CHAPTER TEN

July 1811

 

Sir Lionel Cambridge was a gruff, burly man in his early sixties. He possessed a head of snow white hair that led down onto his fleshy jowls in a froth of sprightly muttonchops. His moustache was waxed into two swooping curls. He had heavy-lidded hazel eyes and a mischievous twinkle in them that gave strangers the impression he was a jolly old chap. The dispatch Stuart Roarke had sent on ahead to Government House had preceded their arrival by only minutes, for there was a crowd of servants gathered on the wide stone steps as the coach drew up to the front entrance. Behind them, emerging with his cravat only partially tied, was a nervous and red-faced Governor Cambridge.

He clutched Summer and Michael to his bosom, weeping openly. First one, then the other, then both were crushed like rag dolls, held away to arm's length, then crushed again with much weeping and giving of thanks to God. There was a grand introduction to the servants as if the Cambridge offspring were strangers to their own house. Some of the staff shouted the joyous news to strolling passers-by, who in turn spread the news like a bushfire through the streets of Bridgetown.

It had been reported that the Sea Vixen had gone down with all hands. The windows and railings of Government House were draped in black bunting, proclaiming the grief of the island's governor over the loss of his two children. The memorial service had filled St. Michael's Cathedral with dignitaries from neighboring islands, representatives from the Admiralty, and from the entire merchant community. Sir Lionel had also opened the services to include the friends and relatives of the other twenty-two passengers who had gone down with the ship, a gesture which had endeared him to his stout supporters.

He had no thoughts of politics now. A miracle had happened; Summer and Michael were home. They were hugged and petted and praised for their courage. The were swept along in a sea of excitement and taken to their rooms, there to be lavished with baths and perfumes, fussed over and treated like baby chicks fallen from the roost. Summer was not permitted to lift a finger on her own behalf. Three maids saw to her bathing needs. Her hair was washed and scented and shaped into a slippery mass of golden curls. Her face was creamed and massaged, the all-but-healed wound inspected thoroughly by Sir Lionel's physician. Her whole body was rubbed with oils, then clothed in silks so sheer a rough thumb would pierce the fabric. She relaxed with a hot, spiced pitcher of sangaree, and when she felt she was up to it, she descended the grand spiral oak staircase to the main drawing room where her father was anxiously waiting.

Michael was already there, bristling under the rosy effects of a hot bath and vigorous scrubbing. Having enjoyed the freedom of a sailor's shirt and short canvas trousers for the past several weeks, he fidgeted in the stiff, formal clothing and constantly ran a finger under the tightness of the collar. He was also impatient to regale his peers, many of whom paced the street outside, with tales of his adventures. The stories would put him in good stead for months to come, despite the fact he could not divulge the best parts.

One of the many discussions between the Cambridges and Stuart Roarke during the journey home on board the Vigilant had ended with them reluctantly agreeing that for the time being, it would be in everyone's best interest not to mention Morgan Wade's role in the rescue. The suggestion had originated with Wade himself, Roarke said, and it made sense. Sir Lionel's position would not be compromised, and Summer—being thought of still as Michael's governess—would not suffer the curiosity or abuse of gossips. Roarke had a far less flamboyant reputation; his name was rarely mentioned in conjunction with pirates and revenuers and blockade running. He had landed the Vigilant at Speightstown, ten miles down the coast from Bridgetown, a port normally used for local trade. The dispatch he had sent ahead to Government House had been signed simply: S. Roarke Esq.

"Thank God, is all I can say," Sir Lionel beamed. "Thank God you have come home to us safely. We will have no more need of mourning clothes and black sashes covering the windows—by Jove, I must remember to cancel the headstone from the mason. Michael, my boy—" he thumped his son affectionately between the shoulders— "I can see now that I sent the right man to New Providence to meet your sister. A man who kept a level head and did not allow her to drown, no sir he did not."

Michael blushed and grinned. "Actually, Father, we sort of saved each other."

"Nonsense," Summer said quietly. "I fainted for several hours through the worst of it, and if not for Michael holding me on the raft, I very likely would have slipped under the water without ever waking up again."

Sir Lionel dabbed at his eyes as he looked at his son, his face glowing with pride.

"But if Summer had not got us out of the cabin in time," Michael insisted, "I should jolly well think we would have been crushed to splinters when the Vixen went down."

Sir Lionel sighed heartily and trumpeted his nose into a square of linen. "I say, this calls for a toast. Several toasts."

He signaled to a hovering servant, who immediately stepped forward with a tray of glasses and a decanter of the governor's best port. Sir Lionel handed one to Summer, one to Michael, and took a third one for himself.

"To my brave and courageous children. To the Cambridge family!" He downed the glassful in a single large gulp and held it out to be refilled.

The butler appeared in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir. A gentleman is here requesting an audience with Miss Summer. He says it is a matter of some urgency."

Sir Lionel frowned. "Well? Who is it, man?"

Captain Bennett Winfield, as sunbleached and golden as Summer remembered, brushed past the startled butler without waiting to hear his name announced. He tossed his bicorne onto one of the chairs and went straight to Summer, gathering her into his arms before she had time to even acknowledge his arrival.

"Summer! Summer, it is you! When I heard that you had been brought home, I could scarcely believe my ears. I thought it had to be a cruel joke...but my God—" he gripped her hands tightly, letting his eyes devour her— "it is you. We searched and searched. We crossed back and forth over that damned stretch of ocean so many times the crew was threatening mutiny. And then, when we found the wreckage..." His voice trailed away, and raised each hand in turn to his lips, holding it there through a reverent, closed-eye kiss.

"Well, ah-hem. I, ah..." Sir Lionel crooked an eyebrow and turned to Michael, winking. "I would say perhaps this calls for another round, what?"

Bennett reluctantly stepped away from Summer and bowed stiffly to Sir Lionel. "Please excuse my impertinence, sir. I came straightaway when I heard the astonishingly good news, and I guess I have not quite had enough time to absorb it."

"Nonsense, m'boy," Sir Lionel exclaimed. "Quite all right. Quite all right. Wilkins—pour the commodore a drink. We shall let our next toast be to impertinence...and to the sorry lack of it in my dear family's absence."

Summer was genuinely surprised. "Commodore?"

"Why, yes." Bennett smiled. "The promotion was waiting for me when I arrived back in Bridgetown."

Sir Lionel chuckled. "You could say it was an engagement gift from your godfather, Admiral Stonekipper. Neither he nor I could see the use of having a mere captain for a son-in-law."

Summer bit her lip. She had made no mention of having formally accepted Bennett's proposal of marriage, either by letter to her father, or by verbal agreement with Bennett himself. She exchanged a glance with Michael, who looked as surprised as she by the news.

The glasses were filled and more toasts made. Summer recovered sufficiently to take a seat on the divan but her thoughts were tumbling around so fast she found it difficult to concentrate on any of the conversations swirling around her. The sight of Bennett had brought back the memory of those long hours spent drifting on the raft. Hope of seeing him again had kept her fighting to stay alive through many of those terrible hours. Now here he was, standing before her in his crisp naval uniform of dark blue coat and white breeches, the high gleaming black knee boots, the ropes of gold braid, the handsome face and neatly clubbed blonde hair. He was the man she had traveled halfway around the world to be with, truth be told, whether she had formally agreed to the marriage or not.

And yet...

And yet...

She shivered as a ghostly finger traced a soft path down the back of her spine. Morgan Wade's finger. Morgan Wade's soft laughter in her ear. Morgan Wade's powerful body crushing her close.

"Are you alright, my dear?"

Summer looked up, startled. "What? Oh. Yes. Yes, Father, I'm fine."

"Just happy to be home, are you?"

"Yes," she said, forcing a smile. "Just happy to be home."

 

 

Four days after their triumphant return, Summer and Michael were summoned to the library. Sir Lionel was clearly agitated as he waited for them to take a seat. Commodore Winfield was present also, but although Summer glanced askance, his face gave no hint as to why the meeting had been called.

She had thus far managed to avoid being alone with Bennett, using headache or exhaustion as her usual excuse to flee to her room if it looked as though she was going to be cornered. It was a reaction she, herself, could scarcely understand. Bennett was here, and she was still the same Summer Cambridge who had left England wanting a fine home, fine parties, elegant clothes, servants to see to her every whim, and a handsome, dashing husband by her side.

A few hot nights on a tropical island could not have changed all that. Surely not.

"Is this important, Father?" she inquired casually. "I have promised to go shopping with Judith Gaile this afternoon."

Sir Lionel harrumphed to clear his throat. "Well, quite frankly, I do not know how important this is. It concerns the note we received prior to your arrival home the other day."

Summer frowned. "The note?"

"The one sent by Captain S. Roarke."

Summer moistened her lips and folded her hands neatly in her lap to keep them from trembling. "Yes. He thought it better to warn of our arrival ahead of time rather than have us simply appear on the doorstep. Was that wrong?"

"No, no. I am not questioning the man's conduct...er, not entirely that is."

"Then what are you questioning, Father?"

Sir Lionel frowned. He paced the length of the oval carpet, stopping to meet Bennett's gaze before proceeding. "Frankly, I am questioning just who the deuce this Mr. S. Roarke is, and where he hails from. I inquired at the Colonial Offices to ascertain where I might forward a case of excellent brandy by way of thanks, along with an invitation to meet so that I might offer my heartfelt thanks in person. Imagine my surprise when I was told no one had ever heard of the man. You say his ship, the Vigilant, picked you up off Saint Barthelemy, yet he is not listed as one of the island's British residents. When I then searched the ship's title, I found she was not even on the official registry. What do you say to that, my dear?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Summer saw Michael squirm lower into the cushions of the chair as if he could make himself invisible.

"I would say, Father," she answered quietly, "that he would not be on the British registry because his ship was not an English vessel."

"Ah-hah! Correct! And did you not think it an important detail to mention that he was a bloody American privateer?"

"Forgive me, Father. I thought I had."

"No. No, you had not. A fine omission to make, indeed," he said, spitting a bit of froth from the corner of his mouth. "Do you not see how this places me in a seriously awkward position? The relationship between our two countries becomes more strained by the day. The bloody Americans are adamant about their right to trade freely with whomever they choose—and lately they have been choosing France. France, I say."

He harrumphed loudly again and paced back and forth. He looked to Bennett for guidance, but the commodore was more intent on watching the subtle changes on Summer's face.

"Three weeks in the hands of one of those American scoundrels...I suppose he plagued you with all manner of questions about our government, our policies, our preparations in the event of war?"

"Oh no, Father," Michael said hastily. "Mr. Roarke wasn't like that at all. He did not ask us a single question that would have been uncomfortable or disloyal to answer."

"No? Then I suppose he tried to instill his own philosophies into you? All of this drivel about free trade and sailor's rights?"

"N-no sir. The only thing Mr. Roarke tried to teach me was how to properly read the wind and clouds and how to judge the water currents by the changing colors, and..."

"Yes, yes, all very interesting I am sure."

"Well, it was, sir," Michael said defensively. "Mr. Roarke says it is all important to know if a man wants to go to sea."

"You want to go to sea, do you? Even after what you and your sister went through?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Roarke says you have to...to grab your fear by the throat and choke the life out of it, otherwise it will rule your life forever. He says he learned that lesson long ago from Captain Treloggan, and if anyone should know about—"

"Treloggan?" Sir Lionel interrupted with an audible gasp. "The man is associated with Bull Treloggan?"

Michael's lips moved for a moment without sound, then pressed shut. He saw the stricken look on Summer's face and his cheeks turned ruddy. Before he could even think of what to say, Bennett Winfield interjected an exclamation of his own.

"S. Roarke!" His pale blue eyes flicked from Michael to Summer and widened as if two disjointed thoughts had suddenly been connected to solve a puzzling riddle. "S. Roarke. The S wouldn't happen to stand for Stuart, would it?"

"Good God, man." Sir Lionel frowned. "What is it? You look as if you just saw a ghost."

"Not a ghost, Sir Lionel. Believe me, he is very real."

"Who? Who the blazes are you talking about? Who is Stuart Roarke? Will someone kindly tell me what is going on, and why everyone suddenly looks as if they have just choked over a piece of Mrs. Brockman's pie?"

"I am at a loss as to why I failed to make the connection as soon as I read the note," Bennett said harshly. "How many S. Roarkes can there be in the islands?"

"Obviously more than I am aware of," Sir Lionel huffed. "Speak plainly, sir."

"Plainly speaking," Bennett said tersely, "Stuart Roarke is Morgan Wade's right hand man. His first officer, if you will."

"Wade! What the deuce has any of this to do with Morgan Wade?"

Summer broke the fierce hold of Winfield's gaze and turned calmly to address her father. "I do beg your pardon for the confusion, Father, and the answer is quite simple, really. It was not Mr. Roarke who picked us up after the Sea Vixen floundered. He brought us home, true enough, but it was Captain Wade who found us and rescued us from drowning."

Sir Lionel's eyes bulged out of their creases. "Why the devil was I not told this upon the instant?"

"We thought it would spare you some of the anxiety you appear to suffering this very moment," Summer said. "We had every intention of telling you...eventually...we just thought we should wait for a better time."

"There is no better time," her father declared. "No worse time either, for that matter. My God...Morgan Wade! Of all the rogues who sail all the seas, you had to be rescued by him!"

"It was not by choice," Summer said quietly.

"His ship had been damaged against a reef in the same storm," Michael said, his courage to speak rising in defense of his sister. "We sort of bumped into each other. He wasn't exactly thrilled to see us, but Captain Wade saved us from certain death. There were sharks and all manner of awful creatures swimming around us."

"His ship?" Sir Lionel leaned heavily against his desk. "You were taken on board the Chimera? On board an armed gun-runner? Bennett—" He waved a hand toward the sideboard. "Rum, if you please, and forgo the nicety of diluting it with water."

"At the time we would have been grateful to see Blackbeard himself," Summer said, "if it meant being warm and dry again."

"Yes, yes, daughter, but...Morgan Wade!"

"Was he anywhere near the Sea Vixen?" Bennett asked tautly. "Either before or after the storm?"

"No, sir." Michael said firmly. "We were adrift for a day and a night before he found us, and afterward he went straightaway to a port on Saint Martin to try to repair his ship."

Sir Lionel clutched the edge of the desk and nearly swooned. "He took you to a leper colony?"

"Oh, no, sir! No. We did not actually go in to the port. He anchored a very safe distance outside the harbor and stayed only long enough to rig up a patch for the hull. No one was allowed to leave the ship, and no one came aboard the Chimera."

Sir Lionel accepted the glass of rum from Winfield and downed it in two noisy gulps, after which he swabbed the beaded moisture from his brow. "Yes, and then what? Go on, boy. Saint Martin...and then where?"

"Sir?"

"Where did he take you from there?" Bennett asked leveling his gaze on Michael.

"N-north, sir."

"North?"

"Yes, sir. He did not tell us where he was taking us, but I knew from the position of the sun that we traveled north."

"And how did the bounder treat you?" Sir Lionel demanded. "Did he know who you were?"

Summer was amazed at how calm she sounded. "In truth, he treated us quite well. He was informed of Michael's identity at once, and while we assumed...well, I assumed...that he meant to hold us to ransom, that was not the case. He was preoccupied with his ship most of the time and in a hurry to reach his home port to carry out the repairs properly."

Bennett turned to stare at her again. "He took you to Bounty Key?"

It was asked with such an edge of frost on the words, that Summer moistened her lips and smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on her skirt before she answered. "If that is the name of his island, then yes. That was where he took us."

Bennett held her in his cold stare a moment longer then strode to a large chart of the Caribbean that hung on the paneled wall. "Come, boy," he ordered Michael. "Show me where it is."

Michael shook his head. "I don't know, sir. All we know is that it was a six day sail from Saint Martin."

"Did you happen to hear mention of any other islands you may have passed?"

"North, sir." Michael's voice cracked with nervousness. "That is all I know. We sailed north."

"In daylight hours? Was he under full sail or half? Eight knots? Ten? Did he trim his speed at night, or did he take advantage of the darkness to confuse you? I need to know more than just north, boy."

"If he knew more, he would tell you," Summer said angrily. "We had both just survived a very frightening ordeal. Neither of us was too concerned about speed or direction. We wished only to land in a safe port and find our way home. But why ask us where his home port is? Surely you, Commodore, must have a better idea of where it is than a twelve-year-old boy should?"

The pale blue eyes drilled into her, not the least pleased by her sarcasm. "It does not appear by name on any charts that we have. We do not even know to which chain of islands it belongs. He strikes with the speed of a cobra then vanishes back under his rock without a trace."

"Then I would suggest the poor seamanship of those who have tried to follow him that is to blame for the navy's ignorance, sir, not ours."

"Now, now." Sir Lionel held up a hand to moderate. "My daughter is correct, Winfield. "They are neither one of them sailors and if 'north for six days' is the best they have to offer, then it is a vast improvement over no knowledge whatsoever, eh what?"

Bennett reined his temper in with an effort. "Of course. You are absolutely correct, Sir Lionel. My apologies, Miss Cambridge, Master Cambridge. The man has been a thorn in my side for nearly two years, and I merely hoped...." He stopped, offered a curt bow, and ended the thought there.

It was Sir Lionel, after pouring himself another generous helping of rum, who touched upon another tender matter. "Six days, you say? And you were treated with...respect?"

Summer was still bristling. "Are you asking me a question, sir?"

"Wade's reputation as an officer and a gentleman is somewhat clouded, my dear."

"Then allow me to un-cloud it," she said quietly. "We were treated with the utmost respect on board the Chimera. Captain Wade put us in his own cabin. He fed us well and clothed us and, as you can see, we have been returned to you healthy and unharmed."

"I was even permitted to help on deck with some of the lesser chores," Michael added. "It was jolly fun."

The piercing blue eyes were focussed on Summer, having noted the faint blush in her cheeks, and the tightness in her knuckles where she clasped her hands together on her lap.

"I'm sure you can imagine how the gossips will take delight in exaggerating your ordeal beyond all proportions," he murmured, "adding their own speculations as to what actually occurred on board the privateer's ship."

"Good God, he's right," said Sir Lionel, swabbing his brow again. "People will assume the worst, especially if the scoundrel brags about having had my son and daughter at his mercy for nigh on a fortnight. Indeed, he had no need to hold either of you to ransom. He can make a laughingstock out of us all without even demanding a copper groat."

Summer could not hold her tongue any longer. She stood and faced both men squarely. "Not so much as a week has gone by since you believed Michael and I to be dead and rotting somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. We stand before you today—alive and remarkably healthy—and your foremost concern does not appear to be how to show your gratitude to the man who saved us, but rather if our survival will now cast a shadow over the good Cambridge name."

The governor held up his hands. "Now, Daughter, we are only concerned for your welfare."

"My welfare, Father?"

"Well...surely you can see how being obligated to the rogue places me in a deuced awkward position. Especially since we have been trying to run him to ground for the past several years."

"I can see why you might have preferred a ransom demand. At least then you could have refused to pay if the goods were damaged in any way."

"Now, Daughter—"

"Please do not 'now daughter' me. If my reputation is your main source of concern, you may rest easy. The world will not hear a thing from the lips of Captain Wade; he had no idea I was your daughter."

"What? What's that you say?"

"For that you may thank Michael. He reasoned that if ransoming us back to you was indeed among the captain's motives, it would be far less ruinous to admit to only one of us being a Cambridge."

"Well, who the blazes did he think you were?"

"I told Captain Wade that Summer was my governess," Michael said. "He hardly paid her a second thought."

Bennett looked to Summer. "Is this true?"

"He never even asked me my name," Summer said quietly, turning to gaze out the window.

Sir Lionel guffawed. "He had no idea who you were? And this man, Roarke, he knew nothing either?"

"No, Father, he knew nothing. He brought his ship into port at Speightstown and was happy to send us on our way. For all I know he is halfway home again by now. I hardly saw or spoke to him during the time we were on board the Vigilant. And before you ask, he did not take a direct route home. We came an entirely different way, changing directions several times. He took the same number of days to bring us home as the captain did to carry us away, even though his ship, the Vigilant, was much lighter and faster."

The commodore acknowledged Roarke's astuteness with a slight nod. The two men fell into a thoughtful silence, weighing everything that had been said over the past few minutes. Sir Lionel's eyebrows rose and fell as he held a discussion with himself, considering this strategy, dismissing that one. Bennett looked as if he had a thousand more questions but in deference to Sir Lionel, was holding most of them in check.

Most, not all.

"Why didn't Wade simply drop you at a friendly port?" he asked. "Why risk discovery by taking you back to Bounty Key?"

It was a logical question and one that Summer had anticipated. Indeed, Michael had initially played the role of spy just so that they might be able to say: He was in a hurry, Father, because his hold was full of guns and powder which he proposed to run through the blockade along the American coastline.

"Michael already told you why," she said quietly. "The Chimera was damaged in the storm. He could not afford to stop. As for why he sent us home with Mr. Roarke," she paused and tossed a quick glance back over her shoulder, "I expect it was because he knew the manner of thanks he would receive had he done so himself."

"I would have blown him and his damned ship out of the water," Bennett said archly.

"The Northgate tried that, sir," Michael blurted without thinking, "and it didn't work."

"I beg your pardon? The Northgate?"

Michael bit his lip and glanced at Summer, who, apart from closing her eyes and giving her head a little shake, continued to stare out the window. She knew how all of these 'new' revelations must sound, and she could not blame her father or Bennett for losing patience.

"Well, boy? Speak up. What about the Northgate?"

"Th-the Northgate opened fire on the Chimera. She was behind an island and Captain Wade did not see her until it was too late to avoid a confrontation."

"Are you certain it was a full broadside and not just a warning shot across the bow?"

"Not unless a warning shot is comprised of thirty guns fired all at once, sir," Michael said. "And he fired three times, three full broadsides."

"Good God...you were on board when this happened?" Sir Lionel's eyes were bulging and his jaw had gaped open. "The ship was fired upon while you were on board?"

"We...had been sent below, sir," Michael said truthfully, wisely choosing not to mention that they had been in the water trying to escape at the time. "And it was over before it really began. Captain Wade only managed to fire off one round before he was able to get away."

"That hardly sounds like Morgan Wade to tuck tail and run," Bennett remarked dryly.

"He was worried about the hole in his keel, sir. The patch he had put on in Saint Martin did not hold and the ship was not responding well. I don't think he wanted to run, but he had little choice."

"Are you telling us that Wade's ship was visibly crippled? And the Northgate made no effort to follow?"

Michael thought about his answer for a moment then simply said, "Yes, sir. That is exactly what I am telling you."

"Who is the captain of the Northgate?" Sir Lionel demanded.

"A man named Forbes, I believe," Bennett said. "He has her out on patrol and is not due back in port for several more weeks."

"Well, sir, I will have an explanation from him when he does return," Sir Lionel huffed. "The danger to my children aside, he should have shown better judgment than to open fire without due provocation. The bloody Americans are prickly enough as it is without giving them cause to declare open war."

"I would have done exactly the same thing," Bennett said bluntly. "Only I would not have let the bastard get away. To that end I, too, will be demanding an explanation from Forbes when he returns."

Sir Lionel scowled as he turned to Summer. "This Roarke chap, was he also on board the Chimera at the time?"

"No, Father. He was on Bounty Key, recovering from a wound."

Sir Lionel twisted the end of his moustache as he pondered. "The fact we have heard nothing about this confrontation until now means he did not lodge a formal complaint with the Admiralty while he was in Speightstown. Had he done so, it would have caused quite the uproar."

"Wade could hardly scream foul when he has been guilty of doing much the same thing for several years now." Winfield said through a smirk. "His protest would be laughed out of any court of law."

"By the same token," said Sir Lionel, returning to practical matters, "this fellow Roarke's presence in Speightstown raised no undue alarm. It means his association with Morgan Wade is not generally known."

Winfield nodded. "I don't imagine there are more than five people on this island who even know Stuart Roarke exists."

"Then how the blazes did you know?"

Bennett waved away the question. "It isn't important. What is important is that it is to our advantage now to maintain his anonymity. If we handle this correctly, it becomes entirely plausible that the less-pleasant aspects of this entire affair will go undiscovered. People are simply relieved and rejoicing that you have your son and daughter home safe."

"The truth will out, it always does," the governor grumbled. "What's done is done and cannot be undone."

"What, exactly, has been done?" Bennett arched an eyebrow. "Your son and my fiancée have been returned safely home by a gentleman identified only as Mr. S. Roarke. Morgan Wade's part in this need never come to light."

"You want us to lie about who rescued us?" Michael was aghast, his visions of glory fading before his eyes. "You mean we can't ever tell anyone we were on board the Chimera? Or that Morgan Wade himself leaped into the sea and battled sharks to save us?"

"Not unless you want your sister to suffer the consequences," Bennett reiterated crossly. "Not unless you want your father to endure the ridicule of his political rivals."

"No, of course not, sir," Michael murmured, his shoulders sagging.

"Speaking for myself," Summer said, turning at last from the window, "I am not the frail soul you are painting me to be. I would not perish on the mere speculations of a handful of rumor-mongers."

"Nevertheless, Daughter, there is more to think about here than your own well-being. Or have you forgotten that your fiancé has a brilliant career ahead of him in the Royal Navy? D'you think he should be burdened with a scandal as promising as the likes of this one, if it can be at all avoided?"

"I think...perhaps...if the Commodore is at all concerned over any possible scandal attached to me or my name," she said haltingly, "he should know that I would not hold him to any arrangements that may have been made. I would understand completely if he wished to have the engagement dissolved. No formal banns have been read. Indeed, no formal proposal has even been made. Perhaps Commodore Winfield and I should both take more time to reconsider our situations."

"Nonsense," Sir Lionel snorted. "Appearances are of the utmost importance here. Much has been said about you and Bennett being engaged. Why, at the funeral services, he was as distraught as any husband could have been. If the wedding is postponed or cancelled, tongues will wag us all into perdition."

Summer disregarded her father and looked calmly at Bennett. "You are not bound by any obligation to go through with this betrothal, sir. I will not hold you to any commitment made or implied and I would understand completely your wish to avoid any present or future scandal against your good name."

Winfield hesitated a fraction longer than was comfortable, but in the end, he stepped forward and took one of Summer's hands in his.

"I am quite willing and able to defend your good name as well as mine unto death, Miss Cambridge," he said quietly. "And I am bound by far more than just words and conventions. I am bound by my heart and my soul to take you as my wife. If you harbor doubts, if you wish to take a week or a month or a year to make your final decision, so be it...but it will not change mine."

Summer felt a chill sweep along her spine. The pale blue eyes held the same degree of sincerity as they had those warm nights in London when he had dazzled her with his charm and taken her breath away. Yet something was different now. Very different. There was no innocent flush of eagerness in her cheeks, no spidery thrills of anticipation racing through her limbs at his touch. She knew the reason. It would be the same reason that a week or a month or a year would do nothing to erase. But what choice did she have? What choice did any woman have who had been pampered and spoiled and raised to be nothing more than an ornament on a man's arm. She was trapped by convention just as surely as Bennett was trapped by his own strict code of honor.

If she refused, people would surely wonder why. She would be ruined. Her father's reputation and career would suffer, as would Michael's future prospects.

What choice, indeed, did she have?

Summer felt curiously detached as she heard herself accepting her fate. She saw her father dab the linen across his brow in relief, and she saw him nearly rip the bell pull off the wall as he called for the finest champagne the cellars had to offer. She felt Bennett's lips brush against her hand, and in the split second when their eyes met and held, she did indeed feel another chill skitter down her spine. It was caused by the utter and complete coldness in the depths of the blue eyes and by the compressed tightness of his smile—a smile so fake and emotionless that it sent her heart plummeting into the pit of her belly.