Chapter Three
A cigar clamped between square white teeth, dark eyes smoldering, Caleb van der Rhys strode the deck of the decrepit gambling ship while murderous thoughts raced through his mind. Thank God he had never consented to Lord Farrington’s opening the hull of his beloved Rana and making her a permanent fixture on the wharf. It would have broken his heart to find her in such total disrepair. And Sirena! What would Sirena have said to find her Rana, the ship he had renamed Sea Siren after her, little better than a garbage scow? The last time Caleb had been aboard the gambling folly in which he and Farrington were partners, business had been thriving. Carpeted rooms and gleaming wood and brass had accented the gambling tables in the main lounge. Private staterooms, furnished impeccably with satins and brocades, had catered to gentlemen and their club members. At one time the folly had been the most popular casino in England. And now . . . now this!
Slowly and deliberately, his sun-bronzed hand removed the cigar from between his teeth. His dark eyes became cool and calculating as he stared down the dapper Lord Farrington. “While the cat’s away, the mouse will play. There’d better be a good answer as to why this establishment is in such sorry condition. Tell me, what lady or gentleman would set foot on this rotting barge? What happened to the money I sent you for improvements? Where did it go? Who frequents this den of iniquity besides longshoremen and cutthroats? Let’s take a look at the profit-and-loss statements. Or is it all loss and no profits? Speak up, Farrington! Did that same cat take your tongue? Ah,” Caleb said softly, “I see it has.” Again the cigar found its way between his gleaming teeth, and he talked around it. “Five minutes, Farrington, and then over the side you go. You’ll barely make a splash. The books?” he demanded coldly.
Farrington jumped at the lash of Caleb’s temper. His hands twitched nervously as he played with the cuffs of his meticulously laundered shirt. “Cal, my boy,” he began hesitantly, pausing to clear his throat, “what you see here is a man fallen on hard times. Money is tight; even the gentry are careful with their sterling. It’s all I can do to keep body and soul together,” he whined. “True, profits are slim at best. I’m in debt over my head, and there’s little to be done for it. If the clientele of this establishment has—er—fallen to the good folk who earn their bread on the wharf, it is merely a sign of the times.”
“Cut your flowery speeches,” Caleb growled. “Remember, I know you too well.”
At Caleb’s stony look, Farrington changed his tactics. “After you left England, I couldn’t make a go of it. Well, you know, the women came for a night’s diversion because of you and your charm,” he simpered. “The men came because the ladies prodded, and because they saw in you something they themselves were lacking. Unfortunately, I was a very poor substitute. Oh, in the beginning I lied and said you were away on business, hoping they wouldn’t become wise. But that was a foolish mistake on my part. I should have been looking for a replacement to carry on for you. Alas, my heart wasn’t in it.” Farrington glanced covertly at Caleb, who was close to fuming. He continued rapidly, his eyes carefully watching Caleb’s fist for fear it would come crashing down into his face. “It’s your fault, Caleb. You left me to fend for myself. Quite a lot to expect of an old man. A tired, old man at that. This was the best I could do. I have a few pounds squirreled away, and if you’re in need, I can let you have it.” His tone became pleading, his eyes begging as he braved another look at Caleb.
Caleb moved along the deck, his booted foot prodding at loose planks. He felt disgust as his dark eyes raked the ship in her sorry state of disrepair. He felt responsible for the old reprobate following him. He swiveled, his body light and lithe. “Two thousand pounds and that’s it. I don’t give a damn if you have to do the carpentry work yourself. Hire as many men as you need, and I’ll give you exactly one fortnight to get this scow in shape. I’ll take care of the printing and have the handbills distributed. You’ll have a gala the likes of which you’ve never seen before. And,” he went on ominously, “if my share of this business doesn’t improve almost immediately, I’ll keep good on my promise. Skinny old men make barely a splash in the cold water of the Thames.”
Aubrey Farrington straightened his back and stared at Caleb. “I’ll do it, Cal. I’m sick and tired of being a weasel. A man needs his self-respect. You have my word. I do thank you for being so generous. I won’t fail you.”
“It’s a wise man who heeds the first warning,” Caleb acknowledged, lighting another cigar. “I’ll be back in a few days to see how things are progressing,” he tossed over his shoulder as he strode from the deck.
Envy, pure and simple, coursed through the old man’s veins. Ah, to be young again and to look like Caleb van der Rhys. His old eyes narrowed as he watched Caleb stroll down the wharf, the eyes of the scurves on his back. He knew if one of them made a move, Caleb would have him by the throat and begging for mercy. There was no more of the boy in Caleb. He was a man and had come into his own. Farrington would have sold his soul at that moment if the devil could promise to turn him into another Caleb van der Rhys. Sold it cheerfully, with no regrets.
Caleb climbed lightly into the hired hack and gave the driver directions to Tyler Sinclair’s home on Pall Mall, near Charing Cross Road. He estimated that the drive through London at midday would take more than an hour, and he looked longingly at the Rooster’s Tail Pub, where he could be enjoying a cool ale instead of a hot, dusty ride. He sighed, knowing there was no hope for it; he had to contact Tyler for news of Sirena and Regan’s arrival.
The route to Tyler’s home took him along Thames Street, which ran parallel to the wharves along the river. He pulled at his collar with irritation and wished he were still at sea aboard his Sea Siren. Having kept true to a promise she had made him long ago, Sirena had put her ship, the Rana, into Caleb’s care. Because of his regard for her and for an adventure they had both shared, he had renamed the ship the Sea Siren.
Caleb’s attention was centered on the view through the grimy windows of the hack. It was always the same, never better, only a little worse now. This was the London of the people. The groomed, tree-lined streets near Charing Cross and Hyde Park were the London of the privileged. These narrow streets and byways and tall buildings leaning heavily on one another, where the shadows seemed darker than anywhere else in the world, represented the people’s city.
And yet, for all its ugliness, there was a beauty here, too. London was a polyglot of the ages, old and battered and touched with evil; still, it brimmed with color and a decadent glory. Here was the heart of the city, not behind those beautiful brick edifices of the rich. Here the city teemed with life. The streets were crowded with porters struggling to carry their heavy loads of merchandise as they cried dire curses at any who dared to detain their progress. Merchants and vendors pushed their carts through the narrow alleys, calling out their wares to housewives who swarmed to make their purchases.
Church steeples stabbed the gray sky, which was thick with smoke from the chimneys and rife with the stench from the soap stewers, and through which only the strongest sunlight could penetrate. And each steeple boasted its own melodious bell but only added to the cacophony.
The very center of an Englishman’s life was the numerous taprooms and pubs, which were recognized by swinging signs painted in gaudy colors and identified, by those who could not read, by their caricatures of yellow bulls, crimson roosters, goggle-eyed owls and various shields and, most of all, by tankards of ale.
Having seen these sights all too often and feeling stifled by them, Caleb settled back in the hack and thought ahead to his visit with Tyler and Camilla. While Caleb’s business in London was infrequent, he did manage to see Tyler on occasion, but never Camilla. Tyler had always met him at his offices on New Queen Street or aboard the Sea Siren or at a convenient taproom. It had been years since Caleb had set eyes on Camilla, and he wondered if those years had been kind to her. Each time he was in his company, he had asked Tyler how Camilla fared, always expressing his interest with friendly courtesy, never with any obvious familiarity. He didn’t know how knowledgeable Tyler was about his and Camilla’s affair while she had been married to Regan, and he didn’t wish to dredge up old laundry and leave Camilla to pay the bill with her husband.
Caleb pulled at his collar again. He didn’t like having these old memories crop up. He remembered all too well the way he had agonized over his betrayal of Regan with his stepmother. And yet he hadn’t been able to help himself. He remembered the way his heart had hammered in his chest and his hand had itched to run his fingers through Camilla’s soft golden curls. His involvement with Camilla had tortured him, had stung his conscience to the point where he couldn’t face his father. He had felt sick with himself, but there had been no help for it. He had fallen in love with Camilla. She had been so young, so sweet, so tender. And when he had taken her in his arms, despite the prick of his conscience, and she had whispered over and over, “Caleb, I need you, I need you,” and offered her lips, he had taken them greedily, feeling her fragile weight in his arms. He had been overcome with emotions of love and desire and protectiveness. And when he had carried her to his bed and she had pulled him down beside her, the scent of her skin and the soft swell of her breasts had exorcised the feelings of deception and betrayal against his father. Camilla had been in his arms and cried that she needed him, and he had closed his mind to any voice of conscience which had told him it was wrong.
Caleb shook himself from his reverie. He assured himself that he was only thinking of Camilla now because he was certain to see her again. It had all washed out in the end, and he was thankful Regan had never needed to know that his own son had cuckolded him. All had worked out for the best. Camilla had found her love in Tyler, and Regan had returned to his one true passion, Sirena.
Assured that the past was well behind him and that he was now in control of his own destiny, Caleb cockily quirked an eyebrow. He was a man now, no longer the boy he had been who had fallen under Camilla’s charms. He could certainly take care of himself no matter how urgently Camilla might express her desire for him and her entreaties that they become more than friends. No, this time he would be in full control of himself, even if that meant disappointing Camilla. He had no doubt whatsoever that Camilla would wish to resume their past relationship. After all, she had been married to Tyler Sinclair for almost nine years, and, knowing Camilla, he assumed she had become bored with her role as Tyler’s wife.
Humming a tuneless melody, Caleb settled back in the seat and contemplated the steps he would take to keep the ardent Camilla at bay.
Malcolm Weatherly smoothed his richly embroidered dark blue waistcoat and watched with a practiced eye as the groom readied the phaeton for his drive with the shy little bird called Wren. I could do worse, Malcolm thought as he fastidiously brushed a speck of lint from his cuff. After all, Wren was a van der Rhys, and it was well known that her father was one of the wealthiest men in the trades of the Dutch East India Company. Marrying Wren would serve to advance his own station in life, a station, he was loath to admit, that had sorely descended to just above the poverty level.
Wren van der Rhys. Weatherly sneered. An awkward name at best. In no way did it suit the vital, amber-eyed maiden he was intent on making his own. A handsome dowry would certainly be forthcoming—if her father did not take it upon himself to look too closely into Malcolm’s credentials.
If the van der Rhyses doted upon their daughter as he had been led to believe, there should be no problem. He shrugged his slim shoulders and glanced down at his boots. He would have to have them resoled very soon. He must remember to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground to avoid discovery of the newsprint which peeked out of the h’penny-size hole in the leather. Style, breeding and class distinction were all-important and if it were not for his wastrel uncle, he wouldn’t be in these dire straits.
Malcolm had just returned from a visit to his banker, and the news was worse than he had expected. At his current rate of expenditures, he had only three more months left to him in London. At the end of that time his bills would have caught up with him and his landlady would be tossing him out for unpaid rent—lock, stock and barrel. Yes, Wren would do very nicely indeed for added insurance against that calamity ever happening. And to think he had almost tied himself to Sara Stoneham! The very thought of it terrorized him. Malcolm had assumed that Sara’s family was still wealthy and influential. Instead, he had learned, and just in the nick of time, too, that because of the Stonehams’ religious views and rash statements against the Crown, their properties were, one by one, being stripped from them. A nice kettle of fish that would have been, being saddled with an ex-heiress who was a Puritan to boot!
Wren was another matter entirely. How fortunate it was that he had made acquaintance with her, and so soon after Sara! Luckily, Sara was a wise girl who seemed to know when to keep her mouth shut. Malcolm grinned as he thought of the nights he had made love to Sara, and her passionate responses. That alone was enough to keep her quiet. A wise girl didn’t boast that she was no longer a virgin. What Malcolm couldn’t quite understand though, was the relationship between Sara and Wren. He shrugged. There was no accounting for women.
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a silver snuffbox. Turning it over in his palm, he gazed at his reflection in the polished metal. He never used snuff, considering it a nasty habit which spoiled one’s shirt fronts with grains of yellow tobacco. But the box had become an affectation he used to cater to his vanity. It was unseemly for a man to carry a mirror, and the box did just as nicely. He smiled at his reflection, proud of his sterling good looks, his smooth skin and strong chin and bright, intelligent eyes. Women had always turned to stare at him, and he reveled in their attentions. Perhaps his inheritance had been badly handled and stolen from him, but nothing, not even time, would ever steal his handsomeness. He had only to remember his father, whom he resembled. Age had improved his good looks, touching his dark, wavy hair with a feathering of gray at the temples, that added a distinguished air to his boyish charm. And Malcolm was careful with his diet, maintaining the slimness and grace of a dancer. Wren hadn’t stood a chance against his charms once he had put them into use. Any more than had Lady Elizabeth Rice, favorite paramour of King Charles. Malcolm laughed aloud. Wonderful, power-hungry, greedy Elizabeth, so ripe for an escapade with an ardent young man who was wise enough to keep their affair to himself rather than boasting about it to add to his own prestige.
It wasn’t difficult to understand why King Charles, for all his self-righteous proclamations on the sanctity of marriage, preferred Lady Elizabeth to his dark and homely queen, Henrietta Maria. Lady Elizabeth was as fiery-natured as her flaming hair, and, most important of all, she was discreet, a necessity for a long regime as the King’s favorite.
Malcolm had made her acquaintance quite by accident, almost in the same way he had met Wren. Lady Elizabeth had been taking the air in Hyde Park, and he had been so entranced with her beauty that he had boldly initiated a conversation. From there the flirtation had taken wing; when Elizabeth had invited Malcolm to a quiet dinner at her modest apartments on Drury Lane, he had quickly and eagerly accepted. They had been together several times before Malcolm had discovered that the King enjoyed sleeping beneath the same bed linens and between those same alabaster thighs.
Malcolm had thought he had succeeded in keeping his financial difficulties from Elizabeth, but only a few nights ago did he realize this was far from the truth. At first he had feared she would put an end to their affair, but to his surprise she had watched him warily through her azure-blue eyes and told him about a certain collar being fashioned for the King to wear on the anniversary of his son’s birthday celebration. Bit by bit, Elizabeth had apprised Malcolm of the situation, carefully avoiding mentioning the name of the goldsmith who was creating the sensational collar. And sensational it would be, according to Elizabeth’s description. “Worth a King’s ransom,” she had declared.
At first Malcolm hadn’t understood why she was telling him about it. Finally it had dawned on him that Elizabeth was offering him information that suggested the collar was within reach of someone enterprising enough to relieve the goldsmith of it before its delivery to the King. She had been more than willing to part with the scheme, for a fair share of the profits, of course. Tucking the gleaming snuffbox into his breast pocket, Malcolm nearly chortled out loud. Either way he couldn’t lose, so long as he wasn’t caught snatching the collar red-handed. If the robbery went off well, as he hoped it would, he wouldn’t have to saddle himself with a wife for whom he cared nothing otherwise, failing all else and if the jeweled collar were beyond reach, he would acquire for himself a lovely, rich wife.
Seeing that his hired phaeton was approaching the drive to Baron Sinclair’s home, he straightened his cravat and slipped a peppermint into his mouth to sweeten his breath. He stepped lightly from the carriage just as a hackney cab came up the drive and stopped behind him. Malcolm turned, expecting to see Baron and Baroness Sinclair. Instead, a tall, powerfully built man with hair the color of polished mahogany and a complexion like newly minted copper exited the cab, a fragment of a cigar clamped between his teeth. Malcolm watched curiously as the man hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets and looked about, his dark eyes sharply appraising.
Removing the cigar from his mouth, Caleb tossed it into the shrubbery and advanced toward the front door. Malcolm, surprised by the stranger’s proprietary air, quickly fell into step behind him. They both reached for the bell pull at the same time, and there was a moment of embarrassed hesitation as they measured each other.
“It seems we are bound for the same place,” Malcolm said haughtily. “If you please, sir,” he added, pushing his way in front of Caleb and grasping the bell pull firmly.
Caleb took an immediate dislike to the dandy, and his quick eye did not fail to notice that Malcolm’s cuff had been ineptly mended.
“Are you expected, sir?” Malcolm asked arrogantly.
“I am,” Caleb replied simply, his dislike for the man growing.
“I, too, have an appointment. I frequent the Baron’s home rather regularly, and I’m sorry to say I’ve never made your acquaintance. Allow me to introduce myself. Malcolm Weatherly,” he announced, extending his hand.
“Caleb van der Rhys,” Caleb stated, making no move to return the gesture.
Malcolm blinked. Van der Rhys! Surely this man was too young to be Wren’s father. He tried to determine if Caleb had recognized his name. He knew only that in appearance he ran a sorry second to van der Rhys. Standing next to this sun-bronzed giant made him feel as though he’d been dipped in milk and hung out to dry.
Caleb seemed completely uninterested in Malcolm. If Tyler counted this dandy among his friends, that was his business. Then, of course, perhaps this Weatherly was a friend of Camilla’s. Caleb grinned, his square white teeth gleaming in his tanned face. Perhaps Camilla hadn’t changed after all.
Weatherly wondered what the man’s private joke was. It seemed to amuse him considerably. He glanced down at Caleb’s boots and felt a twinge of envy. Caleb’s feet were encased in the finest leather boots Malcolm had ever seen. They were moroccan, from the looks of them, and polished to a high gleam. Van der Rhys was as impeccably dressed as he. But the other man carried himself so effortlessly, with a casual air of superiority that only money could provide. Undoubtedly a woman’s man, he thought sourly, yet with a hidden power and a self-assurance that were enviable. In the split second before the maid opened the door, Malcolm decided he would never want to face Caleb van der Rhys in a life-or-death confrontation.
The moment Sally, the dimpled maid, opened the wide oak doors, Caleb grinned and winked at the flustered girl, his manner easy and assured. As if he belonged, Weatherly thought, grimacing.
“Follow me,” Sally giggled as she all but ran ahead of the two men, her cheeks flushed and her hands trembling slightly because of the sun god who had entered the house. She skidded to a stop and held open the doors to the morning room for Caleb and Malcolm to enter. “Who shall I say is calling?” she asked Caleb, not even bothering to glance in Malcolm’s direction. She knew whom he was here to see. Lord love a duck, wait till Miss Wren hooked her eyes on this one! Wait till the rest of the staff hooked their eyes, too. All the downstairs maids would be peeking and giggling for weeks, herself included.
“Caleb van der Rhys to see the Baroness.” Caleb smiled winningly. He enjoyed the flustered look the little maid wore. He knew the effect he had on women, and it secretly amused him. Until they started playing the little games women play, and then it annoyed him. In that one respect he was most like Regan. He wanted a woman who would be a match for himself and would be honest. He wasn’t interested in any weeping and wailing or coy deceptions. A little fire and spirit always made for a worthy encounter.
“Sir,” Sally, the maid, said, curtsying low, “the Baroness is indisposed and won’t be down till luncheon. Would you care to leave your card, or would you like to see Miss Wren?”
Caleb threw back his head and laughed, making Sally sigh in near ecstasy. “Next to the Baroness, Miss Wren is just the person I’d like to meet. Tell her Caleb is here and to move as fast as her legs will carry her to my arms.” He laughed again as the maid cast a puzzled glance at Malcolm and ran from the room.
Wait till the girls in the kitchen hear about this! she told herself. Lordy, I’ll be the center of attention for weeks. Morry, the houseboy, will be so impressed with me, he might even ask me for a walk after supper!
Forgetting her training in her excitement, Sally knocked loudly on Wren’s door and opened it at the same time. “Miss Wren, Miss Wren, you’re to come quickl There’s a gentleman downstairs in the morning room. A gentleman to end all gentlemen! Wait till you see him. Lordy, he’s the handsomest man my eyes have ever seen! Come,” she said, holding out her hand in a girlish fashion.
Wren’s lashes drooped. Malcolm was early. She wasn’t ready for a confrontation between Regan and him. She would have to plead a headache and hope for the best. How could she face Malcolm now, after the hateful things she had said to Sirena and Regan? Malcolm was so sensitive to her moods that he would immediately know something was wrong. “Tell Mr. Weatherly I’ve a horrid headache and I’m resting. Give him my apologies and ask him to return at teatime,” Wren begged. “And say that I’m sorry I won’t be able to take that drive with him today.”
“No, no, Miss Wren,” Sally cried in agitation. “His name is Caleb van der Rhys, and he said if he couldn’t see the Baroness, then he wanted to see you. Miss Wren, he looks . . . he looks like a—a god,” she whispered. “I quite forgot myself in his presence and almost swooned at his feet.” As an afterthought, she added impishly, “Your other gentleman friend is in the morning room with him.”
Wren’s heart fluttered and she felt faint. Caleb! Caleb was downstairs waiting to see her! Caleb was in the morning room with Malcolm! “Damnation!” she muttered under her breath.
The maid frowned. “Miss Wren, for shame. Young ladies never say such words.”
“This lady does,” Wren said through clenched teeth. “Very well, I’ll go down and see my two . . . gentlemen callers.” She tossed her dark hair, pinched her cheeks for added color and wiped at her incredibly long lashes with the back of her hand. Why hadn’t someone told her Caleb was in England? That was the least Sirena and Regan could have done. They knew how fond she was of Caleb. It must be some sort of trick on their part. Sirena, Regan said, was as tricky as a fox. And for both men to arrive at the same moment was more than a coincidence. “Damnation!” she said aloud, her eyes defying Sally to make any comment. The little maid remained mute, happy that she would get still another glimpse of the sun-darkened giant in the morning room. How she wished she were quality folk with a gentleman caller the likes of Caleb van der Rhys!
“rm ready, Sally,” Wren said, smoothing the skirt of her rose morning gown. One light flick of her fingers to her hair and one last deep breath. Her shoulders squared imperceptibly as she approached the morning room. Sally opened the doors and Wren stepped through. Her amber eyes went immediately to Caleb and she wanted to faint. She forced a smile and, as the good teachers had taught her, walked to the center of the room, both arms extended appealingly in welcome.
Caleb, caught up in Malcolm’s boring discussion of London weather, was stunned at her entrance. Merciful God, Sirena was right. What a beauty! Where was the little girl he had known so long ago back in Java? His heart hammered in his chest as he scooped Wren into his arms, ignoring an outraged Malcolm Weatherly.
Tears glistened in the girl’s amber eyes as Caleb held her away from him for a moment. “You’re all grown up now,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “Who would have believed the little girl who had run barefoot on the wharves could end up like this?” He pointed to her elegant morning gown, then lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “I don’t think I care to call you my sister any longer.” His dark eyes teased her. “Little sisters should never look as you do.”
The amber eyes smoldered momentarily and then became banked fires waiting for another time to be rekindled. Casually, Wren removed herself from Caleb’s arms and turned to acknowledge Malcolm Weatherly. “Malcolm, this is my . . . this is my . . . brother Caleb.”
“We’ve met,” Malcolm said curtly. Wren had never looked at him in quite the way she looked at van der Rhys, and, supposedly, he was her intended. He had never seen a sister look at a brother in just that way, nor had he seen a brother so overcome by a sister’s beauty. A small worm of fear crawled around his stomach and then settled down to rest at Wren’s next words.
“I’m so glad you arrived early, Malcolm. Sirena and Regan are here; they arrived during the night and are quite eager to meet you. Everything has been arranged for luncheon, when the Baroness will come down to join us. Until then, why don’t you and Caleb take a walk through the garden? I’ll join you both shortly.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm.
“That doesn’t sound like one of your better ideas,” Caleb said with a grimace. “Now, if you had said, ‘Let’s remove our shoes and romp through that lush carpet of grass . . . together,’ I would be the first one into the garden. However, I guess it’s you and me, Weatherly, for a stroll.” He turned and grinned wickedly, sending Wren’s heart into a quick pounding. “Patience, as you know, is not one of my better qualities.”
Wren laughed, the first genuine laugh she had uttered in months. “I remember. If things go well, perhaps we can romp through that meadow of green before you leave for home.”
Caleb’s dark eyes lightened at her words as he followed Malcolm from the room.
Outside in the spacious marble foyer, Wren leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. Of all the damn days for Caleb to arrive. “Damn, damn, damn,” she cried as she ran through the hall and up the curving stairway.