My Wicked Fantasy Read online

  Damn, if he wasn’t happy as a clam to be away from that.

  He grinned, then began to hum to himself as he grabbed another tray, this one etched with curlicues fashioned just to hold on to the black tarnish. He dipped the rag in vinegar and then a portion of the salt he’d been allotted for this chore and began to swab at the mess.

  Maybe it was true that you were born to the sea, or mayhap it was just like his own story, of being too hungry to eat air anymore and being willing to do almost anything in order to survive. Five years aboard one of His Majesty’s ships, however, had taught him nothing was worth the fear he’d felt every day of those years. It wasn’t that he was a coward; he’d been as brave as the next man. It was that he wanted to be able to predict where the danger came from, and Mother Nature proved to be a fickle bitch, always tossing up a storm in the middle of a calm Mediterranean ocean or a hurricane when they were a day’s sail from an island in the Caribbean. No, he wanted his dangers named and labeled, which was why he’d walked away from being bosun of the H.M.S. Ulysses and taken his store of carefully hoarded savings and found the first position he could where the floors were nailed down and the only climbing he had to do was stairs, not rigging. Even polishing silver seemed an easy thing, all in all.

  It was the quiet that did her in, that and the effort she was making not to be heard. He would probably not have noticed that she passed through the butler’s pantry at all if she hadn’t been tiptoeing in that fashion that reminded him of one of those Japanese plays he’d seen once.

  “’Tisn’t midnight, I’m thinkin’, which is the proper time for skulkin’, now isn’t it?”

  She must have jumped a foot at the sound of his voice. Aye, and the scare had done something to her heart, leastways that’s what it looked like, with her leaning against the wall, her hand to her chest.

  “It’s barely dawn. Won’t you at least stay for breakfast? Havin’ a full stomach makes for an easier farewell.”

  She just shook her head at him, her eyes wide.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, turning away from her, still humming a song he’d learned when they’d made port in Spain. Pretty little song it was, about a señorita who’d killed herself for love. He’d rarely had time or opportunity enough for lust, let alone love, but he was willing to wear himself out a bit for the trying.

  “Will you tell them that you’ve seen me?” she asked.

  He concentrated on rubbing a particularly odious bouquet of roses, all with little buds and tiny crevices that clung to their tarnish like an old maid her virtue.

  “Well?”

  “I’d be daft to answer the wind, now wouldn’t I? Unless, of course, it whistles up a gale. But no, this is just a little breeze, one of those annoyin’ things that whisper in your ear and make you bat your hand at it, like swipin’ at a fly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There it goes again, gettin’ stronger. I wonder if we’re in for a bit of bad weather.”

  “Are you new here?” she asked from behind him.

  “Aye, a week, no more.” He didn’t turn.

  “What were you singing? My uncle Michael used to hum that very same song.”

  “And did he tell you the words, now?”

  “No. I don’t think so, I just remember the tune.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing, for all that. It’s a sad little song, too sad for a lass’s ears, I’m thinkin’. That uncle of yours, would he be a seafarin’ man?”

  “He would.”

  “Then you ask him to sing you a song about a mermaid who lost her heart to the king of the sea. That one’s got a better endin’ all in all. Or there’s a ditty about a sailmaker who wants to learn to fly like a bird, that’s a pretty tune.”

  He heard nothing for a moment, then the soft sounds of her kid slippers on the floor.

  “Were you a sailor, then?” How soft her voice sounded, like rain upon spring grass. A gentle thing, that. He smiled, thinking that it was a miracle he’d lasted the five years after all, being nearly brought to tears at the thought of fields of green.

  “I was, may God forgive the men who lied to me about the sea, and the glory of His Majesty’s Navy.” His fingertips felt puckered from the mixture he used to polish the silver, but it was a sight better than spending hours scrubbing brine from the deck of a ship only to do it all over again a day later.

  “Was it awful?” There was a curious reluctance to that question, and he thought of the uncle she mentioned. His grin softened.

  “Not for most. There’s men who make the sea their life and would be sad to be in another place. It’s a right colorful life for most.”

  “If you wished to find a man who’s chosen the sea, how would you do it?”

  He glanced at her, all pretense of being enthralled in the art of polishing gone with the earnestness of her question. “The uncle, now?”

  She nodded. She was not the type, being too tall and red-haired and Irish, a sister to his own heritage, but in that moment Peter thought he recognized a tiny woodland creature in her eyes. Something rarely seen in the light of day, perhaps a fox cub, or a baby rabbit, newly born and still pink. Her eyes betrayed the seriousness of her question, a look too innocent, wanting, helpless.

  He told himself, later, that it was that look which made him answer her with honesty and something else, a warning, perhaps that she might heed, lest she find more at the end of her search than just an uncle.

  “If it were me,” he said, turning back to his silver polishing and away from the hopefulness of her eyes, “I’d start with the Admiralty. But I’d be willin’ to be disappointed, for all that. His Majesty’s Navy sometimes impresses men who’ve no greater thought than the taste of their next ale, and have no fondness for the sea, and I’m thinkin’ they’d have no records for that.”

  After a long moment, she spoke again. He was grateful that her voice carried only curiosity. “And is that what happened to you?”

  He grinned at his face in the silver tray. “Nay, lass, I gave my soul and my body willingly to the cause. But I was a young fool then. The navy made me old, fast.”

  Sanderhurst was not, for all its huge dimensions, an isolated place. There was a horse farm less than two miles away and, beyond that, a road that looked to be well traveled.

  Mary Kate remained at the crossroads until early afternoon. The coachman, Jeremy, had told her that it was a thoroughfare for the public coach system. Other than that, he’d not volunteered another word, nor cautioned her, either, as the footman had done. A few hours past noon, her patience was rewarded as a coach lumbered to a stop in front of her.

  The driver took her two last coins willingly, but no one else in the crowded coach viewed her presence with such welcome. If the rooftop had not been restricted from females, she would have gladly taken a perch there. Instead, she was wedged between two women and a small child, opposite a man and another woman, none of whom spoke or offered so much as a smile.

  Mary Kate studied the floor of the swaying carriage, intent not on the footwear of her traveling companions, but on her thoughts. The ease with which she’d been able to leave Sanderhurst was almost anticlimactic. But then, what had she expected? That Archer St. John would care? That he would send a search party after her? Only to find Alice. Not for any other reason. Not because they’d shared a kiss, and a hint of promise in a glasshouse.

  Help him. A faint call, a whisper in truth, one she resolutely silenced. She refused to listen to the voice, wanted it gone. She did not want another vision of Alice St. John’s life, was too immersed in her own to borrow another woman’s feelings, thoughts, wishes.

  She would concentrate upon her quest, on what lay before her, not on something that could never be, and someone who would never treat her with more concern than a passing diversion.

  She clenched her fists tight in her lap, concentrated on thoughts of the search for Uncle Michael. She’d not thought to look for him before, had reasoned that her brothers knew well enough his destina
tion.

  When she found him, would he repudiate her as ably as Daniel had? Or would he welcome her as long-lost kin? Only time would tell. After all, she had nothing to lose. Nothing at all.

  Help him….

  No. Go away, Alice. Please. Get out of my mind. I do not want your quest. I have one of my own.

  “The only reason I contracted with your partner was because he guaranteed me his contacts would be discreet and his expertise would save me valuable time. To date, Mr. Townsende, neither of you has fulfilled that promise.” Archer St. John sat in his library while his solicitor stood like a penitent before his massive desk.

  “It was hardly my fault that Edwin succumbed to a brain storm, my lord.”

  “That excuses Mr. Bennett, but it leaves your failure glaringly evident, Mr. Townsende.”

  “I really do not know what you expect of me, my lord. I cannot simply invent evidence such as you seek.” It was quite evident to Charles Townsende that the gates of good fortune were swinging ponderously shut upon him. Why else would he have been summoned to Sanderhurst, put into the enormous foyer to wait like some sort of tradesman, and only after hours of being cramped and chilly, finally been escorted to this room, to be stood in front of the Earl of Sanderhurst’s desk like a recalcitrant schoolboy? He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the earl demanded he strip off his breeches, bend over, and be prepared to be whipped with a birch branch!

  “I do not insist upon falsehoods, Mr. Townsende, only some indication that the enormous sums of money I have sent you have resulted in some sort of effort on your part. My agreement with your partner stipulated that you would interview each incoming vessel’s captain, that you would make inquiries in Scotland and Ireland, and that you would communicate with your fellow solicitors on the continent. So far, I am still waiting for a report of any of your activities.”

  “What you want, my lord, is not unreasonable,” Townsende agreed, rubbing his hands together in an effort to chafe some warmth into them. It was physically quite warm enough in this room; in fact, it would have been quite a cheerful place in which to reside had the demeanor of the Earl of Sanderhurst been the slightest bit more hospitable. But no, the look he was receiving was quite forbidding. “But my firm had undergone severe reversals since Edwin’s untimely demise, sir, and in the interim I cannot help but confess to have spent more time than I anticipated in an effort to keep all our clients satisfied.”

  “Except for me. Did you think the distance to Sanderhurst insulated you from my irritation, Townsende?”

  “No, sir. Not at all. I am, however, rather disappointed that Edwin did not brief me on the completeness of your agreement with him. It is my understanding that you were also using your not inconsiderable contacts to locate the countess. I deemed our firm’s involvement to be of a minor matter, and hardly worth mentioning, or even noticing.” He gave a trilling little laugh.

  “While, in fact, I deemed it to be of the gravest consequence, Townsende, enough to have spent a small fortune for your nonexistent expertise. I engaged Mr. Bennett in my search for the sole reason that I had been given reason to believe he would produce results.”

  In truth, for all his querulous nature, the ton had chosen to be served by Edwin Bennett. He had a nature for the intricacies of the law, could bargain like a fishmonger, and argue like an Oxford debater, qualities Charles knew quite well he did not possess.

  He rubbed his hands together again. Strange, how they seemed to be growing more chilled instead of warmer. “Indeed, sir, I understand it much better now, and would be more than happy to comply with your original agreement.”

  “While I see no reason to continue it.”

  “My firm has been beset by obligations, sir. The death of my partner has affected the firm to its detriment, Lord St. John. I have managed to eke out an existence for myself, and glad I am that I have no wife, no children to support. I cannot but help confess that perhaps Edwin would have been better suited to the duties you’d given him, having been married himself.”

  “And did his wife disappear, also?” Charles Townsende did not hear the sarcasm in the question.

  “I doubt Mary Kate would do anything of the sort, sir. It was a case of the mutton marrying the lamb. And the lamb in this case knew quite well that she was bettering her place in the world.”

  It would do no good to rub his hands together; the look on Archer St. John’s face would have frozen the most hot-blooded creature. Charles Townsende felt acutely uncomfortable, so much so that he prattled onward, aware that he was rambling, but being constrained to do so by the look on the Earl of Sanderhurst’s face.

  “Mary Kate was significantly younger than Edwin, you know. Quite on my own, dear sir, I investigated the girl. She had, after all, married into the firm. And although it was not that I did not trust Edwin, I have heard how love can ruin a man’s mind. I but thought to protect him from such ruination.”

  The lint on the edge of his cuff seemed of monumental importance to Charles Townsende at this moment. How odd that his new waistcoat should have become so untidy at this early hour. Or perhaps not. He had been forced to rush here after being summoned to the earl’s estate.

  “She was quite unsuitable, sir. Quite, quite unsuitable. Little more than a scullery maid. Edwin said it did not matter, she had a beauty that overcame her many detrimental qualities.

  “Edwin realized his mistake towards the end, I am most assuredly certain. The firm benefited most handsomely from his generosity. But that was nearly a year ago, my lord.” Still not a word from the earl, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he was certain that Archer St. John had not blinked in the last few minutes.

  The smile Charles Townsende proffered him made up in brilliance for what it lacked in sincerity.

  “And the widow?”

  “Nothing,” he said proudly. “Mary Kate O’Brien did not profit by her association, I can assure you. In fact, I’m quite sure the woman was penniless. Absolutely without funds, which should have pointed out to her, as nothing else could have, that she should never have attempted to rise above her class. People like her quite often show their true colors.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Townsende?” Archer smiled.

  Charles Townsende had the oddest notion that a frown might have seemed friendlier.

  It took less than ten minutes for Archer to banish his former solicitor from Sanderhurst, the feat being accomplished by the simple expedient of walking out of his library and leaving the man standing there, mouth open. Archer found that he could not bear his company any longer.

  Appearance should not matter, he told himself, but it was not the shortness of Townsende’s stature that goaded Archer’s irritation, nor even his slicked-down hair, or the way his head tilted to the side like a preening bird. It was that unctuous air about the man, the sidling look, the infernal habit he had of rubbing his hands together in a way that made Archer think of Macbeth.

  No, that was not quite true, was it? He did not dislike the man as much as the information he’d divulged.

  Archer could almost hear the drip of the icicles melting upon the window ledge. Or perhaps it was the sound of his heart ticking in his chest. No, not that. He was frozen in a hesitation between time, this space of nothingness between seconds, oddly trapped.

  It was not, after all, an uncommon name. Bennett. As common as Smith. Had she ever mentioned her husband’s occupation? Archer could not recall. Even then, would he have put the pieces together? He had been thinking less of coincidence and puzzles in Mary Kate’s presence than the softness of her limbs and the beauty of her hair.

  Of course, Mary Kate would know everything Edwin Bennett had known, all the clues and information Archer had given his solicitor in an attempt to find his wife. Of course, she would know details not common knowledge. Evidently Edwin had been eager to impart the tales to his wife, if not his partner, and she, in turn, too eager to use them.

  It was quite possible she’d been telling a half-truth all along, that she’d neve
r known Alice at all, had merely taken advantage of her absence to tell a story so ridiculous he could not help but think she was in league with his wife.

  This pain in his chest would disappear in a moment.

  Strange, that she’d never changed her name, nor lied about her circumstances, her marriage, her past. Surely someone with guile in her heart would have been more careful. She was simply new to the game, that was all.

  Mary Kate’s dead husband had been Archer’s solicitor. A man whose task had been to find Archer’s missing wife. Mary Kate insisted Alice was dead and haunting her. And into this mix enough whimsical coincidence to blur fact from fiction, truth from fantasy. Enough attraction to wish the whole of it gone, and only the elements remaining. Mary Kate and Archer.

  Yet she had not stolen from Sanderhurst, nor had she profited by their association. She had not begged for money, only his belief. And looked upon him with compassion while she pronounced his wife a ghost.

  She’d kissed him with the innocence of a virgin; dared him with eyes as wise as a harlot. Intrigued him, despite himself, confused him against his will. The point was, did she know anything about Alice, or had she played him for a fool all along?

  Why did he think it would be wiser to leave her alone? And even more troubling, why did he feel this surge of excitement when he realized he had absolutely no intention of doing that?

  He couldn’t wait to hear her explanations now.

  Chapter 20

  The stench of fish, the pungent odor of the water slapping against the wharf assaulted her nose long before Mary Kate viewed the sky thick with masts. The schooners lay berthed bow to stern along the pier. Huge nets laden with cargo were being winched up from the holds of two of the closest ships. Mary Kate could not help but wonder what treasure rested inside the crates now laboriously and carefully laid upon the deck. What was its ultimate destination? A merchant’s store, a royal gift? A hundred possibilities, a thousand further questions.