The Captain Read online

  “But, I—I don’t want to go and leave P-Papa.”

  The little servant knelt on the ground. “Miss—” Trudy stopped. It would never do to still be so formal while they were on the run. “Jacinda, yer life is in danger and yer papa is no longer here to protect ye. He’s given that task to me and I intend to make certain ye are safe.” Trudy grimly fumbled on the blood-soaked chest of her late employer until she found the diamond stick pin. She pulled it from the cravat and stowed it in her pocket. She hesitated a moment, then pulled the gold watch from his waistcoat and the large gold ring his wore on his hand and put them with the pin. She would need these items and more to support the child until Jacinda was old enough to take care of herself. Trudy stood and pulled the weeping child up with her.

  “W-Where will we go?” Jacinda’s whole world had shattered. She couldn’t even begin to think about life without her father.

  “We are going to find my brother, Johnny. He will know how we can survive this. Ye must be brave, child.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Who child?” Nurse was puzzled at the child’s sudden calm.

  “Andrew Morrow. He and his father did this.”

  “We don’t know that child. We’ll leave such matters to your father’s solicitor. He’ll find out who hired those men.”

  But Jacinda remembered the young man’s angry words ... and now her father was dead. There was no doubt in her heart.

  At the moment the carriage rounded the bend, two females slipped into the dark woods near the rocks and disappeared. All the local merchant and his fat wife returning from market day in Wells found was a wrecked coach with the body of Mr. Blanchett in the road.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1814

  “Wake up, sir.” Mr. James Wormwood’s clerk shook his shoulder on finding him fast asleep, hunched over his desk. It was a common state for Mr. Elliot to find his employer in of late, which accounted for the fact that Wormwood and Styles, Solicitors, had lost a great many of their clients in the past year. At the age of sixty-five, the senior partner was ready to retire but unfortunately lacked the funds.

  “Sir ... sir, there’s a gentleman to see you.”

  The solicitor opened his eyes and asked, “Who is it? If it’s Mackleby again, tell him I ain’t in.” He closed his eyes as if he meant to return to sleep.

  “It’s a new gentleman, sir, and I think he’s someone of importance.”

  Mr. Wormwood lifted his head and smoothed his thinning gray hair. “Dressed to the nines, is he?”

  “Well, no, sir.”

  The old solicitor took a long swig from a cup that was full of spirits and a little coffee. “Dripping in jewelry, is he?”

  “Not even a single fob, sir.”

  Wormwood looked at his clerk, his brushy gray brows drawn together. “Have you been nipping from my cup, Ned?”

  Shock reflected on Mr. Elliot’s face. “Not a bit of it, sir.”

  “Then how the devil do you know the man’s of some importance?” Mr. Wormwood slid his glasses on and peered at his now frightened employee.

  “His name, sir. It’s Morrow. ’Tis the family name of Baron Rowland, is it not?”

  The solicitor frowned. “Can’t be. Rowland’s heir ran off years ago. It was quite a scandal in Somerset at the time. Lad was only sixteen or so as I remember. The baron gave him up for dead.”

  “That’s as may be, Mr. Wormwood, but the gentleman introduced himself as Captain Drew Morrow and he’s wishin’ to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”

  The old man sat back in his worn leather chair, his face full of surprise. “I do believe the boy was called Andrew. Can it be the same?” The solicitor gestured at the clerk to hurry. “Stop your dawdling, man, and send him in.”

  The clerk opened his mouth to protest, then decided it was pointless and hurried out. Minutes later a tall, lean gentleman with darkly tanned skin stepped into the room. The visitor was not fashionably attired, but he wore his clothes with an easy assurance of self that defied fashion. His dark hair was longer than the current fashion. It brushed the top of his shoulders, the ends sun-streaked blond. Yet the thing that struck the old gentleman the most was the distinctive half-moon scar that arched down from the man’s right eye. Wormwood had asked about it once while staying at Rowland Park. He’d been told it was a childhood burn the boy had acquired while the farriers had been shoeing a horse. This was his lordship’s long lost son.

  Wormwood rose rather unsteadily and extended his hand. “Why, it is you, sir. You were scarcely more than a lad the last time I was at Rowland Park. Elliot tells me you are Captain Morrow these days. Well done!”

  A half-smile exposed teeth that gleamed brightly in contrast to the man’s tan cheeks. “I was hoping you would remember me, sir. I have come desiring information about my father.”

  Mr. Wormwood gestured toward a seat. After both gentlemen were settled, the old man stared across at the face that he was certain women would find handsome. Ah, to be young and appealing again ... but he put the thought aside and asked, “After all these years, what prompted you to inquire? Why not write the baron directly or better yet, pay him a visit?”

  Drew Morrow fidgeted uncomfortably in the worn chair. The solicitor was so altered he almost hadn’t recognized him. Had his father changed so much as well? The young captain pondered the old gentleman’s questions. He’d been such a fool all those years ago, and it was always difficult to put one’s actions into words for they seemed all the more foolish. He wasn’t sure he could make Wormwood understand. Drew had a need to reconnect with his roots but was uncertain that Lord Rowland would wish his return. Truth be told, Drew wasn’t even sure he understood himself. Perhaps it was the emptiness of life at sea or merely the passage of time that had matured him. More likely it was a sense of his own mortality. All he was certain about was a desire to heal the rift he had opened eight years earlier by his flight in the face of adversity. He needed to do this.

  He leaned back and sighed. “I should have done so sooner, sir. But”—he shrugged—“the first few years after I left were spent just learning to survive.” A sheepish grin touched his lips. “Besides, I was very much piqued at my father for all his plots and plans back then.” He watched a moth fluttering near the window seeking to escape the overwarm room. “There was also a part of me that feared he would come for me and make me return home to fulfill his wishes. I was quite determined that wasn’t going to happen.” The captain grew pensive but didn’t dwell on those times. “Pride in a young man is a rather powerful thing, sir.”

  The old solicitor merely nodded, for he had much experience dealing with young sprigs come to Town to make their mark and very often failing. He remained silent—his cue that he would listen.

  Drew’s gaze moved past the old gentleman’s shoulder to a badly rendered painting of country life. “As my luck turned, I felt like it would appear to be gloating if I wrote him. The more time passed, the harder it became. I picked up a pen a thousand times, but told myself that he wouldn’t want to hear from a disloyal son who’d foiled all his plans.” He fell silent and his eyes took on a faraway look for a moment before he continued. “Then, about six months ago in the throes of a typhoon off the China coast, I came rather close to death. The narrow escape made me take stock of what I thought important, about what I wanted to accomplish. It was something of a revelation when I realized that I had a duty to my name as well as to my father. I am his sole heir. I promised myself I would come back and make amends for abandoning him when he needed my help. I’ve made my fortune and can do much to help make Rowland Park once again profitable. That is, if he still acknowledges me. I am well aware the estate is not entailed.”

  Mr. Wormwood’s brown eyes brightened on hearing the word fortune. “You must know that I shall be delighted to represent you in any way I can. As to the old gentleman, he remarried, oh, three years ago. Perhaps to try for another heir, or to acquire the widow’s portion, but”�
��the old man shrugged—“all he obtained was a young wife”—the solicitor’s mouth twisted with distaste—“who has no more head for money than the baron. Within a year they were dished again, but he’d staved off the most pressing of the creditors. I have no doubt he would welcome you home.”

  His father with a new wife! Drew was unable to stop the surprise from registering on his face. Despite the man’s penchant for gaming, he’d had a strong sense of the continuity of family. Yet, he’d stoutly refused to wed while Drew had been a young man, saying all he needed was one heir. Had his father given up on ever seeing his only son alive again? A wave of guilt washed over Drew. He had much to make up for where that gentleman was concerned. “Then my father is well?”

  “Up until about six months ago.” The solicitor shook his head sadly.

  Drew’s hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “He is alive, is he not?”

  “Alive, but he was injured in a riding accident during a hunt. Happened just before Twelfth Night. He’s been confined to his bed since. The physician can find nothing wrong. But your father’s will to walk seems lacking. I’ve done what I can to help, but I fear I had little to work with, what with the estate so mortgaged. The rumors after the murder only complicated things and—”

  Captain Morrow straightened. “What murder, sir?”

  A dawning light flashed in the solicitor tired eyes. “I had forgotten, all that happened about the time you left. In fact, your father told me you vanished the same night of the murder.” He quickly explained about Mr. Blanchett’s violent death, Miss Blanchett’s flight along with her maid, and the rumors that eventually surfaced that the baron or his son might have been involved. “But, of course, that was utter nonsense, sir, as you well know. When the child went missing, Mr. Wilkins, Blanchett’s solicitor, refused to pay another penny against the betrothal agreement, as there was no thought that a marriage could take place without her or you for that matter.”

  “Are you telling me that there are people in Somerset who actually think I might have killed that man?” Shock paled the captain’s face.

  Mr. Wormwood pulled a linen handkerchief from a drawer, then took off his spectacles and began to clean them. “Your reputation, if memory serves, was likely the cause, my boy. But that was long ago. No doubt other theories have surfaced since, for there is the matter of the child’s fortune. Plenty of relations in her family could have had a hand in what happened. The old man might have been an infamous philanderer, but he was no fool when he ordered her maid to take her into hiding.”

  “Philandering?” Drew vaguely remembered he’d heard rumors about the cit even as a young man. “Might that have been a cause of the attack? A jealous husband, an irate father?”

  “Not likely, since the child wrote her father’s solicitor that the killers searched the rocks to find her as well. As to by-blows, Wilkins swears that Blanchett financially provided for his”—the old lawyer’s cheeks reddened—“er, mistakes, as I prefer to call them, which is better than most gentlemen to the manor born.”

  The captain rose and moved to stand in front of the fireplace. He stared at the cold ashes in the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. He’d come seeking information about a father who’d shown little interest in him except as a bargaining tool. Yet, Drew had come to realize that blood bound them no matter how one tried to ignore such. Still, he was unprepared for what the solicitor had related. The very man his father had dealings with had died the night Drew fled. Was it mere coincidence? Or was his father in some way involved? The thought sent a chill down his spine, but he dismissed the idea at once. Rowland had proven himself a man of honor by not fleeing to the continent when his debts had grown so large. Surely such a man wouldn’t stoop to murder when he’d had the settlement money within his grasp.

  Regardless, the feeling that he and his father were to blame settled over Drew like a cloud on a summer day. The proposed marriage might have been the trigger for Blanchett’s murder, which made it inevitable that he and his father would come under suspicion. It made no sense for them to have killed the very man who would have solved their problems, but very often such rumors were spread maliciously for no good reason.

  Drew searched his memory for an image of Mr. Blanchett, but the cit hadn’t mixed much in local society and Drew knew him more from reputation than through personal contact. A man like that was always a popular subject in a small village. Blanchett had liked the ladies, though, for his name had often been linked to this widow or that light skirt. But as a wealthy widower with only one child, most likely it was as Wormwood had suggested: that the murderer was someone after the child’s portion. Blanchett had smelled of trade, but he had married a viscount’s daughter in his quest to improve his situation. His daughter was the key to the mystery.

  Drew look back over his shoulder and saw his father’s solicitor watching him in silent speculation. It was a look he would have to get used to if he returned home, for in Somerset many might still wonder about his and his father’s involvement. He returned to his seat, a determined set to his jaw. “You say they never found the girl, er ...” he struggled to remember her name, but all he could come up with was “Miss Blanchett.” Why, she had scarcely been more than a baby when he’d seen her at Chettwood Manor that fateful day. The hazy image of a plain, pale child with overlarge eyes drifted at the edges of his memory. A brat who’d given him tit for tat, as he recalled.

  “Never, but Mr. Wilkins, Blanchett’s solicitor, swears the girl’s still alive. Been in communication with her. At least, he receives the occasional letter, albeit she never discloses her location. Says she will only come back once the murderer is brought to justice.” Wormwood shrugged. “After all these years, I daresay that isn’t likely to happen. The only thing that would protect the girl would be for her to marry and have a house full of heirs.”

  A cold sensation coiled in Drew’s stomach. Had his father set this disaster in motion? Had he helped by running out on the child bride he didn’t want? He’d been such a romantic fool back then. The image of the beautiful Mariah Amberly surfaced. A memory stirred in him as he thought about his righteous indignation at being asked to sacrifice his true love to save Rowland Park from creditors... .

  Drew hadn’t thought of her in years. Her beauty and his youth had blinded him to her fickle and shallow nature. He’d been in Calcutta scarcely a year and all but starving when he’d seen her wedding announcement to a wealthy earl thrice her age in an old copy of the London Times. Looking back through the years, he could see that what he’d felt for her was infatuation, but still, her abandonment had wounded his youthful heart. Time had taught him that females were mercenary creatures in general. Like most of her kind, Mariah had chosen money over love.

  A bevy of beauties had passed through his life and his bed since, yet not one had touched his heart. Or perhaps he’d kept them from doing so, knowing they would only use him as Mariah had. What was more important to him was that frail Blanchett girl—he froze. “Mr. Wormwood, did my father sign the betrothal agreement with Blanchett?”

  “Aye, he did. Sent me his copy of the document.” The old man rose and went to a cabinet and pulled out a drawer, taking little note of the grim set of his visitor’s face. Wormwood rummaged through the clutter for several minutes before he found the wanted document. “Blanchett made one advance payment the night they signed the papers. The rest was to be transferred into your father’s account once Mr. Wilkins received the documents, but like I said, that never happened.”

  Drew took the papers the solicitor handed him. He quickly perused them and understood the essence of what his father had signed. He was promised to wed Miss Jacinda Blanchett and they were to marry only if the lady so desired when she reached one-and-twenty. But no one knew where the child—Drew hesitated ... no, she was a young lady by now—where the lady might be. It suddenly occurred to him that life on his own had been rather hurly-burly. What had it been like for a mere child with only a country maid to take care o
f her? Whatever would the girl be like after so many years out of society, in the company of heaven knows what kind of people. He couldn’t bear thinking about it.

  The captain read through the papers, then glanced up at Mr. Wormwood when the solicitor spoke. “Do you intend to go to Rowland Park, Captain Morrow? I’m certain your father would be most happy to see you.”

  Drew didn’t know just yet what he would do. He’d expected to come and find out that his father was alive and well. He hadn’t been prepared to hear that everything at home was worse than it had been when he’d fled eight years ago.

  “I don’t know, sir. I still have business here in London and my ship sails at the end of the month.”

  “Captain,” the solicitor said, looking uncertain. “I know it’s not my place to interfere, but you have a duty, if not to your father, then at least to your name. There is a cloud over the name of Morrow in your village. I don’t expect you to care about a girl you scarcely knew, but at least your return home would go a long way to prove that neither you nor your father was involved in her father’s death. Show the county you are willing to honor the agreement. I doubt it will be necessary; the girl isn’t likely to turn up after all these years, no matter what the family solicitor claims.”

  The captain nodded, but strangely he found that he did care about what had become of the girl. Likely there was nothing he or his father could have done to prevent what happened. If it turned out that the Morrows’s need for funds was at the root of what happened, Miss Blanchett might have suffered for it for the last eight years. He couldn’t walk away with no regrets. “I think I shall visit my father. Perhaps I should examine the facts of Blanchett’s death and see if there is anything I can learn. Thank you, sir, and good evening.”