Chapter One #2
“She would not be disappointed if she would stop sticking her nose into my affairs. In any case, this butler gambit has turned into a battle for the ages between us so I suspect she cannot face giving it up. And look here, another bit of good news—you will not have to don that ridiculous court dress and make your curtsy to the queen. Queen Charlotte will not hold a drawing room this year. She’s probably too shook up over the king’s condition and that profligate son of hers being named regent. I’d be shook up too if I were her.”
No curtsy. That was an enormous relief. She’d seen what Winsome had gone through, encased in a cake of a dress and having to be made a spectacle of.
“I, for one, am happy to skip over that palaver,” the duke said.
“As am I,” Valor said. “I was going to be sick on the day, anyway. The consumption was going to come roaring back. I had a whole scheme set up where I would wet a small towel, hold it over the fire, and hold it against my forehead. Then I would ring my bell and it would seem as if I had a terrible fever. Now I do not need to go to the trouble.”
The duke laughed. “Chin up, my girl. We leave tomorrow morning and you will have Mrs. Right and Sir Galahad by your side.”
The “sir” in question, a chubby pug, was just now lying under the table in case anything was dropped there.
Valor thought she might take comfort in that.
The two beings in the world who knew all her secrets, their housekeeper and her dog, would be by her side to prop her up.
Then her sisters would be there to surround her when they got to Town.
They’d all written letters of encouragement, sent news of her nieces and nephews, and claimed they would have a jolly time together.
It must be enough. She took a deep breath to calm her anxiousness. It might be all right. Possibly. If her rare book collecting baron was out there somewhere.
*
Weston Nicolet, Viscount Tramondeley and heir to the Duke of Pelham, let the mainsail luff as they drifted toward the dock. The sun was on the rise and the French vessel they’d harried and teased all night sat far on the horizon. It was a fine morning on the Cornwall coast.
His valet and crewman, Stockton, got the jib down and leapt onto the pier with the bowline while Weston took the stern line.
They were bringing in the Athena, a Bermuda sloop, after a long night of sailing.
Weston had built her for her speed and agility and she was painted a very dark blue and her sails were dirty gray.
She was aptly named—just as the goddess Athena was known to do, the sloop donned her cap of invisibility while they were out on their nighttime prowls.
If Weston chose to show himself, he’d light a lamp for a brief moment and then snuff it, blending into darkness once more.
Even in the dawn light she was hard to spot—the waves and heaving sea and her matching colors making her as one with it.
It drove the French positively mad.
He’d been sailing since he was ten years old.
Several years ago, he’d been out at night just for the fun of it, he and Stockton practicing navigating by the stars.
A looming shadow had come out of nowhere and they found themselves outrunning a French frigate by tacking every which way and counting on their nimbleness to get away.
Since then, he’d turned the tables and been tracking French activity along the coast and sending messages to Sir Peter Parker, Admiral of the Fleet.
Weston had become aware that the French called him “Le Moustique,” or the Mosquito, for how he buzzed around them and let them know they were seen.
The admiral had also written to him that perhaps the greatest benefit in the whole scheme was that the superstitious French sailors began to see the Mosquito as a messenger of some sort of doom on the horizon.
Weston tied off the boat and hopped into his waiting carriage. As they made their way back to the house, he and Stockton passed a jug of hot coffee between them.
The house, his childhood home he supposed he’d call it, was a lonely structure high on a cliff and overlooking the sea.
It was relatively empty of people inside, but for Lord Ledderbey and a skeleton staff.
The lord was an old family friend and when Weston’s mother and father passed there had been nowhere else to go as Weston was thought to be too young to leave to his own devices and had flat-out refused to be sent to Eton.
Weston might be the Duke of Pelham’s presumptive heir, but that gentleman had not had an interest in taking him in.
He assumed the duke was annoyed that the entail would force his estate into Weston’s hands rather than his slew of daughters and the title would go to him too, in the natural order of things.
He’d heard that his father and the duke had never seen eye to eye on anything, so it must be particularly irksome.
For all that, he was not sorry about his circumstances.
Lord Ledderbey was a kind, elderly gentleman who’d never kept him on a tight leash and so he’d stayed long after he might have left.
Really, the gentleman did not generally know what he was up to at all.
He’d only in the past year found out about Weston’s night sails, though they’d been going on since he was sixteen.
When he and Stockton reached the house, which ought to be quiet at this early hour, they found Lord Ledderbey pacing the great hall in his dressing gown.
Weston rushed forward to the old gentleman. “What’s happened, my lord? Are you ill?”
“If I am, I would not be surprised. Thank heavens you are home, my boy. Never have I spent such a night in my life.”
Weston surreptitiously glanced around and scanned the windows.
He’d always had a worry that the French might find his exact location, land a dinghy, and come to the house.
He was certain they knew where he docked his boat, however, the house was some distance from the pier.
Anybody attempting to see where he went through a spyglass after he disembarked would not find success—the carriage would disappear behind a hill and be lost. For all that, they might put a man on the ground and figure it out someday.
He nodded to Stockton and his valet began working his way through the rooms looking for anything amiss.
“Come, my boy, into the library,” Lord Ledderbey said, shuffling in that direction.
Weston took him by the arm and helped him there. The old man collapsed into a chair. “First,” he said, “there was a pounding on the door sometime past two. Poor Jeremy answered it, scared out of his wits. Here is what was handed to him by a messenger on a fast horse.”
Lord Ledderbey handed over a sheet of paper that looked as if it had gone through the wars.
Viscount Tramondeley
It is with regret that I inform you that Admiral Peter Parker is dead.
(Natural causes. As you know, he was ill for some time) I am his personal secretary and have been aware of your communications to the admiral since the beginning.
Do not send any further dispatches here, as I do not know who will step into the post. I am making inquiries into where your valuable insights ought to be redirected.
Though, as you will soon see, perhaps they ought not be directed anywhere at all just now.
The admiral was in receipt of information only yesterday that he’d intended to communicate to you at the earliest possible moment.
He did not get the chance, so I will do so now.
He was alerted to the idea that the French know your approximate location and there is some idea of them attempting to locate you.
Beyond that, we do not know their plan. Is it to destroy the Athena?
Or perhaps make an end to the Mosquito himself?
The admiral was intent on you moving locations and did have the opinion that you ought to pause your activities for some months to perhaps give the idea that their problem with the Mosquito has ended.
The admiral was quite fretful over this and took the threat very seriously. I urge you to vacate that location, at least for the time being.
Regards,
Lawrence Cadwalker, Former Secretary to Admiral Peter Parker.
Weston folded the letter. He could not say he was surprised to hear of the demise of the admiral, though he was sorry to hear it.
They had been corresponding with one another for years and he had noticed over the past months that the admiral’s penmanship had begun to deteriorate and appear shaky in nature.
Weston would miss him indeed. He’d been only seventeen when he’d sent the first report and had a time of it convincing the admiral that it was true.
“Now, my boy,” Lord Ledderbey said, “far be it for me to open your private correspondence. However, when that correspondence arrives in the middle of the night while you’re out drifting round in the darkness on that little boat of yours, that is another matter.
I’d thought maybe it was the news that duke of yours was finally dead, which would have been welcome all round. ”
Weston nodded. Lord Ledderbey had been a friend of his father’s, so was forever aligned against the duke.
The fact that His Grace never bothered with his heir only cemented his ideas.
Weston, himself, did not harbor any particular feelings for the duke one way or the other, but for a bit of annoyance, though he absolutely did not wish him dead.
He was not ready to take on the ducal mantle; he had too much else to do.
“I think we will have to move, at least for now,” he said, “and I am sorry for that. I’ve put you in a terrible spot.”
Lord Ledderbey waved his hands. “All for England, what right do I have to complain about it? But that’s not the end of it. I’d just recovered from the shock of that first missive when another turned up just before dawn, and it’s a corker.”
Lord Ledderbey handed over another sheet of paper, this one looking far more pristine than the first.
Weston unfolded it.
Tramondeley—
I suppose I ought to have written before now, but boys are never up to much so I thought I’d wait until you reached your majority.
In any case, better late than never, eh?
Well, here you are and I look forward to seeing you in Town this season.
I understand Ledderbey does not keep a house in London so I’ve rented you one.
It’s on Grosvenor Square, number four, fine address, we are there too, just across the square.
It’s furnished and up to the mark so all you need do is turn up with your staff. Bring Ledderbey along if you like.
Turn up as soon as is convenient, the house is ready and a porter will let you in. We will not arrive until the eleventh, come to dine on the thirteenth.
Pelham
Good lord, the duke had finally decided to get in touch. What did he mean, he’d rented a house? It seemed rather high-handed. Weston had no intention of going to Town. He was far too busy here.
Weston paused. He was too busy here, but now he must be elsewhere.
Even if he were willing to take his chances, he could not leave Lord Ledderbey in danger.
He could not go out at night, leaving the old fellow here alone to defend himself from an attack.
The old fellow was deeply shaken over only letters arriving in the night, he’d fall over dead if the French breached his doors.
“You see how it is, I think,” Lord Ledderbey said. “I’d been pondering where we ought to go and then that mad duke writes that he’s rented us a house.”
“Why has he done it, though?” Weston asked.
Lord Ledderbey shrugged. “Who knows. From what I know about that individual, predictability and sense are not his strong suits. Your father always said he was eleven eggs short of a dozen.”
“I do not like this,” Weston said. “Am I to go to Town and swan around like a weak-minded dandy with no thought for anything but amusement?”
Lord Ledderbey snorted. “I cannot quite picture that. However, presenting yourself for a season is not the worst idea in the world. For one thing, you’ll make connections, far more than you ever could living in our lonely outpost. For another, you are getting of an age to consider marriage.
Every likely lady in England will be found there.
That’s been on my mind for a while, actually. ”
Weston did not say so, but marriage had been on his mind too.
He’d just been too busy to do anything about it.
As well, he was not certain what sort of lady would like to live on the coast of Cornwall and wave off her husband at night as he set off across a dark ocean in a small sloop.
He supposed she’d need to be a stalwart sort and having never set foot in London he was not certain how many of them existed.
“In any case,” Lord Ledderbey said, “I believe we can view this as a two-birds-with-one-stone situation. We cannot stay here, and the Duke of Pelham has conveniently rented us a house.”
Weston nodded. As improbable as it was, he could see no other solution. Hours ago, he’d been happily harrying a French ship and now he was to go play nice in Town with the duke who had ignored him all his life. What a world.
Stockton returned from his touring of the house. “Everything is in order, my lord,” he said.
“Excellent. Now hold on to your hat, Stockton. We depart for London on the morrow. I’m to have a season, apparently.”
“London? A season? In London?”
Those questions were posed in a tone of utter disbelief. “Go get some sleep and then get the trunks packed, I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Stockton, ever the disciplined navy man, recovered himself, nodded, and set off to do his lord’s bidding.
“Do you suppose we’ll really have to go to Pelham’s house for dinner?” Lord Ledderbey asked.
“I imagine so,” Weston said.
“Careful there, the duke might be thinking of a match between cousins,” Lord Ledderbey said. “I believe the youngest of that parade of women is not yet wed. At least, so says my sister in her ongoing effort to send me gossip I do not want.”
Weston laughed, the first time he’d done so all morning.
If the duke had any ideas of a match, he was indeed eleven eggs short of a dozen.
The very idea that he’d take on a duke’s daughter was absurd.
He’d already met one of their ilk and had not enjoyed the experience.
A lady raised in a ducal household would be far too particular for his taste.
That sort imagined the whole world admired them.
Let her find a delicate dandy who handed out posies of compliments and they could prance preciously through life together.
The duke might have rented him a house, but that generosity would not buy him any influence over his heir.