Elizabeth Powell (26 page)

“Grandmama,” she began in a low voice, “what happened? How is Jack—Captain Everly? And Harry—what about Harry? He was shot. Oh, please let him be all right—”

“Slowly, dearest. One thing at a time.” Mrs. Tremayne released Amanda’s hand and rose, but not before Amanda saw the reluctance in her grandmother’s face.

“Grandmama?” Amanda asked. She ran her tongue over her dry lips.

“I fear it is all a muddle to me,” Mrs. Tremayne answered. “I will leave the explanation to Lord St. Vincent; he knows more about what happened than I. And Harry …” Her voice trailed off.

Amanda tried to sit up. “Oh, heavens—Harry is not … dead?”

Mrs. Tremayne restrained her. “No, dearest. He is quite well. He has been camped outside the bedroom door ever since you were brought here, and refuses to leave until he knows you are out of danger.”

Amanda sighed with relief. Brave, naïve, sweet, infuriating Harry. She didn’t know if she could still be angry with him after he had saved her life. Well, she would deal with that conundrum later. “Thank goodness. And Captain Everly?”

Mrs. Tremayne poured a glass of water and handed it to Amanda. “From what I understand, he will recover.” The older woman paused. “While you were unconscious, you called his name several times.”

“Oh, heavens. Did I?” She hoped she sounded innocuous.

“From what Lord St. Vincent has told me, both you and Captain Everly were instrumental in discovering the identity of this traitor.”

Amanda sipped the water, her attention fixed on the glass. Her grandmother was never this circumspect unless something was wrong.

“Dearest, do you have a
tendre
for him?”

Then again, her grandmother could be quite blunt. She met the older woman’s gaze, half afraid of what she would see there. “Would you disapprove if I said yes?”

Mrs. Tremayne’s lips curved in a wan smile. “I would not disapprove, dearest. Captain Everly is a very charming man. I would only advise you to be guarded in your affections.”

Guarded? Amanda set the glass aside. “What do you mean, Grandmama? Is Jack … is Captain Everly here?”

The older woman shook her head. “Not at the moment, I believe.”

Amanda bit her lip. Such a foolish hope, to think that Jack would be here when she woke up. And yet Harry was waiting outside her door, and had been for two days. Where was Jack? And why did her grandmother hesitate when she spoke of him? Uncertainty and worry added more loops to the knot in Amanda’s stomach. Perhaps he was wounded more seriously than her grandmother
would tell her. She remembered his injured leg, and the burns…. Was he well? She put a hand to her aching temples.

A knock at the door interrupted her chain of anxious thoughts. Mrs. Tremayne went to the door; Amanda heard the muted buzz of conversation. Then her grandmother returned.

“Lord St. Vincent would like to speak with you, Amanda, if you feel well enough,” Mrs. Tremayne said, her lips pursed in a thin line. “He is most insistent.”

“Knowing the admiral, you will not be able to put him off for very long, Grandmama,” Amanda replied. St. Vincent would hold the answers she sought. The protestations of her wounds had diminished to a dull ache, so she could ignore her pain for a short while. “I shall speak with him.”

“Are you certain, dearest?” Concern hovered over the older woman’s brow.

“If he becomes overbearing, you need only quote Dr. Harrington’s orders and usher him out.” Amanda smiled, then winced as her bruised face renewed its protest. She fingered her swollen cheekbone. Botheration. She must look as terrible as she felt—an absolute fright. “Although I fear I am less than presentable at the moment.”

“You look fine, dearest,” Mrs. Tremayne insisted with a fond smile.

Amanda made a vain attempt to keep the tears from her eyes. “Oh, Grandmama, I … I never meant to cause you such distress. I am so sorry!”

The older woman placed a gentle kiss on Amanda’s forehead. “There, there, dearest. It has all worked out for the best, and you are safe. That is what matters most. Here, dry your eyes before I show the admiral in.”

Amanda took the proffered handkerchief and did as she was told.

When Mrs. Tremayne opened the door, Admiral Lord St. Vincent strode in as if taking his place on a quarterdeck. Hands clasped behind his back, he walked across the fine blue-and-rose shaded Aubusson carpet, through
the afternoon sunshine which slanted through the windows, and came to stand by Amanda’s bed.

“Well now, Miss Tremayne,” the admiral blustered by way of greeting. “My physician tells me you shall make a full recovery.”

Amanda cleared her throat in the hope that it would improve her voice. “Yes, thank you, my lord,” she replied, then grimaced. So much for improvement. She still sounded like the loudest frog in the marsh. “And thank you also for your hospitality. You were most gracious to open your home to my grandmother and me.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said St. Vincent. The redness in his cheeks stood out in stark contrast to his white curls. “The least I could do.”

If he thought he could buy her forgiveness, he was wrong. “Or was it the least you could do to assuage a guilty conscience, my lord?” She did not care if she sounded shrewish. At this moment, that was the least of her worries.

“Amanda.” Her grandmother favored her with a sharp, quelling look before turning back to St. Vincent. “Do sit down, Admiral.”

The admiral’s flush deepened. “No, thank you, madam. Given your granddaughter’s delicate state of health, I shall be brief.” He returned his gimlet gaze to Amanda. “Your father, Captain Alexander Tremayne, has been cleared of the charge of treason, and all lands, honors, and properties belonging to your family have been restored by royal decree.”

The admiral had a reputation for forthright speech, but Amanda had never expected anything like this. Her jaw sagged. “H—how … ?”

“Before he died, Admiral Locke confessed his part in this traitorous charade to Lieutenant Morgan, and admitted framing your father for treason. He revealed the location of several documents that corroborated this story. Apparently, the traitor was blackmailing Locke to do his dirty work; Locke kept copies of what papers he had as insurance, lest Garrett try to betray him. Hmph. No honor among thieves, indeed. Dirty business.”

Amanda blinked. “Locke is dead?”

St. Vincent beamed with pleasure. “Quite so. Took a ball in the chest, and there was no saving him. Knocked off shortly after Lieutenant Morgan dragged him from the warehouse. Eh … ahem. Your pardon, madam. Did not intend to shock you.” He sketched a brief bow to Amanda’s grandmother, who sat wide-eyed and motionless, her hands over her mouth.

Amanda swallowed hard. “Pray continue, my lord.”

St. Vincent harrumphed. “Ah … yes. The traitor, the man who called himself Stephen Garrett, died in the fire, and with him the threat to the Admiralty’s security. Captain Everly told us what transpired at Locke’s party, and at the warehouse. Never would have discovered the blackguard were it not for you. I owe you an apology, Miss Tremayne. I don’t know what made you come to me for assistance, but I should never have treated you in such an abominable fashion.”

Amanda paused to steady herself. “I came to you because my father admired you, my lord. He said you were a man of integrity and honor.”

“Did he now?” St. Vincent’s ears glowed crimson. “Eh, I misjudged him. Ton rep, I misjudged him badly.”

Amanda raised her chin. “Yes, you did, Admiral. And you misjudged me, as well.”

“So I did, Miss Tremayne. You are a most extraordinary young lady.”

A soft sob drew Amanda’s attention. She had never seen her grandmother cry since they left Dorset, but now teardrops flowed down the older woman’s careworn face. Numbness spread through Amanda’s body. Instead of elation, thankfulness, or joy, she felt hollow. She closed her eyes. Their ordeal was over. The honor of Captain Alexander Tremayne had been restored; they could bring his body home, where it belonged. They were traitor’s kin no longer.

Admiral Lord St. Vincent glanced between the two women and shifted uncomfortably. “Well,” he said, “that is the crux of the matter. I shall take my leave. Of course,
you and your grandmother are welcome to stay until you are feeling much better, Miss Tremayne.”

“Thank you.” Amanda struggled to gather her wits. “One more thing, my lord?”

St. Vincent paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Is Captain Everly here?”

The admiral’s brow furrowed in a quizzical frown. “Everly? No, not at all. He’s at the Admiralty, I imagine.”

“Oh. Thank you, my lord,” Amanda repeated, this time in a whisper.

The chamber door clicked shut.

Amanda lay back on the mound of pillows and stared at the pleated damask canopy of the bed. Jack was at the Admiralty, doubtless receiving new orders. With his mission a success, he was assured another command. He would be leaving soon. Leaving England.

Leaving her.

Amanda blinked away her incipient tears. Damn Jack Everly. Why did she have to fall in love with him? The captain had to do his duty; she was a thorn in his side, a hindrance. What information she had managed to uncover was by accident, and in the end he had needed her only to finish his mission and get what he really wanted—a new ship. A means to an end.

The memory of his kiss resurfaced, taunting her. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to think of something else, but the disturbing sensations persisted. She remembered every touch, every seductive glance. But even that was an illusion. What man could have resisted her, dressed in that infamous scrap of spangled muslin? The gown alone was responsible for his reaction, not any depth of feeling on his part. Her grandmother had been wise to suggest caution, but her words had come too late. What folly, to think that a career navy man, an officer of his caliber, would ever return her regard. Her, a traitor’s daughter.

She turned her head and muffled her gasp of anguish in the edge of a pillow. No—she must not think that! She was no longer a traitor’s daughter. Her father had
been exonerated and Locke, the man she had hated and pursued for so long, was dead. Justice had been served. A portion of the burden she had borne for so long lifted from her shoulders. Why was it not gone completely? And why did she feel so … miserable?

Garrett had murdered Locke, shot him before her eyes—and robbed her of her own revenge. The thought disturbed her. Had she become so single-minded in her pursuit? Had vengeance so corrupted her morals? She had gone to great lengths to expose Locke, to ruin him the way he had ruined her father and her family. To exact retribution at any cost. Just like Garrett. A shudder of revulsion cascaded down her spine. Garrett had goaded her about their similarities. She was loath to think he had been correct.

Amanda watched her grandmother’s frail shoulders shake with silent sobs. She had put her family through such an ordeal, all in the name of revenge. She had hated Locke. And yet, when she thought about it, she could not bring herself to hate him now. He had saved her, prevented Garrett from killing her, and died doing so. At death’s door, even though he was not compelled to do so, he had confessed everything in order to clear his conscience and her father’s name. He had found a way to redeem himself. Unlike Garrett, who had not been able to pardon those who had caused him harm, Amanda forgave Locke for what he had done. She and the traitor were
not
alike. Her quest was over; they could go home. Despite her best attempts to suppress it, she surrendered at last to her grief. The tears she had held in check spilled over her lashes and down her own cheeks.

“Dearest—it is all right.” Mrs. Tremayne, her eyes red and swollen, crossed to the bed and embraced Amanda. “Everything is all right.”

“I want to go home,” whispered Amanda through her tears. She laid her head on her grandmother’s shoulder.

“We shall, dearest, we shall. As soon as you are well.”

For Amanda, that day would not come soon enough.

 *    *    *

“Amanda?”

The hesitant voice cut through Amanda’s drowsy trance. She roused herself with a start; the book in her lap fell to the floor.

With his good hand, Harry Morgan retrieved the fallen volume and handed it to her with a sheepish smile.

“Harry!” Amanda cried, delighted. She set the book aside and tried to rise from her chair.

“No, no—do not get up,” Harry admonished. “Your grandmother said she would have my head if you overtaxed yourself. She is furious enough with me as it is.”

Amanda smiled, ignoring the sting from her bruises, and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Nonsense. I am feeling much better this morning. I am glad you’ve come. Please, sit down.”

Harry flushed with pleasure and lowered himself into the Hepplewhite chair across from her. The midmorning sun glinted off his auburn hair. His uniform was rumpled and much the worse for wear; consequences, no doubt, of having camped on her doorstep for two days. Dear Harry. Aside from the sling on his left arm, he appeared to have suffered no ill effects from Sunday’s ordeal. No, that was not entirely true, Amanda realized. Shadows lingered in his hazel eyes, and he seemed older, more world-weary.

“You look well,” he said.

Warmth crept over Amanda’s cheeks. “What rubbish,” she countered. “I look a fright, and I sound even worse.” She fiddled with the fringe of her lap robe. “But I would not be alive at all if not for you. What you did was very brave.”

A muscle flexed in the young man’s jaw. “None of this would have happened if not for me,” he said with an abundance of self-loathing. “I was an idiot, a drunken idiot, to believe Locke’s Banbury tales and all those false promises. You were right about him all along, and I wouldn’t believe you. I nearly got you killed. God in heaven, Amanda—can you forgive me?”

Amanda looked away from the urgency in Harry’s eyes. “I should be angry with you. Part of me still is. We
both could have died. We would have, were it not for …” She shook herself away from that thought and drew herself up. “But you saved my life.”

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

Amanda fought back her smile; Harry was nothing if not persistent. “Yes. I forgive you.”