Chapter 2
Two
“You’ll never believe this, Captain,” Jervis Jones said, wiping his mouth on his greasy sleeve.
“The Frogs have definitely gone crazy on this one. I’m over at the Place de la Grève last Saturday, and I see this great gaggle of people.
Well, they don’t seem to be killing anybody this time, so I stroll over to get a closer look.
And can you guess what they’re doing, Captain? ”
He didn’t wait for an answer and Rafe Harcrest knew his participation wasn’t required to keep the conversation going.
“They’re getting married, the whole bloody lot of them.
There’s this little wizened clerk lecturing at them, and when he finishes up he says, ‘All right, do you folks agree to be married?’ and they all shout, ‘Yes.’ And that’s it, the thing’s done, everybody cheers and goes home.
Can you imagine, Captain, English women getting married like that, no fancy dress, no flowers, no celebration? ”
“None of the women in my family,” Rafe agreed absently.
“Course when you marries Lady Anne, I suspect you’ll have your fill of flounces and folderol.”
Rafe, who had no interest in discussing Lady Anne Dinsmore, pushed the soup tureen across the table to Jervis who ladled out a bowl of dubious-looking brown lumps.
“Course,” Jervis rambled on, “guess it would be fine to go without all the display if you could get the missus to agree. But no drinking and no dancing? No question, Captain,” he said, smacking his lips over the stew, “these Frenchies have gone round the bend. Do you think it’s even legal?”
“I believe our French neighbors’ concepts of law are a little unusual these days,” Rafe said delicately.
The inn was crowded and while it was unlikely anyone could hear their conversation over the din of clattering silverware and vigorous luncheon conversation, he wasn’t willing to risk attracting any undue attention.
Jervis loudly spit out a piece of bread having discovered, Rafe speculated, either straw or stones in it, flour now being in short supply in Paris.
Hard times had come to France, and from what he and Jervis had seen, things were only going to get worse.
The sooner they concluded their business here, the better.
Rafe cursed the impulse that had brought him to Paris in the middle of a bloody revolution.
“Yes sirree, Captain, this is just like the squirrel stew I used to fix you when we was in the army, except that I think they may be using cats.” Jervis glanced over at Rafe and said abruptly, “You’re drumming again.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You always do that you know, drum your fingers when you get restless and your mind’s going wandering off somewheres. So what is it, the silks or Elizabeth?”
“Both,” said Rafe lying through his teeth.
He had no intention of confessing to his manservant that the real reason he’d dragged them both off to France was because at the last moment he’d lost his nerve and found himself unable to propose to Lady Anne Dinsmore.
When they returned, he had no doubt that she would be waiting with considerably less patience for him to make his offer.
“Don’t know why you’re worrying so much about them silks. The cargo would have gotten loaded fine without you running over here to check on it. You’ve done a fine job setting up this business; it practically runs without you.”
As well it should, Rafe reflected, his fingers continuing to beat a noiseless tattoo on the rough table.
With Jervis’s help, he’d established a lucrative trade cloaked in a level of secrecy that would have made a first-rate spymaster weep with envy.
Not that there was anything underhanded about importing French fabrics into England, but it would have been the scandal of the ton had it been discovered that the Earl of Moreham was engaged in trade.
He smiled grimly. Better that he and his family decline gracefully into poverty, with their aristocratic virtues intact and their hands unsoiled by work.
His fingers stopped drumming and curled into a fist. He hadn’t intended to become involved in trade anymore than he’d expected to become the Earl of Moreham, but he’d be damned if he allowed his stepmother Louisa and his half sister Elizabeth to suffer the consequences of his father’s and older brother’s extravagant spending and insatiable love of gambling.
Both had died within a few years of each other, leaving him with heavily mortgaged estates and a mountain of debts.
Rafe had been a soldier, and with a soldier’s sense of order and discipline he’d mounted a campaign to bring his family back to financial security.
Most of the ton believed his frequent visits to Paris were to satisfy a fondness for French women.
Over tables at White’s, men speculated over the identities of his conquests, while ladies seemed eager to discover what “foreign” techniques he might possess.
He’d had to remove more than one maidenly hand from his thigh, though never, he reflected, Lady Anne’s.
Unbidden, an image of Anne Dinsmore took shape in his head, tall and elegant, with ash blond hair and pale blue eyes.
She was not beautiful, her face was a trifle too long, her nose a bit thin and sharp, but she carried herself with all the grace and composure one would expect of a duke’s daughter.
Rafe looked down and realized he was drumming again; he forced his fingers to be still.
“You worry too much about Elizabeth, too, you know. She’s young yet, but give her time, she’ll settle down.” Jervis chuckled and spooned a bit of stew into his mouth.
Anne Dinsmore’s grace and charm, not to mention her impeccable standing among the doyennes of high society, were precisely what he needed to help him manage his spirited young sister.
Elizabeth had barely been out of leading strings when their father died.
His stepmother was an absent-minded creature who spent most her time puttering about the gardens at Moreham Hall, leaving Elizabeth’s upbringing to a string of governesses and Rafe.
There were times when he felt more like a father to Elizabeth than a brother.
He shook his head; he found it hard to believe that the gangly girl with the knotted curls was on the verge of coming out into society.
If she would just pay more attention to his advice, Rafe thought, unconsciously tapping his fingers on his thigh.
She needed to learn to conduct herself with the decorum befitting an earl’s daughter.
She needed to be more responsible and stop haring off on impulse.
He’d told her that repeatedly, and each time she’d look up at him, eyes full of tears, lip quivering, and promise to do better.
Rafe had a notion he was being shammed, but he always relented.
Jervis’s voice interrupted his musings. “What does last month make, two or three governesses she’s run off?”
“I believe it’s three.” It wasn’t that he wanted to kill her spirit, just curb it a bit. Rafe knew all too well where impulse could lead.
“You could do with bit of high spirits yourself my lad,” Jervis said, wagging a spoon at him.
Rafe’s lips tightened. He’d heard that argument before and he mistrusted it; it only led to disaster.
It was impulse that had taken his father over a jump too high for his favorite horse, leaving the earl with a broken neck and the horse with a shattered foreleg.
It was impulse that had led his brother to wager the family fortune on the turn of a card.
And it was impulse that had brought him here to Paris instead of coming up to scratch with Anne.
Rafe made up his mind; as soon as he returned to England he’d speak to her.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Jervis broke in. “I hear they’ve finally reopened the gates of the city. The cargo’s nearly all been delivered to the ship, so when do you think we might be getting out of here?”
“Another day or so and I think everything should be signed and delivered.”
“I tell you, Captain, I’ll be glad to see the last of this place.”
“Well, the city seems to have settled down.”
“Yes, it’s almost eerie. People going about their business as if there weren’t rotting corpses stacked like cordwood the next street over. In all my years, I never seen anything like it.”
Rafe nodded. In his late teens he’d fought in the colonial wars in the Americas; it was where he’d met Jervis.
He’d experienced hand-to-hand combat in the forests of New England, fought at the disastrous battles of Saratoga.
But in all those years, he’d never seen such horrific killings.
He found it hard to believe that only a week ago, mobs had broken into the jails of Paris, slaughtering the inmates.
For days after, thugs known as sans-culottes for their distinctive baggy pants, roamed the streets looking for “counter-revolutionaries” and “traitors to the state.” He would never forget the sight of these men, their clothes spattered with blood and their wrists swollen from their labors, swaggering about boasting of their murderous deeds.
Jervis pushed his bowl away, patted his stomach, and emitted a satisfied belch. “Where to now, Captain?”
Rafe spun the stem of his spoon between his long elegant fingers. “Jervis my man, I believe it’s time to fold our cards and quit the game.”