Chapter Four #2
He chuckled. “What will it take for me to prove I love ye? And I do love ye with a fierce ache, Deandra.”
“Please don’t say that. How can you possibly?” She returned her attention to seeking more documents containing Crawley’s signature to compare with his letter.
“There must be a way for me to prove it.”
She blushed. “Why are you so persistent?”
“A man gets to an age,” he said, speaking like an old man although he was still in his prime, “where he knows a good thing when he sees it and dares not hesitate to grab the opportunity or risk losing it forever. I’ve seen a lot of the world. Experienced too much of it, especially the bad.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said gently, and he felt her sincerity.
“But those experiences have helped me to know a good thing when I see it. Ye gladden my heart, Deandra. I want to settle down and make a life with ye. Give it serious thought, will ye?”
“All right,” she said, releasing a ragged breath.
Since his words were only making her uncomfortable, Sean returned his attention to the letter he’d received from Crawley & Sons and concentrated on comparing its signature to various other documents signed by Crawley.
He also perused the body of those documents, comparing the handwriting to parts of his letter that were still legible.
Having forged papers on more than one occasion and been quite accomplished at it, he knew to look for the smallest details that might give a fake away.
By all the saints.
This letter was real.
This explained why that jealous lord, John Martingale, had tried to kill him. Crawley, thinking to soften the blow, must have gone to Martingale first to advise him that he was not going to be the next duke.
The man was a slimy, pompous weasel, and Sean could only imagine his rage upon learning that a no-account privateer stood between him and the Dearborne dukedom he’d been salivating to acquire since birth.
Martingale was not above dabbling in illegal dealings, and Sean knew every detail of his misdeeds because he was often the one to smuggle Martingale’s ill-gotten goods into England on the Drogheda.
It was a convenient cover for the serious work he undertook on behalf of the Crown, but Martingale would have no way of knowing this.
The man was hardly worth Sean’s notice, just one among many insignificant rats he’d encountered over the years while building his ruthless reputation.
What irony!
Sean had only ever smuggled harmless items such as lace, silks, wine, and the like for Martingale and others.
It was an easy business because army patrols and Crown revenuers were always open to bribery and looked the other way—especially in Cornwall, where smuggling was viewed more as a profession rather than an illicit way of life.
Nor was Sean in the habit of smuggling more than these harmless goods. He had to draw the line somewhere and stay true to his code of honor.
He’d made an occasional mistake, the most serious being the time he got himself caught up in smuggling weapons for certain unsavory Englishmen who turned out to be rebelliously attempting to overthrow the monarchy.
How was he to know?
Well, he should have figured it out at their first meeting.
He owed Draco his life for helping him out of that dangerous situation.
“What do you think, Captain McTavish?”
“Sean.”
“Captain McTavish,” she insisted. “Do you need to compare more documents?”
“No, Deandra. These will do.” He returned his thoughts to Martingale and what ought to be done now that he knew this letter was real. Of course, he should have realized it when Martingale had tried to kill him. That ought to have been proof enough.
Would the oafish lord attempt to kill him again?
Likely, but Sean now held all the power.
And he’d built up a reputation as a ruthless fellow, a man dangerous to cross. It would serve him well when he banished Martingale to the Continent and threatened him with death if he ever set foot in England again.
“Why are you frowning?” Deandra asked, cutting into his thoughts.
“Am I?”
“What’s your verdict? Are you the Duke of Dearborne?”
“Seems so.”
“It is a lot to take in, isn’t it?” She cast him another of her soft smiles that he simply loved because he saw so much genuine feeling behind it.
“Aye, lass.” He assisted Deandra in returning the papers to their proper location before following her into the library, where the afternoon tea had been delivered and was awaiting them.
He noticed Deandra’s father seated in one of the soft leather chairs beside the unlit hearth, a light blanket over his legs and a newspaper in his hands.
Lord Woodley looked up and smiled. “Ah, Deandra. You’ve brought a friend.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Sean was about to walk forward to greet him but paused when Deandra suddenly clutched his hand.
He glanced down, surprised. “What’s wrong, love?”
His heart gave a tug because she looked so forlorn. “He’s been reading that same page since this morning,” she whispered.
Sean placed an arm around her. “It’ll be all right. Let’s talk to him.”
She nodded and was obviously struggling to hold back tears as she introduced the two men. “Papa, this is…Captain Sean McTavish, a good friend of Draco’s. Captain McTavish, this is my father, Lord Albert Woodley.”
“Lord Woodley, it is a pleasure to meet ye,” Sean said, taking command when Deandra seemed too overset to speak. He settled her on the sofa near her father’s chair and then sat down beside her. “Would ye care for a cup of tea, sir?”
“Yes, thank you. I seem to be quite thirsty.” The man set aside his newspaper, absently tossing it on the floor.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” Sean asked.
“No, just the usual,” Woodley replied rather vaguely. “Are you a friend of my daughter’s?”
“A friend of Draco’s,” Sean replied, “as yer daughter just mentioned. But I understand he is not at home at the moment. Yer daughter has kindly offered me hospitality.”
“He must have gone into town. There’s an excellent tea shop there, and Imogen does love Mrs. Halsey’s strawberry tarts.
I expect Draco will return soon.” Woodley resumed sipping his tea, obviously having forgotten that Draco was in London and not in Moonstone Landing.
Nor did he make mention of Sean’s casual attire, which lacked a proper cravat, coat, or waistcoat.
Deandra cleared her throat. “Papa, Captain McTavish was injured and we’ve taken him into our home while he recovers.”
“Ah, not too badly hurt, I hope?” her father asked Sean.
“No, my lord. Just a few stitches needed. Yer daughter tended me and did a fine job of it.”
He smiled. “Deandra’s a clever girl. She can do anything she puts her mind to doing. She takes good care of me, too. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
Sean regarded the pair, fully realizing just how much Lord Woodley depended on his daughter. Perhaps he would wait a while before proposing to her again. The time did not seem right just now. Nor did he need to win the silly wager in order to claim a kiss.
He had already kissed Deandra and would kiss her again before he left Woodley Lodge. Once his Dearborne affairs were put in order, he would return to Moonstone Landing and beg for her hand in marriage.
Aye, he was not too proud to beg if this is what it took to win her heart. She already had his.
But how was he to prove it?
A few minutes later, Wescott knocked lightly at the open library door to gain their attention. “I beg your pardon, Lady Deandra…but Viscount Wimple and Constable Angel are here. Lord Wimple is insisting on their seeing you. He claims the matter is urgent.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh…I… Well, yes. Show them in.”
Sean rose in expectation of greeting them. He had come to know Constable Angel over the past few years and thought well of him. He was also curious about Wimple, his supposed competition, although he did not deem the viscount much of a challenge.
Deandra edged closer to him as an officious-looking gentleman strode in with an air of arrogance not a moment later.
He was dressed in the height of London fashion and looked even more out of place than Sean did because he wore a garish yellow jacket that had to attract every bee and gnat for miles around, sported an overly elegant knot in his silk cravat, and carried an ornate, ivory-handled walking stick that probably had a knife hidden within because going around even in this quiet village looking like a pompous dandy was going attract trouble.
“Lady Deandra, there is a most alarming rumor that you are housing a—”
Wimple stopped short and stared at Sean.
Constable Angel ambled in behind him, politely greeted Deandra and her father, and then turned to Sean. “A pleasure to see you again, Captain McTavish. What brings you to Moonstone Landing?”
“Some urgent business requiring the earl’s assistance,” Sean said. “Unfortunately, he isn’t home at the moment. Lord Woodley and Lady Deandra have been kind enough to have me as their guest despite his absence.”
“A guest?” Lord Wimple said with a disdainful snort. “Lady Deandra, are you aware of this fellow’s true identity? You are harboring a dangerous pirate in your midst.”
Deandra tipped her chin in the air. “Captain McTavish is a privateer, not a pirate. It is an important distinction. Is that not so, Constable Angel?”
The constable nodded. “Yes, m’lady.”
“There, you see?” she said with an indignant frown at Wimple.
“The captain is a trusted representative of the Crown and I will not permit you to besmirch his reputation while under my roof.” She then turned to smile at Constable Angel.
“Would you care to join us for tea? My father and I were just enjoying a quiet conversation with the captain.”
“I would be delighted,” the constable said, and took an offered chair.
Deandra then turned to Wimple. “And you, my lord?”
“No, I refuse to be in this man’s company, nor can I condone your hospitality toward him. He attempted to kill a friend of mine and I intend to see justice done. I’ll see him hanged, I will.”