Christmas Belles (4 page)

Dreams! What did they accomplish anyway, Sir Phineas thought
bitterly as he jabbed the poker at what remained of the glowing ashes of the
fire. Only encouraging a man foolish enough to try embarking on a new career at
his age, a career he had never had the drive or talent for even as a youth. He
could not delude  himself. He would not have been able to acquire any
position at all but for the intervention of his young relative.

William Trent, now there was a hero, a man who was a rising
star. Before the age of thirty, the captain had become wealthy from prize ships
taken, with a myriad of influential friends both in the Admiralty and the
present government. Everyone predicted that Trent would be an admiral one day,
his name as legend as a Nelson or a Drake.

But it profited Sir Phineas little to dwell upon Trent's
capabilities and his own inadequacies. Sighing, he put up the poker and
shuffled out of the parlor. He was about to set out upon what was a useless
enterprise at his age, the seeking of his fortune; but he had to try. The
impossible could be possible. He needed to believe that more than he had ever
needed to before.

Ah, but leaving his little girls, that was going to be the
hardest part. He paused by the window in the vast silent front hall to utter a
silent prayer, commending his daughters to the care of more skilled hands than
his own inept ones.

When he had finished, a sense of peace settled over him as
tranquil as the falling snow. By nature, Sir Phineas was a man framed for
optimism. Something was bound to come right. Good fortune was just around the
bend, and all he had to do was put himself in its way.

With the suppression of his nagging doubts, he began to feel
the need for sleep, but it was a more mellow feeling of exhaustion. Yet he had
one last task to perform before going to bed.

They had only one groom left at Windhaven these days, and
Dan was rather young, not always to be relied upon. Sir Phineas had ridden his
sorrel mare rather hard today. He would just check to be certain that the animal
had been properly rubbed down and was secure for the night.

Swirling his cape about his shoulders, Sir Phineas let
himself out the kitchen door, which was the closest route to the stable yard.
It was snowing hard now, the wind whipping the blinding whiteness into his
face, threatening to extinguish the lantern he carried.

His head tucked down, he made his way forward by dint of
following the low-lying hedge that surrounded the garden. The tops of his ears
were freezing, but his hearing remained keen enough to catch a faint sound
above the whistle of the wind.

A lowing sound.

Sir Phineas paused in astonishment until he realized that
the foolish dairy cow they kept must have somehow gotten out of her shed again
and wandered into the garden.

Raising one hand to shield his eyes, he peered over the
hedge and saw that he was right. He could just make out a bulky brown form,
but---

Sir Phineas's heart did a sudden leap. The animal appeared
to have fallen to its knees just as if it were paying homage. No? Phineas
placed his numbed fingers against his eyes and rubbed. What he thought was
absurd. He had been regaling Chloe with far too many old legends. He was
starting to believe them himself.

Struggling past the hedge, he sought to drive the cow back
into her shed. When he reached her side, she was standing upright. Either the
beast had floundered in the white drifts and  then managed to right
herself, or the whole vision had been merely a trick of the blinding snow.

As he closed the cow back up in her stall, he chuckled to
himself, imagining Chloe's reaction when he entertained her with his foolish
fancy in the morning.

But in the bustle of Christmas and the preparations for his
imminent departure, the incident passed from Sir Phineas's mind, and he
entirely forgot to mention it.

Chapter One

December, 1807

The HMS Gloriana rocked against her moorings in Plymouth
Harbor. Pale morning sunlight streamed through the stern windows into the
spacious cabin Captain William Trent shared with a twelve-pound cannon. The chamber
contained none of the luxuries most wealthy officers deemed necessary. Besides
the cannon, the furnishings consisted of no more than a cot dangling from the
deck beam, a sea chest, a chair, and the desk bolted to the wall.

Seated hunched over the desk, Captain Trent dipped his quill
into the inkwell, trying to finish his report to the Admiralty and his request
for the material necessary to refit his ship for sea duty. Shadows from the
hanging lantern played across his crop of thick, dark hair and aristocratic
features set into lines even more formidable than usual. He was of medium
height, and his lean, hard body was as solid-iron as the ship's anchor, more
suited for action than desk work. Composing reports was not among Trent's more
favored activities, and he already felt a cramp in his hand.

Even as he scratched his quill across the page, Trent
gritted his teeth, knowing that it was an exercise in futility. No matter how eloquent
his appeal, he would be lucky to get even half of the ordnance supplies,
provisions, and men that he requested.

When his pen spluttered ink across the page, Trent swore
softly, his concentration further ham-pered by the presence of his steward in the
cabin. The burly seaman was cheerily going about the task of transferring some
of Trent's things from the sea chest to a smaller trunk in preparation for a
fortnight's shore leave.

While he worked, Mr. Samuel Doughty persisted in whistling
some tuneless ditty, employing the gap between his front teeth to great
advantage. After enduring this for a few moments, Trent flung down his pen and
shifted around.

"Mr. Doughty!" he snapped.

"Cap'n?" The steward's head popped up from behind
the sea chest, his bristling side-whiskers giving him the appearance of a
startled walrus.

Trent merely frowned, fixing the steward with his steely
gaze. His eyes were the hue of the sea at its coldest, a wintery gray. It took
Doughty a moment of soul-searching to realize the nature of his offense.

"Oh! The whistling again. Sorry, Cap'n, I do try hard
to remember. That is, aye, aye, Cap'n. I won't do it again."

When Trent arched his brow, Doughty took another pause for
reflection before brightening. "That is, I won't be doing it again,
sir," he said with a gap-toothed grin.

"Thank you, Mr. Doughty." Trent turned back to his
desk in time to hide a smile. Doughty's grin was as infectious as the man was
incorrigible. Over a year under Trent's command had been insufficient to teach
the rogue the proper way to address his captain.

A captured smuggler, Doughty had chosen the king's service
over the king's noose. He had arrived on Trent's ship in irons, pale,
emaciated, but full of so much impudence, no amount of time beneath the lash
could have cured him of it.

Trent had tried patience instead, striking off the man's
chains, treating him like a human being again. And Trent's forbearance had been
rewarded. Doughty proved the best steward he had ever had, as handy at darning
a uniform as any housewife, able to miraculously manage hot meals for his
captain even during the worst of storms. Now if only Trent could break the
fellow of his infernal habit of whistling .

For the moment, at least, silence was restored. Trent turned
back to his writing, but he had not progressed much further when Doughty
cleared his throat with a series of loud harrumphs, trying to gain Trent's
attention.

"What is it now, Mr. Doughty?" He put down his
quill.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n. Don't mean to be disturbin'
ye again, sir. But I was wishful to know: Be this the uniform ye want me to be
packin' for yer weddin' day?"

Trent cast a cursory glance over the garment Doughty held
aloft, Trent's best blue jacket, gold epaulets glittering on the shoulders and
buttons gleaming down the front.

"No, Mr. Doughty. I won't be wearing any uniform. Pack
my dark gray frock coat."

Doughty's look of dismay was almost comical. "Fer yer
weddin', Cap'n?"

"I take it that does not meet with your approval?"

"No, sir! Er, that is, I suppose it be not my place to
say anything."

"That seldom prevents you from saying it. And what is
wrong with my gray coat, pray?"

Doughty hemmed and hawed. "'Tis just when a gent stands
up with a lady, 'specially for the purposes of matrimony, well, he needs to spread
his feathers a bit, kind'a like the way a peacock does for his peahen."

Trent's lips twitched with amusement, but he replied gravely
enough, "I fear my peahen is too sensible to be impressed by my naval
plumage."

"Nay, don't you believe it, sir. All ladies be set
aflutter by a man in uniform. I don't fancy Miss Emma Waverly could be that
much different from the lot o' females."

"I don't recall ever mentioning the lady's name, Mr.
Doughty. Have you been reading my correspondence?"

"No, sir!" Doughty's eyes widened, the very
picture of wounded innocence. "'Tis just when mail is left lying about,
it's hard sometimes not to notice a name, and I always can tell a lady's
handwritin'. I be somethin' of an expert on the ladies, Cap'n."

"So you have informed me upon several occasions, Mr.
Doughty."

The steward puffed out his chest. "Yes, sir, I came
close to tying the knot meself several times, but the fathers of the young
ladies were never quite fast enough to catch up with me. That 'minds me of
another reason to wear yer uniform, sir. It might go a long way to impress and
soften yer future papa-in-law."

"That is not something I need to worry about. Miss
Waverly's father is—" Trent broke off, suddenly no longer finding anything
amusing about the conversation.

"Carry on, Mr. Doughty," he said sharply. "I
should like to see my packing finished sometime this year."

"Ay, aye, Cap'n." The big man looked puzzled by
his captain's sudden reversion to coldness. But Trent was not about to offer
any further explanation.

Bending over the desk once more, he retrieved his quill, but
the pen remained idle between his fingers, the words on the report before him
no more than a meaningless jumble of ink strokes. Doughty's idle chatter had
triggered off unfortunate reflections that Trent found less than pleasant.

Try to impress Miss Waverly's father, his future
papa-in-law, Doughty had counseled him. Would to God he had such a concern,
Trent thought bitterly. But one didn't need to worry about currying the good
opinion of a man encased in a shroud, full fathoms deep off the coast of
Portugal.

Trent's frown deepened, and the sounds of the ship creaking
and the thud of footsteps above him on the Gloriana's quarterdeck slowly faded.
Relentlessly, Trent's memories carried him back to the time nearly two years
ago when he had captained another vessel, the frigate Corolla.

Trent had but to close his eyes and he could almost feel the
Corolla's deck trembling beneath him, hear the roar of the cannon fire from the
Spanish man-of-war that brought the Corolla's masthead crashing down.

Outmanned and outgunned, Trent had sought desperately to
save his ship. His hand clasped his blood-soaked shoulder, where a musket ball
had lodged. While acrid smoke stung his eyes, he had barked out a series of sharp
commands, trying to restore order. The deck around him had erupted into a chaos
of tangled rigging and splintered wood, screams of wounded and dying men. To
add to the disaster, one of the Corolla's cannons had broken free and now
careened across the desk, a ton and a half of lethal, crushing iron.

It was in the midst of this hell that Trent had glimpsed Sir
Phineas Waverly struggling to maintain his balance on a deck slickened with
blood, striving to reach the side of a fallen cabin boy. Battling his own
fatigue and pain as well as the enemy ship, Trent had been enraged to see the
old man flout his orders to remain in the hold with the other diplomats.

"Sir Phineas!" Trent had bellowed. "Get
below."

But as the cabin boy lolled back lifelessly, the elderly
knight straightened and actually seemed to be heading toward Trent.

"Get back!" Trent called, his shout less in anger
than in warning this time. But even his quarter-deck roar could not rise above
the thunder of another broadside from the Spanish ship. Trent was never sure if
the old man had even heard him.

A brisk knocking at his door brought Trent forcibly back
from the beleaguered Corolla, back to the present and the calm of the
Gloriana's cabin. Trent shook off his memories, calling out a command to enter.

The sentry who stood posted outside came in to announce,
"Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a Mr. Charles Lathrop requesting
permission to come on board."

"Granted," Trent said. "Have Mr. Lathrop
escorted to my cabin at once."

With a smart salute, the sentry exited to pass on the order.
Trent gestured to his steward, who was just folding several of Trent's cravats
into the trunk.

"You can finish the packing later, Mr. Doughty, after I
have done meeting with Mr. Lathrop. Right now, I want you to go topside and
inform Lieutenant Bennington that I want a word with him before I am piped
ashore."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n." Doughty was quick to agree but
not so quick to act. He was still shuffling about the cabin when the door was
opened by the sentry, returning to usher in the Honorable Charles Lathrop.

Trent allowed himself few luxuries, and that included
friends. But despite himself, he had developed a close acquaintanceship with
Charles Lathrop, whom Trent had known from the days of his boyhood.

As he rose to his feet, Trent felt a stirring of pleasure at
the sight of the friend he had not seen for nigh on a year. A pleasant-featured
man, Lathrop wore a coat with a single modest cape fashioned after the manner
of a country gentleman.

Sweeping off his high-crowned beaver hat, he had to stoop
slightly when entering the cabin to avoid banging his head of wavy brown hair
against the deck beam. Spying Trent, Lathrop grinned, coming smartly to
attention with a mock salute.

"Permission to come on board, sir."

"You already have it, Lathrop. Or else my watch would
have long since peppered your wherry with shot." Smiling, Trent stepped
forward, extending his hand.

Lathrop was the sort of exuberant fellow who would have
embraced him, but he knew Trent well enough not to attempt such a thing.
Instead, Lathrop contented himself with a hearty handclasp.

His eyes twinkled. "By God, you are looking fit, you
old pirate. As bronzed and weather-beaten as any Jack-Tar. You make me feel
pale as a sheet by comparison."

"You are," Trent said equably.

Lathrop's gaze skated round the cabin, coming to rest on the
steward. "And here is your faithful Mr. Doughty. What, Mr. Doughty! Still
here? You have managed to survive another voyage under this tyrant? I thought
you would have jumped ship long 'ere now."

"No, sir." Mr. Doughty looked pleased that Lathrop
had remembered him. And yet, was it just Trent's imagination, or had Doughty
given a guilty start at Lathrop's jest? Trent hoped it was only his fancy. It
would be disturbing to think that Doughty contemplated such mischief. Desertion
was a far more serious crime than smuggling.

But Doughty appeared easy enough, his ever-ready grin
widening his lips. "I had to hang about, Mr. Lathrop. I wouldn't miss the
captain's wedding for next month's ration of rum."

"Wedding?" Lathrop echoed, looking astounded as
well he might. Trent had informed few people of his forthcoming nuptials.

"That will do, Mr. Doughty," he said.

Doughty ambled toward the door and exited with a salute, that
is, as close as the rogue ever came to executing a proper one. When the door
closed behind him, Trent was left to face Lathrop's questioning gaze.

Trent avoided it for a moment by inviting Lathrop to have a
seat. He pulled a face at the hard, straight-backed chair but lowered himself
into it, tossing his hat upon the desk.

"You don't waste much of your prize money on the
amenities, do you, Trent? Like a more comfortable chair."

"It would only mean that much more rubbish to be
cleared away for action." Trent took up a position near the cannon,
leaning against the great iron barrel. "And how are your mother and
sisters, Charles? Well, I trust?"

"Oh, quite well." Lathrop made an impatient
gesture. He was not about to be put off by such pleasantries. "Never mind
about my family. What was that nonsense Doughty was sprouting about
weddings?"

"It was not nonsense, but quite true. Though this is
not the blunt manner in which I meant to announce the fact, I fear I must call
upon you, Charles, to offer me felicitations. I am about to be married."

"The devil, you say!" Lathrop let out a long, low
whistle of amazement. "I knew Lady Caroline had set her cap at you, but I
can see I never gave the woman enough credit by half. To have snared you when
you are so seldom off the deck of a ship—"

"Do not become too lost in your admiration of Caroline.
It is not she who has brought me to the altar, but another lady."

"Dear me. I have heard you sailors have a girl in every
port. So who is this fortunate damsel? Am I to be privileged to know her
name?"

"Certainly. I am betrothed to Miss Emma Waverly."

Lathrop's face fell, his teasing manner swiftly abandoned.
"Waverly! You  don't mean the daughter of that old man who perished
aboard your ship that time, the one who—"

"Yes, precisely. Sir Phineas Waverly."

When Lathrop lapsed into a troubled silence, Trent stirred
restively. "You need not look as though my betrothal were something
unnatural or even uncommon, Charles. After all, Sir Phineas was a distant
relative of sorts. When he died, I not only inherited his estate but also the
guardianship of his four daughters, with the exception of Miss Emma, who is
already of age."