Midnight Mistress Page 12

  “Well, I vow, the girl was a goosecap and no mistake,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes commented as she reached for another cake.

  “Indeed,” Millicent Peak sniffed. “Everyone knows that shade of blue has been right out since last Season. Quite shatterbrained to wear such a travesty. Très not the thing.”

  “I heard that her father lost a fortune at cards,” Meg offered from her seat at the edge of the room. “If she is forced to wear the green bonnet, perhaps she could not afford a new gown.”

  “Then she should have stayed at home rather than foisting such a spectacle on her friends,” Mr. Hamilton intoned.

  “Dashedly inconsidewate,” Lord Renquist agreed. “Yes, just a touch more tea, my deawr.”

  Juliana dutifully filled Renquist’s teacup and tried her best to take interest in the conversation. These people had come here to offer their support, but she could not help thinking that their conversation seemed a bit trifling. True, a few months ago she could have easily spent hours discussing the “travesty” of an unfortunate fashion choice, but the depth of the affront paled besides the much greater disasters that had come across her desk.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Meg stifling a yawn. “I fear Meg and I are both sadly out of step. But do you not think that we might be better served by turning our minds to a far greater affront?”

  Mr. Hamilton took a pinch of snuff. “Greater than that fright of a gown? Gad, what could be worse than that?”

  Juliana set down the pot, wondering if the gentleman was jesting with her. “The war, sir. I know from my shipping reports that Napoleon’s forces are growing in strength daily. He attacks us on land and sea, and if the tide does not turn soon, I fear—”

  “Fiddle,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes commented as she waved her lace handkerchief in disinterest. “You give too much credence to that French upstart. He is of no consequential breeding.”

  “I believe the defeated noblemen of Spain and Italy would differ in their opinion,” Juliana muttered.

  “Lady Juwiana has a point,” Lord Renquist offered. “Napoleon may be low-born, but he knows the business end of a sword. He is qwite clever, for a fwog. And then, there is the spy.”

  “What spy?” Juliana and Meg asked in unison.

  “Why, the spy, my dears,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes intoned as she stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her cup. “The spy in the Admiralty. Lord Renquist has told us all about him. ’Tis rumored that he is passing all manner of secrets to Bonaparte right under their noses. I have it on good authority that he even absconded with the Majorca papers.”

  “ ’Tis true,” Mr. Hamilton echoed. “Lord Renquist and I are attached to the Admiral of the White, and his office talks of nothing else. Demmed tedious, that.”

  “Tedious?” Juliana said incredulously.

  “But is it not vastly romantic?” Millicent giggled. “Imagine—a cunning spy risking life and limb to thwart the Admiralty. ’Tis like a novel.”

  “ ’Tis nothing of the sort! You speak of a villain who has given our country’s secrets to the foulest madman the world has ever known.”

  “Fiddle,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes said. “Napoleon is a low-bred cur, and his troops are no better. Hardly worth our attention.”

  Juliana bit her tongue. After all, they were not privy to the same reports that she was. Even Mr. Hamilton and Lord Renquist, who held positions at the Admiralty, might not have a clear view of what was truly going on. “ ’Tis possible that you do not fully comprehend the threat this monster poses. But reports of Napoleons victories cross my desk every day. He is eating up countries like a child eats pudding. The only thing that is holding him at bay is our brave sailors and soldiers, who are giving their lives for our freedom. Surely they are worth your attention?”

  “Quite,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes sniffed.

  “Most assuredly,” Millicent Peak agreed as she stroked the trim of her ermine muff back into place.

  “Goes without saying,” Mr. Hamilton sniffed.

  Lord Renquist asked, “Have you any more of these spwendid cakes?”

  Juliana stared at the guests as if they’d lost their senses. “But men are dying!”

  “There, there,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes soothed her. “You must not work yourself into the vapors over this. It is quite understandable that you should feel so violently about this. After all,” she added as she cast a sly look at her companions, “I am sure you are feeling the influence of working so closely with your tame pirate.”

  “My what?”

  Miss Peak lifted her gloved hand to her face and twittered affectedly. “Oh, Juliana, surely you know that is what they call your Captain Gabriel. It must be vastly entertaining to have a notorious privateer at your beck and call. Quite a hum.”

  “Capital jest,” Hamilton added.

  “It has made you all the rage,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes agreed with a judicious nod of her ostrich-plumed head. “I must admit, when I first heard of your scheme to enter into business, I thought the act outré.” But you have conquered, my dear. Everyone is in awe of your cleverness in gaining such a coup—even Lady Jersey cannot touch your popularity. I vow, you shall be the be the talk of the Season without even taking the first step at Almack’s.”

  “Without compare,” Miss Peak agreed. “And now, we were hoping—as we are such good friends—if you would allow us to view the captain. Up close, I mean. We have seen him at parties, at a respectable distance. But to talk directly with a man of such ruthless reputation—what a lark that would be! Could you arrange it?”

  For a long while, Juliana did nothing but stare at her tightly clucked knuckles. Then she spoke in a voice as calm as the sea before a squall. “Am I to understand that you all have come here to—now, how exactly did you put it—to view the captain? As if he were on display, like those poor madmen at Bedlam?”

  Lord Renquist fluffed his cravat. “Well, I should not put it exactly like that.”

  “And how would you put it? That you are a self-centered fop who has not a thought in his head but for his own amusement?”

  “I say!” Hamilton started. “That was a bit uncalled-for. Not at all the thing.”

  “Completely,” Miss Peak echoed. “You should not say such things about dear Lord Renquist. Why, the regent is considering him for a knighthood.”

  “I don’t care if he’s being considered for sainthood!” Juliana rose to her feet, her temper rising with her. “While you sit here in your silks and satin, brave men like Captain Gabriel are dying for our country. He is worth ten of your kind—a hundred.”

  Mrs. Chapman-Bowes fluttered her fan in alarm. “Lady Juliana, you are becoming a spectacle yourself. And over a man of no breeding.”

  “His courage gives him breeding. He has more honor in his finger than you have in your whole powdered and patched body. And if any of you had an ounce of sense, you would consider it an honor to shake his hand, instead of treating him like some sort of carnival oddity—”

  She paused as she became aware that all three of her visitors were staring past her shoulder at her office door.

  “I have the ship’s manifests you were waiting for,” rumbled a voice like quiet thunder.

  Juliana turned and saw Connor standing in the doorway. Had he overheard their inconsiderate words? Worse, had he been listening during her impassioned defense? Emotions far too tangled to sort out brought a furious blush to her cheek. “Tha-thank you, Captain. My visitors were just—”

  “—just leaving,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes finished as she rose grandly to her feet. “The lady has made it quite clear that she prefers other classes of company. We shall not trouble you again. Come, Lord Renquist, Mr. Hamilton, Miss Peak.”

  Mr. Hamilton did not have to be told twice. He skirted Connor like a wary mouse skittering past a resting lion. Miss Peak was less eager to leave. She gazed at Connor like a star-struck debutante. “But he is here, madam. Could we not just stay awhile and—”

  “We are leaving!” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes hustled th
e girl past the captain, then turned to give Juliana a final scathing glance. “I am the soul of forgiveness, but you have behaved most uncivilly to me, Lady Juliana. You have not heard the end of this. Now, be so good as to have someone escort us out.”

  Meg jumped to her feet. “I’ll do it,” she stated. And, as she passed Juliana, she added quietly, “ ’Twill be a pleasure to close the door behind these prattle-boxes.”

  After they left, Juliana sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her arms in front of her. She glanced at Connor, who had not moved from the doorway. “I am sorry if you heard what they were saying. It was unconscionable.”

  “I have endured far worse,” he said simply. “But I’ll admit—I did not expect our fighting men to be so well defended.”

  His expression never changed, and yet she felt a warmth curl through her at the compliment, a pleasure she hadn’t felt since her days at sea, when her only judges were the waves and wind and her only goal a steady course.

  She shook her head. “Mrs. Chapman-Bowes is a powerful woman. Her word in the right ear can make or break a reputation—and I do not think she was mightily impressed by my behavior. ’Tis possible she could damage my position in society … and Father was so proud of what I’d accomplished. He would be mightily disappointed in me.”

  For a long while Connor said nothing. Then he walked over to the office window, and looked out at the busy Thames. “I believe you are right. Your father would have been disappointed in you. After all, if you were a truly savvy businesswoman, you would have promoted me as a carnival oddity, and charged a penny for the viewing. Your father was never one to miss a chance at easy profit.”

  Connor turned around and looked at her, his eyes gleaming. And for the first time in years, the two shared a smile.

  These were good days for Juliana. Long days, to be sure, for she worked harder than she ever had in her life. But being near Connor made the time fly by. After the day she defended him against her peers, he no longer avoided her office and often stopped by to discuss the cargo shipments and trade routes. When they sat down across the desk from each other, they were no longer the great lady and the notorious privateer—they were simply two people who shared the same dream, to make the Marquis Line a success. And because neither was the kind to change course without a fight, that shared dream sometimes resulted in an argument that could be heard by the whole of Wapping.

  “No, no, no,” Connor stated as he paced Juliana’s office one afternoon in early March. “You cannot give Captain Jamison the Reliant. The ship is bound for India, and Jamison has barely got his sea legs.”

  “But he has a sharp mind and a brave heart,” Juliana argued as she sat at the desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. “Here, look at this. Jamison’s first request for command is dated over a year ago. He deserves a chance to prove his worth.”

  “God’s teeth, woman, we are not running a charity! Jamison is a fine man, but he lacks seasoning. Now, there is a command—” He shuffled through the papers on Juliana’s desk as if it were his own. “Here. The Lisbon convoy. It leaves in a week’s time with three of our ships. He can pilot the Pelican.”

  Juliana rolled her eyes. “Connor, I could pilot the Pelican on the Lisbon route. ’Tis a biscuit run.”

  “ ’Tis a biscuit run past the coast of France. I agree that nothing is likely to happen—Bonaparte is after ordnance, not tea and sugar. But the winds off the Bay of Biscay can be challenging in this season, and it will be a good test of his mettle. If he performs well on the run, we can consider him for a command on the next long voyage.” He sat on the edge of her desk and crossed his anus across his chest, grinning. “You know that I am right.”

  He was. Dammit. During the past month Connor’s advice had been unerringly right. He had an almost uncanny sense of matching man and ship and of ensuring that the merchant cargo arrived on time. His knowledge of the trade routes, his familiarity with the ports—and his considerable skills at persuasion—had convinced even recalcitrant merchants such as Atticus Lovejoy of the powerful Lovejoy and Sons to continue to ship with the line. Juliana could not help but be grateful for his assistance. Any more than she could help being swayed by his infectious charm.

  Of course, according to the Morning Post’s society column, Connor had been using that infectious charm with great success on several of the haute ton’s sophisticates.

  She told herself that the irritation she felt was not jealousy, just an owners justifiable concern for the safety of her ships. “All right. I shall assign Jamison to convoy duty. And to make sure of his success I shall assign Tommy Blue as mate, to assist him if he runs into trouble.”

  “You could—if Blue were here. He took off two days ago leaving a note that he was needed on personal business.”

  Juliana frowned. “That does not sound at all like Tommy. Do you think it had something to do with … well, with Connor Reed?”

  Connor shrugged. “Tommy never gave any hint he recognized me from the old days. And if he did, leaving for parts unknown wouldn’t be the course he’d set. But he’s a good man, and there’s no doubt he deserves some time on his own. He’ll be back when he’s finished his business. After all,” he said, flashing his devilish grin, “even a man Tommy’s age has a right to sow some wild oats.”

  When it came to charm, Connor had an arsenal of weapons, and his disarming grin was as deadly as a quarterdeck canon. But caution reminded her that behind that grin was a man who’d asked her to marry him—just before she saw him in another woman’s arms. Juliana bent to her desk and made a show of organizing her papers. “Very well, I’ll assign Billy Pike as mate to Jamison for the Lisbon convoy. I believe that will be all for this afternoon.”

  Connor arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Did I do something to offend you, my lady?”

  She schooled her features into her most pleasantly disinterested society smile. “La, sir, what could you have done that would offend me—or indeed, which would interest me in one way or another?”

  His grin didn’t waver, but there was a quick flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “Forgive me for my forwardness,” he commented evenly as he left the desk and went to the wall peg to retrieve his coat and hat. “I’ll trouble you no more today.”

  His smooth voice gave no hint that she’d wounded him, but she knew she’d hurt him, and she’d done it out of spite. She rose from the desk, propping her arms on it as she said, “Connor, wait. I … I am the one who should apologize. ’Twas a mean-spirited comment, one I should never have said. ’Tis just …” Humphing, she brought her palm down on the desk. “Good heavens, Connor. What could you possibly see in Kitty Shacklesford?”

  He frowned. “Who is—? Oh, you must mean the lady I met at Almack’s.”

  “The lady you danced with for four straight sets at Almack’s! Not that it is any of my business, but—”

  “No” he interrupted, his voice low. “It is not your business.”

  “The blazes it isn’t. Connor, that little cat may look prim and proper, but she is an outrageous flirt and mean as the devil. She cares more for her hats than she does for her suitors. She will break your heart.”

  “And what, my lady, makes you think that Kitty Shacklesford holds my heart?”

  Juliana’s heart pulled taut. During their weeks together, she had managed to fight down her attraction to Connor. But when he used that voice—that same, low, honey-smooth voice that he’d used on the night he’d asked her to marry him—her resolve melted like wax. She gripped the edge of her desk, reminding herself that they were employee and employer, that he’d once betrayed her for another, that there were a thousand reasons she should feel nothing for him. “Nevertheless, I must warn you against her society. She has no true regard for you.”

  Connor adjusted his cuffs, apparently more interested in them than her advice. “If I were you, I would not be so disparaging to Miss Shacklesford. By appearing to have me at her beck and call, she draws the attention of more socially prominent swains. She is on
ly endeavoring to find a suitable husband—like any well-bred society miss.”

  Like you. Juliana heard the condemning words as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud. Truthfully, she too had encouraged men to dangle after her for the sole purpose of appearing more popular. The fact that she regretted her actions now did little to make up her callousness. “You are right. In the past I have encouraged men for whom I had little affection, and the goal was to increase my social standing. It was heartless, and I regret my actions sorely. But it was the only way I knew to procure a good marriage. I wanted a family, Connor. I wished children of my own to love and cherish. Is that such a terrible thing to wish for?”

  “No, my lady,” he said, his voice suddenly as old as the sea. “It is all any of us wish for.”

  Juliana opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. She was bound in the strange, uncanny spell that happened whenever she looked into his eyes and saw the hint of heart beneath his ice-cool facade, the shadow of the boy she’d once known. And loved.

  In all the weeks they’d been together, he had never confided in her about his past. She knew no more of what had happened to him after he left her father’s house than she had on the day he had appeared in Lord Morrow’s ballroom. She had kept her questions to herself—considering the woman she’d seen in his arms on the night he left, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers. Still, they had worked side by side for months, and shared a camaraderie that she had rarely enjoyed with any other man. And there was a part of her that was mightily afraid that one day he would disappear just as suddenly as he had arrived.

  Her gaze skimmed to his sensuous lips, recalling the kiss that neither of them had spoken of since that day. He’d never hinted that the kiss in the commodore’s office meant anything to him other than a bargain fulfilled. And since then he’d never touched her. While she appreciated the respect he accorded her, there was a part of her that wished like the devil that he would forget she was his employer and take her in his arms for one more scandalous kiss.