Chapter Three
Brighton, England
Zephora stared out the grimy window of their traveling coach. She sat so still that Rafe wondered if she breathed. Yet the rise and fall of her chest assured him of her health.
God help him. He must not examine the curve of her charms or the points of her nipples. He looked away and inhaled. “You never went to Brighton with your father?”
“He came here alone after he left me in Paris.” Her voice was a low rasp on his heartstrings.
“Not a loving father.” Rafe had met the man twice and knew of his reputation as a cold, stubborn bugger.
She considered the scenery and sniffed. “He cared for money. Never my mother. Never me.”
“I met him a few times for business.”
Rafe’s shipping company, begun by his grandfather, had afforded him the opportunity to meet many men of business—Thomas Lee Butler, her father, among them.
He had not cared for the man’s sharp actions and rude words.
A reptile, her father nonetheless claimed solid political influence with the Virginia planters who became the leaders of that new country.
And like most of them, he owned slaves. Worse, he imported the black Africans on his own ships and sold them on his Alexandria, Virginia slave block.
Zeph turned to him and a ghost of a smile graced her full lips. “You did not like him, either.”
“He drove such a hard bargain on his indigo and tobacco that I never bought from him.”
“Smart of you.” She shook her head. “He treated Mama and me as if he had bought us. For the gifts of a house, clothes, money, and slaves, we were to be obedient and silent.”
“He is gone now, and you are free.”
“Thanks to you, I am,” she said with a gleam in her golden eyes.
“When we go to London, we will go to a solicitor to have him search for your father’s will and accounts.
” She had told him repeatedly that she could not recall the name of her father’s solicitor or banker in London.
Rafe had hoped the names might spring to her mind with time and her return to health.
“We do need to establish your claims to his business and his property.”
“I know, you have said that repeatedly.” She crossed her arms around her chest. Her breasts plumped up.
He swallowed and dropped his gaze to her sleek, silken slippers. Even her feet, long and slim, appealed to him.
“I always told my father,” she said as she looked out the window, “that I did not want to inherit his plantation. I did not want to deal with his reputation. But now…”
He caught her gaze. “You deserve to know whatever has happened to his money, his company and his land.”
“And to his blacks, too.”
Her expression now was one of harsh determination.
It was a new emotion that he was proud to see she summoned.
Someone—was it Cecily, Countess Nugent?—had said Zeph was a wild American.
All these weeks, Rafe had longed to see it develop in her.
And here she was: bold and bright…and becoming so very beautiful that her new glory hurt his eyes.
He crossed his legs and ran a hand down his trousers. “We shall see what he ordered for them. I know not American law on ownership of slaves, but we will learn.”
“I will free them all.”
Rafe grinned, unsurprised at that from her.
“We can visit with a young lady in London who owns her own shipping company. She will know more about American law.” Scarlett Hawthorne would be very interested in meeting the young woman who had bested René Vaillancourt.
Not only did the two women have export-import businesses in common, but a refusal to participate in the triangular trade that made the sale of human beings a profitable enterprise.
“She will know a few good men to refer to us.”
“Good.” She pressed her lips together, her sign that she did not wish to discuss this further.
They rounded the main road leading into Brighton proper.
His home here was a small, butter-colored townhouse within a few doors of the rocky-sanded shore.
He had inherited it from his father, along with a fine coterie of devoted house servants.
Rafe kept them year round. He even pensioned them off when they wished to retire.
For Zephora Butler, his lovely charge, who had suffered so dearly, his townhouse was the perfect solution to her continued reluctance to go near other people.
He saw how she mentally withdrew from others, and he would not have her remain that way.
It was not right for a lady of such importance to be a recluse.
She had come far in the past four months, but she was too well known to remain in the shadows of London Society.
Gus—Lady Ashley—and Amber—Lady Ramsey—and perhaps other women who had gone to Campan’s finishing school with Zephora would shepherd her into her rightful place in the world.
So would Inès, the new Countess of Halsey, who had helped to rescue Zeph from the Paris prison.
He would see Zeph into her rightful place in the world.
Inheriting her father’s wealth and trade, and freeing his slaves. Even marrying.
His guts clutched. He blinked. He would have to become inured to that prospect.
Of course, men would want her. He would ensure they wanted her for her character, strong and free.
Not her money. Nor her notoriety. There would be a rapacious infamy attached to her lovely person, and many men would think her loose, sexually available, simply because she had wallowed in the mire of a French prison.
None of his friends who had rescued her would tell of her abuse by the guards.
But people had imaginations and could dole out vicious rumors.
He knew not how she would react to that. But he would help her. She was still tender from her confinement, in body and spirit. She might always be, though he had inklings she would surmount the past.
He’d spent his every moment rebuilding her into the woman she had been. He’d not allow any man to take her for less than she was—and all that she could become.
*
Rafe banged on the roof of the cab with his fist and shouted, “Take us to the kitchen door!”
To Zeph’s surprise and relief, they would not enter from the street, where she would be seen…
and others would wonder about her. Gossip, the very possibility of it, clawed at her throat.
Her mother had endured such pain with her father’s endless rounds of mistresses.
Zeph had vowed never to tolerate such in a man, friend, or lover—or even husband.
She snorted. I’ll never have a husband. No one would take me, not after…the cell. I can have a friend. She smiled at Rafe now. He was everything a friend could be. Tolerant, reliable, honest, a man she had confided in about everything, except…that.
She had told no one, nor ever would.
The carriage door swung wide.
Rafe stepped out and offered his hand to her. “You will like my servants. All paid very well. Always have been. Mine alone and, therefore, they know that what they see here, stays here. Come now. Hurry. You need breakfast, and I need a brandy.”
She grasped his hand. How she wanted to kiss his cheek in thanks.
But he would not want it. Somehow she knew that.
He would hug her and hold her during carriage rides, but at other times, he wanted a courteous distance between them.
She understood that now, as they entered a small portion of British Society, he would maintain a friendly decorum for propriety’s sake, for her future.
But she would be herself with him, as ever, and so she said, “I want a brandy, too.”
“Plucky girl,” he tsked at her. Then he led her to the door, where a silver-haired lady stood with a smile on her face so big that Zeph could see all her teeth. Good ones, they were, too.
“Sir Raphael, I despaired of not seeing you until Christmas, sir.”
He patted the woman on the back, chuckling all the time. “Mrs. Pratt, I would have come sooner, but we had a few problems in the Channel.”
“Small? In the Channel? Of course you did! And this is…?”
Rafe took Zeph’s arm. “My ward, but we will say here in Brighton she is my niece. Miss Zephora Butler, lately of Paris, now with me.”
“Come in. Do.” Mrs. Pratt glanced up and down the carriageway. “Have you luggage?”
“Only two small valises,” Rafe told her.
“Rumors are true, then.” She gestured for them to precede her into the house. “You have escaped Paris.”
Rafe paused, frowning. “You will tell me the rest, eh?”
“All of it,” she said. “Come inside.”
Rafe and Zeph crossed the threshold with the housekeeper right behind.
“You’ll want hot tea and coffee, sir. Cook has made scones.”
Rafe led Zeph through the door off the hall and into the bright daylight of the cavernous kitchen.
Zeph looked up at the huge glass dome ceiling and the trees above that swayed in the morning breeze. “Lovely.”
“It is, Miss Butler.” Mrs. Pratt preened, proud of the house and her station. “You must come and take your tea here at any time. Allow me to present you to our cook. Miss Butler, Mrs. Jensen.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Zeph admired the looks of the gangly young cook who, from the aromas of scones and bacon, knew what she was about. Zeph’s mouth watered.
Rafe took Zeph’s plain brown pelisse and led her to sit at a tall, high table. “I often dine here. The warmth and the company are calming.” He arched a dark brow, and his mirth tickled her.
“I will come often, then,” she assured him.
Mrs. Pratt acted like a mother hen, flitting about. “Do sit. I will fetch tea and coffee. A moment, please.” And off she went to gather up china and wares for their breakfast.
“You look at ease,” Zeph told him. “I am pleased you can finally relax. I never wished to be such a burden.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. His, as ever, was big and warm and strong. “Never use that word with me, eh?”
She gave him a little shrug and a toss of her short curls. Was she acting the coquette? “I was your traveling companion. Now I am your niece. Do you have one? Really?”