Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (54 page)

Ah, so the wench was still a conniving whore beneath all of her finery and pretty manners. Well, she’d make Della tell her. Annabelle placed a finger on her lips and considered the strumpet. Finally she spoke, her voice sounding soft but clipped. “Such information may prove quite useful to me. However, if you don’t wish to part with it, I believe that your dear William and his family might be more than interested in your past. And I won’t charge them a thing for mentioning it.”

All color fled Della’s cheeks, and she trembled violently. “No, you mustn’t!”

“Tell me Mrs. Briston’s secret.”

Swallowing hard, Della admitted being transported to Philadelphia on a ship which was captured by the fearsome Captain Hawk. Mrs. Briston was also on the ship and probably a doxy, though some of the women didn’t believe she was because of her manners and bearing. Hawk took a liking to her, and soon she was Hawk’s woman.

“Is that all?” Annabelle asked, pretending disinterest. It would never do for this strumpet to know just how much value she placed on such startling information.

“I’d think that’s enough! Mrs. Briston paid me a great deal of money to keep her secret.” Della folded her arms in a huff, practically pouting.

Annabelle rose nonchalantly from the sofa and shook out her gown. She yawned. “Thank you for your company, but I fear I must retire. I am most sleepy. Good night, my dear.”

She knew Della watched her depart the parlor, most probably a bit stunned that the news didn’t have more of a profound effect on her. But Annabelle’s calm demeanor belied the way her insides trembled.

Hastening to her room, she closed the door and locked it, not wanting to be disturbed by anyone. She undressed and slipped into bed but couldn’t sleep.

Bethlyn Briston and Captain Hawk. Her mind repeated this like a litany. No matter how many times the names rolled around in her head, she still couldn’t believe it. But Della knew this was true; she’d been a witness to all of it.

No wonder Bethlyn had paid Della to keep silent. Such information would damn her in the eyes of the British authorities — and her own husband. No matter where Ian Briston’s real sympathies lay, Annabelle didn’t think he’d like knowing his devoted wife had slept with the notorious privateer, Hawk.

Annabelle knew how much the British wanted to capture this blackguard, and Bethlyn Briston might be the key to finally ending his reign of the seas. If she told the authorities about Bethlyn’s involvement with Hawk, she’d be arrested and hung as a traitor, and Ian would be free. But she discounted this idea, knowing Della would have to admit any knowledge she possessed, and she’d given the woman her word and wouldn’t break it. The poor thing did deserve the chance to turn her life around and marry William Potter.

She considered going to Ian directly, but might not Ian resent her for telling him? She wanted Ian, but didn’t wish for him to realize she possessed a great deal of information about things to which only a well-trained spy would be privy.

What to do? After hours of tossing and turning, she decided to take her late mother’s advice. When in doubt, do nothing.

Nothing for now.

~ ~ ~

The summer months passed in a flurry of ocean drenched days and moonlit nights. For Bethlyn, having to reside on Windhaven when Ian took out the
Black Falcon
, the moments passed slowly. But whenever he returned, her joy and love knew no bounds. She dreaded leaving this sun-kissed paradise, but the day finally arrived.

Ian had recently come home, having been gone for two months this time. They lay in each other’s arms, watching the morning sun color the sky like an artist’s palette, Bethlyn nestling in the crook of his arm. Her honey brown hair flowed across his chest, and he absently twisted a strand between his fingers.

She felt satiated and content, dozing off for a few seconds, barely hearing Ian’s voice.

“We must return to Philadelphia tomorrow.” Realizing what he’d said, she opened her eyes and moved her head to see his face. He looked as unhappy as she felt.

“I’ve been expecting it,” she said, and felt a lump thicken in her throat.

Ian held her tightly. “I happened to cross paths with a privateer out of New York. The British have fled Philadelphia for New York. General Washington and the patriots are in control of the city.”

“Oh, Ian, this is what you’ve wanted for so long.” Amber sparks of pleasure danced within her eyes, but she realized he didn’t share the same emotion. “What’s wrong?”

Heaving a ragged sigh, he sat up. “The war is far from over, Bethlyn, though I’m happy about the news. But New York is still under British control, It seems that Captain Hawk is meant to have no rest.”

“You’re going to New York.”

“Eventually. Not right away. Marc should have some important information for me by now, and I still have to run Briston Shipping and keep up the pretense of being a loyal Tory. I doubt Philadelphia is free of all British spies.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “My trips to New York will, I hope, not involve a great deal of corning and going. I’d much prefer staying at Edgecomb with you.” Tilting her chin, he gazed deeply into the fathomless pools of her eyes. “I don’t want to neglect you, sweetheart, or have you think I’m not interested in making our baby. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled his head down and whispered against his lips, “Then by all means enjoy yourself.”

~ ~ ~

Thomas Eversley was far from enjoying himself.

He’d arrived in Philadelphia four days earlier from New York on a rickety coach which had been driven by the most surly and arrogant colonial he’d ever met. The man had been rude, not even bothering to help him with his trunk, small thing that it was. All of the clothes and possessions Thomas had packed for this travesty of a trip were probably still aboard the
Jessica
, if not on the backs of some filthy, scavaging privateers.

Even three months after the incident with Captain Hawk and his doxy weren’t enough time to wipe away the total humiliation Thomas had suffered. His face still burned at the memory, and more than anything he wanted revenge against the malicious twosome. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to face the crew of the
Jessica
again; their mocking laughter still echoed in his ears.

He’d been lucky that one of the crew had lent him a jacket; otherwise, he’d have suffered a terrible chill on the ocean when the sun went down that first day. No one, however, had volunteered a pair of pants. He knew he could have ordered someone to undress, but he hadn’t wanted to, fearful he’d be forced overboard. The men weren’t in the best of moods.

The three small longboats had drifted for two days, and by the time a British passenger ship out of Liverpool had rescued them, Thomas was hungry and filled with such an incredible thirst that he never thought to get enough to drink. Never again did he want to be without food and water.

The ship docked at New York just as General Clinton, who’d taken over General Howe’s Philadelphia command in early May, arrived. By the middle of June, the last British troops left Philadelphia, and now New York was the hub of the social scene — something which Thomas didn’t get to enjoy.

He felt the fates had cursed him by falling ill with a fever and an aching sore throat which kept him abed for more than six weeks. Thanks to General Clinton’s concern for his harrowing experience, and the fact that the man was more than eager to learn facts about Captain Hawk and this Dove person, Thomas recuperated at his residence.

Thomas told him very little, but from a contact of Clinton’s, a man who appeared at his bedside one afternoon calling himself Mariah, he learned that the Dove was first heard of in Philadelphia. How the Dove, a rebel poetess, came into contact with Captain Hawk was unknown. But this man had heard that Thomas was interested in gaining revenge, and having been a contact of a British officer who’d met with an early and ignominious end, he could perhaps gain a foothold by going to the city of brotherly love and seeking out a Miss Emmie Gray.

And this was exactly what Thomas decided to do on this very warm September afternoon.

His step, despite his recent illness, was spry as he climbed out of the carriage before the imposing white house. Upon arriving in the city, he’d made inquiries at Briston Shipping about Bethlyn and Ian Briston and discovered that they were on a holiday. Much perturbed by their absence, he decided to pursue the information he needed from this woman named Emmie Gray. He could never bring himself to query Ian Briston about the notorious Hawk and his whore. Though he knew that as a businessman in the shipping industry, Briston might possess some information about the pair, Thomas would never suffer the final humiliation of revealing to the arrogant young bounder about his run-in with Captain Hawk. Wouldn’t the nervy Briston just adore hearing every nasty, juicy detail?

Minutes later, Thomas found himself ensconced in the Babcock parlor and watching the very lovely and innocent-appearing Emmie Gray pour him a cup of tea. But Thomas wasn’t fooled by her demure appearance in the high-necked blue gown or those downcast eyes. His New York informant had spoken to him at length about Emmie Gray, or rather that Emmie Gray was a fraud.

She was a trained British spy who had been intimately involved with a certain late Lieutenant Holmes, but she’d lost her value to the British now, because her face was too widely recognized by the Philadelphia citizenry to mingle among them and gain information. And since inheriting a large fortune, which Thomas learned was controlled by Ian Briston, she’d lost interest in the spy business, preferring to be a woman of leisure.

This Emmie Gray was most suited to leisure and other things having to do with soft beds, Thomas thought, and felt himself harden. Her full, sensual lips belied her innocent act. The slight brush of her hand against his when she handed him the cup aroused him, and he didn’t miss the glimmer of lust in her eyes. He sensed she’d been without a man for too long. She needed to be kissed and bedded — very soon.

He couldn’t imagine a more enjoyable way of spending his time in Philadelphia than having Emmie Gray’s slender body writhing beneath his — that was until he decided how he was going to entice Bethlyn Briston into rushing back to England and into his large, imposing bed at Woodsley as his wife.

“I hope you find our fair city to your liking, Mr. Eversley,” Annabelle said in a satin-smooth voice.

He hated it, but he smiled. “Most charming.”

She sipped her tea and set down the cup on the low table in front of the sofa and hesitated. “I know, sir, that you mentioned you were connected with Briston Shipping, but I fail to see why you would choose to visit me.”

“Don’t you, Miss Gray?” Thomas cocked an eyebrow at her, his cup poised in midair. “The connection should be obvious, since Ian Briston is executor of your estate. I enjoy knowing every interesting facet of Briston’s life. His wife is the daughter of the Earl of Dunsmoor, my employer. I hope to be able to give the earl a favorable report on his son-in-law.”

It had been a shot in the dark, but Thomas took the gamble by purposely mentioning Briston. He hadn’t known what this woman looked like before he met her, just that she was connected to Briston and she was a spy. He desperately needed something to pin on the man if he were somehow going to pull Bethlyn away from him. And he believed that Emmie Gray was it. An emotion of momentary pain and — could it be love — flickered across her face at the mention of the man’s name.

Perhaps all wasn’t paradise in the Briston household. Why else would Ian and Bethlyn take an extended trip if not to put distance between Ian Briston and this delectable spy?

“Mr. Briston has been quite accommodating,” she said.

I bet he has, thought Thomas, and stifled his lecherous smile. “You’re very fortunate to have such a prominent man as an adviser. In fact, you’ve been quite lucky the last year. I heard about your near escape from bloodthirsty savages and your dangerous trek through the wilderness to safety. And now you’ve inherited this beautiful home. I wonder if there isn’t anything you can’t achieve, Miss Hastings. “

“I—” She broke off. “What did you call me?”

Thomas put down his cup and smiled, a crafty expression in his eyes. “Your name is Annabelle Hastings, I believe.”

Annabelle swallowed hard. “How … how did you learn about me?”

Thomas silently applauded her for not lying. “I have my sources.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Now what can we do about it?”

Annabelle didn’t flinch from the probing stare. “Pray, tell me, sir.”

“First, you can tell me all you know about the Dove.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Eversley, but my information about this person is sketchy, at best.” Annabelle settled herself comfortably against the sofa cushions. “A pamphlet of poems was published and the citizens went quite mad over the Dove, and he or she became a great favorite.”

“My dear Miss Hastings, I was led to believe you were a more than adequate spy, but I must change my opinion. You seem not to know this person’s sex.”

Annabelle hid her affront behind a sweet smile. “No one knows for certain, sir.”

Thomas smirked. “I can tell you with no hesitation that the Dove is a woman, a most beautiful and well-formed woman, I may add. I had a run-in with her and her cohort, Captain Hawk, some weeks ago. However, both of them wore masks to conceal their faces.”