Читать книгу Regency Vows - Kasey Michaels, Alison DeLaine - Страница 22

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MELANCHOLIA. JAMES CONTEMPLATED the self-diagnosis a short time later as the hack rattled past St. George’s and a light drizzle began to fall and he tried to dredge up some kind of emotion about finally being home again but couldn’t. His ship’s surgeon had never suggested melancholia, but it would explain everything.

By God, as soon as he settled this business tonight he would order his coach and set out for Croston. He would arrive there tomorrow and sink into blessed oblivion, where he would remain for as long as it took to renew himself.

He would forget Captain Kinloch. Forget that he’d ever touched her. Forget that haunted look in her eyes while she stood paralyzed at the threshold of her childhood apartment—

Christ. If he did not end this tonight, she would be his undoing. She drove him mad, made him furious, enslaved him to that baser nature she scorned so mightily, reminded him of the man he should have been but wasn’t.

Where Captain Kinloch was concerned, he clung to control by an unraveling thread.

The hack lurched to a stop in front of his town house. It was a devil waiting for admittance at his own door, but Bates opened quickly, and James headed straight for the dining room, leaving Bates standing slack-jawed. He thought of his borrowed breeches and jacket and his wigless, sea-ravaged hair, and he curled his lip. Let them be shocked. That bill would receive its deathblow right here. After tonight, there would be no question who held title to the Dunscore estate and who didn’t.

And, for that matter, who held title to Croston.

By the time Bates recovered his senses enough to follow, James was nearing the dining room. From the sound of things, it was a small party.

“May I just say, it’s very good to see you, my lord,” Bates said from close behind him.

“Thank you, Bates. It’s good to see you, as well.” That wasn’t at all what Bates meant, of course.

He walked into the dining room.

Voices fell silent. There was a heartbeat, then a shriek. “James!” Honoria launched herself out of her chair and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing into his shoulder. “James!”

He closed his arms around his little sister, and his throat constricted. There was an uproar of disbelief and the clatter of silverware hitting china as the guests realized what was happening.

“Good God.” Nick came ashen-faced around the table, gaping as though James had just emerged from the tomb in his burial linens. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

James inhaled deeply past the tightness of his throat, taking in Honoria’s tears and Nick’s damp eyes. Their mourning clothes. Their grief was part of the equation he hadn’t factored in.

The moment he set Honoria aside, Nick hugged him fiercely despite the onlookers. “My God!” Nick said, nearly squeezing the breath from James’s lungs. “It can’t be!”

“I say!” one of the guests exclaimed. “Extraordinary!”

So this was what resurrection felt like.

Nick stepped back, and Honoria quickly took his arm. “Sit! Eat! La, you look an absolute fright. Tell me you didn’t sail all the way home on some awful merchant ship—”

A jumble of speculation went up as everyone began to fire questions at once. James held up his hand. “Enough!” Under his breath to Nick, he said, “I need to speak with you privately.” And then, to Honoria, “I have business to take care of, Ree. As soon as it’s done, I shall be entirely yours. I promise.” He offered a slight bow to the guests. “My apologies. If you’ll excuse me.” On his way out, he paused to whisper to Bates. “Tell Lord Pennington not to let Mr. Holliswell leave.”

In the library, Nick gave him another rough embrace. When they broke apart, James felt a stab of raw emotion that matched the look on Nick’s face. It was a face much like his own—hard mouth, sharp cheekbones, dark brows over Mother’s green eyes. Nick’s wig hid whether the Croston gray had begun to plague him, and there was no trace of the dimple Mother said Nick had inherited from her paternal grandmother. They were all so fragmented now—James at sea, Nick and Ree here, none of them with children. For a moment his throat was too tight to speak.

The slightest change in events, and he might have perished and never seen Nick again.

“By what miracle did you survive the wreck?” Nick asked thickly.

By the miracle of Captain Katherine Kinloch. James inhaled deeply, shoving away thoughts of waves and wreckage.

“The reason I survived,” he said carefully, watching for Nick’s reaction, “the only reason, is because I was pulled half-dead from the water by Katherine Kinloch.”

Nick’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he made the connections. “Bloody hell.”

James stared at him. He tried to keep his voice calm. “It was an amazing coincidence of timing, really. I had been drifting for days on a piece of decking, you see, and she happened to be sailing for Britain to defend her estate against a bill of pains and penalties.”

“Bloody hell.” Nick turned away, bracing his hip with one hand and his forehead with the other.

“I would have thought ‘It’s a miracle’ would be the more appropriate phrase,” James said sharply.

“You think I don’t know that? Bloody hell!” He raked his fingers into his hair and came away looking as if he were the one who had just spent weeks at sea. “Katherine Kinloch? Are you certain?”

James raised a brow. “After four weeks—”

“Christ, never mind.” Nicholas gestured away the inanity of his question. “And so now I have her to thank for your return. This gets more bloody entertaining by the day.” He gave a mirthless laugh.

“Explain to me what ‘this’ is. A debt to Holliswell, I presume.”

This time Nick’s laugh sounded more like a strangle. “A hurricane in the West Indies, pirates off the horn of Africa, an entire cargo’s worth of repairs paid on bottomry to some opportunistic Boston shipwright—the value of nigh on our entire operation and investment, gone in one perfect coalescence of disaster.”

James stared at him in disbelief. “And in the time you’ve believed you had the title you haven’t paid him off?”

“You know me better than that,” Nick snapped.

“Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all. You’re part of the Croston lineage, Nick—not some yeoman’s son. Christ. Solving a problem in the most convoluted way possible—never mind throwing an innocent to the dogs in the meantime.”

“An innocent!” Nick stalked up to him. “Look here, James. If Katherine Kinloch made a successful escape from Barbary, why did she not go to our consulate? Why did she not write her father? Come home to Dunscore? Not only are her escapades in the Mediterranean disloyal to the Crown, they’re disgraceful to society and a downright bad example to our young ladies.”

James barked a laugh and hoped it was enough to hide his sudden urge to grab Nick by the throat. So much for the maudlin homecoming. “I hardly think captaining a ship will become society’s next vogue for young ladies. Are you trying to repay a debt, or have you launched a crusade for female propriety?” He cut to the chase. “I want you to end this business you’ve brought up with the Lords. Withdraw your support for the bill and find another way to repay Holliswell.”

“Drop my support for the bill?” Nick’s eyes darkened with raw emotion, then hardened. “Very well. Just as soon as you find another way to convince Holliswell to allow me to marry Clarissa.”

“That had bloody well better be a joke.”

“I’d planned to talk to him tonight—” He broke off. The rest of the sentence, before I learned I didn’t hold the title, hung in the air. But it was clear the cold single-mindedness in Nick’s eyes had nothing to do with the title and everything to do with Clarissa Holliswell.

“If Holliswell’s consent depends upon you being an earl, then there’s little I can do. I’ll not snuff myself out to further Miss Holliswell’s cause.” He went to the door and called Bates. “Send Holliswell here,” he ordered.

“Don’t be an ass. Damn it all, James, I don’t want to fight with you. Ten minutes ago I thought you were lost forever, and now—” He closed his eyes and cursed again. “If it’s a choice between Miss Holliswell’s future or Katherine Kinloch’s, I don’t have to tell you which I’ll choose.”

“The Dunscore title in exchange for Miss Holliswell’s hand and forgiveness of the debt you owe. Is that the arrangement?”

Nick stared at him. “Unlike Katherine Kinloch, Clarissa actually is an innocent. And fragile. It would be the easiest thing in the world for a man to crush her.” His jaw worked, and his eyes looked coldly through James to some imagined horror beyond. “I always thought men were fools to be taken in by blue eyes and pretty faces, but God—I can’t even look at her without wanting to do everything in my power to keep her safe and make her happy, which she bloody well won’t be if Holliswell marries her off to someone like Oakley.” Nick’s lip curled. “I can see you understand my predicament.”

Yes. But Katherine was in a predicament, as well. “You really imagine that once Holliswell has the title, he’s going to—”

“Uphold the bargain? Perhaps not. But I know for a fact he won’t allow the marriage without it.”

James went to pour brandy from what he would always think of as Father’s snifter. Maybe Nick was right about Clarissa. Probably he wasn’t. The effect was the same for Katherine either way. “I could loan you the money,” he said.

Nick laughed bitterly. “Exchange one creditor for another?”

“Give it to you, then.” Hell. If that was the cost of his debt to Captain Kinloch, it was a small price to pay.

“Even if my pride would allow me to accept, it would avail nothing. Holliswell wants the title.”

There was no opportunity to say that he wasn’t going to get it, because Holliswell came through the door. He spotted James and curved his mouth into a plump, greasy smile, but his eyes glittered with fury. “Your lordship,” he said with an obsequiously deep bow. “I cannot begin to describe our joy at your return.”

James moved away from the snifter and toward Holliswell, deliberately failing to extend an invitation to drink. “You will be relieved as well to learn that your cousin the countess of Dunscore has also returned,” he said, and fixed his eyes on the hard lines of Holliswell’s face. “As it happens, it was she who pulled my half-drowned corpse from the sea. It’s no understatement to say I owe her my life.”

Holliswell’s expression barely flickered. “What happy news. A miracle, no less.”

James set his glass on the desk and looked Holliswell in the eye. “You will not return to Lady Dunscore’s house tonight.” In fact, he would send a footman to follow them and make sure. “Tomorrow, you will send your people to collect your things. And in the future, you will remember that you are not the Earl of Dunscore, and you will act accordingly.”

Holliswell smiled pleasantly. “Given Lady Dunscore’s lengthy absence, I never expected she would return, nor did I expect she would care about the house. Naturally, my daughter and I will find other accommodations until everything has been settled.”

“Naturally,” James said coldly.

Holliswell turned to Nick. “You’ll understand, of course, if my daughter and I take our leave early. You...didn’t have anything you wished to discuss, did you?”

Nick’s jaw flexed. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

“No doubt we will.” Holliswell smiled. “No doubt at all.”

* * *

THE MANTEL CLOCK in the yellow guest apartment made a tiny chime as Katherine scratched out a list for tomorrow. Half past eleven, and still no word from Captain Warre.

Mrs. Hibbard quietly slipped in with a tray. “I brought you a fresh pot,” she whispered, and replaced the tea service on the cart next to the writing desk. Katherine leaned forward to look through the door into the bedroom. Anne stirred a little in the big bed, not quite settled after being moved from the blue rooms.

“And I brought a few slices of Cook’s raisin bread. And some butter.” Mrs. Hibbard poured Katherine a fresh, steaming cup of tea and stood there with the teapot cradled in her hands, staring at Katherine through brown eyes filled with emotion. “It’s such a joy to have you home, Lady Katherine.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hibbard.” But this was not home, and she was Captain Kinloch, not Lady Katherine anymore, and if she ate anything now, she would probably throw it back up. “Please go to bed—there’s no need to trouble yourself further.”

Mrs. Hibbard frowned, and her plump fingers tightened on the teapot. “I intend to stay at your service as long as you need.”

“I’ll be retiring shortly.”

The old housekeeper looked a little distressed. “I’ll order the blue rooms cleaned top to bottom tomorrow, Lady Katherine. I assure you, they’ll be fit and proper before you’re up and about, and your things will be moved first thing in the morning.” She glanced at Katherine’s outfit. “You’ll need a lady’s maid—”

“No. I won’t. That will be all.”

Mrs. Hibbard stepped back. Damnation—this was not a ship, and Mrs. Hibbard was not one of her crew. Katherine softened her tone. “My apologies. I shall occupy these rooms while I’m here. Anne shall take the pink rooms as soon as they are free.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Hibbard bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Everything as you wish.” She set the teapot on the tray and folded her hands in front of her. “If you need anything in the night, just ring.”

When she was gone, Katherine inhaled deeply. Exhaled. She did not want to feel sixteen again. Being in London did not mean she had to fall helplessly back into her old life—as if that would even be possible. She’d seen too much of the world since then.

She reached for her tea and took a sip. The aroma was a physical assault from the past—black tea, not the mint she favored now. Turning back to her list, she stared at what she’d already written. Bed. Fireplace screen. Window latch. It was unlikely Anne’s small fingers could budge it, but better safe than sorry.

She dipped her pen. Small metal pitcher and bowl. Something that wouldn’t break if dropped. And— Good God. Staircase. Someone would need to stay with Anne at all times, and they would need the same rule about Anne leaving her rooms as they’d had about her going on deck alone.

Furiously she added to the list, keeping her attention squarely on the task at hand, but still old emotions slowly strangled her.

When you are countess of Dunscore, Katie, the sun will shine on this gloomy manse all the year round. Come—I’ve learned a new trick at cards to show you. It will take our minds off this dreadful weather.

Her hand stilled, and she looked up. The weather at Dunscore was fairer than London, but once Father had met Lady White they hardly left London at all.

As soon as possible, she would take Anne to Dunscore. Anne would like it there. She would be able to hear the waves and smell the surf. She would be able to run her hands across old, craggy walls, and—with help—explore the gardens.

A light knock sounded at the door, and Dodd came in with a note on a silver tray. “This just arrived, your ladyship.”

Finally. Katherine shot to her feet and snatched the note off the tray, tearing it open.

Holliswell will not disturb you tonight. All is not resolved—need more time.

JW

Her lungs and throat constricted. “Thank you, Mr. Dodd,” she managed. “That will be all for tonight.”

Dodd bowed and left, and Katherine stared at Captain Warre’s tight, neat writing. Clearly a few words with his brother and Holliswell had not been enough. The note trembled in her fingers. What if nothing he did was enough?

She shoved the thought away, but still she sank back in her chair, blinking back tears. Damn Holliswell, and damn Nicholas Warre. They had no right. No right.

She crushed the note in her fist.

All the Lords would see was a shockingly wayward woman who had spurned her father and taken to the sea. They would not understand about captivity, about the finality of fate. About Mejdan’s sudden death and what life might have been like if Riuza had not helped her escape the household, or how few choices were available to a slave with a child in her belly. They would not understand about the power of the sea and how powerless she would have been if she had simply come home. None of them had ever tasted true powerlessness. Not one.

She tasted it now, even more bitter and pungent than she remembered.

Slowly she unfolded the note and read it once more. “JW.” The scrawled initials taunted her with their informality. Not Captain, not Lord Croston. Just JW. James Warre.

The memory of his kiss scorched across her lips and through her belly.

She forced it away. He was not JW to her. And if he did not find a way to resolve everything very shortly, she would begin taking advantage of her role as his rescuer and dare him to object.