Anger stirred in her. “He would do anything for Maggie. I know that. The bargain must have been hard for him.”
Silence fell between them like a crackling curtain. Outside, hooves clattered and carriage wheels rumbled, and the shrill cries of street vendors sounded over them. “Of course he would not have told you,” Henderson said finally. He drew a quick breath. “Captain Ardmore agreed to help Finley get Maggie to England. And in return—Finley forfeits his life to Ardmore.”
Alexandra’s jaw dropped. Horror rose through her, along with a surge of anger and grief. “What?”
The door swung open. Jeffrey came trotting in, oblivious of the tension in the room. “Her ladyship, madam.”
Lady Featherstone bustled in behind him, her gray eyes sparkling. “Alexandra, I—” She broke off, catching sight of Mr. Henderson, who had sprung up to stand stiffly in the middle of the carpet. Her plucked brows rose. “I beg your pardon.”
Alexandra’s heart pounded so hard she thought she would be sick. Forfeit his life? Those were the unspoken words he’d kept from her. The same words Mr. Ardmore had not said to her. They’d known the truth, all of them—Mr. Jacobs and Mr. O’Malley and Mr. Henderson. Grayson’s daughter had traveled safely to England aboard Mr. Ardmore’s ship, and Grayson had promised to lay down his life for it.
She clenched her shaking hands and turned blindly to her friend. The correct polite words tumbled from her lips. “Lady Featherstone, this is Mr. Henderson. He is an old acquaintance from Kent.”
Lady Featherstone’s gaze became thoughtful. Alexandra could almost hear the words rattling in the lady’s head: young, handsome, old family acquaintance—married?
Mr. Henderson bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“How excellent to meet you. You are attending Alexandra’s at-home tonight, are you not?”
He gave her a half smile. “I do not have the pleasure of an invitation.”
“But you must come. An old acquaintance, so happily found again? Alexandra would be glad to see you there.” She darted a meaningful look at Alexandra.
Cornered, Alexandra could only reply, “Of course, Mr. Henderson. If your duties do not prevent it, I would be pleased for you to attend.”
Mr. Henderson bowed again. “I would be most honored.”
“Excellent!” Lady Featherstone exclaimed. “We begin at nine o’clock.”
Jeffrey banged the door open again. “Viscount Stoke!” he bellowed.
Grayson walked in leisurely, calm as you please, taking in Mr. Henderson and Lady Featherstone without surprise. But of course, he would have seen them arrive. He seemed to know all the comings and goings of her house.
Lady Featherstone gave a surprised yelp, then recovered and extended her hand. “Oh. Your lordship, how delightful.”
He advanced, smiling his lazy smile. Only an hour before, that smile would have melted Alexandra to a quivering puddle, but Mr. Henderson’s story had left her rigid and cold.
“The delight is mine,” Grayson said. He lifted Lady Featherstone’s ring-studded hand to his lips and pressed a brief kiss to it.
“My word.” Lady Featherstone almost simpered. Grayson slid his gaze to Alexandra, lowering his right eyelid in a half-wink.
His shirt was laced, his dark coat buttoned. His bronzed throat showed in the V where his cravat should have been. He wore smooth leather gloves on his large hands and polished boots on his feet. His sun-streaked hair was pulled back in a neat queue. His blue eyes, despite his wink, his heated smile, told her nothing.
Lady Featherstone beamed at him. “Lord Stoke, you are certainly attending Alexandra’s at-home.”
“Indeed, I would not miss it.” He slid Alexandra another difficult-to-interpret look.
Lady Featherstone trilled happily. “This will be a most interesting evening. Alexandra, you will be the first of the ton to host a gathering that Lord Stoke attends. The Duchess of Lewiston will be green with envy.” She gave Grayson a flirtatious look. “We have missed you until now, my lord. I trust this will be the first of many times we see you?”
He inclined his head. “Business has filled my time, my lady. I hope to amend that.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
Mr. Henderson cleared his throat, cutting through their polite exchange. “I will detain you no longer, Mrs. Alastair. My lord, perhaps you will be so kind as to walk me to my carriage.”
Grayson studied him a moment, brow raised. “Certainly, Henderson. I see how you might get lost from here to there.”
Henderson’s expression was cold, tense. Lady Featherstone looked from one to the other in obvious glee, certain she was seeing jealous rivals taking up stances over Alexandra. Alexandra’s dry throat ached.
Grayson’s deep timbre cut through the silence. “Mrs. Alastair.” He casually crossed the room to her. “I apologize for interrupting you.” He stopped beside her, his back to the others. He withdrew a small package from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. “Wear them tonight,” he whispered.
She clenched the package, feeling something hard and sharp beneath the paper. He backed away and made an overly formal bow. “Good afternoon, ladies. I look forward to seeing you later. Mr. Henderson?”
He turned and strolled out of the room. Henderson shot him a look of annoyance, then bowed to Alexandra and Lady Featherstone and scurried after him.
“Goodness.” Lady Featherstone jumped as the front door banged. “Two such handsome gentlemen in your reception room, looking daggers at each other over you, you lucky girl.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alexandra did not feel lucky in the least. What Mr. Henderson had told her had drained her of feeling—and made her angry beyond measure. All this time Grayson had known of his diabolical bargain with Captain Ardmore. And he had made her love him anyway.
As for Captain Ardmore—She longed to see the man again and tell him just what she thought of his so-called bargain. She understood his grief about his brother, she was no stranger to the loss of loved ones, but he’d taken it a bit too far.
Lady Featherstone came to her. “What did he give you?”
“What? Oh.” Alexandra looked down at the package. “I do not know.”
“Well, open it, silly.”
Alexandra lay the gift on the small Sheraton table and unwrapped the folds of paper. Inside was a black velvet cloth. She opened it.
She and Lady Featherstone gasped together.
“Good heavens!” Lady Featherstone said, her hand to her heart.
Lying on the cloth, glittering like stars against the night, was a strand of diamonds. The pattern was intricate, yet simple. In the middle of the piece, held by clasps of beaten silver, were five opals, each about a half-inch across, polished and shining white.
Alexandra recognized the diamonds. They had been part of the hideous necklace Theo had given her, the one Grayson had stolen from her the night they’d made love aboard his ship. He must have had them cut apart and reset. But the opals—
She remembered his voice, the touch of his hand: I have opals that would shine like white fire in your hair. Here they lay before her.
Lady Featherstone looked up at her, her face still. “You did not tell me,” she said carefully, “that you and Viscount Stoke were engaged.”
Alexandra swallowed. “We are not.”
The lady’s face went a bit white. “Why else would he give you such a gift?”
Alexandra made herself fold the black cloth over the jewels, shutting out their starry sparkle. “I cannot imagine.”
From the look on Lady Featherstone’s face, she obviously could. “Have a care, my dear,” she said. “Tongues in the haut ton can be very cruel.” She brightened. “I know. Perhaps this is his way of announcing he intends to propose.” She pressed her hands together. “How delightfully romantic. You and a viscount, right next door to one another, falling hopelessly in love.”
“Yes,” Alexandra sighed, folding the papers. “Hopeless.”
She repeated the word again later as she stood at her dressing table and waited for her new lady’s maid to put the finishing touches to her hair.
The lady’s maid, Joan, a plain woman with brown hair scraped into a painful knot, had proved competent and quiet spoken. She’d had references from a baroness and a countess, and said she preferred a quiet household. Alexandra had bitten the inside of her cheek, crossed her fingers, and said that her household was quiet—most of the time.
The jewels lay on the black velvet before her. Her first thought had been to hide them away, but she could not bring herself to do so. The tiara was so beautiful. She’d never liked diamonds, finding them cold and harsh, but the jeweler had made these beautiful. Using Grayson’s opals he had transformed a rather gaudy piece—purchased by her husband only to prove that he could afford such baubles—into one of elegance and grace. It seemed a shame to hide it.
“Will you wear it, madam?” Joan asked behind her. She’d already expressed approval for the jewelry, though she’d not asked where it came from. She must have believed it part of Alexandra’s collection from her husband.
Alexandra jumped. “Hum? Oh, no. No, I do not believe I will.”
Joan’s square, stoic face registered disappointment. “But it would look so good on you, madam. You have just the right coloring to set it off.”
Before Alexandra could protest, Joan lifted the jewels to Alexandra’s hair.
The lady’s maid was correct. The opals shone like white hot stars against Alexandra’s dark red hair. The diamonds glittered like more distant stars, visible when they caught the light. It took her breath away.
“Please consider it, madam. It will go well with your new gown.”
How she wanted to wear the jewels. Grayson had had the tiara made for her, had given her a princely gift.
But why? She had been convinced at first that he meant to make her his mistress. Lady Featherstone was now convinced he meant to make her his wife. But after her conversation with Mr. Henderson, she realized that Grayson had told her the truth from the beginning. He had said with regret that he could not marry.
Anger coupled with her confusion produced outrage and grief. He was going to let Captain Ardmore murder him. She fumed at the pride and arrogance of men, who left women and children to grieve for them. She fanned her irritation, because it kept her fear at bay. This bargain had to be stopped. And it would be, if she had anything to say about it.
Her thoughts raced from one to the next, emotions tumbling through her. She had some ideas about what she could do. None was very practical at the moment, such as running Captain Ardmore to the ground, giving him a good talking to, and threatening him with arrest if he did not leave Grayson alone. Shouting at him appealed to her, but she reflected that it probably would not have much effect.
She turned over possibilities in her mind, her breath pushing her breasts against the hard bones of her stays. She became aware of Joan’s brown eyes regarding her steadily in the mirror.
Alexandra picked up the tiara. “Yes,” she said calmly. “I shall wear it.”
Vanessa Fairchild paused before the mirror in Alexandra’s bedchamber, smoothing the last of her dark curls beneath a hairpin. The soiree had already begun; guests poured in through Alexandra’s front door, and carriages jammed Grosvenor Street as coachmen tried to halt as close as possible to the red carpet that led in the short space between door and carriage stop. The reception room blazed with light. The rear reception room’s doors had been thrown open to make the two rooms one,
and the carpet had been taken up so dancing could commence. Upstairs the sitting room and dining room had likewise been opened, making one long room where guests could linger, chat, and eat.
Maggie would be entering with her father. Vanessa smiled a little as she studied her subdued gown in the mirror. The viscount wished to show off his daughter. Vanessa would wait upstairs for the hour when Maggie drooped or the viscount tired of her and deposited her in this quiet corner. Of course, Vanessa thought indulgently, having observed the viscount’s obvious love for his daughter and Maggie’s unfailing spirits, that hour could be long in coming, if ever. But she, as a good governess, would wait to take her charge.
Robert Jacobs was also in the house. Her trembling fingers knew it. He came ostensibly as a guest and friend of the viscount’s, but his true purpose was bodyguard to Maggie. For the last three days, he had been Maggie’s constant companion, and therefore, he’d also been Vanessa’s.
Did he sense the fire that shot through her every time he drew near? Did he know that she had to slow her panicked gasps whenever she looked upon his face? Did he know that the desire she’d had for him all those years ago had never waned?
Possibly not. He remained entirely businesslike, watchful and alert when they went out, quiet and unobtrusive when they stayed home. Maggie liked to include him in their conversations, and he answered questions or made comments in a friendly way. But he never spoke directly to Vanessa.
Today, for the first time, Vanessa had seen a sign of the danger from which the viscount wanted to protect Maggie. She had taken Maggie to Hookham’s to introduce her to the world of novels, which Maggie knew nothing of. Robert had accompanied them on the errand, as he did on all errands. Afterward they had walked up to New Bond Street and looked in the shops. On a sudden, Robert had herded them away from a glovemaker’s and shoved them both into a tiny, deserted passage.
They’d hovered there, in the shadow of the tall buildings, while Robert had shielded them both from the street with his body. They’d watched, tense, while a gentleman who looked no different from any other gentleman strolled by, looking right and left as if trying to take in all the wonders of mercantile London.