Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 23

Yet James had been acquainted with Bramwell for most of his life. They'd gone to school together as boys. He wasn't the type to spread rumors.

"What makes you think so?"

"His ship was attacked by pirates, off the coast of Spain."

"How do you know?"

"We came upon the survivors, and they told us what happened." Bramwell scowled and cleared his throat. "Supposedly, the pirate's captain had been following Tristan. Tristan and his crew fought like the d.i.c.kens, but they were overpowered."

"Did Tristan die in the battle?"

"No. He was put in a longboat and set adrift. There was a woman on the ship. She was set adrift with him."

"A woman!"

"I guess she was a stowaway. The pirate ensured that they had no provisions. He wanted them to perish out on the water."

"But...why?"

Bramwell flushed. "I'm loathe to tell you this, Westwood."

"Just say it."

"The fellow claimed to be...ah...your half-brother."

"My...half-brother?"

It took an eternity for James to figure out to whom Bramwell referred, and he gasped.

"My mother's son? He said he was my mother's son?"

"Yes."

James felt sick. Would the events from his childhood never cease to plague him?

"My mother pa.s.sed away when he was a young lad. We were never apprised as to what became of him."

"Well, now you know. He's embraced a life of crime. Before he sailed off, he bragged that he was Le Terreur Franais."

The French Terror....

His ident.i.ty had remained a mystery, but he was currently the scourge of the Seven Seas. He only hara.s.sed English merchant ships, and the entire British Navy was hunting for him.

That man-that conniving, elusive felon-was the boy James's mother had birthed? That man was James's brother? That man had killed Tristan?

He staggered back and fell into a nearby chair.

It was too preposterous, too bizarre, and he was at a loss as to how he should proceed.

He couldn't envision a world without Tristan in it. From his earliest memories, Tristan had been by his side, the one constant. Tristan was the sole person who comprehended what James had been through. He was James's only friend.

"Is the story all over London?" James inquired.

"It's spreading-even as we speak."

"So everyone will hear about it. The gossip will be horrendous."

"I'm afraid so. There were too many people about when we docked. I ordered my crew to keep silent, but the tale is too risque. They'll never obey me."

"I understand."

"I'm very sorry, James." James accepted the condolence with a nod of his head. "Who was the woman with him? What was her name?"

"No one seems to know."

James was quiet, unable to wrap his mind around the catastrophe.

Finally, he asked, "Do you think he could be alive? Don't spare my feelings. I have to know the truth."

"No, I don't. He fought valiantly, and he was gravely wounded. I doubt he survived the first night."

James stood and walked to the window, and he stared out at the garden. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, the sky blue with fluffy clouds. Miranda was picking roses, a basket of colorful flowers on her arm. It was such a peaceful, serene sight.

How could it be that on one side of the gla.s.s, her world was still exactly the same, while on the other, his world had been completely shattered?

How would he ever tell her?

He glanced over at Bramwell.

"You said he was attacked off the coast of Spain?"

"Yes."

"How many miles out?"

"Not many. Four or five, I suppose."

A burst of hope flared.

"Could he have drifted to sh.o.r.e? Could he have landed somewhere? An island or a rocky outcropping?"

Bramwell sighed. "Anything is possible, Westwood, but I would be remiss in my duty to you if I let you imagine another ending. You have to admit the reality of the situation."

James gazed out the window again, watching Miranda. He thought of the conversation they would have to have, of the plans they would have to make.

When there was no body, did one hold a funeral?

He couldn't picture such a grim event, and a wave of stubbornness washed over him.

What if Tristan had floated up on a deserted Spanish beach? He didn't speak Spanish. What if he was injured and had no way of sending for help? What if he desperately needed James, but James gave up on him and rescue never came?

James turned, bolstered by a renewed sense of purpose.

"I want to hire you, Aiden."

"For what job?"

"I'd like you to travel back to the spot where you found Tristan's ship, and I want you to search for him."

"James, listen to me. It's pointless."

"I'm sure you're correct, but I want you to do it anyway. For six months. Name your price, and I'll pay it."

He was already calculating the card games he'd have to play, the money he'd have to win.

"Give over, James. He's dead!" Bramwell declared. "I know it's difficult for you to-"

"What if he's not? What if he's alive and he needs me? You have a younger brother, Aiden. What if it was Jonathan? What would you do?"

Bramwell pondered and stewed, then he shrugged. "All right, I'll try, but it's a fool's errand. Don't forget that I warned you."

"I won't forget. When can you sail?"

"I'll have to take on provisions and round up my crew. I should be prepared in two weeks."

"Make it three days. You must get back to Spain as fast as you can."

"Miranda, sit down please."

"What is it, James?"

She flashed her sweetest smile and walked to the sofa next to where he was standing. He hemmed and hawed, appearing genuinely distraught. What could have happened?

"My goodness," she said, "you look positively stricken. It's not bad news, I hope?"

"It's very bad news."

"My aunt Bertha? Is she ill? Is she-"

"It's Tristan."

"Tristan! What about him?"

"I'm afraid there's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"His ship was attacked by pirates, and he's presumed to be dead."

"What do you mean presumed to be?"

"Some of his crew were killed, and he was set adrift in a longboat. He was mortally wounded, so his chances of survival are very slim."

She was stunned to silence. How was she to a.s.sess the awful information?

She'd known Tristan all her life, but she was hardly in love with him. Theirs had been a business arrangement, a family arrangement, and emotion had played no part.

Still, she supposed she ought to feel something. But what?

With him out of the way, she'd be free to marry James. If, however, she couldn't wrangle a proposal out of him, what then?

She would have lost her fiance, an earl's brother, and while her dowry could buy her another high-born husband, there were few men like dashing, handsome Captain Tristan Harcourt.

She'd bragged about her betrothal so many times, and now, if she had to go about London with everyone t.i.ttering over how she'd failed to land her grand catch, she'd die of mortification.

"Say something," James urged.

"I...I...I am in a state of shock. I can't think of a single remark that would be appropriate."

"There's more," he murmured.

"More?"

"The details are all over town, and I want you to hear them from me."

"What is it?"

"There was a woman with him."

"On the ship?"

"Yes. They were placed in the longboat together."

"Was she his...his...mistress?"

"The crew insists she was a stowaway discovered after they'd sailed."

Miranda studied him, and his gaze never wavered. If he was prevaricating, he was hiding it well, but despite what he a.s.serted, the woman's allegedly innocent role had to be false.

A stowaway indeed!

While Miranda had never imagined that Tristan was a saint, she'd never been apprised that he had a mistress either. It was the sort of vicious rumor upon which Society thrived.

The notion that he'd vanished with his paramour was daunting. In the impending gossip, the little Jezebel would take on mythic qualities. How did one compete with a legend?

"And"-his shoulders slumped with resignation-"there's still a bit more after that."

"More than the possibility that my fiance perished with his harlot and all of London knows it?"