Buch lesen: «The Trouble With Misbehaving»

Chapter 1

London, England, 1864

Captain Beauford Tollier knew the glue-like qualities of trouble. The stuff collected on him like burrs on wool socks. Over the years he’d devised a somewhat reliable rule—trouble avoided was trouble contained.

Hence, when the first two letters arrived, he prudently tossed them into the fire. With the third, however, he let the note linger in his fingers a moment too long. Long enough for the vanilla and honeysuckle perfume to seep into his senses. Long enough for him to notice the elegant, swirling penmanship. And long enough to read the large purple letters emblazoned across the back:

“PROMISING THE HIGHEST REWARDS AND BENEFITS.”

Trouble.

Yet here he stood at the designated fountain in London’s Cremorne Pleasure Gardens. In front of him, horns trumpeted a polka in the tall Chinese bandstand. Below, hundreds of colorful lamps shimmered over the dance platform where seemingly half of London bobbed and weaved.

Beau leaned against a flagpole and opened his pocket watch—eleven p.m.—the appointed time. Where was the mysterious letter writer signed only as C.C.?

Bells suddenly jangled in a nearby arcade. Tension riveted his spine. Spies often set traps with enticing words. But the letter’s mystery and its author’s persistence had tweaked his infernal curiosity.

Tapping his foot, he peered about the swarms of festive patrons milling around him. He shouldn’t be here. His return to England was to be a new start. He’d made a vow—if he survived the Yankee prison he would reunite with his brothers and change his life. Still, anticipation buzzed through his veins.

He flicked open his program, scanned it and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Families still left at dusk. Now only roistering men and women remained. Save for a novel act or two, a dozen years hadn’t altered the variety of amusements and death-defying feats. Hot air balloons, operettas, circuses and tightrope walkers still entertained. He yawned—child’s play, really. Little could rival the excitement of blockade-running.

In the distance, a steam calliope whistled a merry tune. Aromas of coffee and hot grog tugged his attention to the outdoor café where flashy women ringed dainty tables. He brushed his hand over his jacket pocket and felt the note crinkle under his fingertips. Could one of those women be the mysterious letter writer?

“Dawdling won’t get you tuppence here. If you want one o’ ’em, ask her for a dance. Then negotiate.”

Beau flinched at the strange voice. With all the noise and commotion surrounding him, he hadn’t noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen step to his side. He narrowed his eyes on them.

The mustachioed fellow rattled on, “Got to exert yourself. That’s the way of it here at these pleasure gardens.” He motioned toward the crowded dance platform where a sea of hats and bonnets and every kind of suit and gown imaginable bounced about in something resembling more of a bacchanal than a polka.

“The tarts here do not solicit acquaintance. Got to be asked,” his friend said and adjusted his bowler hat.

Rockets burst overhead and exploded through the mist into flowering streams of silver. Beau’s sinews seized. Ghostly images of flying shrapnel and live shell fell all around him. “Take cover!” gurgled in his throat. He clutched the flagpole, gasped for air, pulled at his cravat and fought the panic rioting inside.

The man with the mustache stared, eyes bulging. “N-not that one o’ ’em wouldn’t be thrilled to accommodate a f-fine bloke such as yourself. Not to worry. London’s trollops are a friendly sort. That’s just how it’s done here at Cremorne.”

Beau dragged in desperate breaths. Even with the cool fall air floating in off the Thames, the boom of fireworks made him break into a sweat. Frustration boiled in his gullet. He’d come here to find out what ‘Rewards and Benefits’ meant, not fend off his lingering battle demons.

After nearly fifty runs through the blockade he’d lost his nerve, quite effectively ending his blockade-running career. Fortunately, he’d saved a tidy sum, but the money wouldn’t last. Even an earl’s third son needed to keep up appearances. With any luck, the letter writer would offer generous pay for legitimate, peaceful work. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Heart still pounding, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket. “Blast!” He yanked it out again. The paper cut him! He knew better than to allow an infernal letter to tempt his curiosity. A more superstitious mariner would take it as a sign. He should leave.

Vacillating, he rubbed his stinging finger and studied the men. They didn’t seem dodgy enough to have sent the letter, but they were too friendly. He didn’t like friendly. And what made them think he didn’t know London? Was it his tan? He needed to get rid of them. “Perhaps you could show me how one procures…a tart.”

The bowler-hatted man gave him a crooked smile. “All right. It’s not so difficult. Remember, they got to make a living. Pick out one you fancy, be polite and ask.” He tipped his hat toward several women sitting at a nearby table. One smiled back. He soon disappeared with the woman into the mass whirling around the bandstand.

His friend twiddled his mustache and grinned. “Good on him. See? Easy. That’s how it’s done.”

Beau checked his pocket watch…six minutes past eleven. The letter writer was late. Patience had never been his virtue, but tardiness nearly gave him fits. The last time someone kept him waiting he’d been forced to confess to a lie to save his crew and was nearly hanged.

A ticklish skitter climbed his torso. Another grazed his face. He slowly peered around. Union spies had trailed him before. He’d been shocked by the amount of intelligence his nemesis, Union Navy Commander Rives, presented at his trial. Rives promised a bullet to the brain if he ever saw him again. Enough. Time to leave.

“Captain Tollier?”

The soft American accent pinched a raw nerve. He lurched around toward the woman’s voice. Dear God in Heaven. Fireworks exploded overhead in the grand finale. All Beau heard was a distant ringing.

Diamond lights sparkled in the large, dark-lashed eyes gazing up at him. Tight sable ringlets framed creamy skin. High cheekbones lent strength to a comely heart-shaped face. A thin, straight little nose tipped up with just a trace of determination. And her lips, oh, her full, soft lips were made to bedevil a man’s imagination.

At first he thought her a delicate maiden. In the next instant, she pursed those lovely lips ever so slightly to reveal an edge and maturity that hinted older. And with closer examination, her charming womanly curves suggested older as well. Surely this spectacular creature couldn’t be the C.C.

Stunned, he couldn’t respond, only watch her study his face and give him a smile—a very pretty smile—white teeth, a dimple on her soft left cheek. The glamour of it spurred stirrings he’d not felt in nearly a year.

“Oh dear, I must have been mistaken. Terribly sorry.” She turned to walk away.

An elbow dug into his side. The mustachioed man shot him a look of disbelief and gave a quick nod in her direction.

Rubbing his rib, Beau’s mind finally snapped into gear. “May I help you, miss?”

She turned back. “If you aren’t Captain Tollier, then no. I’m very sorry to bother you.”

Curiosity wrestled with uncertainty. She couldn’t have written the letter, could she? Stunning women made very beguiling spies, yet something about her didn’t quite fit the part. Sweeping his hat from his head he smiled, “And if I were he?”

“Then you’d know who you were. Do you know who you are?”

He couldn’t decide if her tone held a joke or condescension.

American women. They spoke the same language, for the most part, but if he wasn’t mistaken, this one’s cheekiness included a subtle challenge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mustached fellow angle his arm for another shot to his ribs.

Beau quickly stepped to the side. “If I should happen to make his acquaintance, who might I say is enquiring?” He flashed her his dazzling smile. The one that usually brought blushes to even the most hardened old harridans.

A graceful brow rose.

The intensity of her gaze sharpened as she openly assessed his new black top hat; took careful note of his face; measured the breadth of his shoulders; inspected his new suit, cravat, starched shirt, waistcoat and burnished boots; slowly drew her gaze upward to his lips and then directly into his eyes.

Beau found himself straightening to attention. For a man of the world and a former Royal Navy officer, he’d never experienced a more unabashed, thorough inspection. His voice came out a little too tight and stern. “Do I pass muster, madam?”

Humor flashed in her eyes, hitting him like an electric jolt. His gaze flew to her delectable mouth. More curiosity stirred.

The music swelled into another rollicking polka.

Peripherally, he saw ‘mustache’ nodding his head toward the bandstand.

Nothing about this supposed business meeting had been typical, but life and freedom were meant to be enjoyed. Why not dance with a pretty woman? Beau could ask questions with her in his arms as well as anywhere else. “Shall we take a turn about the dance floor?”

She turned to him in surprise. “You know this new polka, Captain?”

Her response gave him pause. Women had often complimented him on his dancing. How hard could it be? He glanced at the dancers’ antics while positioning his hat on his head. “We’ll soon find out.”

***

C.C. placed her gloved hand on his arm and let him lead the way toward the packed dance platform. Could this truly be Captain Tollier? Having not met him until now, she’d counted on his portrait, painted a dozen years before, to at least somewhat resemble him.

Above, the orchestra increased its tempo. Couples spun faster, skipped and twirled in wild gyrations, barely missing one another. She gazed about the roiling mass of bodies.

Discussions would be difficult on the rowdy dance floor, and the stakes were too high to risk misinterpretation. Though C.C. grew up in New York, after her father’s death, her mother moved back to be with her family in North Carolina. Now they were in desperate need of her help. It was imperative she persuade Captain Tollier to take her through the Union blockade.

“We must discuss my proposal. The gardens are quieter,” she shouted over the music and pulled on his arm to guide him toward the path around the platform.

His brow rose and a glint sparked in his deep-set aqua-blue eyes. Magnetism hit her like a gale-force wind. Her pulse began to pound in her ears. Laws, what had she been thinking? Dealings of this sort should take place in a dignified business setting with no prying ears.

When the captain didn’t answer her first two proper meeting requests, she’d reckoned he might respond better to something rather improper. It had worked, but now she wondered at the wisdom of that bright idea.

As they moved through the throng, the sweet smell of cinnamon apple tarts eddied on the breeze. Deafening cheers erupted from the game booths. Suddenly, the crowd surged. A large man nearly knocked her off her feet.

The captain circled a muscular arm around her shoulder, steadying her. “I know a shortcut. Let me lead the way,” he announced, his deep voice full of command. The side of her body locked against his tingled, even as his assumption of control began to annoy.

She needed to keep charge of the situation. This whole endeavor depended on her ability to work with this man. He’d a reputation for being wily and unpredictable and clever as a fox. No doubt he’d an impressive stubborn streak as well. But then, he was a captain.

As he forged a path through the chaotic revelers, she slyly studied him. Pleasant features could hide all sorts of unpleasantness. Of this she was well aware. His younger, callow portrait had resembled a blond Adonis, and accounts of his bravery and adventures had kept her spellbound.

Now up close, she could see his face had become leaner, more honed. Years at sea had weathered his skin, transformed the handsome face of a youth into that of a formidable man. Strength and resolve now etched his striking features, carved distinction into the shrewd line of his jaw and made his lips all the more sensuous with an added cynical curve.

Heavens! Desist! She sounded like a starry-eyed girl. She tore her gaze from him as they entered the shadowy gardens’ main walkway. Scents of vegetation wove through the air. Fog had rolled in off the Thames, cloaking the elms’ and poplars’ branches in a murky haze. Goddess-shaped lampposts stood on the long path like sentries guarding the well-tended flowerbeds. Their gauzy areoles of light marched into the distance.

“I take it you are familiar with Cremorne?” the captain drawled.

Were her ears playing tricks on her, or did that certain note in his voice refer to the garden’s ribald reputation after dusk? Surely he didn’t think this meeting included something a little more ribald, did he?

C.C. cut him a quick glance and tried to smile. “Oh yes, it is most enjoyable. I bring the children here when they’re good. We especially like the games. The darling poppets and toy prizes make nice rewards.”

“Poppets? Toys?” He sounded confused. “Something must be amiss. The letter said highest rewards and benefits?” He quickly cut her a glance and said in astonishment, “You have children?”

“They’re not mine, exactly. They live at the Freesdale Orphanage.”

“You keep looking around. Is your husband aware of this meeting?”

“Husband. Dear me, that is funny.” She attempted a laugh. “I’m looking for an empty bench where we can sit and talk.” She gazed down the long line of couples strolling the pathways. “So many people are here tonight.”

His white teeth flashed mischievously. “We probably could find someplace more secluded if you like.”

Her pulse launched into an uneven skip. Oh he was a rascal. This meeting at Cremorne was beginning to look more and more misguided. For goodness’ sake, she’d taken such care with everything, including her no-nonsense business attire: a worn shopkeeper’s gown, hair in a plain style and a brush of coal dust. All to avoid recognition by acquaintances and hopefully ensure Captain Tollier took her seriously.

She drew herself up primly. “Since you didn’t answer either of my first two letters, I assume something in them didn’t meet with your liking.” Tonight she was determined to discover what those things were. “If we can find a calm, quiet place to discuss my proposal, I feel confident we can come to an amicable agreement.”

***

Beau extended his arm to point. “Look, there in the fog, I think I see a bench.” As they made their way toward it, they passed under a lamp allowing him a closer examination. Nothing about this mysterious woman added up. Not a bauble or jewel adorned her person. Her coarse shawl and worn, dark-purple, high-necked gown might indicate any number of occupations.

What was she? A shopgirl? A governess? A Union spy? A tart? He studied her entrancing lips. A kiss might identify one vocation. Yet the way she carried herself shouted prim, proper and upper crust. If he were to needle her in the right manner, he’d not be surprised to find the airs and graces of a ‘papa’s little princess.’

Enough. He needed some answers. He pulled her to a stop. Taking her hand, he kissed a gloved knuckle. Her enticing vanilla and honeysuckle perfume blossomed through his senses—the same fragrance as on the letter. Lord, she smelled good. How long had it been since he’d even noticed a woman’s perfume?

Clearing his throat, he said, “Now then. Would I be correct if I said your initials are C.C.?”

“Yes, they are,” she said with an air of self-possession.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he never would have imagined a woman like her. “Why have you asked me to meet you here tonight?”

She waited for a couple to walk past before leaning in to whisper, “Did you not read the letters?”

He pulled the note from his jacket pocket and held it up. “I read this one.”

Her features tightened. “You should have received two more. Did you read them?”

Rather than deny he’d gotten the letters, he merely said, “No.”

Two elegant brows drew into a frown. She lifted her chin. “Why not?”

He almost laughed at her presumptuousness. Who was she to take him to task for not reading her letters? She reminded him of an autocratic Greek tutor he’d once had, although he found her much more interesting. “Madam, before a few minutes ago, you were a total stranger. When I receive unsolicited letters from unknown addressees, alas, they go into the fire.”

“Into the fire!” She rocked on her feet and glared up at him, her ringlets bouncing to and fro. “If you’d bothered to read them, you would have found that my man of business set forth the whole proposal in detail!”

Well, well now wasn’t she a feisty one…so direct and so…different. “Perhaps you could give me the short version,” he drawled, unable to keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Ordinarily he might take offense at her plain speaking. Instead, her uninhibited boldness made him want to laugh. He could almost see sparks sputtering around her tight hair coils and rather enjoyed ruffling her.

She glanced about them again, waited for another couple to pass and said in a quiet clipped tone, “The short version is that I am in desperate need of your help and expertise.”

“To do what?” He grinned.

Cannon blasts pummeled the air and shook the ground. The percussion slammed him in the chest and knocked him back a step. All the air disappeared. He clutched his arms to his sides, gasped for air and hoped to God this very attractive woman couldn’t see how his nerves were fraying.

In the distance, a stentorian voice announced the reenactment of a battle. Even though his mind knew the cannon fire was only an exhibition, his body couldn’t be so easily convinced.

Concern etched C.C.’s countenance. “Are you all right?” She gently placed a gloved hand against his cheek, tipping his head down.

He had the oddest sensation of falling into fathomless eyes filled with compassion, calm strength and a steely will—a mooring of sorts.

Rifle volleys sent sharp waves screaming through him. He clenched again, and struggled to mirror her slow inhale and exhale. Gradually, his rigid sinews began to loosen.

“Do you have difficulties with London’s air, too, Captain?”

“How did you do that?” he gasped.

“Kipp, a little boy at the orphanage, has weak lungs. His brother showed me how to help him when he has an attack.”

Beau had never experienced anything like it. In those silent, breathless moments he’d sensed a connection form between them. But was it an illusion? Another trick from a lady of the evening or a spy?

The cursed prickles began treading up his spine again. Cringing, he slowly peered over his shoulder. If C.C. was standing in front of him, who was spying on him from behind?

Several couples strolled toward them out of the fog.

Clutching her elbow, he led her across the manicured lawn into a copse of trees.

“What are you do—”

He swung them behind a tree and peered out. Whatever she wanted to talk about suddenly lost importance. The villains following him were the more immediate problem.

“Tell me—”

“Shhhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips.

Two men in top hats stepped off the gravel path and picked their way across the lawn.

Beau marched C.C. deeper into the grove around trees and shrubs. Then through an archway of fragrant vines to a fountain struggling to reflect hazy moonlight. They needed to stay quiet and hidden.

“Before you drag me any further into the bushes—”

Didn’t the woman know the meaning of shhhh? She would give away their hiding place if he didn’t do something quick. He pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his. Mint and vanilla filled his senses.

Her sweet, almost maidenly response surprised him. No, she probably wasn’t a tart. Just a hasty stolen kiss, yet he couldn’t help appreciate the tantalizing fit of her supple lips under his and how her body softened against him. His heart stammered and launched into a faster beat. Lifting his head, he gazed about her bewildered, upturned countenance, breathlessly poised for a man’s kisses. Hmm, not entirely a maiden either.

Perhaps another quick kiss would clarify matters?

Alarms blared through his mind, but the evening’s stresses muted their warning. Months of wondering if each day would be his last had his inner voice insisting: live life when it’s handed to you…it could end in a heartbeat.

He lowered his head and softly brushed her lips.

Though clearly not experienced, she returned his caress with such tenderness he couldn’t describe why it felt so thrilling, so right. They’d just met, yet she kissed him as if she was…as if they were…well, something more than strangers.

She circled her arms around his neck and leaned into him. This spurred him further. He angled his head for a better fit; she moved to accommodate. Warmth trickled into the damaged, hollow place in his heart. For the first time in a very long while he allowed himself the comfort of human contact, and he couldn’t keep his starved longing from entering his caress. Lifting her off her feet, he held her tight in his arms.

C.C. responded with a sigh and melted into him, sending shocks through his torso. A sensual fog clouded his mind. His heart thumped wildly and another part grew uncomfortably insistent. The woman wasn’t joking when she promised the Highest Rewards and Benefits.

Hazy thoughts struggled through overloaded senses.

No. This was too convenient. He still didn’t know why she’d sent him the notes. Two men were trailing him. Was she really a spy? He set her down. “Madam, this better not be a trap.”

At his words, she pushed out of his arms. Her confused expression sharpened. “If you’d responded to the first two letters we wouldn’t be tromping around a darkened pleasure garden at nearly midnight.”

“Quiet,” he breathed, as he peered around for their pursuers. “Four words, madam. What’s this about?”

“The Roundabout…the blockade.” Her voice quavered between gasps.

The Roundabout? How did this woman know about his ship? “I don’t understand.”

“I need your help. You have the experience and knowledge to help my family—”

Footsteps crackled through the leaves and grass only a few feet away. A deep, gravelly voice rasped through the gloom, “It was her, I tell you. She went into this grove with some bloke. Keep looking.”

She went into this grove with some bloke? They were chasing C.C. and not him? Beau’s protective nature marched to the fore. He pushed her behind him and peered out from the side of the bower. Two large figures clomped toward them. A breeze carried the stench of stale sandalwood and sweat. One of the men coughed so badly he bent over double.

C.C. gasped behind him and he could only make out a few of her muttered words: “Not again…that insufferable termite.” Before he could stop her, she scurried out the back of the bower and disappeared into the fog.

***

Miss Calista Collins dashed from hedge to tree on quivering legs. Indecision dogged her wobbly retreat. After three and a half years the War Between the States had slowly dismantled the South. Now her family in North Carolina desperately needed her help, and Captain Tollier was the only man she would trust to take her through the Union blockade.

Laws, he’d actually kissed her…and she’d kissed him back! She fingered her lips and drew in a ragged breath. Should she try to find him again, or leave Cremorne? She couldn’t decide. His kisses had scrambled her wits. And drat him, the captain didn’t even know the extent of her business proposal because he’d thrown her letters into the fire!

Now those two scoundrels had ruined everything. Did they suspect her real reason for being here?

A branch snapped behind her. She turned. All she could see was swirling fog. It could be Captain Tollier, or it might be the coughing villain who’d been loitering on her street corner.

Nothing had gone as planned. After all her work and forethought she’d not been prepared for any of it…the captain’s dazzling charm or his lusty manner or…the sun-kissed lights in his honeyed hair.

Another branch crackled, sending her scampering into a nearby vine-covered arbor.

“Oh!” a woman yelped.

“Christ!” growled her partner.

The couple’s odd silhouette quite shocked C.C. “Oh, my, I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” Gasping, she quickly backed out and skittered to another hedge. This evening’s events had stretched her nerves to a frazzle, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The air was indeed dense tonight. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her wheezes, only to be reminded of the captain’s kisses.

Kissing had never much appealed to her. Only a handful of men had made the attempt. Anything more than a quick peck made her feel slobbered on—like her aunt’s Basset hound’s kiss. But when the captain pulled her into his arms and sealed his soft, full lips over hers the unexpected pleasure stunned her.

Now annoyance struggled with unwanted desire. How had he enticed her into doing things totally contrary to her character and certainly not on her agenda? It had been years since she’d found a man irresistible. And that had ended in disaster.

She didn’t like how the captain’s kisses alternately bewildered and sent thrills through her, or that her treacherous body melted so comfortably into his.