Elizabeth Powell (9 page)

Amanda stared back at her grandmother. “He is in London?”

Mrs. Tremayne brushed a few crumbs from her fingers. “Eat your soup, dearest, before it gets cold. Yes, I recall reading that he has a house in the West End. Your father
admired St. Vincent for his stalwart sense of duty, and his passion for justice.”

“Justice is what we need, Grandmama. Oh, I pray he can help us. I must get a note to Harry at once.” She leaped from her chair and hurried to the writing desk. She pulled out paper and ink and began to scratch a hasty message.

“Do be careful, dearest,” advised Mrs. Tremayne. “Harry may be fond of you, but you must not take advantage of him.”

“I am going to ask that he accompany me, nothing more. Harry is a friend, Grandmama. Besides, even if he did feel some sort of romantic attachment to me, which is utterly ridiculous in the first place, he knows he could never marry me—I’m a traitor’s daughter. An alliance with our family would sink his career.” Amanda did not glance up from her writing; only an increased zeal in the scratch of pen against paper marked her agitation.

“You must do what you think is best,” Mrs. Tremayne murmured. She straightened in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. “But I want you to promise me one thing.”

Amanda folded the letter and placed it in the envelope. “What is it, Grandmama?”

“Look at me, child.” The older woman’s words rang like a captain’s command.

Amanda lifted her head, surprised. Rarely did her grandmother raise her voice.

Mrs. Tremayne cleared her throat. “I know you would go to great lengths to clear your father’s name, Amanda, but I do not wish you to put yourself in any further danger. You are the only family I have left. If nothing comes of your visit to Admiral Lord St. Vincent, I want you to promise that you’ll agree to return with me to Dorset. I miss the sea. I know you miss it, too.”

Amanda’s face crumpled. “But, Grandmama, we can’t go back. The last time—”

“That was over a year ago, dearest, and we can settle in a different portion of the county.”

“What about money? ’Tis a vulgar topic, but one we
must consider. Without my income from the dressmaker, we will be hard-pressed to find a suitable living arrangement.”

“We shall have money,” professed Mrs. Tremayne. “I will sell my jewelry. I have been reluctant to part with it, for it will be your inheritance, but I will do it for your sake. The rubies in particular should fetch a good price. There is enough for a small cottage, perhaps, with a garden.”

“Your jewelry! Grandmama, you mustn’t.”

The older woman drew herself up further. “I can, Amanda, and I will, if it means seeing you safely settled. You must think about the future; I will not live much longer.”

Amanda fell silent. Her grandmother was willing to sacrifice her most prized possessions to insure their comfort. Amanda’s comfort. Guilt tugged at her. To return to Dorset without revealing her father’s innocence was to admit utter defeat.

“Promise me, dearest.”

Amanda hesitated. She must consider her grandmother’s needs as well as her own. The young woman lowered her head and sighed. “Very well. I promise.”

“Your father would be proud of you, Amanda,” Mrs. Tremayne said softly. “You have accomplished far more than any other young lady would ever dream of doing. You did what you could.”

“I am not finished yet, Grandmama. We must hope that Admiral Lord St. Vincent will listen, and that he can aid us.” Amanda brandished the sealed letter. “This battle is not over yet.”

She should have known better than to pin all her hopes on one man. Amanda tried to reason with herself, but logic was a cold comfort. A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another. She tried to hold them back, at least until she and Harry had attained the privacy of the coach, but to no avail. The floodgates opened; she laid her head in her hands and sobbed.

“There now, Amanda … it’s all right.” Harry reached
into his jacket and handed her his handkerchief. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had a good cry.”

Amanda stared at him through the mist of her tears, incredulous. Was Harry trying to comfort her, or was he just being dense? “Better? St. Vincent had his staff throw us from the house, Harry! He wouldn’t even see me. How much worse can it get?”

“Well …” Harry scratched his jaw. “At least he didn’t call the watch.”

Amanda blew her nose. Passersby stared at them as she and Harry stood on the sidewalk outside St. Vincent’s town house, but she was beyond caring. “I thought he could help me, Harry. I really did. He was my last hope.”

Harry lifted his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry, Amanda.”

“So am I.” A black gulf of despair and guilt yawned within her; she began to shake. She stared up at the house with loathing. “‘Get that traitor’s brat out of my house.’ The whole street must have heard him.”

“You had no idea he would react that way,” Harry was quick to point out.

Her laughter cut like a razor’s edge. “No idea he would humiliate me? Trample all my hopes underfoot because he refused to listen?”

Harry set his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Amanda, go home—go back to Dorset. You have done all you can here.”

Amanda stamped her booted foot. “I’m tired of being treated like a stray dog. ‘Go home, Amanda, go home.’ I need someone to listen to me, Harry, someone who can help me find the evidence I know exists.”

The young lieutenant shook his head; the first traces of anger lined his face. “What you’re asking is impossible. I have done all I can for you, Amanda, really! And what I’ve accomplished already has probably harmed my career. You must accept the fact that you’ve lost. You cannot do anything more.”

Amanda jerked away from him. “But what about my
father’s letters? They all but prove his innocence. There must be something I can do.”

Harry raked a hand through his coppery hair. “Well, perhaps I can make some inquiries. But don’t get your hopes up,” he warned. “Go back to Dorset with your grandmother and leave this to me. I’ll do what I can.”

“But—”

He cut her off with an impatient wave. “No more ‘buts,’ Amanda. This is not something you should be doing. I told you that from the start. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re a woman. No one wants to deal with a woman who acts like a man.”

“I do not act like a man!” She stamped her foot again. Oh, if he continued this pontificating, she would slap him! Never had Harry sounded so pompous, so arrogant.

“Your behavior hasn’t exactly been ladylike. Spying, telling lies, running down alleyways in the middle of the night, stealing property from your employer—”

“I
borrowed
that dress.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Stop trying to mince words. Ever since you began this crusade you’ve become a veritable hoyden. It’s not proper, not by half.”

“If my determination intimidates you, Harry, then just come out and say it.” Her anger acted like a tonic; the hot flames of fury held her despair at bay. “Are you telling me that a woman cannot concern herself with her family’s honor? Balderdash! I refuse to sit by and allow Locke to get away with murder.”

“There you go again,” Harry said tightly. “Now who sounds like a fishwife?”

Amanda gasped. “Is that what this is about? You’re still angry with me from the other night, aren’t you?” She would have turned her back and walked away in a fit of pique had Harry not seized her hands in an iron grip.

“That’s not the point. Damn it all, Amanda, look at me! I just want you to be safe. You promised your grandmother that you’d go back to Dorset if this gambit failed. And as much as you don’t want to admit it, you
have
failed. You asked me once if I was a man of my word. Are you a lady of yours?”

Amanda’s reply died before it reached her lips. Her anger ebbed away; the tide of sorrow rolled in. She thought of her grandmother. “Yes,” she whispered. “I cannot prate about family honor and disregard my own. Of course I will honor my promise.”

“You’ll be happier in the country. And I’ll come to visit you when I can.”

Amanda read the relief on Harry’s face. She pulled her hands from his. “Happiness doesn’t matter for me, Harry, no matter where I live. My father is dead, my mother is dead, my family name is reviled, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

“Things will be better when the war is over,” Harry stated. “Everyone will forget what happened, and life will return to normal.”

“Harry,” Amanda whispered, “you are ever the idealist.”

“H
ave you reported all of this to Carlisle?” St. Vincent demanded, his snow white brows drawn together in a line.

“Of course, my lord,” Everly replied. “Although I am rather at a loss as to how I must proceed. To gain access to Locke’s house again, I must be an invited guest, and I hardly know the man as it is.”

St. Vincent sat back in his chair. “There are ways, my boy, there are ways. Carlisle will come up with something. The man is as devious as the devil himself.”

This description did little to encourage Everly. He endeavored to keep the doubt from his expression. “As you say, my lord. I am to meet him this afternoon to discuss our options.”

“You did well, boy, for your first assignment,” said St. Vincent with a slight smile. “This whole affair is foreign ground, but you’ve upheld my faith in you.”

The admiral was never fulsome in his compliments. In fact, praise was rare and hard-won. Everly sat up straighter in his chair. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I have made some inquiries at the Admiralty as to—yes, Finch, what is it?” St. Vincent looked to the doorway, irritated.

“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” said the footman, “but there are persons below asking to see you. They claim the matter is urgent.” He crossed to the desk and offered a salver to the admiral. St. Vincent took the letter from the tray and waved Finch aside.

The admiral broke the seal and scanned the contents. His eyes grew dark with anger. “What the devil!” he
roared. “Of all the effrontery! And you let this creature into my house?” His piercing gaze skewered Finch where he stood.

The footman cringed. “Y—yes, my lord.”

“Well, I’ll not stand for it.” The admiral lurched to his feet and strode past the astonished footman to the fireplace; he threw the missive into the flames. “I want her out of here now!”

The footman edged to the doorway. “She was most insistent, my lord—I do not think she will leave without making a scene.”

“Then get Parkin to help you! Get Adams, get Royce! Just get that traitor’s brat out of my house!” St. Vincent’s bellow reverberated through the halls.

Alarmed, Everly rose to his feet. He had never seen his patron so incensed. “My lord,” he began.

St. Vincent glared at him. The old man’s quivering cheeks were mottled red and purple with the force of his rage. “This does not concern you, boy. Wait here.” Shouting to his staff, he followed Finch out into the hall.

What had come over the admiral? Something in that letter had sent him off like an overloaded 32-pounder. Everly moved toward the fire. Part of the letter had fallen to the hearth, its edges blackened. He bent to pick it up, ignoring the twinge in his leg. Although the message seemed written in haste, the hand was distinctly feminine. Who was this woman, and why did her presence have such a profound effect on St. Vincent? Curiosity got the better of Everly. With the fire tongs, he rescued another scrap from fiery death.

He blew out the flames before they consumed the paper, but not in time to save much of the text. All that remained was part of the signature, enough to read the last name: “Tremayne.” Everly stood, stunned, as though a thunderbolt had struck him. Tremayne. A name steeped in infamy.

No wonder St. Vincent had exploded. Captain Tremayne’s treason had rocked the Royal Navy to its very foundations; to have a distinguished, well-respected post captain turn his coat was unthinkable. Everly stared at
the charred scrap in his hands. Tremayne’s daughter must have written this. What did she hope to accomplish by coming here? Apparently she had not realized that of all the officers in the navy, St. Vincent had the least sympathy for anyone connected with convicted traitors.

Everly tossed the paper back into the fire and watched the flames devour it, shriveling it to a thin sheet of ash before a draft sucked it up the chimney. A door slammed somewhere downstairs. Everly cocked an ear toward the corridor; the shouting had been replaced by muted mutterings. Driven by a sentiment he couldn’t explain, he walked over to the window and looked down toward the street. A small figure in a drab cloak and bonnet stood on the sidewalk, her head in her hands, comforted by a young navy lieutenant. Everly frowned and turned away. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy to wash away the bitter taste of self-recrimination. He was partially responsible for the lady’s grief, for he had not been able to save her father.

He had been duty-bound to sit on the tribunal that judged Captain Tremayne. A court martial required the participation of at least five post captains, and in time of war this was no small feat. The
Hyperion
had been in Malta for refitting when Everly received word of the trial; four other captains were in port, he made the fifth. With his ship temporarily out of service, he had had no choice.

Captain Alexander Tremayne was charged with the most grievous crime of treason, of violating Articles of War numbers three, four, and six. Namely, he stood accused of transporting men, guns, and ammunition to the French republicans. Captain Tremayne denied all the charges, and claimed that his commanding officer, Admiral Locke, had ordered him on this mission. He further stated that Locke told him the men were French royalists, men who sought to start a counterrevolution that would spread to Paris. Tremayne had been stunned to learn from the tribunal that the very men he had transported to the French coast, men he claimed had worn the fleur-de-lis of the Bourbon monarchy while aboard
his ship, had in actuality marched to reinforce a failing republican garrison. This garrison had later repulsed and driven back Wellington’s forces, inflicting heavy losses and preventing the English from securing a much-needed strategic advantage in the region.