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Synopsis
Drawn to a life of excitement and risk, Lady Millie Aldon made a pact to forsake marriage. But her plans are thrown into chaos when Chase Wentworth returns to town. The lanky lad she remembers from childhood is now the Marquess of Chaselton, possessing an air of mystery Millie can't resist. As Chase moves through London's elite circles, his stealth manner has Millie convinced he harbours a secret-one she is determined to reveal. As Millie makes a game of observing Chase's every move, she finds her attraction to him unsettling. When a stolen kiss threatens to turn their flirtation into something more powerful, she questions her vow of freedom. But Millie has no idea of the danger she's facing. Chase has a complicated past-and his clandestine efforts to expose a traitor will soon provide a more perilous-and passionate-adventure than Millie could ever have planned.
Release date: October 24, 2011
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 368
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A Woman Made for Pleasure
Michele Sinclair
Spain, February 1816
“Chase,” said a deep, familiar voice from the makeshift doorway. “There’s someone coming. About fifteen minutes out. Does anyone know you are here?”
A powerfully built man with strong, athletic features was sitting behind a desk reviewing maps and communiqués. His chocolate brown hair was a mass of untidy long locks, and his golden eyes, despite their warm color, appeared cold and devoid of emotion. “Yes, a few. But no one knows of your presence. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Aye. And the traitor?”
Golden eyes glanced up and found the blue gaze of one of the few people Chase trusted. “I now have proof of his existence. Besides me, only you are aware of it.” He looked back down at one of the maps depicting the Americas’ coastline. Scattered beside the pen-and-ink diagram were the communiqués between General Sir Pakenham and a nameless murderer.
Chase stood and stared at the proof his father had sent him to find almost eight years ago. Proof that someone was more interested in conquest and power than in the lives of his countrymen. Someone who was willing to smear the names of good men in order to attain such power. Chase looked up and stared his friend directly in the eye. “That’s why I sent for you. No one is to know I have left here until I am already in London. For that, you are the only man I trust, Reece.”
Acknowledgment entered the shrewd, sapphire-colored eyes. “I have already loaded everything on board the Sea Emerald. Only what is here, remains.”
Chase nodded and began stacking the documents on the table.
Reece moved to help but decided against the idea. His friend had always been driven. But when his father died, Chase had emotionally shut down and had become determined to finish his father’s one last request. “What are you going to do without the name of the traitor?” Reece asked.
“Find it. My father sent me to locate the proof, and I now have it. I think this . . . this turncoat had much to do with the Peninsular War, but now I have proof of his motives and duplicitous intentions between our government and the Americas.” Chase stabbed a stack of papers with his finger. “There is no longer any doubt someone was trying to stop the impending treaty between America and England. This”—he picked up a letter—“outlines plans to send General Pakenham, stripped of talented men, to attack New Orleans. Here”—Chase grabbed another hastily scribed document—“is the general’s reply warning his superiors that their directed plan of attack was ‘unimaginative’ and ‘deadly.’ And these are the very proof I need to tie it all together,” Chase added, pointing to a third set of documents. “I cannot believe Vandeleur had not even looked at these manuscripts before handing them to me.”
The documents under Chase’s fist confirmed that Pakenham was tricked into attacking New Orleans. Upon direct orders, he took his force ashore and ran into a defensive line of militia, Indians, black troops, and even pirates, hastily put together by General Andrew Jackson. Pakenham led seventy-five hundred men into an ambush of cannon and musket fire.
By the time the English soldiers had reached the American lines, the deaths of their commanders had thrown them into confusion. While trying to establish order, Pakenham was mortally wounded. Not realizing the English forces were on the brink of victory, a retreat was ordered.
Chase understood war was sometimes a necessary evil, but the Battle of New Orleans was an unwarranted, useless, preordained English tragedy. One nameless man had purposefully arranged those pointless deaths. And Chase knew the traitor would try again. Of that, he was sure. For despite heavy English losses, peace had been made with the colonies and the Treaty of Ghent had been signed on Christmas Eve.
“I met Ned Pakenham,” Reece said respectfully. “He commanded the Third Division until the capture of Madrid. I was there in 1813, when he was given command of the Sixth Division at the Battle of the Pyrenees. He was a good man and an able commander.”
“I want this traitor, Reece. I want him, and I will have him,” said Chase forcefully, the depth of his desire evident. “But I am not going to sacrifice the names of good men while seeking the devil.”
Reece nodded in agreement. The good men Chase was referring to were called the Rebuilders, a select group of noblemen with idealistic beliefs and purposes. Chase’s father had been a member, and now, by default, so was his son. A few years ago, an inner faction began to grow and started calling themselves Expansionists. Their views of government, while not as peaceful, were not disloyal. If Chase were to reveal his proof and proclaim a member to be a traitor, without a name, all those affiliated with either group—Rebuilders or Expansionists—would be tagged as possible turncoats. Guilt by association could ruin a man’s reputation, a necessary asset in a country ruled by Tories and an extravagant, vain prince regent.
Reece looked out the slightly cracked open door. “The rider is almost here. Looks to be a delivery boy from one of the larger battalions. I’ll wait for you on the Sea Emerald. We’ll leave as soon as you are on board.”
Chase nodded as his friend silently disappeared through the back door. He sat back down behind the crude desk and hid the communiqués underneath a copy of the Second Treaty of Paris’s terms and conditions for ending the Peninsular War.
The door opened and a uniformed man entered. “Captain?”
Chase grunted and pretended to be in deep thought over the papers. It was a common ploy to quickly establish levels of importance. Common, but effective. Chase finally asked, in a gruff voice, “What do you want?”
“Sir, name is Marshel. I am aide-de-camp to Colonel Vandeleur.”
Chase looked at the ADC and quickly assessed the young man. “How long have you been with Vandeleur?”
“Close to seven months, sir. I was part of the Sixteenth Dragoons before Colonel Vandeleur took over for Lord Uxbridge last summer.”
The young man was not as green as he looked. He had made it through Waterloo. “Light cav, I take it,” Chase deduced. A critical function of light cavalry regiments was to monitor communications between enemy encampments. Only the good survived.
“Yes, sir.”
Chase leaned back. The chair squeaked. “What do you need of me?”
“Not a thing, sir. I was just told to pass on this bag to the cap’n who could be found in Sofina’s House of Pleasure near Bilbao.” The young man glanced around at the crumbling structure. It had been a long time since the place had provided a man pleasure.
Chase saw the man observing his surroundings and took the bag. “You can go now. I have nothing to pass on. But tell your colonel of my appreciation for this.” Chase knew what the bag contained. Letters from home. It had been some time since he had been in a location to receive any word from his mother and his sister, Aimee.
The man nodded, exited the building, and rode back toward Pamplona.
Chase leaned back on the small bunk as the waves rolled the Sea Emerald back and forth. An easiness fell on him he hadn’t experienced for some time. Very few had known where he was located in Spain, and only a handful knew his identity. Vandeleur was one of those few. He knew it was safe for the ADC to make contact. Chase trusted Vandeleur, but a signed peace treaty could not instantly remove habits of caution and vigilance that had saved his life multiple times.
Chase opened up the bag and discovered several letters. Two were personal. He instantly recognized the handwriting on one. It was from his mother. He lit a lamp and proceeded to break the seal.
Letters from home were his rarest and most cherished treasures. After his father had passed away, only his mother’s stories and amusing updates seemed to register with him emotionally. Tales of his sister and her two friends would bring him back to simpler times, peaceful ones in which he was unaware of the cruelty and duplicitous nature of men.
He unfolded the page and was surprised to see how short it was. He glanced at the contents. As usual, his mother never mentioned anyone’s identity. Sometimes she would refer to the Daring Three, a private label his mother had given to his sister and her wild friends, but that was as close as she came to disclosing a name.
Chase wondered if Millie was still his favorite twig, causing chaos wherever she went. He suspected time and experience had changed her as it had certainly changed him.
Chase found himself grinning. His mother always had a way of breaking through his detached self, even when she was a country away. Possessing his father’s naturally stoic personality, Chase realized how lucky his father had been to find his mother. He wondered if it was possible that he, too, would find a loyal and spirited woman who could love a self-controlled, serious man like himself.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, discarding the idea. It would not be fair to shackle anyone, especially a woman full of life, to the man he was now. Oh, he would marry someday; he had to, for the sake of his title. But when he did, it would be to someone who needed no emotional support. The arrangement would be simple. She would look beautiful and bear him a son, and he would drench her in Wentworth money. He would not care that she was shallow, and she wouldn’t care that he was haunted.
He broke the seal on the second letter. As he read the contents, an icy rage reawakened deep within him. One he had long thought to have under control.
Chase reread Lord Eischel’s last words and it stirred emotions he had long thought to have conquered—anger, hurt, and guilt that he had not yet been able to fulfill his father’s last request. Only the knowledge that he would not stop until he succeeded enabled Chase to suppress the intense feelings. And now, another—a more pressing, more important, more necessary—entreaty had been issued from his father. Avenge me.
After carefully refolding and hiding Eischel’s letter, Chase collected the one from his mother and went on deck to find Reece. His friend had made the sea his home and looked most comfortable with the ocean wind at his back.
Reece raised a single eyebrow as Chase neared. “So? Still to London?”
“It seems, good friend, my titular duties have caught up with me,” Chase replied, handing him his mother’s directive.
Reece quickly surveyed the item and grinned. “Your mother, the vibrant Lady Chaselton, has spoken,” Reece replied, turning the wheel. “To London we go. Better you than I, old friend.”
Chase gave Reece a friendly elbow to the ribs and tucked the letter inside his jacket. “A true friend would join me.”
“Tempting, but I have a quick errand to run before I can hang up my patriotic duties. Believe it or not, it is for Sir Edward.”
Chase’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sir Edward? You mean our Sir Edward?”
“The one and only.”
Chase joined Reece’s gaze at the horizon. It was beginning to darken, and the late-afternoon sky was hazy with coral colors. “I have not heard from him in years. I believed him to be retired from the war department and making merry in Town.”
“So did I, until I received his request,” Reece replied quietly, reflectively.
Eight years ago, Sir Edward had been the man Chase’s father had turned to when he needed to get both his son and Reece into key positions within the war department. Sir Edward had personally overseen Chase’s and Reece’s training, teaching them how to observe others without being seen, how to blend in to a foreign culture. He cultivated Reece’s natural strategic thinking and used his love for the sea to help cripple the enemies’ naval movements. But with Chase, Sir Edward recognized what he himself was—a born spy. He taught Chase how to build upon his already poised personality and how to remain indifferent—if only outwardly—to the events around him.
Chase owed his life many times to Sir Edward and his lessons.
London, March 1816
Millie awoke abruptly, feeling both frightened and on edge. She instinctively reached for the chain necklace on the night table and slipped it over her head. She glanced down at the gold and amethyst amulet and fingered the strange disk that now served as a pendant. Millie closed her eyes and took several deep breaths as memories of the late Lord Chaselton flooded her mind, calming her thoughts. It was nice to think of him as another guardian angel.
Nightmares did not interrupt her sleep often, but when they did, they were intense and disturbing. One of her last and clearest memories of her mother was being consoled after such a dream. After her death, Millie would stare at a small, handheld portrait of her mother, until the unsettling feelings subsided.
During one of her summer visits to the Wentworths’, the portrait had been ruined, the victim of a tree branch, a broken window, and a nasty thunderstorm. That next day, Aimee’s father Lord Chaselton had surprised them each with gifts. Millie’s was an amulet. One night, after a particularly haunting dream, she had awoke and finding it next to her, clutched it in her palm, hoping it would provide some comfort. And it had worked. All the love and peace she sought from the face of her mother, that strange piece of jewelry was somehow also able to bestow during that visit. Seeing the item when rummaging through the attic in preparations for Town, Millie immediately donned it, hoping it would provide her luck if not fortitude to withstand the weeks ahead.
Millie winced when she heard her stomach growl. She lay still for several minutes, listening to the gurgling evidence of her earlier attempt to force the impossible. Knowing she would not be able to go back to sleep until having eaten, she slipped out from the covers. Quietly sneaking down the dark, unlit hall, her toe crunched against an unseen piece of furniture. Millie muffled a cry of pain and hopped to Aimee’s door and cracked it open. Seeing moonlight pour in through the bedroom window, she heaved a sigh of relief and made her way across the room.
“Aimee? Are you awake?” Millie whispered, hoping for company while she raided the kitchen.
“No, and neither am I,” came a muffled response from under a pillow covering Jennelle’s head. Soon after Aimee’s mother arrived at the Wentworth London manor, better known as Hembree Grove, she declared all the bedrooms to be in need of immediate maintenance. Jennelle’s room was the first slated for transformation and received a fresh coat of paint and preparations for new wallpaper the following afternoon. Until the fumes from the newly enhanced walls diminished, Jennelle agreed to sleep in the spare bed located in Aimee’s room.
“Whatever do you want, Millie?” Aimee asked, yawning. She stretched and sat up, causing waves of gold to tumble all around her.
“I was only wondering if you might be interested in . . . some nourishment,” Millie murmured weakly. She had been famished for what seemed to be hours.
“Millie! I just knew this was going to happen,” Aimee grunted, falling back against her pillow. “I warned you, and you didn’t listen. You would not be starving right now if you had partaken of dinner. Your fast was a mockery, and everyone knew it.”
“I was not fasting per se, Aimee. I was just vexed. And I still am. It is not fair, I tell you,” Millie said reluctantly as she dramatically slumped onto a nearby velvet settee.
“Well, I think it is irrational for you to be the one fasting over Jennelle’s shortened Season with us. If anyone should be starving in protest, it is she.”
“I’m not starving,” came a voice from under a pillow.
Millie huffed. “That is only because of your good nature, Jennelle. It was up to me to protest your leaving, and so I did. Besides, a monthlong Season is unreasonable.”
“And this coming from the one who didn’t believe in having a Season in the first place,” the still muffled voice replied.
Millie shrugged, undisturbed by Jennelle’s retort. “I just believe that if you are going to do something, do it right. The Season lasts from now until June. That’s just over three months. It’s practically a crime, Jennelle, that you are allowed to experience only half of it. Aimee, you, too, should have been fasting with me to persuade Lord Gent to change his mind.”
“Would not have worked. My father would still have left, never having noticed.” Jennelle’s father, Lord Gent, was an avid researcher and had traveled to Town to purchase several books on medieval England. Disliking staying in London for any length of time at all, he had dined with his daughter at Hembree Grove, made polite but quick conversation, and then left. Lady Chaselton invited him to stay at least one night, but he had been adamant about starting his journey home immediately. Soon after he was assured Jennelle had settled in well with the Wentworths, her father had left for his country estate.
Aimee sat upright and looked her friend directly in the eye. “Millie, I truly love your dramatic soul, but do you not think you are being even slightly ridiculous? I mean, Lord Gent did allow her to stay for six weeks.”
“But with only one new dress. It is dreadful,” Millie replied, refusing to succumb to Aimee’s censure.
“What need do I have for new gowns? I have no intention of capturing anyone’s notice,” Jennelle replied. She lifted her pillow and looked directly at Millie. “And I thought neither did you.”
Aimee nodded her head and joined Jennelle’s line of questioning. “Indeed, was it not you, Millie, who convinced us to delay our coming-out these past two years?”
Millie stood up and waved her hands, downplaying Aimee’s question. “Oh, I still have no intention of agreeing to any type of commitment—especially with the dandies and fribble we’re likely to encounter. And if I could have delayed this demand of my father’s, Aimee, I would have. But now that our coming-out is a fait accompli, I have decided that it need not all be dreadful. Imagine the adventures we could have here and nowhere else.” Millie began spinning about the room with her arms held out to her sides.
Those who assumed Millie Aldon’s personality corresponded with her physical characteristics—petite, ladylike, and soft-spoken—usually found themselves either befuddled and confused, or enjoying lively conversation upon meeting her. According to Mother Wentworth, the Daring Three would soon redefine what Society considered diamonds of the first water.
Millie was the smallest of them all, and the most spirited. Yet despite her propensity for unorthodox activities, she possessed her mother’s natural elegance and a charming wit that ensnared most of those around her.
Tall, slender, with blond hair and snapping emerald eyes, Aimee fit every Society mother’s mold of ideal marriage material. And though a self-admitted bluestocking, Jennelle’s flawless skin, shapely figure, and intelligent blue eyes would enable her to select from many eligible men.
Millie stopped twirling and looked beseechingly at her friend. “Jennelle, think of the societies that are here, many of which include people who love to learn and read as much as you do. Aimee! The museums, the art, the paintings!”
Jennelle sat up abruptly and signaled Aimee. “Reflect on our friend’s sudden change in disposition toward Town, and I give you a chilling thought. She is up to something.” Jennelle pointed a finger at Millie, who deliberately ignored her. “Yes, our clever friend is definitely up to something. Millie, what are you planning?”
Aimee looked perplexed. “Jennelle? What do you mean?”
“I mean, Aimee, that Millie is suspiciously correct in her assertions. You have things of interest here in Town. Even I am looking forward to visiting a multitude of places. But Millie? Tell me, Aimee. What does London offer a noblewoman who loves to ride, hunt, and generally cause trouble?”
Understanding suddenly crept into Aimee’s face as the blood rushed out. “Oh no. You are right.... Millie! What are you planning?”
Millie spread her hands. “Me? You two are half asleep and spouting nonsense. I’m going downstairs before I vanish into nothingness due to hunger.” She could feel the eyes of her friends on her back as she escaped through the door before they could probe further.
“There must be something edible here, though Lord knows how I am going to find it. May you experience a thousand hunger-filled days, Lord Gent,” Millie mumbled to herself as she tiptoed around the kitchen.
“Oww!” Millie yelped and immediately strangled several sordid curses as she tried not to wake the house. “Bloody hell,” she moaned, trying to ignore the pain radiating from her foot. “What fool put a stool in the middle of the floor?”
“I believe the last time we saw each other, you were hopping about precisely in the same manner. Including the bare feet,” Chase reflected from the shadows.
Startled, Millie whirled around, searching for the speaker. “Who is there? Explain yourself.”
She took a step forward and her long, dark brown hair shimmered in the moonlight. Chase lowered his gaze to skim appreciatively down the graceful line of her slender frame. He was not prepared for the petite but curvaceous beauty standing before him.
Little Mildred Aldon had grown up.
Her facial features had been replaced with those of a woman, delicate and feminine. Long lashes framed the unforgettable eyes that revealed both her curiosity and fear. Her lower lip was slightly fuller than her upper, and Chase found himself wondering if they were as soft and inviting as they looked.
“Charlie? Is . . . is that you?” Millie asked, hugging herself as she approached the large man looming in the shadows. She had been twelve years old the summer she had said good-bye to Aimee’s brother, but his presence was unlike any other. Despite the years, she instinctively knew the voice belonged to the new Marquess of Chaselton, Charles Wentworth.
Though loath to admit it aloud, he had been one of her life anchors as a child. After her mother died, Millie had felt out of control and alone. Aimee, Jennelle, Mother Wentworth, and to a large degree even Charlie, had provided her a familial refuge that gave her a sense of belonging. She had not realized how much Charlie had contributed to that feeling until he had left.
Millie moved and Chase sucked in his breath. She had slanted her head to one side and unfolded her crossed arms. The innocent act revealed the diaphanous condition of her linen shift. The tempting outline of her uptilted breasts, her shapely hips, and slender waist served as a reminder that his favorite childhood annoyance had grown up into a striking woman. Twig was reminding parts of his body that he had not been with a woman in some time.
“Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” Chase bellowed, mentally trying to envision her as a little girl with scabbed knees. It wasn’t working.
“It is you, Charlie!” Millie exclaimed in a shocked whisper. “Heavens, keep your voice down. I cannot believe it. I have not seen you since I was . . . what was I, twelve? And already you are raising your voice and lecturing me. Good Lord, don’t you know people are attempting to sleep at this hour? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Chase stood dumbfounded for a moment, feeling as if the last eight years had just disappeared. He was suddenly Charlie again and little Mildred Aldon of the thoroughly exasperating Three was lecturing him when it was she who was in the wrong. He shook his head and returned to the present, determined not to be deterred by her again.
His eyes narrowed in a futile attempt at admonishment. “I should be ashamed of myself? I am not the one who is traipsing about the kitchen half-exposed for anyone to see.”
Millie thought his comment fairly nonsensical as she felt more covered in her nightdress than she did in some of her ball gowns.
Unaware of the transparent state of her dress, Millie put her hands on her hips and jutted her chin. Chase would have laughed at her old technique of trying to appear imposing, except the gesture had thrust her bosoms more fully into view. Instead, he found himself trying unsuccessfully to suppress unexpected and unwanted visions of her as she lectured him.
“Charlie Wentworth, you will behave like a gentleman even if it has slipped your notice that I am no longer a child. You will remember your status and speak to me as a gentleman speaks to a lady.” Then, remembering she had not expected to encounter any company, she pursed her lips and added, “Regardless of my state of dress.”
Feeling ridiculous, Chase stood speechless as he tried not to gape at the soft swells of her breasts. Her body may have matured, but the fire and energy of her youth remained. Chase wasn’t sure why, but he was glad Mildred Aldon retained the spirit he had once so admired. Not that she ever knew of his approval or was going to know of it now.
Puzzled by his silence, Millie moved the stool out of her way and took a step closer. Then suddenly it occurred to her that he must have thought she was right. It was a silent agreement, of course, but when Charlie believed her to be wrong, he was quick to let her know. At least, he used to be quick to let her know.
No longer half-hidden in the shadows, the moonlight illuminated Millie’s face and accentuated the purple hue of her eyes. Chase took a deep breath as he watched her face brighten. Something had crossed her mind that pleased her immensely. The effect was mesmerizing. Millie would have to stop smiling or he would have to leave—and quick. He was already having a hard enough time reconciling this very attractive woman with his memories of a little girl who found trouble wherever she could.
“Oh, forgive my outburst, Charlie. It is just that I am surprised to see you . . . here . . . in London. We did not think you could attend this Season. Mother Wentworth wrote to you but never received a return response.” Quiet filled the room, and she still could not make out his expression in the shadows. Millie took another step closer and unconsciously rested her hand on his sleeve. “Regardless, I know Aimee will be very glad that you have returned. She has missed you enormously.”
He blinked, but the vision before him remained the same. Millie’s heart-shaped face was definitely no longer that of a child. Her finely etched cheekbones perfectly framed her large eyes. He drank in the deep, dusty-lavender pools sparkling with delight. Chase coughed to mask his ever-increasing uneasiness. “Of course I came. My place is to oversee Aimee’s first Season and ensure she makes a good match.”
Millie’s eyes laughed. “Oh, well, we all will be delighted with your company while in Town, but you need not have feared about any undeserving gentlemen attaching themselves to Aimee. That is my responsibility.” She twirled back several steps and started tracing the kitchen table’s edge with her finger.
Chase was barely able to keep the shock from invading his expression. “Your responsibility?” he asked with a hint of annoyance before inhaling deeply. Some things will never change, he told himself. Millie still had a way of twisting words that could make even the most reasonable man’s head spin.
Millie’s eyebrows rose, excited to know she still could agitate the unflappable Charles Wentworth. “Indeed, you understand me correctly. It is my responsibility. Just as it is Jennelle’s.”
Chase closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to decide whether he truly wanted to pursue this line of questioning. Curiosity forced him. “Do you actually believe you and Jennelle will be determining whom my sister will marry?”
Millie moved to place her hands across a tall, empty vase on the table. She then rested her chin on her entwined fingers. “Oh, heavens, no. We are here just to be of assistance.”
“And exactly what is the nature of the assistance you intend to provide my sister?”
Millie gave a slight, elegant shrug with one should. . .
“Chase,” said a deep, familiar voice from the makeshift doorway. “There’s someone coming. About fifteen minutes out. Does anyone know you are here?”
A powerfully built man with strong, athletic features was sitting behind a desk reviewing maps and communiqués. His chocolate brown hair was a mass of untidy long locks, and his golden eyes, despite their warm color, appeared cold and devoid of emotion. “Yes, a few. But no one knows of your presence. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Aye. And the traitor?”
Golden eyes glanced up and found the blue gaze of one of the few people Chase trusted. “I now have proof of his existence. Besides me, only you are aware of it.” He looked back down at one of the maps depicting the Americas’ coastline. Scattered beside the pen-and-ink diagram were the communiqués between General Sir Pakenham and a nameless murderer.
Chase stood and stared at the proof his father had sent him to find almost eight years ago. Proof that someone was more interested in conquest and power than in the lives of his countrymen. Someone who was willing to smear the names of good men in order to attain such power. Chase looked up and stared his friend directly in the eye. “That’s why I sent for you. No one is to know I have left here until I am already in London. For that, you are the only man I trust, Reece.”
Acknowledgment entered the shrewd, sapphire-colored eyes. “I have already loaded everything on board the Sea Emerald. Only what is here, remains.”
Chase nodded and began stacking the documents on the table.
Reece moved to help but decided against the idea. His friend had always been driven. But when his father died, Chase had emotionally shut down and had become determined to finish his father’s one last request. “What are you going to do without the name of the traitor?” Reece asked.
“Find it. My father sent me to locate the proof, and I now have it. I think this . . . this turncoat had much to do with the Peninsular War, but now I have proof of his motives and duplicitous intentions between our government and the Americas.” Chase stabbed a stack of papers with his finger. “There is no longer any doubt someone was trying to stop the impending treaty between America and England. This”—he picked up a letter—“outlines plans to send General Pakenham, stripped of talented men, to attack New Orleans. Here”—Chase grabbed another hastily scribed document—“is the general’s reply warning his superiors that their directed plan of attack was ‘unimaginative’ and ‘deadly.’ And these are the very proof I need to tie it all together,” Chase added, pointing to a third set of documents. “I cannot believe Vandeleur had not even looked at these manuscripts before handing them to me.”
The documents under Chase’s fist confirmed that Pakenham was tricked into attacking New Orleans. Upon direct orders, he took his force ashore and ran into a defensive line of militia, Indians, black troops, and even pirates, hastily put together by General Andrew Jackson. Pakenham led seventy-five hundred men into an ambush of cannon and musket fire.
By the time the English soldiers had reached the American lines, the deaths of their commanders had thrown them into confusion. While trying to establish order, Pakenham was mortally wounded. Not realizing the English forces were on the brink of victory, a retreat was ordered.
Chase understood war was sometimes a necessary evil, but the Battle of New Orleans was an unwarranted, useless, preordained English tragedy. One nameless man had purposefully arranged those pointless deaths. And Chase knew the traitor would try again. Of that, he was sure. For despite heavy English losses, peace had been made with the colonies and the Treaty of Ghent had been signed on Christmas Eve.
“I met Ned Pakenham,” Reece said respectfully. “He commanded the Third Division until the capture of Madrid. I was there in 1813, when he was given command of the Sixth Division at the Battle of the Pyrenees. He was a good man and an able commander.”
“I want this traitor, Reece. I want him, and I will have him,” said Chase forcefully, the depth of his desire evident. “But I am not going to sacrifice the names of good men while seeking the devil.”
Reece nodded in agreement. The good men Chase was referring to were called the Rebuilders, a select group of noblemen with idealistic beliefs and purposes. Chase’s father had been a member, and now, by default, so was his son. A few years ago, an inner faction began to grow and started calling themselves Expansionists. Their views of government, while not as peaceful, were not disloyal. If Chase were to reveal his proof and proclaim a member to be a traitor, without a name, all those affiliated with either group—Rebuilders or Expansionists—would be tagged as possible turncoats. Guilt by association could ruin a man’s reputation, a necessary asset in a country ruled by Tories and an extravagant, vain prince regent.
Reece looked out the slightly cracked open door. “The rider is almost here. Looks to be a delivery boy from one of the larger battalions. I’ll wait for you on the Sea Emerald. We’ll leave as soon as you are on board.”
Chase nodded as his friend silently disappeared through the back door. He sat back down behind the crude desk and hid the communiqués underneath a copy of the Second Treaty of Paris’s terms and conditions for ending the Peninsular War.
The door opened and a uniformed man entered. “Captain?”
Chase grunted and pretended to be in deep thought over the papers. It was a common ploy to quickly establish levels of importance. Common, but effective. Chase finally asked, in a gruff voice, “What do you want?”
“Sir, name is Marshel. I am aide-de-camp to Colonel Vandeleur.”
Chase looked at the ADC and quickly assessed the young man. “How long have you been with Vandeleur?”
“Close to seven months, sir. I was part of the Sixteenth Dragoons before Colonel Vandeleur took over for Lord Uxbridge last summer.”
The young man was not as green as he looked. He had made it through Waterloo. “Light cav, I take it,” Chase deduced. A critical function of light cavalry regiments was to monitor communications between enemy encampments. Only the good survived.
“Yes, sir.”
Chase leaned back. The chair squeaked. “What do you need of me?”
“Not a thing, sir. I was just told to pass on this bag to the cap’n who could be found in Sofina’s House of Pleasure near Bilbao.” The young man glanced around at the crumbling structure. It had been a long time since the place had provided a man pleasure.
Chase saw the man observing his surroundings and took the bag. “You can go now. I have nothing to pass on. But tell your colonel of my appreciation for this.” Chase knew what the bag contained. Letters from home. It had been some time since he had been in a location to receive any word from his mother and his sister, Aimee.
The man nodded, exited the building, and rode back toward Pamplona.
Chase leaned back on the small bunk as the waves rolled the Sea Emerald back and forth. An easiness fell on him he hadn’t experienced for some time. Very few had known where he was located in Spain, and only a handful knew his identity. Vandeleur was one of those few. He knew it was safe for the ADC to make contact. Chase trusted Vandeleur, but a signed peace treaty could not instantly remove habits of caution and vigilance that had saved his life multiple times.
Chase opened up the bag and discovered several letters. Two were personal. He instantly recognized the handwriting on one. It was from his mother. He lit a lamp and proceeded to break the seal.
Letters from home were his rarest and most cherished treasures. After his father had passed away, only his mother’s stories and amusing updates seemed to register with him emotionally. Tales of his sister and her two friends would bring him back to simpler times, peaceful ones in which he was unaware of the cruelty and duplicitous nature of men.
He unfolded the page and was surprised to see how short it was. He glanced at the contents. As usual, his mother never mentioned anyone’s identity. Sometimes she would refer to the Daring Three, a private label his mother had given to his sister and her wild friends, but that was as close as she came to disclosing a name.
Chase wondered if Millie was still his favorite twig, causing chaos wherever she went. He suspected time and experience had changed her as it had certainly changed him.
Chase found himself grinning. His mother always had a way of breaking through his detached self, even when she was a country away. Possessing his father’s naturally stoic personality, Chase realized how lucky his father had been to find his mother. He wondered if it was possible that he, too, would find a loyal and spirited woman who could love a self-controlled, serious man like himself.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, discarding the idea. It would not be fair to shackle anyone, especially a woman full of life, to the man he was now. Oh, he would marry someday; he had to, for the sake of his title. But when he did, it would be to someone who needed no emotional support. The arrangement would be simple. She would look beautiful and bear him a son, and he would drench her in Wentworth money. He would not care that she was shallow, and she wouldn’t care that he was haunted.
He broke the seal on the second letter. As he read the contents, an icy rage reawakened deep within him. One he had long thought to have under control.
Chase reread Lord Eischel’s last words and it stirred emotions he had long thought to have conquered—anger, hurt, and guilt that he had not yet been able to fulfill his father’s last request. Only the knowledge that he would not stop until he succeeded enabled Chase to suppress the intense feelings. And now, another—a more pressing, more important, more necessary—entreaty had been issued from his father. Avenge me.
After carefully refolding and hiding Eischel’s letter, Chase collected the one from his mother and went on deck to find Reece. His friend had made the sea his home and looked most comfortable with the ocean wind at his back.
Reece raised a single eyebrow as Chase neared. “So? Still to London?”
“It seems, good friend, my titular duties have caught up with me,” Chase replied, handing him his mother’s directive.
Reece quickly surveyed the item and grinned. “Your mother, the vibrant Lady Chaselton, has spoken,” Reece replied, turning the wheel. “To London we go. Better you than I, old friend.”
Chase gave Reece a friendly elbow to the ribs and tucked the letter inside his jacket. “A true friend would join me.”
“Tempting, but I have a quick errand to run before I can hang up my patriotic duties. Believe it or not, it is for Sir Edward.”
Chase’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sir Edward? You mean our Sir Edward?”
“The one and only.”
Chase joined Reece’s gaze at the horizon. It was beginning to darken, and the late-afternoon sky was hazy with coral colors. “I have not heard from him in years. I believed him to be retired from the war department and making merry in Town.”
“So did I, until I received his request,” Reece replied quietly, reflectively.
Eight years ago, Sir Edward had been the man Chase’s father had turned to when he needed to get both his son and Reece into key positions within the war department. Sir Edward had personally overseen Chase’s and Reece’s training, teaching them how to observe others without being seen, how to blend in to a foreign culture. He cultivated Reece’s natural strategic thinking and used his love for the sea to help cripple the enemies’ naval movements. But with Chase, Sir Edward recognized what he himself was—a born spy. He taught Chase how to build upon his already poised personality and how to remain indifferent—if only outwardly—to the events around him.
Chase owed his life many times to Sir Edward and his lessons.
London, March 1816
Millie awoke abruptly, feeling both frightened and on edge. She instinctively reached for the chain necklace on the night table and slipped it over her head. She glanced down at the gold and amethyst amulet and fingered the strange disk that now served as a pendant. Millie closed her eyes and took several deep breaths as memories of the late Lord Chaselton flooded her mind, calming her thoughts. It was nice to think of him as another guardian angel.
Nightmares did not interrupt her sleep often, but when they did, they were intense and disturbing. One of her last and clearest memories of her mother was being consoled after such a dream. After her death, Millie would stare at a small, handheld portrait of her mother, until the unsettling feelings subsided.
During one of her summer visits to the Wentworths’, the portrait had been ruined, the victim of a tree branch, a broken window, and a nasty thunderstorm. That next day, Aimee’s father Lord Chaselton had surprised them each with gifts. Millie’s was an amulet. One night, after a particularly haunting dream, she had awoke and finding it next to her, clutched it in her palm, hoping it would provide some comfort. And it had worked. All the love and peace she sought from the face of her mother, that strange piece of jewelry was somehow also able to bestow during that visit. Seeing the item when rummaging through the attic in preparations for Town, Millie immediately donned it, hoping it would provide her luck if not fortitude to withstand the weeks ahead.
Millie winced when she heard her stomach growl. She lay still for several minutes, listening to the gurgling evidence of her earlier attempt to force the impossible. Knowing she would not be able to go back to sleep until having eaten, she slipped out from the covers. Quietly sneaking down the dark, unlit hall, her toe crunched against an unseen piece of furniture. Millie muffled a cry of pain and hopped to Aimee’s door and cracked it open. Seeing moonlight pour in through the bedroom window, she heaved a sigh of relief and made her way across the room.
“Aimee? Are you awake?” Millie whispered, hoping for company while she raided the kitchen.
“No, and neither am I,” came a muffled response from under a pillow covering Jennelle’s head. Soon after Aimee’s mother arrived at the Wentworth London manor, better known as Hembree Grove, she declared all the bedrooms to be in need of immediate maintenance. Jennelle’s room was the first slated for transformation and received a fresh coat of paint and preparations for new wallpaper the following afternoon. Until the fumes from the newly enhanced walls diminished, Jennelle agreed to sleep in the spare bed located in Aimee’s room.
“Whatever do you want, Millie?” Aimee asked, yawning. She stretched and sat up, causing waves of gold to tumble all around her.
“I was only wondering if you might be interested in . . . some nourishment,” Millie murmured weakly. She had been famished for what seemed to be hours.
“Millie! I just knew this was going to happen,” Aimee grunted, falling back against her pillow. “I warned you, and you didn’t listen. You would not be starving right now if you had partaken of dinner. Your fast was a mockery, and everyone knew it.”
“I was not fasting per se, Aimee. I was just vexed. And I still am. It is not fair, I tell you,” Millie said reluctantly as she dramatically slumped onto a nearby velvet settee.
“Well, I think it is irrational for you to be the one fasting over Jennelle’s shortened Season with us. If anyone should be starving in protest, it is she.”
“I’m not starving,” came a voice from under a pillow.
Millie huffed. “That is only because of your good nature, Jennelle. It was up to me to protest your leaving, and so I did. Besides, a monthlong Season is unreasonable.”
“And this coming from the one who didn’t believe in having a Season in the first place,” the still muffled voice replied.
Millie shrugged, undisturbed by Jennelle’s retort. “I just believe that if you are going to do something, do it right. The Season lasts from now until June. That’s just over three months. It’s practically a crime, Jennelle, that you are allowed to experience only half of it. Aimee, you, too, should have been fasting with me to persuade Lord Gent to change his mind.”
“Would not have worked. My father would still have left, never having noticed.” Jennelle’s father, Lord Gent, was an avid researcher and had traveled to Town to purchase several books on medieval England. Disliking staying in London for any length of time at all, he had dined with his daughter at Hembree Grove, made polite but quick conversation, and then left. Lady Chaselton invited him to stay at least one night, but he had been adamant about starting his journey home immediately. Soon after he was assured Jennelle had settled in well with the Wentworths, her father had left for his country estate.
Aimee sat upright and looked her friend directly in the eye. “Millie, I truly love your dramatic soul, but do you not think you are being even slightly ridiculous? I mean, Lord Gent did allow her to stay for six weeks.”
“But with only one new dress. It is dreadful,” Millie replied, refusing to succumb to Aimee’s censure.
“What need do I have for new gowns? I have no intention of capturing anyone’s notice,” Jennelle replied. She lifted her pillow and looked directly at Millie. “And I thought neither did you.”
Aimee nodded her head and joined Jennelle’s line of questioning. “Indeed, was it not you, Millie, who convinced us to delay our coming-out these past two years?”
Millie stood up and waved her hands, downplaying Aimee’s question. “Oh, I still have no intention of agreeing to any type of commitment—especially with the dandies and fribble we’re likely to encounter. And if I could have delayed this demand of my father’s, Aimee, I would have. But now that our coming-out is a fait accompli, I have decided that it need not all be dreadful. Imagine the adventures we could have here and nowhere else.” Millie began spinning about the room with her arms held out to her sides.
Those who assumed Millie Aldon’s personality corresponded with her physical characteristics—petite, ladylike, and soft-spoken—usually found themselves either befuddled and confused, or enjoying lively conversation upon meeting her. According to Mother Wentworth, the Daring Three would soon redefine what Society considered diamonds of the first water.
Millie was the smallest of them all, and the most spirited. Yet despite her propensity for unorthodox activities, she possessed her mother’s natural elegance and a charming wit that ensnared most of those around her.
Tall, slender, with blond hair and snapping emerald eyes, Aimee fit every Society mother’s mold of ideal marriage material. And though a self-admitted bluestocking, Jennelle’s flawless skin, shapely figure, and intelligent blue eyes would enable her to select from many eligible men.
Millie stopped twirling and looked beseechingly at her friend. “Jennelle, think of the societies that are here, many of which include people who love to learn and read as much as you do. Aimee! The museums, the art, the paintings!”
Jennelle sat up abruptly and signaled Aimee. “Reflect on our friend’s sudden change in disposition toward Town, and I give you a chilling thought. She is up to something.” Jennelle pointed a finger at Millie, who deliberately ignored her. “Yes, our clever friend is definitely up to something. Millie, what are you planning?”
Aimee looked perplexed. “Jennelle? What do you mean?”
“I mean, Aimee, that Millie is suspiciously correct in her assertions. You have things of interest here in Town. Even I am looking forward to visiting a multitude of places. But Millie? Tell me, Aimee. What does London offer a noblewoman who loves to ride, hunt, and generally cause trouble?”
Understanding suddenly crept into Aimee’s face as the blood rushed out. “Oh no. You are right.... Millie! What are you planning?”
Millie spread her hands. “Me? You two are half asleep and spouting nonsense. I’m going downstairs before I vanish into nothingness due to hunger.” She could feel the eyes of her friends on her back as she escaped through the door before they could probe further.
“There must be something edible here, though Lord knows how I am going to find it. May you experience a thousand hunger-filled days, Lord Gent,” Millie mumbled to herself as she tiptoed around the kitchen.
“Oww!” Millie yelped and immediately strangled several sordid curses as she tried not to wake the house. “Bloody hell,” she moaned, trying to ignore the pain radiating from her foot. “What fool put a stool in the middle of the floor?”
“I believe the last time we saw each other, you were hopping about precisely in the same manner. Including the bare feet,” Chase reflected from the shadows.
Startled, Millie whirled around, searching for the speaker. “Who is there? Explain yourself.”
She took a step forward and her long, dark brown hair shimmered in the moonlight. Chase lowered his gaze to skim appreciatively down the graceful line of her slender frame. He was not prepared for the petite but curvaceous beauty standing before him.
Little Mildred Aldon had grown up.
Her facial features had been replaced with those of a woman, delicate and feminine. Long lashes framed the unforgettable eyes that revealed both her curiosity and fear. Her lower lip was slightly fuller than her upper, and Chase found himself wondering if they were as soft and inviting as they looked.
“Charlie? Is . . . is that you?” Millie asked, hugging herself as she approached the large man looming in the shadows. She had been twelve years old the summer she had said good-bye to Aimee’s brother, but his presence was unlike any other. Despite the years, she instinctively knew the voice belonged to the new Marquess of Chaselton, Charles Wentworth.
Though loath to admit it aloud, he had been one of her life anchors as a child. After her mother died, Millie had felt out of control and alone. Aimee, Jennelle, Mother Wentworth, and to a large degree even Charlie, had provided her a familial refuge that gave her a sense of belonging. She had not realized how much Charlie had contributed to that feeling until he had left.
Millie moved and Chase sucked in his breath. She had slanted her head to one side and unfolded her crossed arms. The innocent act revealed the diaphanous condition of her linen shift. The tempting outline of her uptilted breasts, her shapely hips, and slender waist served as a reminder that his favorite childhood annoyance had grown up into a striking woman. Twig was reminding parts of his body that he had not been with a woman in some time.
“Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” Chase bellowed, mentally trying to envision her as a little girl with scabbed knees. It wasn’t working.
“It is you, Charlie!” Millie exclaimed in a shocked whisper. “Heavens, keep your voice down. I cannot believe it. I have not seen you since I was . . . what was I, twelve? And already you are raising your voice and lecturing me. Good Lord, don’t you know people are attempting to sleep at this hour? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Chase stood dumbfounded for a moment, feeling as if the last eight years had just disappeared. He was suddenly Charlie again and little Mildred Aldon of the thoroughly exasperating Three was lecturing him when it was she who was in the wrong. He shook his head and returned to the present, determined not to be deterred by her again.
His eyes narrowed in a futile attempt at admonishment. “I should be ashamed of myself? I am not the one who is traipsing about the kitchen half-exposed for anyone to see.”
Millie thought his comment fairly nonsensical as she felt more covered in her nightdress than she did in some of her ball gowns.
Unaware of the transparent state of her dress, Millie put her hands on her hips and jutted her chin. Chase would have laughed at her old technique of trying to appear imposing, except the gesture had thrust her bosoms more fully into view. Instead, he found himself trying unsuccessfully to suppress unexpected and unwanted visions of her as she lectured him.
“Charlie Wentworth, you will behave like a gentleman even if it has slipped your notice that I am no longer a child. You will remember your status and speak to me as a gentleman speaks to a lady.” Then, remembering she had not expected to encounter any company, she pursed her lips and added, “Regardless of my state of dress.”
Feeling ridiculous, Chase stood speechless as he tried not to gape at the soft swells of her breasts. Her body may have matured, but the fire and energy of her youth remained. Chase wasn’t sure why, but he was glad Mildred Aldon retained the spirit he had once so admired. Not that she ever knew of his approval or was going to know of it now.
Puzzled by his silence, Millie moved the stool out of her way and took a step closer. Then suddenly it occurred to her that he must have thought she was right. It was a silent agreement, of course, but when Charlie believed her to be wrong, he was quick to let her know. At least, he used to be quick to let her know.
No longer half-hidden in the shadows, the moonlight illuminated Millie’s face and accentuated the purple hue of her eyes. Chase took a deep breath as he watched her face brighten. Something had crossed her mind that pleased her immensely. The effect was mesmerizing. Millie would have to stop smiling or he would have to leave—and quick. He was already having a hard enough time reconciling this very attractive woman with his memories of a little girl who found trouble wherever she could.
“Oh, forgive my outburst, Charlie. It is just that I am surprised to see you . . . here . . . in London. We did not think you could attend this Season. Mother Wentworth wrote to you but never received a return response.” Quiet filled the room, and she still could not make out his expression in the shadows. Millie took another step closer and unconsciously rested her hand on his sleeve. “Regardless, I know Aimee will be very glad that you have returned. She has missed you enormously.”
He blinked, but the vision before him remained the same. Millie’s heart-shaped face was definitely no longer that of a child. Her finely etched cheekbones perfectly framed her large eyes. He drank in the deep, dusty-lavender pools sparkling with delight. Chase coughed to mask his ever-increasing uneasiness. “Of course I came. My place is to oversee Aimee’s first Season and ensure she makes a good match.”
Millie’s eyes laughed. “Oh, well, we all will be delighted with your company while in Town, but you need not have feared about any undeserving gentlemen attaching themselves to Aimee. That is my responsibility.” She twirled back several steps and started tracing the kitchen table’s edge with her finger.
Chase was barely able to keep the shock from invading his expression. “Your responsibility?” he asked with a hint of annoyance before inhaling deeply. Some things will never change, he told himself. Millie still had a way of twisting words that could make even the most reasonable man’s head spin.
Millie’s eyebrows rose, excited to know she still could agitate the unflappable Charles Wentworth. “Indeed, you understand me correctly. It is my responsibility. Just as it is Jennelle’s.”
Chase closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to decide whether he truly wanted to pursue this line of questioning. Curiosity forced him. “Do you actually believe you and Jennelle will be determining whom my sister will marry?”
Millie moved to place her hands across a tall, empty vase on the table. She then rested her chin on her entwined fingers. “Oh, heavens, no. We are here just to be of assistance.”
“And exactly what is the nature of the assistance you intend to provide my sister?”
Millie gave a slight, elegant shrug with one should. . .
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A Woman Made for Pleasure
Michele Sinclair
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