Sapphire. Rosemary Rogers
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resist a smile as she slid down in the bed, thrusting a pillow under her head. “We should get some sleep,” she said. “Four will come early. Papa says we’re to sail at first light while the tide is favorable.”
Angelique slid down beside Sapphire, drawing the light sheet over them. “I still can’t believe it’s happening. I can’t believe I’m really leaving this island.”
Sapphire smiled, and although she was not entirely eager to go, she couldn’t help but wonder what awaited her so far from the familiar shores of Martinique.
Sapphire stood on the rail of the sailing schooner the Elizabeth Mae, holding tightly to the ribbons of her bonnet. The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon in the eastern sky, and there was a good wind that would carry them safely from Martinique’s rocky shores. She gripped the polished wood rail as she gazed down on her father and the maid, Tarasai, who had escorted him to the dock.
Sapphire knew the young native woman adored him and, in the past weeks, she had seemed to be able to cajole him into caring better for himself. Sapphire hated leaving him, but at least she knew there would be someone here for him, seeing that he didn’t smoke too many cigars or drink too much rum. She managed a smile and a wave as he looked up to meet her gaze. He had dressed carefully that morning in a finely cut coat and trousers with a starched cravat around his neck, all the latest French fashion. He wore a straw boater on his head, tilted jauntily, and in his hand was an exquisitely carved cane. Monsieur Armand Fabergine had orchestrated this fine image of the man she had thought to be her father, the man who would always be her father in her heart. A lump suddenly rose in her throat and she made a little sound.
“Steady, there,” Lucia, who stood behind her, whispered in her ear. “Remember, this is difficult for you, ma chère, but more difficult for him.”
Sapphire pressed her lips together and nodded.
One of the sailors called for the gangplank to be lifted and Armand tipped his hat.
“No, wait!” Sapphire cried, running.
She heard Lucia and Angelique call to her. She heard the high-pitched voice of Lady Carlisle. “There, you see, I warned you, sir, she will be nothing but trouble…”
But Sapphire ignored them all, gripping the skirts of her new sensible cotton traveling gown and racing down the gangplank, the ribbons of her straw bonnet streaming behind her. “Papa!”
“Sapphire, no. You must go, my daughter,” he chastised, but as her kidskin boots hit the wooden planks of the dock, he opened his arms to her.
She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in the lapel of his black coat, deeply breathing the scent of him. As long as she could remember, this smell, the feel of these arms around her, had always meant safety and security. She had always known that no matter what she did wrong or what trouble she found herself in, Armand Fabergine, her papa, would be there for her.
“Mon dieu,” Armand whispered, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Please don’t make a scene. Lord and Lady Carlisle have been very kind to agree to escort you to London. Please do not shame me.”
She looked into his eyes that were watery with emotion. “I would never shame you, Papa.” She dared a little smile. “At least, not on purpose.”
He grinned and pulled her against him. “Of course you would not, my dear Sapphire. Now you must go. All wait for you.”
She hugged him tightly. “But I’m afraid I’ll never see you again.”
“Do not be foolish, my dearest. You go only for a visit. A few months, a year, perhaps, and then you must return to Orchid Manor and tell me of all you have seen.”
Sapphire nodded because she knew that was what he needed, but she knew as well as her father that if she returned in a year’s time, he would no longer be here. “I love you, Papa,” she whispered.
“I have loved you always. Remember that.” She lowered her chin to allow him to kiss her forehead as she took in the scent of his clothing and his fine cigars, one last time. Then she turned away and walked up the gangplank to board the ship, her head held high, as befitted the daughter of an English lord.
4
One month later
“Lord Wessex, so glad to make your acquaintance at last.”
Blake turned from the open window in the law offices that looked out on the busy London street, and settled his gaze on the short, stout barrister walking toward him. “Mr. Stowe,” he said sharply, ignoring the barrister’s thrust out hand, “I am not accustomed to waiting.”
“My apologies, my lord.” Lowering his head in a cordial bow, Stowe continued. “There was a distraught widow on my doorstep this morning. I couldn’t turn her out.”
“We had an appointment, nine sharp.” Blake brushed past Mr. Stowe and the bespectacled clerk seated uneasily behind a high mahogany desk.
“Right this way, my lord.” Stowe bustled by, leading him down a short hall into a spacious office paneled with dark walnut wainscoting and two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound legal volumes. “Please have a seat.”
Blake glanced down at the red leather wingback chair in front of an elegantly carved walnut desk large enough to accommodate a small dinner party. The barrister had good taste, at least. Blake had a desk similar to this in his own office back in Boston. “A Dresden Partners pedestal desk,” he said, nodding with approval. “Ebonized molding, very fine.”
“Th-thank you, my lord.” Stowe hesitated, seemingly startled by Blake’s compliment. Then he walked behind his desk, flipping back the tails of his black serge coat, and waited to take his seat until Blake sat first. “It was my father’s, God rest his soul.”
Blake eased into the chair and caught a faint scent of good French tobacco on the red leather, a scent as tantalizing as a woman’s. It was a chair he wouldn’t mind adding to his own collection. He’d lived in the mansion he’d built in the exclusive Beacon Hill area of Boston for nearly two years, but it was still not entirely furnished. He liked to choose his furnishings carefully, taking consideration with each and every chair, table and chest of drawers. It was how he preferred to acquire all of his possessions.
“Your father was obviously a prosperous man, and I can see you have followed in his footsteps.” Blake sat back, pinched the fine pleats of his black wool trousers and crossed one leg over the other. “But your firm did not come recommended by my associates here in Great Britain. No one had even heard of you when I placed inquiries. Have you the sense it takes a man to get out of the driving rain? I haven’t the time for incompetence.”
The barrister offered a hesitant smile, obviously unsure how to take measure of Blake Thixton, the new Earl of Wessex.
“I can assure you, my lord, that I am quite competent.” Stowe brought his hands together, settling into his chair. “And now the estate can be settled.” He picked up a pair of round-framed gold reading glasses and pushed them onto his nose before reaching for a pile of documents on his desk. “As stated in my letter, some months ago when Lord Wessex died without issue, his chattels were passed on to you, his closest heir by blood as the grandson of his uncle.”
Blake’s gaze drifted beyond Stowe to the shelves of books behind him. “I never knew Lord Wessex, sir, and while I was born in London, my parents immigrated to America before I was old enough to walk.”
“Funny how that is, sometimes. Makes no difference to the law, though. By the laws of English entailment, you are the legal heir of the late Earl of Wessex.” He skimmed the document written with great flourishes as if it was the first time he had seen it. “There is the title, of course.”
Blake frowned. “Of little use in America. My business acquaintances are more interested in the volume of their merchandise I can ship than what titles I hold in society in London.” Tenting