Her Cinderella Season. Deb Marlowe

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      ‘Eli!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s me, Jack Alden.’

      The door flew open. The erstwhile sea captain turned groom stared at him in surprise. ‘Jack Alden! What in blazes are ye doing here?’

      ‘I might ask the same of you, old man!’ Jack pocketed his own blade and thumped the grizzled old sailor on the shoulder. Eli grunted and crossed back to the desk he’d been rifling through. The rap of his peg-leg on the wooden floor sounded loud in the small office. Jack pulled the blade from the doorframe.

      ‘How’s the arm?’ Eli asked. ‘Ye look a sight better’n the last time I saw ye.’

      ‘It’s healing. But why aren’t you in Devonshire with Mervyn and Trey and Chione and all the rest of them? They’ve all got to be busy, what with a wedding to plan and one hell of trip coming up.’

      ‘Aye,’ tis a madhouse at times.’ He held out a hand and Jack gave back his knife. With a sigh he slammed a drawer shut and sat in the seat behind the desk. ‘Mervyn and Trey sent me up. Something’s astir.’

      ‘Batiste?’ Jack asked, with a sweep of his hand.

      ‘You know Mervyn’s ways. He’s got ears everywhere and hears every bird fart and every whisper o’ trouble. He’s got word that some of Batiste’s men are on the move. Here. In England.’

      Anger surged in Jack’s gut. ‘God, it eats at me, knowing he got away,’ he said. The low and harsh tone of his voice surprised even him. He struggled again to rein in his emotion. ‘I hate the thought of it—him sitting back, silent and scornful, manipulating us like so many puppets.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘After all he’s done to Mervyn, he needs to be brought to justice.’

      ‘What he’s done to Mervyn’s bad enough. But he’s done others far worse. What worrit’s me is the idea of him having time to stew. Revenge is his favourite dish and he’ll be spittin’ mad at how we foiled him.’

      ‘So what do you hope to find here?’

      Eli glanced at him. ‘The same thing you were, I s’pose. Some hint o’ where he might be hiding out. With the Americans after him as well as the Royal Navy, he’s got to lie low for a while.’

      ‘The bastard’s got a ship and the whole world to hide in.’ Jack sighed.

      ‘Trey thinks he won’t go too far. He didn’t get what he wanted, and he thinks he’ll try again. Like any man, he’ll have a spot or two he goes to when his back is against the wall. Trouble is findin’ it.’

      Jack stood a little straighter. ‘I might have a lead on that shipbuilder, Beecham. Perhaps he knows where Batiste would go to hide his head.’

      ‘Dowhatyecan, man.’ Elisighed. ‘I know Trey hates to ask ye—especially after ye got hurt the first time. But won’t none of us be truly safe until that man is caught and hung.’

      ‘I will. Tell Trey I will handle it.’ He stared at the old man with resolution. ‘In fact, I think it should be possible for me to begin right now.’

      ‘Mr Wilberforce asked you to do what?’ Lily’s dish of tea hovered, halfway up. The evening had grown late. Lady Ashford and her mother had arrived to fetch her, and Lady Dayle had pressed them to stay for a cold supper.

      ‘To make a tour through Surrey and Kent, speaking with local groups of Evangelicals along the way,’ her mother repeated.

      ‘Your mother has accomplished wonders in Weymouth, Miss Beecham.’ Lady Ashworth accepted a slice of cheese from the platter Lady Dayle offered. ‘She can share her methods and be an inspiration to many others.’

      ‘Of course.’ Lily’s mind raced. This was just exactly what she’d wished for; a chance to travel, to see new places and meet new people. Her breathing quickened and her pulse began to beat a little faster. ‘Mother, I’m so proud of you.’

      ‘Congratulations, Mrs Beecham,’ said Lady Dayle. ‘You shall be one of the leading ladies of a very great movement. And to have the request come from Mr Wilberforce himself is quite an honour, is it not?’

      ‘Thank you, it is indeed an honour.’ Her mother looked exhausted. Lily felt a twinge of guilt. She’d spent a perfectly lovely afternoon with the viscountess and her mother had not even had a chance to celebrate her accomplishment.

      ‘Will we be returning home first, Mother? Or shall we leave straight from town?’ she asked. ‘Either way, we must be sure that you rest beforehand. I can see you are quite worn out.’

      An uncomfortable look passed across her mother’s face. ‘I’ll be leaving from London in a few days, dear. Lady Ashford has graciously agreed to accompany me.’ She met Lily’s eye with resolve. ‘You will be returning home.’

      ‘What?’ This time she was forced to set her cup down with shaking hands. ‘You cannot mean that!’

      ‘We’ve been away from home too long as it is. Someone needs to oversee the Parish Poor Relief Committee. The planning needs to begin now for the Michaelmas festival. We cannot abandon our duty to those less fortunate.’

      ‘There are plenty of ladies at home willing and able to take care of those things,’ Lily argued. ‘Mother, please!’ Resentment and disbelief churned in her belly. It was true that her mother had found less and less joy in life over the years. Her father’s death had been a blow to them both. Grief and guilt were heavy burdens to bear, but Lily had been forced to cope alone. Sometimes she felt she had grieved twice over, for her quiet, reserved mother had sunk into a decline and a militant stranger had climbed out the other side.

      Restrictive, distant, hard to please—yes. But Lily had never suspected her mother of deliberate cruelty before today. First Mr Cooperage and now—

      She stopped, aghast. ‘Does Mr Cooperage factor into this decision, Mother? Because I tell you now that I am not interested in his views on any subject!’

      ‘Lilith!’ her mother gasped. ‘We will not discuss it further. This is entirely inappropriate!’

      ‘Well then, it appears I have arrived at the perfect time,’ an amused masculine voice interrupted.

      Lily turned to find Mr Alden framed handsomely in the doorway. An instant flush began to spread up and over her.

      Was she doomed to always encounter this man at a serious disadvantage?

      He advanced into the room and she tried to collect herself. Not an easy task. Poetic—that was the word that had sprung to mind earlier. Brooding was the one that popped up now. Darkly handsome and brooding. Though he had a sardonic smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, the effect was ruined by the rest of him. She just could not be entirely intimidated by anyone in that rumpled state. He looked as if his valet had dressed him in the height of fashion, in only the best silk and superfine, and then laid him down and rolled him repeatedly about on the bed. She tightened her mouth at the image evoked and her flush grew stronger yet. A great many women, she strongly suspected, would enjoy rolling Mr Alden about on the bed.

      ‘Jack, darling.’ Lady Dayle rose to welcome her son. ‘Do come in and join us. The ladies have only just finished with the fair and we are taking a cold supper.’

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