Louise Allen – Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch (страница 29)

“You’ll do splendidly,” whispered Caro as she slipped her hand from his arm and instead twined her fingers into his, something she hadn’t done since the first night. “However could you not?”

From the restless way her fingers moved, Jeremiah wasn’t sure who was being reassured, but he liked knowing she believed in him, almost as much as he liked holding her small, gloved hand once again.

As he pressed her hand in return, he could just make out her smile beneath the shadow of her veil. He had insisted she drop it down again over her face, and he was glad he had. Not only did he jealously wish to keep Caro’s beauty hidden from the notoriously flirtatious Frenchmen, but also because she was almost radiating excited delight. No one, not even a Frenchman prone to giving ladies the benefit of the doubt, would believe she was grieving for anyone.

“Bonjour, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said the lieutenant with a neat bow from the waist that seemed at odds with the party of four heavily armed marines and three seamen who accompanied him on board. The lieutenant’s red and white uniform glittered with brass and braid, and when he lifted his hat Jeremiah saw that the Frenchman still wore his hair clubbed back with a ribbon in the old style of the monarchists. “I am Lieutenant Jean Delafosse of the frigate Beau Courage, and because you do not fly a flag, monsieur, I fear I must ask you to show me your papers.”

“Lieutenant.” Jeremiah lifted his hat a fraction, but didn’t bow. At least the man spoke English. His own French was serviceable but rusty, and he’d rather put the other man at the disadvantage. “Jeremiah Sparhawk, master of the American sloop Raleigh, bound for Naples. And we don’t fly a flag because we lost it clean away in a little blow off Finisterre.”

“Indeed, monsieur? One of my men swore he saw a British flag when he first sighted you, but perhaps he only wished it so.” Delafosse’s gaze swept the sloop’s deck, a quick appraisal to match his ill-concealed skepticism. He glanced at one of the French seaman, and without a word the man trotted back to check the line that would have held the flag. “The men are always eager for prizes, and your sloop would bring a pretty sum.”

“She would if she were English, Lieutenant,” said Jeremiah evenly, offering Delafosse the leather portfolio that contained the Raleigh’s slightly altered papers. “But as I told you before, the sloop’s American, same as I am myself.”

The French sailor returned and whispered his findings to the lieutenant, who nodded and said nothing. Once again Jeremiah found himself praying, this time that the line on the jack staff had been convincingly frayed.

But Delafosse instead looked toward Caro with obvious interest, one hand over his heart as he bowed again. “My sympathies, mademoiselle, for your loss, whatever its nature.”

“She’s my wife, Lieutenant, not a mademoiselle,” said Jeremiah, the edgy possessiveness in his voice warning enough to make the Frenchman’s black brows rise.

“A bloody Frenchman killed her brother,” said Hart, loud enough for every man on deck to hear him. “A stinking, bloody Frenchman.”

The tension on the deck increased a hundredfold, and immediately Jeremiah swung around to face the mate. “One more outburst like that, Hart,” he said, his hands clenched in fists behind his bark and his voice crackling with authority, “and you’ll answer directly to me.”

But Caro lay her hand on his sleeve. “Don’t, love, please,” she begged softly, her whole posture seeming to bend beneath the weight of her sorrow. “Mr. Hart meant no ill, I’m sure.”

She turned toward Delafosse. “My brother was killed last year fighting in Spain, Lieutenant, but I—we—did not learn of his death until several weeks ago.” Her voice was so tremulous that the Frenchman was forced to lean forward to hear her. “My husband is taking me to Naples and Rome to help me overcome my grief.”

The Frenchman’s face softened with pity, and Jeremiah realized that with those few sentences Caro had done more to save the Raleigh than all the other English on board put together. She was good at such deceptions, almost too good, and uneasily Jeremiah wondered yet again which side of her was the real one.

“Ah, mademoiselle, I did not know,” murmured Delafosse. “The misfortunes of war are never kind, eh? But I marvel that an American like your brother was willing to serve the English cause.”

“Madame,” insisted Jeremiah tersely. “Marrying me made her American, too, but my wife’s English-born, same as her brother was.”

“Of course, of course. So simple, eh?” With a little nod, Delafosse at last took the packet of papers from Jeremiah. Though he scanned the bills of lading and customs quickly, he lingered on the altered Raleigh’s certificate of ownership, tipping the sheet up to the sunlight.

“Everything in order, Lieutenant?” asked Jeremiah, anxiety making him testy. The longer the Frenchman fidgeted with the certificate, the more likely he was going to question it. “This wind’s in our favor, and we’ve hauled too long enough.”

“Patience, monsieur, patience. I must be able to satisfy my captain, as well as myself, that your affairs are as they should be.” The wind thumping through the furled sails overhead was the only sound on the deck as Delafosse studied the paper more closely and Jeremiah held his breath. He’d used Bertle’s own ink to change the sloop’s origin, and to his eye the addition was indistinguishable. “It is most curious to me, monsieur, how when establishing colonies in your land the English so often chose to give names of their old towns to the new ones. There is no Paris or Marseilles in New France, yet here we have a Portsmouth in America, doubtless named for the Portsmouth in England.” Delafosse ran his fingertip lightly over the town’s name. “Your Portsmouth is in Rhode Island, is it not? Near to your capital city of Providence?”

Jeremiah answered warily. It was unusual for any European to know Rhode Island was a state, let alone the name of its capital, and he worried that perhaps, somehow, with this particular Frenchman, he’d been too clever. “Aye, it’s in Rhode Island, but closer to Newport than to Providence.”

“Ah, my confusion!” The Frenchman’s dark eyes watched Jeremiah closely, ready for weakness. “But it is Portsmouth, is it not, that is home to that most excellent library of one of your citizens, a Monsieur Abraham Redwood?”

“That is Newport, too, Lieutenant.” In return, Jeremiah studied Delafosse shrewdly. “As you know well enough yourself.”

“Am I so obvious, then?” The Frenchman smiled wryly and refolded the papers for Jeremiah. “I was stationed in Newport with General Rochambeau during your country’s war for independence. Though I was no more than a boy at the time, of course, I remember Rhode Island and its people with great affection and regard.”

Jeremiah tucked the leather packet beneath his arm. “But still you’d question my word and test me?”

Delafosse shrugged. “A lying Anglais would not know of Mr. Redwood’s library. I wanted to be sure. Your sloop would have made an excellent prize.” Once again he glanced over the Raleigh, this time with obvious regret, and motioned for his men to return to the boat. “Bonsoir, monsieur, madame, et bon voyage!”

They were barely over the side before Caro’s arms were around Jeremiah’s neck. Giddy with relief, she giggled and hugged him tightly.

“I told you you’d fool them!” she exclaimed gleefully as she tossed the veil back from her face. Balancing on tiptoe, she darted up and kissed him quickly, retreating before he could kiss her back. “You were perfect, Jeremiah. No, you were better than perfect, and so vastly clever, too, to know all about those places in Rhode Island!”

“It’s my home, Caro,” he said, steadying her with his hands around her waist. “I should know about it. But your own performance wasn’t so bad, either.”

“Oh, pooh, I didn’t do anything compared to you,” she scoffed. She didn’t dare kiss him again, but she couldn’t resist laying her hand gently on his rough cheek for a moment. “But at least this time I won’t have gotten the magistrate to put a price on your head.”

He scowled dramatically. He wasn’t ordinarily playful by nature—far from it—but Caro like this was hard to resist. “I should be thankful, then, for small graces.”

“I’d call them quite large.” She thumped his chest with her fist. “Who wants to be locked up in some dreary French prison?”

He grinned, letting himself enjoy the rare sensation of unexpected happiness. It had been like this before when they’d done something bold together, the camaraderie of a shared adventure bringing them close. He had been trying so hard these past weeks not to look at her in any way that might be misconstrued that now, in this moment when it didn’t seem to matter, he drank in her beauty as if he’d never have enough.

Little gold tendrils escaped from the brim of the severe black bonnet, matching the pale gold of her lashes. Despite her bonnet and veil, the sun off the water had scattered more freckles across her nose and cheeks that, to his satisfaction, she didn’t bother trying to hide with paint or powder. But most of all she looked happy, blissfully, joyfully happy in a way that he was sure must mirror his own feelings, even if each of them knew it could not last.