Midnight Mistress (6 page)

Connor sat up and rubbed the bruise on his backside where he’d hit the floor, feeling far from lucky. “Honestly, Raoul, couldn’t you have just reminded me to check my cabin in the future instead of attacking me?”

Raoul St. Juste, vicomte d’Aubigny-sur-mer rose to his feet with all the grace of his aristocratic ancestors, then gave a shrug with all their indifference. “Ah, but where is the sport in that? Besides, now you shall think twice when entering seemingly deserted quarters, even if they are your own.
N’est-ce pas?
”

Connor grimaced. He hated it when Raoul was right, and in the three years he’d known him, the Frenchman had rarely been wrong. St. Juste was only a few years older than Connor’s twenty-five, but he had been at this game for almost half his life, and it showed. He was a clever strategist, a courageous soldier, a poet, a cook, and a thief, as the situation demanded. There was no one Connor would rather trust his back to in a fight. But St. Juste was also one of the most egotistical men he’d ever met, and there were times Connor would have dearly loved to plant his fist squarely in the middle of his partner’s smug face.

Now was one of those times. But before he had the chance to even consider acting on his impulse, the door to his cabin was thrust open, and a dark-haired boy of about eight barreled in. “Captain!”

Connor crossed the cabin and set his hand reassuringly on the child’s shoulder. “What are you doing up at this hour, Jamie? All hands should be in bed.”

The child answered in a gruff voice, as if unused to speaking. “Heard noises. Thought maybe watch had let someone by … maybe a thief or the like.” He lifted his chin and looked at Connor with a courage that would have been hard to find in a man three times his age. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you while I’m here. That’s a promise.”

“I am pleased to see that
someone
on this ship has his wits
about him,” Raoul commented, giving Connor a pointed look. “Now off with you, boy. The captain and I have business to discuss.”

Jamie made no move to leave until Connor gave him a nod. “ ’Tis all right. Besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on Barnacle to make sure he doesn’t wreak havoc on the breakfast.” He stood looking down at the boy, every inch the stern captain, until his mouth edged up in the barest smile. “That will be all, mister. See to your post.”

Jamie grinned from ear to ear at the formal dismissal, then gave a sharp salute and scooted out of the room without another word.

“That boy worships you,” St. Juste said as he walked over to the map table and lit the lantern standing on it. “But it is a precarious life for one who is so young.”

“ ’Tis better than living like a rat on that godforsaken wharf in Cairo. If we’d left him there he’d have died of hunger—or worse.”

“Yes, but we are not in Egypt now. You should look for a home for the boy.
Pourquois pas
with the mademoiselle Rose?”

“Jamie is no farm boy. He’d run away before the week was out.”

“Well, perhaps you are right in that. But there are many good people in this country.”

“And more bad ones,” Connor countered as he stalked to his desk and rested his hip on the corner.

The Frenchman stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “So you have said. Many times.”

For some reason Raoul’s tone irritated Connor. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss Jamie. Out with it. Did you get the papers?”

“But of course.” In the flickering light, St. Juste removed his greatcoat, revealing the gaudy footman’s uniform he still wore underneath. He pulled out a worn leather wallet, which he placed on the desk beside Connor. “The Majorca papers.
Records of British ships and troop movements throughout the entire region. The officers and gentlemen of Whitehall will look like foolish old women when they find out their plans have been stolen. You did well with your diversion, my friend. And I did well too,
n’est-ce pas
? To counterfeit a lowly servant despite my noble bearing. The Admiral will be pleased.”

“I don’t give a damn if he’s pleased or not, as long as it suits our ends,” Connor growled as he studied the papers. The “diversion” of the Archangel’s appearance had allowed Raoul to meet secretly with the Admiral’s Whitehall source and receive the stolen papers. But it had cost Connor dear—in ways he could not begin to explain to his friend. Wearily, he ran a hand over his face. “Christ, I wish we were back at sea.”

“With cannons firing on us and ships trying to ram us.” Raoul took the chair across from his friend. “Ah yes, I wish for that too.”

“ ’Tis at least a clean fight, not this secret playacting for a man we barely know, and who never shows us his face.”

“That is because you still have a sense of honor.” The Frenchman sighed, as if Connor had contracted a fatal disease. “I am fortunate that the trait was removed from my makeup during the Revolution, along with our lands. In any case, I have news that shall lift your spirits. We have had double luck tonight, my friend. When I was still posing as a servant, this was handed to me to deliver to you.”

St. Juste pulled out a cream-colored letter, which he pushed across the table. Connor stared at the note, feeling an inexplicable sense of foreboding. “What is it?”

“Since you ask, and since I have already taken the liberty of reading it, I shall tell you that it is an invitation to dine this evening at the house of one of the gentlemen from the ball … an officer who happens to be highly placed in the Admiralty.”

“The Admiralty!” Connor grabbed up the note, his weariness vanishing. Luck was right—they’d thought it would take him weeks to break into the confidence of the truly powerful
of the country—not just the circles traveled by foppish aristocracy like Morrow. Yet here it was, just a day after Connor’s arrival, and he already had his foot in Whitehall’s door. He leaped off the desk and paced the room. “What do you know about this Commodore Jolly?”

“
Zut
, I have been aware of this only a few hours,” Raoul complained. “I shall find out all we need by evening. There is one thing I do know already—he has a very pretty ward.
Une jeune femme, très jolie
with hair like brown silk. Not striking, perhaps, but behind her spectacles her eyes are like—”

“Raoul, I’m not interested in the girl, just the officer.”

St. Juste shook his head. “English, sometimes I think you are a race of very foolish people. In any case, the man has another charge who might be of more use to us. I heard from one of Morrow’s serving maids that the girl’s father owns many ships. While he is away, the daughter stays with the commodore. She is a great favorite of the gentry, quite rich, and pretty enough, for a tall woman. You might have noticed her. She has hair like—how you say—
coucher du soleil
?”

“Sunset,” Connor supplied dully. He stopped pacing, and leaned against the wall, then threw back his head in a harsh laugh. “Of all the invitations to all the dinners in all the houses in London, why did it have to be hers?”

“You know this
femme rousse
? But this is wonderful!” Raoul rose from his chair and walked to the cupboard, where he pulled out a bottle of fine French brandy and two glasses. “With her help I am sure you can win the trust of this Commodore Jolly, and perhaps others in the Admiralty as well. We shall be done with our task before the month is out. Come—let us drink a toast to your lady.”

“She is not my lady,” Connor growled. “And I guarantee she is the last person who would help me win anyone’s trust. Not that it matters. I will not see her, tonight or any night. I’m turning down the invitation.”

Raoul sloshed the brandy he was pouring onto the desk.
“Are you mad? We thought we’d have to wait weeks, perhaps months, for an invitation from an officer of Whitehall. You cannot turn it down.”

“Watch me.” Turning his back Connor shrugged off his coat and began untying his cravat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some sleep.”

“You need a lack in the head,” Raoul fired back.

“Probably. But I’m still turning down the invitation. I won’t use her, Raoul. She was … important to me once.”

Raoul set down the bottle and studied his friend. Then he walked across the cabin and picked up his coat and hat. “The invitation said that dinner was to be at eight, so I shall be here at six with my report on the commodore.”

Connor glared at the Frenchman. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going.”

“I believe that you will,” Raoul replied as he fingered the brim of his hat. “I never asked you of the life you led before we met. But I do know the burden we both carry, the debt we both owe.” He settled the hat on his head, and turned for the door. “You will go tonight, English, because it is the only choice your sense of honor will allow you to make.”

Connor stood for a long time, wrapped in silence, his only movement the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet. But inside him a battle raged that was every bit as fierce as the one he’d waged near Sicily. He’d resolved never to see Juliana again—he refused to involve her in his dangerous deceptions. Yet every time he made the decision, a picture flashed through his mind of a day two years before, when he’d lain wounded on the deck of a ship, choking on smoke so thick that he could barely breathe, hearing the crash of the cannonballs splintering the hull and the screams of dying men. And overhead, barely visible through the fire and smoke, fluttered a torn and useless white flag of truce.

Through the smoke he’d caught the gleam of a rifle barrel, and he’d steeled himself for death. But a split second before
the gun fired a man stepped between him and the rifle, taking the bullet that had been meant for him. It was only after the smoke cleared that he saw who that man was.…

Two years ago he’d held the body of the man who’d given him back his life and promised to avenge his death whatever the cost. It was only the second promise he’d ever made that he gave a damn about keeping.

“Guests?” Juliana looked up from her mirror vanity and stared in surprise at her abigail. “Lucy, you must be mistaken. The commodore said nothing to me about any guests tonight.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but the commodore don’t always say what he means to,” the maid remarked as she arranged Juliana’s thick tresses and secured them with a pearl and ivory comb. “And sometimes even when he says it, he don’t say it, if you catch my meaning.”

Juliana caught her meaning all too well. The commodore was famous for forgetting to mention guests, dinners, or any number of social events. Once he had invited the entire cabinet office over for dinner and completely forgotten to mention it. The kitchen crew had nearly staged a mutiny. Sighing, Juliana took up her powder puff and began patting the inconvenient spray of freckles on the bridge of her nose. “So who are these guests?”

“Dunno, my lady. The commodore only mentioned it to Cook in passing, and she told Ruby the parlormaid, who told me. But I gathered that he’s a seafaring gentleman.”

Splendid
, Juliana thought grimly.
More pompous bureaucrats from the Admiralty
. She glanced down at her dress, a rather plain gown of French gray bombazine trimmed with black gauze and a black satin ribbon. She considered changing into something more elaborate and flattering, but decided not to bother. The only thing the commodore’s associates ever seemed interested in were horses, cards, and the
latest betting opportunity at White’s. She could have worn a flour sack for all the notice they would pay her. “I appreciate the warning, Lucy. That will be all.”

Surprisingly, the girl hesitated. “My lady, beggin’ your pardon, but perhaps you shouldn’t attend. You’ve been lookin’ a mite pale and sickly all day. And you keep gazing off like, as if you were thinkin’ of something or someone far away. I know it ain’t my place to say, but—”

“No, it is not your place,” Juliana replied tersely. “You may go.”

Lucy’s face froze to stone and she started to leave the room. Instantly, Juliana regretted her sharp tongue. She had no reason to behave so coldly to her faithful abigail—no reason except that Lucy was absolutely dead-on about her behavior. “Lucy, I had no right to speak to you in that manner. Pray, forgive me. I have been … distracted much of the day.”

As the mollified Lucy left the room, Juliana turned back to her dressing table. She had indeed been distracted for much of the day and for much of the previous night as well. And much as she hated to admit it, the reason for her annoying listlessness lay squarely at the well-polished boots of Connor Reed.

All through the day, questions that she had never asked him assaulted her mind. While she was drinking her morning chocolate, she caught herself wondering why he called himself the Archangel. During her visit to the silk mercer in Bond Street, she found her attention wandering from the merchandise as she contemplated how he had come to acquire a ship and a crew. As she joined Meg and the Misses DeBary for afternoon tea at Grosvenor House, her thoughts strayed to the question of why he sailed without a flag. And just before Lucy arrived to arrange her hair, she had gazed into her vanity mirror and fingered her cheek, wondering what horrible battle had given him his evil-looking scar.

Bilgewater and barnacles, I am acting like a grinigog!

Irritated, she rose from her vanity and squared her shoulders. Connor Reed had stolen from her father and betrayed her with another woman. He was despicable. Contemplating anything about him was as—well, as her father’s old mate Tommy Blue used to say, “as bottle-witted as storing sea water in a sieve.” She left her bedchamber and strode down the hall with a sailor’s bravado, barely remembering to moderate her walk to a more fashionably modest cadence before she reached the drawing room. Pasting an equally fashionable smile on her face, she pushed open the door and entered the room.

The Jollys’ drawing room was pleasant and well-appointed, with polished oak paneling and conservative mahogany furnishings that sported none of the faddish sphinx and crocodile carvings that had been the rage for the past few years. Books lined the walls, most of them worn and well-read. Slightly faded velvet curtains framed the large windows, but few noticed because of the wonderful view of Berkley Square across the way. The Jollys were far from the wealthiest family in Mayfair, but they always used what money they had with taste and good sense.