Surrender To A Scoundrel (3 page)

July 1891
Ten years later

W
ith the bright, summer sunshine at his back and a fresh wind in his face, Martin Langdon stood at the helm on the sloping deck of his champion racing yacht,
Orpheus.
He glanced up at the grand sweep of the mainsail and felt the incomparable exhilaration of the wheel tugging in his hands. A salty spray flew upward from the windward rails, and
Orpheus
’s bow plunged forward with a thunderous roar into the waves.

“
Ready to tack!
” he called out to his crew, feeling grateful for this welcome sense of purpose at
the helm and the rare satisfaction that came from knowing he was in absolute control. He felt confident, at ease, and his blood was racing with anticipation for the coming week.

The crew moved into position, and he turned the wheel hard over to leeward and ducked as the boom swung across. “
Coming about! Release the jib!
”

He kept the wheel hard over until they were sailing on the edge of the wind again, then glanced up to check the trim of the sails on the new tack. He settled in on a close-hauled course, smiling at the speed of the maneuver.

“Well done!” he shouted with a smile. “The trophy will be ours again by the end of the week.” The men cheered. “Oh, but wait,” he added with a warning tone. “Do not be too pleased with yourselves just yet, gentlemen. Our greatest challenge is still ahead of us—and that is to navigate safely through the unfathomable sea of champagne corks that will be before us by nightfall.”

His crew—four of the best yachtsmen in England—laughed and shoved each other around.

Though he himself did not share in their laughter, Martin relished the sound of theirs, then closed his eyes for a moment, basking in all the tremendous power of the
Orpheus
’s streamlined hull and the overwhelming might of the canvas straining aloft. She was superior to all the other English racing yachts in form and workmanship, and she had
set the fashion for the new decade. And because of her, Martin, who had contributed to the genius behind her design, had become the famed racing champion of Britain for two years running.

This week, he would make it three. He was determined.

“There’s the
Britannia!
” his first mate shouted, as they sliced through the choppy waters, heading for Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

Martin had come early to study the winds and currents and commit everything to memory. Apparently the Prince of Wales had come early as well, most likely to show off his impressive new cutter, which he’d commissioned just this year.

“She’s a beauty,” he replied.

Martin’s first mate and closest friend, Lord Spencer Fleming, stepped past the windward shrouds and came to stand at Martin’s side. He pointed toward the royal mansion on the hill.

“How much shall we wager Her Majesty is sitting on the terrace of Osborne House this very minute with a telescope and a frown, watching all the attractive young ladies stepping on and off her son’s yacht?”

Martin glanced up at the house. “I’ll wager you wish
you
had a telescope to watch them, too.”

“Must you rub salt in the wound?” Spence asked.

“What in the blazes do you mean?”

“I mean that as soon as you set foot on the
Squadron landing stage, every young lady in Cowes will be flocking to your side, and I might as well be a codfish.”

Martin chuckled, hoping that would indeed be the case, because he’d been feeling on edge lately and desired the particular distractions that only a week in Cowes could provide. The kinds of distractions that made him laugh and smile and forget certain less agreeable aspects of his life. Thank God the time had finally come.

“And I’ll be greeting them with open arms,” he assured his first mate, feeling more than certain that a few pretty ladies would cure everything. For the duration of the week anyway, which was all he could ask for.

He turned his head slightly to feel a shift in the wind, noted the closing distance to the Squadron, and knew it was time to decrease speed. Anticipation coursed through him for all the pleasures and amusements about to come his way at last, and for the great sense of accomplishment he would feel when he crossed the finish line on race day. God knew he sorely needed it.

“Let’s drop the jib,” he said.

“Right then.” Spence relayed the message to the crew, and Martin kept the boat steady while the men lowered the sail.

He held their course, sailing toward Cowes, where the waters were calmer and dotted with a colorful fleet of yachts, all here not only for the
race, but for the garden parties and balls and champagne, and the delicious gossip exchanged on the exclusive back lawn of the Royal Yacht Squadron. For Cowes week was, without question, one of the most fashionable social occasions of the year, and he was more than ready to settle in and have a devil of a good time.

Moments before the
Orpheus
changed tacks near the
Britannia
, Evelyn Wheaton—the wealthiest widow in En gland after inheriting her father’s millions—stood on the public parade just below the Royal Yacht Squadron, gazing across the Solent and enjoying the salty fragrance of the sea. Her skirts whipped noisily in the brisk wind, and she had to hold on to her hat to keep it from flying off.

Beside her stood Henry Kipper, Lord Radley, a baron who had been a social mentor to her father—God rest his soul. Lord Radley was one of the oldest members of the exclusive yacht club and took great pleasure in that fact. Today, he wore a white sailor’s hat, white flannel trousers, the traditional blue jacket of the yachting fraternity, and carried a shiny black walking stick.

“I believe that might be the
Orpheus
on her way in,” he said, raising an out-of-fashion quizzing glass to his eyes and squinting into the distance.

Evelyn gazed across the water and spotted the
champion sloop skimming toward the royal
Britannia
at an alarming speed.

Of course, she was not surprised. She knew the identity of the skipper. Who didn’t? He was the country’s most celebrated sportsman. He was charming in public, a hero to the children, and he set the standard for excellence among sailors and shipwrights all over the world.

Not to mention the fact that the more voracious gossips in London enjoyed the delicious tittle tattle about him behind closed doors: that the only thing their champion racer liked better than a fast boat was a fast woman.

Evelyn knew that better than anyone, didn’t she? She’d seen it firsthand ten years ago. She’d witnessed the evidence in the flesh, and knew that he was not
always
the smiling charmer he pretended to be.

All at once, a flock of butterflies invaded her belly. She hadn’t seen Lord Martin in a very long time, and it was unsettling, to say the least, to think that she might actually speak to him this week.

Would he remember her? she wondered uneasily, feeling those bothersome butterflies swarm. Probably not, thank goodness. She didn’t want him to. She wouldn’t know what to say. It would be very awkward, and she would feel so foolish for harboring that strange infatuation all those years ago. She did not even want to remember their acquaintance, if one could call it that.

Still, she hadn’t felt butterflies like these in years, and the sensation was most unnerving. She wished they would stop.

“Does he not worry he might cause a mishap?” she asked with concern as the
Orpheus
heeled over at an impossible angle. “There are hundreds of boats in his path.”

Lord Radley lowered his quizzing glass and smirked. “I don’t suppose that young man worries about much of anything. That’s his third racing yacht after all.”

Two young children in white sailor suits and hats went dashing by, their mother following quickly behind, pushing a baby in a pram. Evelyn gazed longingly at the pram for a few seconds, then forced herself to return her attention to the exploits on the water.

“What happened to the first two?” she asked, locating the
Orpheus
. Her heart skipped a beat as the keelboat changed direction again, narrowly missing another yacht.

Oh, he had not changed. Not one bit.

Lord Radley raised his quizzing glass again. “Wrecked them both, I daresay. Ran the first one aground after a month and the next a year later. Quite a shame, really. They were magnificent boats, though perhaps a little too slow for his tastes. But at least he seems to have learned something. He exercises more caution now that he’s got a champion yacht.”

Evelyn pursed her lips and shook her head. Caution, indeed.

“Some say he’s been spoiled by his wealthy brother,” Lord Radley said. “The duke replaced both yachts without blinking, almost immediately after Lord Martin wrecked them.”

By the looks of things, he’ll have to replace this one before long, too,
she thought.

“Shall we walk up to the lawn?” Lord Radley suggested, offering his arm. “We shall indulge ourselves in the puff pastries and ask which ladies are having tea on Bertie’s yacht today, and speculate about their manners and morals like a couple of carrion crows.”

Evelyn laughed, thankful that the butterflies in her belly had finally stopped fluttering. “Lord Radley, you are positively wicked,” she said, knowing, of course, that he was jesting.

“And perhaps we shall see if my nephew has arrived yet,” he added. “I shall be most pleased to introduce you.”

It was the second time that afternoon her escort had mentioned his nephew George, who had just inherited his title as Earl Breckinridge. He was here to sail his yacht in the race as well, and from what she heard, the earl had a spotless reputation and was known to be a gracious and courteous gentleman—quite the opposite of Lord Martin Langdon.

Evelyn suspected Lord Radley would be pleased to see a match between her and his nephew. He did, after all, consider himself her unofficial guardian, and had acted as such ever since her father passed away a year ago, six years after she lost her mother. Lord Radley wished to see her safely and happily married with children, because she was now completely alone in the world.

She had indeed been very lonely since her mother’s passing. She’d even been lonely during her brief marriage to the vicar.
Especially
then, she supposed, for she had married him only to remove herself from her father’s home, so as not to burden him with her undesirable presence any longer. She still remembered the day he told her the vicar had asked for her hand in marriage…

“You had better accept,” he said in his cool, stern voice, without even bothering to lift his gaze from the papers on his desk, “because you won’t get another offer. Not with your looks. Now get out of here. I’m busy.”

Of course when it came to Lord Radley and his nephew, the proposed alliance had little to do with her looks. There was the more important matter of her inheritance, which made her an attractive prize for any man, and she was not blind to the fact that Lord Radley would derive great pleasure from seeing it settled upon his nephew. She was not offended by this, mind you. Quite to
the contrary, she was thankful for it, for at twenty-six, she was not as young as the other ladies who were here seeking husbands. And she was completely aware of the fact that she had never been pretty.

She realized with rather perverse amusement that no one could ever accuse her of not being a realist. How could she be anything but? She had always gotten the cold, hard truth from her father, who would have preferred she’d never been born.

Filling her lungs with the fresh, salty sea air, she decided to dispense with those memories and anything that resembled a complaint. She was thrilled to be here for this exciting week in Cowes. Absolutely thrilled. She wanted to marry again because she desired the life she never knew—one filled with children and the laughter they would bring into a home of her own. She’d been in mourning for the past two years, starting with her husband’s death and followed immediately thereafter by her father’s, and before that, she had already been living without laughter in her life, simply keeping quiet. It was well past time for a change.

In that regard, she was glad she had her wealth to attract a husband. At least she had
something
, and she would not be reluctant to use it to find a husband she could love and respect.

Thus she linked her arm through Lord Rad
ley’s and accompanied him up the drive to the back lawn of the yacht club, where there was sure to be much laughter and conversation, and perhaps even a potential fiancé among the crowd.

A
fter finding a spot to drop anchor among the hundred or so other yachts in the Solent, Martin and Spence changed into the proper attire for the Royal Yacht Squadron, donning navy, crested jackets and clean white shirts. They rowed to shore with their belongings, for they had rooms booked at the Royal Marine Hotel.

A crowd of onlookers was gathered on the parade, and as soon as Martin stepped onto the private Squadron dock, he was met with flattering cheers and applause, just as Spence had predicted. He stopped to face them; then, to their utmost delight, he smiled and took a great sweeping bow. Someone whistled in appreciation, and a group of
young ladies giggled and twirled their lacy parasols in the sunshine.

“Good afternoon!” he called out, directing his gaze to the ladies, of course, and spreading his hands wide. “You’ll all be here for the firing of the starting cannons, I hope?”

The ladies continued to giggle, while the rest of the crowd hummed with excitement and anticipation for the race.

Martin and Spence sent their bags to the hotel, then headed for the Squadron, walking past the young guard at the gate house, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

The boy touched the tip of his hat. “Good afternoon, Lord Martin. It’s an honor to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back, Ethan.”

The boy’s face lit up, obviously pleased that Martin remembered his name since the previous summer.

As soon as they were out of hearing range, Spence leaned close. “It’s astounding,” he said, “how they all adore you. Quite sickening, really. If only they knew the real you.”

Martin acknowledged the teasing insult by nudging him in the ribs.

They entered the club house through the main door and were greeted by other members on their way to the dining room. Choosing a table by the windows, they sat down, and Martin leaned back
in a lazy sprawl with one arm draped over the back of his chair.

“Ahh, smell that,” he said, exhaling deeply. “There is nothing in the world that can rival the aroma of hot chowder after a fast sail into the Solent.”

“Unless it’s the smell of French perfume,” Spence said.

Martin glanced over his shoulder at two of the old-time members of the club, who still refused to let the ladies inside the building. “Unfortunately, we won’t encounter anything quite so mouthwatering in here.”

“There’s always the back lawn,” Spence replied.

Just then, Sir Lyndon Wadsworth, a portly baronet in his fifties and commodore of the club, entered the room and cut a path straight to Martin’s table.

“Well, if it isn’t the reigning champion,” he said, greeting Martin, who stood and shook his hand.

“Good to see you, Sir Lyndon. You’ve got your hands full with preparations, I gather?”

“Indeed, it never ends.”

They exchanged light pleasantries, then Martin invited Lyndon to join him and Spence for lunch.

A half hour later, after they’d all enjoyed steaming bowls of creamy chowder and crusty bread, Sir Lyndon leaned back, folded his hands over his
round belly, and eyed Martin intently. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned a word about the
Endeavor
,” he said with a sly grin.

Martin regarded him with equal scrutiny. “Isn’t that Lord Breckinridge’s new sloop?”

“Indeed it is.” Lyndon leaned closer and spoke in a hushed tone, spurring Martin and Spence to lean forward as well. “Rumor has it, he took every farthing out of the family coffers to commission her. She’s quite an extraordinary vessel, they say.”

“Extraordinary.” Martin inclined his head. “How so?”

After considering the question for a moment, Sir Lyndon shrugged. “She has a unique, inspired design. A number of people seem to think she’s going to take the trophy this year.”

Martin sat back and tapped a finger on the table.
Take the trophy?
How had he not heard of this? He prided himself in having a keen ear to the ground for everything nautical, yet he knew nothing of this
Endeavor.

“Is the earl here yet?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Lyndon replied, “he just arrived this morning, and it appears he’s in pursuit of
two
shiny gold trophies this week.”

“There’s a second trophy?” Martin asked, leaning forward with interest, because he could rarely resist a challenge.

“Yes, in the form of a wealthy widow staying at
the Royal Marine, and she arrived just yesterday with Breckinridge’s aunt and uncle. She’s just out of mourning for her father, who died and left her everything last year, and she’s outside on the lawn right now—evidently looking for a new husband.”

Martin leaned back in his chair again because he was most definitely not looking to become one of those. “Who is she?” he asked.

“Evelyn Wheaton,” Lyndon told them. “Unfailingly moralistic and virtuous, they say, and utterly impossible to flirt with.”

Now there was a challenge if he ever heard one.

“Who was her husband?” Spence asked.

“A devout country vicar. The sorry chap dropped dead in the middle of a sermon, after only three months of wedded bliss. Apparently, the woman has been in mourning since ’89.”

Martin expressed appropriate commiserations, of course, but very quickly redirected his thoughts to the
Endeavor
.
What were the dimensions of her sail area,
he wondered.
And what of—

“Is she a beauty?” Spence asked.

Martin turned his gaze to his first mate. “Are you referring to the boat or the widow?”

“The widow of course,” Spence replied, and Martin looked toward the door, suspecting that she might have extra lead in her keel.

The
Endeavor
, not the widow.

“Mrs. Wheaton doesn’t turn one’s head upon first glance,” Sir Lyndon explained. “In fact it is generally agreed upon that she lacks that particular ‘spark’ that makes a woman exciting. But she does become rather more attractive once you engage her in conversation, and when you hear tell of her bank account, well, most gentlemen agree, she takes on an astonishingly pretty glow.”

“I imagine she does,” Spence replied with a chuckle.

Martin cut the conversation short, however, by rising from the table. “I imagine she does, too, gentlemen, and I’m looking forward to seeing that pretty glow for myself, but if you will excuse me, Sir Lyndon. At the present moment, I am in need of some information.”

Lyndon regarded him knowingly. “Let me guess. You’re going to see the
Endeavor.
”

“Is she moored nearby?” he asked.

“Very close. You can see her clearly from the Esplanade. She has a black hull with a blue stripe.”

Martin gave a polite bow. “Please stay and enjoy your desserts, gentlemen, but I believe I’ll forgo the pie today.”

He turned to leave, but Spence stood, too. “I’ll pass on the pie, too, Martin, because something tells me you won’t be examining the
Endeavor
from the beach.”

Sure enough, Spence was correct on that point,
because not twenty minutes later, Martin was stripping off his shirt and diving out of the launch into the cold waters of the Solent, determined to inspect for himself the submerged hull that belonged to his competition.

“Bugger all, why didn’t we hear anything about her?” Martin asked Spence as they entered the Fountain Hotel and went straight to the bar for a couple of tankards of ale. “She’s a bloody racing machine, and when the wind hits those sails, she’s going to fly right past us.”

“She’s a champion, to be sure.”

“Did you see the cutaway forefoot?”

“Yes.”

“And the spoon bow?”

“Yes.”

“
Bugger, bugger
.”

The barkeep filled two tankards with frothy ale and set them down on the bar. Martin and Spence picked them up and retired to the table in the corner where they could talk in private.

Martin rubbed a hand over his face. “Breckinridge is going to take that trophy.”

“Not without a fight,” Spence replied. “We’ll give him a good run.”

“I don’t want to give him a good run. I want my name on that cup again.”

Spence pointed a finger. “You are the most competitive man I know.”

Draping an arm over the back of the chair, Martin let out a sigh. “I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.”

Spence’s eyes darkened. “
Is
it? I recall a time in school when you were quite content to be dead last at everything, just as long as you had a pretty little tavern wench in your bed to keep you entertained. You were far less…” He paused. “
Intense
.”

Martin’s smile faded. He didn’t like where Spence was heading with this. “I recall that, too, but sometimes life changes. Or people change.”

“Or sometimes life changes people? And not always for the better?” Spence eyed him with notable defiance as he raised his tankard and took a deep swig.

Rubbing the tension from the back of his neck, Martin resolved to end this conversation before it ruined any chance he had to enjoy himself this week, because he really needed to enjoy himself. He’d been far too pensive lately, thinking about the past, and they both knew where those thoughts could take him. So he slapped his hand on the table and changed the subject. “We’re not going to lose that cup, Spence. We’ll beat Breckinridge with skill and daring.”

Thankfully, Spence did not resist. Perhaps he recognized Martin’s desire for distraction, or maybe he simply wasn’t up to fighting Martin’s formidable resolve. “If anyone is a genius on the water, Martin, it’s you,” he said.

Martin downed the rest of his ale, then swiped a hand over his mouth. “And while we’re planning our triumph, maybe we’ll take a look at that other trophy as well. See what all the fuss is about.”

“What other trophy?” Spence asked.

“The wealthy widow, of course.” Martin stood.

“But I thought it was your guiding principle to steer clear of the ones looking for husbands, and Sir Lyndon said that’s exactly why she’s here.”

While he waited for Spence to guzzle his ale, Martin considered that. It was true. He did not wish to marry. It was the last thing he would ever do. But in his defense, everyone knew that, including the widow, surely, and if she didn’t know it before, she would learn it very quickly when tongues began to wag.

“I don’t want to marry her or anything remotely close,” he explained. “I just want to flirt with her for a few minutes to prove it can be done, because if you recall, Sir Lyndon said it was impossible, and you know how I feel about the word
impossible.
”

Spence stood, too, his amiable nature returning with the promise of flirtations with pretty ladies. He let out a quiet burp. “Well, you’ll prove him wrong in record time. She’ll likely fall over herself in mindless infatuation as soon as she lays eyes on you. Shall we head over there now?”

“Definitely.”

“You’re not going to rip your shirt off to examine
her
hull, are you?” Spence asked.

Martin laughed. “No, my friend, at least not this early in the race.” Then he smiled and headed for the door.