One

OCTOBER 24, 1825
LONDON, ENGLAND

CERYNISE EDLYN KENDALL stood at the lofty windows of the front parlor and, through a wealth of tears, gloomily observed the people scurrying along the lane traversing Berkeley Square. They seemed in urgent haste to find shelter before the gathering clouds sent a torrent of rain down upon them. The chilling gusts that accompanied the glowering sky buffeted both young and old, male and female, puckishly snatching cloaks and redingotes of passersby who were put to task keeping top hats, fashionable bonnets or their flyaway wraps in place. Cheeks and noses were brightened to a reddish hue, and shivers came from those more lightly clad. For the most part, the city’s inhabitants were making their way with varying degrees of eagerness or resignation to family and homes or to more lonely existences. They gave little heed to the comfort awaiting them or, for that matter, how fragile life really was.

A large porcelain clock, artfully adorned with figurines, delicately chimed the fourth hour on the marble mantel in the parlor. Cerynise clenched her slender hands together in the gently gathered fullness of her skirt, burrowing them into the stiff, black taffeta as she struggled valiantly against an encroaching grief. As the tinkling of the timepiece quieted, she stilled the urge to glance over her shoulder with the same expectancy that had become ingrained by the ritual of tea of which she and her guardian, Lydia Winthrop, had partaken daily for the last five years. The suddenness of the woman’s death had stunned Cerynise, and even now, she found it difficult to accept. Lydia had seemed so vivacious and energetic for a woman approaching seventy. Even on the night of her death, her wit and humor had nigh sparkled in contrast to the dour sullenness of her great-nephew, who had come to call upon her that evening. Yet, however much Cerynise wished otherwise, Lydia was dead and buried. Only yesterday Cerynise had stared fixedly at the mahogany casket while final prayers were being spoken for the repose of the woman’s soul. To her wearied mind, it now seemed an eternity had passed since a handful of dirt, signifying man’s return to ashes and dust, was scattered over the descending coffin. That kind, loving woman whom Cerynise had come to love as her protectress, confidante, surrogate parent and dearest friend was now forever gone from her sight and company.

Despite Cerynise’s efforts to banish her sorrow, soft lips trembled back from fine, white teeth as a new rush of tears welled up to blur the thickly fringed hazel eyes. Never again would the two of them enjoy delightful little chitchats over brimming cups and crumpets or sit together in the evening before a cheery, heartwarming fire while Cerynise read aloud to the elder from a treasured book of verse or fiction. The sitting room would no longer be imbued with the lilting strains of melodies which Cerynise had sung while Lydia played the pianoforte. Neither would they traverse a bustling strand together nor share their thoughts while strolling along the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, nor would they simply enjoy the presence of the other in the peace and serenity of the glade. Forever gone would be her guardian’s gentle support, which, despite the obstacles of society, had bolstered a young girl’s dream of becoming a great painter, to the extent that exhibits had been held and paintings had been sold for goodly sums to wealthy patrons, albeit under an element of secrecy with only the initials CK hinting of the artist’s identity. Even now, as poignant memories brought ever-freshening waves of grief sweeping over her, Cerynise could almost imagine the tall, slender, black-garbed silhouette of the elder standing a short distance behind and to the right of her easel as she had oftentimes done while Cerynise painted and, in her rather husky voice, reminding her ward to always be true to herself no matter what.

Cerynise’s despair and loneliness were more than she seemed capable of bearing at the moment. She felt completely drained and weak. It was not at all surprising to her that the room seemed to tilt unnaturally, leaving her swaying on her feet and blinking against an encroaching dizziness. In desperation she clutched the window frame for support and rested her brow against the cool, dark wood until gradually the feeling subsided. She had eaten very little since Lydia’s death, managing to down nothing more than a few sips of broth and a dry wedge of toast. What sleep she had finally gleaned in her bedchamber upstairs wasn’t worth noting. Still, she doubted her ability to find ease from her sorrow even now, though she knew that Lydia wouldn’t have wanted her to be unduly distressed by her untimely departure. The elder had once offered a world of comfort and compassion to a frightened twelve-year-old girl who, at the time, had just lost her parents in a devastating storm that had sent a large tree crashing down upon their home. Cerynise had blamed herself for not being there to save them, but Lydia, who had grown up in the area and been childhood friends with Cerynise’s grandmother, whose own death had preceded her daughter’s by several years, had gently led the girl to understand that she, too, would have been killed had she not been away attending a young lady’s academy. No matter the hardships one had to face, the elder had counseled her solicitously, life had to go on. Lydia would have expected her to remember that now.

Yet it was so terribly hard, Cerynise groaned inwardly. If Lydia had been ill even one day of those five years or if there had been some kind of warning, then the whole household would have been better prepared, but as much as it might have forewarned her, Cerynise would never have wished a long, debilitating illness on the elder. No, if the hand of death could not have been stayed, then the fact that Lydia had succumbed in such seemingly good health was truly a blessing, however much it had shocked the young woman who had loved her in life and now grieved her passing.

Raindrops began to pelt the windows and trickle down the glass in quickening runnels, drawing Cerynise’s thoughts back to the present. With a storm closing in upon the city, the street was now nearly devoid of pedestrians. Only a few hastened by to find shelter. Carriages continued to pass, their drivers hunched deep in their dapper liveries as they squinted against the droplets.

Soft footfalls came into the parlor, and Cerynise glanced around to meet the reddened eyes of the parlor maid who, like the other members of the household staff, was sorely lamenting the demise of her mistress.

“Yer pardon, Miss Cerynise,” the servant murmured, “I was wonderin’ if ye’d be wantin’ tea now that ye’re back?”

Cerynise had no interest in taking sustenance, but the tea would perchance warm her after her graveside visit. She had gotten so chilled to the bone from the unseasonably cold weather presently thwarting them that she could only foresee it as a dreadful harbinger of what the approaching winter would be like.

“Tea will be fine, Bridget. Thank you.” Her syllables were softened by a subtle drawl characteristic of her Carolina birthplace which her sojourn in England had barely changed. Amid a profusion of other studies, her tutors had diligently sought to instruct her in proper English diction and etiquette, but having considered none of them as wise or as brilliant as her own studious parents, Cerynise had enjoyed frustrating their efforts to correct her speech like some precocious child who was wont to tease her elders. Though she could assume a stiltedly refined speech that could fool the keenest ears when it met her mood, she had stubbornly refused to become a foreigner to her homeland, for she had made up her mind even before departing the Carolinas that someday she would return.

The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, relieved to have something to occupy her, for the house had grown somber and deathly still in the last few days, as if it too mourned the loss of its mistress. At times, Bridget could almost imagine she could hear the uniquely rasping voice that had, for some years now, filled her life with cheer and kindness.

A tea cart, laden with a silver tea service and Meissen china, was soon pushed into the parlor. Accompanying the steeped brew was a plate of scones adorned with creamy butter and a crystal server of strawberry preserves to tempt the palate.

With a pensive sigh Cerynise left the window and took a seat on one of a pair of matching settees that faced each other before the fireplace. Bridget rolled the cart near and, with another polite bob, took her leave. Cerynise’s hands trembled as she lifted the teapot, filled a cup, and added cream and sugar, a small concession which she had made to English custom, but one she particularly enjoyed. She considered the scones, having every intention of eating one, but after taking the bread onto her plate, it suddenly lost its appeal. She could do nothing more than stare at it. Between resolution and actual compliance, there loomed a chasm that, for the life of her, she couldn’t seem to cross.

I’ll eat it later, Cerynise promised herself and, with a shudder of distaste, set the plate aside. Lifting the cup, she tasted the concoction, hoping it would calm her stomach as well as her nerves. It wasn’t long before she found herself at the windows again, sipping the tea as she looked out upon the elegant Mayfair district in which they lived. Beyond the limitations of her view, the world seemed so vast and untamable that the enormity of her sense of loss gave her cause to wonder how she could wisely make the best of her circumstances now that she was alone and no more than ten and seven years of age.

Cerynise closed her eyes against the dull ache that had been brewing in her head since her return home, no doubt caused by tension and endless hours without sleep. The pain in her temples progressed into a constant throbbing until it seemed that every hairpin in her hair had no other purpose but to intensify her discomfort. Setting the teacup aside, she grew more purposeful and began to search out the offending pins, freeing them from the intricately coiled knot on top of her head and raking her fingers through her hair until the thick, softly curling tresses tumbled in free abandon over her shoulders and down her back. The torment persisted with unrelenting vengeance, seeming to pierce her brain until Cerynise felt compelled to seek another form of relief. She began to massage her scalp, giving little heed to how she ruffled the pale-streaked tawny mane that adorned it or, for that matter, that she was in the formal parlor, where proper dress was usually the rule. Only servants were in the house, and although Lydia’s great-nephew was inclined to drop in unannounced at odd and sundry times, he hadn’t seen fit to come to the funeral. In fact, the last time he had visited, he had been so vexed with the elder when he left that he had raged at her and vowed that he wouldn’t be back for a fortnight. That had been a mere three days ago.

The pounding ache in her head began to ease to a more tolerable level, allowing Cerynise to think more clearly about her future. She began to pace restlessly about the parlor as she tried to put her life into clear perspective. She had one remaining relative, and that was an uncle living in Charleston. He had been a bachelor all of his life, having preferred his books and studies over marriage and a family, yet Cerynise suffered no uncertainty that he would welcome her back with open arms. Prior to her departure, he had assured her that, had he not doubted his ability to nurture her as a knowledgeable parent and teach her all that a woman should know, he would never have let her go, but after carefully considering the advantages she would reap living with the older woman, he had acquiesced to Lydia’s suggestion and, with brimming tears, had urged his niece to go to England, study art and languages, learn everything that an elegant lady should be cognizant of, and then come back a polished gem. However far away, Sterling Kendall was her one sure haven.

At least, she wouldn’t have to worry about money for a while, Cerynise mused with a measure of relief. With what her paintings had already gained in coin, she could live very comfortably while she created others. Charleston had its own share of wealthy planters and merchants, many of whom were avid collectors of art. Still, they might not be as enthusiastic about her work if they were to learn that the artist was hardly more than an unknown, and a girl to boot. To be reasonably successful there, it seemed advisable for her to find another representative who’d be willing to sell her paintings without lifting the cloak of mystery from her identity. Considering what she had already earned, she didn’t think it would be too difficult to interest an enterprising art dealer in performing such a service.

Cerynise halted her pacing abruptly, momentarily startled by the reflection the long gilded mirror hanging in the entrance hall cast back at her. Her disheveled appearance was certainly unexpected here in the front parlor, but what she found even more amazing was the fact that, with her long, softly variegated hair curling wildly about her shoulders, she looked closely akin to a wild-haired Gypsy girl, albeit a well-garbed one.

Her head tilted aslant on a gracefully long neck as she perused herself with critical detachment, wondering if her uncle would find her changed much after her lengthy absence. When he had watched her sail away, she had been nothing more than a scrawny girl painfully conscious of her height. Now she was a woman fully grown, still taller by a few degrees than a fair share of her gender, and although slender, she was well curved enough to have attracted a small following of young gallants who had begun to pester Lydia about the details of her coming out. With her recent lack of nourishment, her thickly fringed hazel eyes looked enormous beneath sweeping brows that angled upward in soft brown slashes. Her cheekbones were exquisitely high and perhaps, at the moment, more pronounced than usual, lending a slight hollowness beneath. Her nose was straight, slim, and fairly decent from her perspective, but little color remained in the soft lips that curved unsmilingly back at her.

Except for a tiny frothing of scalloped white lace overflowing the high, pleated ruffle at her neck and more of the same at her wrists, she was clothed entirely in black. Her fashionable spencer jacket of velvet, trimmed with black braid swirled military-fashion over her bosom, ended just above the waist. Her sleeves were puffed at the shoulders. Otherwise they were closely fitted, ending at the wrists with the black pleats lined with the same costly white lace. Her skirt bore festoons of decorative braid above the hem, the length of which was stylishly short, at least enough to display trim, stockinged ankles and flat slippers.

Wry amusement traced Cerynise’s lips as she finished assessing her image. She was sure that Lydia would have approved of her letting down her reserve as well as her hair in the front parlor. Although the elder had been every bit a lady, she had nevertheless been sensible enough to know when to observe proprieties and when to ignore them in deference to common sense and simple honesty. Cerynise couldn’t imagine herself having garnered much wisdom from all the tidbits of advice the woman had sown over the years if she hadn’t allowed that valuable grain of logic to take firm root.

Sounds of a carriage rattling to a halt in front of the Winthrop residence were immediately followed by a loud clapping of the front door knocker. The insistent rapping seemed to echo throughout the manse as the butler traversed the hall with his usual unhurried gait. As he did so, Cerynise hastily gathered her hair back into some semblance of restraint and secured the knot at her nape with hairpins. It certainly wouldn’t do for a genteel lady to greet guests looking like a hoyden.

A noisy clamor, liberally punctuated with feminine giggles, arose in the entrance hall, evidencing the disorderly entrance of the new arrivals. Before Cerynise could investigate, two men burst through the arched doorway of the parlor, followed by a harassed butler, who seemed rather appalled by their effrontery.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, miss,” Jasper apologized, his aging face etched with concern. “I would have announced the presence of Mr. Winthrop and Mr. Rudd, but they gave me no chance.”

“No need to fret, Jasper. It’s quite all right,” Cerynise assured him. She moved forward with well-feigned serenity, taking care to hide her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt. She knew Lydia’s nephew better than she cared to, despite the fact that whenever Alistair Winthrop had visited her guardian he had always demanded a private audience. He was tall and lank, seeming rather disjointed in his gangling limberness. His black hair had been slicked back from his face, and side-whiskers accentuated his gaunt features. In profile his thin nose seemed to slope in its descent, just barely protruding a degree or two beyond his sharply jutting chin. He was not a handsome man by any means, but he had obviously spent a goodly amount of coin on his personage, for he was garbed in a flamboyant fashion completely devoid of prudence.

His companion, Howard Rudd, was equal to him in height, but the man’s ponderous belly seemed to blaze a trail before him. His bulbous nose was darkened with broken veins, and a small purplish birthmark marred his left cheek. Although Cerynise hadn’t seen the barrister in two or three years, she distinctly recalled him slyly fingering every treasured piece within reach while awaiting admittance into Lydia’s private chambers. The gleam that had burned in his eyes during those times had seemed to betray a covetousness that had often caused her to wonder if he would make off with anything of value. Cerynise found it difficult to imagine that Lydia had continued to rely upon the man after such a lengthy absence, for it had been apparent from the fumes which had long ago enveloped him and were even now apparent that Howard Rudd was prone to liberally indulge in strong libations.

“Mr. Winthrop has always been welcome here, Jasper,” Cerynise began demurely, directing her attention to the butler. Lydia had always made a point of receiving her nephew with polite deference even when his arrival had proven an intrusion during the dinner hour or when guests were being entertained. The elder would have expected her charge to do the same. “And, of course, Mr. Rudd…”

Harsh, derisive laughter interrupted, and Cerynise faced Alistair, somewhat surprised by his rudeness. His strange way of walking had oftentimes made her wonder if the man had a rigid bone in his body, and she found herself again pondering his disconnected stride as he swaggered toward her with dark eyes glittering malevolently.

“How gracious of you, Miss Kendall,” he sneered, his wide mouth seeming as unmanageable as his body. “How very, very considerate you are.”

Cerynise tried to brace herself for what would follow, for she sensed it wouldn’t be enjoyable. Her meetings with the man had entailed nothing more lasting than passing each other in rooms or hallways. Nevertheless she had formed a rather low opinion of Alistair Winthrop. During her brief glimpses into his behavior, he had proven himself to be a conceited braggart, who seemed to think he had some claim to fame because he was the great-nephew of an enormously wealthy woman, even if it was only by marriage. Cerynise had oft suspected him to be a wastrel, but more than that, he had never shown the slightest regard for his aunt. Though Lydia had always remained mute about his reasons for calling, Alistair had usually left counting his new assets or else striding irately out berating her so-called closefisted stinginess, which he had done at the conclusion of his last visit. His name-calling had strengthened Cerynise’s aversion to the man, to the degree that she now considered it a true test of her acting skills to be able to maintain a gracious poise in his presence.

Alistair waved a pale, hairy hand in the lawyer’s direction as he paced in front of her. Loudly he commanded, “Tell her!”

Howard Rudd wiped the back of his own hand across his ever-drooling lips and stepped forward to comply. Before he could do so, a lewdly garbed young woman came flouncing into the parlor, streaming a brightly hued feather boa out behind her. Her bosom and hips were amply displayed, the first by a plunging neckline, the latter by the tightness of her gown. Her hair was piled high on her head in a mass of bright golden ringlets, a shade that might have been extremely difficult to find in nature. Black kohl lined her brown eyes, and a beauty patch dotted her right cheekbone above a heavy deposit of rouge, which, Cerynise surmised, closely matched the reddish tint that presently marred the whiteness of Alistair’s collar.

The woman wiggled up against her escort with a nervous little giggle. “Oh, Al, please don’t be mean ta me an’ make me wait in the hall anymore,” she crooned. Pursing her mouth in an exaggerated pout, she fluttered overlong lashes at him and stroked a hand caressingly over his waistcoat. “I ain’t ne’er been in a house what’s as grand as this, but I knows good manners when I sees ’em. Why, the servants ain’t offered me a chair or a sip o’ tea since we come in. Can’t I please, please stay in here with ye? I simply can’t bear ta be alone in that big ol’ hall. It gives me the creeps, thinkin’ yer poor ol’ aunt might’ve keeled o’er dead in there.”

Alistair snarled in exasperation and threw off her hand. “Oh, all right, Sybil! But mind you, you’re to keep still, understand? I want none of your caterwauling.”

“I hear ye, Al,” she replied with another nervous twitter.

Jasper sniffed and, dragging his gaze from the offending creature, lifted his beaked nose with lofty dignity as he gained Alistair’s glowering glare. Even so, he ignored the man and directed his query to his late proprietor’s ward. “Your pardon, miss, but should I stay?”

“Go!” Alistair barked, waving the butler away. “None of this concerns you!”

Jasper proved immobile until Cerynise inclined her head in a stilted nod, giving him leave to retire to another part of the house.

Alistair glared after the departing servant as if seriously tempted to chide him for an offense, but he dismissed the incident for more important matters and returned his attention to the counselor. “Continue, Mr. Rudd.”

The barrister drew himself up to his full height and, capturing Cerynise’s gaze, conveyed a concern apparently intended to emphasize the gravity of the moment. “Miss Kendall, you must be aware that I’ve had the honor of serving as Mrs. Winthrop’s solicitor for several years. It was I who drew up her last will and testament. I have it here with me.”

Cerynise gave him the same wary attention one might lend a snake threatening to strike as the man removed a sheaf of parchments from an inner pocket of his tailcoat and, with pompous ceremony, broke the seal. As hard as it was for her to fathom Lydia’s own continuing loyalty to Howard Rudd, he was here and obviously in possession of legal documents. Slowly she sank back into the nearest chair, her thoughts congealing. “Do you intend to read Mrs. Winthrop’s will now?”

“Has to be done,” Howard answered. “That’s the thing.” Still, he looked to Alistair for confirmation.

“Get on with it,” Alistair snapped, spreading his coattails fastidiously and lowering himself into a large armchair on the opposite side of the table from Cerynise. He gave the young woman a smug smile and began to toy with one of a pair of Meissen figurines that resided there.

Sybil wasn’t at all pleased by the attention her lover was bestowing upon the young lady and promptly deposited her ample rump on the wooden arm of his chair. Her eyes cast an icy glare toward the one sitting beyond the table as she wrapped a possessive arm around Alistair’s bony shoulders. He had failed to mention that his aunt’s ward was so fetching, yet she vividly recalled his arguments against her accompanying him. The memory of those angry protests confirmed in her mind that he hadn’t wanted her to come along simply because he had planned on doing things to the girl that he normally did with her in the privacy of his flat…and his bed

Howard Rudd cleared his throat, feeling sorely in need of a beverage to lubricate his vocal cords, but he knew that Alistair wouldn’t tolerate him taking another sip until their business was concluded. He unrolled parchments festooned with beribboned seals and scanned them. “Goes on a bit, it does. Small amounts to this one and that, mainly servants, distant kin, nothing of any significance. What really matters is that Mrs. Winthrop has left the bulk of her estate, including this house, its contents, and all of her assets, to her only kin, her nephew, Mr. Alistair Wakefield Winthrop. He is to take immediate possession.”

“Immediate?” Cerynise gasped. There had never been any reason to discuss such matters with her guardian, but she had always understood that Lydia cared for her deeply and would have allowed her time to prepare for a more orderly transition to other quarters or climes before handing over the house to another. Having been no relation to the woman, Cerynise hadn’t expected anything beyond that simple courtesy. Truly, it was impossible for her to imagine the elder being so callous and unconcerned about her ward that she would have overlooked the need for that small provision.

“Would you mind if I looked at the will?” she asked, hating the small tremor in her voice. She rose expectantly, holding out a hand to receive the papers.

Rudd hesitated, glancing toward Alistair for direction, and received a curt nod that casually authorized him to pass the document to the girl. Though Cerynise was no expert on such matters, she carefully inspected the pages of closely written script. To an unpracticed eye, the will appeared authentic. There was absolutely no question that Lydia’s initials verified each page of the text and that her signature elegantly embellished the last.

Distantly Cerynise was aware of the lawyer twitching uneasily as she perused the pages, and finally, when his patience wore thin, he stretched forth a hand to take them from her, motivating her to quickly skim downward. It was then that her eyes caught on the date beside Lydia’s signature, and with a start of surprise, she looked up at the man.

“But this was written six years ago.”

“That’s right,” Rudd replied, snatching the testament from her and rolling it up. “Nothing wrong with that. Plenty of people take care of such matters long before there’s a need. Very sensible of them.”

“But that was before my parents were killed and Lydia became my guardian. Under the circumstances, it seems that she would have rewritten her will—”

“To include you?” Alistair interrupted caustically. With an angry snort, he launched himself from his chair, nearly dumping Sybil onto the floor, and began prowling about the spacious room like some animal of prey, touching each piece of furniture, every costly knickknack, even the heavy damask draperies, as if driven by a compulsion to mark each article as his own. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Miss Kendall? You think my aunt should’ve left you something.”

Though her animosity toward the man rose up within her like the taste of bitter gall, Cerynise forced herself to speak with carefully measured calm. “I believe your aunt was very methodical about her business affairs and, since that seemed her nature, I can’t help but believe that she would’ve taken the initiative to revise her will whenever a situation of any importance changed around her. At the very least, she would have allowed me time to make arrangements for my departure before giving everything over into your possession.”

“Well, she didn’t!” Alistair declared hotly, thrusting his upper torso forward with an emphatic, angry movement. “She did enough for you while she was alive, and she damn well knew it! Letting you stay here all these years, catering to your every whim, clothing you in the best, putting out good money to sponsor those absurd exhibits for your paintings…Why, you should go down on your knees and thank heaven for my aunt’s generosity instead of whining that you weren’t given more time to waste my inheritance.”

Cerynise gasped, highly offended by his words. “I certainly didn’t expect to fall heir to any portion of her assets, Mr. Winthrop,” she explained crisply. “I merely meant that it seems odd that your aunt made no mention of me at all, despite the fact that I’m still underage. She was my legal guardian, or have you forgotten?”

Alistair smirked. “Perhaps dear Auntie thought she’d be done with you long before she passed on. She probably meant to marry you off to some wealthy gentleman and arrange for you to become someone else’s responsibility. I’m sure with her stamina, she really wasn’t expecting to die so soon.”

The hazel eyes blazed with fire behind silken black lashes. “If you had known your aunt at all, Mr. Winthrop,” Cerynise gritted out, “you’d understand that Lydia sincerely cared for people and didn’t brush them carelessly aside just to be rid of them.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think!” Alistair barked, tightening his grip on a delicate porcelain shepherdess. Cerynise fully expected to see the fragile piece break in his hand as he gestured with it to stress his assertions. “All that matters is the will! You heard what was decreed. I’m master here now, and what I say is law in this house!”

An elated titter erupted from Sybil, and she clapped her hands in eager delight, like a child enthralled with a puppet show. “That’s telling her, Al! Just oo’ does ’at chit think she is, anyway?”

“Obviously Miss Kendall thinks she’s a lady of consequence,” Alistair mocked, setting aside the shepherdess and advancing upon Cerynise with gleaming black eyes.

Instinctively Cerynise backed away. She didn’t know the man well enough to make any clear judgment as to what he might be capable of doing if angered, but she was certain he was no gentleman and would likely become violent if vexed. To her dismay, the settee halted her retreat, and she was forced to stand and meet his wildly gleaming eyes as he smirked at her.

Recognizing her fear, Alistair felt a surge of power. “But Miss Kendall is wrong again,” he said almost softly. “She’s no one at all, just a little beggar who has been coddling up to my aunt all these years for the purpose of extracting whatever favors she could from the old woman, like this gown she’s wearing.”

Reaching out, he grasped hold of the white lace lining the high ruff and gave it a jerk, wrenching a startled gasp from the girl as he ripped it free.

“Take your hands off me!” Cerynise cried, her rage kindling her courage as she flung away his arm. “You may own this house, sir, but you most certainly do not own me!”

Alistair’s lips angled upward in a confident leer as his dark eyes dipped caressingly to her bosom. She was, after all, such a tempting little thing. It would be a shame not to taste her. “That can change, my pretty little peach.”

“Al?” Sybil was instantly alert to his prurient imagination. She wasn’t at all acceptive to the notion that she might have to share him with a young wench who made her feel like a dumpy toad, for there was always the chance that he’d come to prefer the fresher tidbit over the one that had grown stale from use. It wasn’t that she cared for the roué overmuch. She was far more interested in how rich he was going to be. She pranced across the room and, with a little wiggle, wedged herself between the dueling glares of the two who stood toe to toe. She snuggled up against Alistair, reminding him of her generous curves. “Don’t bother yerself with that scrawny li’l milkweed, lovey,” she cooed, her bright red lips curving invitingly. “Yer Sybil is here just itchin’ ta make ye happy.”

Alistair chortled vindictively as he thought of a way to repay Cerynise for her haughty disfavor. Slipping an arm around his mistress, he smiled down into her heavily painted eyes. “How would you like some new clothes, Sybil?”

Her elated squeal would have been answer enough. “Oh, Al, do ye mean ye’re gonna buy me some?”

His bony shoulders slipped upward in a blasé shrug.

“Why should I buy you any when there’s a whole wardrobe awaiting you upstairs in my lady Cerynise’s chambers?”

Sybil’s face crumpled in disappointment. “But, Al! We ain’t the same size,” she complained. She couldn’t bring herself to openly admit that nearly everything about the younger woman, except her height, was either slimmer or smaller. “She’s too tall for li’l ol’ me.”

“Well, find her room upstairs and see what fits,” Alistair urged. “Surely, with what my aunt spent on the chit, there has to be something in her chambers you can wear. Now go!”

Accepting this logic, Sybil fairly twittered in glee as she flew out of the room. Her high heels clattered on the stairs, echoing throughout the house until the sound of doors being opened and slammed finally ended in an ecstatic screech.

Alistair was rather pleased with himself for having conceived of the idea. That fact was blatant on his face as he faced Cerynise. “Why, I do believe Sybil has found your bedchamber, m’lady.”

Cerynise gave him a coolly disdaining smile, the sort a mother might bestow upon a naughty child, deftly squelching his cocky arrogance. “When Sybil is done, may I be allowed to pack my belongings and leave? I’m sure I’ll be able to find a room at an inn until I can secure passage to the Carolinas.”

“You have no belongings!” Alistair railed. “Everything in this house is mine!”

“I beg to differ,” Cerynise replied stiffly, lifting her chin in growing obstinance. For all that she had led a sheltered life under Lydia’s supervision, she wasn’t without experience dealing with bullies. Her beloved father had been a schoolmaster, and while sitting in on more than a few of his classes, she had confronted a goodly share of immature males who had thought they could run roughshod over anyone younger, smaller, or weaker than themselves. Many had been spoiled by affluent parents and were wont to play mean, vicious pranks. Alistair Winthrop was definitely of that class. “My paintings are certainly my own and so is the money I earned from those that were sold.”

Rudd interjected with the confidence of an attorney who had recited his arguments well in advance. “When you painted, young lady, you used materials that were purchased by Mrs. Winthrop. She enlisted the aid of an instructor to teach you all the nuances of that field, and no doubt paid a hefty price for his service. In short, you were living under her roof, she was your guardian, and you were underage. It was she who arranged to exhibit your paintings, argued for the best price, and banked the resulting funds. Why, the paintings weren’t even signed with your name, merely CK. I know, because the exhibitors refused to shed any light upon the artist’s identity when I went to see them, saying only that Mrs. Winthrop had arranged for everything.” He paused briefly to wipe his glistening brow before he summed up his arguments. “Therefore, the actual owner of the paintings, as well as any profits from them, was none other than Mrs. Winthrop.”

Cerynise flushed in rising indignation. Regrettably, the man was right about everything but the last. It had been her talent that had merged the colored paints into realistic scenes of people going about their daily affairs in seascapes, landscapes and interiors. Oils and canvas were only that until an artist made something of them. Lydia had been mindful of the fact that the work of a mere girl would never have been taken seriously by wealthy patrons and had insisted that Cerynise’s identity remain a carefully kept secret. That had been her only reason for keeping everyone in the dark.

“Lydia was merely holding that money for me,” Cerynise declared hotly, but even to her own ears, her defense sounded feeble. “There was no reason for a separate account, and if I hope to sail home to Charleston, I’ll need the funds to buy passage on the next available ship.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if there had been a separate account,” Alistair retorted. “My aunt was your guardian. Everything you have belonged to her.…” He smiled tauntingly. “And now it belongs to me.”

“Oh, look at this!” Sybil squealed in delight, racing back into the room. She was wrapped in an evening cloak of heavy pink moiré silk, richly embroidered with garlands of rosebuds around the edges of the deep hood and the front opening. “Ain’t it a beauty?” Though she was in danger of tripping over the hem, Sybil whirled around to show off her new acquisition. She only wished that she would have been able to fit into the matching gown, but that had been impossible. “There’s a whole dressin’ room full o’ all kinds o’ pretty things. Why, I ne’er in all me born days seen the like. Bonnets! Slippers! Gowns galore! Pretty li’l lacy things ta wear underneath.” She tossed a laughing warble over her shoulder as she preened for Cerynise’s benefit. “How do I look in my new cloak?”

Cerynise couldn’t resist giving the rude hussy a suggestion. “Perhaps you’ll be able to patch the seams on the gown once you let them out.”

“Al!” Sybil cried, stamping her foot in outrage. “Ye gonna let her talk ta me like that?”

Alistair was decidedly guilty of having entertained similar thoughts after observing the plump strumpet prancing around in front of them. Her bright lips and rouge seemed to overwhelm the delicately hued garment, and as much as he had wanted to exact revenge on the girl for being so uppity, he was of a mind to suspect that, without major alterations, only her cloaks and outerwear could be utilized by Sybil.

His dark eyes wandered back to the prim beauty and casually caressed the soft, enticing curves that the mourning garb gently molded. Her back was straight, her head elevated, conveying an undaunted pride. She looked for all the world like a pale-haired goddess, and as much as he might have wished otherwise, it was a hard fact that Sybil suffered badly in comparison.

Cerynise’s nape prickled as she felt the weight of Alistair’s stare, and she peered up at him in sudden wariness. His wide lips twisted upward in a confident one-sided grin that made her skin crawl. Even before he paced forward with his strange disconnected gait, she had begun to suspect that his thoughts were not the sort a proper lady would invite.

“You needn’t distress yourself overmuch, Cerynise,” Alistair cajoled, reaching behind her head and freeing the thick knot of hair that she had hastily secured. “I can let you stay here in some capacity. I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out between us. Perhaps we’ll even become intimate friends.” Despite the coldness in the hazel eyes that watched him intently, he swept the curling length forward, allowing it to veil a rounded breast before his hand stroked downward over its silken strands.

Cerynise’s outrage reached its zenith, and with a snarl she raised both arms and shoved him away from her with all of her might. “You disgusting viper! Do you actually think I would consider being on intimate terms with you? You dare come here, prancing about like some handsome lordling who deserves all of this? Why, you’re nothing but a worm crawling out of your dark, dank hole to eat the flesh of poor innocents! I’ll rot before I stay here under your authority!”

Alistair’s eyes flared at her insults, and his face darkened to an ugly, mottled red as he hauled back an arm to strike. “I’ll teach you who is lord here!”

Howard leapt forward with a startled gasp and grasped his companion’s wrist. “Mark the girl, and she’ll have something to show the authorities when she goes to complain,” he cautioned anxiously. “Best to send her on her way without causing a stir, don’t you think?”

Alistair gave no indication that he had even heard the solicitor as his whole body shook with rage. It was a long moment before he regained some measure of control over himself and jerked free of Rudd. “Get out, bitch!” he bellowed. “You’re not worth the trouble it would take to teach you some manners!”

Cerynise could scarcely breathe as she whispered, “Most willingly. I’ll pack a few things and then be gone—”

“No, you won’t!” Alistair barked. “You’re going now!”

Seizing hold of her arm, he whisked her out into the main hall. Jasper was there, having kept a distant vigil. The butler glanced from one to the other in blank astonishment before he ventured haltingly, “Sir, I beg you…”

“I’m master here now!” Alistair asserted at the servant’s attempt to intrude. “If anyone disputes that, then he can go the way of this baggage.” Yanking open the door, he hauled Cerynise around and shoved her out of the portal with enough force to send her stumbling down the granite steps. He held the door aside in open invitation as his words further assailed the butler. “But consider well before you do! Positions are damn hard to come by, and not one of you will receive a reference!”

The dark eyes turned their blazing fury upon Cerynise, who blinked back at him against the driving rain. “Now get out of my sight while you still can, chit! Or I’ll have you arrested! Or better yet, sent to the madhouse!”

“Don’t think he can’t do it!” Rudd interjected, peering around the edge of the door. “He’s a man of property now, respected and all. You’re no one. Unless you want to find yourself in Bedlam, you’d better be off.” In the next instant the solicitor gasped in surprise and yanked his head back out of harm’s way as Alistair clasped the heavy portal and slammed it shut with a loud crack of finality.

Cerynise huddled against the crisp wind and wrapped her arms about herself as she sought to find some meager warmth and protection from the elements. Here she was, literally thrown out of the only home she had known for the last five years and threatened with worse consequences if she remained. As cold as it was and without a wrap to ease her misery, she’d likely suffer frostbite before she reached a place of shelter. Having taken her art seriously, she had never spared the time to culture close friendships with women her own age. Most had been far more interested in attracting husbands than she had been. As for Lydia’s friends, they were much older and probably incapable of coping with the sort of violence that Cerynise had just experienced. And who could actually say what Alistair Winthrop might be tempted to do if anyone intervened in her behalf. After her insult, she had glimpsed a wrath that had given her cause to fear the man. During that moment he had actually seemed to waver on the border of insanity. Whoever helped her would likely elicit similar reactions and no doubt severe repercussions. As much as she yearned for solace from an acquaintance, Cerynise couldn’t imagine involving anyone who would be susceptible.

Alistair might well have crossed over into an area of madness already…one had to consider that possibility. Yet, in this matter, he had the law on his side. As Lydia’s heir, he had every right to dispose of the Winthrop property in any manner he saw fit, including laying out a list of those who could or could not reside under his roof.

Dismally Cerynise stared up at the house, but her vision was now impeded by a mixture of tears and rain. Her grief over Lydia’s passing, coupled with her recent lack of nourishment and sleep, left her exhausted and little prepared for what would undoubtedly be a long walk through the city.

“Better get started,” she gritted dismally through lips already stiff from the cold. Unable to control her shivering, she began trudging down the street, knowing where she must go. With the rain and the deepening cold, it would be difficult, yet she had no other choice.

She had progressed only a short distance when the sound of running footfalls made her turn and look behind her. Bridget was clearly out of breath by the time she reached Cerynise. Before leaving the house, the parlor maid had paused long enough to sweep a heavy shawl around her. In her arms she carried her own woolen cloak, which she wrapped around the shivering girl.

“Oh, mum, this is terrible,” she fussed amid her weeping. Lifting a trembling hand, she wiped at the wetness trailing down her cheeks. “I could hardly believe it, ye bein’ set out o’ Mrs. Winthrop’s house without so much as a place ta go. Mr. Alistair can’t really do that, can he, mum?”

“I’m-m afraid h-he can, Bridget. Mrs. Winthrop’s will gives him that right.” Cerynise touched the maid’s hand gently with icy fingers. The raindrops falling on her face seemed just as frigid. “Y-you must go b-back. No one c-can afford to be dismissed w-without references. Now here…t-take your cloak…and g-go…”

She tried to drag the garment from her shoulders, but the maid shook her head. “Nay, mum. ’Tis yours now, as sorry as it be. Mrs. Winthrop gave me one o’ hers last Michaelmas. So’s ye see, mum, I’ve got a much finer one ta replace this ol’ rag.”

“Are y-you s-sure?” Cerynise queried, unable to stop her teeth from chattering.

“Aye, mum,” Bridget affirmed, nodding with unswerving conviction. “I might not be able ta leave Mr. Winthrop’s employ, but at least I can send ye away knowin’ I’ve done the best I can for ye.”

“Thank y-you, Bridget. You’re a dear friend,” Cerynise whispered, her eyes once again filling with moisture. “I shan’t forget you.”

Hastily the servant informed her, “Right after Mr. Jasper o’erheard what Mr. Winthrop was plannin’ ta do, he set us ta movin’ yer paintin’s ta the storeroom below the stairs. He said he didn’t care that he’d be lyin’ ta the scoundrel, he was goin’ ta tell Mr. Winthrop the paintin’s were sent ta some gallery or another, an’ that we don’t know which one. Ye’ve gots ta find a way ta get ’em back, mum. Ye’ve just gotta.”

“All of y-you could b-be t-taking an awful chance,” Cerynise stuttered, deeply moved by the loyalty of the staff. “Y-you mustn’t endanger y-yourselves t-trying to s-save them. I-I’m going to the d-docks…t-to…obtain p-passage t-to Charleston, s-so I might n-never return f-for them.”

“All’s the same, mum, we’ll keep ’em hidden for ye. ’Twill be our own revenge for what Mr. Winthrop did ta ye.”

“G-go back n-now,” Cerynise implored, giving the serving girl a gentle push toward the house, “before Mr. Winthrop sees you out h-here talking to me.”

A sob crumpled the maid’s countenance, and in a sudden show of affection, she flung her arms around Cerynise. “Bless ye, mum!” After a moment she sniffed and retreated to meet the other’s gaze through swimming tears. “Ye’ve always been the soul o’ kindness ta us. We’ll count the days till that rascally Mr. Winthrop gets what he deserves.”

Weeping bitterly, Bridget tore herself away and raced back toward the house, her black skirts flapping wetly around her legs, her small feet sending geysers of water splashing upward as she crossed ever-deepening puddles.

Cerynise pulled the woolen hood over her head and huddled deep within the garment, seeking as much protection from the pelting rain as the garment could afford. Beneath it she was already soaked, and with the intensity of the howling wind and the slashing downpour, the cloak would only serve to lessen her discomfort rather than banishing it altogether. Even so, she was grateful for the gift as she made her way along the street, for even in so short a time it seemed that the air had gotten colder.

It was some moments before Cerynise realized that a curious numbness had settled down within her after her confrontation with Alistair. To some degree it cushioned the harshness of her plight, for she no longer dwelt on how cold and miserable she’d be without warm clothing and food. Instead, she kept telling herself over and over again that she could walk as far as she had to. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Encouraging herself with that simple bit of logic, she eventually found herself near the bridge that crossed over the Thames into the district of Southwark.

The storm had gathered over the city, deepening the twilight into a brooding darkness, but in the strange eerie gloom, she could still make out several ships proceeding upriver where they would at some point along the wharves drop anchor. Her eyes flitted toward the distant banks in search of the taller masts which clearly distinguished the seagoing vessels from the smaller fishing boats. Whenever her family had visited her uncle at his house near the waterfront in Charleston, she had been given ample opportunity as a child to view the various sailing vessels gliding through the waters toward the southern port. While Uncle Sterling had fished nearby, she had perched on the wharf with sketchbook in hand, drawing contentedly as he talked to her about the different sailing ships and taught her how to recognize one type from another. She still remembered much of what she had learned from him.

Memories of that distant city flowed like a deep, surging river through her mind, and in a space of a few heartbeats Cerynise could almost hear the trilling birds nesting in ancient live oaks beside her family’s home, the drone of insects on sultry summer nights, and feel the soft flutter of Spanish moss against her face as she raced through the woods with the joyful exuberance of a child, and ever so much more. She could even imagine that she caught a whiff of honeysuckle and could taste the sweetness of pralines melting on her tongue. However brief those recollections were, she was pierced by a longing so profound that it was all she could do not to cry out in anguish.

Here she was, nearly frozen, exhaustion and grief enfolding her like a sodden blanket, her thin fingers rigid from the numbing cold, having no ken how she would ever obtain passage home now that she was bereft of funds. What sea captain looking at her now would permit her on his ship, much less allow her to sail on it? It seemed a farfetched idea even to her, but she knew that somehow…some way…she must go home.

Obeying a desire so powerful that she could not curb it, Cerynise began making her way across the bridge. Rain had collected in the depressions between the cobblestones, but by now her slippers were so thoroughly soaked it no longer mattered. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, she reminded herself, and eventually she would reach her destination.

The fetid stench of the river intensified as she entered the borough of Southwark. She kept close to the river, walking relentlessly onward until through the deep, stormbound shadows she could make out the lofty masts of larger sailing ships off in the distance. Heartened by the sight, Cerynise quickened her pace, painful though it was to walk with toes aching from the cold. She knew deep down that it was foolish for her to wander this area alone. In the security of Lydia’s coach, she had passed through the district enough to have become cognizant of a bolder type of women who, along many of the streets and byways, openly offered their bodies to sailors or any man who’d pay out a few coins to be entertained in bed. Cerynise knew that she was seriously tempting fate, for she could be accosted, perhaps even mistaken for a female of loose virtue. But she pushed that cautioning logic aside, regarding it as a luxury she could ill afford.

The warehouses and shuttered tenements that she passed were dark. It was, after all, a place where every candle or ounce of oil was considered precious. The poor would understand her present plight, but they could not help her. It was up to her to find a way to go home. And find it she would!

Cerynise had no real sense of just how far she had come. Her steps had begun to drag wearily as she wove an unsteady path along the bank, but when her foot suddenly caught on something that felt amazingly human, she peered into the shadows beneath an overturned dinghy that had been hefted across two planks.

“What the bloody hell are ye doin’?” a slurred voice snarled from under the craft. “Can’t ye watch where ye goin’!”

Cerynise tried to focus on the small, wiry form that crawled out from under the boat. “Y-your pardon,” she stammered, wondering if it was fear or cold impeding her tongue. “I d-didn’t realize y-you were t-there, sir.”

“Well, I was, see,” the little man retorted peevishly, staggering to his feet. He was shorter than Cerynise, completely bald, ancient if he was a day, and had not a tooth in his head. Yet, for all of that, he was garbed as a seaman.

“W-what w-were you doing d-down there?” Cerynise managed to ask.

The tar fixed his gaze upon her in some exasperation and flipped the hood of his slicker over his head as he hunched within the garment. “If’n ye must know, girlie, I was catchin’ a li’l snooze whilst I was waitin’ for me cap’n ta go back ta our ship.”

“I’m-m terribly s-sorry for d-disturbing you, sir. I d-didn’t s-see you in the d-dark,” she answered as graciously as her clattering teeth would allow. Despite the man’s irascibility, she hoped he might be persuaded to help her. At the moment, he seemed her best chance of getting the information she needed. “I d-didn’t h-hurt you, did I?”

“Hurt me? Ol’ Moon, here?” the sailor asked incredulously. Thrusting out his scrawny chest, he hitched up his britches as if tempted to strut for her benefit. “Girlie, it’d take a whale ta hurt ol’ Moon.”

“I’m-m r-relieved to k-know that.”

Much placated by her cordiality, Moon eyed the girl more closely. In spite of her stuttering tongue, she spoke like some of the rich class who came to the ship to which he was assigned to make inquiries about the quality of accommodations. Usually, after viewing them, they went in search of another one. But a blind man could see that this slender slip was several leagues above the sort of women who normally roamed the docks looking for men to entertain. “What cha doin’ out here in the rain all by yer lonesome? ’Taint no fit place for a nice li’l girlie like ye.”

“I-I need passage h-home m-most desperately, and I was t-trying to f-find a ship that w-would be s-sailing fairly s-soon to t-the Carolinas. W-would you happen to k-know of such a vessel?”

“The Mirage, for one,” the toothless one replied without hesitation. “She be sailin’ under the command o’ Cap’n Sullivan. I’m his cabin boy.”

“And w-where m-may I find th-this Captain S-Sullivan?”

Moon twisted slightly and jabbed a thumb toward a tavern from whence a wedge of light streamed into the misty darkness. “The cap’n’s takin’ vittles at that there alehouse.”

A mixture of relief and trepidation washed over Cerynise as she saw where he pointed. She was greatly heartened that her search would be shortened, but dreadfully afraid of entering such a place, for she was not so naive as to believe that sailors only wanted to imbibe in strong libations after reaching port. They would be looking for more lively entertainment, the kind that Sybil was probably well versed in providing. “I d-don’t s-suppose you w-would consider taking me to see h-him, w-would you?”

Moon cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered her bedraggled appearance. He wouldn’t normally have bothered himself for a stranger, but this young girl had evidently fallen on hard times and was suffering severely from the miserable conditions. Then, too, she had a gentleness about her that quickened a long-dormant gallantry within him. “I su’pose I could, seein’s as how ye’re gonna freeze ta death if’n ye stay out here much longer.”

“A-aren’t you c-cold, too?”

Moon rubbed a crooked forefinger beneath his hooked nose and snickered. “Not with me innards feelin’ all nice an’ warm from rum.” Leaning close enough to taint the air that she breathed with a strong aroma of the brew, he beckoned with a sweep of his arm. “This way, girlie.”

Cerynise stumbled along behind him as he tottered unsteadily toward the beacon of light. Upon entering the tavern, she stayed just inside the door while Moon made his way toward the back of the crowded establishment. The din that filled the place made her cringe. Sailors were shouting for service, banging their tankards insistently upon heavily planked tables, while others were talking at the top of their voices in an attempt to be heard over the discord. A few were guffawing uproariously as they made a game of pinching or slapping the bottoms of every serving girl who passed. A small handful of others were muttering in low tones as they idly caressed the strumpets who had nestled near. Carefully averting her eyes from the latter, Cerynise scanned the crowded room for Moon.

The tar was leaning over the hefty shoulder of a man who sat at a table wolfing down food, and though she saw Moon’s lips moving, she couldn’t hear a word he said above the noise. Cerynise could only assume that it was none other than Captain Sullivan to whom he was speaking. The man was well past two score years with an unruly thatch of graying hair, bushy side-whiskers and a chin stubbled by bristles. He not only resembled a pirate, he seemed as prosperous as one as he flashed a weighty purse and silently bade a serving wench to fetch another pitcher of ale for the men at his table. Finally he glanced around at the tar and inclined his head in a brief nod.

Moon came scurrying back to Cerynise with a broad, toothless grin. “The cap’n’ll hear what ye has ta say now, girlie.”

Barely had Cerynise entered the human maze through which the tar had passed ahead of her than a hand reached out to seize her. With a gasp she managed to sidestep the seaman who grinned back at her with teeth blackened with rot.

“Eh, mates, what’s this the rain’s washed in?” he cried with a chortle, bringing his companions’ attention to bear upon her. “A drowned rat, if’n I e’er saw one.”

“Gor! Don’t look like no rat ta me!” another exclaimed lustily as he caught her cloak and whipped it free of her shoulders, in the process breaking one of the ties that secured it. His eyes steadily brightened into a leer as they swept the soaked gown she wore beneath. “A bit soppin’, al’right, but a real looker, she be!”

“Keep yer foul hands ta yerself, ye horny toad!” Moon snarled, stepping back to cuff the man. “Don’t ye knows a liedy when ye sees one?”

“A liedy?” the tar repeated with a sharp hoot of disbelief. “In here? Oo’s ye tryin’ ta bamboozle, Moon?”

“Ne’er ye mind!” the ancient tar snarled, snatching the lady’s cloak from the man. “I can sees for meself ye ain’t ne’er eyed a liedy afore in yer whole bloomin’ life an’ wouldn’t knows one if she stuck ye in the eye!”

The resulting laughter of those sitting near enough to overhear the insult made her erstwhile admirer glower in bruised resentment. “Oh, I seen ’em al’right, but their sort ain’t o’ a mind ta be seen in a place like this.”

“Well, ye’re seein’ one in here now,” Moon retorted.

“A bitch, more’n likely,” the sailor grumbled and, having issued that slur, turned his back upon the pair.

Lanterns flickered dully at the edge of Cerynise’s blurring vision. She blinked several times as an invading weakness threatened to undermine her resolve. Only by sheer dint of will did she manage to make her way to Captain Sullivan’s table. Moon hurriedly swept around a chair for her to sit beside his captain, and she gratefully accepted his provision, for she seriously doubted that she could have stood much longer on her own.

“Moon says ye’re wantin’ passage on me ship,” Captain Sullivan began, his keen dark eyes sweeping slowly downward from the long hair that hung in wet strands around her face until they reached the muddied hem of her gown. As pretty as she was and as costly as her drenched garb might have been, the girl looked much the worse for wear. Tucking his tongue thoughtfully in his cheek, he met the hazel eyes that were now dull from fatigue. “Can ye pay?”

Cerynise could hardly admit her poverty, but neither could she lie. “’Twould be foolish for me to seek passage on a ship if I couldn’t pay for it in some fashion.”

“And that would be?”

Cerynise braced herself, knowing only too well how irrational her proposal might seem to a captain of a ship. “My uncle, Mr. Sterling Kendall, will give you the funds upon my arrival in Charleston.…”

For a moment Captain Sullivan stared at her as if convinced that she had taken leave of her senses. Then abruptly he slapped the flat of his hand upon the table and began to guffaw in rampant amusement, making her cringe with dread and embarrassment. He left no doubt that he considered her offer absurd. Finally he calmed and peered at her askance with merriment still lighting his ruddy face. “Now let me see if I understands ye, miss. Ye say yer uncle will pay once the voyage is done?”

Cerynise inclined her head ever so slightly, fully aware of the untenable position into which she had been thrust. “I realize that it would be rather unorthodox—”

“’Tis balmy, that’s what it be!” he barked suddenly, jolting a start from her. “Either ye’re a blisterin’ fool or ye take me for one, girlie.”

“Neither, Captain Sullivan,” she replied carefully and looked at him through welling tears. Though exhaustion muted her tone, she was nevertheless grateful that her tongue wasn’t thwarted by the cold at the moment. “I assure you that I’m in full command of my senses, but after the recent death of my guardian, I find myself thrust from her home by the people who have inherited her property. In their endeavor to take my every possession from me, they’ve left me nothing with which to barter. I’m now a veritable pauper as of a few hours ago.” She paused briefly, realizing she had been reduced to begging. “Believe me, sir, if I thought I could persuade you to take pity on me, I would gladly promise you twice the fee a passenger might normally pay for passage on your packet if you’d just accept that my uncle will give you the funds. He’s the only one I can rely upon.”

The dark eyes raked over her again, this time with some evidence of sympathy. “Ye must understand, miss, that I’m obligated to account for all the fees I take in. Me shipping company requires it.” Then he added with some reluctance, “Yer uncle could be dead, for all ye know, miss, and who, then, would pay for your passage? ’Twould have ta come out o’ me own purse if’n ye couldn’t pay.”

“I understand, Captain Sullivan,” she murmured dolefully, rising from her chair on limbs that threatened to give way beneath her. “I’m sorry to have bothered ye.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n,” Moon interjected, leaning near Sullivan’s shoulder again. The tar was amazed at his own growing desire to help the girl. “What ’bout the Audacious? Cap’n Birmin’ham don’t answer ta no man but hisself, sir. He could take her, if’n he be o’ a mind ta.”

“Aye,” Captain Sullivan agreed, stroking a hand thoughtfully over his bristly chin. “He owns his own ship…but as far as I knows, he’s never taken on any passengers.”

Cerynise passed a hand over her brow, wondering if she had heard the men correctly. She felt so weak that she couldn’t be sure just how perceptive she was or if her words were even coherent as her tongue began to trip over her words again. “Y-you did s-say Birmingham, d-didn’t you?”

Captain Sullivan looked at her curiously. “Do ye know Captain Birmingham, miss?”

“If he is p-part of the Birmingham family who l-lives near Charleston, th-then I do,” she said haltingly.

“’Tis Beauregard Birmingham who captains the Audacious we’re speakin’ of,” the captain explained. “Do ye know him?”

Her energy was swiftly ebbing, leaving her hardly enough reserve to answer the man. “Before my father’s death…he ran a private school…for the offspring of the planters and merchants who lived in that area.” She hated her lagging speech, which was becoming more pronounced. “At one time…Beauregard Birmingham was one of his students. We were acquainted with his family…and that of his uncle, Jeffrey Birmingham.”

“Perhaps if Cap’n Birmingham remembers ye well enough, he might take pity on ye,” Captain Sullivan mused aloud, continuing to stroke his bewhiskered chin. He caught his cabin boy’s gaze and jerked his head toward the door. “Give the lady safe escort ta the Audacious, Moon, an’ tell Cap’n Birmingham he owes me one. I’ll collect in a tankard o’ ale when next we meet.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” The toothless grin was nearly as broad as the seaman’s face. “’Twill be a pleasure ta hie meself o’er there with the liedy an’ take a close look-see at that there ship o’ his afore we set sail.”

Full darkness had descended by the time Moon led Cerynise from the tavern, but the winds had died down. Tendrils of fog had begun to whisper over the banks of the river and slide insidiously over land as distant clanks and strange dragging sounds echoed eerily from the mists that hung over the water. Moon made his way through the night as if by rote, pausing now and then to give her a chance to catch up. Cerynise could see nothing in the gloom that closed in around them. She was hesitant of her footing, for her legs felt stiff and leaden beneath her. She was so thoroughly chilled and fatigued, it took determination to remember her resolve and drag her sodden slippers across the cobblestones. She staggered ever onward in spite of the difficulty of remaining upright and on her feet. Finally she could see the lofty masts of a ship rising above the swirling mass of vapors.

Moon glanced over his shoulder as he pointed toward the craft. “Bet ye’ve ne’er been on a ship like that there one o’ Cap’n Birmin’ham’s. A bloomin’ merchant frigate, she be! There ain’t many ta be seen like her, ’at’s for sure. An’ can ye believe, girlie? He paid for it hisself with all ’em furs an’ jewels an’ things what he brought back from Russia several years ago. From what I hears, he’s been back ta the Baltic and Saint Petersburg this time, too, he has, an’ is carryin’ twice as many treasures ’an before. ’Tis even rumored he talked the cap’n of an East India Company ship inta swappin’ some silks an’ pearls an’ jade an’ stuff for some o’ the rich booty he was carryin’. Now he’s here takin’ on more treasures ta tempt the merchants in Charl’ton, as if he ain’t gots enough ta entice ’em already. Why, a man’d be a fool ta carry passengers when he’s gots treasures like that fillin’ his holds. But let’s hope the cap’n will be o’ a different mind wit’ ye, girlie.”

Cerynise was unable to utter a reply. They were nearing a ship that rested against the quay. It was a proud, three-masted vessel, so huge it seemed to dwarf everything around it. But at the moment she couldn’t be awed by anything. Her strength had vanished, her senses dulled, her wits long fled. Each step was an agonizing exertion that she could no longer force her shaking limbs to perform. All she wanted to do was curl up somewhere, close her eyes, and sleep.

Moon paused at the bottom of the gangplank and called to the watch on duty for permission to come aboard, but his voice sounded hollow and distant to Cerynise. Vaguely she was aware of her legs slowly crumpling beneath her and her body tilting back ever so slightly, as if time had ceased to be. Her head bumped almost gently against the cobblestones, but a dull ache began to throb there. Then a craggy voice cried out in alarm, and an eternity later, strong arms lifted her up against a stalwart chest. In the next moments the heavy mists seemed to swirl around her, closing in upon her like a dank tomb, choking off her breath and pulling her down into a dark abyss as a numbing, uncaring oblivion swept over her.