The Pirate Next Door (23 page)

She made her choice. She squared her shoulders and entered the room.

“Gentlemen,” she said, giving them her best duke’sgranddaughter stare. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Mr. Bartholomew’s face screwed up with effort. “Wa-wa-wa-we—Th-thatis—”

“What he means to say,” Lord Hildebrand broke in smoothly, “is that Mr. Bartholomew desired to call on you. I agreed to accompany him, to speak for him.”

She inclined her head, then turned to Mr. Bartholomew. “What is this about?”

Her calm voice belied her trembling knees and the slick sweat on her palms. She hoped they didn’t notice she was about to crumple to the floor.

Mr. Bartholomew opened his mouth, then shot a helpless look at Lord Hildebrand. Lord Hildebrand took the cue. “Mr. Bartholomew wishes to convey that he very much admires you, Mrs. Alastair.”

She swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Bartholomew. You are kind.”

Mr. Bartholomew blushed.

“And that he has rented an elegant townhouse in Cavendish Square,” Lord Hildebrand continued, “but he will understand if you wish to remain here.”

Her pulse began to throb in slow, painful beats. “Remain—I do not understand.”

Lord Hildebrand smiled. “Actually, I have begun paying half the rent on the house. Only fair, if I am to act as his speaker, that I should get a proper share.”

Little chills made their way up her spine, dampening the sweet, relaxed looseness. “Lord Hildebrand,” she said. “Tell me what you mean and please tell me plainly.”

Mr. Bartholomew had gone very red. Lord Hildebrand’s smile deepened. “Mrs. Alastair. We are in love. We both submit ourselves humbly, at your feet. If you will agree, we would be happy of your company in the Cavendish Square house.” He glanced about. “Perhaps Bartholomew could meet you there, and I could meet you here.” He added dryly, “And if it is jewels you like, we can certainly furnish you a supply.”

A scream welled up from the depths of her, but only a dry croak emerged from her open mouth. She regarded them with horror. They were
propositioning
her. They were standing in her elegant sitting room, so carefully appointed with graceful furniture and costly paintings, and asking her to become their mistress.
Both
of them.

She was going to be sick. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand, tears of rage pricking her eyes.

A voice sounded behind her. “I believe, gentleman, that you should both depart.” The Duke of St. Clair glided into the room and bathed both guests with a reproving glare. “If you remain, I will be forced to ask my seconds to call on you.”

Mr. Bartholomew’s flush deepened to brick red. Lord Hildebrand merely looked annoyed. For the first time, Alexandra was grateful for Jeffrey’s habit of admitting visitors he was too timid to turn away. The duke stood between her and the other two gentlemen like a guard dog protecting its mistress.

“I-I-I, wa-wa-we ma-meant—”

“I heard what Caldicott said,” the duke said sharply. “I advise the pair of you to leave. Now.”

Mr. Bartholomew, looking ashamed, made a jerky half bow, and nearly fled from the room. His harried footsteps rang on the stairs. Lord Hildebrand remained. “Only dukes and viscounts for you, eh?” he said, raking an impudent gaze over Alexandra. “I suppose they can give you better jewels.”

The duke’s gaze hardened. “Please name your seconds, Caldicott.”

Lord Hildebrand’s look turned slightly alarmed, which
he hid with a sneer. “Dueling is for fools. Good evening, Mrs. Alastair.”

He moved past the duke and into the hall. The duke, muttering something under his breath, closed the door.

Alexandra felt suddenly ready to burst. She wanted to scream and rant and say colorful phrases like Grayson did. At times, being a lady was reprehensibly inconvenient.

Her gaze fell on her writing table. With a smothered scream, she dashed to it, yanked open the drawer, and snatched up the list of suitors. She ripped the innocent paper into shreds and hurled the pieces to the floor. “Men!” she snarled. She dug her heel into the creamy white pieces, grinding them into the gold and ivory oriental carpet.

The duke watched her in surprise. She sank into the nearest chair, her legs shaking uncontrollably, and pressed her face into her hands.

She heard the duke cross to her, sensed him drop to one knee before her. He did not touch her. “Mrs. Alastair, are you all right?”

No!
she wanted to shout.
Of course I am not all right! They insulted me horribly.
And the worst part of it was, they were right. They believed her a doxy, and she was. She had so gladly let Grayson tumble her, had so eagerly run to his arms. And she would do so again and again, so willingly becoming his whore.

She drew a long breath before she looked up. “Not really, your grace. But I thank you for arriving when you did. I did not know quite what to do.”

His usually mild eyes were filled with anger. “They are boors. And fools. Good God, I thought Bartholomew had some manners.”

Alexandra did not want to talk about Mr. Bartholomew. She had also supposed him kind and somewhat
foolish, but even he had decided what he’d seen at her soiree. And then she had come dashing in today, all flushed and tousled from her lover’s bed. What else were they to think?

Shakily, she wiped her eyes. “How did you know I wanted you to come, your grace? I hadn’t sent for you yet.”

His brows drew together. “You meant to send for me?”

“Yes. It is most convenient you have come on your own.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” She struggled to sit up. “Now all we need do is wait for Mr. Henderson.”

Grayson amused himself bullying Madame d’Lorenz for a time, then let her go. She would go straight to Ardmore, he knew that. But while she kept Ardmore busy with her frantic worries about what Grayson would do, Grayson could carry out his own plans.

“Jacobs,” he said as he emerged into the hall again after sending Jacqueline on her way. “I need you for this one.”

Jacobs raised his brows. “What about Maggie and Mrs. Fairchild?”

Grayson peered up the dim staircase to the where both Mrs. Fairchild and Maggie watched over the banister, listening to every word.

He decided to be plain. “Oliver will remain here and look after them, and also keep an eye on Mrs. Alastair’s house. They will be safe here because anyone dangerous will be chasing me. I need you on the
Majesty.
She needs to be ready to sail on an instant. I already have Priestly readying her. For my first errand, I only need Ian O’Malley.”

Jacobs was not listening. He was already skimming his way up the stairs to Mrs. Fairchild. He held out his hands to her, and she came to him. He kissed her lightly, without heat, and pressed his face to hers. All under Maggie’s delighted scrutiny.

“I will try to be quick as I can, love.”

“Be careful.”

“Yes.” He kissed her again.

A longing tugged at Grayson’s heart. His first officer was saying everything to his lady that Grayson longed to say to Alexandra. He looked up at Maggie. “I will be home again, soon,” he said. “And then we shall never be apart. Promise.”

She grinned down at him. “I know, Papa. You are very smart. And very brave.”

His heart swelled. His daughter was proud of him.

He realized, as Jacobs hurried downstairs to join him again, that he was grinning like a fool. He clapped Jacobs on his shoulder. “You and Mrs. Fairchild,” he said. “Me and Mrs. Alastair. I would say things are working out well.”

Jacobs returned the grin. At that moment, Ian O’Malley came waltzing in the front door without knocking. He gave them an impudent smile.

Grayson scowled at him. “You are late.”

“I know.” His smile turned smug. “I fell in love with a barmaid,” he said. “Decided I’d linger. I think I’ll marry her.”

Jacobs gave a short laugh. “You, too?”

Ian gave him a puzzled look, and Grayson, growling now with impatience, shoved them both out of the house.

The duke looked puzzled. “Mr. Henderson?”

Alexandra nodded. Her shaking had subsided a bit, now that she could focus on her plans again. “Yes. I need to ask him a question. Then I will reveal to you what it is all about.”

The duke looked nonplussed. “Very well.” He hesitated, then he reached out and gently lifted one of her hands. “In the meantime, may I tell you what I came here to say?”

She blinked. “Of course. How rude of me. You must have arrived for a reason.”

“I did.” He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest. The stiff ends of his cravat touched her fingers. “Mr. Bartholomew and Lord Hildebrand made you a dishonorable proposal,” he said. “I mean to make you an honorable one.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Mrs. Alastair, please tell me you will make me the happiest man in the world. Become my wife.”

Dizziness swamped her and her head throbbed and ached. “Your grace—”

“I have admired you for a long time, Mrs. Alastair.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I must have given myself away a dozen times over.”

Given himself away? What was he talking about? The duke had never slanted her a smile full of sin, had never begged her to sleep bare for him, had never given her gems gleaming with the fire of his eyes. Possibly she had not noticed the duke’s attentions because the poor gentleman had been completely eclipsed by Grayson. Since the dratted pirate had moved in next door, she had not been able to focus on any man but him.

She drew a shaky breath. “You have taken me by surprise, your grace.”

“Have I? I had thought my admiration so obvious.” His fingers tightened. “We would do well together, I am certain.”

She had once been certain of that herself. “Your grace, I sincerely wish you had spoken to me three weeks ago. If you had, my answer might be different.”

He began to whiten. “Three weeks? Why three—” He broke off. “Ah.” His voice went bleak. “When Lord Stoke moved in.”

“I am truly sorry. But my answer must be no.”

Lines tightened about his mouth. “I had fooled myself into thinking you rather fond of me.”

“I am. You are one of the kindest gentlemen of my acquaintance. You were at the top of my list.”

“But you have lost your heart to Stoke,” he finished for her. A grim light entered his eyes. “I will be plain with you, Mrs. Alastair. I know you are Lord Stoke’s lover. Has he asked for your hand in marriage?”

She had to shake her head. Her hair tickled her neck where Grayson had nibbled her flesh.

“Then you would do as well to accept me, to save your honor if nothing else. I will not ask you to love me.”

Her heart constricted. “I cannot. Please do not ask me. It would not be fair to you.” She straightened her spine, letting her shielding hair fall behind her shoulders. Let him see what he would see. “It is true he has not spoken to me of marriage, but I am not ashamed of loving him.”

The duke looked unhappy, but he did not release her hand. Alexandra hurried on. “I have a confession to make, your grace. I had planned to send for you to arrive at the same time Mr. Henderson did. I know where the French king is.”

It was the duke’s turn to be surprised. He stared, alarm building in his mild brown eyes. “Good lord. Did Stoke tell you about that?”

“I overheard a conversation I was not meant to. But I have learned many things in the meantime. Grayson—the viscount—actually discovered the king’s whereabouts. Do I understand correctly that in return for his help you will erase any deed he and his crew did against the crown far away in the Pacific?”

“I did make that promise,” he answered glumly.

“Regardless of what you think of him concerning me, he does have a child to take care of. Please promise me you will not go back on your word.”

He frowned, rubbing his lip, then sighed. “Of course I will not. If I were a cad, I would force you to marry me in return for releasing him.” He shook his head. “But I could not live with myself if I did that. I do not want you to come to me under coercion.”

He seemed to be the only one, she mused. Captain Ardmore was perfectly willing to coerce her into all kinds of things.

The duke bowed his head and at last withdrew his hand. When he looked up at her, his eyes were clear, businesslike once more. “Please, Mrs. Alastair. Tell me where the French king is.”

“I will take you to him.” She cocked her head, listening. “And if I am not mistaken, Mr. Henderson has arrived. We will need him to show us the way.”

Grayson was waiting in the sitting room of Zechariah Burchard’s lodgings when the slim gentleman opened the door and stepped inside.

He stopped short, his eyes widening in sudden panic. He swung around, ready to flee, but Ian stepped in front of the door, closed it, and locked it.

Burchard swung back around. “Finley.” He filled the word with more venom than a viper imparted to its victims.

Grayson folded his arms, enjoying Burchard’s discomfort. “I reasoned you must return sooner or later to these rooms. My informer watching this hotel told me this morning that he’d seen you. You would need your clothes. It would be difficult for you to go to a tailor without causing a stir, am I correct?”

Burchard’s lips pulled back into a snarl, but his face whitened. “What the devil do you mean?”

“I recognized you,” Grayson went on calmly. “When I
finally saw you at close range at Alexandra’s soiree, I realized who you were. I was so amazed that I let you get past me. What has it been, fifteen years?”

Burchard’s eyes narrowed to hard black agates. “Fifteen years and I still hate you, Grayson Finley. And Ardmore.”

Grayson was not certain if he should feel revulsion or pity. “It should be Ardmore and I with a grudge against you. We’ve never lived it down. O’Malley makes certain he tells the story to every sailor who joins us.”

“Aye,” Ian chuckled.

Grayson gave the Irishman a nod. Smoothly, Ian came forward and seized Burchard by the arms. Burchard struggled, twisting his slim body, but Ian was wiry and fast. He pinned Burchard’s arms behind him, dragging the fluttering hands out of reach of weapons.

Grayson approached. He kept a wary eye on Burchard’s feet, in case the pirate employed a dirty trick like a knife blade in the toe of his boot. But Burchard did not kick, and Ian held him well off balance.

Grayson stopped in front of Burchard and looked into the smaller man’s enraged face. Giving him a faint smile, he reached down and ripped open Burchard’s trousers.

The man screamed. Grayson thrust his hand inside. He came out with a roll of soft linen clutched in his hand.

He held it up before Burchard’s desperate and enraged eyes. “You seem to be missing something, Mr. Burchard.”

Burchard snarled and spat.

“Recognize her, O’Malley?” Grayson said. He tossed the linen roll to the carpet.

“Aye, that I do. Laughed meself sick, I did.”

“You ruined me,” the woman who was Burchard hissed. “I swear I will kill you.”