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Authors: Lynn Collum

BOOK: The Captain
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A chill raced down Jacinda's spine. She understood that was exactly what he and his son did hope. She pulled her shawl tighter round her shoulders and looked to her father, but he seemed to see nothing wrong in the baron's words.
Trudy was summoned along with the carriage, and they set out for home. Mr. Blanchett settled back into the squabs, greatly satisfied with the night's work. They rode in silence for much of the way before her father spoke. “You are destined to be Baroness Rowland one day, my dear. Never forget that. The baron might think he can wiggle out of our agreement, but the paperwork he signed tonight will go to my solicitor in the morning post, just in case.”
There was something in her father's voice that frightened Jacinda. “In case of what, Papa?”
He stared at her in the dim light of the carriage. Jacinda had always sensed his disappointment that she was not as pretty as her mother. Her father liked pretty women and she was not.
“Perhaps it's nothing, but even though I chose to allow my brother to run the Foundry and retired to a gentleman's life in the country, I'm not an utter fool. Everyone thinks I—”
A pistol discharged in the nearby darkness. A shouted “Stand and deliver” penetrated the closed carriage. Mr. Blanchett moved to lower the window and look out. To Jacinda's surprise, the coachman disobeyed the barked demand. The crack of a whip sounded and the carriage began to sway back and forth as the horses thundered forward.
“Papa, what is happening?” Jacinda grabbed at her father's hand.
He didn't answer her. Instead, he spoke to Nurse. “Trudeau, if they get the carriage stopped, protect the child with your life.”
“Yes, sir.” Nurse's tone was surprisingly brave to Jacinda's ears.
The dark shadows of the countryside flashed by the windows as they fled from the highwaymen. Jacinda had never ridden so fast and the sharp sway of the carriage made her feel queasy. Another shot rang out and a strange thud sounded above them.
“They've shot the coachman.”
Jacinda recognized the concern in her father's voice. The carriage began to sway from one side of the road to the other as the horses sensed the loss of control. Mr. Blanchett swore under his breath as they were thrown about inside the small space. The swaying grew more pronounced and her father shouted, “Brace yourself, I think we're going to crash.”
Jacinda flew forward as the sound of cracking wood and breaking glass filled the air. The air was knocked from her and for a moment she couldn't breathe.
A strange stillness filled the carriage. Stunned, it took several minutes before Jacinda's senses registered that the vehicle was no longer moving. The carriage lay at an angle against a boulder. In the darkness she could hear the groans of her father and Trudy as well as the distant sound of their team hurling away, still harnessed to the broken shaft.
“Papa?” Jacinda reached out for her father but he was already climbing out the door, now positioned over their heads.
“Hurry!” he called as he jumped to the ground and grabbed her hand. Roughly, he pulled her from the wreckage. Minutes later Trudy stood beside her. The sound of riders approaching made her father cry, “Take my daughter up into those rocks.”
“Aye, sir.” Trudy clamped a hand over Jacinda's arm and dragged her across the road. Jacinda looked back to see the dark shape of her father standing in the moonlight, leaning heavily on the cane he'd salvaged from the wreck as he stared in the direction of the highwaymen.
“Papa? Are you not coming?”
“Not a word, child, and don't come out until Trudeau says its safe.”
The two females scrambled up through the rocks and found a large boulder that jutted out. Trudy pulled the child down into the circle of her arms, and whispered, “Not a peep, Miss Jacinda, no matter what you hear.”
Jacinda nodded her head. What was going to happen to them? Why had those men chased them? In the darkness she couldn't tell how close they were to home. She had never wanted to see Cousin Millie as much as she did at that very moment.
The horses thundered up. A gunshot exploded in the darkness. Both girls flinched at the report. Trudy leaned forward to peer round the rock's edge, then gasped and drew back. She whimpered and prayed, “Oh, sweet Lord protect us!”
Jacinda strained her ears for her father's voice but all she heard was the gravelly rasp of the highwayman's question. “Is he dead?”
Jacinda bit her lip to keep from screaming and tears welled in her eyes. They had shot Papa.
“Not yet, but it won't be long,” a second voice answered. “ 'E's got a nice plump purse.”
“Stubble it and find the child. We ain't done until we take care of the child.”
The air froze in Jacinda's lungs even as Trudy's arms tightened protectively. They wanted her. Why? She had no money. Her fingers suddenly clamped over her mother's locket. She prayed they wouldn't take that from her.
Footsteps sounded on the wrecked carriage then a voice called, “She ain't 'ere.”
“Search the area. Ain't no pay unless we finish the job.”
For the next few minutes Trudy and Jacinda lay in their hiding place holding their breath as the two brigands roved over the rocks across the road where the wrecked carriage lay. They had just reached the base of the hill on the other side of the road when the leader stopped. He swore loudly, then shouted, “Someone's coming. We'll 'ave to get the brat later.”
Within minutes, sounds of the horses galloping away filled the night. Jacinda shoved Trudy's arms aside and scrambled down the hill to her father. The servant protested, but followed her charge back to the roadway. Jacinda fell to her knees while Trudy stood and peered into the darkness in the direction the highwaymen had ridden. In the opposite distance the jangle of a slow-moving vehicle rattled.
“Papa, Papa.” Jacinda grabbed her father's coat, tears streaming down her cheeks.
A weak hand came up to grab her wrist. “Where—where ... is ... your nurse?”
Trudy came to his other side. “Here, sir.”
“Trudeau,” Mr. Blanchett coughed, and they could hear a strange rattle as he breathed. “Listen to me. You must leave Somerset and take Jacinda with you.”
“Leave, Papa, no! I won't go without you.” Tears rolled unchecked, dropping on her hands as they clutched at her father as if she could hold on for him.
“Hush, child. This is too important. Trudeau ... did you hear those men?”
“Aye, sir, I did. They was wantin' to hurt Miss Jacinda.”
“No, to kill her. You must protect her.” Jacinda openly sobbed at her father's words, but he continued, knowing his time was running out. “Make certain my solicitor gets these documents.” He was scarcely able to lift the leather pouch and his hand fell limply to the ground once the servant had taken the papers. “I am asking a great deal, but in the end my daughter will reward you, Trudeau. Take the diamond stick pin in my cravat and whatever else I have and sell it. That should keep you in funds until perhaps the truth will be revealed about this night's evil work. Don't trust anyone, girl. Not my family or my friends. Protect her until she's old enough to recognize the danger. When you send the documents, have Jacinda write a letter to my solicitor, Thomas Wilkins, in London. She's to inform him that only when you deem it's safe, she will return to claim her rightful heritage. Make certain she never tells him her location. He would be duty-bound to return her to Chettwood.”
Jacob Blanchett took another rattling breath, then tightened his grip on his daughter's arm. “Jacinda, my dearest child, things are going to be difficult for you, but you must be strong. Do as Trudeau tells you. Always remember that someone wants my fortune and that they are willing to kill you to get it. I—I'm sorry, my dear. I have ... have done many things I regret. I should have done something sooner when ... when I ... began to suspect a ... danger ... after ... my riding acc—accident. I love ... you... .” there was a soft rush of air, then the gentleman fell silent. His hand dropped from her.
Jacinda fell prostrate over her father's body and wept bitterly but Trudy turned in the direction of the approaching vehicle. The servant peered into the darkness at the light from the carriage lantern that flickered in the distance. She straightened as if coming to some decision. She leaned over and grabbed the child's arm. “Hurry, Miss Jacinda, someone's comin' and if we don't leave now, I won't be able to follow your father's directions.”
“But, I—I don't want to go and leave P-Papa.”
The little servant knelt on the ground. “Miss—” Trudy stopped. It would never do to still be so formal while they were on the run. “Jacinda, yer life is in danger and yer papa is no longer here to protect ye. He's given that task to me and I intend to make certain ye are safe.” Trudy grimly fumbled on the blood-soaked chest of her late employer until she found the diamond stick pin. She pulled it from the cravat and stowed it in her pocket. She hesitated a moment, then pulled the gold watch from his waistcoat and the large gold ring his wore on his hand and put them with the pin. She would need these items and more to support the child until Jacinda was old enough to take care of herself. Trudy stood and pulled the weeping child up with her.
“W-Where will we go?” Jacinda's whole world had shattered. She couldn't even begin to think about life without her father.
“We are going to find my brother, Johnny. He will know how we can survive this. Ye must be brave, child.”
“I'm not afraid of him.”
“Who child?” Nurse was puzzled at the child's sudden calm.
“Andrew Morrow. He and his father did this.”
“We don't know that child. We'll leave such matters to your father's solicitor. He'll find out who hired those men.”
But Jacinda remembered the young man's angry words ... and now her father was dead. There was no doubt in her heart.
At the moment the carriage rounded the bend, two females slipped into the dark woods near the rocks and disappeared. All the local merchant and his fat wife returning from market day in Wells found was a wrecked coach with the body of Mr. Blanchett in the road.
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1814
 
“Wake up, sir.” Mr. James Wormwood's clerk shook his shoulder on finding him fast asleep, hunched over his desk. It was a common state for Mr. Elliot to find his employer in of late, which accounted for the fact that Wormwood and Styles, Solicitors, had lost a great many of their clients in the past year. At the age of sixty-five, the senior partner was ready to retire but unfortunately lacked the funds.
“Sir ... sir, there's a gentleman to see you.”
The solicitor opened his eyes and asked, “Who is it? If it's Mackleby again, tell him I ain't in.” He closed his eyes as if he meant to return to sleep.
“It's a new gentleman, sir, and I think he's someone of importance.”
Mr. Wormwood lifted his head and smoothed his thinning gray hair. “Dressed to the nines, is he?”
“Well, no, sir.”
The old solicitor took a long swig from a cup that was full of spirits and a little coffee. “Dripping in jewelry, is he?”
“Not even a single fob, sir.”
Wormwood looked at his clerk, his brushy gray brows drawn together. “Have you been nipping from my cup, Ned?”
Shock reflected on Mr. Elliot's face. “Not a bit of it, sir.”
“Then how the devil do you know the man's of some importance?” Mr. Wormwood slid his glasses on and peered at his now frightened employee.
“His name, sir. It's Morrow. 'Tis the family name of Baron Rowland, is it not?”
The solicitor frowned. “Can't be. Rowland's heir ran off years ago. It was quite a scandal in Somerset at the time. Lad was only sixteen or so as I remember. The baron gave him up for dead.”
“That's as may be, Mr. Wormwood, but the gentleman introduced himself as Captain Drew Morrow and he's wishin' to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”
The old man sat back in his worn leather chair, his face full of surprise. “I do believe the boy was called Andrew. Can it be the same?” The solicitor gestured at the clerk to hurry. “Stop your dawdling, man, and send him in.”
The clerk opened his mouth to protest, then decided it was pointless and hurried out. Minutes later a tall, lean gentleman with darkly tanned skin stepped into the room. The visitor was not fashionably attired, but he wore his clothes with an easy assurance of self that defied fashion. His dark hair was longer than the current fashion. It brushed the top of his shoulders, the ends sun-streaked blond. Yet the thing that struck the old gentleman the most was the distinctive half-moon scar that arched down from the man's right eye. Wormwood had asked about it once while staying at Rowland Park. He'd been told it was a childhood burn the boy had acquired while the farriers had been shoeing a horse. This
was
his lordship's long lost son.
Wormwood rose rather unsteadily and extended his hand. “Why, it is you, sir. You were scarcely more than a lad the last time I was at Rowland Park. Elliot tells me you are Captain Morrow these days. Well done!”
A half-smile exposed teeth that gleamed brightly in contrast to the man's tan cheeks. “I was hoping you would remember me, sir. I have come desiring information about my father.”
Mr. Wormwood gestured toward a seat. After both gentlemen were settled, the old man stared across at the face that he was certain women would find handsome.
Ah, to be young and appealing again
... but he put the thought aside and asked, “After all these years, what prompted you to inquire? Why not write the baron directly or better yet, pay him a visit?”
Drew Morrow fidgeted uncomfortably in the worn chair. The solicitor was so altered he almost hadn't recognized him. Had his father changed so much as well? The young captain pondered the old gentleman's questions. He'd been such a fool all those years ago, and it was always difficult to put one's actions into words for they seemed all the more foolish. He wasn't sure he could make Wormwood understand. Drew had a need to reconnect with his roots but was uncertain that Lord Rowland would wish his return. Truth be told, Drew wasn't even sure he understood himself. Perhaps it was the emptiness of life at sea or merely the passage of time that had matured him. More likely it was a sense of his own mortality. All he was certain about was a desire to heal the rift he had opened eight years earlier by his flight in the face of adversity. He needed to do this.
He leaned back and sighed. “I should have done so sooner, sir. But”—he shrugged—“the first few years after I left were spent just learning to survive.” A sheepish grin touched his lips. “Besides, I was very much piqued at my father for all his plots and plans back then.” He watched a moth fluttering near the window seeking to escape the overwarm room. “There was also a part of me that feared he would come for me and make me return home to fulfill his wishes. I was quite determined that wasn't going to happen.” The captain grew pensive but didn't dwell on those times. “Pride in a young man is a rather powerful thing, sir.”
The old solicitor merely nodded, for he had much experience dealing with young sprigs come to Town to make their mark and very often failing. He remained silent—his cue that he would listen.
Drew's gaze moved past the old gentleman's shoulder to a badly rendered painting of country life. “As my luck turned, I felt like it would appear to be gloating if I wrote him. The more time passed, the harder it became. I picked up a pen a thousand times, but told myself that he wouldn't want to hear from a disloyal son who'd foiled all his plans.” He fell silent and his eyes took on a faraway look for a moment before he continued. “Then, about six months ago in the throes of a typhoon off the China coast, I came rather close to death. The narrow escape made me take stock of what I thought important, about what I wanted to accomplish. It was something of a revelation when I realized that I had a duty to my name as well as to my father. I am his sole heir. I promised myself I would come back and make amends for abandoning him when he needed my help. I've made my fortune and can do much to help make Rowland Park once again profitable. That is, if he still acknowledges me. I am well aware the estate is not entailed.”
Mr. Wormwood's brown eyes brightened on hearing the word fortune. “You must know that I shall be delighted to represent you in any way I can. As to the old gentleman, he remarried, oh, three years ago. Perhaps to try for another heir, or to acquire the widow's portion, but”—the old man shrugged—“all he obtained was a young wife”—the solicitor's mouth twisted with distaste—“who has no more head for money than the baron. Within a year they were dished again, but he'd staved off the most pressing of the creditors. I have no doubt he would welcome you home.”
His father with a new wife! Drew was unable to stop the surprise from registering on his face. Despite the man's penchant for gaming, he'd had a strong sense of the continuity of family. Yet, he'd stoutly refused to wed while Drew had been a young man, saying all he needed was one heir. Had his father given up on ever seeing his only son alive again? A wave of guilt washed over Drew. He had much to make up for where that gentleman was concerned. “Then my father is well?”
“Up until about six months ago.” The solicitor shook his head sadly.
Drew's hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “He is alive, is he not?”
“Alive, but he was injured in a riding accident during a hunt. Happened just before Twelfth Night. He's been confined to his bed since. The physician can find nothing wrong. But your father's will to walk seems lacking. I've done what I can to help, but I fear I had little to work with, what with the estate so mortgaged. The rumors after the murder only complicated things and—”
Captain Morrow straightened. “What murder, sir?”
A dawning light flashed in the solicitor tired eyes. “I had forgotten, all that happened about the time you left. In fact, your father told me you vanished the same night of the murder.” He quickly explained about Mr. Blanchett's violent death, Miss Blanchett's flight along with her maid, and the rumors that eventually surfaced that the baron or his son might have been involved. “But, of course, that was utter nonsense, sir, as you well know. When the child went missing, Mr. Wilkins, Blanchett's solicitor, refused to pay another penny against the betrothal agreement, as there was no thought that a marriage could take place without her or you for that matter.”
“Are you telling me that there are people in Somerset who actually think I might have killed that man?” Shock paled the captain's face.
Mr. Wormwood pulled a linen handkerchief from a drawer, then took off his spectacles and began to clean them. “Your reputation, if memory serves, was likely the cause, my boy. But that was long ago. No doubt other theories have surfaced since, for there is the matter of the child's fortune. Plenty of relations in her family could have had a hand in what happened. The old man might have been an infamous philanderer, but he was no fool when he ordered her maid to take her into hiding.”
“Philandering?” Drew vaguely remembered he'd heard rumors about the cit even as a young man. “Might that have been a cause of the attack? A jealous husband, an irate father?”
“Not likely, since the child wrote her father's solicitor that the killers searched the rocks to find her as well. As to by-blows, Wilkins swears that Blanchett financially provided for his”—the old lawyer's cheeks reddened—“er, mistakes, as I prefer to call them, which is better than most gentlemen to the manor born.”
The captain rose and moved to stand in front of the fireplace. He stared at the cold ashes in the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. He'd come seeking information about a father who'd shown little interest in him except as a bargaining tool. Yet, Drew had come to realize that blood bound them no matter how one tried to ignore such. Still, he was unprepared for what the solicitor had related. The very man his father had dealings with had died the night Drew fled. Was it mere coincidence? Or was his father in some way involved? The thought sent a chill down his spine, but he dismissed the idea at once. Rowland had proven himself a man of honor by not fleeing to the continent when his debts had grown so large. Surely such a man wouldn't stoop to murder when he'd had the settlement money within his grasp.
Regardless, the feeling that he and his father were to blame settled over Drew like a cloud on a summer day. The proposed marriage might have been the trigger for Blanchett's murder, which made it inevitable that he and his father would come under suspicion. It made no sense for them to have killed the very man who would have solved their problems, but very often such rumors were spread maliciously for no good reason.
Drew searched his memory for an image of Mr. Blanchett, but the cit hadn't mixed much in local society and Drew knew him more from reputation than through personal contact. A man like that was always a popular subject in a small village. Blanchett had liked the ladies, though, for his name had often been linked to this widow or that light skirt. But as a wealthy widower with only one child, most likely it was as Wormwood had suggested: that the murderer was someone after the child's portion. Blanchett had smelled of trade, but he had married a viscount's daughter in his quest to improve his situation. His daughter was the key to the mystery.
Drew look back over his shoulder and saw his father's solicitor watching him in silent speculation. It was a look he would have to get used to if he returned home, for in Somerset many might still wonder about his and his father's involvement. He returned to his seat, a determined set to his jaw. “You say they never found the girl, er ...” he struggled to remember her name, but all he could come up with was “Miss Blanchett.” Why, she had scarcely been more than a baby when he'd seen her at Chettwood Manor that fateful day. The hazy image of a plain, pale child with overlarge eyes drifted at the edges of his memory. A brat who'd given him tit for tat, as he recalled.
“Never, but Mr. Wilkins, Blanchett's solicitor, swears the girl's still alive. Been in communication with her. At least, he receives the occasional letter, albeit she never discloses her location. Says she will only come back once the murderer is brought to justice.” Wormwood shrugged. “After all these years, I daresay that isn't likely to happen. The only thing that would protect the girl would be for her to marry and have a house full of heirs.”
A cold sensation coiled in Drew's stomach. Had his father set this disaster in motion? Had he helped by running out on the child bride he didn't want? He'd been such a romantic fool back then. The image of the beautiful Mariah Amberly surfaced. A memory stirred in him as he thought about his righteous indignation at being asked to sacrifice his true love to save Rowland Park from creditors... .
Drew hadn't thought of her in years. Her beauty and his youth had blinded him to her fickle and shallow nature. He'd been in Calcutta scarcely a year and all but starving when he'd seen her wedding announcement to a wealthy earl thrice her age in an old copy of the London Times. Looking back through the years, he could see that what he'd felt for her was infatuation, but still, her abandonment had wounded his youthful heart. Time had taught him that females were mercenary creatures in general. Like most of her kind, Mariah had chosen money over love.

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