Sail Away (6 page)

"If there is a jeweler in town,” he said, back in command now things were settled, “I would like to buy you a ring. An aquamarine, if such a thing can be found."

"Paul, wait,” Cynthia said. “Sit down for a moment, please?” She caught his hand and held it, her head spinning so she thought she might faint. “There are two things ... I said that I would like to marry you, but there are two things you must know, before you commit yourself."

He sat beside her. “What are they?"

"One of my brothers ... Paul, he is a Patriot. One brother a Loyalist, one a Patriot—I love them both, I cannot choose."

He nodded. “My dear, if war comes, so long as your brother stays out of the Navy, we shall probably never meet. That is all I can say; he has his own path to take. What is the other thing?"

"My grandmother. I don't think I can bear to leave her."

"Is that all?” He laughed. “Rest easy, I don't think I can, either. That is, if she wants to come along, though I think England would be a better place for her than the wretched cold of the Maritimes, and it would please me to think that you would not be alone in our home when I am off at sea."

"Oh, that would be so perfect.” Cynthia felt giddy with relief. “Our home,” she said, savoring the words.

"Your home, for the most part. You should consider that, my dear. Much as I want you for my wife, I think that it would be best if you were to come back to England and meet my family. It would be ideal if your grandmother were to accompany you, and your father, too, if we can pry him away from his business."

"You would wait so long?"

"I don't want to.” He touched her cheek and bent to kiss her with a gentleness surprising in so large a man.

The first touch of his lips was strange, but the second seemed to open a floodgate within her, and the thrill she had felt from his resonant voice was a pale shadow of the intimacy of the kiss. She did not want to wait, either—and she wondered, if a kiss was this splendid, what the rest would be like. “I won't change my mind,” she said.

"But you must have the chance,” he said in that deep, rich voice. She could hear the control that he was exerting over himself.

"Kiss me again?"

"Aye-aye, ma'am."

The third kiss was better, and the next better still. What a joy it would be to have a man who wanted her for who and what she was, not in spite of those things. A man strong enough to stay calm in the face of her father's inevitable furor, and overcome it. A man who thought she was beautiful.

This man.

London, 1792

"You must go, Kit.” Arethusa, Dowager Baroness Guilford, fixed her only son with a steely eye. “You simply must, or those French madmen will leave us high and dry."

Her son settled into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, exasperation battling with affection. “Mama ... You know I begrudge you no task, but is that really necessary?"

"I believe it is, yes.” She flounced the loose edge of the needlework that had occupied her attention until he entered the room. “There are some situations that require a man's firm hand."

Christopher St. John, eighteen years of age and the youngest Baron Guilford to head his family in the past century, was startled by this change of attitude. Ordinarily he had to move heaven and earth to escape her watchful eye. “I beg your pardon, madam—did I hear you correctly?"

She laughed at his astonishment, and when she smiled he could see how this still-handsome woman, with her Titian locks and perfect skin, had made his father the envy of his set. “Yes, my dear. Your uncle Douglas came to call while you were out riding, and he reminded me that although you will always be my dear boy, you are nearly a gentleman grown! I must accept that you have reached an age that demands I treat you according to your station."

By sending me into a nest of vipers. Thank you so much, Mama!
Kit felt certain that his uncle had not intended that she acknowledge her son's arrival at a man's status by sending him on a fool's errand into the catastrophe that was the French Republic. But his mother's knowledge of politics was—well, he would be doing her a kindness to call it “narrow".

Some ladies possessed much acumen in the way of the larger world. Sadly, the Dowager was not one of them. She possessed a limited intellect but a deep capacity for affection; her special talent lay in the closed circle of the nobility, staging entertainments and helping to launch her daughter and many nieces into Society. She was an affectionate parent, a superb hostess, and had been a great asset to the previous Baron before his untimely end in a hunting accident when Kit was only nine. Her brothers, Douglas and Eugene, had stepped in as trustees to guide the family fortunes until Kit was old enough to take the reins himself.

He was beginning to suspect that the time had arrived. “Mama, the family's been doing business with M. Monfort since long before I was born. He's been entirely reliable."

"He has been, dear, but just this past week my friend Hyacinth-that's Lady Rownham, you know—told me that half her last order from Monfort's went missing."

"That does happen from time to time, you know. Accidents, broken bottles, even theft—"

"It's those horrible revolutionaries. They're interfering with everything, and when they ‘inspect’ a cargo I believe they just help themselves and say it's been confiscated. Now, I have spoken with your uncle, and he has a ship sailing to France in ten days. You can travel aboard the
Susanna.
What could be more convenient?"

"Mama—” Kit hated politics, British equally with French. For an upstanding member of the Church of England, his distaste was remarkably catholic. But at least the conflicts in Parliament did not usually involve swords and pistols; what was going on in France was quite another matter. He was no coward, but neither was he an idiot, and from what the papers said, Paris was a particularly fine place to avoid. “Mama, France is in a state of anarchy—armed anarchy. If they would seize goods on false pretences, don't you imagine they would do exactly the same under the snooty nose of an English aristo?"

"They wouldn't dare.” And that was the end of
that
discussion, as far as Her Ladyship was concerned.

They wouldn't dare try any flummery if his mother were giving them that fisheye, Kit was certain. He sighed. What Mama lacked in political acumen, she made up for in persistence.
When I look at France, I see fools chasing a lost dream. When my mother looks, she sees the loss of her favorite brandy.

Kit would not have argued with the revolutionary charge that Louis had been a wastrel of a king—His Royal Highness was a complete ass. But the revolutionaries had gone overboard by putting their own King under arrest. Better to have let him escape to England, though there were those who uncharitably said it was better for England's coffers not to have to support the profligate monarch as a guest.

Now they had their King in prison, though, they couldn't let him out. The Citizens had backed themselves into an awkward corner, and no matter what they did, it would mean trouble for England. War was coming. Everyone knew that.

And for Kit's mother, war meant embargo, and embargo meant that the finest French wines and brandies would be available only through smugglers. The Dowager would deal with these denizens of the dark if she had to—not personally, of course!—but she considered it more practical and farsighted to stock the wine-cellar to bursting while the trade was still legal than to hint delicately to the butler that it was time to place an order with the Free Trade gentlemen.

He made one last attempt to wriggle free. “Mama, if I were to undertake this mission, I would be bound to miss Cousin Eugenia's birthday party. I might not even be back in time for the Carstairs’ ball.” Since Kit would not have full control of his estate or his life until the age of twenty-five, he had agreed to giving his mother charge of his social calendar. She'd cast him out in the world like a trout-fisher with a shiny lure, hoping to land a fecund daughter-in-law who would promptly produce grandchildren. Her particular wish was for a male grandchild to secure the succession and insure that Guilford, her home for the past twenty-three years, would not fall into the clutches of Aunt Rose, with whom she had a long-standing feud.

His mother nodded. “Yes, love, and that is a pity. But you've met all the young ladies who will be in attendance, and I am at wits’ end to find new candidates! Perhaps while you are away I will have more luck."

"Perhaps you're right, Mama.” Being bride-bait had become wearisome work. Kit suddenly realized that if he played his cards right and dawdled along the way, he would be obliged to miss several social engagements his mother had decreed he must attend.

He'd known most of the eligible girls since they were all children, of course, and he enjoyed their company well enough. But familiarity had bred indifference: none of the young ladies woke a spark of passion, and he did not intend to marry without it. He knew what a love match could be; his parents had been besotted with one another and his earliest memories were full of their laughter and affectionate conversation. His mother, beautiful in her young widowhood, had mourned her husband for years, refusing handsome offers of marriage from several eligible gentlemen until they finally accepted that the Baron had been her one and only love.

Kit wasn't about to settle for anything less, and he wouldn't mind missing a few parties. “Very well then, Milady, I shall take up your token and face down the dragons of the Seine. If you'll pardon me, I had better write a few letters and express my regrets to Aunt Helen."

And after all, what could be so dangerous about buying wine in France?

"Ahoy, Coz!"

Kit blinked in surprise as the shoreboat carried him alongside the merchant brig
Susanna
. Squinting up at the figure outlined against a bright sky, he recognized his cousin Philip, who would eventually inherit the ship as well as the business. He waved in return as the oarsmen held steady, then passed them a tip and scrambled up to the wooden stair that had been let down alongside the curving hull.

"Good to see I'll have company on this trip!” Philip was as exuberant as usual, and every bit as cheery. He seemed even broader than Kit remembered him, in a greatcoat with several layers of cape across the shoulders, and the beaver hat atop his fair hair made him loom over Kit's respectable five-foot-ten. “What—you didn't know?"

"Not a word.” Kit had to raise his voice to be heard above the First Mate's shouted orders. “But I couldn't be happier. What brings you out?"

Philip glanced around and shook his head. “My father thinks it's time I took a more active role in the business. But there's no point shouting. Let's go to my cabin and have a bite to eat."

A few minutes later, seated at a folding table in the small but well-appointed owner's cabin, Philip poured them each a warming glass of sherry and leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his handsome face. “You know my father's done business with Monfort's for an age."

"So I reminded my mother,” Kit said. “Did me no good. What of it?"

"You know the situation in Paris,” Philip said.

"Going from mad to worse."

Philip nodded. “Well, Monfort sent his family—wife, children, grandchildren—off to Bordeaux some months ago. Wanted to get them out of the city, he told the authorities—he owns a vineyard there, lots of work preparing for winter, it seemed reasonable enough. But the old fox had other plans. His son got the whole crew on a boat to England, then came to my father, asked him to help Monfort himself pull up stakes before they realize he's left no hostages to fortune."

"He'll be coming back with us, then? Fine—my mother can deliver any complaints in person!"

"We hope he'll be along. It may require a bit of finesse ...
Les citoyens
don't appreciate their compatriots attempting to escape the paradise they've created."

Kit sighed. “Can't we leave that sort of thing to the Scarlet Pimpernel? Or is he just a myth, after all?"

"Oh, he's real enough,” Philip said. “But with the press of aristos looking for safe passage, I can't think he'd bother with a mere wine-merchant. And in all truth I don't believe anyone will notice. Monfort's kept as clear of politics as possible, and he's made sure the Committee gets all the best vintages—at their estates outside the city, which means he has a pass to get in and out of Paris. He'll come aboard
Susanna
to supervise the packing, we raise sail—by the time the numbers are sorted out, we shall be back within the wooden walls.” He nodded out the window at those “walls", His Majesty's warships riding at anchor in Portsmouth Harbor. “Captain Bedlington says an old shipmate of his is on channel patrol. He'll see we aren't bothered. In any event, one wine merchant more or less isn't worth starting a war with England."

"Something will be, though,” Kit said grimly. “It could be that as much as anything else."

Philip's face sobered. “Yes. And I'd like to get the old fellow out before that happens. My father wanted to do it himself, as though his doctor would stand for that! But cheer up, Coz. They say Paris is livelier than ever—and it's high time we cut you free of your Mama's leading-strings!"

"And fit me with a set of yours?” Kit retorted. “I've heard of the scrapes you got yourself into on your Grand Tour!"

"Worth every penny,” Philip said with a reminiscent grin. “Coz, until you've been clasped in the arms of a Frenchwoman, you have not known life."

Kit raised a skeptical eyebrow, along with his glass.

I am going to die. I am going to die and I have never really lived.

Zoe Colbert turned away from the narrow window of her father's town house, making certain the heavy drapes were completely closed. She did not want to watch the people in the street and wonder who among them were informers for the Citizens Committee, who the next victims. She had spent more time looking out, until the horrible day the mob paraded by carrying “bloody bouquets", the severed heads of the guillotine's victims.