The Ravishing One (12 page)

Carr was watching her carefully. “Perhaps,” he finally muttered. “After all, I have nothing else on this man, do I?”

“Not as far as I know,” she said coolly. “But then, you have never let me see your assemblage of ‘leverage materials.’ ”

It was the power base from which Carr worked, an accumulation of deeds, mortgages, promissory notes, indiscreet letters, and stolen church records. She’d seen them once, neatly bundled and hidden in Carr’s library at Wanton’s Blush. She’d long suspected that Carr had been scarred retrieving them. Too bad they hadn’t burned. Along with him.

“And never will, my dear.” He dropped the silver tip of his cane to the floor and pushed himself erect. “Perhaps you ought to stay away from Barton for a while.”

She blinked at this unexpected suggestion. “But why?”

“Oh, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ that sort of nonsense. ’Twill make Barton more avid to make you his. An anxious man is a willing dupe.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Carr sighed heavily. “Must we always end our
conversations with one of your tiresome assertions of autonomy? Just do as I say, Fia.”

She did not reply, neither did she rise, nor bid him good-bye when he left. It would be out of character. She set down her needlework. It had gone well. Now all that was needed was for James to play his part.

Lord Carr exited the town house and waved his carriage off. He wanted to walk tonight. He felt wonderful, so wonderful, in fact, that when he saw Janet peeking out of an upper-story window, he bowed chivalrously and kissed his fingertips to her. She disappeared, and he laughed, a full-blown booming sound.

Dear Fia! Who would have guessed she would be so entertaining? And she’d done it so well, damned if she hadn’t. His chest swelled with paternal pride. If she’d been pitting herself against anyone but him she might well have ended up with Bramble House.

But she
had
pitted herself against him. He shook his head, chuckling fondly. Unfortunately for Fia, he hadn’t forgotten the reason she’d eloped with that disastrous toad-eating Scotsman or that she’d willingly stayed in that horrible little hamlet for all the years of her marriage, proof that she would do anything—yes,
anything
—to be out from under his power.

This is how she’d planned to regain her freedom, by having him sign over that rude little manor to a man who would then hand it to her.

Oh, Fia! He dabbed at his eyes. Doubtless she thought he would have no choice but to sign over her little farm if he wanted in on the Barton and Donne
Shipping Line’s insurance ploy. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t need to.

For while ’twas true he didn’t have anything on James Barton, he most certainly had something on Barton’s partner, Thomas Donne. Or rather, Thomas McClairen.

Chapter 9

T
rading our routes is the most sensible solution.” Thomas stretched out his legs. He cupped the balloon-shaped brandy snifter in his hand, heating the amber fluid with his palm.

On the other side of the fire, James Barton sat in repose. It was one of the few nights James hadn’t left the house to trail after Fia like a faithful—if not particularly bright—hound, and Thomas was determined that tonight they would mend the rift Fia had caused between them. He would avoid all mention of her and stick to matters of mutual interest, specifically the shipping business.

“The
Alba Star
won’t be seaworthy in time for me to be able to make our delivery date,” he went on. “It will be at least another month before the new sails are
ready, and the final coats of varnish need to be applied. If I don’t make the deadline we’ll have to bid adieu to a very nice bonus.”

James’s lower lip thrust out unhappily. “I hadn’t planned on leaving London so soon. It might prove inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient? How? Don’t tell me it might interfere with your social obligations. Since when have such become so important to you?” Thomas asked mildly.

“They haven’t.” Tenacity gelled in James’s blunt features. “There’s simply some unfinished business I’d like to conclude before I sail. I’m not certain I can bring it to a conclusion so swiftly.”

Conclusion or climax?
Thomas thought bitterly, but held his tongue. Would James heed his intellect if it denied his heart? No. It would take more than that to sway his friend. Certainly Thomas had yet to find the way.

Once more he considered telling James about the sort of family he was becoming embroiled with. That his own family had been decimated by Carr, that Carr had stolen the McClairen birthright and the McClairen lands, had been responsible for the death of a half-dozen McClairen men, including his brother and uncle. He swirled his brandy in his glass, gazing deep into the burnished liquid.

But that would mean revealing that every time Thomas stepped foot on English soil he risked being exposed as a returned deportee and executed. He’d purposefully kept the knowledge from James, not
because he didn’t trust him, but because James, who was open and candid in nature, had never been able to keep a secret. And it was imperative that Thomas keep his past a secret because there were others who depended on his not being found out.

Besides, if Thomas told him, James would only ask what that had to do with Fia MacFarlane. James was besotted.

“I have an idea,” James said suddenly. “Couldn’t you captain the
Sea Witch
round the Cape, and when work on the
Alba Star
is finished I’ll take her on the North African route?”

Thomas shook his head. “A ship is like a woman, James. You’d best know her better than your own mistress, in the waters we sail. Unfortunately, you’re not privy to this wench’s secrets, James.”

James’s mouth tightened. “I was speaking of a ship, Thomas.”

“As was I,” Thomas said. “But now that you have broached the subject, I would be a poor friend if I didn’t warn you once more against Fia MacFarlane.”

James set his own glass of brandy on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t understand your animosity. It is unlike you to hate without cause and your hatred of Fia is nearly palpable.”

Hatred?
Thomas thought, stunned. He didn’t hate Fia, and the notion that James thought so vexed him. “I don’t hate her. I fear her. For your sake.”

“Why?”

“Her father—”

“She’s not her father, Thomas.”

“She’s her father’s daughter.”

“What proof of that do you have?”

“I would think her reputation is proof enough.”

James made an impatient gesture. “Gossip and rumor. By God, man, can’t you see—” He broke off abruptly and swung around to stare out the window.

Thomas drained the remaining liqueur in his glass in one swallow, his temper frayed. “If only that she-devil disappeared from this earth and vanished back to whatever dark and hellish fairy realm she left,” he muttered.

“Don’t say that, Thomas,” James said, spinning to face him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For God’s sake, man! Look at what she’s done to you!”

“And what exactly is that, Thomas?”

“I had a meeting with Sir Ffolkes yesterday, James. He wanted to know what had become of your last two shipments. He implied that you purposely lost them to collect the insurance.”

The fury and amazement Thomas had expected did not appear. Instead, James’s expression grew pensive. “Oh? And what did you say, Tom?”

“I said it was a lie.”

James nodded. Nothing more. Thomas stared at him, apprehension trailing up his spine, chilling him with possibility. James should be deeply, grievously offended. He should be penning a note to Ffolkes this moment, demanding an interview. At the very least he should be swearing his determination to discover who had spread these vicious lies. But he wasn’t.

“By God!” James was watching him, abrupt realization manifest in his expression. “You don’t put any credence in Ffolkes’s suspicions, do you, Thomas?”

“No. Of course not.”

“I swear to you I have done nothing illegal,” James said stiffly.

He heard the sincerity in James’s avowal and he believed him, yet at the back of his mind he could not shake the image of Fia laughing as she told him that James was hers. Or of Amelia’s necklace encircling Fia’s throat. “Of course.”

“Of course,” James repeated bitterly, sensing his doubt. “Well, what would you have me do, then, Thomas?”

He should ask for nothing. By doing so he admitted questioning James’s integrity. It would be a blow, perhaps even a fatal blow, to their friendship. But if he could remove James from Fia MacFarlane’s influence, it was worth the risk.

“All right, James,” he said coolly. “I want you to trade routes with me, as I suggested. I’ll remain here while the repairs to the
Alba Star
are finished and deal with Ffolkes and any other questions that arise.”

A vein bulged in James’s throat. His lips disappeared into a tight, fine line. “All right, Thomas,” he said. “If this is what you think is necessary. When must I ship out?”

“Three weeks.”

Both men understood that there was nothing more to say, and so nothing more was said.

My Dear Fia
,

I know you prefer I not commit to paper any communication between us. But I cannot see you this evening or the next and feel the information I am about to impart is of a pressing enough nature to take this risk
.

Your concerns about Thomas Donne may have some merit. Indeed, I fear he means you some form of injury, and while I will never believe he means to do you any bodily harm, his words this evening caused me concern, for he spoke quite heatedly of wishing you vanished
.

If only you would release me from my promise not to speak of our relationship. Until then I will, of course, abide by your wishes. Other than hope this warning proves needless, I can do nothing more
.

There is more to relate but being ever mindful of your cautions, I will wait until we meet in person to tell you this
very important news.

Until that time I remain, as always, your servant
,

James Harold Barton

Carr waited within the carriage while his liveried lackey dashed up the stairs and rapped sharply on the town house door. The young night was already dark. A thin rain had begun and beneath the lamps bracketing the front door, the whitewashed steps glistened like bones.

A servant answered and, after an amazed look at the carriage waiting on the street, slammed the door shut.

Carr gazed out incuriously. ’Twasn’t the first time his appearance caused such a reaction. Awe, he supposed. A woman suddenly appeared perched atop the lamppost at the corner of the street. It was Janet.

“Now, what are you doing here?” Carr murmured. He would have called out but the experience of the past five years had taught him the uselessness of doing so. She’d only fade. She always did.

Janet was apparently enjoying a prolonged ghostly snit. She was miffed at him for something or other. It couldn’t be because he’d killed her. She’d forgiven him for that or she wouldn’t have bothered warning him to leave on the night Wanton’s Blush had burned down. So there must be some other reason for her stubborn silence.

He couldn’t begin to guess what. Not that he particularly cared. Better a silent ghost than a nattering one. It’s just that he felt a bit injured by the unfairness of it—Sure enough, she’d begun to shimmer and then fade and finally she snuffed out. He turned his hand over, studying his nails.

The door at the top of the steps swung open again and the footman bowed low. Carr’s servant leapt down the steps and flung open the carriage door.

Carr alit and mounted the steps slowly, ignoring the flustered footman as he moved without hesitation into the hall and down the narrow corridor to the open door on the left. These little town houses were all patterned the same. This could only be the sitting room. And of course it was. He entered. Thomas Donne stood in the center of the room, awaiting him.

Carr looked about. A pleasant, pedestrian sort of room. The requisite bookshelves holding gold-embossed leather works, the blue velvet draperies, the Aubusson carpet. Everything quite standard.

“Lord Carr,” Donne rumbled, his gray eyes canny in his sun-darkened countenance. “It’s been a long time. Won’t you be seated and tell me to what I owe this visit?”

Carr shrugged off his light cloak. The footman flitting nervously behind him caught it before it hit the floor. “You may go now,” Carr dismissed him. The man looked at Donne and, after receiving his nod, backed from the room.

“I have a salve that might be able to help that,” Carr said, taking the seat Donne indicated.

“Sir?”

“Your skin, man, your skin. I have a salve that can bleach out some of the tan.”

“Thank you, but no.” Despite the smile and mild tone, Thomas did not relax but prowled along the edges of the room. Carr remembered the attitude well; Thomas Donne had lounged and moved and stalked through society like one great Bengal tiger. He’d been quite an attraction for the women on the few occasions he’d visited Wanton’s Blush. “I doubt you’ve come here to advise me on cosmetics.”

Carr planted the tip of his cane between his feet and folded his hands over the heavy knob. “Of course not. I have come to blackmail you.”

He’d hoped to disconcert the bruising Scotsman; he’d failed. Which, now that he thought of it, seemed
to be becoming something of a pattern lately. Indeed, the last few times he’d made that particular announcement, he’d been met with only impassive resignation. No histrionics, no shock, no horror—as though his victims resigned themselves to their fate before he even had the fun of stating his intentions. Rather mean-spirited of them.

“Oh?” Donne finally sank down into a chair opposite Carr, resting his right boot on his left knee. “How?”