How To Please a Pirate (30 page)

Gabriel digested that mildly disturbing fact.
He recognized echoes of Lyn’s fine features in her mother’s lovely
face as he bowed over Isabella’s hand. Jacquelyn had told him her
mother was fluent in five languages. Gabe decided Isabella Wren
could still bring a man to his knees in each of them.

“And she has told me much of you as well,” he
said circumspectly.

Ever the coquette, Isabella cocked her head,
her astonishing violet eyes twinkling. “All of it true, alas! Pray,
be seated.”

Gabriel was still covered with dust and muck
from his helter-skelter ride from Cornwall, but his quest to find
Jacquelyn would brook no delay for niceties like a bed in a
roadside inn or a hot bath. He’d slept only when he could go no
further, hobbling his mount and catching a few hours rest under an
accommodating oak. He traded horses at almost every stop and rode
one nearly to exhausted collapse. Even so, the trip had taken him
three days. He knew he looked like Hell on a plate and yet this
elegant woman insisted he sit and make small talk while her
servants prepared finger sandwiches and biscuits.

“Is Mistress Wren here?” he asked.

“No, since my daughter left your employ, she
is seeking another post. She went to see about a very unsuitable
position with a modiste, of all things,” Isabella said, making a
moue of distaste. “Still, it could have been worse, I suppose. She
might have tried becoming a hatter. I believe they generally go
quite batty.”

“Why is she doing this?” Gabriel was unable
to remain seated. He stood and paced Isabella’s parlor. “She
doesn’t need to support herself. Doesn’t she realize I’d give her
everything I have?”

“I’m gratified to hear it,” Isabella said
primly.

“Besides, Jacquelyn’s far too accomplished
for a position like that,” Gabriel said, trying to make sense of
Lyn’s actions. “She’s run a large estate, nearly single-handed. At
the very least, she might be looking for a post as a governess in a
fine house, not working in a shabby little shop somewhere.”

“I agree. You know, Jacquelyn didn’t tell me
how very attractive you are, Lord Drake. A nice hot bath and a
quick trip to a gifted tailor and I’ve no doubt you’d cut quite a
figure.” Isabella smiled at him as she poured out his tea and
dropped a large lump of sugar in without asking his preference.
“Unfortunately, she also neglected to mention that you’re not
terribly bright.”

Gabriel jerked back in surprise as though
she’d slapped him.

“If a thoroughly capable young woman does not
seek a position for which she seems to be uniquely qualified, what
does that suggest to you?” Isabella asked pleasantly.

“That . . . something has happened which
disqualifies her in some way?”

“Ah! There may yet be hope for you,” Isabella
said. “Now, what do you suppose might have happened?”

“Well, I suppose—Oh!” The wonder and the
horror of it hit Gabriel’s chest with the force of a nine pounder.
He sank so heavily into one of Isabella Wren’s low
chauffeuses
he feared the stubby cabriolet legs might give
way under his weight. “She’s . . . she’s with child, isn’t
she?”

“Now then, that was an exceeding short walk,
wasn’t it?” Isabella’s pleasant smile faded. “If she asks, and I’m
certain she will, you must tell her that I did not divulge her
secret since she would not appreciate any interference from me in
this matter, however well-meant. But since
you
broached the
subject and since this is
your
child we’re discussing, what
do
you
propose to do about it?”

“What I’ve wanted to do for some time now,
but Jacquelyn wouldn’t let me,” Gabriel said. “One way or another,
I intend to make her my wife.”

“Well, my estimation of your intelligence
grows by leaps and bounds, Lord Drake,” Isabella said as she handed
him a steaming cup and saucer. “I don’t give my friendship lightly,
but I believe I’ve decided to like you very much indeed.” A brisk
clicking of heels sounded in the hall and stopped at the doorway to
the parlor. “Ah! Here comes Nanette with our repast.”

The French maid dropped a quick curtsey.

“Alas,
non
, Madame,” she said briskly.
“There is a small party of
gendarmes
at the front door.
Jerome is trying to reason with them, to delay them enough to give
you time to decide how to handle this oh-so delicate
situation.”

“What do they want?” Nonplussed, Isabella
sipped her tea as if the arrival of the authorities was either a
trivial annoyance or a regular occurrence.

Gabriel hadn’t noticed anyone suspicious when
he barreled down the cobbled block, but someone must have been
watching. Waiting for him to turn up on Isabella Wren’s
doorstep.

“They want me,” Gabriel said dully.

“Why?” Her expressive brows arched in
interest.

“Because it was a condition of my pardon,”
Gabriel explained. “If I’m arrested in London, I’m to be
hanged.”

“Hmph! My estimate of your intelligence has
just plummeted again, Lord Drake. It’s a good thing I’ve already
decided to like you. The tale about what you’ve been pardoned for
is bound to be a long and diverting one and I shall wish to hear it
as soon as we’ve time,” she said coolly before turning back to her
servant. “What about the back door?”

“A guard, he is already posted,” Nanette
said, fingering the lace on her apron in nervousness.

“Stop fidgeting, Nanette. It makes people
think you’ve something to hide. Well, there’s nothing for it.”
Isabella rose majestically. “Let them in.”

“What?” Gabriel nearly doused himself with
the contents of his teacup.

“Let them in
slowly
,” Isabella
amended. “Invite them to search the house starting with the cellar.
Lord Drake and I will avail ourselves of the back staircase.”

When Isabella swept from the room, Gabriel
was obliged to follow. As they tiptoed up the servants’ stairs, he
heard the tromp of heavy boots and several shouted orders as the
constables invaded ‘La Belle Wren’s’ home. At the sound of broken
crockery, Isabella didn’t panic, though she did quicken her pace.
He marveled at the woman’s poise.

“Where are going?” he whispered.

“My boudoir. It’s a good place to think . . .
among other things,” she added throatily.

It wasn’t intentional, he didn’t think. Since
she must know he loved her daughter, he couldn’t imagine
Jacquelyn’s mother was actually flirting with him. He suspected sly
innuendo was simply her native tongue and she couldn’t resist
speaking it with every man she met.

Isabella pushed open the ornate gilt doors to
reveal an opulent chamber, draped with silks and dominated by a
massive thick bed.

“I don’t think this is a good place to hide,”
Gabriel said.

“Careful, Lord Drake. We’ve already
established that thinking is not your strong suit.”

“They’re sure to look under the bed.”

“I’m certain of it.” One of Isabella’s brows
arched and a smile lifted her mouth. “But they aren’t likely to
look
in
it, are they?”

* * *

The muttered curses and sounds of shattering
gewgaws told Isabella the searchers were nearing her inner sanctum.
She drew her chemise over her head and draped it on the chaise
before climbing naked into the big tester bed.

“Oof!” said the large lump by her left
hip.

“Not another peep out of you, sir, no matter
what you may feel or hear,” she ordered, giving the lump a stinging
swat. “Or I shall reconsider our very tentative friendship.”

When she helped Gabriel Drake wedge his large
frame between her second and third feather ticks, she hoped he’d
sink further into the lower mattresses. Instead Lord Drake created
an unsightly and damnably noticeable hump in her bed. So she
ordered him out to quickly undo her laces and then back into hiding
while she stripped.

Now she plumped some of her extra pillows by
her right side in an effort to balance the bump formed by Gabriel
on her left and draped her thick counterpane across both. She
tucked the sheet under each armpit and waited as the search party
drew nearer.

Beyond seeing to her daughter’s education,
Isabella had done little enough for Jacquelyn over the years.
Saving the father of her future grandchild might go a long way
toward expunging Isabella’s past sins of omission.

Her palms were damp and she wiped them on her
coverlet as the constables battered down the door. They tumbled
into the room in a rush and then stopped dead at the sight of her
as if frozen in quick-lime. She had only a moment to size up her
audience, but it was enough.

They were men. How hard could it be?

“Really, gentlemen, how shall I ever get my
beauty sleep with all this racket?” she said with a languorous
stretch that caused several jaws to drop. “All the doorknobs in my
home are fully operational and I rarely lock them unless I’m . . .
entertaining someone. So you see, there’s no need to ruin my
perfectly good latches.”

She arranged a few pillows behind her so she
could recline gracefully, allowing the sheet to slip down far
enough to expose the tops of her bare breasts as she did so.
Distraction was her chief weapon at present and she silently
thanked God that men were so predictably susceptible to it. Once
she settled herself, she drew her knees up under the coverlet to
form a further camouflaging tent and fixed her gaze on the man she
singled out as the leader.

“Now then, Captain,” she said, purposely
overstating his rank. “How may I be of service to you?”

“It’s Lieutenant, ma’am. Lieutenant
Hathcock.”

“Really? Well.” She arched a suggestive brow.
“That’s quite a name to live up to.”

His face went red as a ripe tomato, but she
could sense he was pleased by her teasing. He squared his shoulders
and stood a bit straighter. “We’re looking for a man—”

“My, what a coincidence!” She let her tone
drift lower, deep into seductress range. “Looking for a man, you
say? That’s my usual occupation as well.”

The men laughed, but the lieutenant silenced
them with frown.

“We’re looking for a particular
gentleman.”

“Believe me, sir,” she quipped. “I’m also
quite particular about my gentlemen.”

One or two of them were biting their lips to
keep quiet.

“The man we want is Lord Gabriel Drake,”
Hathcock said. “He was reported entering this house.”

“Lord Drake? Hmm. Doesn’t sound familiar. I
don’t suppose you’d know his full title. That might jog my memory,”
she suggested.

Keep it light and ribald,
she ordered
herself. That’s how she’d decided to play things, broad strokes for
the masses but with a hint of the unattainable these yokels would
find classy.

“The gentleman’s a baron, I believe. From
Cornwall.”

“A baron, you say.” Isabella peered up at him
from under her artfully enhanced lashes. “I should think not. To my
certain knowledge, I’ve never taken anything less than a viscount
to my bed. A woman in my profession has standards to maintain, you
understand.”

Another round of snorting and stifled grunts
greeted this sally.

“Of course, I was tempted once by a divine
Rossini tenor on tour from Rome. I’m terribly devoted to the opera,
you see. All those lightning fast runs and trills—the man sang like
a god for four mortal hours. If he could keep his voice up that
long, just imagine what he might be able to do with his . . .” she
paused to let them finish her racy thought. “But to my sorrow, I
soon learned why he was able to hit those glorious high notes so
easily.”

“Ah! What I ‘eard is true then,” one of the
men said. “Them light tenors hain’t got no balls.”

“None at all,” Isabella confirmed with a
knowing grin that sent them into snickers. She had them now.
“However, I have it on good authority that lyric tenors do, in
fact, possess one.”

Their laughter advanced to full-throated
guffaws.

“And I’m told that dramatic tenors with those
tight, forced high notes are actually the proud owners of two
jewels,” Isabella said confidingly. “But while they sing, someone
is hidden beneath their costume squeezing the life out of
them.”

Uproarious hilarity greeted this
pronouncement. Even Lieutenant Hathcock was wiping tears of mirth
from his eyes.

“Lieutenant, would you do me the favor of
sending someone down to the kitchen to ask Nanette to prepare some
refreshment for you and your fine men? You must be hungry after
your hard work dismantling my home.” She slanted her gaze at him
and let her sheet drift down another inch, showing her still
impressive décolletage. “As you can see, I’m in no position to do
it myself.”

Two hours later, Isabella was still holding
court, still naked under her sheets and they were all still
lounging about her boudoir. She’d plied them with sandwiches and
coffee, composed little kiss-and-tell stories of love and lust
among the upper crust with all the names changed to protect the
guilty while she charmed them from her tester bed with naughty
banter. They’d stopped their active search, but she was beginning
to worry that they’d never leave.

Once or twice, the left lump on her bed
shifted restlessly and she dug a sharp elbow into it as a
surreptitious warning. Gabriel hadn’t twitched in the last hour and
she wondered if he’d suffocated under all those feathers.

Death by hanging or death by poultry? Dead
was still dead.

“Well, Lieutenant Hathcock, I can’t tell you
how I’ve enjoyed your visit, but actually I do have an assignation
this evening—no, no, I can’t give you the gentleman’s name, but
please be advised, he is at least a viscount,” Isabella assured
him. “I really must begin my toilette. Beauty does require a
certain amount of homage if she is to be coaxed out.”