The Dream

A
Cerridwen
Press Publication

www.cerridwenpress.com

The Dream

ISBN #1-4199-0692-5

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Dream Copyright© 2006 Jaycee Clark

Edited by Marty Klopfenstein & Mary Altman.

Cover art by
Willo
.

Electronic book Publication: August 2006

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Cerridwen
Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

The Dream

Jaycee Clark

Dedicated to my mom.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to the
crit
gang—
Shal
and Gail—for reading this more than once. Thanks to
Batti
Patti and Renee for pointing out all the errors that I missed and letting me know this might not be so bad.

Chapter One

London, England, 1813

“It’s past time you took a wife.”

Jason
Claymere
, Marquis of
Ravensworth
with various other titles following, didn’t so much as blink. He signed the missive he’d just completed, waited a moment to blot it and then sealed it. “Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed. You should have already taken one.”

“And where might you have me take one to?” He folded the note and placed it in his breast pocket to give to his butler later.

At the dainty clink of china on china, Jason focused on the woman who sat across from him. Lady Eloise
Burbanks
, his late father’s sister.

She sat straight and perfect, as any lady would, in a gown of deep plum, a wide dark green banding beneath her breasts accenting the fashionable empire waist. Tall and strong, her dark hair coifed and streaked with gray, she was still undeniably attractive with her angular face and sharp blue eyes.

The
Claymeres
all had the same coloring, blue eyes, dark hair and tall statures. He was no exception.

Her eyes were narrowed on his. “Could you not, at the very least, appear to be in search of a wife tonight at the
Sunderly
Gala?”

Jason leaned back in his chair, pulling his waistcoat straight. “And why, pray tell, would I wish to do that?”

Her sigh said more than words, in that mothering way she had about her, that she was becoming annoyed. His aunt stood and walked to the windows, carrying her cup with her. “It’s hardly unheard of for a man of your position and status to seek a wife. Marriages are important, Jason.”

“But of course they are. Alliances must be made, heirs begotten, and dynasties solidified.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowed. “You are such a cynic.”

“I prefer realist. Women are simply women,” he said. He watched, fascinated as irritated color tinged her cheeks. Women had always fascinated him. They could be fickle and vain, sweet and innocent, honest and liars all at the same time. He often wondered why the war department never invested in women as their intelligence agents, other than it was unheard of and unsuitable, of course. But having spent time in both the ballrooms and the shadier areas of life, he knew that women could often give lessons in the art of covert operations. However, trusting them was altogether another issue.

“You are more and more like your father every day.”

He stood, tearing his mind from the missive he’d received earlier, sent by Sir Vincent Taber. “Never say so, dear aunt. A son taken after his father, why I’ve never heard the like.”

“You are in a mood.”

“I resent that. I never get in moods.” He smiled at her pointed look.

She took a deep breath. “Your mother would rest easier knowing you had someone to make you happy.”

“Mother is hale and hearty and knows to stay out of my business.” Which was more than he could say for Aunt Elsie, though he kept the thought to himself. From her arched brows, he might as well have said it aloud.

“Yes, well, Catherine was always too nice for her own good.”

Jason strolled to the sideboard and poured a brandy. He held the decanter up to her, but she declined with a shake of her head. He remained silent as he lit a candle. Tilting the glass, he warmed the brandy then swirled it in the glass.

“You should just leave it all to me. I could simply make some inquiries,” she said, motioning with her tea cup, “and get the ball rolling.”

The idea made him shudder. He was actually
thinking
of looking for a wife, but his aunt hardly need be aware of that fact. If he wanted a wife, he’d bloody well find one himself. Not at the behest of his independent, meddlesome, widowed aunt, his mother, or sister or any of the ton’s matrons. And the unknown woman in question would not be some
missish
débutante
fresh out of the schoolroom, who would go running in the other direction the first time she laid eyes on him.

He ran a forefinger down the long scar marring the left side of his face in a crescent from his brow to his
jawline
. No, and besides the fainting young things would have little to talk to him about. What did one talk about with a young miss? Certainly not the war, which was what his life truly revolved around. Not about his eccentric streak of dabbling in shipping.
T’would
be unheard of.

If he trusted widows, which he did not, nor would he, he might seek a wife there. At least a widow would be experienced in certain areas, whereas a young girl would not.

Shaking off the thoughts, Jason turned back to his aunt.
She’d
put out the word he was in search of a wife, but of course she would, and love every minute of the chaos that ensued.

His brandy in his hand, he raised a brow. “Aunt Elsie, I would not ask such a task of you if I was told I was meeting my Maker on the morrow and had but one last chance to procure the line.” He saluted her with his faceted glass. “But thank you for the thought.”

“It is the general way things are done,” she tried, walking to a chair in front of his desk and lowering back into it.

“I am well aware of the machinations of the
haute ton
. However, when have I ever been known to follow society’s dictates?”

Her sigh was heavy. “Why must you be so difficult?”

He shrugged. “It was the charm I was born with.” He sat again behind his desk. “Besides, think of the pandemonium your announcement alone would cause.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. “I’d be mobbed the moment I stepped from the house,” he scoffed. “Crushed beneath the slippers of august girls shoved to the fore by their plotting mamas.”

Her lips twitched. “You are positively hopeless, Jason.”

He grinned, “I do so strive, Aunt Elsie.” He glanced again at the missive on his desk. Pointing to it, he said, “In regards to this evening, unfortunately, something has come up. I won’t be able to attend the
Sunderly
Gala.”

A faint wrinkle appeared in her smooth brow. “Something is always arising with you. This is the third engagement this month you’ve broken off with me.”

He smiled. “I’m certain you would much rather someone else escort you than me, Aunt Elsie. Perhaps Lord Chilton?”

She huffed and sat back, taking a sip of tea. Her lips pursed, she said, “Tonight would be such a crush, I’m sure.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said dryly.

“What is it this time?” she asked.

He drummed his fingers on his chair and without a moment’s hesitation said, “Problems with the latest shipment from the Continent. I need to check out things at the shipping yard and then head to Kent.”

“A tradesman in the family.” Her frown deepened. About to take a drink, she set the cup back down. “To Kent? To
Ravenscrest
Abbey? But you’ve been in Town less than a month.”

Jason flashed her a smile, one he knew all women found handsome. “You’ll miss me, I’m touched.”

“Why you couldn’t have been a normal heir, I’ll never know. Drove your father daft, you did.”

“Hmmm.” He sipped his drink and thought about the evening ahead. He needed to send his message.

His aunt was correct. He, the heir to a vast fortune and coveted title, had never been one to easily conform. He’d always been on the search for more.

When he’d bought a commission ten years ago and joined the Navy—or at least for a time for those intent on asking—he and his entire family had had a row. His father ranted, his mother cried and his sister had laughed like a loon. He smiled at the memory. His father had threatened to disown him. Then, after Jason’s return years later, he’d been
asked
to go into shipping. Not the done thing for an earl of the peerage to do. But he’d long gotten past what the done things were in society. He’d seen too much, been part of too much in the Peninsular Wars to go back to the frivolities and idiosyncrasies of the ballrooms.

So he’d gone into trade upon his return along with two other veteran peerage prodigals. To most they were seen as eccentric, whispered about behind fans just as parents thought their daughters would make wonderful matches for them because of the wealth they’d accumulated. To others they were left off of lists for their trade dabbling. To a few select, they were something else all together. The Ternary. The Three. And in some circles the simple name caused fear. And those few select were the ones he needed to concentrate on this eve.

“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” his aunt asked, jerking his thoughts back.

“I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.” Jason gave her his attention and sipped. He had too much to think of, to sit and discuss his aunt’s plans for his as-yet-found bride.

She took a deep breath and cocked her head to the side, studying him. “What happened to that little boy who used to laugh?”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sometimes I wonder what you are about and other times I get this feeling none of us really know you at all.” With that, she gently set her teacup on his desk and stood.

Jason rose and was surprised when she walked to him and cupped his face. “You need a wife far more than you know, Jason.” She kissed his cheek, then pulled back and patted his arm. “I’m off to the milliner’s. There’s a hat I wanted and it should be ready today.”

He watched as she walked to the door, her skirts softly rustling, and listened as the door clicked shut behind her.

What had that last bit been about? Jason turned and looked out the window, to the sloping lawns and the gardens. His house here in Mayfair was one of the older ones complete with vast grounds, and unlike the newer townhouses, his did not join another’s. The
Claymere
House set back off the street behind a gated wall.

The guarded fortress.

He took a deep breath and scratched the side of his mouth. He had more to guard than this house or his family. Glancing over his shoulder his gaze landed on the foolscap upon his desk.

Striding across the room, he jerked the
bellpull
. He needed to send his own message and have his valet pack a bag. When he returned later from the shipping yard, they would leave for Kent.

* * * * *

Waves lapped against the port in Dover, chopped against the moored hulls of ships. Though it was night, men still shouted as crates were unloaded, ships being relieved of their cargo. Horses snorted and their hooves beat on the wooden planks of the docks and the cobbled streets. A wagon trudged by.

“Are you certain?” Emily asked yet again. It wasn’t she minded traveling by night, but knew the stage generally ran by day.

The full moon rose high in the sky, but she could smell rain on the briny wind off the ocean and the breeze was picking up.

“
Looksee
‘ere, Miss. This ‘ere coach be leaving for
Lunnon
. If ye be
wan’ing
to go, there’s more ‘n room, as it’s just the other cove that be going. The next one runs tomorrow
mornin
’,
sames
as always.”

Emily Smith stood holding her single valise, dressed in her black mourning gown. What to do? She’d disembarked several hours earlier. On her way to the nearby inn, she’d almost been trampled by one Lord Drake who’d apologized profusely and had helped her procure a room at the inn. He’d seemed a nice enough man and had even offered to see her to London on the morrow as he was thinking himself of traveling there. However, at dinner, she’d overheard others speaking of the stage running this eve. Deciding to investigate, she now stood here trying to decipher what the portly
stageman
had just said.

She should probably wait, traveling at night was always risky, but if she left now…

“When, dear sir, would we be arriving in London?” she asked with a smile. Smiles tended to get her more than frowns.

“‘
Pends
.
Prolly
‘round dawn, I say.” The short man shrugged.

By dawn. By dawn she could find her family. Finally see her mother after all this time. All these years.

“Perfect.” She handed him her bag, watching as he secured it in the back.

She paid her fare and stood waiting to depart. A portly older man, dressed in a cardinal red uniform, shiny brass buttons, white pantaloons and high black boots opened the door for her.

“Heading to London are you, then? Family there?” he asked.

She nodded and took his offered hand, climbing in, getting settled as he followed and shut the door. In minutes the coach rumbled out, its wheels clattering over the stones to whir once they hit unpaved roadway.

Emily looked out the window and tried to ignore the other passengers’ eyes on her.

“You’re very young to be traveling alone and at night no less. Do you have no man looking out for you? No chaperone? Lady’s maid?” he asked, the edge of disbelief clear to her.

She looked across the dark space at him. Why did he want to know?

Clearing her throat she said, “Surely I’m not the first woman to travel by night.”

“Unaccountably not, but most do not travel unaccompanied.” He shifted. “I do apologize if I’ve seemed rude. ‘
Tis
a shock is all. You remind me of my daughter Francis. Just married and I’m to be a grandfather.” The pride in his voice jigged in the air between them.

She smiled. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’m Colonel Ludlow.”

“Mrs. Smith,” she answered.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Smith. You’re from the Colonies?”

She smiled. “America. Yes, I am.”

The colonel snorted. “Brigands. We could have won that war, still might.”

Emily only shook her head. She’d never cared one way or the other about the politics between the two nations, didn’t care who won or lost. She’d been too busy worrying about staying alive to be concerned with the troubles between England and America. Though after Theodore’s death freed her, and she moved to Baltimore, she began to see the importance. She rather hoped the British did not regain control of the freed American colonies. Once freedom was tasted, the idea of going back was a very black one.