He needed to make more money. That much was clear. Restoring Cottesmore would almost clean him out.
Whatever was left over would need to be invested, and soon. He had an excellent head for business and had no doubt he could double or triple his investments. Providing his peers would actually do business with him. But as soon as his past became common knowledge, Christian had no doubt he would be ostracised by the vast majority of Society.
He needed to clear his name. But to do that, he first had to convince the Duke of Blackmore of his innocence which would be no easy feat. He wondered how long he’d get before his grace had him thrown out?
‘Perhaps you should refrain from listening to either the cook or the footman,’ he suggested at length to his daughter’s earnest face. ‘Have you finished your breakfast?’
The little girl popped a last piece of toast in her mouth and carefully dabbed her lips. ‘Miss. Sharpham says thatmanners maketh man,’ she announced, folding her napkin and laying it neatly across her plate.
‘But you’re not a man, sweet pea,’ Christian pointed out, suddenly fearful that the governess might completely stifle his daughter’s sparkle. He couldn’t believe how important Mercy had become to him in just a few short months. Almost from the moment she’d appeared on his doorstep, his carefully cultivated life had been completely toppled. Even to the point of returning to England. The one place in which he’d sworn he would never again set foot.
‘Don’t be silly, Papa, she means ladies too,’ Mercy scoffed, climbing down from her chair and giving her father a quick peck on the cheek. Then with a last wave, she was gone.
Sighing, Christian picked up his newspaper, intending to ring for more tea, but as he stared unseeing at the small print, he abruptly found his thoughts straying to the last time he’d seen Nicholas Sinclair.
The former first lieutenant had been pointing a pistol at his back. Christian recalled Sinclair’s final words to him, spoken in a strained whisper. ‘If you’re going to jump, for pity’s sake do it now.
∞∞∞
27thJune 1798
By four a.m., the Captain finally managed to manoeuvre HMSPhoenixalongside the French frigate and ordered the crew to open heavy fire from close range. Within eight minutes, theSensiblewas battered into submission.
‘Mr. Stanhope, Mr. Barnet and Mr. Witherspoon, each take ten men and prepare to board,’ ordered First Lieutenant Sinclair.
‘Aye, Sir.’
As the three men mustered on the deck with the chosen hands, grappling hooks were thrown aboard theSensibleand slowly, relentlessly, thePhoenixwas pulled towards the beaten ship until they were locked together.
With a yell, the three lieutenants leapt across the gap closely followed by their selected men. All were armed with pistols, cutlasses and boarding axes. A brief fight ensued, but within minutes, the crew surrendered. The French frigate had taken significant damage to her masts and hull, and a large number of the crew were wounded or dead.
Quickly, Stanhope as the senior Lieutenant, ordered those of the French crew still standing to be rounded up and secured and her captain taken aboard thePhoenix. The dead were unceremoniously tossed overboard, and the British frigate’s surgeon brought across to deal with the injured. Fortunately, theSensiblewas still seaworthy.
With Stanhope preoccupied securing the French vessel, it was left to Barnet and Witherspoon to organise the gruesome task of ridding the deck of torn body parts. Wiping his bloody hands on his britches, the Fourth Lieutenant groaned. ‘I’m getting’ too bloody old fer this,’ he complained to no one in particular. Behind him was the main hatch to the lower deck. Glancing round, he spied Barnet near the port rigging. If he slipped away now, no one would notice.
Heart thudding, Witherspoon backed casually towards the opening, then once he was certain he was unobserved, quickly pivoted and leapt down the hatch. The lower deck was deserted after the wounded and those still standing had been taken up to the quarterdeck, but he held his pistol at the ready as he cautiously made his way down to the hold. At the entrance, he stopped abruptly. What the bloody hell was he doing? If he was caught right now, he’d be court-martialled at the very least and likely feel the swing of the cat. But if he went through that door…
Sweat dotted his brow and pooled at the base of his spine. Barnet was right. If he took anything, he’d swing. Biting his lip, Witherspoon hesitated on the threshold, a sudden nausea taking hold. He couldn’t spend the rest of his bloody life at sea. For all Stanhope’s talk about prize money, they all knew that the chances of any of them seeing so much as a bloody farthing were slim. This might be his only chance.
Taking a deep breath, Witherspoon turned the handle, half hoping the door would be locked. But after a brief resistance, it opened. Glancing behind him, the Fourth Lieutenant slipped through the opening, quickly pushing the door closed.
∞∞∞
Present day
Chastity stared at herself in the mirror. She should have been attending the opera with her family. She’d even had a new dress made for the occasion. A glorious, pale blue, which Grace insisted brought out the colour of her eyes. Tonight was to behernight. Queen Charlotte would be attending, and though Chastity had yet to be presented formally, her Majesty’s sudden predilection towards the Shacklefords meant they would, at the very least, have likely rubbed shoulders.
But she doubted she’d ever meet the Queen now, unless some poor unfortunate could be persuaded to wed her. And quickly. Despite her earlier words, she did not see Christian Stanhope as that poor unfortunate.
Sighing, she turned away from the mirror. Truly, she’d made a cake of herself. All her twin’s fears had proven well founded. And it had only taken a few weeks. She hadn’t even managed one Season. Grace’s last words to her before they’d departed for the opera were an earnest entreaty to remain in her bedchamber, but that was easier said than done when one’s mind refused to quiet.
Seating herself in the large window seat, Chastity parted the heavy drapes and stared down at the deserted street below. The snow had ceased falling, and the new street gas lamp shed a circle of light, giving the impression that there was nothing beyond its illumination. She glanced down at her pocket watch. Ten o’clock. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel in the least tired. Grimacing, she picked up her book, and stared unseeing at its pages.
If only Nicholas would allow her to speak with Lord Cottesmore. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her brother-in-law to have her best interests at heart, but his dislike of Stanhope would likely end any negotiations before they’d even begun. Chastity refused to contemplate why she’d been so adamant about petitioning the Earl, but something other than his good looks drew her to him, and it wasn’t simply a desire to avoid being leg shackled to Viscount Trebworthy. Despite Nicholas’s conviction that Christian Stanhope killed a man in cold blood, for some reason, she didn’t believe it.
She thought back to his piercing blue eyes. Even in their short acquaintance, she’d sensed an underlying ruthlessness, but there had been no cruelty. Oh she was under no illusions that a man such as he might be persuaded to love her. She had quickly learned that the marriage mart was no place for romance. But somehow, she felt that she and the Earl might deal well together. And at least he was pleasing to the eye.
But as Grace said earlier, since she had been the one tying her garter in public, he was not honour bound to offer for her. Indeed, she thought it very unlikely that he was in the market for a wife with the label of murderer hanging over his head.
