The Trouble With Misbehaving

“What are you do—”

He swung them behind a tree and peered out. Whatever she wanted to talk about suddenly lost importance. The villains following him were the more immediate problem.

“Tell me—”

“Shhhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips.

Two men in top hats stepped off the gravel path and picked their way across the lawn.

Beau marched C.C. deeper into the grove around trees and shrubs. Then through an archway of fragrant vines to a fountain struggling to reflect hazy moonlight. They needed to stay quiet and hidden.

“Before you drag me any further into the bushes—”

Didn’t the woman know the meaning of shhhh? She would give away their hiding place if he didn’t do something quick. He pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his. Mint and vanilla filled his senses.

Her sweet, almost maidenly response surprised him. No, she probably wasn’t a tart. Just a hasty stolen kiss, yet he couldn’t help appreciate the tantalizing fit of her supple lips under his and how her body softened against him. His heart stammered and launched into a faster beat. Lifting his head, he gazed about her bewildered, upturned countenance, breathlessly poised for a man’s kisses. Hmm, not entirely a maiden either.

Perhaps another quick kiss would clarify matters?

Alarms blared through his mind, but the evening’s stresses muted their warning. Months of wondering if each day would be his last had his inner voice insisting: live life when it’s handed to you…it could end in a heartbeat.

He lowered his head and softly brushed her lips.

Though clearly not experienced, she returned his caress with such tenderness he couldn’t describe why it felt so thrilling, so right. They’d just met, yet she kissed him as if she was…as if they were…well, something more than strangers.

She circled her arms around his neck and leaned into him. This spurred him further. He angled his head for a better fit; she moved to accommodate. Warmth trickled into the damaged, hollow place in his heart. For the first time in a very long while he allowed himself the comfort of human contact, and he couldn’t keep his starved longing from entering his caress. Lifting her off her feet, he held her tight in his arms.

C.C. responded with a sigh and melted into him, sending shocks through his torso. A sensual fog clouded his mind. His heart thumped wildly and another part grew uncomfortably insistent. The woman wasn’t joking when she promised the Highest Rewards and Benefits.

Hazy thoughts struggled through overloaded senses.

No. This was too convenient. He still didn’t know why she’d sent him the notes. Two men were trailing him. Was she really a spy? He set her down. “Madam, this better not be a trap.”

At his words, she pushed out of his arms. Her confused expression sharpened. “If you’d responded to the first two letters we wouldn’t be tromping around a darkened pleasure garden at nearly midnight.”

“Quiet,” he breathed, as he peered around for their pursuers. “Four words, madam. What’s this about?”

“The Roundabout…the blockade.” Her voice quavered between gasps.

The Roundabout? How did this woman know about his ship? “I don’t understand.”

“I need your help. You have the experience and knowledge to help my family—”

Footsteps crackled through the leaves and grass only a few feet away. A deep, gravelly voice rasped through the gloom, “It was her, I tell you. She went into this grove with some bloke. Keep looking.”

She went into this grove with some bloke? They were chasing C.C. and not him? Beau’s protective nature marched to the fore. He pushed her behind him and peered out from the side of the bower. Two large figures clomped toward them. A breeze carried the stench of stale sandalwood and sweat. One of the men coughed so badly he bent over double.

C.C. gasped behind him and he could only make out a few of her muttered words: “Not again…that insufferable termite.” Before he could stop her, she scurried out the back of the bower and disappeared into the fog.

***

Miss Calista Collins dashed from hedge to tree on quivering legs. Indecision dogged her wobbly retreat. After three and a half years the War Between the States had slowly dismantled the South. Now her family in North Carolina desperately needed her help, and Captain Tollier was the only man she would trust to take her through the Union blockade.

Laws, he’d actually kissed her…and she’d kissed him back! She fingered her lips and drew in a ragged breath. Should she try to find him again, or leave Cremorne? She couldn’t decide. His kisses had scrambled her wits. And drat him, the captain didn’t even know the extent of her business proposal because he’d thrown her letters into the fire!

Now those two scoundrels had ruined everything. Did they suspect her real reason for being here?

A branch snapped behind her. She turned. All she could see was swirling fog. It could be Captain Tollier, or it might be the coughing villain who’d been loitering on her street corner.

Nothing had gone as planned. After all her work and forethought she’d not been prepared for any of it…the captain’s dazzling charm or his lusty manner or…the sun-kissed lights in his honeyed hair.

Another branch crackled, sending her scampering into a nearby vine-covered arbor.

“Oh!” a woman yelped.

“Christ!” growled her partner.

The couple’s odd silhouette quite shocked C.C. “Oh, my, I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” Gasping, she quickly backed out and skittered to another hedge. This evening’s events had stretched her nerves to a frazzle, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The air was indeed dense tonight. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her wheezes, only to be reminded of the captain’s kisses.

Kissing had never much appealed to her. Only a handful of men had made the attempt. Anything more than a quick peck made her feel slobbered on—like her aunt’s Basset hound’s kiss. But when the captain pulled her into his arms and sealed his soft, full lips over hers the unexpected pleasure stunned her.

Now annoyance struggled with unwanted desire. How had he enticed her into doing things totally contrary to her character and certainly not on her agenda? It had been years since she’d found a man irresistible. And that had ended in disaster.

She didn’t like how the captain’s kisses alternately bewildered and sent thrills through her, or that her treacherous body melted so comfortably into his.

She’d too much to do and no time for confusion. Why did she have to find Captain Tollier so compelling?

She inhaled. Laws, his exotic citrus cologne still lingered on her cheek. Tingles raced over her skin. No one told her his voice had such a deep, rich timbre or that he possessed such roguish charm.

A deep voice murmured in the distance.

Her pulse leapt. She almost called out before stopping herself. It might be one of those scoundrels instead. Hadn’t everything been spoiled anyway? Could she even have a reasonable conversation with the captain now?

It was getting late. The pleasure gardens would soon close. Should she wait for him, try to find him or leave? This whole endeavor had been assembled with Captain Tollier in mind.

Her family in North Carolina needed her help. If she didn’t make haste things could get a lot worse. This also might be her last chance to discover answers to a decade-old mystery.

A hand bell rang through the fog followed by a booming voice, “Cremorne Pleasure Gardens will close in ten minutes. Please proceed to the exits.”

C.C. ground her teeth. Captain Tollier obviously hadn’t followed. No doubt, he’d slithered away into the mist. Drat it all, now she’d have to hunt him down again.

Chapter 2

Beau slumped against dusty seat cushions as the hired coach rocked and bumped along, jarring his every muscle. Two days had passed since the bungled meeting at Cremorne, and he’d come no closer to sorting it out or getting C.C. off his mind.

What an astounding woman. Delving into her steady gaze and finding the strength of will to defeat his battle demons still filled him with awe. And every time he thought about her tender response to his stolen kisses, his pulse jumped. But the rest of it—villains on her tail and a havey-cavey business proposition—made him certain his first instincts had been correct. Had he stuck to his rule, the whole bizarre, confusing escapade could have been avoided.

Besides, there were other things he’d vowed to do. The losses he’d recently endured made him long to reunite with his family and return to the peace and quiet of his childhood home.

The reunion made him a little uneasy, however. After little communication for more than a decade, he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. With all he’d been through—an officer in the Royal Navy, the informal, wild revelry in the Bahamas, a blockade-runner, and a prisoner of war—conforming to the confines of English aristocracy might be a challenge. And heaven help him should there be any sudden noises like at Cremorne.

As the coach pulled through the heavy iron gates, Beau lowered the window for a better view. Morning mist veiled rows of terraces in the distance. Rising above the clouds like a castle of old stood his family’s ancient crenellated and multi-spired country home.

When the horses finally halted at the manor’s front entrance, Beau swung open the door. He climbed out, stretched his stiff back and took a deep breath. The fragrance of ancient yew trees and old oaks surrounding the mansion mixed with the unique combination of damp earth, rock and antiquated mortar—the scent of Grancliffe Hall.

Home.

Once, he’d considered the country mansion’s quiet to be stifling, its tranquility boring, and the fortress’ solid security a jail. After enduring the real-life miseries of a Union prison, he drank in the sight of the old place almost with reverence. The experience had altered his perspective. Now he saw a mythical castle filled with one hundred and two rooms of blessed, hushed peace.

On the west lawn a man and four children played croquet. Nostalgia hit him like a heavy gust. He’d spent many a boyhood hour romping over that lawn with his sire and siblings. The man rushed toward him, waving a croquet stick. A big smile covered his face.

Beau rubbed his tired eyes. It couldn’t be Father. He was long dead. As the man neared, he realized he was his eldest brother, Thomas, now the Earl of Grancliffe. Thomas had grown into an exact likeness of their patriarch—a tall, formidable, strong-featured man with dark eyes and thick, wavy dark hair—another identical copy of their marauding ancestors.

Grinning broadly, his brother marched up, grabbed him in a strong embrace and then held him out by the shoulders. “I knew it was you, Beau. You haven’t changed a bit, well, maybe more weathered, a little more fur on your face.”

Beau scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Aye. Haven’t had a meal or shave in two days.”

“You don’t look like you’ve had much sleep either.” Thomas winked.

“None to speak of. When the first train broke down its replacement took hours to collect us. I missed the next two because of the first. I apologize for my untidiness and tardy arrival.”

“No need for apologies.” Thomas pulled out his pocket watch, flicked it open with his thumb, frowned at the time and arched a brow at him. “It’s only been a dozen years, what’s a few more hours?”

Beau’s eyes widened. So his brother had become a time stickler like their father?

Thomas threw his arm around Beau’s neck and pounded him on the chest. The same kind of rough hug he’d given him as a boy. “I’m teasing, little brother. Get me full of ale and I can reprise more of Father’s memorable quirks. I’m glad you’re finally home.” He pounded him again fondly. “We should have warned you. Trains in these parts are reliably unreliable. Many forgo the frustration and take a coach.”

Thomas’s joking calmed some of Beau’s unease. He’d always idolized his eldest brother and couldn’t help a surge of affection. Thomas had intelligence, good looks, a good nature, and strength of character—everything an admirable earl needed. And he never stepped wrong. Not one foot out of place.

Stepping wrong had been Beau’s lot in life.

But no more—he’d vowed to change. If his brother could be respectable, so could he. He was done playing the family’s scoundrel.

Three boys, all miniature versions of his brother, romped over. A little girl dragging a croquet stick soon followed and latched onto her father’s knee.

“I’d like you to meet Alistair,” Thomas said. “He’s nine, Royce is seven, Ernest is six and Daisy here is three. Children, this is your sea captain Uncle Beauford come home at last.”

The boys stepped forward like little men, stuck out their hands and gave his a shake. The little girl stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Beau lowered himself to Daisy’s eye level. Her sweet little face and dark eyes and hair squeezed the damaged, hollow place in his heart he dared not think about.

He spoke quietly, smiling. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Daisy.” She popped her thumb out of her mouth, gave him a shy smile and bashfully hid her face in her father’s pant leg.

By now a footman had unloaded his luggage.

“A minute, please.” Beau strode over and opened his trunk. “I have presents!” He pulled out four American frontier coonskin hats and handed one to each child.

“Thank you Uncle Beauford,” they chorused.

“A fine family you have here, Thomas.” He smiled. “It’s good to be home.” He’d longed for a quiet, peaceful rest and a chance to get to know his family. His sister-in-law’s invitation had said a small birthday party for his brother.

“Has Wills arrived for your party? Beau hadn’t seen his second eldest brother, six years his senior, since their father’s funeral.

“He and his wife may be greeting their new babe as we speak. He sent their regrets, and hopes he may introduce you to his family in the near future.” Thomas curled his arm around Beau’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “My lady wife is eager to make your acquaintance. I don’t know if you were told, but Amelia thought my birthday party the perfect opportunity to show off the new renovations. Once you get settled you can meet all the guests.”

***

The last thing Beau wanted to do after such an arduous trip was sit at a long dinner table with thirty-plus guests and make polite conversation. Yet here he sat, five from the end.

After a bath and an abbreviated nap he’d arrived just in time to take his place at table. Stifling a yawn, he surreptitiously glanced left and right. On either side of him sat two nearly identical, shy young women. Both possessed even features, blue eyes, pale skin, blonde hair and similar white gowns—ideal flowers of English womanhood.

His sister-in-law obviously took matchmaking seriously. The two lasses were daughters of landed gentry and probably considered a reasonable match for a questionably suitable, questionably solvent and questionably steadfast third son of an earl.

Beau sat uncomfortably in his new formal black suit. He slid a finger between his neck and collar and tugged.

Down the far end, at the head of the table, sat his brother Thomas. He now wore a splendid tailored dark suit, stiff white shirt, white waistcoat and a perfectly tied white cravat. Somehow his eldest brother had always looked impressive, yet comfortable, in clothes that would chafe Beau’s hide.

Clearly his sister in law, the new Lady Grancliffe, was having fun restoring grandeur to the earldom and the old hall. Lavish new gold candelabra, sparkling silver and abundant flower arrangements decorated the white tablecloth.

Beau turned to the young woman on his right. “Did you grow up in these parts, Miss Winfield?”

She nodded, giggling, and reached toward her ear to twist a hair curl around a finger.

He turned to his left. “And how about you, Miss Trundel?”

She gave a quick cough he interpreted as a yes. Then she became engrossed in—if he wasn’t mistaken—a silver question mark dangling from her charm bracelet.

He tried again with Miss Winfield. “Have you known Lady Grancliffe long?”

She blushed and shook her head, making her gold and pearl earrings twirl in circles.

He turned back to Miss Trundel. “Is this your first visit to Grancliffe Hall?”

Her rouge-brightened lips puckered. “No.” She twiddled the next charm resembling a canoe—or was it a slipper?

The footmen placed dishes in front of them and filled their wineglasses. Evidently the young women were as relieved as Beau with the interruption, for they made a production of cutting their poached pheasant and savoring their dry rosé in silence.

Far down the table on his side, a glass tipped over. The sound of breaking crystal cut through the hum of conversation. A strange hooting cackle seemed to come from the vicinity of the breakage.

A female voice announced loudly, “No apologies necessary, sir. I’m quite all right. However, I must make an observation. If you’re unable to refrain from spilling your wine, it seems doubtful you could possibly keep any woman happy.”

Beau’s lips quivered. He knew that voice, though it sounded more strident than he remembered. Her insinuation wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in most dockside taverns he’d frequented, but such words brayed at an earl’s table were nothing less than shocking. Excitement surged through him. And he couldn’t decide if it was from the memory of holding C.C. in his arms, or his prison camp paranoia leaping back to life, screaming trap.

He hadn’t noticed her when he entered the room. What was she doing here? He looked down the table for a woman resembling the coal-smudged shopkeeper he’d kissed at Cremorne. Then he looked again. Only one woman met her basic description, but she couldn’t be her. Everything about her screamed ‘elegant lady.’

A jingling sound drew his attention back to Miss Trundel as she sawed industriously at her pheasant. “My, what a lovely bracelet.” He smiled. “Do the charms have special meaning?”

By now she’d warmed to him, a little, and she smiled shyly. “Yes.”

“That charm, the one that looks like a canoe, what’s its significance?”

Miss Trundel curled her hand to her mouth and whispered, “It’s a banana.”

He gazed at the small charm. “So i’tis. I take it you’re fond of bananas?”

She giggled and leaned to exchange speaking glances with Miss Winfield.

Beau turned to Miss Winfield. She’d obviously been staring at him. Her eyes went wide and her pale skin brightened to crimson.

He worked to give her a smile and took a gulp of wine. This was getting painful. Struggling to extract dull small talk from proper young women barely out of the schoolroom was giving him a headache. He’d much rather talk to a certain cheeky shopgirl.

During the next course, a grating giggle rose above the conversation. It went on and on until finally ending with several porcine-like snorts. “Dear me,” she said, “Yankee Doll? A man of your advanced years and you still have a tendre for dolls?”

Beau stifled a laugh. The table grew quieter. He stretched forward to see around the other guests and found himself staring. No. She couldn’t be C.C. The woman at the end of the table was resplendent, almost…ethereal.

A low-cut, exquisite lavender gown emphasized her long neck and soft, creamy bosom. Amethysts draped her cleavage. Flower buds adorned an elaborate profusion of sable curls. Her features were more pronounced, lovelier, as if a master artist had applied a regal finish.

He looked closer.

Good God, it was her. What a transformation. And what an enchantress!

Heat rushed through his body as he recalled their kisses. He willed her to make eye contact. As if hearing his request, she turned, raised her thick dark lashes and locked gazes.

Nothing. No reaction. Her eyes could have been marble for all the response they showed. She turned away to speak to another guest.

Beau casually shifted his gaze. Either she was tragically purblind, or she didn’t wish to know him—most likely the latter. She’d sent him three letters, and had been so eager to meet with him she’d chastised him for burning the first two. Now she mysteriously appeared at his family’s country home and didn’t acknowledge him? What was she up to?

The gentleman on the other side of Miss Winfield leaned around her and groused, “I don’t know why they continue to invite that crazy woman. She is positively off her nut, insulting Viscount Falgate that way.” The man shook his head and wrinkled his nose distastefully. “The stories I could tell you about her.”

“Why is she here?” Beau responded.

“I don’t know. Ask your brother. It’s his party.”

Beau eased back into his chair. Fascinating. At the pleasure gardens C.C. had looked like a trade woman or possibly a governess. Her note asked him to meet her at a time when a proper, respectable woman would have long since departed. Now she looked like a goddess and sat disparaging a viscount at an earl’s dinner table.

Was she a Union spy as he’d suspected? And what about her business opportunity? Had it been truthful or was she ‘off her nut,’ like the fellow said? For certain, the woman was unsettling. But dear God, what a beauty, and by the way she tempted his reckless side, a lot could be forgiven.

At the conclusion of dinner, he waited for her in the hallway. When she exited, he stepped in front of her and bowed. “Hello again, madam.”

She quickly looked behind her. Lord Falgate lingered in the doorway talking to another guest. “Not now,” she muttered under her breath. “Excuse me sir,” she announced louder and held her frothy bell-shaped skirt to edge around Beau.

Her curt dismissal only tweaked his curiosity more. Could it be she didn’t want Lord Falgate or someone else to know she and Beau were acquainted? Was she married after all? He almost followed her down the hallway, but her strange behavior made him reconsider. It might be wise to first get the lay of the land. He turned the opposite direction and made his way to the billiard room.

While several men racked up balls and began a game, Beau savored two glasses of his brother’s fine brandy and walked around admiring the room’s redecorating. Any hopes of turning in early for a long night’s rest would have to wait.

He stopped at a side table to gaze at a familiar bottle. As a boy he’d spent untold hours studying its contents. Oh, what dreams that miniature East India tea clipper had conjured. How carefully he’d measured, drawn and redrawn the vessel inside. It had been the genesis of his ship designs.

Two small paintings of his father and mother hung on the wall behind. Both had dark eyes and hair. He’d never known his mother. The answer to who he really was died at his birth.

Thomas approached, slapped him on the back and offered him a cigar from the box he carried. “Thank you for these excellent Havanas, little brother. I do so enjoy a good cigar.”

“You’re very welcome,” Beau replied. “And happy birthday.”

His brother set the cigar box on the table while a diligent footman refilled both their brandy glasses and lit their cigars.

Beau took several satisfying puffs and gazed at his father’s picture. He could almost hear the old man growl, “When it comes to mischief, you’ve not lived a life of missed opportunities.” Now his motto, he’d spent his life challenging the words ‘no’ and ‘forbidden.’ Though the rewards had filled his pockets with gold, the risks had finally taken their toll.

“I wonder how many of my little hellions will take after the old man?” Thomas mused.

Glancing at his brother and then at his father’s picture on the wall, Beau responded, “If memory serves, eleven generations in the portrait gallery would say they’d all resemble him.”