And what of his heir, Nicholas, the current Lord Sheffield?
Despite the close friendship of their fathers, Harriet had only met the current Lord Sheffield once, seven years ago. She’d been visiting her friend Marianne in Bath. Marianne’s family had taken in their cousin Charlotte after Charlotte’s mother died. As a friend of the family, Sheffield had arrived to escort Charlotte to her brother. On his ship.
Harriet stopped pacing.
Half the treasure rightly belonged to Sheffield.
And Sheffield had a ship.
He’d looked every inch the pirate, with long black hair tied back in a queue, gold hoop earring, tanned skin, and a rolling swagger from time at sea. All he’d lacked was a cutlass and eye patch. Rumors swirled about him like the capes of his greatcoat—that he’d killed dozens of men as a privateer during the war, and bedded more than a hundred women before his twenty-first birthday. Harriet doubted there was time for him to have accomplished both feats, but with his roguish smile and chilly blue eyes, there might be a drop of truth to the gossip.
Could she trust such a man? A privateer was just a pirate with a license. She’d have to trust him with her life, her safety, her half of the treasure. Such doubts had kept her from enlisting his aid before, but the mortgage due date had seemed such a long way off, and Harriet’s salary as a teacher would have made it attainable. But not now.
Harriet took a shuddering breath and steeled her nerves. “You’re going to escort me to London, and there I’m going to persuade Lord Sheffield to give me passage to Spain.”
Chapter 2
Nicholas Langston, fifth Viscount Sheffield, gave up trying to find a comfortable position in his unpadded oak chair, rested his elbows on the desk, and contemplated the view in his father’s study. Correct that: his study. Everything that had belonged to his father now belonged to Nick. The other nine straight-backed armless chairs, still set in a circle for a prayer meeting, and the floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with religious tracts and improving works, all reeked of his father’s sensibility.
Nick wanted to toss it all out to the street.
But as with every other time he’d arrived in London and reluctantly come to the townhouse to deal with his steward’s frantic requests, it was too late in the day to make the servants implement the changes. He wanted to see the stuff carted out in person. He’d stop just short of making a bonfire of it. Let it be grabbed up by beggars.
Nick had inherited everything he was going to by the age of twenty-one, a heady experience … until the full weight of the accompanying responsibility made itself known. The livelihood, not to mention quality of life, of so many people here in London as well as at the properties connected to Langston Hall in Dorset relied on the decisions he made, from this very desk.
His friend Alistair would likely spend most of his adult life waiting to receive the fullness of his inheritance. He was in line to be a marquess and a duke once his father and grandfather popped off. Fortunately, Alistair seemed in no hurry to move beyond being Viscount Moncreiffe, and was currently off enjoying his honeymoon.
Their friend Tony would never be elevated above Mister unless his brother, the Earl of Sinclair, died without issue. As Sinclair had entered into a scandalous love match early this summer, the chances of that happening diminished daily. Tony had married just a couple months ago and was busy setting up a business enterprise with his bride.
Which left Nick at loose ends.
The bank drafts signed and enough other matters dealt with to appease the steward for the day, Nick hurried out of the oppressive room and toward the front door.
“Shall I have your bed chamber prepared for later tonight, my lord?” The butler held the door open. Two carriages rattled past on the dark street beyond, lanterns casting fast-moving shadows.
“No, Alfred. I’ll be returning to the Wind Dancer as usual.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Was that a hint of disappointment in the old retainer’s voice?
No matter the fellow had served the family since Nick was in short coats and had shown a young boy many kindnesses, Nick wouldn’t stay in his father’s house a minute longer than necessary.
He put thoughts of his inherited properties out of mind and headed for Lord and Lady Hartwell’s ball at the Argyle Rooms. To many sticklers in the ton, Sheffield was an upstart, as his title only went back a century and a half, but it still opened plenty of doors for him. Hartwell liked his liquor and only served the best, and Lady Hartwell was open-minded enough to invite an interesting mix of guests.
Within the hour he’d done the niceties and was enjoying a glass of champagne, determinedly ignoring the row of wallflowers and optimistic duennas. His two closest friends may have recently stepped into the parson’s mousetrap, but Nick had no intention of following them. The lovely widows winking at him over the tops of their fans, however, were another story. With which one would he pass the night? Or at least a diverting hour or two.
The lovely Lady Slavin was particularly agile, he recalled, and looking fine as five-pence tonight in a deep blue dress cut so low her ample breasts seemed in imminent danger of tumbling out. She gave him a knowing smile as he slowly raised his gaze from her cleavage to her face. He stepped around this flirtatious couple and that one, making his surreptitious way around the room. With a tilt to her head, Lady Slavin headed toward a handy, dark alcove.
Smiling in anticipation, Nick sidestepped the Marquess of Penrith just before the gent upended the punch bowl over the head of his father, the Duke of Keswick. Orgeat punch drizzled through the duke’s white hair and dampened his elegantly tied cravat.
Matrons nearby gasped in shock, but Keswick remained unfazed. It had likely happened several times now, since Alistair, the family peacemaker, was off on his honeymoon, no longer at hand to cool his relatives’ flaring tempers.
Penrith casually handed the now-empty crystal punch bowl to an open-mouthed footman. Ignoring the pointed stares of disapproving matrons, he slung an arm around Nick’s shoulders as he passed. Nick caught the eye of Lady Slavin, still many feet away. She hunched a shoulder and turned her back. Ah, well. She was not much fun if she was in one of her moods. Nick allowed Penrith to steer him toward the card room.
“So, m’boy,” Penrith began, giving Nick a slight shake. “Seen your uncle lately? I can’t win back my blunt if he doesn’t come to the club.”
Nick glanced over, unsurprised to see Penrith retained not a trace of the anger that had led to the punch bowl incident. “No, sorry, haven’t seen Uncle Zach since I’ve been in Town this trip. Probably found himself a new mistress and doesn’t want anyone to steal her away. Again.”
