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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

Early on a sparkling summer evening, Lord Reginald Beauhampton stepped onto the terrace of Lord and Lady Mythe's country seat and gazed out over the green expanse of lawn. With a grin, he dashed all the way to the white stone steps, before he reminded himself he was not supposed to do that.

And he was always doing that, bouncing about like an eager puppy after a country lad on a kite-flying expedition. All his life, he had possessed too much energy for a proper gentleman.

He sighed, took a deep breath, and descended the steps the way a gentleman ought. Slowly.

He got almost to the bottom step, meaning to concentrate on resisting the urge to bound spiritedly through the parterre, when he stopped cold. For there before him, he beheld the solution to his dilemma.

Reggie had to remind himself to breathe.

It was something he sensed, rather than saw, something that hovered elusively about him, the way an aroma dances in and out of one's awareness. And in some nebulous way, it was personified by the young lady who stepped out of Mythe's Chinese pavilion.

She was not at all what he had expected, with her slender form draped in soft shades of green, and one golden curl bouncing in the breeze as if it danced with the leaves. She was too small, too delicate. Not at all the sort of character to inhabit one of his books.

Nor was it any great beauty which attracted him, for she was not particularly different from any other lady in the garden. Yet he knew. He had an instinct for this sort of thing.

The urge to dash up to the intriguing lady almost overwhelmed him. Reggie flexed his hands as a reminder not to fidget and took a deep breath to dispel his latest attack of exuberance.

"Good evening, Beauhampton. Haven't seen you about lately. Boat giving you trouble?"

Reggie had been so engrossed he had not noticed Castlebury, who sidled up with a languorous ease Reggie could not hope to emulate. He nodded to his friend. "A yacht is rather demanding of one's time. A little problem with the rigging."

But it was not ratlines and sheets that interested him at the moment. Reggie glanced quickly at the lady in green. He itched to get closer and discover what it was about her that was so compelling. Had he perhaps caught a fleeting glimpse of her eyes? Would they be dark and green as the sea? Of course his heroine could have eyes of any color he chose to make them.

The thing was, he didn't need a heroine, no matter the coloring of her eyes, not in a seagoing adventure. What the devil was he to do with a woman at sea?

"Rigging, is it?" Castlebury's eyes narrowed. "Can't say I see any problem with the rigging."

"I don't believe I know her," Reggie responded, and like his friend, carefully averted his gaze from the lady, who walked with another lady along a graveled path. But unlike his more sedate friend, Reggie couldn't stop himself from glancing up repeatedly.

The lady drew closer, her curls glistening gold in the last lingering rays of the sunset. Strange images rushed his mind. He could see her standing at the helm, her windswept locks dancing, smock plastered flat...

What the devil was this? Ladies did not go to sea like common tars. Particularly not with rain-soaked smocks clinging revealingly to their chests.

"Late arrival for the Season. Has a substantial portion, I hear. Father had no sons, and the barony went to her uncle."

Reggie cleared his throat. No doubt Castlebury thought him transparent as water. But water at any depth was quite opaque, and this time Reggie doubted even Castlebury could have any inkling of what was swimming beneath the surface of Reggie's imagination. "Thinking of leg shackles, Castlebury?" he replied, to obscure his true intentions.

"I?" Castlebury smirked at the obviously absurd question. "You might give it thought, though. Might solve your problem with your father."

Reggie winced. "I have no more interest in the parson's mousetrap than you, my friend."

"Of course. Nor in La Laverhorn, who is prowling about rather obviously in great hopes you will make an appearance."

Startled, Reggie glanced back over his shoulder.

Castlebury almost laughed, a rarity for him. "Down by the lake, last time I saw her. Thought I should warn you. But come, let us go check out the new boat and see how she sails."

Reggie didn't care that Castlebury hadn't the vaguest notion of the difference between a boat and a ship, or sprit and mainsail, nor did he mind being thought a mooncalf. How could he explain to a petticoat man like Castlebury the bizarre thoughts that were currently racing through his head?

Glancing all about to be sure Laverhorn's widow was not slinking up to launch another offensive on his person, Reggie followed Castlebury in the direction of his new interest, now standing with her back to them in the company of Lady Mythe and her friends.

Long, expressive fingers, suited to wearing French Kid gloves and playing harps, held a fan of ivory lace that fluttered gently. But Reggie saw an utterly contrary vision, of rigging to be hauled and sails unfurling to catch a freshening wind.

What the devil was this trick his mind was playing on him? A lady at sea? Such a delicate creature could hardly live up to the rigors of shipboard life.

But beardless boys smaller than she did it all the time.

There, he was doing it again, letting his imagination lead him astray. Here he was with his best friend, who was always the best of company, yet Reggie couldn't even focus on what the man was saying. Even when Reggie himself was talking, his curiosity kept dancing provocatively ahead of him, luring him ever closer to the object of his fascination.

Castlebury's lips quirked and his eyes gleamed. Across the terrace, Lady Mythe's big brown eyes gleamed back. Reggie sensed the jangling of leg shackles. The blatant betrayal by his friends would have irritated him, were he not so eager to meet the creature who was inspiring such turmoil in his imagination.

"Now, my dear," said Lady Mythe, who grasped the puzzled young lady by her shoulders and turned her about to face Reggie.

Reggie's breath stuck in his throat, and his jaw dropped open like a gapeseed. Green eyes, yes, but paler than jade. Perfect for a seagoing lady.

"Miss Godelin..." Lady Mythe's voice blurred into the din of throbbing pulse in Reggie's ears.

Godelin. Reggie was trying to listen, he really was. But the images broke the floodgates of his reserve, gushing and tumbling through his mind.

The deck in a storm, awash in green water, his heroine climbing the ratlines...

"Miss Daventry..."

No, he had it wrong already. Miss Godelin the aunt, Miss Daventry the niece.

"Steady as she goes, Mr. Scovill."

"...is cousin to the present Baron Daventry, and daughter of the seventhy baron."

Oh, devil it! He'd lost it! Who was cousin to whom?

Reggie stared blatantly, frantically sorting through the flood of images, a hero who was a heroine, a genteel lady secretly adventuring, riding over the waves, captaining the quest against a dangerous pirate band...

No, that had been done. Oh, but better! He'd keep Nicholas as the hero and she would be his trusted first mate, daringly holding to the masquerade until he found her out... How? He glanced down at slender feet in pale green satin slippers. Yes. Nicholas would see those delicate feet and know. No man could have such feet without having his masculinity questioned. But that posed another problem. How could love blossom when the hero thought...

The impatient imp of exuberance danced jigs inside him as he lifted her fingertips to his lips. Where would such delicate fingers find the strength to knot cordage?

"Have I said something amiss, Lord Reginald?" asked Miss Daventry. As she cocked her head, a stray golden curl bounced enticingly.

Reggie snapped back to reality and the puzzled pale green eyes. "Have you, Miss Daventry?" Color heated his cheeks. If she had, he had been too lost in the machinations of his fantasy to hear her. And if she knew what he was thinking, she'd break every stick and guard of her fan against his face.

"If I have offended you..."

The flush in his cheeks blazed. "Oh, no, Miss, uh, Daventry, not at all. Do forgive me. For a moment you reminded me of someone I knew." Someone he'd just made up, to be precise. "A striking resemblance. In the eyes, that is."

"Indeed," said Lady Mythe, and although her lips pursed with disapproval, something impish gleamed in her eyes.

"Yes, startling resemblance," he repeated. "Might you be related to the Daventrys in Cambridgeshire, Miss Daventry?"

"Well, I have a cous--"

"Oh, dear Lord Reginald," gushed a cloying voice behind him.

Reggie suppressed a groan. Not now! If he hadn't recognized Lady Laverhorn by her thickly sweet voice or the hand laid so coyly atop his sleeve, the warning glint in Lady Mythe's eyes would have told him.

"How kind of you to join us, Lord Reginald," Lady Laverhorn said with a luscious smile.

Reggie winced. Only a few weeks before, Lady Mythe had read him a scold for not discouraging Laverhorn's widow, and he knew she was right, but he hated being cruel. From some hidden reservoir inside himself, he located a patient smile.

"Lady Laverhorn," he said, nodding to acknowledge her. "I have been looking forward to coming." That much was true. Lord and Lady Mythe were his dear friends, and since Lady Laverhorn was Mythe's cousin, it was foregone that she would attend.

Reggie turned back to the intriguing lady in green. With deadly precision, Lady Laverhorn slipped her arm onto his, subtly tugging as Lady Mythe pursed her lips and glared. Frustration tightened in Reggie's throat.

"A pity you did not arrive earlier, dear Lord Reginald," said Lady Laverhorn. "You would have heard our Bronson read his latest work. It is quite wonderful." Her subtly lithe swaying radiated through her arm in a way no man alive would misinterpret, but the mischievous boy inside Reggie needled him to escape. But a gentleman did not cut a lady, wayward urges or no.

"Difficulties with the yacht," he replied, his favorite explanation for his lengthy disappearances. He graced the lady beside him with the most pleasant smile he could muster. "I have just made the acquaintance of these two fine ladies, Miss Godelin and Miss Daventry."

Lady Laverhorn clasped his arm and leaned just a bit too close. He could barely see the corner of her possessive smirk. "Yes. Lord Reginald is the second son of the Duke of Marmount, don't you know?"

"Indeed," replied Miss Daventry. Her light eyes sparkled, all the colors dancing, threatening to ensnare his runaway imagination again. "Perhaps you know my cousin--"

"Dear Lord Reginald has no doubt just come up from Devon, but I cannot imagine what has taken him so long," Lady Laverhorn purred, ignoring the fact that she had cut Miss Daventry's question in half.

"Rigging problems," he replied with a bit of a growl, not mentioning that the Xanthe had not even left her berth on the Thames in over two weeks while he holed up, agonizing over his dilemma. Reggie deliberately turned his attention back to the green-eyed miss, wanting to hear her voice again. How might it sound against the roar of a storm?

"Oh I do hope it is not serious, Lord Reginald," said Lady Laverhorn, leaning ever closer. Reggie stiffened.

The younger lady politely contained her astonishment, quietly closing her lips. Frustration ate at him, willing her to fight back against Lady Laverhorn's encroachment. But he knew better. Young ladies simply did not She would smile sweetly and step aside, the perfect milk-and-water miss, the sort of young lady he always liked but never found particularly interesting.

Yet he had only to look at her and inspiration inundated him. What the devil was it?

As Miss Daventry stepped back, just the way he knew she would, Lady Laverhorn advanced like a shark after a hapless sailor overboard. Her red curls jiggled like springs and her eyelids fluttered as she gazed up at him. Reggie's nostrils flared, wishing for some of that boldness in the young lady. But she would not dare.

"What is not serious?" asked the golden-curled lady.

Reggie's heart leaped. There it was, just what he wanted to see, just a spark of defiance flashing in the beautiful green eyes.

"The yacht, of course, my dear." Lady Laverhorn's hand rubbed his arm. "Lord Reginald thinks of nothing but his yacht." And there was his opening. Irritated though he was, Reggie could have kissed the brash lady. "Oh, she's in fine fettle. A bit of new cordage, and the Xanthe is as fit as a vessel can be. Ready for guests, I should say. That is, in fact, the very thing. Have you ever been to sea, Miss Daventry?"

The jade-colored eyes took on a glint of mischief that made his heart lurch. "I have been in a punt on the River Cam, but I suspect it is not the same thing." She looked to her aunt. Unspoken messages of eagerness flashed between the two.

She would love the sea. He knew it. "Do say you will come, Lady Laverhorn, and you, Miss Godelin, with your niece?"

He didn't have to look to know Lady Laverhorn would be fuming like Mt. Etna. Not ten minutes aboard the Xanthe on her one previous trip and she had cast up her accounts without even making it to the rail. If anything would get rid of her, this would.

"Well, I cannot say, Lord Reginald," said the older lady, picking words with care. "Perhaps if Lady Laverhorn..."

Lady Laverhorn's face turned nearly as green as Miss Daventry's dress. "Lord Reginald, you wretched man, you know I cannot abide sailing. No, Miss Godelin, I shall not step foot on a sailing vessel again in my lifetime, and I counsel you to do the same, if you do not wish to disgrace yourself."

The older lady's eyes, green like her niece's, widened, and her lips parted and rounded all at the same time. "Oh. Perhaps, Lord Reginald, it is a more suitable endeavor for gentlemen."

The smile fell from Miss Daventry's face. Lady Laverhorn tossed Reggie a gleam of triumph, and she tugged at his arm. "Then come along, Lord Reginald. Perhaps you can find sailing companions among the gentlemen."

Bedamned if he'd let her get away with that! Reggie turned back to the ladies, chuckling. "Surely you jest, Lady Laverhorn. You need not fear disgracing yourself. It rarely happens in calm waters, you know. Why, I do not even mean to leave the Thames."

He turned pleading eyes to the object of his inspiration.

The green eyes sparkled. "Aunt Daphne, would it not be a delight? Perhaps just a short trip, Lord Reginald?"

His heart raced like the yacht before a gale. "If I can entice you and your lovely aunt aboard, Miss Daventry, I would agree to anything. But I warn you, once you have sailed, you may never be able to give it up."

She hardly moved a muscle, yet as his gaze tangled with hers, he saw eagerness threatening to bubble out of her. His heart thudded like thunder as he excused himself to round up other guests.

But he still felt her presence, tingling like the stroke of a feather. He couldn't keep his eyes from searching her out. Every gesture she made impressed itself in his mind and brought new twists to a magically unfolding story. Like ice on a hot day, his dilemma melted away, leaving a solution so obvious he had trouble understanding why he'd never seen it before. The very story that he had rewritten over and over, that had fallen flat no matter what he did, sprang suddenly and brilliantly to life.

Remove Mr. Scovill. Replace him with-- What would he call her? Circe. Siren of the sea, the tantalizing lure of danger no man could resist. Of course, the original Circe had an annoying tendency to turn men to swine, but he could work around that. Circe Wolverton. Not replacing Mr. Scovill-- masquerading as Mr. Scovill.

Exhilaration almost overflowing, Reggie cast one last glance at his Circe, and as she turned, his gaze caught hers. In the flash of a moment, the mask of feminine decorum slipped, revealing the woman beneath and her carefully concealed secret self. Boldness. Courage. Behind the veneer of a biddable, milk-and-water miss lurked a secret adventuress, a woman who dared, who challenged life and reached out to the stars.

That, he hadn't made up. She really was his Circe.

He watched as she crossed the terrace with graceful steps, while his mind raged with visions of Circe dashing across the quarterdeck in a rising storm, walking the yard, furling the mizzen sail, fierce wind lashing heavy rain, her golden hair in sodden ringlets. His story burst into flaming glory, as if it had been merely poised, waiting for her to step in and set it afire. She would be magnificent!

A little chest-binding would be necessary, considering her attributes. Imagine the hero's consternation when he discovers...

That meant he was going to have to completely re-write chapter fourteen.

From that moment, Reggie hardly heard another voice as he waited in excruciating anticipation for the first reasonable moment when he could depart. Forcibly, he slowed his rush down the stone steps to the road, and all but shouted aloud as he jumped up into his curricle.

He'd found it at last. The perfect story. The perfect heroine. The Adventuress, by Reginald Beauhampton. The story of a woman who lived by her wits.

Of course, he'd not put his own name to it. His father's tongue would flay him like a cat'o'nine tails, and the Duke of Marmount would see to it Reggie never published another line as long as he drew breath.

Reggie was having enough trouble getting that first line published. But now he'd sell the thing, and be out from under his father's thumb. And better, at last put a period to the duke's demand that he marry his sour cousin Portia.

Reggie sat up so abruptly he almost dropped the ribbons. That was only half the solution. Miss Daventry would save him altogether. She had a substantial portion that could keep them both in pleasant circumstances until Reggie established himself as a writer, or persuaded his father to release the inheritance that should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday.

That part would be tricky. Once his father learned his son was slipping the collar, he might find a way to withhold it entirely. Or, knowing his father, worse. But if Reggie worked it right, he would not only confound his father's consuming passion for control, but have the necessary blunt to pursue the only thing he loved more than sailing. Writing.

* * *

"Oh, my." Aunt Daphne's golden eyebrows arched high. Delight sparkled in her eyes.

Chloe pursed her lips to keep her amusement from leaking out. In a world of jaded fops and dandies, Lord Reginald Beauhampton alone radiated vitality, in his wonderful blue eyes, in his very being, as if he were life itself. Something inside her suddenly felt like bouncing about with joy in the same exuberant way.

That would not do. She was not at home, where no one cared if she hared about like a hoyden. Her circumstances were much too desperate to run that risk.

"Impertinent pup." Lady Creston's nose flared as she sniffed. "I should think the duke would do something."

Lady Mythe's wide mouth spread into one of her endearing smiles. "I rather like him the way he is."

Chloe clasped her hands together, tucking her ivory lace fan between them, and locked her lips together just as tightly, deeming discretion to be the better part of valor. She had far too much at stake to risk entangling herself in this controversy.

"Indeed," said Lady Laverhorn. "One must admire such vitality. So few men possess it."

Lady Mythe leveled a glare at her husband's cousin.

Lady Creston stiffened. "The boy has no sense of the proper way to go on. One does not bob about life as if it were a country dance."

Chloe studied the patterns in the carpet at her feet. He did rather remind her of a country dance.

"That is just our Lord Reginald," Lady Mythe said with her pleasant smile, but Chloe saw the fire of a mother dragon flame in the lady's eyes.

"And that yacht. One would think he would take up the more mature and civilized pursuits of his peers."

"Something more genteel? Gaming hells and cock fights, I suppose? No, I quite prefer him the way he is."

"As do I," agreed Lady Laverhorn. The lady's hips shifted slightly in a motion Chloe would never consider imitating.

Lady Creston sneered. "But of course you do."

Chloe choked back her laugh until the urge faded, daring not even open her mouth to join in the young man's defense, for fear of a giggle.

He was a delight. Not one other gentleman she had met in her entire month in Town had raised her interest, although several were now paying court to her. Yet how nice it would be if she might marry a man for affection as well as means.

And how very unlikely.

"You would do well to keep your niece away from a harewit like Lord Reginald, Miss Godelin," said Lady Creston, and her fan pointed accusingly toward the door through which the young man had departed. "I suppose I need not concern myself, as he is but a second son. A small competence from his grandfather is all."

Chloe stopped herself from biting on her lip. Then he would do. Oh, he would do quite well. Yet at the same time, something almost frightening thrummed inside her. She attempted a smile as Lady Creston left.

Only Lady Mythe still stood with Chloe and her aunt, and her wide mouth stretched into a long, thin line. "Lord Reginald is a dear," she said, "and I believe you will find, very well-liked, not at all like his father. There are a few who cannot respect his finer qualities, but they are the ones who rarely appreciate the finer qualities in anyone who dares to enjoy life."

"I recall the duke," said Aunt Daphne with a studied frown. "Lud, he was a handsome man. But aloof, dour. Her Grace was a lovely woman. I believe she retired to the country when they became estranged."

"Handsome as his son?" Chloe asked, and instantly felt a flush to her cheeks.

Lady Mythe's broad mouth wiggled at its corners.

Daphne smiled. "Oh, quite. Darker, I recall, but the same intense blue eyes. Her Grace had the light hair."

"Lord Reginald is not badly fixed for a second son," Lady Mythe added. "His inheritance through his grandfather on his mother's side includes the Featherstone estates, and some substantial investments. East India, I believe. One could do far worse."

Heat burned Chloe's cheeks. She could never quite get used to the open way such things were discussed, as if they were dealing in horses. Yet it mirrored her thoughts exactly.

As they departed, she found it hard to concentrate on a graceful leave-taking. Her smile seemed wobbly, and the words from her mouth unsteady as the descended to steps to their coach.

"I allow he seems taken with you, my dear," Aunt Daphne said, settling back into the squabs of their hired coach. "But I cannot think a second son will meet your qualifications."

Chloe watched the coach's elongated shadow ripple over Piccadilly's brick and stone facades. Was he taken with her? Or was he just being kind? In any case, how could she compete with what the scandalous Lady Laverhorn so obviously offered?

Guilt stuck like a lump in her throat. She had nothing to offer in return but deception. But she had no choice, for she had to find a husband, soon. "If he owns a yacht, his competence cannot be paltry," she said.

"But he has no power to speak of," Aunt Daphne replied. "And you specifically mentioned that. And although he is second in line, his older brother is certain to wed. Nor does that take into account the duke's vigorous health. The young man will not inherit, my dear."

"All the better, aunt. He is not above my touch as he would be if he were the duke's heir apparent, yet he might call upon his father's influence without having power of his own. Men of power can be terribly disconcerting, don't you think?"

Aunt Daphne searched her face warily.

Chloe drew in her lower lip. "A man may do as he wills with a woman and her property. Uncle Bernard would surely have spent my last farthing while I watched helplessly, if he had not cocked up his toes. I do not to find myself in such a situation again."

Aunt Daphne pursed her lips. Years ago her aunt had chosen to remain single, but Chloe had no such choice if she was to free her half-sisters. She needed a very influential man would be able to persuade their guardian to relinquish them.

"One must be practical about such things," Chloe said, cramming her interlaced fingers together to push her gloves into a better fit. "It is bad enough that one must marry."

"Then, my dear, it would be better to choose a suitable companion, since all men have power and women do not."

As she thought of the young man and his yacht, excitement rippled through her. Yet she did not want a man who could engage her heart. She had seen what had happened to her mother. "Do you not think Lord Reginald would be companionable? He has the added advantage of interests to keep him engaged elsewhere. He at least would not be in my hair all the time."

"In my limited experience with men, that rarely is the problem. One might wonder instead, when they might come home."

"That would not concern me. Although Lord Reginald does have a certain charm." Too much charm. If he had any flaw, it was that.

The coach rattled onto Little Swallow Street, its suspension creaking. Excitement threaded through her veins. She had a lot to do. She'd have to go to the mews tonight and find that noise, for it wouldn't do to go about town squeaking like a mouse. She'd put too much work into dressing the coach's shabby interior and touching up the black enamel where it was rubbed or cracked, to let her efforts go to waste.

As the coach stopped at the door, her overworked footman hopped down and handed down both ladies. Chloe avoided looking at the young man, knowing how difficult it was going to be to meet his wages. That was one thing she was not willing to forego. Shopkeepers expected to extend credit, but servants could ill afford to do so, and Cargill had the extra burden of an ailing mother to support, back home in Kent.

Cargill rushed inside and took on an entirely different personality as he stiffened his back. His face became solemn and even his voice darkened as he took bonnets and lifted pelisses from the ladies' shoulders.

"Will there be anything else, Miss Daventry?" he asked, having become the perfect butler.

"Thank you, Cargill, that will be all."

The man seemed almost disappointed. He should have trod the boards, not become man of all work in her strange household.

"I'll just find that squeak for you then, ma'am."

Chloe nodded, glad to have one problem off her shoulders. She glanced about the foyer, looking for flaws that might give her scheme away. She must do something about the draperies, which were faded where the sunlight touched them.

A spot in the dark woodwork needed a bit of touching up. She must do that tonight, too, before Lord Reginald had an opportunity to call.

Chloe started up the stairs, and her mind shifted to the blue ball gown she wanted to finish by tomorrow night. Yes, Lord Reginald would most definitely suit. If she moved fast enough, he might not discover her lack until it was too late.

* * *

Inspiration racing through him, Reggie dashed up the three steps, sped past the doorman to the staircase, and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. Puckett startled as Reggie bounded into the sitting room.

"Paper, Puckett," he called, almost shouting. "Did you get the foolscap?"

"Yes, my lord, and ink. I've trimmed your quills."

Good old Puckett. He always thought ahead. Reggie stripped off his jacket and shirt, and exchanged them for the ink-blotched country smock.

"I shall require coffee tonight, Puckett. Send to MacDevie to ready the Xanthe for guests tomorrow afternoon, both ladies and gentlemen. And I'll need you to send a posey for me. Something enticing." Reggie slid his chair up to his writing desk and scribbled out Miss Daventry's direction, then reached for his manuscript.

"Inspiration has struck, then, my lord?"

"With the swiftness and power of a bolt of lightning. A great deal of work, but not so much as a new story. It will have to be entirely recopied, of course."

"Yes, my lord. That will be fine." Puckett's eyes sparked with Reggie's own enthusiasm. He was the only person privy to Reggie's secret, and he loved it almost as much as Reggie did, taking delight in copying the manuscripts in his unusually fine hand, and in dressing in a gentleman's finery to represent the anonymous author.

Reggie gathered up his energy and tackled the thick stack of foolscap, scanning rapidly for the first mention of Mr. Scovill.

A fever built in him as he pushed on to the next point, and the next, making notes in margins, inserting new sheets, rewriting paragraph after paragraph. The candles burnt low, and Puckett trimmed the wicks. Coffee appeared on the little table beside the writing desk, and grew cold when he forgot it. Puckett trimmed his quills, refilled the inkwell, blotted the pages. New blotches grew on the smock like mold on bread. Ink smeared on the side of his hand, and he rubbed the spots with a slice of lemon he kept handy to lighten the blue-black marks. As the first light of dawn streaked white and yellow, Puckett dozed in the wing-back chair. Reggie blinked, realizing he had once again spent the entire night engrossed in the magic of his own making. With one glance at the bed, exhaustion sneaked up and wrapped around him like a warm and beckoning blanket. He shook Puckett's shoulder to send the man off to his own bed, and Reggie collapsed, pulling blankets over himself. Morning became a vague thought that dissolved into nothingness.

He jerked awake. Bright sunlight glared through the window. Reggie leapt to the floor and rushed to the washstand, swiping up his pocket watch as he ran. "Nine o' the clock! Devil it, Puckett, why did you let me sleep so late?"

"You didn't say to wake you, my lord. Mrs. Mungay has had a bit of coffee sent up."

Reggie rubbed his eyes and dashed water onto his face.

"Morning calls, sir?" Puckett asked, already waiting for Reggie's shave.

"No time. I must get to the Xanthe." Reggie plopped into the chair and leaned back for the lathering, willing calmness upon himself, for if he fidgeted, Puckett would merely stop and stand aside, waiting for his employer to settle down.

He composed himself. It would not do to wiggle about like a worm on a hook. Hardly a way to court a lady. The afternoon would not arrive any faster for it, nor the night, when he could once again scratch his creation onto paper. Reggie relaxed and let Puckett do his job.

He couldn't wait to see her again. He needed to see so many things. His heroine would have to learn to cover up the very mannerisms she had spent a lifetime learning, to take on the coarse behavior of an old sea salt. And do it all without giving herself away.

Why?

"Uh oh."

"My lord?" Puckett straightened, lifting the razor away from Reggie's half-shaven beard.

"Puckett, why would a lady masquerade as a seaman?"

"I'm sure I do not know, my lord."

Reggie studied Puckett's face. "Come now, think, man. Surely it is not beyond imagining."

Puckett loved this part. The ridge between his brows furrowed like a plowed field behind a drunken mule. "Surely she must be terribly adventurous to do such a thing, my lord. Or terribly desperate."

Puckett leaned forward with the blade once again, but withdrew and paused, waiting for Reggie to relax. Reggie marveled at the man's patience.

"Yes, of course she is adventurous. She--" Reggie laughed out loud. "Desperate. Yes. But why? About what could a lady be so desperate?"

"My lord, if you will only be still a moment longer so I can finish-- Perhaps we can talk more as we dress you."

Reggie tried not to grumble. He interlocked his fingers in his lap, but it was like an eternity of seconds to be calm when his mind raced ahead of him as it was doing now.

At last he was allowed to stand again, and don the clothing Puckett had chosen. When the Cheval glass reflected the perfectly tied cravat, snowy white against the stunning blue of the coat, Reggie smiled. The only time he ever noticed his own eyes were blue was when he wore this coat.

"Very good, Puckett. You are a marvel. You may send for the curricle."

Reggie dashed down two flights of stairs and out the door.

"Desperation. Desperation," he sang to himself as he leapt to the seat. What would it take for a delicate lady to abandon a safe life and pursue a dangerous life of riding the waves? He had to figure that out or his entire premise would fail.

Reggie cracked the ribbons and sped off for the docks.

Chapter Two

"Try not to tap your fan, dear."

Chloe blinked as her aunt's whispering voice startled her out of her reverie. She set the folded ivory fan in her lap.

They were late. And she was thoroughly aware the tide waited for no man, or for that matter, no lady whose decrepit coach had slipped a cotter pin of major importance just as they were about to set out. If he left without them, her golden opportunity would be gone.

"It is not at all the thing to be all atwitter."

She wanted to protest that she was not at all atwitter, but there were her fingers once again dancing a veritable polka against the black enamel sill of the coach window. She laid both hands in her lap, willing them with all her mind to be still.

As they turned toward the little quay at Tilbury, Chloe searched through the tall, barren masts. Her heart tripped along with the steady clopping of horses' hooves past ship after ship.

As the coach halted, she saw the Xanthe at the quay, tricked out in a gypsy's colors, with two masts of square-rigged sails, the only brig among a mass of smaller cutters.

Lord Reginald dashed down the battened gangplank just as Cargill opened the carriage door. Her breath caught in her throat. She had thought him handsome yesterday, but today he was magnificent. This was his element, this water, wood and wind that made his summer-sky eyes bluer, his broad shoulders broader.

"Ladies, a pleasure to have you join us."

"Do forgive our tardiness, Lord Reginald," said Aunt Daphne, accepting the salute to her hand. "We did so fear you had gone off without us."

Linking arms with both ladies, Lord Reginald led them to the gangplank. "But only a word, dear lady, and we would wait an age to have your company."

Anxious eagerness flashed in his eyes as he left them with other guests, and Chloe felt disappointment settle deep in her. She nodded to Lord and Lady Mythe, Lord Castlebury, Lord Bibury.

As the ship moved out from its berth, Lord Vilheurs hurried up and bowed over her hand, his black eyes sparkling. Chloe tried to smile. The man seemed to be everywhere she went. Still, she was too desperate to discourage him. Her heart was not at risk with him, however, a point definitely in his favor.

Yet it was Lord Reginald who had her eye as he talked with the grey-haired captain and studied the sails over their heads before he returned to his guests. Perhaps it was just her excitement at finally glimpsing a solution to her problem.

Or perhaps not. His presence behind her was as palpable as a brisk breeze. "The river seems very crowded, is it not?" she asked, looking back at him.

His blue eyes lingered on her a bit too long. Chloe looked down, her pulse hammering. Perhaps she should reconsider Lord Vilheurs, who at least could not make her heart race in such a troublesome way.

"More now than later," he said. His voice was oddly raspy. "The tide has just turned."

The Xanthe swung around to catch the current. Her sails dropped and billowed, yet the air seemed barely to stir.

"A light air day," Lord Reginald said. "We'll not get far. Perhaps later this summer we shall sail down to Margate and back. With a clear sky, one can actually see the coast of France."

"Are you quite sure it would be safe?" asked Lady Mythe. "With the Blockade and all?"

"Quite sure, Lady Mythe," he replied. "The French have not threatened our shores since Trafalgar."

Chloe had been so fixed on Lord Reginald's narration, she had not noticed Lord Vilheurs take her by the arm to subtly coax her in the other direction to where a deck hand had laid out a small feast upon a Welsh plaid shawl.

She did not want to join him, nor to eat. Still, a properly biddable young miss would not object, and above all things, Chloe needed to be that very creature so admired by all eligible men. With a sigh, she sat beside Lord Vilheurs and helped herself to dainty biscuits and a glass of ratafia. Lord Vilheurs leaned close, his dark eyes gleaming. Chloe steeled herself to the discomfort of his hot breath on her neck, but could not stop herself from shifting ever so slightly away from him.

Lord Reginald leaned against the gunwale, his jaw set grimly as he watched. Demurely, Chloe applied her gaze to the plaid weave of the Welsh shawl, and attempted not to notice that Lord Vilheurs was again leaning closer to her ear than she found comfortable.

"What an annoying fribble he is," said Lord Vilheurs in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

Chloe jerked back, astonished. "I beg your pardon?"

The man's lips formed a narrow smile. "To think, he fancies himself a common sailor. Amusing, do you not think?"

"Indeed?" Chloe set down her biscuit and picked up her fan.

Chloe watched his sneer, noticing for the first time the dark hairs that protruded from his nose like a stiff brush.

"A proper gentleman does not dabble in such common pursuits," said Vilheurs, and again disdain flared his nose.

"Really." She raised her open fan to her face to hide her irritation. "What do you dabble in, Lord Vilheurs?"

Lord Vilheurs opened his mouth, then quickly shut it.

Chloe gritted her teeth. She was not good at all at being demure, but she knew full well no man wanted a bold hoyden for a bride. Yet if she let Lord Vilheurs glue himself to her side, Lord Reginald was going to form entirely the wrong idea.

That would not do.

She stood, a bit too abruptly, and graced the man by her side with the best smile she could summon up.

"I fear I am neglecting our host," she said, and strolled across the deck, where she scanned over the ripples. To her dismay, Lord Vilheurs hopped up and followed.

Abruptly, she swept around and fixed a bold gaze directly at Lord Reginald's bright blue eyes, a blatant plea for rescue. In two strides, Lord Reginald reached her, taking her arm. "For shame, Villy," he said, with a grin that was clearly beyond what a proper gentleman might show. "You have monopolized our Miss Daventry from the moment she came aboard. As forward as begging the third dance, don't you think?"

Vilheurs turned dark eyes on him like swords to run him through, but Lord Reginald chuckled and deftly directed Chloe's attention to a huge square-rigger that dwarfed the Xanthe.

"The Nahoo," he said, pointing. "Just in from Ceylon. Headed for the East India Docks."

"How is it you know so much about ships, Lord Reginald?" Her pulse thrummed at the touch of his hand at her arm.

"I love ships. As a young boy, I wanted to go to sea, before I understood only cits and salts did that."

She cocked her head at the odd admission, and he hesitated, as he awaited a sneer from her.

She smiled instead. "But you might have joined the Navy."

He shook his head. "My older brother sank my chances when he outraged my father by taking his pair of colors in the Guards. But someday I shall sail somewhere, just for the adventure."

Chloe watched the ever-widening channel as the light breeze caressed her face. What would it be like to sail away with him?

"Have you ever wished for an adventure, Miss Daventry?"

She froze. Had he guessed her secrets?

"It has been done, you know," he said. "Women going to sea in the guise of men."

She gulped. She should never have looked at him so boldly.

"Truly," he said. "Though I must confess I am at a loss to comprehend why a woman would leave a comfortable home for the rigors and dangers of the sea."

She trained her eyes once again along the ripples that were growing choppy as the wind freshened. She knew the answer too well to say aloud, yet something in his intensity made her want to answer. "Perhaps it was not all that comfortable."

"Indeed. Why might that be?"

"A woman does not have a man's opportunities, Lord Reginald. If her mother were invalid, if her father abused her, if she had no other way to survive, would she not do what must be done?"

"Surely it would be less rigorous to become a governess."

"And if she could not? What if perhaps she had been turned out without a character? If she had to choose between that and other even less savory choices?"

He stared openly. She held her breath. She'd just doomed herself, to even know of such things, much less speak of them. "I had not thought of that," he answered. "You are an astute young lady, Miss Daventry."

"There is nothing astute about what every woman knows, sir. A woman's life can be a precarious one."

"Many ladies are not aware of the plight of others."

Her hands gripped the gunwale. She was no sheltered lady, but she dared not let him know that. "More is the pity. But I must wonder how your ladies of the sea managed to keep their secrets. Surely the basic differences would be obvious."

Lord Reginald's mouth wriggled like a naughty boy with a secret. "But a small man can more easily get around in cramped quarters, and many a country woman is as strong as a man."

She smirked back. "But would not the physical differences be noticed? Could she live among men without-- Men are much more open about some things..."

"There is not a great deal of bathing and changing of clothes at sea, Miss Daventry."

Chloe's mouth opened, but it could not quite form a word.

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Yes, it would be difficult to conceal. But if you could, would you not like to have such an adventure?"

Her cheeks flushed. How could he know she had secret longings no civilized woman should have? But she smiled to hide her secret thoughts. "If ever such a glimmer entered my mind, Lord Reginald, I fear you stifled it when you took away the opportunity for bathing and changing one's garments."

It was Lord Reginald's mouth that hung open this time. He stared at her as if feasting with his eyes on an eternal banquet, and set her heart racing like hounds after the fox. Her eyelids fluttered, and she studied the seams of her tan kid gloves. "But come, you are neglecting your other guests, Lord Reginald. And I should see to my aunt."

With a shaky smile, she turned away, leaving the chill of the strengthening wind behind. Then abruptly, she pivoted to face him again. "Thank you for the lovely irises."

Again and again, she caught him staring, blatantly begging a silent question, and she blushed and looked away.

He was everything she never wanted, a man who scrambled her brain and tangled her heartstrings in hopeless knots. But that didn't matter when it came to saving Madeline and Allison.

She had to choose. Lord Vilheurs was richer, safer.

But Lord Reginald was the son of a duke. He had power. And power was what she must have.

Chloe took a long, deep breath. Boldly, she set her gaze to ensnare his. She lifted her fan to touch her lips, obscuring their silent message. But he heard it. And his eyes replied. He would pursue her to the ends of the earth.

Chapter Three

Puckett dashed in, slamming the door behind him. "Sir, your father. He's coming."

Reggie jumped up from his desk, jerked off the smock, while Puckett scooped up the scattered pages and shoved them into the hidden panel of the desk. Reggie slipped into his coat, then tugged on gloves to cover his ink-stained hands.

The door opened. Hostility flickered like sparks as the duke entered. Reggie gritted his teeth. No one dared suggest to the duke that he knock before entering, like any reasonable man. In any event, the Duke of Marmount had never been a reasonable man and would not consider becoming one now.

"Going somewhere, Reginald?"

"I meant to, sir." A quick glance at the Cheval glass showed his cravat was lopsided, and he turned to Puckett, who silently tucked his fingers through the creases.

"It can wait." The duke strode straight to Reggie's desk, picked up the quill, and turned it over in his hand. "Letters?"

Reggie forced himself to breathe. "Correspondence, sir."

"Not that damnable poetry again."

"No, sir. Not in quite some time."

"Well, there's that. You have been inattentive to your cousin, Reginald."

Reggie wanted to groan, but stifled it. "Yes, sir."

"She has complained to me. No doubt you have been playing with that bedamned boat."

"Yacht, sir."

With a wave of his hand, the duke dismissed Reggie's objection. He picked up the half of lemon and sniffed it. "What is this obsession you have with lemons, Reginald?"

"Freshens the air, sir. And I am fond of the flavor."

The Duke's nostrils wrinkled. "Reginald, I do not care how much you sail the bedamned boat, once you have married. But until then, you will pay court to your cousin Portia. Have I not made myself clear about this?"

"You have, sir," Reggie replied through barred teeth.

"A married man need not be concerned with his wife's sensibilities. A single man, however-- But there is no need for that discussion. We have had it before."

"Indeed, sir." Numerous times. Reggie also had his father's perfect example on that subject.

The duke ran a gloved finger over a marquetry table and inspected the trail in the dust. His nostrils flared the tiniest bit. "I cannot conceive why you wish to live like this. Featherstone could be yours, and the trust as well."

It already was, and they both knew it. Reggie's inheritance from his grandfather should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday, four months past. But the duke had called upon a technicality, claiming Reggie to be too immature to manage his affairs, and Reggie would be hard put to dislodge him as trustee.

"It's time you come up to scratch, Reginald. I'll not brook any more delays. Do you understand me?"

Reggie nodded, knowing that would not satisfy his father, who continued his fixed stare from steel blue eyes, waiting to hear the actual words. Reggie gave in. "I do, sir."

Just the slightest folding of the man's lips acknowledged the response, but Reggie knew how to read it.

"You will call upon your cousin and make your addresses. I had not wished to say this, but if you do not, you will receive nothing on quarter day. You do understand me."

Reggie returned the icy glare with his face carefully schooled. "Yes sir." He had not said he would comply, but knew his father's great conceit equated understanding with obedience.

His father's visits were something to be endured. Hostility might crackle in the air, but the slightest hint of rebellion would bring the duke's wrath descending with the vindictiveness of Olympic gods. Reggie followed his father from room to room, tolerating the criticism which trod the thin line between fact and insult, because he knew the inevitable next step.

After precisely fifteen minutes, the duke stood at the door. Puckett deposited the rolled rim beaver hat in the duke's hand. Without so much as a curt nod, the duke pivoted, and if Puckett had not had sufficient familiarity with the duke to anticipate him with an open door, the duke would have walked right into it.

The moment the door closed behind his father, Reggie and Puckett let out deep sighs together.

"That was a close one, sir."

Reggie nodded at the obvious. He could manage fifteen minutes, for it was always precisely that, but he could never tolerate living in his father's household again. If he married Portia, it would be all of the same, for Portia would be completely biddable, not to her husband, but to the duke. And Reggie would never write another word.

Reggie's argument that he was not his father's heir, and would not ever be, was futile. From the day Robert had slipped away to fight a war rather than deal with his domineering parent, the Duke of Marmount had persuaded himself his heir would die in battle. All the duke's attention had turned on Reggie, rage boiling beneath the rim of the duke's emotional cup, always at the point of spilling over. But in the end, Robert would inherit. It was the only thing the duke could not control. Reggie didn't care about that. He had only wanted to please his father, but after more than six years of trying, he had finally accepted that the duke would never be pleased.

Reggie had nothing to gain, not even his father's elusive love, by marrying his obnoxious cousin. He certainly would not accept the misery of eternal domination for the sake of an inheritance he didn't want and would never receive.

A shudder shook him all the way down his spine. He had to sell The Adventuress soon. And if he wanted Chloe, he'd have to move fast. Before the duke discovered her.

* * *

"Are you quite sure this is what you want, my dear?" asked Aunt Daphne as she descended the stairs with Chloe.

In the entry below, Chloe heard an unfashionably early caller with Cargill. She touched her aunt's arm. Her spirits dropped quickly as she recognized Lord Vilheurs's deep rasp that matched his nearly black hair and eyes. Chloe set a passable smile on her face and descended to the entry floor as Cargill passed a bouquet of white and red roses to a maid.

"My dear Miss Daventry," he said after addressing her aunt. "So pleasing to see you are well after that dreadful boat ride."

Chloe blinked, but then recalled Lady Laverhorn's discomfort. Perhaps he assumed such was the fate of all females. She led the gentleman toward the salon. "I am surprised, Lord Vilheurs. We found it pleasant."

"Do forgive my early hour, my dear, but my impatience is born of concern. Dare I say, I feared for your health in such a chill wind?"

Chloe repressed a snicker. "I am not of a fragile nature, sir. Such fresh air cannot be bad for one. Did you not see the pall hanging over Town? I should fear that more."

He gave an odd smile that seemed to have no meaning. "But of course, you are not accustomed to Town. It must seem so to you." The man paused, choosing his words. "Miss Daventry, might I hope to drive out with you this afternoon?"

Chloe gritted her teeth. She could not turn him down, then accept Lord Reginald if he came to call. She opened her mouth, searching for a saving reply.

"Oh, but my dear," said Aunt Daphne. "Don't you recall--" Aunt Daphne let her words trail off.

Whatever did her aunt expect her to say?

Fingers to her lips, Chloe stumbled about for an escape. "Dear me, what have I done? Have I forgotten my promises again, Aunt Daphne? Oh, what you must think, Lord Vilheurs!"

His black brows furrowed as he cocked his head. Ah. That was it. Say anything. As long as her words said nothing at all. "Oh, do forgive me, my lord," she rattled, glancing at Aunt Daphne. "I cannot think where my mind has gone. Perhaps you are right. All that fresh air. Can it be that it affects the mind?"

"Oh, no, Miss Daventry," Vilheurs replied, his brow furrowed with confusion, "I am sure nothing is wrong with your mind--"

"Then it must simply be that I am overtaxed. The Season, you know. As you say, I am not at all accustomed to such bustle. Do say you forgive me."

"Of course, my dear, but--"

"I am so very grateful, my lord." She took his arm, leading him back out the salon to the corridor. "How vexing it must be for a man to deal with female failings! Do say you will come again. And how very kind of you to bring the flowers."

"Of course. Not vexing at all. Yes. You do understand the language of flowers, do you not, my dear?"

Chloe hoped her smile did not look as weak as it felt. "Of course, my lord. White for kindness. Red for-- What is it, Aunt Daphne? Red for blood, is it not? Oh, yes, courage." She drew the man to the door, where Cargill waited with his tall hat.

"No, Miss Daventry, it is white for--"

"Oh, yes," Chloe said, all but pushing him out the door. "That is the one that means too young for love. How right you are, my lord. I shall be glad I listened to you. So very kind of you to come. I fear I must hurry now. Do call again."

Lord Vilheurs stuttered all the way out until the door shut behind him. Chloe rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"I believe I have never seen anything quite like that," Aunt Daphne said with a laugh. "However did you think of such a thing?"

"I thought I was merely following your lead, aunt. Was that not what you had in mind?"

"I should say not, as I have no notion what it was you did. But I should not try it on the man again, my dear."

Chloe supposed not even he would fall for such blather a second time. But perhaps she presumed too much, to think Lord Reginald would call on her today.

* * *

Reggie sprang down from his hack just as Lord Vilheurs strode out the door of Miss Daventry's town house. A glower hung on the man's face as heavy as his black eyebrows.

"Good morning, Villy," Reggie said, handing over the reins to the groom. "Up a bit early, aren't you?"

Vilheurs glared back. "Early bird catches the worm, Beauhampton."

"Well, then, I shall hope that for you." Reggie skipped up the steps. Vilheurs swivelled around as Reggie raced past him.

Reggie entered as sedately as he could manage, but the moment his gaze landed on Miss Daventry, the sudden urge to wrap her in an enthusiastic hug hit him. He flexed his hands nervously. "I pray you will forgive my early call, although I see I am not the first. I beg you, Miss Godelin, tell me you and your niece have not already accepted an invitation for the day."

The two women glanced at each other, and something like a smirk wiggled on each of their mouths.

"We have no commitments for the day," said Miss Daventry.

"Then, might you drive out with me this afternoon?"

Again, the two pairs of light green eyes exchanged glances.

Miss Daventry drew in a slow breath. "Perhaps you might take us out again on your yacht, perhaps a bit farther than yesterday?"

His heart ran away with itself. He had not even dared hope for as much. "I could have no greater pleasure, Miss Daventry, and the weather is perfect. But we have several hours to the coast from the berth in Tilbury, and if we are to return before nightfall, we must hurry. I shall return for you in half an hour."

Reggie rode home like a madman and threw on wool trousers and coat. Precisely half an hour later, he brought up a coach to the Daventry house and took up the two ladies, and by noon, the coach reached the dock.

As they cast off, the stiff breeze snapped the sails and the Xanthe caught the current and sped downstream. Miss Daventry stood beside him on the quarterdeck, her eyes bright with anticipation. The wind in her face tugged golden curls from her bonnet, whipping them about like pennants, giving her the bold look of his Circe. His imagination ran wild.

Man the yardarm, Mr. Scovill!

Aye, Sir!

Reggie escorted the ladies across the deck, naming and explaining functions from boom to hatch, while MacDevie tacked to starboard for a clear route in the crowded river.

Then MacDevie offered the wheel to Miss Daventry.

A glimmer of excitement played behind Miss Daventry's solemnity. "If it would not be a bother."

MacDevie stepped aside as if he relinquished the wheel to young ladies every day.

She'll not go down, sir! Not while she's in my hands!

He could see her lashing herself to the helm in a raging storm to save her ship. His Circe would never let her ship founder on the rocks, nor capsize in a trough.

The foresail played out, then the main topgallant, and the Xanthe glided with wind, current and tide, while Reggie studied the horizon for any signs of a sudden storm, feeling a tightness in the air. Seagulls rose, circled, soared and dove with the wind in their eternal search for food.

"We are going much faster today," Miss Daventry remarked.

He nodded. "Close to seven knots," he guessed. "Yesterday the air was light, and I only ran the mainsail. The Xanthe was built by 'the gentlemen' to outrun the Excise men. Sometimes her speed is frightening to those who are not accustomed to it."

"I think something worries you."

He'd hoped she hadn't noticed. But surely nothing would go wrong. He saw nothing. Reggie stowed his unease. "A stiff wind carries the ship far, but it can also portend a coming storm. A good seaman should always be watchful."

"Is there a storm coming then, Lord Reginald?"

Concern mingled with trust played out in her light green eyes. He prayed it was not misplaced. "Watch the birds, Miss Daventry. They will tell us more than we can see for ourselves."

"How?"

"When they head for shore, we should do the same. If it worries you, we can go back."

"No. I am sure you will manage things."

Reggie watched the skies for more than just the gulls. The bright day was full of great summer puffs idling high in the heavens. No dark roll clouds on the horizon. The worst storms came from seaward, and as long as the wind didn't shift, anything out there would not come in their direction. But there was a sense of the air, like an aroma. Something was out there.

Reggie leaned against the gunwale, the sea breeze against his face. The hours passed as he spun the Xanthe's tales, of smuggling runs and buried kegs on a sandy beach, of battles, boardings, and daring escapes into cloudbanks.

The river widened, with the flat fens spread out on both sides. On the far shore, Reggie pointed out the docks of Gravesend. "Do you want to go ashore, or shall we return?"

Wildness sparkled in her eyes as she shook her head, and she pointed out to the choppy salt water of the Channel. "I've never been asea, Lord Reginald. Might we just take a short excursion? The Xanthe can go to sea, can she not?"

"She's seaworthy." Still, he thought the waves a bit grey. The tall billows of clouds gathered heavier, raising their tops higher. He wet a finger to test the wind, noting a slight shift to the southwest.

Reggie signaled MacDevie to take the craft out to sea. A trace of a frown crossed MacDevie's face as the Xanthe tacked to starboard, cutting across the choppy waves over the bar. But if MacDevie had any fears, he would have said something.

Miss Godelin lurched with the roll of the craft, and her game smile stretched thin as she clutched the shrouds. Reggie cursed himself silently for not thinking of her sensibilities.

"Perhaps we should return," he suggested.

"No, please," said Miss Godelin. "I have not been to sea either, Lord Reginald."

Reggie swallowed down his concern for her and let the yacht continue across the choppy bar to the open sea. "The worst is over. Farther out, the sea is calmer."

As her sails unfurled, the Xanthe dashed across the brilliantly sparkling sea. Standing at the bow, Miss Daventry let her bonnet fall back, and her golden curls danced like gypsies. Yes. She really was Circe, in her heart. He would marry her, and they would sail the Seven Seas together.

He glanced back at Miss Godelin. Merriment glittered in her eyes as if she read his thoughts and dreamed of just that very thing for her niece. Perhaps a duke's younger son was acceptable if he had an adequate competence from a doting grandfather. But what would she think if she learned the duke might play his son false if he married against his parent's wishes? He would eventually gain what was rightfully his, but he dared not let either of the ladies know the true nature of things yet.

A haze hung in the distance, marking the landmass of the Continent. "There," he said, "on a clear day, sometimes you can see the coast of France."

The ladies frowned as if they didn't quite believe it.

"Is this not a clear day? Does it always look like this?" Miss Daventry asked.

"Sometimes it is much clearer. To larboard, Miss Daventry, a frigate. I imagine she carries messages up and down the line."

"Could the Xanthe catch her?"

"Most likely not, but she can outsail a ship of the line."

Her green eyes danced with anticipation.

He chuckled. "No, Miss Daventry, one does not challenge a ship going about the duties of war."

"No, of course not," she said, and her pleasant smile faded slightly. "It is nice to know, though."

The urge to wrap an arm about her rippled through him, and he gripped the gunwale until it passed. "Perhaps another day we shall enjoy a race," he said. "But for now, let us just enjoy the sea."

"But the birds are coming ashore, Lord Reginald." Miss Daventry pointed to the seaward horizon.

Not only birds. On the horizon lay a thin black roll cloud.

"Squall, sir," said MacDevie.

"Let's take her back, MacDevie."

"Aye, sir."

As they came to larboard, the wind whipped around, shearing across his right cheek instead of his left. They'd run with the wind, but they wouldn't miss the storm. The crew scurried up the ratlines. Squealing yardarms and creaking shrouds vied with rising wind as the yacht came about to larboard and picked up speed, lurching over suddenly choppy seas. He could make out Thanet. Perhaps they could make port at Margate.

"Sir," said MacDevie, pointing to stern.

The storm was moving in fast. Deep troughs were forming in the river's mouth.

"Bring her about, steady, Mr. MacDevie."

"Aye, sir."

With masterful precision, MacDevie eased the Xanthe across the chop of tall caps, neither too fast nor too slow. His calm voice boomed out above the growing wail of wind, calling for topsails furled, mainsail and foresail shortened.

Seaward, the sky was black. Shoreward, still hazy blue. In the distance against dark clouds, the lights of Gravesend twinkled like dim stars, too far to make before the storm hit full force.

The ladies hugged their pelisses in the chill wind.

"You'll be more comfortable belowdecks, ladies."

Miss Godelin nodded, looking to her companion, who shook her head. Hand over hand, the elder lady followed the gunwale to the ladderway, steadying herself between the yacht's pitching, and descended to the cabin below the poopdeck.

The first drops of rain hit like rocks, and in seconds became a deluge, whipped by vicious wind. Choppy waves pitched the Xanthe bow to stern as it drove up and over, dropped down, rose again. Miss Daventry dove for the ratlines.

It was going to get worse. Very soon. "I should like for you to follow your aunt belowdeck now, Miss Daventry."

Her brave smile soured as she gripped the ratlines. "I'm sure I can manage--"

"Belowdecks, Miss Daventry! Now!"

She jerked back. "Yes, sir." Sidling a wild glance at the menacing sea, Miss Daventry clung to the gunwale with the tenacity of a squid, then lunged toward the belowdecks ladderway. The deck pitched. She smashed against the cabin wall and bounced to the deck as a wall of water swept over the gunwale and slammed green water all the way to the cabin. As she slid, Reggie dove after her, one hand snatching her flying hair and the other snagging a lifeline. Her mouth opened in a scream drowned out by the howling wind, and both legs dangled beyond the gunwale, over the starboard side.