Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch. Miranda Jarrett

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СКАЧАТЬ night, and the magic of the moonlight in Naples.

      With a sigh she burrowed closer, her hands sliding around his waist. “Now that I’ve finally found you, Jeremiah Sparhawk,” she whispered, “I don’t ever want to part with you again.”

      “Nor do I, love,” he said softly, “nor do I.”

      “What are you doing here, my dear Caroline?” asked Dorinda, barely containing her irritation. She waved aside the dressmaker with the length of deep red Circassian draped across her arm and motioned for Caro to come closer. “I would have thought you’d be besieged with the details of your journey and not have time to make calls. Did you not receive my note about Captain Tomaso?”

      “Yes, of course. Everything you’ve done has been wonderful, and I’ll never thank you enough.” Caro sank into the little gilt chair beside the older woman’s, too distraught to notice the interest of the dressmaker and her assistants. “It’s Jeremiah who’s the problem.”

      “A bit of discretion, my dear,” chided Dorinda. “It is unwise to advertise one’s personal woes.”

      She glanced pointedly at both the lowered eyes and open ears of the dressmaker, mentally cursing her daughter-in-law’s foolish outburst. By nightfall Madame Duval would have repeated every word she overheard to as many of her customers as she possibly could. But then, considered Dorinda, that in itself might not be such a bad thing. All of Naples knew of poor Frederick’s capture. When his chit of a wife failed to return after attempting a rescue, a small show of grief on Dorinda’s part would gain her much sympathy, and might help keep any unpleasant suspicions at a distance.

      “You will excuse us, madame,” she said. “As you can see, my daughter-in-law is concerned over a family matter that we must discuss in private.”

      Although the Frenchwoman bowed respectfully to Dorinda, her eyes were glinting with a businesswoman’s eagerness as she studied Caro.

      “I am honored, Madame la Comtesse,” purred Madame Duval as she sank into a deep curtsy. “Perhaps your ladyship would be so kind as to permit me to call on you? I have in my shop at present a rose silk senchaw, très belle, tres riche, that would suit your ladyship’s—”

      “She’s not staying,” said Dorinda curtly. “She leaves Naples this afternoon to seek my son, her husband.”

      Dramatically the Frenchwoman clasped her hands over her breasts. “Ah, Madame la Comtesse, I wish you bonne chance, I wish you and your husband—”

      “Good day, madame,” said Dorinda. As far as she was concerned, the dressmaker had learned more than enough to fuel her gossip, and she was in no humor to sit back and listen while Madame Duval lavished compliments on her upstart daughter-in-law. Capitano Tomaso’s ship left on the late afternoon tide, and Dorinda fully intended that Caroline be on board.

      Reluctantly Madame Duval and her assistants gathered their samples and bowed their way from the room. Dorinda sat back in her chair, one finger arched against her cheek and her eyes hooded as she considered Caro. No matter what the spat was between them, the chit had clearly just tumbled from her lover’s bed, and Dorinda’s anger rose another notch. She recognized the signs well enough: the chit’s lips still swollen, almost bruised, her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, her cheeks far rosier than they’d been yesterday. If the little harlot came any closer, Dorinda didn’t doubt that she’d smell the man’s scent on her still. What had her poor Frederick done to deserve such treatment?

      But Dorinda knew the value of hiding her outrage, of biding her time. “Now then, my dear,” she began sympathetically. “What exactly is the problem with Captain Sparhawk?”

      Caro took a deep breath, steadying her voice before the countess. She didn’t know how she’d survived Jeremiah’s farewell this morning, and, feeling battered and vulnerable, she had come to her former enemy as a last resort. “Jeremiah refuses to let me go with him to Tripoli.”

      Dorinda sniffed contemptuously. So the man wished to be rid of her. Dorinda could not blame him, and in a way she respected him more for it. The Italians had a marvelous word, cicisbeo, that they used to describe the acknowledged, ornamental lover of a married woman, a title no honorable man would ever aspire to. What a pity she would never have the pleasure of knowing this Jeremiah herself.

      “The way I view it,” she said, “Signor Sparhawk has no choice but to take you with him.”

      “Jeremiah says it’s too dangerous, that he won’t put me at risk.” Because he loves me too much. Caro stopped perilously short of saying the words out loud. Already she missed him. “He doesn’t even want me at the dock to see him off.”

      “For God’s sake, girl, use your wits!” ordered Dorinda, her anger too great to sustain the feigned sympathy any longer. “I’ll wager you didn’t get to be countess by wringing your hands and wailing. And don’t forget that you are a countess, and no insolent Yankee sailor has any right to tell you what you may or may not do.”

      Caro’s head drooped. “I’ve never done anything for myself,” she said softly. “Frederick didn’t wish me to. He considered it unseemly and ill fitting a lady of my station.”

      “Fah on what foolishness Frederick wishes! You’re not helpless. You came here after him, didn’t you?”

      Caro shook her head, unconvinced.

      “Listen to me, girl. I don’t care how you do it—with your face, you should have no difficulty at all—but you owe it to my son to be on that ship. And you will do it, Caroline.” The old woman jabbed at the air with her diamond-weighted finger. “Or you will answer to me.”

      As the hired skiff drew closer to the felucca that would carry him to Tripoli, Jeremiah’s misgivings grew. The two stubby masts and patched lateen sails were bad enough, but the dozen oars that bristled from each side of the little ship inspired even less confidence. Oars like that needed men to row them, men that in this part of the world were most likely Christian slaves, and as both a free man and a Christian himself, Jeremiah despised all that galleys represented. As a sailor he wouldn’t have trusted the shabby felucca on the river at home, let alone on the Mediterranean with its sudden storms and uncertain currents, and he wondered again if he’d been wrong to accept passage arranged by the old countess. Not that he had much choice; Naples was at war with Tripoli, too—at least theoretically—and all the other vessels daring to trade illegally between the two countries were bound to be as disreputable as this one.

      For reassurance he thought of the pistols and knives hidden beneath his coat, anonymous, serviceable weapons. He had brought little else with him, leaving his sea chest behind at the inn until he returned. Once in Tripoli, he planned to purchase the loose robes that were worn there, and he hoped that with his black hair and weatherworn skin he could at least be inconspicuous.

      He looked back over his shoulder at the fairy-tale city he was leaving and picked out the orange-tiled roof of the inn. He did not intend to be gone long, a fortnight at most if he could help it, and despite his warning to Caro, he had every intention of coming back. After a lifetime of sailing away, now for the first time he had a real reason to return.

      Saying goodbye to Caro this morning in the bed they’d shared had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. She hadn’t wept or clung to him, or tried again to convince him not to go; but the wistful, silent love in her eyes was more expressive than a week’s worth of recrimination from any other woman.

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