Captive Splendors (4 page)

Tyler saw the look that passed between them, and suddenly he felt himself an intruder. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he pushed his chair back from the table. “There are matters which are clamoring for my attention. Stay and enjoy your breakfast. Perhaps, Regan, you'd like to take Sirena for a walk through the gardens. We try to keep it the way my mother used to. Though she did much of the work herself, Camilla and I rely upon the gardeners.”

Sirena smiled. “Tyler, you mustn't feel as though Regan and I require entertaining. Naturally, we can't impose ourselves on you. Besides, we have quite a lot of thinking to do about Wren. We'll excuse you, Tyler. Won't we, Regan?” she asked her husband, kicking him under the table to prompt his response.

Regan wanted to groan aloud from the pressure of her shoe against his shin, but he forced himself to smile. “Of course we will, Sinclair. And you must erase that look of concern from your face. Wren is our daughter, and we'll do the best we can for her. Sirena and I appreciate all you've done for the girl these past three years. We're only sorry that she's caused you and Camilla any worry. We'll take up the reins now and only hope we can do as well as you have.”

Sirena beamed approval. She couldn't have said it better. Regan's shins were tender of late, and poor Tyler looked so tortured. Things would work out; she would see to it. And if Weatherly pressed matters for the worse, she would simply cut him down and that would be the end of it. Then Regan's world would be right side up again. No one was going to make Regan look as he had moments after Wren's outburst. And that included her own children. She resolved to do all in her power to prevent that look from ever crossing his face again. Regan belonged to her. No one, save herself, would ever hold the power to make him suffer. She smiled, her face radiant as she gazed deeply into Regan's eyes, hers full of promise and his full of trust.

Their stroll through the baronial garden was aimless, Sirena touching a blossom here and there, basking in Regan's nearness. “There's something I've been wanting to tell you, Regan,” she said. “Actually, it's a surprise I've been saving for the right moment. Perhaps it will erase that pained expression from your eyes, and the only person who can do that right now is Caleb. He's here, Regan! He's been here and waiting for us for over a fortnight. He had a cargo to be delivered to England, and he promised to wait for us. Now, tell me I've made you happy with my little surprise!”

Regan grinned. “Of course it makes me happy, but I was saving the same surprise for you. Farrington wrote me that Cal would be stopping to check on his investments, and I was saving his appearance for just the right moment.” He gathered her in his arms. “Already I know the way your mind is working. Caleb will arrive on the scene, sweep our little Wren off her feet, and everyone will live happily ever after. Cal may have other plans, sweetheart. I know, I know,” he said as she began to protest, “that Cal would do anything you asked, and he probably will do as you want, but remember that you are holding two lives in your hands. You can manipulate to a point; then you must back off and let Heaven take over. Only too well do I recall your words the last time Wren and Caleb were together. You said she was Caleb's destiny. I felt that, too, but Cal is a man now, not a boy.”

“And Wren is a young woman now. A beautiful young woman who can turn a man's head with a toss of her curls,” Sirena murmured. “She is his destiny. I feel it here,” she said, placing her hand over Regan's heart. “At times Heaven needs a gentle nudge.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Regan laughed.

“Then it's settled. We'll turn Wren over to Caleb and see how matters progress. And if for some reason things don't go the way we want, we'll draw straws to see which of us cuts down that bounder Weatherly.” Sirena giggled girlishly.

“I'll say one thing for you, Sirena van der Rhys. Living with you has never, ever been dull,” Regan whispered, drawing her close and lifting her off the ground. He kissed her soundly and set her down firmly, his arm around her slim shoulders.

Sirena laughed. “Come, kind sir, we have some planning to do in regard to young Wren and Caleb.”

A cigar clamped between square white teeth, dark eyes smoldering, Caleb van der Rhys strode the deck of the decrepit gambling ship while murderous thoughts raced through his mind. Thank God he had never consented to Lord Farrington's opening the hull of his beloved
Rana
and making her a permanent fixture on the wharf. It would have broken his heart to find her in such total disrepair. And Sirena! What would Sirena have said to find her
Rana,
the ship he had renamed
Sea Siren
after her, little better than a garbage scow? The last time Caleb had been aboard the gambling folly in which he and Farrington were partners, business had been thriving. Carpeted rooms and gleaming wood and brass had accented the gambling tables in the main lounge. Private staterooms, furnished impeccably with satins and brocades, had catered to gentlemen and their club members. At one time the folly had been the most popular casino in England. And now . . . now this!

Slowly and deliberately, his sun-bronzed hand removed the cigar from between his teeth. His dark eyes became cool and calculating as he stared down the dapper Lord Farrington. “While the cat's away, the mouse will play. There'd better be a good answer as to why this establishment is in such sorry condition. Tell me, what lady or gentleman would set foot on this rotting barge? What happened to the money I sent you for improvements? Where did it go? Who frequents this den of iniquity besides longshoremen and cutthroats? Let's take a look at the profit-and-loss statements. Or is it all loss and no profits? Speak up, Farrington! Did that same cat take your tongue? Ah,” Caleb said softly, “I see it has.” Again the cigar found its way between his gleaming teeth, and he talked around it. “Five minutes, Farrington, and then over the side you go. You'll barely make a splash. The books?” he demanded coldly.

Farrington jumped at the lash of Caleb's temper. His hands twitched nervously as he played with the cuffs of his meticulously laundered shirt. “Cal, my boy,” he began hesitantly, pausing to clear his throat, “what you see here is a man fallen on hard times. Money is tight; even the gentry are careful with their sterling. It's all I can do to keep body and soul together,” he whined. “True, profits are slim at best. I'm in debt over my head, and there's little to be done for it. If the clientele of this establishment has—er—fallen to the good folk who earn their bread on the wharf, it is merely a sign of the times.”

“Cut your flowery speeches,” Caleb growled. “Remember, I know you too well.”

At Caleb's stony look, Farrington changed his tactics. “After you left England, I couldn't make a go of it. Well, you know, the women came for a night's diversion because of you and your charm,” he simpered. “The men came because the ladies prodded, and because they saw in you something they themselves were lacking. Unfortunately, I was a very poor substitute. Oh, in the beginning I lied and said you were away on business, hoping they wouldn't become wise. But that was a foolish mistake on my part. I should have been looking for a replacement to carry on for you. Alas, my heart wasn't in it.” Farrington glanced covertly at Caleb, who was close to fuming. He continued rapidly, his eyes carefully watching Caleb's fist for fear it would come crashing down into his face. “It's your fault, Caleb. You left me to fend for myself. Quite a lot to expect of an old man. A tired, old man at that. This was the best I could do. I have a few pounds squirreled away, and if you're in need, I can let you have it.” His tone became pleading, his eyes begging as he braved another look at Caleb.

Caleb moved along the deck, his booted foot prodding at loose planks. He felt disgust as his dark eyes raked the ship in her sorry state of disrepair. He felt responsible for the old reprobate following him. He swiveled, his body light and lithe. “Two thousand pounds and that's it. I don't give a damn if you have to do the carpentry work yourself. Hire as many men as you need, and I'll give you exactly one fortnight to get this scow in shape. I'll take care of the printing and have the handbills distributed. You'll have a gala the likes of which you've never seen before. And,” he went on ominously, “if my share of this business doesn't improve almost immediately, I'll keep good on my promise. Skinny old men make barely a splash in the cold water of the Thames.”

Aubrey Farrington straightened his back and stared at Caleb. “I'll do it, Cal. I'm sick and tired of being a weasel. A man needs his self-respect. You have my word. I do thank you for being so generous. I won't fail you.”

“It's a wise man who heeds the first warning,” Caleb acknowledged, lighting another cigar. “I'll be back in a few days to see how things are progressing,” he tossed over his shoulder as he strode from the deck.

Envy, pure and simple, coursed through the old man's veins. Ah, to be young again and to look like Caleb van der Rhys. His old eyes narrowed as he watched Caleb stroll down the wharf, the eyes of the scurves on his back. He knew if one of them made a move, Caleb would have him by the throat and begging for mercy. There was no more of the boy in Caleb. He was a man and had come into his own. Farrington would have sold his soul at that moment if the devil could promise to turn him into another Caleb van der Rhys. Sold it cheerfully, with no regrets.

 

Caleb climbed lightly into the hired hack and gave the driver directions to Tyler Sinclair's home on Pall Mall, near Charing Cross Road. He estimated that the drive through London at midday would take more than an hour, and he looked longingly at the Rooster's Tail Pub, where he could be enjoying a cool ale instead of a hot, dusty ride. He sighed, knowing there was no hope for it; he had to contact Tyler for news of Sirena and Regan's arrival.

The route to Tyler's home took him along Thames Street, which ran parallel to the wharves along the river. He pulled at his collar with irritation and wished he were still at sea aboard his
Sea Siren.
Having kept true to a promise she had made him long ago, Sirena had put her ship, the
Rana,
into Caleb's care. Because of his regard for her and for an adventure they had both shared, he had renamed the ship the
Sea Siren.

Caleb's attention was centered on the view through the grimy windows of the hack. It was always the same, never better, only a little worse now. This was the London of the people. The groomed, tree-lined streets near Charing Cross and Hyde Park were the London of the privileged. These narrow streets and byways and tall buildings leaning heavily on one another, where the shadows seemed darker than anywhere else in the world, represented the people's city.

And yet, for all its ugliness, there was a beauty here, too. London was a polyglot of the ages, old and battered and touched with evil; still, it brimmed with color and a decadent glory. Here was the heart of the city, not behind those beautiful brick edifices of the rich. Here the city teemed with life. The streets were crowded with porters struggling to carry their heavy loads of merchandise as they cried dire curses at any who dared to detain their progress. Merchants and vendors pushed their carts through the narrow alleys, calling out their wares to housewives who swarmed to make their purchases.

Church steeples stabbed the gray sky, which was thick with smoke from the chimneys and rife with the stench from the soap stewers, and through which only the strongest sunlight could penetrate. And each steeple boasted its own melodious bell but only added to the cacophony.

The very center of an Englishman's life was the numerous taprooms and pubs, which were recognized by swinging signs painted in gaudy colors and identified, by those who could not read, by their caricatures of yellow bulls, crimson roosters, goggle-eyed owls and various shields and, most of all, by tankards of ale.

Having seen these sights all too often and feeling stifled by them, Caleb settled back in the hack and thought ahead to his visit with Tyler and Camilla. While Caleb's business in London was infrequent, he did manage to see Tyler on occasion, but never Camilla. Tyler had always met him at his offices on New Queen Street or aboard the
Sea Siren
or at a convenient taproom. It had been years since Caleb had set eyes on Camilla, and he wondered if those years had been kind to her. Each time he was in his company, he had asked Tyler how Camilla fared, always expressing his interest with friendly courtesy, never with any obvious familiarity. He didn't know how knowledgeable Tyler was about his and Camilla's affair while she had been married to Regan, and he didn't wish to dredge up old laundry and leave Camilla to pay the bill with her husband.

Caleb pulled at his collar again. He didn't like having these old memories crop up. He remembered all too well the way he had agonized over his betrayal of Regan with his stepmother. And yet he hadn't been able to help himself. He remembered the way his heart had hammered in his chest and his hand had itched to run his fingers through Camilla's soft golden curls. His involvement with Camilla had tortured him, had stung his conscience to the point where he couldn't face his father. He had felt sick with himself, but there had been no help for it. He had fallen in love with Camilla. She had been so young, so sweet, so tender. And when he had taken her in his arms, despite the prick of his conscience, and she had whispered over and over, “Caleb, I need you, I need you,” and offered her lips, he had taken them greedily, feeling her fragile weight in his arms. He had been overcome with emotions of love and desire and protectiveness. And when he had carried her to his bed and she had pulled him down beside her, the scent of her skin and the soft swell of her breasts had exorcised the feelings of deception and betrayal against his father. Camilla had been in his arms and cried that she needed him, and he had closed his mind to any voice of conscience which had told him it was wrong.

Caleb shook himself from his reverie. He assured himself that he was only thinking of Camilla now because he was certain to see her again. It had all washed out in the end, and he was thankful Regan had never needed to know that his own son had cuckolded him. All had worked out for the best. Camilla had found her love in Tyler, and Regan had returned to his one true passion, Sirena.

Assured that the past was well behind him and that he was now in control of his own destiny, Caleb cockily quirked an eyebrow. He was a man now, no longer the boy he had been who had fallen under Camilla's charms. He could certainly take care of himself no matter how urgently Camilla might express her desire for him and her entreaties that they become more than friends. No, this time he would be in full control of himself, even if that meant disappointing Camilla. He had no doubt whatsoever that Camilla would wish to resume their past relationship. After all, she had been married to Tyler Sinclair for almost nine years, and, knowing Camilla, he assumed she had become bored with her role as Tyler's wife.

Humming a tuneless melody, Caleb settled back in the seat and contemplated the steps he would take to keep the ardent Camilla at bay.

 

Malcolm Weatherly smoothed his richly embroidered dark blue waistcoat and watched with a practiced eye as the groom readied the phaeton for his drive with the shy little bird called Wren. I could do worse, Malcolm thought as he fastidiously brushed a speck of lint from his cuff. After all, Wren was a van der Rhys, and it was well known that her father was one of the wealthiest men in the trades of the Dutch East India Company. Marrying Wren would serve to advance his own station in life, a station, he was loath to admit, that had sorely descended to just above the poverty level.

Wren van der Rhys. Weatherly sneered. An awkward name at best. In no way did it suit the vital, amber-eyed maiden he was intent on making his own. A handsome dowry would certainly be forthcoming—if her father did not take it upon himself to look too closely into Malcolm's credentials.

If the van der Rhyses doted upon their daughter as he had been led to believe, there should be no problem. He shrugged his slim shoulders and glanced down at his boots. He would have to have them resoled very soon. He must remember to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground to avoid discovery of the newsprint which peeked out of the h'penny-size hole in the leather. Style, breeding and class distinction were all-important and if it were not for his wastrel uncle, he wouldn't be in these dire straits.

Malcolm had just returned from a visit to his banker, and the news was worse than he had expected. At his current rate of expenditures, he had only three more months left to him in London. At the end of that time his bills would have caught up with him and his landlady would be tossing him out for unpaid rent—lock, stock and barrel. Yes, Wren would do very nicely indeed for added insurance against that calamity ever happening. And to think he had almost tied himself to Sara Stoneham! The very thought of it terrorized him. Malcolm had assumed that Sara's family was still wealthy and influential. Instead, he had learned, and just in the nick of time, too, that because of the Stonehams' religious views and rash statements against the Crown, their properties were, one by one, being stripped from them. A nice kettle of fish
that
would have been, being saddled with an ex-heiress who was a Puritan to boot!

Wren was another matter entirely. How fortunate it was that he had made acquaintance with her, and so soon after Sara! Luckily, Sara was a wise girl who seemed to know when to keep her mouth shut. Malcolm grinned as he thought of the nights he had made love to Sara, and her passionate responses. That alone was enough to keep her quiet. A wise girl didn't boast that she was no longer a virgin. What Malcolm couldn't quite understand though, was the relationship between Sara and Wren. He shrugged. There was no accounting for women.

He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a silver snuffbox. Turning it over in his palm, he gazed at his reflection in the polished metal. He never used snuff, considering it a nasty habit which spoiled one's shirt fronts with grains of yellow tobacco. But the box had become an affectation he used to cater to his vanity. It was unseemly for a man to carry a mirror, and the box did just as nicely. He smiled at his reflection, proud of his sterling good looks, his smooth skin and strong chin and bright, intelligent eyes. Women had always turned to stare at him, and he reveled in their attentions. Perhaps his inheritance had been badly handled and stolen from him, but nothing, not even time, would ever steal his handsomeness. He had only to remember his father, whom he resembled. Age had improved his good looks, touching his dark, wavy hair with a feathering of gray at the temples, that added a distinguished air to his boyish charm. And Malcolm was careful with his diet, maintaining the slimness and grace of a dancer. Wren hadn't stood a chance against his charms once he had put them into use. Any more than had Lady Elizabeth Rice, favorite paramour of King Charles. Malcolm laughed aloud. Wonderful, power-hungry, greedy Elizabeth, so ripe for an escapade with an ardent young man who was wise enough to keep their affair to himself rather than boasting about it to add to his own prestige.