Page 5

Mayfair, London

Outside Burlington Arcade

Having spent the past hour perusing booths in Bond Street Bazaar seeking—unsuccessfully—to replace his dagger lost at sea during a skirmish with a pirate, Jason Steele emerged onto Old Bond Street. A helpful merchant had referred him to a skilled knifemaker located within Burlington Arcade.

Given the pleasantness of the day, Jason had opted to walk the short distance. He missed riding, but it was imprudent to stable a horse in London when he was gone so frequently. It wasn’t fair to the poor animal. He supposed he could borrow one of his friends’ mounts, but Jason didn’t like being beholden to anyone.

Without the dagger usually tucked into the waistband of his trousers, he felt oddly naked and vulnerable. Not that he had any worries in this part of London. Unsavory areas such as Whitechapel, Seven Dials, or the rookeries were an entirely different matter.

His father had given him the blade upon his maiden voyage as The Arcturus’s captain four years ago. At five-and-twenty, many had thought Jason too young to captain a ship. Nevertheless, his best friend, Ronan Brockman, the son of an English marquess, and Yvette McTavish, the Viscountess Sethwick of Stapleton Shipping and Supplies—the owners of The Arcturus—had believed him qualified and capable.

Jason had done his utmost to prove them right, even staving off pirates two weeks ago. Although, to be fair, the ramshackle assortment of swashbucklers and the decrepit ship they manned were scarcely a real threat.

The skirmish had been short with no loss of life of his own crew. The pirates hadn’t been as fortunate. The half dozen wounded, motley buccaneers that had scuttled back to their battered vessel like frightened crabs seeking cover would be wise to retire from pillaging on the high seas.

Jason grinned at the memory.

They gave pirating a bad name.

He had been sailing for eleven years by the time he made captain, rising through the ranks from cabin boy to first mate. All of Jason’s advancements had been of his own volition, even though he boasted a wealthy and powerful sire. Long ago, he’d learned that achievements gained by one’s own endeavors were far more satisfactory than when another paved the way.

Much to his parents’ objections and dismay, when war broke out between England and America in 1812, Jason hadn’t put aside his obsession with the sea.

He’d been fortunate to avoid direct conflict as he sailed aboard a merchant vessel with an extremely crafty and experienced captain. Captain Connaughton had an instinct for knowing what waters to avoid, and their lengthy journeys to African ports and beyond kept them out of the fray.

Having no interest in taking after his father and delving into the banking industry and politics, Jason would forever be in Brockman’s and the viscountess’s debt. His four younger brothers, particularly Frank or Owen, might be inclined to follow after Oscar Steele, but Jason most definitely would not. Likely Evan and Thomas wouldn’t either.

Some creatures were not meant to be contained, restrained, or confined—to settle down. Most especially to study row upon row of numbers in ledgers within a fusty office, even if it did have a grand view of Boston Harbor. Jason enjoyed his freedom, the comfort of a woman’s supple body for mutual pleasure without strings attached, and the ability to go where he wanted when he wanted.

As he maneuvered the busy lane, a few genteel ladies batted their eyelashes and gave him sultry invitations with a simple glance or a seductive peek from beneath their bonnets. Other working-class women not so high in the instep boldly assessed him and, liking what they saw, verbalized as much in blunt terms.

Jason could have his pick of women. He adored women. Adored flirting with them and bringing a blush to their cheeks. Regardless, he was selective with his bed partners. The last thing he wanted was to end up with a case of the clap or the French pox.

Yes indeed, his was an idyllic life.

His grin faltered a fraction.

Or at least it had been until he’d been thrust into the role of…

He scratched his nose and stepped aside for an apple-cheeked nurse pushing a pram containing an infant with impossibly big, blue eyes.

Well, Jason wasn’t precisely his maternal grandmother’s keeper. The countess would be outraged at the suggestion that anyone needed to mind her. She thoroughly enjoyed her newfound liberation and autonomy too much to permit anyone that much control ever again.

Regardless, he felt a responsibility for his grandmother, though it scraped across his independence. He was a free spirit, a wanderer.

His mother, Janelle Steele, had told him as much many times in her cultured British accent when he’d announced that he’d signed on as a cabin boy. “Even as a young boy, I could scarce keep an eye on you, Jason. You were always taking off and exploring. Nothing kept your attention for long.”

Another grin tipped his mouth upward at the corners as he recalled his petite mother wrangling her five sons under control with nothing more than a stern glance and a softly voiced reprimand. She was so different from their big, blustery, loud, rough-around-the-edges American father. Proof that opposites do attract and, in his parents’ case, could make a splendid match.

It was too bad Mama had only birthed sons. She would have to be content with her daughters-in-law. If and when any of the Steele brothers wed.

Whistling a sailing ditty, “Whisky O,” as he strode along earned Jason several reproving stares from elitist Londoners but appreciative grins from the commoners. The British thought whistling crass. But as he didn’t give a buffalo’s rump what the English thought about him, he continued to warble, even singing a line or two beneath his breath.

In truth, he was sorely tempted to imitate several bird calls he’d mastered over the years just to see the pompous Brits’ reactions. A barn owl’s screech might prove highly amusing. Many thought the sound otherworldly or demonic. If one didn’t know what the eerie noise was, it did raise one’s nape hairs.

As Jason approached the Burlington Arcade’s north entrance, he furrowed his brow. He had a bit of a conundrum. Grandmother Darlington-Pope expected he’d stay with her in London for at least two months before he sailed again. Given his current sailing schedule, he’d believed that as well.

Nonetheless, just yesterday, a prosperous proposition had been put to him by Ronan Brockman that meant an extended voyage to depart before Christmas. Six months away at sea, at least. More likely eight or nine.