Marrying the Captain Read online

  “In my mate’s cabin.”

  Oliver went belowdecks and in another moment was perched on the sleeping cot across from his father-in-law, who crouched on a stool, unable to hide the terror on his face.

  Oliver just looked at him, sizing him up and down in silence until Ratliffe raised his hands, as if surrendering. He tried to speak, but no words came out.

  Oliver kept his tone affable. “I’m sorry to stare, my lord, but I’ve been wondering what a man looks like who is so willing to sacrifice his daughter for his own safety. Like you, eh?”

  Lord Ratliffe paled. “I have important work to do at Admiralty House. I…” His voice trailed away.

  “Your work was to be a surety for General Lefebvre-Desnouettes’ release,” Oliver said, snapping off his words. “I have no doubt that Colonel San Sauvir would have treated you better than his own mother!”

  He couldn’t help himself. The terror in Nana’s face, and Pete’s calm acceptance of his fate, swam before his eyes. No wonder his voice rose; they could probably hear him on the Tireless.

  “And there’s this matter of both Lefebvres—one a favorite of Napoleon, and the other a spy. Uh, that would be the one you sent to Plymouth and lodged at the Mulberry. The same one who ever-so-carefully sketched every ship coming and going and sent them to you, and through you, to the general in Cheltenham. Shame on you, Lord Ratliffe, for betraying your country.”

  He said the last quietly, his eyes boring into Lord Ratliffe, who refused to look at him.

  “I have disposed of Henri Lefebvre.”

  Lord Ratliffe raised terrified eyes to him. “My God, how?” he croaked.

  “He’s on a long voyage to India, on an East India merchantman. Poor man found himself impressed and thrown aboard at the last minute.”

  To his credit, Lord Ratliffe did attempt to mount a defense. “You can’t connect me to him!”

  “I can,” Oliver said, crossing his fingers behind his back. “It seems Henri left a letter with your name on it. I suppose he didn’t trust you, either. Smart of him.” Never taking his eyes from the viscount, Oliver stretched out on the sleeping cot. “The Crown still hangs, draws and quarters traitors, Lord Ratliffe. It probably won’t be your best day.”

  The next sound then was urine running down the viscount’s leg and onto the deck. What a weakling you are, Oliver thought, as he watched in disgust. I’m so glad Nana has none of your traits.

  Oliver put his hands behind his head. “You can still be a hero.”

  “H-how?” the man asked, quaking, as he stared in horror at his puddle on the deck.

  “We can put you in Captain Dennison’s gig with a white flag and exchange you for Pete Carter. It’s not a fair exchange, though, because he’s a far better man than you. I doubt you’ll be in Colonel San Sauvir’s custody very long.” Oliver frowned. “Well, it might be a while, because I can assure you we will not exchange Lefebvre-Desnouettes now. Thanks to you, he probably knows too much.”

  “What makes you think Napoleon will ever release me then, if there is no exchange?”

  Oliver swung his feet over the edge of the cot. It took every bit of strength he possessed not to grab his father-in-law and shake him. “Because with or without traitors, we’re going to defeat the French! In spite of you!”

  He clapped his hands together, which made Lord Ratliffe jump. “That’s the offer. If you go back to England now, you’ll go in chains, and then you’ll stare at your own intestines as they’re spooled from your body. Or you can remain in a Spanish prison until we finally defeat Napoleon. You’ll return a hero.”

  “You’ll say nothing?” Something of that cagey look was coming back into Lord Ratliffe’s eyes.

  “Not a word, as long as you resign immediately from all duties at Admiralty House and retire to your country estate. If there is ever a peep from you, I’ll be at Whitehall with all my evidence.” Oliver stood. “I’m being overly generous. What say you?”

  “What choice do I have?” the viscount snapped.

  “None, really,” Oliver said serenely. “Hurry up. I want to get Nana back to Plymouth.”

  “I can’t believe you married a bastard,” the viscount said, goading him, the last attempt of a weak man.

  Steady, Oliver, he told himself, even as his hand balled into a fist. Take a deep breath. “Smartest thing I ever did,” he replied finally.

  “A bastard with a barely literate grandmother. You’re probably already the laughingstock of the fleet.”

  Oliver opened the door, and made an elaborate bow. “After you, my lord. Before you go, let me thank you from the bottom of my heart for never telling anyone that you are my wife’s father. Now that would be hard to live down.”

  He turned a deaf ear to the viscount’s demand that he at least be allowed to change his pantaloons, and ushered him on deck, where Captain Dennison had ordered the gig readied for a trip to Spain, flying a white flag.

  Lord Ratliffe may have been rendered toothless of argument, but he did not go over the side without another shot.

  “Eleanor is a most ungrateful child,” he hissed, as he prepared to lower himself down the side. “She could have been mistress to an earl, at least, and now she’s stuck with a sea captain.”

  “Poor thing,” Oliver commiserated. “At least no one sold her to the highest bidder.” He had a sudden thought, and it made his blood run cold. “Did you do this to any other of your by-blows? I assume there are more.”

  “One,” the viscount said. The Goldfinch lurched, and he clung to the ship’s rail as the watching sailors laughed. “She was biddable, at least.”

  Poor girl, Oliver thought. Poor girl. “Any more?” he asked casually.

  He had to give Lord Ratliffe points for vindictiveness, even when he was clinging to the ship’s rail in a most indecorous fashion. “One more,” he gasped. “She’ll be on the street in a wink, now that I’m headed to exile.”

  “No, she won’t,” Oliver said, as he itched to wrap his fingers around his father-in-law’s throat. “At Miss Pym’s?”

  The viscount started down the chains. “Where else? Pym is my bastard sister.”

  “Care to name her?”

  “Your problem, Worthy.”

  Oliver leaned over the rail, keeping his voice low. “We’ll find her. That’ll please Nana to have sisters. Au revoir, Lord Ratliffe. Good of you to exchange yourself for an old jack tar, with nothing to redeem him but courage and loyalty.” He snapped off his best salute. “You’re my hero.”

  Nana was dressed and on deck, sitting with Matthew, when Oliver returned from the Goldfinch. She refused to go below until hours later, when the gig deposited Pete Carter on the Tireless. His face was bruised, and he was missing two teeth, but he pirouetted around the deck in her dress, as the crew laughed, then gave him three cheers.

  She didn’t leave Pete’s side until the surgeon had seen to his injuries, pronounced him able enough to eat and prescribed trousers and shirt again, because “it’s a cold voyage to Plymouth, Carter.”

  Pete wouldn’t accept Oliver’s offer of Mr. Ramseur’s cabin, now that his second mate had moved into the late Mr. Proudy’s quarters. “No, sor, but thankee,” he said. “I’d feel better swinging in a hammock by the guns.”

  Nana required no convincing to get back in her nightgown and return to his sleeping cot. After kissing her and telling her not to wait up, Oliver went back on deck. He stood on the quarterdeck as Mr. Ramseur turned the watch over to a midshipman, took one last look around, then joined him.

  They watched the Goldfinch skimming ahead of them toward Ferrol Station. Their own course was Plymouth. Oliver knew he had another forty-hour post chaise journey to London ahead, and then a return to the Channel Fleet, but in between, there would always and everlastingly be Plymouth. It was more than port to him now; it was his home, and Nana’s, and his child’s, even now growing inside the dearest person he knew. He hoped it would always mystify him that someone with brown eyes, an affable air and—g
enerally—a biddable demeanor could be his compass rose.

  “Well, Mr. Ramseur, what’s done is done,” he said. “I’m going below. Tell Mr. Toplady there that I’m only to be disturbed if Napoleon himself rows out to meet us.”

  “I wouldn’t dare tell him that, sir,” Mr. Ramseur said. “He’d be petrified. I’ll tell him to hail me.”

  He thought Nana was asleep, so Oliver undressed quietly and crawled into his sleeping cot to settle himself beside her. He was tugging down his nightshirt when she gathered him close.

  “I love you, Oliver Worthy,” she whispered in his ear. “Are you really going to retrieve a half sister of mine from Miss Pym’s?”

  “If she’ll go. Let’s both go to Bath and find her, shall we? I think I can convince Lord Mulgrave that I need a week’s shore leave. If she won’t leave, we’ll at least make sure her tuition is paid until such time as she finishes her studies and finds employment.”

  Nana took his hand and kissed it, then tucked it against her breast. “Bless you,” she said.

  They swung silently in the cot.

  “I have another confession.”

  He was already exploring her breast, but he stopped. “Should I be worried?”

  “I…I convinced Brustein and Carter to let me have a draft of ten thousand pounds, to add to the Whitehall ransom. Lord Ratliffe claimed Whitehall was unhappy about paying twenty thousand, and I thought that would help.”

  “Whitehall paid twenty thousand pounds without complaint,” he said. “That was the sum in the ransom chest.” He threw his head back and laughed. “That old fox! He got ten thousand of my money!”

  Nana looked at him anxiously. “I feel terrible about that.”

  He returned to his exploration of her breasts. “It’ll go to his creditors, who deserve to be paid. I can stand the strain, Nana. Don’t let that worry you. We’ll just feed the Mulberry lodgers more porridge and less cod and leeks.”

  Nana seemed to be concentrating on his massage more than his words. “Do that easier,” she asked, her breath coming a little faster. “I’m tender there. No, don’t stop.”

  “How about this instead?” he asked, his lips on her breasts now, and his hand lower.

  “That’s…about prime,” she said, then closed her eyes and sighed.

  He shifted on the cot until she was under him. “If we do this carefully, we won’t end up on the deck. A noise like that would bring the sentry outside my door running in here.”

  “We can’t have that,” she said. “My goodness, Captain Worthy.”

  He settled himself on her and her legs went around him. He smiled as she moved so carefully. “I think we’re squared away in the center,” he told her. “We can even take advantage of the ship’s pitch and yaw.”

  “It’s not physics,” she murmured, kissing his shoulder.

  “Geometry, then,” he said.

  “I’m busy. Hush.”

  He did. Afterward, he rested his hand on her belly. “When will you feel movement? Any idea?”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Brittle,” she said, putting her hand on his. “Maybe consult a physician.”

  “That would be best. I hope he doesn’t tell you that…uh…geometry in a sleeping cot isn’t a good idea.”

  “I won’t listen, if he does,” she said simply.

  They swung gently.

  “Mrs. Worthy, I have a suggestion.”

  She nodded.

  “It might be a girl. What say we name her Rachel, after your mother?”

  She caught her breath and said his name, which covered him like a benediction. She touched his face. When she spoke, she sounded hesitant, shy almost. “Oliver, am I worthy?”

  “In deed, bone, blood and name.” He kissed her fingers, and she twined them in his. “But you always were, Nana, always.”

  Author’s Note

  General Charles Lefebvre-Desnouettes, a cavalry officer and favorite of Napoleon, was captured in Spain in 1808. Paroled to Cheltenham, England, he was joined there by his wife, Stephanie. The two of them became favorites of the local gentry, attending many social events.

  Alas, Lefebvre-Desnouettes was no gentleman, for he jumped his parole and escaped to France in 1811. He served again at Napoleon’s side through the disastrous Russian Campaign, and at Waterloo in 1815.

  The resourceful Lefebvre-Desnouettes fled next to the United States. He lived in Louisiana until 1821, when his ever-loyal Stephanie arranged passage to Amsterdam. Alas, again, the general’s ship sank in a storm off the Irish coast and he drowned.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-2666-5

  MARRYING THE CAPTAIN

  Copyright © 2009 by Carla Kelly

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