My Lord Beaumont Read online

  MY LORD BEAUMONT

  by

  Madris DePasture

  Originally published 1994 by Harlequin Enterprises

  (c) copyright 1993, Madris DePasture

  Reissued October 2003

  Cover art by Jenny Dixon

  New Concepts Publishing

  5202 Humphreys Rd.

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Chapter One

  1742

  "Stowaway!"

  The crew had been combing the ship for hours when the shout went up. Hearing it, they stopped, lifting their heads like a wolf pack sniffing the wind for a scent of prey.

  "Found the bugger!" bellowed a burly seaman triumphantly. With chilling laugh, he whipped the tarpaulin from the long boat back, jerked the youth from his hiding place, and flung him to the rolling deck.

  As metal shavings to a lodestone, sailors converged on the spot from all quarters of the deck. Surrounding the boy, they guffawed excitedly as the seaman booted the youth, who had scrambled to his feet, sending him sprawling once more. A second kick went wide as the boy rolled to the side and swept the sailor's foot from under him. At that, another chorus of laughter rose up.

  The sound one of almost hysterical relief at having a victim for their amusement after near a month of nothing but backbreaking work and the tedium of sea life. For it had been weeks since their feet had touched solid ground, and they'd been chafed by the harsh rigors of the voyage already to a point of dangerous boredom.

  Nimbly, the boy leapt to his feet, his pinched features pale with fear as his eyes scanned the ring of tormentors, searching for an avenue of escape. Even so, despair filled him for he knew that there was no escape, that he had no hope of it while walled in by the sea.

  "Ye bleedin' whelp of a misbegotten cur! I'll break yer bones fer that!" the seaman howled, rising ponderously to his feet and shaking his head like an enraged bull as he charged the boy.

  "Come on then, ya son of a pox-ridden whore!" jeered the boy with rash bravado.

  At the last second, the boy leapt to one side in a dive and roll that brought him to his feet again, leaving the seaman with a ludicrous look of dismay as he grasped nothing but air. A split second later, his impetus carried him into the wall of sailors that hemmed them in, clearing a wide swath as six crashed to the deck in a tangle of arms and legs. Roars of fury and rich curses filled the air then, accompanied by appreciative guffaws, as those who'd not been taken down by the 'bull' enjoyed the sight.

  Taking instant advantage of the chaos, the boy surged forward with an agility born of a lifetime of fending for himself. As elusive as quicksilver, he slithered wraith-like between wide spread legs and groping arms, scrambled to his feet when he'd cleared the circle, and darted with the grace of a young gazelle along the pitching deck of the ship, dodging and twisting, leaping over barrels and coils of rope. A shout went up, a collective roar that didn't contain anger so much as a joyous blood-lust for the hunt.

  The pack of sailors surged forward en masse and disintegrated as the mob broke up to give chase. In a moment, the deck was a swarm with sailors likewise darting and dodging hazards and impediments; shouting encouragement to one another or unloving endearments to their prey; laughing uproariously when one or another of their fellows collided with each other or boxes or barrels in the heat of the chase and went sprawling; cursing or roaring over broken toes and loosened teeth as they came into painful contact with immovable objects. A yell of triumph rang out from one leering seaman with broken, blackened stumps for teeth and stringy, sun-bleached hair as he dove for the boy. "Got ya, ya little bastard! Come to papa!" he chortled gleefully.

  "Bugger yerself, ya bleedin' sod!" the boy taunted and neatly sidestepped his groping arms.

  The sailor knew a second of stunned surprise as he came up empty handed, and, with a sharp crunch, his skull struck the mizzenmast, knocking him senseless. That seemed to cause more hilarity than anything that had come before. Several men laughed so hard they had to give up the chase, wondering between howls of laughter if old Tom had broken his neck.

  It was evident, however, that the boy couldn't last much longer. The weeks of enforced inactivity in hiding aboard ship on top of years of semi-starvation had taken its toll. Despite the terror that had given him strength, he showed obvious signs of flagging as he completed his circuit of the bow and darted blindly towards the stern where the ship's passengers had come to take a turn on deck and now watched his progress with mixed emotions.

  The seamen, seeing the direction of his flight, formed two groups, boxing him in so that it took no more than a glance in their direction to assure the boy that there was no hope of prolonging his freedom with another circuit of the ship. No hope of breaking free to find another hiding place. No hope.

  A faultlessly attired gentleman turned languidly from his contemplation of the gentle swells of the sea and watched the chase. Of little more than medium height, he was broad of chest, narrow of waist, and lean of hip and thigh, his fine physique proclaiming him a sports enthusiast. The fabric of his coat stretched taut across wide, muscular shoulders that owed nothing to artifice as he tossed back the flapping folds of his cloak, his hand dropping to rest almost casually on the sword at his side.

  His dark brows lifted as the boy came to an abrupt, breathless halt before him. His eyes flickered briefly to rest on the startled, shrinking lady at his side and just as briefly surveyed the onslaught of jeering seamen. He seemed singularly oblivious to both as his eyes came to rest on the boy.

  Their eyes met and held for a space of measured heartbeats, wary brown eyes locked with the lord’s eyes, eyes as cold and gray as the sea that surrounded them. But there was a flicker of something – recognition -- in the boy's dark eyes that struck the gentleman with a force that made his own narrow with sharp interest.

  "Bloody hell," the boy muttered as he sidestepped the gentleman who blocked his path and leapt nimbly to the taffrail, balancing precariously. His intent was so clear that the sailors halted their headlong rush and gaped in surprise.

  Ignoring them all, the boy gazed down at the roiling, white-frothed swells. They seemed almost inviting, deceptively so. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment to gather courage, then whirled to take in one last look at his tormentors.

  Still frozen in place, they were a tableau of all the least desirable traits of mankind. While a handful merely stared openmouthed, there were dawning looks of anticipation on the faces of most that quashed any hope of mercy from that quarter. Not one face in the milling crowd showed compassion. As if against his will, his eyes swung to the gentleman, and gray eyes locked once more with fathomless brown eyes.

  Apparently, he saw nothing there to give him hope, for, after a moment, the hunted look in his eyes was replaced by one of cynical amusement. A haunting smile curled his lips, and he muttered under his breath, "Aye! Yer keen for the show, too, ain't ya gov'nor? Chafing for me to get on with it, no doubt. Wondering how long it'll take me to drown or if some big fishy'll get me first." He paused, realizing the gentleman had heard him, and his lips twisted with a touch of bitterness. "It's a shame, it is, you've none to lay yer bets with. Ya might win.”

  He thought then of the tales of the fate of stowaways, and, with a last, taunting glance at the eager faces that surrounded him, he turned to study the sea once more while flickering images of his life played across his mind. It was amazing, he thought with grim humor, the reluctance he felt to give it up when there had been little in his life to give him a wish to cling to it.

  But then surely it would be better to choose his own fate. Better to leap to a relatively quick death than be torn limb from limb by this mob. Or possibly face some truly hor
rible, and far slower, death in the stinking hold of the ship.

  He was crouched to leap when he was snatched from the taffrail and flung to the decks. He looked up at the gentleman who towered above him in surprise a moment before fury took its place. Anger and fear mingled in his eyes then with self-contempt. He was disgusted that he'd been too cowardly to grasp his one chance at a quick death and angered that the gentleman had deprived him of that quick ending. And he feared what he now faced.

  "Sod off!" he snapped with forced bravado. He would have scrambled to his feet and made a second attempt, but he was thwarted as one booted foot pushed him back against the deck.

  "Mind your tongue, little cockerel, or I'll cut it out," the man said coldly.

  The silence that had descended upon the seamen through the unexpected entrance of the lord upon their game was broken as Captain Tyler shouldered his way through the milling crowd and moved to stand above the young felon.

  Fixing the youth with a hard, gleaming eye, he intoned, "You are hereby charged with stowing away upon the Lady Dorinda and pilfering from the supplies of same. The penalty for the first is imprisonment, impressment, or deportation to a penal colony. The penalty for the second charge is hanging from the yardarm, as said theft could well endanger the lives of those aboard. How plead you to the charges, young scoundrel?"

  The boy shuddered in fear and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard, realizing that to lie was useless and the truth of little consequence. "Aye! I'm guilty of thievin' your pig slop!" he snapped, trying to infuse a touch of arrogance in the words and failing miserably.

  To his surprise, he was not hauled roughly to his feet and immediately clapped in irons. Curious, he opened his eyes to stare up at the men above him, glancing with a start down the long, gleaming blade of a narrow sword, the point of which rested against the captain's elegant paunch. From there, his eyes moved to the gentleman who held the blade almost casually, though it was obvious that the man himself was quite as deadly as the blade and not averse to using it.

  The captain's face, which had turned a pasty gray, took on new color as his choler rose. "Begging pardon, my lord, but this here's a stowaway, and it's my duty to deal with the . . . ," he paused, flicked an uncomfortable glance at the lady present, and continued carefully, “Young scoundrel as he deserves."

  "And what, in your inestimable opinion, does he deserve exactly?" the gentleman queried almost pleasantly, relaxing his stance and allowing the sword to drop to his side. The captain noted with a mixture of wariness and indignation that he did not replace the weapon in its scabbard. Nor, despite the pleasant timber of his voice, did the hard, angry glitter in his eyes abate one whit.

  Captain Tyler did not make the mistake of considering the lord's query as nothing more than idle curiosity. He was not, however, an extremely bright individual, and he pondered the question long and hard, scratching his nose as he eyed the sword warily.

  "I'd set him adrift in the longboat," he said finally. "But it seems a waste of a good boat, seeing as how we're bound to need it ourselves when we get to Charles Town."

  A lip curled derisively. "I applaud your reasoning, Captain Tyler. Failing that agreeable solution, what now comes to mind?"

  A black-gloved hand touched the gentleman's arm, and he glanced with the barest flicker of annoyance toward the diminutive lady who had moved to stand beside him.

  "Surely we've no need to involve ourselves in the problems of what is, after all, no more than a nasty little street ruffian, Adrian," she suggested quietly, sending him a provocative look from beneath her lashes to soften the harshness of her words.

  Genuine amusement crept into his gray eyes. "My dear madam," he said coolly, "you cannot think I would involve you in my sordid affairs, surely? Nor, had it been avoidable, would I think of offending your delicate sensibilities by exposing you to this little scene," he added. "Perhaps it would be best if your maid escorted you to your cabin?"

  The woman bit her lip in chagrin and stepped back, but she made no attempt to follow his suggestion, despite his rebuff.

  The captain, realizing that his hesitation might be construed as either cowardice or indecisiveness made an abrupt choice. "Ten lashes at sun-up tomorrow and the lad's to be held forthwith in irons in the hold until such time as he can be set ashore and delivered to the proper authorities," he rapped out belligerently.

  Lord Nicholas Adrian Beaumont, third son of the Duke of Remming, stared coldly at the captain, his lips tightening into a thin, hard line, then glanced down at the youth at his feet. Abruptly sheathing his sword, he jerked the boy to his feet, holding him firmly by one elbow. "I'm no bleeding-heart philanthropist, as seems to be all the rage these days, Captain Tyler. But, even to me, the death penalty seems a bit harsh. Come, Captain, he's a pathetic scrap. He could scarcely have eaten enough of your precious supplies to have endangered anyone. Nor does he appear to have taken up a great deal of space. Unless you were shorted a bolt of cloth in his stead?" His lips curled into a faint smile of amusement that never reached his cold eyes as they flicked swiftly and assessingly over the crew.

  "You put words in my mouth, Lord Beaumont," the captain spluttered angrily, shifting uneasily as he caught some of the angry comments of the crew, whose sympathy was now swinging in the boy's favor.

  A dark brow rose in inquiry. "However you put it, Captain Tyler, you know as well as I do that this child would not survive ten lashes." They studied each other for several moments, both well aware the captain had boxed himself in and could think of no way out. Adrian's gray eyes fell to the youth once more, and he released his grip on the boy's arm and cupped his chin, lifting his face for his inspection.

  He found it difficult to assess the age of the boy. His size and build suggested that he could be no more than twelve. But there was none of the roundness of lingering babyhood to bear up that conclusion. Moreover, the enormous brown eyes that gazed up at him with such wariness were filled with the wisdom of an ancient, eyes that had seen far too much for a child. Ragged, dirty clothes hung upon his slight frame, but although he was painfully thin, his features sharp from hunger, there was not the gangling appearance of a youth approaching manhood about him. But, for all that the top of his head barely topped the gentleman's broad shoulders, he possessed a delicate grace of build and carriage that suggested maturity.

  A curling, ragged thatch of rich copper-colored hair, glinting with golden highlights, fluttered about his thin, heart-shaped face. His eyebrows were black and finely arched. His lashes were black also, almost ludicrously long. His mouth was childishly soft, vulnerable, and as innocent as his eyes were not, and his willful chin bore the suggestion of a cleft.

  His frame, although sturdy, was as fine boned as his face. Without a doubt, he was the by-blow of some wealthy, bored aristocrat. There was too much evidence of breeding to suggest otherwise. Moreover, there was something hauntingly familiar about him.

  "I will buy him," Adrian said finally, his gray eyes resting speculatively on the boy's startled countenance.

  Chapter Two

  "My Lord?" the captain asked, every bit as startled as the boy.

  Adrian glanced up at the captain, one dark brow lifting in hauteur. "It is a question of payment for his passage, is it not?"

  The captain gaped. "Well . . . yes . . . I suppose so, my lord, but what would you be wanting with the likes of him?" he asked, realizing that Lord Beaumont had offered a solution to his dilemma but mystified withal.

  "That is not your affair," Adrian replied coldly. He reached into his cravat then and removed a diamond stick pin, extending it. The captain, who stared for several moments in mesmerization, reached for it like a sleepwalker. Lord Beaumont's hand fisted about it, and the captain glanced up with a frown. "I require papers, Captain Tyler, binding the boy into my service for a term of say . . . ," he glanced down at the boy once more, "five years. I believe that to be considered fair. Do you agree to this, boy?"

  The boy glanced
warily from Adrian to the captain and back again, apparently considering alternatives, and finally nodded, though his face wore such an obvious look of defeat and distrust that a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Adrian's mouth. "Done," he said and returned his attention to the captain. "I'll be in my cabin, Captain. When you have the necessary papers drawn up, you may send them to me there."

  Dismissing the captain, he offered his arm to Mrs. Johnson. After only the briefest hesitation to show her pique for his earlier snub, she placed her fingertips upon it. With the lady's maid bringing up the rear, they made their way below as the crew began to break up and return to their duties.

  The boy hesitated, studying Lord Beaumont's retreating form. He glanced at the captain then and encountered a look of loathing. Throwing him an impudent grin, he hurried after Lord Beaumont's party, trailing along in their wake as he didn't quite know what was expected of him.

  He hesitated again when they descended the companionway, glancing around anxiously before he descended several steps and paused again, adjusting his eyes to the gloom below decks. The click of a door drew his attention, and he glanced up to see the Widow Johnson flounce into her cabin and slam the door behind her. Before he had time to speculate on the cause of her pique, however, he was summoned by an imperious lift of Lord Beaumont's finger, and he moved quickly, if somewhat resentfully, to answer the summons.

  "I require water for a bath. I presume you're familiar with the direction of the galley?" he queried with a hint of amusement in his voice, for it was the raids on that hallowed site that had led to the boy's discovery.

  The boy nodded, suppressing his resentment. He owed the man his life, and, though he didn't care to be servant to any man, he was well aware that it would take a great deal of labor to repay his debt. And, as little as he liked servitude, he liked being beholden even less. Moreover, servitude wasn't nearly as unappealing as some forms of repayment might have been. This, at least, would be neither demeaning nor particularly painful, and he was not, after all, unaccustomed to hardship.