Page 8 of Barbarous

Thomas Redvers would have been horrified to learn his heir hadn’t just found a place in the savage hierarchy of the Mediterranean; he had killed, fought, and clawed his way to the top, until he dominated it.

It would have embarrassed the old earl to learn Hugh was One-Eyed Standish, the mysterious captain of the Batavia’s Ghost, a man variously known as the King’s Privateer, the King of the Pirates, and other, far less flattering epithets. A man who had captured more corsair vessels and sunk more French ships than any other in His Majesty’s navy.

That’s who Hugh was—not an earl, not an English gentleman. He hadn’t belonged here when he was twenty, and he certainly didn’t belong here now—he never should have returned.

“Spilt milk, you fool,” he muttered. “You are here.” He glanced around for his two young cousins, hoping they’d not been compromised by Mr. Boswell’s unsavory sense of humor.

Kemal stood not far away with the twins, who were gawking at the parrot Hugh’s sailors had christened the Great Sou’wester. The vile bird was screeching multilingual imprecations, encouraged in his bad behavior by the boys’ laughter. Hugh shook his head, grateful the Sou’wester spoke very few words of English.

Satisfied the boys were nowhere near loaded weapons or animals dangerous to more than their vocabulary, Hugh looked about for Will Standish, the man responsible for dragging him back to England after seventeen years.

His uncle’s sandy-haired stable master stood near a precariously leaning tower of crates, shooting scandalized looks at Hugh’s second mate, Martín. In spite of Hugh’s direct order, the younger man still had not donned a shirt and coat. Hugh rolled his eyes. That was just what he needed right now, a brawl between his incorrigible second mate and his prudish ex-servant.

Not that he’d ever viewed Will as just a servant, of course. Will was the only son of the old Earl of Davenport’s steward and just a few months younger than Hugh. Will’s father had been an educated man who’d raised his son to take over his position—a destiny Will fought tooth and nail. It hadn’t surprised Hugh to learn his old friend had taken the position of stable master, which was what he’d always wanted, rather than steward.

Hugh and Will had been raised like brothers, regardless of the social gulf between them. But after Hugh went away to Eton and Will began to study stewardship with his father, their relationship had subtly shifted. By the time Hugh was sent down from Oxford in disgrace, they were no longer close. Even so, when the earl banished Hugh to the Continent, he engaged Will to accompany Hugh in the capacity of manservant. And probably Hugh’s minder, as Will had always been the more responsible and levelheaded of the two.

And it had been Will who’d been begging him to come back ever since.

Yet today—when Hugh had ridden up the driveway to Lessing Hall for the first time in almost two decades—Will had greeted him with a coolly appraising look more suited to a stranger.

Hugh’s eyes narrowed; Will was still wearing that same irritating expression now. Apparently his erstwhile friend had spent the intervening years mastering the art of looking superior and impassive. Well, Hugh supposed it was better than spending seventeen years fighting, killing, and carousing in the brothels of the world. He dropped his quizzing glass and strode toward the men.

“Martín,” he barked in his captain’s voice, “Clothing!”

The young Frenchman turned slowly and gave Hugh an insolent stare before strolling off.

Hugh turned to his friend. “William.”

Will crossed his arms. “Aye, my lord.”

Something in the man’s bland tone made Hugh’s temperature rise and he had to struggle to keep a civil tongue. “The letters.” It was not a question.

“I have them, my lord.” Will’s mouth settled into a prim, judgmental line as he extracted two ragged pieces of paper from his waistcoat.

Hugh unfolded them. Both were brief and written in the jerky hand of a person who did not write often.

The first one read:

I no the old erl liked and trusted you, will standish. So Im giving you fare warning. Get ladee daffnee away from lessing hall befor her and the boys take harm. They are in teribell danger. Her lif wont be worth living if she stays.

The second one read:

I wont tell you agin, will standish. Her lady ship is in danger wors than deth! Take her away somewere very, very far. Her and the boys. Bad, bad things will hapen. This is yur last warning.

Hugh’s head buzzed and he gaped at the other man, waving the notes in the air. “This? This is all you have?” He realized his voice had climbed an octave or two and he took a deep breath and brought it back into the normal range. “I’ve come running halfway round the globe for . . . this.”

Will drew himself up even straighter—something Hugh hadn’t believed possible. “I’ve only done what you bade me, sir. I believed the letters were explicit and threatening.” He gave Hugh a self-righteous glare that would have done a saint proud. “Perhaps I may have erred on the side of caution, but I used my best judgment, my lord. Lord Davenport was very good to both me and my sister—especially after her troubles. I would do anything for his lady wife and sons.”

Hugh ignored Will’s sanctimonious tone and focused on what his friend was saying, swallowing his desire to bluster and rant. After all, Hugh had been the one to put his trust in Will once he had decided to remain dead to his family all those years ago.

It had taken Hugh a few years after escaping captivity to realize he didn’t really wish to sever all connections with the country of his birth.

So he’d reestablished contact with Will Standish, asking him to occasionally apprise him of matters at home but to keep his survival a secret. Will had sent him perhaps two dozen letters over the years, each and every one begging Hugh to allow him to tell the earl he was alive. Each and every time Hugh had refused—especially since he’d had no intention of returning to England or assuming the earldom. It was Hugh’s belief he had caused the earl nothing but grief and the old man was better off believing him dead and moving on with his life. Even so, Will had continued to beg him to return in each letter until . . .

Hugh snorted; what a fool he was! Will hadn’t needed to beg him to return in his last letter because he’d finally gotten what he wanted.

Will returned Hugh’s searching look with a glare of hostile insolence no friend or well-behaved servant would employ. Hugh sighed; the man had always been obstinate, opinionated, and headstrong. The only time Hugh had ever prevailed in an argument with him was when Will had been so shot through with fever he’d been delirious.