Chapter Text
The exigencies of marriage, The Most Honorable Marchioness of Alverstoke (Frederica Merriville that was) thought sleepily as she roused slowly and languorously out of slumber, explained a great deal about how her excellent, obedient, and dutiful mother had run away with, well, call him a bon vivant such as her father. Some things sounded less raffish in French.
She was not aware of chuckling under her breath until her husband turned toward her and murmured, “What amuses you, my dear?”
“I was trying to recollect,” Frederica replied as she hauled her bulk the other way, tucking her head on his shoulder, and her rounded belly up against his hip, “the French word for a gentleman who likes … mmm … pleasure.”
She felt rather than heard his laugh, a delicious fremitus reverberating through his chest. “Is this singular observation offered to my, ah, benefit?”
“Do you desire it to be?” she whispered, running her fingers over his warm flesh, her palm relishing the contour of muscle from shoulder to his chest. Did these delightful parts of his anatomy, ordinarily hidden under those layers of cambric shirt, embroidered silk waistcoat, and heavy broadcloth coat, have names? She might give them secret names, along with the clean line of his collarbones, and that dip between them that she liked to lick.
She licked it now.
Pleased with the tightening she felt through all those lovely muscles, she trailed her nails lightly through the soft hairs on his breastbone, and chuckled again when she heard his breath hitch.
“I did not consider,” he observed, his drawl increasingly raspy as she traced her fingertips downward over the bumps of his ribs to the tight mounds of his flat belly, “that I might have married an insatiable wanton.”
She knew she ought to arise. She could see from the slant of light between curtains and windows that the morning was already advanced, but the total satisfaction—the utter approval—in his voice warmed her instantly to heat. “I am insatiable,” she observed on a note of discovery. Then, as her hand drifted further down until it found what it sought, she began to press kisses from his shoulder down to his breast, until she found his nipple. And bit.
A very gratifying gasp was her only warning before he flung off the covers and picked her up as if she were made of air and fire. It was his turn to trail burning kisses over her naked breasts, sucking each until it was her turn to gasp, before he turned her over to her hands and knees.
Oh, the relief.
She writhed like a cat, working her spine, which these past weeks tended to ache no matter which side she tried to sleep on. It felt unspeakably good to support herself on hands and knees, and that before he slid his knees between hers, widening her stance as he threw up the back of her nightdress. The cool air made her flesh tingle with anticipation, as her center throbbed in readiness. His questing fingers found that heat, and stroked the banked embers to roaring flame. Then the sudden impact that ignited the flames to lightning. He filled her perfectly. They rocked together, until pleasure exploded in her, her spasm ringing outward, sending him over the edge, until they tumbled back to earth in ecstasy. And for a time, as the sweet throbs slowly died away, they lay together, his hand roaming over the bulge of her belly, the both of them witless with euphoria.
Presently he laughed, his breath warm on her shoulder. “I confess,” he murmured, “I do not know if I ought to offer an observation.”
The babe within her had begun to swim during their exertions. Her midwife, old and experienced, had said in frank north-country accents, “Leave off a-lying with your husband while you’re in kindle? Only if ye like him not. But otherwise, I’m of the belief it’s good for ye both, and the bairn as well—if you’re happy, the babe's happy, if you catch me drift.”
She, Frederica had amended mentally. She dearly loved her two boys, nine-year-old William now at school, and according to his letters, merry as a grig, and George, finally asleep, after a miserable night due to far too much cake the previous evening. Ordinarily George preferred the company of horses and dogs, tolerating his nanny, tutor, and parents, but when he was ill, no one would do but his mother. And when he woke, he would be out the door in a trice, Mama sinking back to her place with everyone else.
Frederica had raised her dear brothers. She knew that boys very soon went their own ways, places a loving sister—or mother—could not go. Whereas a daughter … perhaps it was only her having lost her mother far before she was ready, but she longed for a little girl of her own.
“If your observation is an assurance how handsome she will be, I would be happy to hear it,” Frederica said.
Her Vernon hmmmed into her shoulder.
She sighed. “Very well. I lay no embargo on your words. Do your worst.”
“Only to ask if you are certain of your counting?”
“Very certain—we have another month to go. Though I will admit she feels as if she were ready now.”
“Yes, I was going to observe that he … she, if you like—”
“Oh, if wishes make it so, I’ve been wishing so very strongly!”
“—she is significantly larger than I recollect either of the boys being.”
“The midwife tells me that it happens sometimes, that there is more water with some than with others.”
“That might explain it, then. Which brings us back to our discussion of names.”
“I thought we were agreed?” She blinked at him.
“We agreed that we would name the boys after our respective paternal grandfathers, and that another boy would be named for my respected father.”
Thereby avoiding any reminders of Frederica’s father’s singular reputation. “You are referring to our dilemma with the names of girls, postponed twice.” Frederica smothered a laugh. “I remember where we reached, what does Mr. Moreton call it? Point Non Plus. Except that you carried your very wise point.”
Though neither she nor Alverstoke was blessed with a living mother, between them they were well supplied with aunts and sisters. Frederica’s first thought, to name a daughter after Vernon’s eldest sister, the favorite of them both, had been very swiftly laid aside—it was not only Vernon’s younger sisters whose noses would be out of joint, but Frederica knew her own dear Charis would be hurt. And yet nothing could bring Frederica to saddle an innocent daughter with Charis—ouch! There he, she, went again, riding to hounds in there—especially if she turned out to be as large as a grenadier…“Charis,” Frederica said dulcetly, “did offer a list of her favorite names, in case we should require such.”
“No,” Alverstoke said decidedly. “It was very thoughtful of her, and I esteem your sister’s many good qualities, but I do not have to hear them to know they won’t do. Not from a lady who lumbered her own daughters with Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Pandora … and what were the two others?”
“Xanthe, and baby Cleopatra.”
“Cleopatra!” he repeated in accents of disapprobation.
“Well, she was beautiful, all the classical writers say so. Anyway, with Xanthe, Charis ran out of Greek names that she liked, and Egyptian things are so very fashionable …”
“Perhaps, but they will not be in twenty years—”
A discreet cough from his excellent valet Knapp from Alverstoke’s dressing room recalled them to the world. “Jessamy,” Alverstoke said at the same time Frederica uttered, “Charis!”
Alverstoke kissed her neck, then laid his hand on her shoulder as she began the struggle to rise. “Bide,” he said. “I heard you up in the night twice, tending our greedy-guts George. I’ll sent Walter around to your sister begging your excuses. You can walk to the Park any fine morning with Charis and her Greek chorus, when you are more rested; I must keep my appointment, alas, or I would stay with you.”
“Alas indeed.” She hoisted herself up on her elbow. “Jessamy would never say anything, but he would be so chagrined if you were to leave him waiting at Tattersall’s, and then put him off with excuses.”
“No, I must keep my promise, especially as he kept his, not vouchsafing a word while that rag-mannered old stiff-neck crabbed, scolded, and outright insulted him through the entire ecumenical calendar. He deserves a fine pair. Whoever thought to make that man a vicar was probably himself a—”
His dressing-room door shut on the epithet, which was probably just as well, Frederica thought sleepily. In truth, that aged vicar had probably been soured in youth, and age had only pickled him further. He had apparently scared off a score of promising curates. But Jessamy had held firm for the stipulated year, with the result that he had gained the living he had earned, which—she thought with satisfaction—would not only benefit him, but his future parishioners, who already loved him.
She slept another three much-needed hours, until guilt caused her to rise. Even being in child, she was not a woman to lie about all day. She bathed quickly, and her maid was finishing her hair when the sounds of an adolescent boy shrieking came in through the open window, the noise echoing from the cobblestones to the buildings; to Frederica, used to the noise of boys, there was a note of falsity in the cries, the way boys played at being pirates or knights or the like shouted and bellowed in mock battle.
But that swiftly turned into the shouts and bellows of men, as more voices joined in. She went to the window to peer out as the sounds of an altercation rose from the street directly below the house. She saw a big man with silvering fair hair being set upon by a group of ruffians.
She didn’t think. Vernon was still away. Years of pulling her brothers out of scrapes sent her flitting down the stairs, to pause only long enough to take up a fireplace iron. She flung open the door, a step ahead of the first footman, and Wicken, the butler, then froze on the step at the astonishing sight of a parcel of rough-looking fellows lying in the street, groaning as they clutched various limbs.
A crowd had gathered, ringing around the spectacle, as the big man she had seen from above stood over them, one hand clutching—an umbrella?
“‘ere, ‘ere,” bulled a new voice—from the looks of him, a Bow Street Runner, with two companions, all carrying clubs. “What’s all this?”
Several voices rose at once.
The man in the old coat raised his voice above the hubbub; it was not merely his volume, but a note in his voice that silenced the rest, at least long enough for him to say, “I was walking along the street, and chanced to see what I thought was a hackney coachman beating on a young scrub. I tried to intervene—and they both turned on me, then from nowhere these others came, and—”
“Not so, not so,” proclaimed one of those on the ground, looking back and forth quickly. “I’m an honest jarvey, that I am. There is my rig, you see. I was just a-giving of my boy a little o’ the Preacher’s Admonition, when this-here bully comes and attacks me, and these others, which I don’t know—”
“That is a lie,” proclaimed the gentleman—for he spoke in the accents of a gentleman, however out of fashion his coat might be. “By the way the four of you rushed me, I’d say you’ve worked together before this. Where is that boy? He could tell you…” The gentleman looked around.
“Who are you?” the Bow Street Runner asked rudely, eyeing that old coat, and the gentleman’s old-fashioned queue. “We’ve seen your kind, talkin’ flash. This jarvey, here, we can find out soon enough if he is who he says he is.”
At this, the jarvey looked about, as his surly friends began to pick themselves up.
“My name is Aubrey, Admiral Aubrey, not to put too fine a point upon it, though betwixt voyages. I have my card right here…” As he spoke, he plunged his hand into his pocket, as if to draw out his pocketbook, then his face reddened. “By God, it’s gone. The boy! He butted up against me, and—”
“Admiral,” the Bow Street Runner said, looking the tall gentleman up and down in a distinctly suspicious manner. “My glims ain’t what they once was, but even I can see that ain’t no admiral’s uniform.”
“Of course not,” the gentleman retorted with some heat. “My uniform is worn on the quarterdeck of my flagship, or when I visit the Admiralty—”
“Where do you live?”
“Aye, that’s what I was trying to recollect when I entered this godda—this street, but—”
At this, the entire crowd began offering their opinions, every passerby certain that the jarvey was honest, or that the big gent in the old coat was the victim. Frederica hesitated, unsure whether she ought to intervene. Her dread of making a spectacle of herself on the street fought against her increasing sense that the big gentleman might be the victim of one of the many ploys that plagued the town. Then she saw that the gentleman was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, above a long, white scar.
A cool voice cut through the hubbub: “I beg your pardon.”
To Frederica’s immense relief, here was Alverstoke, back again, looking very much the marquis as he surveyed the crowd. His dispassionate gaze had the effect of causing those who had no business there to return to their own affairs, except for the Bow Street Runner, who stood his ground. “Yer lordship,” this man said. “It seems I orter do me dooty, here—”
“In a moment,” the marquis said, eyeing the jarvey, who had also taken Alverstoke’s measure—might even have recognized him—and slunk back to his tired-looking horse, which had probably enjoyed the respite. Alverstoke had seen only the very end of the altercation, but what he had seen convinced him that this gentleman in the old coat knew what he was about when rushed by a wicked-looking set of ruffians. He’d wielded that umbrella like a cutlass.
He came to a sudden decision. “Wicken, Walter, I would like you to look well upon these faces. If you see them in this street again, you may act accordingly.”
His words, coolly spoken, had the effect of causing the limping ruffians to take themselves off. The hackney coachman climbed back onto his ramshackle vehicle and the horse lurched into motion. The boy, of course, was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, you are bleeding, sir,” Frederica exclaimed then, as the gentleman turned his head.
He looked up, and made as if to tip his hat—then discovered that this hat lay smashed in the street.
“Pray come inside, sir,” Alverstoke said. “Walter, fetch the gentleman’s hat and see that it is brushed.”
Frederica whisked herself inside, and by the time Alverstoke got the gentleman into the small parlor, and had poured him a glass of something strong, she was back with water, and a clean cloth from which to make a bandage.
“Pray, sir,” she said. “Permit me to tend that cut—you are bleeding.”
“Aubrey, ma’am,” he said. “And thank you, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble. It don’t signify.”
“It will only take a moment,” she soothed, in much the voice she had used with her brothers.
Jack Aubrey permitted himself to be ministered to, which at least gave him a chance to collect his wits. What wits were left to him. Once again, Jack Aubrey, he was thinking, you caught yourself on a lee shore. He ought to have smoked that it was a ruse from the start, but he was thirsty, hungry, and most of all furious with himself.
When the very handsome—and very pregnant—lady was satisfied with the bandage, and rose with a rustle of expensive fabric, Jack took in his host, who was a cool customer indeed. He and his lady sat side by side, their countenances friendly.
Steadied, he said, “I thank you for tying up my head. Very neat, ma’am. My friend and colleague, a physician, you understand, could not have wrapped it better. The fact of the matter is, I am at a stand.”
“I overheard what you said about your pocketbook being purloined,” Frederica said. “Pray, we would be happy to call out our carriage and send you home.”
“Thankee, thankee, that is very kind in you. Very kind. Fact of the matter is, I hardly know how to put this, as I know how it will sound. That is, they got damned little for their pains—I only had a few shillings on me—but the direction of my house, my newly hired house, see—we moved in only yesterday—was writ on a card. And I can’t for the life of me recollect where that da—that devilish house is. Cro’jack, is what I kept thinking. The name of the street was something like crossjack, or crosstrees, you know, the cross-timbers which spread the shrouds, or crossjack, which is a square-rigger’s aftermost mast’s course—I see I am making matters worse.”
He drank off the brandy he’d been offered, wishing he had a scupper of water, or better coffee—he would kill for coffee—and tried to organize his thoughts. “Do you see, it’s like this. I have a pair of daughters, and Mrs. Aubrey wishes to bring them to London to find them husbands. I find that to do that, you cannot put girls up at the Grapes, in the Savoy, which is where I was always accustomed to stay when I must be in London, and knit a couple of dresses, then fire ‘em off into good company like a pair of brass nines. There are all manner of requirements, a proper house among ‘em.”
His auditors both nodded in agreement.
“I hired a fine house in … Catharpings Street, only that ain’t the name. There’s a chapel hard by, is all I remember. Early this morning the afterguard and the womenfolk chased me out so they could holystone and polish, and set things to rights, and I could see that I was very much in the way. I took myself off to get my bearings. But though Jack Aubrey on the deck of a frigate can find any harbor you can name, Jack ashore is all at sea. All at sea, ha ha! D’you smoke it? The truth is, I lost myself, and then I saw what I thought was that da—that jarvey beating a boy. If it had been on the coast of France, or the deck of a privateer, see, I would have spotted a caper in a trice.”
He paused, to touch his forehead, wincing slightly. “Crosstrees Street, no, damme.”
Alverstoke, having got a sense of the gentleman by now, ventured a guess, “Could Admiral Aubrey perchance be referring to Curzon Street?”
“By Jove!” Jack sat upright, smacking his big, scarred hands on his knees. “That sounds like that might be the one. Curzon? Curzon! I ought to have bethought myself of cur-tailed … oh, ho, the best jest that ever was spoke. Belay that. But, what a dam—a dashed absurd name. Who would ever know a Curzon if it shot one amidships?”
“Perhaps,” Alverstoke said gently, “Admiral Howe might be more familiar? I believe the name is related to the admiral’s brother, though I could be mistaken.”
Jack laughed, his eyes blue and bright, and both Frederica and Alverstoke caught a glimpse of the Mad Jack Aubrey of the Napoleonic War, not so very long ago. She was thinking that he must have been very handsome in his young days, and Alverstoke was remembering some very dashing stories in the newspapers. “Come,” he said to their inadvertent guest. “As it transpires, you were not far off. It’s just around the corner. Permit me to accompany you, Admiral.” And, at Jack’s hesitation, he perjured himself nobly, “I was about to step out and take the air. It will be no trouble to guide you those few steps.”
Jack shook him heartily by the hand. “I would take that kindly, sir, kindly indeed. No pocketbook—bleeding like a pig—Mrs. Aubrey will say I ought not to be let out ‘thout a bear-leader, and she won’t be far wrong. You shall lend me countenance, sir,” with another of those deep, hearty laughs that could not but bring a smile.
The gentleman’s hat restored, somewhat the worse for wear, he made a leg to Frederica in the old-fashioned manner, and said, “Thank you, ma’am, for your rescue. I am very sure my wife will insist on thanking you as well.”
“There is no necessity, Admiral, it was the merest trifle,” Frederica said, rising with an inner effort. “As you see, I am mostly confined at home, and I was alarmed to hear those ruffians setting about you directly below our windows. And I’ve bound up cuts on my brothers times out of mind.”
“Thankee, thankee. Good day, and God bless you.”
Frederica followed them to the door, as Jack’s fine quarterdeck voice floated back, “Howe Street, now that I’d not forget. Or better, Nelson Street!”