Capture The Wind (42 page)

Arthur being the boring Baron Von Gosden-Lear
—
who had, just the week before, politely retracted his offer of marriage—Angela decided not to force the issue. It had been an extreme disappointment to her mother that the baron chose not to wed a young woman with a “cloud” over her reputation. The months spent away from London had not been so easily explained to the man intending to wed her, and though Angela had been most satisfied with his decision, Alicia had not.

“Very well, Mama,” she said. “I shall endeavor to find some amusement in the evening.”

“You could try,” her mother said sharply, “to find a suitable husband.”

“There isn’t one in London I’d choose,” Angela murmured, and sighed when her mother’s fan flipped open then snapped shut again. It was apparent they would not agree on the subject, and she wished she had kept her misgivings to herself.

A particularly ebullient gentleman in tight knee-breeches and a yellow satin waistcoat chose that moment to approach them, one hand folded over his corpulent middle as he bowed.

“Mrs. Lindell, isn’t it?” he said, beaming at them. “And the lovely Miss Lindell. I don’t suppose you remember me
 . . .
”

“Of course I do,” Alicia replied with a delighted smile. “One could never forget such a charming gentleman as yourself, Lord Brompton. We first met at Lady Jersey’s soirée, did we not?”

“Ah, an excellent memory, Mrs. Lindell. We did, indeed. At that time, I believe your daughter was still abroad.” His gaze returned to Angela. “Did you have an amiable journey, Miss Lindell?”

Briefly considering then discarding the notion of telling the truth, Angela contented herself with a faint smile and a nod. Lord Brompton, however, was not to be satisfied with that.

“Come, come, Miss Lindell, surely you can expound upon your journey. Do not be shy.” He beamed at her, his fleshy face creasing into a spider web of lines.

“It was
 . . .
quite long,” she said, mentally scolding herself for not being more inventive. “And
 . . .
refreshing. But I am glad to be home in England once more.”
Another lie.
“Tell us, Lord Brompton, of your recent visit to—Greece, wasn’t it?”

She prayed that she had remembered correctly, but her mother chattered so about people she’d met and the things they’d said, that she could hardly be expected to recall them all. Fortunately, his lordship had, indeed, recently visited Greece, and began to regale them with the details. Angela listened politely until he paused to take a breath, then she excused herself and escaped.

Laughing silently at her sudden freedom, she made her way to an alcove near a set of French doors that opened out onto a veranda. She stepped behind the delicate fronds of a huge, potted palm and leaned against the wall. From her vantage point, she could see the crowd yet not be easily seen herself. It was perfect. She wondered why she had not thought of it at once. This sort of affair was her mother’s domain, certainly not hers.

Alicia Lindell thrived on social settings. Angela tried to avoid them as much as possible. Even before her fateful voyage, she had not been one to enjoy lavish parties. She had preferred long walks in Hyde Park, or visits with friends, or even just reading in the garden. Now, since coming back to London, these affairs were truly torturous for her.

Frowning slightly, Angela tugged at the fitted fingers of her elbow-length white gloves as she wondered why a man as prominent and influential as the Duke of Tremayne would single her out for notice in front of half of London. She did not flatter herself that it was her beauty, nor did she think he was attempting to ingratiate himself with her father for business purposes. It was a mystery to her why he would bother with the daughter of a banker, no matter how wealthy and powerful that banker might be. Dukes had their own connections and authority; John Lindell would be merely a small cog in the massive wheel of enterprise.

There was another reason. She was certain of it.

Batting absently at the hanging froth of scarlet trumpet vine in his eyes, Kit Saber listened without surprise to the spy he had employed some time ago. Gabriel—no last name had ever been divulged—was nearing the end of his recitation.

One knee bent and nudging against his chest as he sat on the sand, Dylan listened as quietly, if not as attentively. His attention seemed to wander these days, drifting into mind-space where no one else visited. It was quiet on this curve of beach, with the lilting cries of sea birds a musical accompaniment to the rush of surf and distant clatter of the Greek fishing village.

Turk stood with massive arms folded across his chest, the blue tattoos on his face shining brightly in the noonday sun. Behind the quartet, scattered up the slopes of a mountain thrust from the Aegean Sea, stuccoed buildings reflected white heat. But in the busy marketplace of Limenas on the isle of Thassos, the sea breeze blowing in from the harbor was cool and brisk.

“So,” Kit said at last when Gabriel had finished, “she has gone full-circle. Appropriate enough, I suppose, if one considers all that has happened.” He stared up at the pine-thick mountains ranging behind the harbor town, where slices of bare rock gilt-edged with sunlight peeked through.

Coughing politely, Gabriel murmured, “And I also have news of the young lady who so recently frequented your company,
mon ami.”

Stiffening, Kit gave him an icy look. “Do you. Did I ask for news of her?”

“No, no,” Gabriel said, “but I thought you might like to know that she is safely in London. Apparently, her ordeal did not affect her. She has become quite the—how do you say it?
—rage
in society. Due mainly, I think, to the Duke of Tremayne’s intense interest in her.”

Kit went still.
Bloody hell.
Of all the men in London, why him? Fate, it seemed, was laughing up its treacherous sleeve.
God
 . . .
Impatient suddenly, despite the peace and beauty around him, Kit rose to his feet. “I think,” he said with a deliberation that surprised him more than those listening, “it is time I returned to England.”

Gabriel nodded. “It would seem the most auspicious of times to do so. I believe you may at last find the success you have been seeking for so long.”

Kit turned to look at him, meeting the dark, liquid gaze that seemed to hold so many secrets. “Why would you think that?”

Giving a Gallic shrug, Gabriel smiled slightly. “Because the one you seek is willing for you to do so,
mon ami.”

So that was it. He had long suspected that this game of cat and mouse had been at her whim, not his persistence. Turk had suggested it more than once, but he had not been willing to listen. It was not in his nature to allow others to direct his course, but he was slowly learning that there were times one must yield to the inevitable.

After Gabriel had accepted his payment of gold coins and departed, Kit turned to Turk. The wind tugged the long white tails of Turk’s loose shirt, and they billowed outward.

Nodding slowly, Turk said, “You are correct. It is time to confront what must be confronted. You are aware, of course, that there is more than one devil to vanquish in London.”

Kit drew in a sharp breath that made his lungs ache with the pressure of salt air and sea spice. “Of course I’m aware of it. Do you think I haven’t counted each and every one?”

“On the contrary—I am certain of it. I cannot help but wonder, however, which issue you will deem most important.”

“Neither can I.”

Silence fell, broken finally by Dylan’s muttered remark that he was returning to the ship. “I’m tired of bread soaked in olive oil and honeyed walnuts. Don’t they have anything else on this bloody island?”

Amusement creased Turk’s face. “Silly boy. Pine honey and olive oil are the two most important exports on Thassos. It is comparable to the production of wine in France.”

Dylan shot him a sour glance. “I’d rather sample the wine, thank you.”

“Not to worry,” Kit interrupted. “We’ve lingered here long enough. We leave on the next high tide.” He stared out over the bay where huge blocks of marble quarried during the time of the Romans still lay half-submerged in the lashing waves. He had wasted too much time. Now that he had made his decision, he was ready.

“Another
invitation?” Angela resisted rolling her eyes. She turned to face her mother, who held the square of vellum in one hand, tapping it against her cheek thoughtfully. “I don’t wish to be constantly with the duke,” Angela added, knowing even as she said it that it would not dissuade her mother in the least.

“Have you no sense at all, girl?” Alicia snapped irritably. The vellum square was tossed back on the silver tray lying upon the carved mahogany table in their entrance hall. She followed Angela into the parlor to continue the discussion. “He is honoring you with his favor. Every eligible woman in London would love to take your place by his side at this ball.”

Flinging herself into a brocade wing chair, Angela said wearily. “Then let them.”

Exasperated, Alicia pleaded, “Why do you not care for his company?”

Angela sat up. “Oh, but I enjoy his company. How could I not? He’s handsome, intelligent, witty, urbane, sophisticated—have I left out any of his more glowing attributes? Oh. I forgot—wealthy beyond all imagination.”

“Then why,” moaned Alicia, “don’t you want to accept his invitations?”

“Because I have the inescapable feeling that his interest is only superficial. After all, the man is more than twice my age.” Angela fielded the blank stare her mother gave her with an increasing swell of frustration. It was not something she found easy to explain, even to herself, but when she was with the duke, she felt as if his attentions were cursory and perfunctory. Oh, he was the perfect gentleman. At every soirée or social event to which he invited her, his manners were impeccable. He gave her enough attention to draw whispers, but not enough to launch rumors. Her parents were included often enough to squelch any unsavory speculation, yet there were rides in Hyde Park and the occasional morning visit that gave rise to her mother’s hopes for the duke as a future son-in-law.

Added to the rumors she’d heard about him, the duke had become an increasingly mysterious force in her life. No other gentleman approached her any longer, sensing that to step on the toes of the Duke of Tremayne would be an exceedingly unwise course.

“Angela,” her mother wheedled, “if his interest is only superficial, then you should endeavor to endear him to you. Just think—you could be a duchess.”

She shot her mother a sardonic glance. “Really. And I could make a cake of myself by throwing my affections at his feet. I cannot believe you would actually want me to do that.”

“Not make a fool of yourself, no. But it wouldn’t hurt for you to be nice to him.”

“Exactly what,” Angela asked carefully, “do you consider being
nice?
I have not offended him by uttering unladylike words, nor have I dumped a cup of tea in his lap, or even expressed disinterest in his attentions. What is it you’re asking me to do?”

Throwing up her hands, Alicia said, “You are the most stubborn girl.”

“Mother,” Angela said, leaning forward in her chair to fix her with a steady gaze, “I am no longer a girl. I am a grown woman, and I know my own mind. Please do not treat me as a child any longer.” She stood up, managing a smile at her mother’s open-mouthed expression. “Allow me to make decisions about my life without interference, please.”

Alicia sat in silence for a moment, then sighed heavily. “You’ve changed a great deal. Exactly what happened to you while you were gone, Angela?”

How did she say she’d met a pirate, fallen in love, and become a woman? She didn’t. It would not only shock her mother, it would hurt her. And it would be pointless anyway. Alicia Lindell would never understand why her daughter still awoke most mornings with a tear-wet pillow.

So she said merely, “I grew up. Adversity has that effect
on some people.”

“I daresay. Even flighty Emily has changed. She’s prone to long periods of dismal silence now, when once one could rarely get her to cease her endless, silly prattle.” Her voice faltered suddenly. “Angela dear—I only want your happiness. Truly, I do. I shall be gone one day, and I want to go to my grave knowing that you shall never want for anything. Please do this for me.”

After a moment of potent silence, Angela said, “Very well. If it will please you, I shall accept the duke’s invitation.”

Only her mother’s intense pleasure alleviated the dismay she felt at capitulating. Angela half listened as Alicia babbled happily about gowns and gloves and jewels for the ball. The prince was to be there, so it was extremely important that Angela be well turned out, of course, and oh, did she think that she might be presented to Prince George?

Angela answered her mother’s queries in a murmur, wishing she had more fortitude. It promised to be another tiresome evening listening to stilted conversation and sly innuendoes that she knew were meant for her. After all, she was hardly a member of the exclusive set, and there were those who considered it their duty to make her fully aware of that fact. Never in front of the duke, of course. No, they were much too clever for that. It would have earned them one of Charles Sheridan’s famous set-downs, and after that they would be viewed as de trop in proper company.