The Pirate Captain (54 page)

Her stomach might have been empty—several cups of punch aside—but it was now quite closed. She ate without appetite, much of it becoming a glutinous mass in her mouth. The wines, and excellent they were, however, flowed like the proverbial river, the footman seeming to have taken up a permanent position at her elbow to refill her glass. Roger grew more intent with concern at seeing her poke her food about the plate. Like an obedient child, she tried to eat, but only wound up scattering it, piling it up, and scattering it again.

As the servants moved like wraiths at the table’s perimeter, conversation fell into small localized groups. The low hum of one blanketed the next, the titter of female laughter high over the men’s deeper. Amid the tinkle of silverware and china, came the rise and fall of Lady Bart’s shrill. Conversation at Cate’s end of the table was dominated by Big Wig. Harte her primary focus, Fordshaw a distant second, she piped higher when either man sought to address Cate.

As Big Wig prattled on, Roger arched a questioning brow at Cate, the significance of which was unclear. Cate returned a vague smile, hoping her discomfiture wasn’t too apparent. It had been a long time since she had worn anything so restricting. The stays were too short, gouging her back and ribs at every breath. The gown was too narrow at the shoulders and too short at the sleeves, the banded cuffs cutting her arms.

“Is everyone a guest?” Cate asked of Roger during a brief lull in Big Wig’s dialogue. Her head buzzing from the wine, it was a silly question, but conversation of some sort seemed requisite.

“That would depend on one’s categorizations,” he said under the table’s chatter. He scanned the table briefly. “A few are just arrived from Barbuda, here for the season.”

Cate nodded knowingly, in spite of not having the foggiest what “the season” might entail. Days? Weeks? Months?

“A few more are somewhat more of a permanent arrangement, having arrived months ago,” Harte said with open disapproval.

From the corner of her eye, Cate saw Mrs. Big Wig, fork gone forgotten in her hand as she craned an ear. Out of open malice, Cate lowered her voice further, obliging Roger to lean nearer yet.

“Has Her Ladyship not heard of putting a pineapple on the bed?” she asked.

Roger hesitated, and then unsteadily laughed at the tradition of using the celebrated symbol of hospitality as a means to inform a guest of having overstayed their welcome.

Perhaps the thought of being so handily excused struck too closely
.

“And pray, how long do you plan to visit?” Cate’s question had been meant as a jest, but a poor one. Her cheeks heated. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be forward.”

“Not at all.” Harte was so much more handsome when he genuinely smiled as he did then. “The lodgings in Hopetown are insufferably dreary. Lady Bart has been kind enough to indulge me of her hospitality.”

For a fraction, Cate felt sorry for him.

“Have you known Lady Bart long?” she asked.

Momentarily distracted by something said down the table, Roger seemed surprised by the question. “Yes, I made her acquaintance some years ago, shortly upon my arrival to the West Indies. I met her husband first, of course, but since I have come to consider myself a friend.”

Glancing toward his hostess, he smiled with the same regard one would show toward an eccentric aunt. “Bart can be trying, but she is a dear.”

Time passed. Dinner dragged. The room became oppressive, in spite of the opened doors and windows, and bank of fans overhead, operated by a doe-eyed slave boy in the corner. Rivulets of moisture trickled from under the wigs, leaving flesh-colored paths on the rice powder. The heat combined with perfume, sweat, and pickled eel brought a prickle between Cate’s shoulder blades. Wondering if her cheeks were as red as they felt, she looked up into Roger’s intense green look. Good heavens. Surely he didn’t think her flush was on his account.

Attempts on the part of Lord Whatever-His-Name to catch Cate’s eye were easily ignored. Directly at her elbow, however, Fordshaw’s efforts were not. Such a dandyish sort, she wondered what he could possibly want with her or any woman, for that matter. At one point, his foot came down on hers, the slippered toe brushing her ankle. The side of his leg came against hers. Soon after, his forearm pressed her, with a meaningful look from the corner of his eye.

Cate was opting between a fork into Fordshaw’s hand, a well-aimed spoonful of aspic to the face—or better yet, her entire plate—or a more overt table knife to the ribs, when Roger turned to direct a footman. Fordshaw took the opportunity to lean close enough for his breath to be warm on her neck.

“I wish you joy of your escape.” He lifted his wine glass to his mouth, cupping the curve of the glass as if it was a breast, and ran the tip of his tongue suggestively along its rim. “Might I offer you something in the way of further condolences in your hour of need?”

Inwardly seething, Cate lifted her glass as if in a toast. She batted her lashes with all the charm and innocence she could muster, and said through a frozen smile, “Touch me again, and I’ll cut off your cock with this table knife, just as I did that pirate while he slept.”

The dainty laugh Cate added at the end, as if having just heard something witty, drew Roger’s attention. He scowled at Fordshaw, now pale under his powder. Fordshaw smiled unsteadily then made a great show of shifting both his chair and attention away.

“I say, Diggie,” said Lord Peach-Moiré called from the far end as the cloth was pulled for dessert. “Where did you say Lord Creswicke’s intended is to land?”

“I didn’t,” Roger said somewhat dryly, pleased when all ears turned his way. “She’s destined for her aunt's home.”

He rolled a sip of wine in his mouth, ostensibly appreciating its bouquet, but actually allowing the suspense to build.

“Here!” Lady Bart cried, beaming. “She’s to come here. The poor child is my niece.”

Caught in mid-sip, Cate choked. Sputtering, she flapped her hand, assuring all she was fine. Following insincere murmurs regarding her welfare, a reserved exclamation of surprise made its way around the table.

“Lady Bart, I beg, pray tell how, in good conscience, can you allow your niece to be married off to that…that…?” inquired Mrs. Blue-Dress.

“Upon my word, it wasn't my idea,” said Lady Bart in evident distress. “It was that grasping brother of mine; his foremost concerns revolve on two things: his connections and his money.”

“Does he have any idea of Lord Creswicke’s, er…nature?” asked Eames judiciously.

“Well, if he doesn't, he should,” Lady Bart sniffed. “I’ve written him dozens of times, protesting this arrangement most vehemently, and he has chosen to ignore me on every count. The best I can do now is offer the poor girl a quiet refuge until the momentous occasion.”

Dessert crept. Cate picked at her apricot tart, seed cake, and comfits. Eventually Lady Bart announced the meal complete. The ladies rose and retired to the drawing room for sherry, while the men remained for their port, walnuts, and cigars.

Cate barely wetted her lip in sherry. She always found the stuff excessively sweet. In the absence of male influence, the women’s conversation quickly spiraled down to childbirth, child rearing, and bad husbands, for which she had no frame of reference, and therefore nothing to add. She squirmed against her stays, a raw spot now growing under her arm, and dreamed of the time when she might again draw a full breath. One foot idly waggling, she half-listened to aimless dribble about people she didn’t know, while glancing repeatedly toward the windows.

Her mind raced with far more important issues. Learning the fiancée’s destination was not good. If Nathan was determined in his plan, it meant having to pass under the nose of not only a Commodore, but several Royal Navy ships. It was difficult to imagine Nathan would be so foolish as to attempt something so harebrained. And yet, if the stories she had heard on the
Constancy
were any measure, he would dare any number of hazards in order to embarrass Harte.

She strained for ways to talk Nathan out of this plan of his, but a larger and more immediate problem loomed: escape.

Time was not on Cate’s side. Dinner had taken nearly three hours; it was well after dark. Nathan was waiting; she had to find a way to slip out. The further she delayed, the further Nathan’s doubts in her would plunge. Between Roger, the guards—no house of this stature would be without—guests, servants, and a Commodore, escape unnoticed seemed nigh impossible. Nathan had slipped in and out in broad daylight with alarming ease. Even with the cover of darkness, attempts on her part promised to be executed with considerable less aplomb.

Out from under Roger’s scrutiny had been a step in the right direction, but Cate was still faced with a roomful of women. Going to the privy wasn’t an option; she had already seen the footman slip a chamber pot under Mrs. Blue-Dress’ chair.

Risks be damned, she abruptly rose. Playing the distressed damsel to the fullest, pleading headache and exhaustion, she backed out of the room. Once in the hallway, she sagged against the wall and closed her eyes.

Alone at last!

Someone touched her on the arm, and she shrieked. Whirling around, she found Lady Bart standing there.

“He’s waiting for you,” the matron whispered in breathless drama.

“Waiting? Who?”

“Oh, you don't have to play coy, my dear. I saw your impatience and he is
so
anxious.” Lady Bart winked conspiratorially and patted Cate's arm. “I know all about it.”

He?
Cate gaped. It was outrageous to think Nathan had somehow communicated with Lady Bart. Surely some kind of alarm sounded would have been sounded, if a pirate had been discovered in the garden.

“Diggie. He’s waiting for you just outside.” She squeezed Cate’s arm and winked significantly. “Be off, my dear, I assured him there would be no awkward interruptions.”

The tiny-footed woman slipped back into the drawing room, leaving Cate in a cold sweat. In the spirit of avoiding “Diggie,” she could either stand in the hall for the remainder of the evening, or go to her room. Either scenario placed Nathan and Harte in roughly the same vicinity. Or she could go outside to evade an unwanted suitor, while looking for one who had no intention of being one—suitor, that is.

Cate shook her head.
I’ve been around Nathan too long. I’m beginning to sound like him.

“I can do this,” she chanted under her breath, beating a tattoo on her leg with her fist. She walked with the animation of the condemned. “All I need do is go out, dismiss him, and then I’m away.”

It was galling Harte would be so presumptuous. She had given him no reason to think she was about to go running off into the night with him. For one of his character, such impulsiveness seemed markedly out of character.

Cate’s step slowed with niggling second thoughts. She was well versed in social behavior and its minutiae, and had taken particular care not to send any false signals. She had no fan; no mistakes there. Somewhere in the middle of dinner, there had been a time or two when their gazes had met. Nothing had been meant as flirtatious, but apparently he thought otherwise. Roger’s passionate impulses might have been flattering, was it not for the possibility they were prompted by something other than her charms. He bristled at any mention of Nathanael Blackthorne, which lent credence to his ardent attentions stemming more from rivalry.

No matter. He was about to be set straight, and in short order.

Cate pushed open the doors, and stepped into the garden and its smells of jasmine and damp earth. She stopped to inhale the fresh air as deeply as the stays would allow. Rendered by the moonlight in a palette in hues of silver and indigo, it proved to be a dismaying maze of hedges and shrubbery. Stones grinding softly underfoot, she followed the winding paths. Feeling vaguely like a rat in a maze, she hoped Providence might smile this once, and allow her to find Nathan first.

“Madam Harper?”

It wasn’t the graveled voice she hoped to hear.

Cate jumped, and yelped, “Roger! You startled me.” Touching a hand to her chest, she was admittedly not as startled as she let on, but it provided the time to recompose.

“You’ve called me Roger, may I call you Catherine?” Not the usual nasal flat, his voice was now deep and husky—so
very
enamored.

Cate laughed, as hollow and false as those heard all evening. “No one has called me Catherine since my father; Cate will suffice.”

“Lovely,
Cate
.”

She flinched at Harte’s breathy joyousness. All powers of concentration absorbed by her worry for Nathan, she stammered badly, then opted for the dense-headed approach. After all, ignorance was claimed to be bliss.

“I thought you to be with the men, having their port and cigars.” Bearing a false smile, Cate fixed her attention on Harte in order to resist the driving urge to look around for Nathan.

“I was waiting upon you. Did Lady Bart not tell you?”

“Perhaps she did,” she said faintly. “I must have forgotten.”

So much for ignorance.

Harte stepped closer yet. Considerably taller, his nearness forced to her tip her head back in order to see his face.

“I must speak my heart, Cate.” He stammered, then forged ahead. “I’ve found I am fascinated by you; you’ve entranced me and I am compelled to be with you.”

Outwardly impassive, Cate cringed inwardly. He clearly meant to sweep her off her feet. If anything, it was having quite the opposite effect: she was not moved. Well, maybe moved to scurry away, but certainly not attracted, as so obviously hoped. Fawning men she had never found appealing.

She fell back a step. “Isn’t this somewhat sudden?”

“I know my behavior may seem impulsive and erratic.” Harte turned away to clutch his hands to his chest. “There was someone—someone else so very special—and I hesitated, playing the gentleman and the fool. Since, I couldn’t help but think, if I had been a little more…forthcoming, it might have gone quite differently.”

Swiveling back, Harte pressed closer. His hand hovered at her shoulder, and then alit. Not exactly a resounding statement of affection.