Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch - Louise Allen, Miranda Jarrett - Страница 17

“Caro!” Jeremiah called her name again as he rushed after her, but she didn’t stop, bunching her skirts in one hand so she could run down the steps of the companionway. A lifetime at sea gave him an agility she’d never have, and bracing himself on the rails, he dropped down the narrow companionway without touching a single step, to her side on the deck below. “Caro, wait!”

Still she plunged on, heedless, with her head down, ignoring him, until he grabbed her arm. Briefly she fought him, still trying to pull free. Then, abruptly, she turned to face him, yanking the bonnet with the trailing veil from her head.

“Why did you follow me?” she demanded, her eyes wild. “Aren’t you afraid that I’ll tempt and torture you, too, just like Lady Hamilton did?”

He pushed her gently back against the bulkhead, trapping her there with his body so she couldn’t run again. Sunlight filtered through the grating of the hatch overhead, a checkerboard across her face like another, coarser veil. “If you’ve tempted me, it has nothing to do with volcanoes, or the indiscretions of some lords and ladies.”

She stared at him and slowly shook her head, her smile incredulous. “You don’t know what he meant, do you? Because you’re American, you really don’t know?”

“I know that weaselly little bastard managed to insult us both.”

“It was more than that, Jeremiah. Much more.” With a sigh, she slid wearily down the bulkhead to sit on the deck, her knees drawn up and her bonnet in her hand.

He crouched down before her. “How much more can there be, sweetheart?”

“Oh, there’s more.” To avoid meeting his eyes, she concentrated on the bonnet in her hands, touching the curving brim now stained white with salt spray and faded by the sun, and drawing the sheer veiling out between her fingers. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard of Lady Hamilton’s…career, though Captain Bertle is the first who’s dared to say so to my face. Most others have preferred to whisper it behind their fans, taking care, of course, that their words were loud enough for me to hear.”

She stopped, her head bent over her knees. He waited patiently, leaving it to her to tell him as he silently damned all the cruel, worthless gossips who’d made her life miserable.

Carefully, she smoothed the veiling over her knees, her voice detached. “Lady Hamilton and I are much alike, you see. She too was born quite common, and improved herself in the eyes of the world by marrying an older nobleman, Sir William Hamilton, who was kind to her.”

“Whatever else you are, Caro,” said Jeremiah softly, taking her hand in his, stilling her chilly, restless fingers. “You’re most uncommon.”

“You say that only because you’re American.” Her smile was fleeting, bittersweet. “The Hamiltons’ marriage was scandal enough, no matter that Lady Hamilton devoted herself to Sir William and his position as the English ambassador. But then Admiral Lord Nelson sailed to Naples to save the king and queen from General Bonaparte, and he and Lady Hamilton fell in love.”

She wove her fingers into Jeremiah’s, searching for strength in his large, work-scarred hand. “They weren’t— aren’t—terribly discreet, for he keeps her now in a house outside of London. They can never marry, of course, for both of them are married to others, and some say Lord Nelson’s career with the navy is quite ruined because of her. Sir William is sick near to death with a broken heart, and she—she will never be received again by anyone.”

Jeremiah swore, his fingers tightening around hers. “I should have throttled Bertle for saying such things to you,” he said angrily. “I had no notion that was what he meant, else I never would have let it pass.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “No, Jeremiah, you mustn’t! No matter what Captain Bertle has said, he is still the master, and if you strike him the others will be on you in a moment. Let it go, I beg you. We’ll be in Naples tomorrow, and I would not have you suffer on my account.”

“After what he’s called you—”

“No, Jeremiah, it means nothing,” she said quickly, though the pain in her face said otherwise. “What worries me more is that somehow Captain Bertle has guessed who I am, or he wouldn’t say the things he has.”

“But you’re blameless, Caro!” The unfairness of it infuriated him. “You’ve done nothing to be faulted for!”

“Haven’t I?” She loved her husband, but she’d fallen in love with another man, and too late she’d learned the difference. Wasn’t that sin enough?

She reached out one finger to trace the firm curve of his upper lip, and her eyes filled with tears of sorrow and longing. What would her life have been if she’d met him years ago, if somehow fate had sent her Jeremiah Sparhawk in place of Frederick Moncrief?

“My poor Caro,” he whispered against her fingertips, kissing them lightly. “My poor, darling Caro.”

Even as she told herself she shouldn’t, she let herself lean forward into the waiting sanctuary of Jeremiah’s arms. When he drew her across his legs, she sighed and nestled closer, pillowing her head in the hollow below his shoulder as he held her. Beneath her ear his heartbeat was steady and strong, and she closed her eyes to let the sound fill her.

“Whatever Captain Bertle says, I’m not really so much like Lady Hamilton,” she said softly. “Why, I wonder? Is she that much bolder, more wicked, more wanton, more foolhardy than I could ever be? Or simply that she’s happier, because she dared to follow her heart, no matter what the cost?”

Tears stung her eyelids, and she buried her face against his waistcoat. “I don’t know, Jeremiah,” she said, her voice fracturing as her heart broke. “I don’t know, and now I never will.”

The wind fell off that night, and despite their expectations, the Raleigh did not enter the wide, curving arms of the Bay of Naples until dawn of the following day.

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” said Caro to Jeremiah as they stood on the deck. Washed in the rosy light of the rising sun, the castles and villas and pastel houses with their terracotta roofs and hanging gardens looked more like a painting from some artist’s imagination. “Not quite real, somehow, at least not by English standards.”

“Judge the world by English standards and you’re bound to be disappointed,” he scoffed, but without much bite to his criticism. “It will all be real enough when you’re there in the middle of it. From here it’s a pretty spot, but behind those gardens are more starving beggars than you’d ever dream could survive.”

He had walked the deck the night through instead of sleeping, and instead, too, of being tormented by knowing she lay above him, always beyond his reach. He was sure she hadn’t slept, either, no matter how still she lay when he’d finally returned to the cabin. Accomplished as she was at acting, she wasn’t good enough to cover feelings that deep.

He pointed across to starboard. “There—that’s Bertle’s famous volcano.”

“Don’t you feel threatened?” she asked lightly. Misted by clouds of steam near its peak, Vesuvius this morning looked no more threatening than she felt herself. “Tottering on the edge of disaster with me by your side and a volcano before you?”

He cleared his throat. “The only disaster will be when you’re no longer at my side.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” she said quickly. She looked up to find his green eyes watching her so intently that she blushed, and he smiled wryly.

“Am I that bad at speaking gallantry?”

“If you’re that bad at speaking like a fashionable gentleman,” she said, her voice too brittle for the banter she was attempting, “then I am even worse at listening. I don’t, you see. I make that most grievous mistake for a lady of actually answering when I’m addressed. Frederick quite despairs of me.”

He was touched by the way she was trying so hard to be brave, and how wretchedly she was failing. What had passed between them on this voyage would end here in Naples, and he drew her protectively into the crook of his arm, keeping her to himself just a little longer. Instead of a bonnet, she wore a dark cashmere shawl draped over her head and shoulders, for the chill of night was still in the air, and he liked the feel of the cashmere, soft, like her.

“Don’t change, Caro,” he said softly. “Whatever happens, I wouldn’t want you to be any different than what you are now.”

Quickly she looked back at the city, determined not to slide again into the treacherous quicksand of emotions and loyalties. She would be lighthearted, the way she once had been with him; she would be independent and levelheaded. She had never been a weepy woman, and she saw no useful reason to become one now.

“There are so many English in Naples,” she said, striving for self-control by changing the subject, “that I don’t doubt that we’ll find some sort of decent inn for lodgings. Once we’re situated, I shall dress and call on her ladyship this afternoon. Not even she can refuse to see me after I’ve come so far.”

“You won’t be staying with her?” asked Jeremiah with surprise. “Whatever your differences, she’s your kin.”

“Only by a marriage she doesn’t recognize.” She had dressed swiftly, without her gloves, and without thinking, she looked down at her wedding ring, an oval ruby in a ring of pearls. “You remember that was Frederick’s reason for coming to her in the first place. He would still be safe at home in England if it weren’t for me. I’ve no notion at all of what my reception will be at his mother’s villa.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” said Jeremiah promptly. “I won’t let you face that old bitch alone.”

Though touched by his offer, she shook her head, her expression wistful. “I can’t take you, Jeremiah. You don’t belong there.”

“Why not? I’ve reason enough. I want to know what’s happened to Davy just as you’re looking for Frederick.”

“Not this first time,” she said as she drew the shawl up higher around her face. More pointedly than she realized, she eased herself free of Jeremiah’s arm, already making the break from him. “For Frederick’s sake and my own, too, I’ve no choice but to meet his mother alone.”

She’d give the brazen little chit credit for courage, decided Dorinda, Dowager Countess of Byfield. But nothing more than that, not if she could help it, and certainly not another penny of her son’s fortune.

Dorinda let her stand, Frederick’s whore of a wife, the better to consider what her real place was, while Dorinda herself sat at the far end of the room in the gilded Venetian armchair with the ice blue damask cushions. If the creature was reminded of a throne, so much the better.

“I said come forward, girl, so that I might see you,” said Dorinda, her voice echoing in the gallery’s arched ceiling. One wall was windows, all now thrown open to catch the breezes from the bay, while the opposite wall was mirrored from the floor upward so no visitor need turn their back on the magnificent view. “If you’ve come this far from Blackstone, another few paces won’t hurt.”

At last the younger woman came toward her, her kid slippers making no sound on the polished marble parquet. Grudgingly Dorinda admitted to herself that Frederick had at least chosen a girl who looked like a countess, her silver-blond head held high and her walk a fashionable glide, her white Indian cotton dress drifting around her legs. Her face was lovely, fine boned but distinctive enough to be an original, with a inborn charm that no amount of paint or trickery could create.

No wonder Frederick had been so besotted, and no wonder, too, this wife of his had been so quick to replace him in her bed. His wife, considered Dorinda bitterly, and then let her thoughts travel to her grandson’s letter, hidden in the lacquer box on the mantel, and of the greedy man who’d brought it this same afternoon. Who would have guessed so much would fall into Dorinda’s favor when, months ago, she’d written the first letter to that idiot, George? If even a fraction of what they said of this Caroline was true, then at last Dorinda could avenge the wrong that had been done the Moncriefs.

And to her. Most especially to her.

“Come closer, girl, so I can see you properly,” she ordered, beckoning sharply with her gnarled forefinger, the large square-cut diamond on it glittering in the sunlight. “I’m not a young woman any longer.”

Not a young woman, thought Caro, but certainly still a vain one, with cheeks and lips painted bright rose and her deep-set eyes lined with black kohl. The dowager countess was a tiny woman, and though shrunk and bent with age, she was dressed in a costly variation of the latest Directoire fashion, her high-waisted satin gown cut low over her shriveled breasts and on her head an elaborate wig of black corkscrewed curls with a diamond-tipped arrow thrust through the crown. There were more diamonds swaying from her earlobes, around her throat, clasped to her wrists, far more than was considered stylish now but a king’s ransom nonetheless, and Caro remembered how many times Frederick had worried that his mother might be wanting and ordered Perkins to increase the dowager countess’ allowance.

Critically Dorinda’s gaze swept over Caro. “You’re not at all what I expected, girl.”

“Neither are you, your ladyship.” Caro smiled beatifically. She’d been warned by Frederick that his mother could be sharp-tongued, and she was determined not to let the older woman better her. Though they’d never met, in a way they’d already been warring for fifteen years, and though Dorinda might have the diamonds, Caro had Frederick. “And please, call me Caro.”

Pointedly Dorinda ignored the request. “Sit, girl.”

She motioned to the small taboret beside her own chair, and without protest Caro sat. Another chair would have been more comfortable and more appropriate than the backless stool, but Caro was willing to concede that much. Although there was nothing of Frederick in the old woman’s face, little mannerisms—the quirk of her brow, the way she arched her wrist—were disconcertingly his.

With a sweep that was still graceful, Dorinda opened her fan. “I did not expect you to come to me yourself.”

“And I wondered if you would receive me when I did,” answered Caro. “But when you wrote to me that you had proof that my husband still lives, how could I not come?”

“It is a great distance for a lady to travel.”

Attuned to such subtleties, Caro didn’t miss the scornful emphasis on that lady. “I would travel any distance for Frederick’s return.”

“But I trust you did not make the journey alone.” Dorinda’s fan paused as she baited her trap. “No doubt you had a companion to ease your trial.”

“I did, yes. An American gentleman who seeks word of other captives was so kind as to agree to accompany me.”

The fan remained still, poised. “An American gentleman accompanied you? I would have expected Mr. Perkins, or perhaps dear George.”

“They did not offer,” said Caro, her cheeks warming in spite of her resolution. It wasn’t exactly a lie. They hadn’t offered, true, but then she hadn’t told them of her plans. And oh, how different that long voyage would have been with either George or Mr. Perkins in place of Jeremiah! “Mr. Sparhawk graciously did, and I accepted.”

Dorinda paused, letting the chit consider her own words. According to George, this Sparhawk was no better than a common footpad; in Captain Bertle’s opinion, the man was some sort of seafaring adventurer, prone to intemperate violence and treasonous friendships with Frenchmen. Both, without question, believed him to be Caroline’s lover.

“This Mr. Sparhawk must be an old and trusted friend to undertake such a journey with you,” she said, watching with satisfaction as the little strumpet’s blush betrayed the truth. “Perhaps a friend of Frederick’s?”

Damn her cheeks for blushing so! Consciously Caro willed her hands to keep from twisting in her lap and wished she had the same control over the blood that rushed to her face.

“I have known Mr. Sparhawk only a brief time, but he has always acted with such honor and good grace that I felt my trust would not be misplaced,” she said carefully. “Although he is American, his sister is married to Admiral Lord John Herendon.”

“Ah, Britain’s own pretty Lord Jack,” purred Dorinda, remembering when Herendon, then a frigate captain, had been stationed with the other English ships in the bay. She had met him at the palace and found him much to her liking, tall and gold-haired like a Grecian god, and so much more like a hero than that poor bedraggled little Lord Nelson. Forty years ago, thought Dorinda nostalgically, no, even thirty, and she would have made a conquest of Lord Jack.

But for this man Sparhawk to be connected to the Herendons put a whole different coloring on Caroline’s infidelity. Jack Herendon would have married a beauty, and her brother would doubtless be comely, too, and young. Trust both George and Bertle not to tell her what would matter most to a woman!

“Are they of a piece then, this Mr. Sparhawk and Lord Jack?” she asked archly. “Certainly any lady would wish for a man of Lord Jack’s courage on a voyage in these uncertain times.”

“No, they are not very similar at all,” said Caro, imagining the two men side by side. “Jeremiah is taller than Jack, broader, with dark hair and green eyes. His life has not been easy, which sometimes makes him melancholy, but when he smiles, he makes one forget everything else, and he is very loyal, willing to fight to defend whatever he believes in.”

Jeremiah. The way the chit said the name alone was enough to condemn her. Worse, she was so smitten that she didn’t even realize her own error, babbling on happily about the man’s qualities. Tall, handsome, a touch of melancholia for romance, a man of action and heartbreaking smiles. Oh, yes, thought Dorinda cynically, he was everything a woman could want in a lover, and everything, too, that Frederick—quiet, awkward, gentlemanly Frederick—never would, or could, be. As a woman, Dorinda might envy the creature’s good fortune, but as a mother, she could only hate her more for scorning her son.

“Then it sounds as if you have chosen well, Caroline,” she said, her smile creasing her paint. “Mr. Sparhawk will need all his strength on the next part of the journey.”

“You have word of Frederick, then?” said Caro excitedly, forgetting all her promises to herself to be cool and distant with Frederick’s mother. “He is indeed still alive?”

Lying little hypocrite, thought Dorinda angrily. Frederick had been captured for her love, and now the chit repaid his devotion with deceit.

“We can only pray that he is,” she said, her voice smooth as cream. “They say the conditions for the prisoners are harsh, and as an English gentleman, Frederick is unaccustomed to deprivation.”

Tears filled Caro’s eyes at the thought of a man as kind and mild as Frederick suffering so. “Has anyone seen or spoken to him?”

Dorinda shook her head, the stiff black curls bobbing around her cheeks. “No, or any of the American prisoners, either. But my friends among the diplomats at the court assure me that Frederick lives, and is awaiting your assistance.”

In fact there had been no such assurances, quite the contrary. The minister who had given her the list of hostages had cautioned that it was most likely a forgery, and that by now, after two years, Lord Byfield was most certainly beyond rescue, even through the efforts of a devoted mother. Dorinda knew he was right, for she had tried before on Frederick’s behalf. It had been on that day, her grief for her son still fresh and raw, that Dorinda had written to Caro, summoning her, and to George, to reestablish her link with the future earl. George was a fool, but with him as earl she could return to die with dignity and respect at Blackstone House.

Languidly the fan moved through the warm spring air. Soon, thought Dorinda with grim satisfaction, soon the little bitch with the upturned eyes and handsome American lover would find the fate she’d earned so richly for herself.

“I would, of course, do anything I could for my son,” she continued with a sigh, “but I am far too old to enter into such negotiations as will be necessary, or would I trust them to anyone who would not care for Frederick as I do.”

“Let me do it, please, I beg you!” said Caro, eagerly leaning forward on her stool with her hands clasped. “I can make all the arrangements and arrange for the ransom. After all, that’s why I’ve come, isn’t it?”

Once again Dorinda sighed dramatically. This was almost too easy, without any sport in it. The chit was so gullible, so willing to believe, that it was no wonder that her son, another foolish idealist, would have fallen in love with her.

“Would that it were so easy, dear Caroline! But I fear that it cannot be done from Naples. No, no! The Tunisians are a sly, heathen lot who demand such business be conducted face-to-face. If you wish to help your husband, you must be willing to take your brave American and go to Tripoli, and bring Frederick back to me.”

“Then I shall,” said Caro without hesitation. Impatiently she rose to her feet, determined to begin planning at once. “Mr. Sparhawk is well acquainted with ships and sailing. I’m sure he can find us passage to Tripoli.”

“Let that be my contribution,” urged Dorinda, her eyes glinting within the dark rings of kohl. “I know the ways of this city, who to ask and who to bribe. Not even our Mr. Sparhawk will be able to find a vessel bound for Tripoli any faster than I.”

Bound for Tripoli, thought Dorinda with a delicious sense of justice, destined for the slave market and a nightmarish, anonymous half life from which Frederick’s little whore would never return alive. The lover would be killed; Dorinda would specify that, for the man had done no worse than choose unwisely. It was Frederick’s Caro she wished punished. If the silly chit was lucky, she’d be bought for a rich man’s harem, bound to serve only one infidel. If she were less so, then she would be the most costly houri in a brothel, drugged and forced to serve whichever man bought her favors.

Even that would be too kind for all she’d done: defiled the Moncrief family with her presence, banished Dorinda from England, sent Frederick to a painful death, degraded his memory with her lover. But it would do, thought Dorinda with satisfaction as Caro smiled with unfeigned joy.

It would do.

“Vesuvius, my lady?” asked the driver, his eager, florid face filling the window of the hired carriage. “The Castel Nuovo? Santa Chiara? The Royal Palace? Or would my lady see the antique statues taken from Pompeii? Very popular they are with the English gentlepeople, my lady.”

“Whatever you please,” said Caro wearily, burrowing back further into the worn squabs. In her present mood she wanted only silence, not a visitor’s itinerary. “It doesn’t matter at all to me. Simply drive until nightfall, or until I tell you otherwise.”

Though the driver’s face fell, he tugged on his forelock and climbed up on the box, ready to do as she requested. As much as he would have liked to show his city to the beautiful Englishwoman, his disappointment was tempered well enough by the fare she’d pay. Until nightfall, she said: caro mio, she’d owe him a fortune!

Inside the carriage, Caro closed her eyes and tried to let herself be lulled by the repetitious clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the rasping of the iron-bound wheels against the paving stones. She might as well have been back in Portsmouth for all the famous scenery meant to her. Certainly she would have been happier if she were.

For now she’d been assured that Frederick lived. In a few weeks, maybe even less, she would be reunited with him, and after returning here to Naples to visit his mother as she’d promised, they would sail back home to England. At the same time Jeremiah Sparhawk would redeem his friend, bid her and her husband farewell and leave for America. Most likely she would never see him again, and that was how it should be for a contented, married woman.

But deep inside, she knew she didn’t want it to end like that. It was not that she wished ill for Frederick. Her joy for his survival was very real, and the thought of holding him again in her arms was wonderful indeed. But things were different since Frederick had gone away. She was different.

God help her, what was she to do?

The carriage passed a garden, and the heady fragrance of full-blown roses filled the carriage. She breathed it deeply, remembering.

Another June, long ago, and she had held roses in her trembling hands when she stood beside Frederick in the chilly chapel at Blackstone. There had been no guests and only two witnesses—Mr. Perkins and the housekeeper—and the anxious young curate who owed his living to the Moncriefs had stumbled over the words of the service. Afterward she had signed her name after Frederick’s in the register, prouder of the elegant penmanship she’d only recently mastered than of the new name and title she had written.

There had been more roses in the earl’s bedchamber, on the mantel in tall porcelain vases, on the desk, on the little tables beside the bed, and when Caro had drawn back the coverlet she’d discovered hundreds of rose petals scattered over the sheets, deep, velvety red against the white linen. With her long hair combed about her shoulders she had waited for Frederick in the center of his bed, the heavy curtains looped back against the posts, and felt the rose petals tickle against her bare toes as she’d listened to the thumping of her own heart.

Tonight he would truly make her his. Tonight she would do all the things her mother had taught her and please him, her new husband. She was now his by right and by law, and because she loved him she would do it, even as she prayed she would not shame herself and be sick.

At last Frederick had come, in a yellow dressing gown and nightcap, and she had hastily looked away, already embarrassed by the intimacy his dress implied. She had felt the bed shift when he sat on the edge, and her hand had been cold when he’d taken it in his.

“You know before this I have never done anything to hurt you, Caro,” he had said gently. “I won’t begin now.”

Troubled, she had raised her eyes. “But as your wife—”

“I know all about what the world says of old men who take young wives,” he said, smiling indulgently. “It’s not much different than what is said of old men with young mistresses. What matters more to me instead is the love we share, pure and unsullied by animal passions. You are in many ways more like a daughter to me than a wife, and like a father I’ve found great joy in the woman you’ve become.”

She had shaken her head, confused, and he had lightly pressed his finger to his lips to hold her silence.

“Innocence like yours is a rare jewel, Caro, beyond any price. You are too young now to know the value of what you have given me today, but I am not, and I rejoice in the gift, however fleeting. Someday, perhaps, you will learn otherwise, and though I shall grieve, I will understand.”

“But I love you, Frederick!” she had cried from the depths of her heart. “I will never love anyone else as much as I love you!”

“I love you, too, Caro.” He had kissed her on the forehead, his lips dry as parchment and his dark eyes full of tenderness and sorrow. “And because I love you, I will understand.”

And now, at last, so did she.

“Pirates?” repeated the one-legged Englishman as he squinted up at Jeremiah. “Oh, aye, guv’nor, we’ve all manner of rogues here in this little harbor. Pirates, smugglers, corsairs, heathens and rascals of most ev’ry order.”

Only half listening, Jeremiah looked over the man’s head, across the Neapolitan waterfront to the rambling medieval castle that was the royal palace of King Ferdinand IV and his Court of the Two Sicilies, and to the lavish villas on either side that belonged to other aristocrats. Caro would be in one of them now, and he longed to know how she was faring with the dowager countess. Damnation, he should have insisted on going with her! She’d only been away from him for an hour at most, and already he missed her more than he’d ever thought possible. He picked up a stone and skipped it across the water, trying to concentrate instead on what the beggar was saying.

“‘Twas better when the fleet was here, of course,” said the man, hopping after Jeremiah on his crutches. “Lord Nelson, well now, he wouldn’t tolerate that sort of offal in his waters.”

“Left behind here, were you?” asked Jeremiah, eyeing the stump of the man’s leg and his tattered clothing. The English navy was notorious for ignoring its veterans and abandoning those who were too ill or wounded to serve.

“Aye, lost me leg in the service, but here I’ve a new wife and a new life and it never snows in Naples, so I don’t be complainin’.” The man winked broadly, contented enough even though he’d been whining for coins and tobacco when he’d accosted Jeremiah. “But as for the pirates, King Ferdy, well now, he’d jes’ as soon wink as look the other way.”

The man lowered his voice, confidential. “Are you lookin’ for a berth yourself, guv’nor? Hopin’ to make a quick fortune on the other side? If you is, I’ve got mates who—”

“All I’m interested in is information.” Jeremiah flipped a guinea to the man, who caught it deftly in his palm. “I have a friend who’s a prisoner in Tripoli, and I mean to get him out. Taken by a thieving Scotsman who’s renamed himself Hamil Al-Ameer.”

“Andrew Gordon, y’mean.” The beggar tapped his nose. “He’s a clever one, is Gordon, signin’ over to the heathens that way. He chants their mumbo jumbo, takes a new name, and just like that, he’s one of them, preying on Christians like he weren’t born one his own self.”

“I know,” said Jeremiah curtly. “Does he ever drop anchor here?”

The beggar shrugged, his shoulders propped high on his crutches. “Don’t doubt but that he has, but I can’t say when or for how long. You’ll have t’ go t’ him in Tripoli if you want t’ ransom your man. Lives fine as a lord there, they say. But even then don’t expect much from Hamil. He hates Englishmen, an’ he’s just as like to take your ransom money and slit your throat as smile at you.”

All too easily Jeremiah remembered the feel of Hamil’s blade pressing into his throat. Would Caro’s husband have felt it, too, as it eased him into death? “Then it’s a good thing I’m American, not English.”

“You’re a Yankee, guv’nor?” The man’s eyes lit merrily. “You been deep water sailing, and not heard the news?”

“I’m arrived this day from Portsmouth, aye,” said Jeremiah uneasily. “What news?”

“Why, news o’ the wars, of course! The big one’s France and England settin’ to it again, with the Peace all blown to bits like tinder to a powder keg.”

“That one was brewing when we cleared the channel,” said Jeremiah. “I knew the Peace had broken, for we were chased and boarded by a French frigate not two days from here.”

“But do you know what the Pasha o’ Tripoli up an’ done?” said the beggar eagerly, grinning with anticipation to tell his story. “Let that Yankee frigate Philadelphia run aground on his doorstep an’ then calls it his, jus’ like that, an’ now your country an’ his are at war, too.”

“At war?” repeated Jeremiah, stunned, his thoughts immediately flying to Davy. “America and Tripoli are at war?”

The beggar nodded dramatically, relishing the moment. “True enough, guv’nor. What reason would I have for lyin’, eh? You can jus’ forget your ransom an’ redeemin’ your friend an’ chattin’ all cozylike with Hamil Al-Ameer. There’s no Yankees goin’ into Tripoli, an’ even fewer comin’ out, an’ that’s God’s own truth.”