Sea Scoundrel (18 page)

The girls stopped as one and stood in silent awe. Gilt-edged paintings on cream silk wal s, rose marble floors and curving staircases, the mahogany rail buffed to a superb sheen, imparted a regal air. The room spoke a refined welcome, silently conveying dignity and grace. Both suddenly seemed to flow through Patience.

The Captain took her arm. “The caretaker lives above the mews out back. The housekeeper, Mrs. Dale, wil live in and should arrive soon, along with the cook. Let me show you around.” He opened the first door and bowed her inside. Patience beheld the most beautiful room she had ever seen. “The Rose Drawing Room,” he said.

She wandered inside smiling as she examined the chamber with delight. Old rose, cream and pale fern green predominated. The fashion was soft, comfortable luxury, done simply, but in classic, good taste. “I have the most wonderful sense of arriving home after a long journey,” she said. “This is absolutely perfect.”

“I knew this house would be right for you.”

“You know this house?”

“Yes, I ... came here once or twice as a lad. The Lady Briarleigh was an old dear. She would have liked you, Patience.”

“She would probably turn over in her grave if she knew I

“She would probably turn over in her grave if she knew I brought four husband-hunting Colonials to live here.”

“No. She was a fighter too. You’ve reminded me of her on more than one occasion.” He looked away from her inquisitive smile. “Let me show you the bedrooms.” They settled the girls first, each in her own room, to rest, then Grant led Patience down the hal . “What wil be your first order of business?”

“New clothes for al of us. As soon as I find out where to purchase them.”

He nodded agreement before indicating a door. “This is your room. It has always belonged to the mistress of Briarleigh.”

“The same colors as the Rose Drawing Room. I love it.

Thank you, Captain, for
everything
.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, removed them quickly, and turned away. “You don’t have to thank me. We are friends, as you said.”

Friends. She hated that word.

He handed her a card. “Here’s my address in London.

Send for me if you need me.”

She couldn’t look in his eyes. Throat aching, she nodded fearing she would weep.

“Walk me downstairs, wil you?” he asked.

She nodded, again. As they neared the front door, Grant stopped, hesitated, then swore under his breath. He propel ed her into the drawing room with a hand at her elbow and closed the door. He leaned his back against it, closed his eyes for a minute then said emphatical y as if to himself, “Just once more.”

Hauling her up against him so hard, she felt gloriously crushed, her feet barely touching the floor, Grant opened his mouth over hers and kissed her with savage heat.

“Patience,” he whispered, before his lips forced hers apart in a feverish, nearly-brutal kiss.

Patience lowered her guard and al owed herself to take as desperately as he. He cupped her bottom and held her against him, and she threaded her hands through his thick wavy hair, loving the soft silk. She remembered touching it like this on the dock in America, when he’d slipped her foot into her shoe.

That was the first time. This was the last.

A sob escaped her. Grant pul ed her face into his neck, breathing heavily, holding her for a long time—would it ever be long enough? She could feel him swal ow hard, his heart thudding against her breast and knew he didn’t want to say good-bye any more than she. Nevertheless, he set her away from him. “Have a wonderful life, Vixen.” She had been set adrift.

He wrenched the drawing room door open and crossed the foyer, never looking back. Her last impression was of his greatcoat swirling him into foggy oblivion.

Grant had left her forever. And whether Patience wanted it so or not, he left her, nonetheless, altered. Almost dazed, she climbed the stairs, placing one foot, mechanical y, after the other, and made it al the way to her room before her pain turned, final y, to a bearable anger. “Damn you to hel , Grant St. Benedict.”

She crossed the elegant bedroom and stopped under the portrait of a handsome rogue in riding clothes. His dark eyes and square jaw reminded her of the Captain, and she sighed. “Face it, Patience, everything reminds you of him.” She sat in a large enveloping chair, curled her legs under her, her head against her arms, and closed her eyes.

Taking a deep relaxing breath, she decided that anger, especial y at herself for caring, or at him for not caring, was useless. “No time for foolishness,” she admonished herself.

“The girls are looking for titled husbands and we’re final y in London. I’d say we’ve a beginning that bodes wel for our success.”

If she meant to forget the snarly Captain, she couldn’t continue to sit here and conjure him up. And since the girls were napping, she decided to explore.

Patience entered the library and gasped at the inviting apartment, al dark, rich wood and sleek, leather-bound books, except she felt as if she was back in the Captain’s cabin. Blast, it even smel ed like his cabin. With its big, sweeping window, the look was undeniable, though the view of the garden, as opposed to the open sea, made her feel a bit more secure in her landed world.

Paintings of nautical subjects covered the wal s. Ships in bottles, charts and image-reflecting, brass-trimmed navigational equipment gleamed on polished surfaces.

There, on the sideboard, sat the ever-present decanter with etched glasses to match.

She could almost smel the sea. If she closed her eyes, she was certain the Captain’s own scent—Grant’s scent—

would fil her. Contentment and warmth stole over her; the perception was eerie, but it was an impression she savored. Exhausted, unable to fight sleep any longer, Patience curled up in one of the tawny, leather-covered chairs facing the hearth.

She was home.

* * *

Grant St. Benedict Garrick strol ed into White’s and nodded at several surprised gentlemen.

“I say, Saint, giving up the sea, are you? Can’t imagine why, she’s probably a worthier mistress than mine!” Chuckles met the comment. That particular rake was notorious for choosing the unlikeliest of mistresses, stil Grant winced. Nothing had changed, more’s the pity.

Other members greeted him less warmly.

Try as he might to attend the attempts at conversation, his mind kept straying to Patience. He had not seen her for two days.

Since he’d sent her Madame Lambert’s direction only this morning, she would most likely be there about now. Had he purposely suggested that today would be perfect for her and the girls to visit the dressmaker?

He shrugged away the question. How easy it would be for him to walk by the shop, gaze in, ascertain everything was wel , and continue on. But he wouldn’t. It was past time for him to al ow her to go on with her life, while he went on with his.

Then why, he asked himself, did he make certain she would go to the dressmaker today. Because he was a fool.

He picked up the London Times in exasperation and found an article on the results of the embargo between America and England during Boney’s war. Ah, here was a subject worthy of his interest. As far as his trade with America was concerned, the embargo could have made or broken him.

He was glad the war had ended, final y, for more than monetary reasons. He might never have met Patience otherwise. What a scamp. Even if she needed his help choosing the girls’ wardrobes, that wasn’t his style. And Patience could handle it. Hel , she could handle anything.

He thought of the cal ing cards he’d printed for her this morning. He could hardly wait to give them to her. His typesetter just about had apoplexy when he walked in and said he wanted them printed immediately. It was a good thing he owned the shop. Rol ing up his sleeves to set type and ink the press reminded him of when he’d apprenticed to learn the trade. He never invested in a trade unless he knew how to perform each task.

He folded his paper, placed it on the table.

In the way, he’d learned to sail.

He stood and walked through the club.

In the way he intended to learn to run his Massachusetts textile mil .

On the steps outside, he donned hat and gloves.

He could hardly wait to try his hand at spinning and weaving.

He sauntered down the street.

He would learn to run al the modern machinery that he and his partner would bring to Lowel .

He turned the corner.

The dyeing process, now
that
would be fascinating.

Grant stopped, surprised to find himself near Hyde Park, while he
didn’t
remember leaving the club. He shrugged. Oh wel , Madame Lambert’s was just around the corner. He might as wel walk that way.

His spirits lifted, he quickened his step.

* * *

Though they were dressed in their absolute best, they, al of them, Patience had to admit, looked like country misses come to the big city, especial y in contrast to the fine materials on display. But they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t need new things.

Madame Lambert had been waiting on a customer when they arrived. At once, the girls went to the bolts of silks, satins and laces chattering about evening gowns and carriage dresses. Their shock at the prices were expressed too loudly, their American accents coarse, rather than charming. When they took to tittering over designs for undergarments, Patience wanted to strangle them.

The proprietress gazed askance. They were making a bad impression, Patience knew, but she didn’t know how to stop them. She asked them to keep their voices down and discuss something less shocking than undergarments.

They discussed Horatio then laughed and cried in turns.

Patience mental y threw her hands in the air. There was no use. Instead, she worried and waited, and waited to be served, striving for that il usive virtue, patience, though she failed miserably.

She glanced at the Ormolu clock with regularity.

Madame had said good-bye to her last customer more than a half hour before.

The bel above the door tinkled as a new customer entered.

Madame appeared instantly, becoming a paragon of servility and sweetness.

“Madame Lambert,” Patience said stepping forward. “We have been waiting an age.” Patience looked at the new arrival wearing a lime- and turquoise-feathered hat, and smiled. She looked like an overdressed peacock. “Pardon, My Lady, but we
were
here first.” The peacock peered through her lorgnette, examined Patience then her girls. “Indeed.” She waved her hand as if shooing an insect. “As I was saying, Madame—”

“My girls and I need dresses,” Patience said. “Bal gowns and such. We should be served next.”

With a satisfied, condescending smirk the peacock intoned, “Your girls? You are not old enough to have four grown daughters? In what way, pray, are they ...
your
girls?”

“They’re not my daughters.”

“Your wards then?”

“Not exactly my wards.”

Grant had been watching and knew that something was terribly wrong. Patience’s raised chin and ready stance said she was already stepping on society’s toes. If the customer she argued with wasn’t titled, he’d ... appear at a bloody damned bal .

He entered silently Madame Lambert’s silently through the side door, noting the antagonistic set to the faces of the customer and the
modiste
.

“Madame Lambert does not serve women of your sort,” the customer said. “She caters to refined women of society!”

“Sort?” Patience snapped, her chin so high, her mouth so set, she reminded him of when he’d thought she was a child.

Rose charged forward. “Why you narrow-minded old—” Grant stepped forward. “Lady Patience!” He bowed. “So nice to see you again.” As much as he’d wanted to cheer Rose on, Patience could not afford to tweak an aristocrat’s nose first day out, not any more than she already had. He would, however, remember to tel Shane how much he liked his future sister-in-law.

The color in Patience’s cheeks bore testament to her agitation, but her relieved smile was enough to clear London’s fog. “Captain.”

He kissed her hand. “My Lady.”

He turned to the proprietress and the customer. “I see you have met Lady Patience Kendal , most recently returned to London from travels abroad, and her charges, daughters of some of the wealthiest men in the world.” He let his statement hang in the silence.

The customer’s showy plumes bobbed in counterpart to the color rising in her face.

Madame Lambert stood pale and mute.

The haughty matron’s eyebrows knit as a series of emotions, passed over her countenance, embarrassment, shock, and final y ... elation? “Not Constance Kendal ’s daughter?”

He saw the same emotions flit across Patience’s face.

“Yes, Constance was my mother. Did you know her?” Patience displayed a new set of emotions, recognition, surprise, and then cunning. “Wait, I know you. You’re Lady Caroline Crowley-Smythe, Mama’s dearest and loveliest friend, are you not? I should have recognized you immediately, except you are even younger-looking than you were the last time I saw you.”

“You remember me?” The peacock’s plumes fanned and shivered.

“I remember when you would come to tea. I thought you the most beautiful woman I had ever seen—like a fairy princess. Oh, excuse my manners, Lady Caroline, this is Captain St. Benedict.”

Grant was glad for the opportunity to kiss the Lady’s hand. It gave him a chance to get his laughter under control.

The woman tittered like a schoolgirl.

Patience introduced her girls in a manner that gave him hope for her success in society.

Lady Caroline Crowley-Smyth, without ever actual y saying she was sorry for being so rude, became very condescending and solicitous. She left after dispatching hugs and kisses to al the girls, with an extra for Patience, and promising vouchers for Almacs and invitations to
the
events of the season. “After al , I must take it upon myself to see that dear Constance’s daughter and her very lovely charges are not set adrift. Now if you need anything, anything at al , please cal on me.” She handed Patience her card and kiss-kissed the air by her cheek before she departed as if a score of ladies-in-waiting fol owed.