The Pirate Next Door (17 page)

To his disappointment, he did not see Alexandra. He caught sight of a few gentlemen the duke had introduced him to at White’s, but apart from Mrs. Waters, no one else looked familiar. He was a stranger here, despite the fact that he was technically one of them. Grayson had been thrown among people exotic and plain all over the world, had met officers of naval and merchant ships from France, Prussia, America, England, Corsica, the Netherlands, China, Siam, and India. However, unlike those sailors, who knew they’d encounter a wide circle of people in their business and had cultivated a polite but wary mask, the people in this room stared in open curiosity that bordered on rudeness. This was their territory, and he had entered it. They had let him in, but they would judge whether he was embraced or merely tolerated.

The only other person in the room Grayson recognized was Alden Henderson, who lounged near the tall fireplace, a glass of champagne in hand. He gave Grayson an ironic half smile and sipped his drink.

As Grayson turned to search for Alexandra, the Duke of St. Clair was announced. He gave Grayson a welcoming smile and extended his manicured hand. “Stoke. So pleased to see you.”

The duke dressed in what Grayson’s tailor had said was the height of fashion—dark suit, white cravat and collar, silk stockings, and pumps. The tailor had desperately tried to talk Grayson into ordering not one, but six such suits. Grayson had quelled the man’s enthusiasm and ordered subdued coats and trousers, much to the man’s despair.
But since Grayson had originally come to him in leather breeches, collarless shirt, and long duster, the tailor had sighed and gotten on with the order.

The duke greeted Maggie with formal politeness, and she smothered a titter as she curtseyed.

“Is Mrs. Alastair about?” Grayson asked the duke as the three of them strolled from the room.

“I assume she’s receiving upstairs. I have yet to greet her myself. Shall we?”

They walked together to the main staircase, which had been swathed in silver and gold ribbons. Gold satin streamers dripped from the wall sconces and the chandeliers high above. The landings were lit with candles, and more silver and gold ribbons fluttered from every railing. A stream of people wound up the stairs to the first floor. This was Alexandra’s world—softly shimmering, elegant. Light glowed over it all, welcoming, friendly, as soft as her smile.

Memories, vague and wavering, as if he looked at them through water, stirred in his mind. He seemed to see himself as a wee lad, standing behind the banisters on the top floor of a tall house, peering surreptitiously down through the railings. He could still feel the cool carved posts under his palms. Below him stood his mother, elegant in lace and satin and fashionably powdered hair. She held out her dainty hands to perfumed guests who fanned in a long line down the stairs, waiting to greet her. He
remembered his swell of pride that so many people liked his pretty mother. Every once in a while, she would glance to the top of the stairs and give him a covert wink. It had been amusing, this game they’d played, keeping Grayson’s truancy from his scolding nurse.

Grayson now lifted his gaze to the top of Alexandra’s stairs, where his mother would have waited. Alexandra stood there, dressed in silver and gold. His childhood memory dissolved and faded.

Maggie squeezed Grayson’s hand. “Mrs. Alastair is very beautiful, is she not?”

She was, oh God, yes, she was. Her silver-and-gold gown skimmed her shoulders and cradled a modest amount of bosom. A gold satin ribbon circled her neck. Her riot of red-brown curls had been caught back at her nape, then made to spill over her shoulders. And in her hair, sparkling like white stars, as he’d known they would, were his opals. He had obtained the stones in Siam, a gift pressed on him by a prince grateful to Grayson for rescuing his kidnapped bride-to-be.

She was wearing them. His blood beat hot. He knew in that moment that Alexandra filled a place inside him he had not known was empty. The loneliness of years gone by faded suddenly to nothing.

“She is easily one of the most elegant ladies in society,” the duke was saying.

“I want to be just like her,” Maggie declared.

“You could have no better model, Miss Finley.”

Grayson did not answer. He agreed with them wholeheartedly, but he could not banish the memory of the Duke of St. Clair’s name in the premier position on Alexandra’s list. With all those exclamation points and crosses. She’d listed no defects for the Duke of bloody St. Clair. He ground his teeth. Perhaps when they reached
the top of the stairs, the duke could stand just close to the banister and Grayson could accidentally topple him off—

But Alexandra was wearing the opals.
His
opals. He wondered if she had a code on her list for that.

Their progress up the stairs was impeded by all the other guests eager to greet their hostess. Strangely, they seemed equally as eager to stop and be introduced to Grayson.

“H-h-how do you da-da-da-do,” a young man with an affable smile and ingenuous blue eyes said.

“Mr. Bartholomew,” the duke intoned.

Grayson shook his hand and gave the man a hard look. Bartholomew was another name on Alexandra’s list.

All those honored on her list were there. He met Mr. Carrington, Mr. Wesley, Lord Hildebrand Caldicott, who had been present for Henderson’s earlier trick. Each gentleman was near to thirty, well-dressed and well-groomed, and knew every polite phrase in existence. They talked horse and sport without effort and behaved with exquisite manners to any lady who passed.

They were the most boring, innocuous lot Grayson had ever clapped eyes on. There was absolutely nothing to disparage in any of them. He found that fact the most irritating of all.

At last they reached the top of the stairs. Alexandra stood, resplendent, next to Lady Featherstone and a middle-aged gentleman, presumably Lord Featherstone. The couple hovered like a pair of chaperons and helped Alexandra to greet guests. Grayson shook Lord and Lady Featherstones’ hands. He forced his lips into a smile. Then, at long last, he was allowed to turn to Alexandra.

She gave him a challenging look from beneath her lashes. Her brown-green eyes sparkled and danced in high
fury. What was the matter with her? He stopped, forcing the crowd to bump to a halt behind him.

“I am delighted, Mrs. Alastair,” he said neutrally. He sent her a wicked wink, then lifted her cool hand to his lips.

“Lord Stoke.” She tried to tug her hand away.

“Your beauty is dazzling, Mrs. Alastair,” he said softly. “More so than any jewel.”

Her eyebrows rose as if to say, “What are you doing?” She tried, again unsuccessfully, to withdraw her hand. She turned to Maggie and bathed her in her sunniest smile. “I am pleased to see you, Maggie. I hope you will like the refreshments in the dining room.”

Maggie curtseyed as taught by Mrs. Fairchild and won another beaming smile from Alexandra.

Grayson only garnered another frown. He searched his memories of their last encounter for what he had done to so displease her. He could think of nothing. She was certainly glaring balefully at him, but then, she was wearing the jewels. Most confusing. Had she forgotten how eagerly she’d run her tongue along his shaft, tasting the length of him? He squeezed her fingers. “I believe I have found the finest place in the house.”

She scowled. The duke said good-naturedly, “Let the rest of us have a chance, Stoke.” He extended his hand. “Mrs. Alastair.”

Alexandra snatched her hand from Grayson and turned quickly to the duke. “Your grace.”

The duke bowed. “Our hearts sigh in contentment in your presence, Mrs. Alastair.”

She flushed, smiling sweetly. “You are too kind.”

Grayson rolled his eyes.

The duke continued. “As you can see, Stoke and I are both smitten. But alas, we will have to make due with
canapés and champagne in the dining room. We will drink to your honor.” He clapped Grayson on the shoulder. “Come on, Stoke, let us allow some other poor wretch his turn.”

Grayson looked pointedly at the opals shining white against the russet of her hair, then lifted the corners of his mouth in a light smile. He let his gaze send suggestions. She reddened.

He turned and led Maggie back down the stairs after the duke. Behind him, Mr. Bartholomew began, “Pa-papa-pleased to s-s-see you in good h-health, ma-ma-ma-Mrs. Ala-st-st-stair.”

By the time Grayson regained the crowded lower floor, his mood had soured and he damned all society protocol. He and all the other guests had journeyed here with the sole purpose of speaking to Alexandra, yet it seemed that they were only allowed to spend a minute and a half in her presence. He wanted to spend many more minutes than that. A lifetime of minutes.

Instead, he found himself in the company of the duke and likely to remain in his company all night. A poor second choice. Maggie, on the other hand, seemed to find everything delightful. She kept up a steady chatter of praise for Mrs. Alastair and the decorations until they reached the dining room.

The morsels laid out in fine porcelain on the table were elegant, tasty, and tiny. Maggie left his side and circled the table like a predator, her dark eyes happy. A young gentleman busily piled macaroons and light pastries on a platter and bustled past Grayson to present them to the slightly petulant young lady sitting against a wall. The young man plopped down beside her and watched with adoring eyes while she lifted a macaroon and nibbled it without thanks. Maggie watched her, then lifted a mac
aroon and tried to copy the girl’s dainty nibbles.

The duke put a canapé into his mouth. Grayson eyed a macaroon and balanced it on a plate. “It is pleasant, you know,” he remarked. “To eat food you don’t have to inspect for weevils.”

The duke choked, coughed, and swallowed. “Good lord, Stoke.” He caught Grayson’s grin and returned one of his own. “How does it feel to be a landsman now?”

“Strange.” He missed the feel of clean wind, the crack of sails, the rise and fall of the ship beneath his feet. Wouldn’t he love to show Alexandra his world, exotic ports beckoning his restless feet? But he had Maggie to consider now.

“Admittedly, there’s not much adventure in London,” the duke said ruefully. “Unless you consider gambling your entire fortune on the turn of a card to be adventure.”

“I favor dice. Pure chance. No second guessing. Unless, of course, the dice are weighted. In which case you are a fool for not noticing.”

The duke smiled uncertainly. “I know plenty of houses that will welcome you. Unfortunately, most are disreputable.”

Grayson took a sip of champagne. It was sweet and smooth. “Dice and disrepute. Sounds interesting.”

The polished and manicured duke, a product of Harrow and Cambridge and a sheltered upbringing, could have no idea of the disreputable places Grayson had come across in his travels, places so foul even someone like Burchard would fear to enter them.

“We can retire to St. James’s after making our social rounds tonight if you like,” the duke said. “I’ll take you to a new place where you can play dice to your heart’s content. Along with other—um—fascinations.”

Grayson nodded noncommittally. He’d heard of the
gaming hells in St. James’s and other places, though he had not yet had the opportunity to frequent one. He’d told his officers to stay out of them on pain of flogging. Tavern games were one thing, games with elegant men of fortune were something else. He did not need to bail his officers out of the Fleet prison or rescue them from duels when they lost all their money.

“Or I can simply tell you all I know now,” Grayson offered.

The duke took an alarmed look around. They stood in a relatively empty corner, away from the grazers who circled Alexandra’s table. “Perhaps we should find somewhere more private,” the duke said.

Grayson shook his head the slightest bit. “That would cause people to wonder what we had to discuss so covertly. Just listen carefully.”

In a low voice he explained about the shop near Marylebone Street and his conviction that the king had been rowed to a ship waiting in the middle of the Thames.

The duke swallowed. “I can have the shop searched, the proprietor questioned.”

“Later. The girl there let drop a few names while she was trying to be ever-so-French and impress her English customer. I recognized those names, and I’d like to pry around a little longer. Then you can loose your men and search every ship on the Thames.”

The duke sucked in his breath. “We need him soon, Stoke. News will leak.”

“A day,” Grayson said. “If I cannot pinpoint his whereabouts by day after tomorrow, search away.” He did not like the idea of the duke turning out mobs of the Royal Navy to search ships from here to the Channel. His own ship was out there, and he did not want certain things about it coming to the attention of the Admi
ralty—like its secret holds and its lovely capacity for smuggling. Maggie could make a fortune with the Majesty, and Grayson wanted nothing to stand in the way of that.

He glanced around as Henderson entered the dining room, spectacles gleaming. He was chatting with Lord Hildebrand Caldicott.

“St. James’s, eh?” Grayson said in a normal voice.

To his credit, the duke caught on at once. “The usual crowd will be there,” he said, pitching his voice to match Grayson’s. “Chaps you should meet.”

Henderson approached, talking in a relaxed way with Lord Hildebrand, as if he were on friendly terms with every gentleman in London. But this was Henderson’s territory. Like the duke, Henderson knew the ins and outs of social rules—where what not to say was as important as what to say. Henderson could happily fall in with the plan to migrate to a gaming hell, while Grayson had no interest in watching the cream of London’s gentlemen slumming. The ladies there, he imagined, would be well-dressed and well-versed in the art of pleasuring—elegant and expensive. Just the type Henderson liked. Maybe Henderson would get lost there and leave Alexandra the hell alone.

Grayson introduced the duke to Henderson. Henderson, he noted, had used powder to cover the remnants of the bruises on his face. Henderson also watched him in slight trepidation. He liked that.

As the duke, Henderson, and Lord Hildebrand greeted one another and began comparing notes on who they knew, Grayson wandered away, snaring a glass of champagne as he went. He’d come here tonight to watch Alexandra and to keep an eye on Henderson, to make certain Ardmore did not try anything annoying, like kidnapping her again. He’d also simply wanted to gaze upon
Alexandra, so beautiful and elegant in her silver and gold, with his jewels in her hair. He could look at her all night. Perhaps when the last of the guests departed, he would linger—

Her suitors did not seem to take much interest in her. Terribly honored, they’d claimed, but they were content to talk about horses and sport and gaming and to stay well away from Alexandra. And she wanted to marry one of them! Good God.

His own name was on that list. An idea began forming in his mind, one he was not certain Alexandra would accept. If he played it right, she would not have a choice in the matter. But it would give her what she wanted, as well as himself some peace of mind—that is if peace of mind were possible near Alexandra.

“Lord Stoke, forgive me.”

Grayson looked up, his thoughts scattering. A gentleman with silver hair and a quiet face stood before him. The man half lifted his hand, then clutched it into a fist and let it drop. “Forgive me for approaching you without introduction. My name is Gordon Crawford.”

His gray eyes focused on Grayson intently, as if he expected Grayson to know the name. Grayson offered his hand. “Mr. Crawford.”

Crawford shook it hesitantly. “You do not remember me.”

“No.”

“It is no matter. You were a child. You—” He dragged to a stop, his gaze raking Grayson’s face. “You so have the look of your mother.”

Grayson’s heart ceased for an instant. “You knew my mother?”

“She was—a dear friend to me. Many years ago.”

Grayson felt cold congeal inside him. Try as he might,
he could not call up a memory of the man’s face or voice, but he had the feeling he knew what Crawford wanted to tell him. He noted the formal elegance of his frock coat, the slick neatness of his gray hair, and the sadness in his eyes.