Elizabeth Powell (20 page)

“No, sir. Dawn it is, sir.” Muttering something about land-bound captains with bees in their bicornes, Stubbs retrieved the fallen clothing and left.

Everly hobbled to the washstand and poured cold water into the basin. This uneven temper was unlike him. An image of Amanda in that nigh-unto-indecent dress flashed through his mind, and his body responded. He splashed his face vigorously to douse the heat. Perhaps Stubbs was right. Females—certain females, at least—were nothing but trouble. If only she weren’t so bloody attractive …

The captain remembered their first meeting at the ball, then their encounter outside Admiral Lord St. Vincent’s
home. What would she do when this was all over? Perhaps that young lieutenant—Harry Morgan—would marry her. Everly scowled as he reached for a towel. Amanda deserved more than an overprotective bantam. She deserved—

He straightened, a warning tremor arcing through his body. Amanda’s lieutenant—Everly remembered seeing that young officer’s face at Locke’s soirée. He rubbed his jaw. Was he imagining things? No, he recalled seeing that face in profile at one of the gambling tables, just before Locke had come to greet them. Damnation! Everly ran damp fingers through his hair. He should have recognized that ginger head at once, but he had been distracted.

His curse blistered the air. How could he have discounted something so important? Had the young man seen Amanda—or worse, recognized her? What was he doing there in the first place? Locke had invited some of the worse sorts into the house: debauchers, rakes, gamesters of the lowest order. Where did the red-haired lieutenant fit into that scheme, and how had he come by an invitation?

A muscle twitched at Everly’s temple. He did not know how much Amanda had told her friend, but she seemed to trust him. How loyal Harry would be to her, he could only guess. Everly stripped off his remaining clothing and forced himself to crawl into bed. He entertained thoughts of returning to Amanda’s rooms, of relocating her and her grandmother to his house, but dismissed the idea as nonsense. He would not give in to foolish paranoia.

Everly pounded one of the pillows, leaving a fist-sized indent. He was turning into a character from one of those dreadful romances Felicia had been so fond of—a crotchety old wigsby who had nothing better to do than fret and worry. Amanda would be fine until morning; there were no hordes of French agents in the shadows, waiting to murder her. Everly sank back into the bed, his head now throbbing in time with his leg.

He just wanted her out of harm’s way. After their
meeting with Carlisle, he hoped she would remember her promise and let him finish the investigation. He snorted and rolled onto his side. Not bloody likely. He’d ask Lord Carlisle if he could spare Mr. MacAllister for one more mission: to see Amanda safely back to Dorset. Everly grinned suddenly, imagining the outraged expression on Amanda’s face when she found herself outmaneuvered.

Amanda. Miss Tremayne. Try as he might, Everly could not get to sleep; he saw her face even beneath his eyelids. He rose and poured himself another glass of whiskey. This was going to be a long night.

A
manda lay awake in the darkness of her bedroom, watching as the patch of sky visible through the small garret window lightened from black to deep purple to steel gray. A pretty-enough sight, until clouds rolled in like slow tide and blotted out the glimmer of the last morning stars. Amanda listened to the soft, even cadence of her grandmother’s breathing, then rolled onto her side and burrowed further under the covers. Weariness bore down on every inch her body; the marrow of her bones had turned to lead. The series of fitful naps she’d managed during the night had given her little rest. Too many images writhed within her memory.

Admiral Locke’s conversation with the traitor. His suspicious, icy stare. The wolfish anticipation on Viscount Peverell’s face. Her frigid sojourn on the balcony. Mrs. Danvers’s sneer. Harry’s drink-suffused anger.

Jack’s kiss.

More than anything else, her mind lingered on the tender, passionate embrace she and the captain had shared in the carriage. She pressed her palms to her face and fancied she could still detect the faint scent of his skin, feel the sinewy strength of his arms around her and his broad, muscled chest pressed against her breasts. The sensation of his lips over hers had been blissful.

Amanda groaned and pulled the covers over her head. The memory of that kiss alone was enough to ignite the same strange, fluttery warmth that she’d felt last night. Her skin still tingled from his touch. What madness had possessed her? She had
wanted
him to hold her, to comfort her … to kiss her. And she had clung to him like
a wanton. No lady would behave as she had. Small wonder he had wanted nothing further to do with her.

Amanda sighed and bit her lip. She would not cry! Jack—Captain Everly—was right to set himself at a distance. If only it didn’t hurt so much. It would not have, if it were not her fault. His stern visage and stilted, formal address had spoken volumes; her indiscretion had cost her his respect, and any hope of his friendship. Or more.

She chastised herself for being such a goose. He was a war hero. She was a nobody. A nuisance. What could he possibly see in her? Amanda thought about the dress and flushed. Aside from her physical charms, that is. Oh, could she do nothing right?

Botheration!

Amanda flung back the covers and rose. Sleep was a lost cause, and she refused to languish in bed; she may as well face the day and whatever it would bring. She fumbled in the half darkness until she found the clothes pegs, then pulled down a petticoat and a dress without bothering to determine which one she had chosen. All her dresses were similar—plain, prim, and practical. Besides, it didn’t matter what she wore, as long as it was clean. As she drew off her night rail, the air pressed against her bare skin like an icy blanket. She shivered and dressed as quickly as she could, careful not to wake her grandmother. Several harsh strokes with a hairbrush tamed her torrent of curls, which she pinned into an awkward chignon without the benefit of her looking glass. She couldn’t bear to see her reflection this morning, anyway; she must look a fright.

Amanda tiptoed from the bedroom, still shivering. A damp chill lingered in the air, a forecast of rain. Amanda’s hands shook as she lit the fire in the stove. As warmth began to penetrate the room, she put on her work apron and began her morning chores. She was in the middle of stirring porridge when a knock at the door startled her. A glance at the cracked-face clock told her it was only half past seven. Who would be here at this
hour on a Sunday morning? Her heart leaped. Was Jack—Captain Everly—here already?

She ventured to the door. “Who is it?” she called.

The voice that came from the other side was frustratingly familiar. “Amanda, open up. It’s Harry.”

Amanda scowled. “I don’t want to see you. Go away!” she snapped.

“Amanda, please. This is important.”

She leaned her forehead against the stained wooden door. “So important that it couldn’t wait for a more decent hour?”

“I need to speak with you right away. I—I’m sorry about last night.”

“So am I.”

She heard the shuffling of booted feet. “Dammit, Amanda, if you don’t open this door, I’ll make a row that will wake the Devil himself.”

He’d do it, too. Amanda sighed and opened the door. Harry stood before her, hat in hand, his hangdog expression made worse by his ill-used appearance. Bloodshot eyes and a pasty complexion, however, were no cause for sympathy. She glared at him. “Come in then, but be quiet about it. Grandmama is still asleep.”

Harry shambled into the room, casting a cautious glance at the closed bedroom door.

“Well, what do you want?” asked Amanda, her arms folded across her chest.

The young lieutenant fiddled with the brim of his bicorne. “I came to apologize. The way I behaved last night was inexcusable.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Amanda. The genuine misery on Harry’s face blunted the hard edges of her indignation. “You may as well sit down, Harry. No, not that one—it’s got a broken brace. Use one of the others.”

“Thank you,” murmured Harry as he gingerly lowered himself into the worn-looking chair.

Without ceremony, Amanda poured a cup of tea and plunked it down before him. A few drops sloshed over the edge and into the saucer. “I’d never seen you three sheets to the wind before.”

Harry brushed the errant droplets from the bottom of his cup and took a careful sip. “Ugh. Insipid stuff. I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

She scowled with disapproval. “Too expensive.”

The young lieutenant avoided her eyes as he took another sip. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever were you doing at Admiral Locke’s in the first place, Harry?” She sat down across from him.

“I went with a former shipmate of mine, Lieutenant Edward Hale. He said this party would be just what I needed to”—he flushed deep crimson—“to loosen me up.”

Amanda remembered Lieutenant Hale all too well, and she shuddered with revulsion. “Hale? The man is a knave, Harry. And out-and-out rotter.”

“He knows a great many important people.”

“That may be so, but why the admiral’s house, of all places? You know the man’s a traitor.” Amanda saw the doubt flash across Harry’s face, and ice replaced the blood in her veins. “Don’t you?”

“We’re not certain of that.” Harry tried to hide his expression of discomfort in his teacup.

Amanda sat back, stunned. “You never believed me, or what was in my father’s letters, did you?”

“That’s not—”

“How could you?” Her chair scraped against the wood floor as she pushed it away from the table. “To say you’d help me find evidence against Locke, only to associate with him on the sly. I never took you for a hypocrite, Harry. I never thought you of all people would patronize me like this.”

Harry set down his cup with a clatter. “Cut line, Amanda. I didn’t want to go, but Hale said there would be men of influence present. You must understand that I’ll never get a captaincy unless I have a patron, and I thought I might find someone there.”

Harry had talent, but a patron would more easily grease the wheels of the naval promotion system. Why would he search for someone in that crowd? Amanda recalled the callous leers, the atmosphere of casual license
at the party. “And did you?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

Harry must have read the skepticism in her face, for he drew himself up indignantly. “Well, it just so happens that I did. I told him about you.”

“You what?”

Harry reddened anew. “I told him about your father, about the letters. He wants to help you, Amanda. He thinks he can clear your father’s name.”

Amanda’s inherent skepticism was not enough to temper her surge of eagerness. “Really? How?”

“He needs to see Captain Tremayne’s correspondence. If you give them to me now, I can take them to him straightaway—I’m supposed to meet with him this morning.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that, Harry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I know nothing about this man. Who is he?”

“An admiral. A man of influence, just as I said. He asked me not to reveal his identity to you.”

A slight hesitance in Harry’s demeanor made Amanda pause. “Odd. Why not?”

“He said that if anything goes wrong, he didn’t want you involved, that you’d been through enough already.”

“How very discreet of him,” muttered Amanda. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Something about this offer didn’t seem quite right, but she knew Harry would not deceive her. “All right. But I still can’t give you the letters, Harry. I want to deliver them myself.”

Harry picked up his teacup, frowned at it, and set it down again. “Well … I suppose that would be all right. But we’ll have to leave right away—my meeting’s at eight o’clock, sharp.”

“This morning?” Her question came out as an incredulous squeak.

“Of course this morning. ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ and all that. The sooner we clear this up, the sooner you can go back home, where you’ll be safe. Besides, my patron leaves soon for a new command. We have very little time.”

“But I can’t go with you,” she protested. “Not this morning.”

“Whyever not?” Harry frowned.

Amanda’s mouth opened to reply, then thought the better of it. To explain, she would have to tell Harry about her other appointment. Or at least part of it. But she could trust him, couldn’t she? She plunged ahead. “I’m waiting for Captain Everly.”

She regretted those words immediately, for as soon as she’d spoken them, a change came over Harry. He scowled, his face darkening like a summer storm. His eyes flashed amber fire.

“Everly again,” he growled. “What is your connection with him, Amanda? First, he all but kidnaps you from the street, then you show up at the soirée with him. What haven’t you told me?”

Amanda drew back, alarmed. “I won’t tell you if you get yourself into a pother about it.”

Like a summer storm, his anger faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a pleading look. “Forgive me. I … I’m concerned for you.”

This jealous outburst made Amanda uneasy, but this was Harry, her childhood friend and confidant. “Promise me that you won’t repeat what I tell you to another soul. Not even your patron.”

“You have my word,” Harry affirmed.

“Captain Everly is on a mission to uncover a traitor in the Admiralty. He thinks Locke may be involved—that’s why he was at the party.”

Harry’s eyes widened with shock. “A traitor? By Jove!”

“He let slip about the party when he took me home from St. Vincent’s. Once I found out, I used it as a chance to get back into Locke’s study. The captain didn’t want to take me; I forced his hand.” She peered at Harry. “Are you all right?”

The young lieutenant put a hand to his head. “I’m a little muzzy from last night, that’s all. So why do you need to see him this morning?”

“I need to tell his superiors what I know, that’s all.”
She hoped Harry would not wish to pry any further. Although he had given his word, she didn’t want to put him at risk. At least she had learned that much from this maddening mull.