The Pirate Next Door (7 page)

Vanessa Fairchild thought,
If I stay in this room all night and do not come out until I can leave in the morning, I will be all right.
She shivered and hugged herself. The air wafting through the open window held the warmth of summer, but she could not seem to rid herself of chill.

She knew the cold had nothing to do with the temperature out of doors. As soon as she’d seen Robert Jacobs on the stairs, the bottom had dropped out of her snug little world. If only Alexandra had mentioned that Robert lived in the viscount’s house, Vanessa would never, never have left Oxfordshire.

But why should Alexandra mention him? Vanessa was to be governess to Viscount Stoke’s child, and Mr. Jacobs had nothing to do with that. And Alexandra could not have known the incident between her former governess and Robert Jacobs five years before.

She sipped the cold tea at her side. The dark-skinned man, Mr. Oliver, had brought it for her hours ago, after
he had left her here to unpack. Her cases, untouched, still stood in the corner by the old fashioned square-posted bed. To cover her confusion, she had asked Mr. Oliver about himself. The taciturn man had unbent enough to tell her that his mother had been a slave and his father a Spaniard on Santo Domingo. He had known the viscount for nineteen years. Mr. Jacobs had joined them five years ago.

Five years. Right after—What was he doing here? Was he the viscount’s secretary? That would make sense; he had taken honors at Oxford. But Mr. Oliver would answer no more questions and had left her to unpack. The tea had long since chilled, but Vanessa would not ring for more.

Someone tapped softly on the door. Her hands clenched, but she forced them to relax. Perhaps Mr. Oliver had decided to bring her more refreshment of his own accord.

“Yes?” she called softly.

The door opened and Robert Jacobs walked in.

She stumbled up from her chair. They stared at each other, unspeaking. Damn him, he had grown even more handsome than she remembered. His hair was as dark, his eyes as chocolate brown, his form as tall and broad. No, broader. He’d filled out, muscle and bone, into a hard-chested, well-framed, delicious picture of masculinity.

She drew a shaking breath. “In the morning, I will explain to the viscount that I cannot stay.”

He walked firmly into the room. “Was seeing me again that repulsive to you?”

She blinked. “Repulsive? You?” She wanted to lie and tell him that indeed she had been most annoyed to find him here. Instead, she blurted, “You are just as beautiful as you ever were.”
When I was thirty and you were twenty.
And again now that we are each five years older.

Red stained his cheeks. “As I recall, you could not fly fast enough from that carriage the last time I saw you. Must have been repulsive, a young man declaring himself, and you the respectable wife of an Oxford
don.
”

Her breath came in small, dry gasps. After all these years, he still could quell her with one glance of his dark eyes. After all this time, when things should be over and done between them, she still could not face him without trembling. “I was not—But I did not know what to say to you. It was so impossible.”

“It was possible until one of us spoke.”

She lifted her hands in a supplicating gesture. “No, it was impossible. There would have been disgrace for you, ruin for me.”

His lips were white. “And now?”

“Now? There is nothing, now. I must make my way in the world. I have chosen to become a governess, as I was before.”

“Your husband left you destitute?”

She twisted her lips into a wry smile. “He had nothing to leave. A tiny income, which does little more than buy my bread.”

“Whereas I am heir to a fortune.”

Vanessa’s heart constricted. She gazed at him hungrily. He had been the only man in her entire life—so ironic, that—who had ever made her feel complete, whole, loved. “What are you saying I ought to have done?”

He regarded her in silence. Five years ago, they’d had no choices. She saw now that their choices were just as narrow. There was longing, wanting, and great regret, but no solutions.

“The viscount deserves to know the truth,” she said.

Robert finally bestirred himself. “I will tell him.”

“I will. I should not have come in the first place.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “No. Captain Finley is not the usual sort of employer. I will explain things to him.”

She hesitated, puzzled. “Captain Finley?”

“I mean Lord Stoke. He used to be Captain Finley.”

“I see.” She did not, but she did not pursue it. The viscount certainly did not look like any other lord she had encountered in her career as a governess or as a don’s wife. He looked as though he spent most of his life outdoors. He was much too rugged—that was a good word, rugged—for a fine Mayfair mansion.

Alexandra had not mentioned that he’d been a sea captain, or whatever kind of captain he had been. In her letter she’d referred to him as “the viscount,” and all mentions of him had been oblique at best. But he was unquestionably handsome and had a certain charm. Odd that Alexandra had deliberately not said much about him. Most unlike the girl. Hmm.

“I will speak to him,” Robert repeated.

He looked at her for a long time, a scrutinizing, assessing look that did not hint of the desire or hunger she felt within herself. But, of course, he was a virile young man, and to the young, five years was a lifetime.

At last he turned from her and left without saying good-night. Vanessa sank her face in her hands and knew she’d never be warm again.

Maggie waved frantically at the blond man beneath their box. “Mr. Henderson!”

Lady Featherstone’s cosmetic-darkened eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “Maggie. A young lady does not wave and shout at a gentleman in the theatre.”

“I’m not a young lady, yet,” Maggie returned. “The governess does not come ‘til tomorrow.”

“Even so.”

Alexandra burst out, her heart hammering hard, “She is right, Maggie. You must sit quietly.”

If Maggie did not shout again, perhaps the blond man would not spot them. Alexandra had no desire to see him face to face, and by Mr. Burchard’s expression, that gentleman did not wish to either. Fervently.

But alas, alas, the bespectacled man turned, glanced about in a bewildered manner, then tilted his head and gazed unerringly through his spectacles at Maggie, who was still waving her arms. The gleam of spectacles also came to rest on Alexandra. After a moment, he raised a gloved hand in acknowledgment.

Mr. Burchard rose hastily. “Forgive me, your lordship, your ladyship, Mrs.—ah. I must be going.”

Lord Featherstone’s brows rose in amazement. “Good heavens, is the building on fire?”

“No, I—ah—”

He was hampered from making a quick and discreet exit by the chairs. Alexandra had given Lady Featherstone the best seat in the box, and Mr. Burchard had been placed between her and Alexandra. So he had to stumble past Alexandra’s chair, Lord Featherstone’s, and Maggie’s.

As he pushed past Alexandra, she looked straight into his eyes. She saw a flicker of anger there, rage so black it had taken a life of its own. It drove the man; the man did not control it.

He did not bother to regulate his gaze, he simply pushed past, and Alexandra stumbled back. Below them, Mr. Henderson’s astonished stare landed on Mr. Burchard.

His
jaw dropped, and
his
face whitened. He gaped for
one moment as if gazing upon the dead come back to life, then snapped around. His ringing words could be heard all through the theatre, even over the din. “Bloody hell. O’Malley!”

Lord Featherstone, spluttering “see here,” tried to hold Mr. Burchard back. The man easily threw him aside and sprinted away. The door of the box banged after him and then the bewildered footman outside closed it.

“Well,” Lady Featherstone said, settling herself with a thump. “He is definitely
off
the list.”

Mr. Henderson waited for them in the lobby below. Or at least Maggie seemed to assume he was. The girl saw him, dropped Alexandra’s hand, and darted through the crowd to greet him. Alexandra, her heart thumping, followed the little girl. The small-statured Irishman she’d observed coming and going from the viscount’s house on occasion had joined them by the time she reached Maggie.

Maggie wrung Mr. Henderson’s hand then turned and threw her arms about the Irishman’s middle. “Mr. O’Malley. Why haven’t you been to the house of late? I long to play dice, and Mr. Jacobs is not as good as you.”

The man returned the hug, a wide grin breaking his leathery face. “Well then, you can always win more money from him, can’t you, lass?”

She shot him a wicked smile, reminiscent of her father’s. “He’s already lost ten guineas to me.”

“There you are, then.”

“Maggie,” Alexandra said sharply. Maggie looked at her, innocently inquiring. Mr. Henderson met Alexandra’s gaze, and his cheeks went scarlet.

Maggie babbled, oblivious. “Mrs. Alastair, these are two of my greatest friends, Mr. O’Malley and Mr. Hen
derson. We rode on the ship with them from Jamaica. This is my new friend, Mrs. Alastair. Is she not beautiful?”

Mr. O’Malley ran an appreciative gaze over Alexandra. His dark eyes twinkled. “Pleased to meet you, madam, that I am.”

Mr. Henderson stood as one carved in stone. Maggie rattled on, “Did you catch Mr. Burchard? You were running after him, weren’t you? When he saw you, he looked scared enough to piss.”

A few matronly stares swiveled to Maggie. Alexandra’s face went hot.

“No, the bastard got away,” O’Malley said. More matrons gasped. Two raised their lorgnettes. “But we’ll catch him. Maggie, lass, let me take you to your carriage. I’ll ride home with you.”

“There is no need,” Alexandra tried. Lord Featherstone had gone out to call her carriage and Lady Featherstone was chatting to some acquaintance on the other side of the room. What they’d think of this Irishman and his language, not to mention Maggie’s language, she shuddered to think. She would have to have a talk with Grayson—the
viscount
—on the effect of rough men on his daughter.

Mr. O’Malley looked grave. “There is need. Burchard’s running amok out there, and damned if I’m letting him near Maggie. I’ll get her to your carriage. You stay here and talk to Henderson. He’s dying for a chat.”

Henderson shot him a venomous look. Maggie, unnoticing of the nuances, happily took Mr. O’Malley’s hand. They scooted off into the crowd before Alexandra could even draw a breath.

Which left her alone with Mr. Henderson. She desperately searched the room for Lady Featherstone, but the woman had disappeared into a crowd of fashionable la
dies, lost among a sea of headdresses and shawls.

“Mrs. Alastair.”

Mr. Henderson’s voice was so contrite, so worried, that she turned back in spite of herself. The blond man was regarding her with a look of sorrow and embarrassment. Despite the fact that he had torn out of the theatre proper not an hour before to pursue Mr. Burchard, he had every hair in place, his clothes were pristine, and his gloves were unblemished. His suit of impeccable black and white hung on a broad frame and long black pantaloons hugged well-shaped legs. The subdued colors made him look the country vicar, but perhaps one with much family money behind him.

He extended his right hand hesitantly, as if afraid to lift it completely. “Mrs. Alastair, please. Let me beg your pardon most humbly. I had no idea you were—you would be—so great a lady. I had no right to approach you, let alone—” He stopped. “I can only say in my defense that I acted on an order, but it was an order I should have disobeyed. I wish I had. The action was meant to be directed at Finley, but I should have realized that you would be the most hurt of all.” He moistened his lips, his face growing more red. “Forgive me, I do not have much experience apologizing.”

His voice quavered with sincerity. He was completely the country parson now, begging forgiveness for his own sins.

“Mr. Henderson, I am uncertain what to say to you.”

His eyes flickered. “I know I do not deserve what I ask. I will only keep hoping for it.”

She hesitated. He seemed very contrite and dismayed and embarrassed. She could not help feeling a little bit sorry for him. “I must think it through, sir. You frightened me very much.”

Anguish crossed his face. “I know. And for that I most humbly beg your pardon.” He adjusted his spectacles with a shaking finger. “It is all Finley’s fault, you know. If he did not play his cards so close to his chest, we would have known where things stood all along.”

Alexandra frowned. “Why should you need to know where things stand? What things?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. “May we adjourn outside? The carriage should arrive soon.” He offered Alexandra his arm, with a sidelong glance reminiscent of a dog who expected to be kicked. Her heart softened a trifle. He did look very penitent, and his words rang with sincerity. He knew he’d been wrong, and knew whoever had told him to do such a bizarre thing had been wrong.

She rested her fingertips carefully on his forearm. With a look of vast relief, he led her toward the doors.

Outside, the June night had turned cool. Carriages bottled up King Street as coachmen tried to force their way in for their mistresses and masters. She craned her head to look for Lord Featherstone, but she did not see him. She could not see her own carriage either, nor, more disquieting, Maggie and Mr. O’Malley.

Mr. Henderson walked her a little way from the crowd and stopped in a place where Alexandra was less likely to be bumped or crushed. He kept her on his arm, and tugged a white handkerchief from his pocket.

“I would be honored, Mrs. Alastair,” he was saying, “if you would allow me to speak to you again. To see you again. Perhaps for a drive in Hyde Park, or perhaps we could walk in Vauxhall gardens. With your friends, of course,” he added hastily.

This was getting awkward. “Mr. Henderson, you did
not begin your acquaintance with me with any measure of trust.”

“I know.” A large black carriage lumbered toward them, and Alexandra took a little step back to protect her skirts from stray splashes of mud. Mr. Henderson went on, “I wish it for friendship’s sake only and to make you know how sorry I am.”