Sins and Scandals Collection: Whisper of Scandal / One Wicked Sin / Mistress by Midnight / Notorious / Desired / Forbidden

“As crew?” Purchase smiled.

“As a guest,” Alex said. “I’ll pay my way.”

“Why?”

“Because I am Nina Ware’s guardian, too, and I feel an obligation to see her safe.”

Purchase’s clear gaze considered him thoughtfully. “Seems Ware chose well when he named you joint guardian, Grant. You may hate him for shackling you, but you will always do your duty.”

“Quite,” Alex said tightly. In the previous day, he thought bitterly, he had fought more battles between honor and inclination than ever before. “So?” he asked.

“You’ll have to ask Lady Joanna if you can come,” Purchase said, grinning hugely and clearly enjoying the moment. “She has the final word.”

Alex swore. “Purchase—”

“Don’t worry, you can always work your passage as cabin boy if she turns you down,” Purchase said, his grin widening still more until Alex’s face relaxed into a reluctant smile. “That’s better. What the hell has happened to you to turn you into a bear with such a sore head?”

“Lady Joanna tries my patience,” Alex said succinctly. He thought of Joanna stating defiantly that she would take fruit to Spitsbergen with her to ward off the scurvy and maintaining that her clothes would be warm enough to keep out the Arctic cold, and was gripped by acute irritation. He had not known whether to shake her or kiss her and the fact that he wanted to kiss her at all was precisely the problem.

“Ah.” Owen Purchase straightened in his seat. “Lady Joanna is a fine woman …”

Alex glared. “That’s your lust talking, Purchase.”

Purchase laughed. “I could call you out for that, Grant, but I like you too much to kill you. I’ll admit to a certain partiality for Lady Joanna.” He shifted on the bench, crossing his long legs at the ankle.

“You want her for yourself,” Alex said sharply.

Purchase did not deny it. “She was too good for Ware,” he said.

“I am surprised to hear you say that,” Alex said stiffly. “You admired Ware as much as I did.”

He was surprised. No one criticized David Ware. Ware had been a hero. Everyone knew it.

“Ah, come on, Grant,” Purchase said, his drawl even more pronounced than normal. “Ware was a damned good captain but a damned poor husband.” His mouth thinned. “You know that-you were the one forever dragging him out of whorehouses so that he didn’t miss the boat.”

“And in return,” Alex said sharply, “he saved my life, Purchase. Not a bad bargain.”

“Ah, well.” Purchase’s cool gaze was thoughtful on him. “I understand your sense of obligation.”

“I doubt that you do,” Alex said. He rubbed the ache in his leg, the constant reminder of his debt. “Ware could have left me to die in that crevasse, Purchase. He should have done, because he risked his life for mine instead of ensuring one of us survived to lead our men back to safety. So don’t speak to me about his weaknesses.”

“I’ve never denied that Ware had physical courage,” Purchase said. “But don’t you see he did it for his own glory? You’re right-he should have left you. That would have been the responsible thing to do, but instead he had to play the hero.”

“Enough,” Alex said through shut teeth. He could see that Purchase’s desire for Joanna was skewing his judgment. Perhaps they had been lovers and she had poisoned Purchase’s mind against her husband. Perhaps they were still lovers. His bad temper tightened like a ratchet.

Purchase drained his tankard. “One more thing and then I’ll stop pushing my luck. Did you never think Ware’s discipline a little on the harsh side?” Over the rim of the beaker Alex saw that Purchase’s eyes were bright and hard with contempt. “Sure, his men obeyed him, but they didn’t love him like yours love you-if I can be so inappropriate as to speak of love to an Englishman.”

“A Scotsman,” Alex corrected, but with a faint smile.

“Even worse,” Purchase drawled. “No wonder you’re so dour. It’s the iron in your soul.”

“Dev says it is my Calvinistic upbringing,” Alex said. He stopped, shook his head. “Let’s not talk about this, Purchase. We’ll only argue and I don’t want to quarrel with you.”

For a moment the tension hung on the air, but then the other man’s face relaxed and he nodded.

“Another one?” Purchase asked, holding up his tankard inquiringly.

Alex shook his head. “I need to find Lady Joanna and persuade her to allow me to accompany her on this voyage of hers. For the child’s sake.”

“Try some charm, if you have it in you, Grant,” Purchase advised. He cocked his head. “Anyway, you’re in luck. Lady Joanna is currently around the corner at the Castle Tavern.”

Alex peered out of the grimy window. The evening was well advanced and the spring light was fading now, leaving the sky streaked with pink and gold. Torches flared in the street outside and the lights of the inns and coffee shops and gaming hells dappled the cobbles. The evening crowd, raucous and rowdy, already three sheets to the wind on ale and gin, thronged the narrow alleyway. Holborn at night was the last place Alex would have expected to find Lady Joanna Ware.

“What the deuce is she doing there?” he asked.

Purchase gestured to one of the extremely pretty tavern girls to refill his tankard. “She’s a Lady of the Fancy,” he said.

“A what?”

“She supports the pugilistic club,” Purchase said. “She is their mascot. I believe there is a match tonight.”

“A mascot? Lady Joanna attends boxing matches?” Alex could hear the incredulity making his voice rise.

“It’s a fashionable sport with the ton,” Purchase said. “The Duke of York is one of the patrons attending tonight.”

“I don’t care if the King attends,” Alex expostulated. “It simply isn’t appropriate for a lady.”

“By all means tell Lady Joanna that when you see her,” Purchase said amiably, winking at the tavern girl as she slid into the seat Alex had vacated. “It should help your cause tremendously in persuading her to permit you to accompany us to Spitsbergen.” He paused, then sighed and reached for his beer again. “Good luck, Grant,” he added. “You’re going to need it.”

Chapter 6

“THERE IS A GENTLEMAN to see you, ma’am.” Daniel Brooke, the extremely deferential ex-prizefighter who now worked as manager of Tom Belcher’s inn, the Castle Tavern in Holborn, came into the small private parlor and bowed to Joanna. It looked extremely comical, for Brooke was a short, broad, bald and muscular man, who looked almost as wide as he was tall. He was the younger cousin of Jem Brooke, a man to whom Joanna had cause to be very grateful. Jem, also a prizefighter in his time, had for a short while protected her from David’s wrath after their terrible quarrel over her failure to provide her husband with an heir. The morning after David’s assault on her, Jem had mysteriously arrived on Joanna’s doorstep saying only that a gentleman had sent him to help her. Joanna had had no inkling as to the identity of her knight errant or how he had known of her situation, but Jem was a tower of strength, his size, bulk and skill supremely reassuring when David had attempted to barge back into the house later that day, asserting his marital rights. Jem had thrown him out into the street with one hand.

Once David had returned to sea and she no longer needed a bodyguard, Joanna had helped set Jem up in a tavern of his own out at Wapping where he now served particularly tasty whitebait suppers. But somehow along the way she had become the toast of the prizefighters, patron and mascot, a Lady of the Fancy-and she did not have the heart to tell them that she abhorred fighting, abhorred violence of any kind, unsurprisingly enough.

That was why she was sitting here alone, nursing a glass of stout, whilst in the adjoining room an impromptu ring had been set up and a fight was in progress between the champion, Hen Pearce, and a young hopeful. It was her second glass and the rich malt taste of the beer was both warming and strong. Joanna seldom drank and then usually wine or champagne. This was earthier, but it relaxed her. It had been a week of shocking disclosures in which the worst elements of the past had been raked up and her feelings exposed mercilessly. Her emotions felt frayed and raw, but for a little while in this tavern with fifty men outside who would raucously defend her to the death, she felt obscurely safe.

The door opened and Joanna shuddered as a wall of noise washed through, the sound of flesh against flesh, the sympathetic groans of the crowd as the youngster took a hammering. Joanna put her fingers in her ears.

She became aware that Alex Grant was standing in front of her, immaculate in his casual evening attire. His lips were moving. She took her fingers out of her ears.

“What on earth are you doing in a prizefighting tavern if you dislike the sport?” he demanded.

How marvelous. Within the space of ten seconds he had managed to destroy all her feelings of relaxation and put her back up. The prickles of irritation jabbed her.

“How do you know I dislike it?” she countered.

“You are sitting in here alone with your fingers in your ears and an expression on your face as though you were sucking lemons,” Alex said. “What are you doing here?”