the Jesuit priest he'd kidnapped and hauled aboard their ship to give her a well-rounded education. This in spite of his own command of mathematics, literature, and languages, even Latin and Greek, all of which seemed well beyond what one would expect a poor, humble Irishman to possess.
There were times when she'd thought her father had only brought the poor Jesuit aboard so he would have someone to talk to, not, as he claimed, to educate her.
And then there was the ring she'd found in his sea chest when she'd been just a wee girl. He'd been angry when he discovered her playing with it and had startled her by snatching the piece of jewelry away from her grasp. Only now did she look back and realize the ring had been the focus of his ire, as if the strange animals entwined in the heavy gold, not her misbehavior, had taunted him into his rage.
Her father had been a titled lord. And for some reason he had lost it all, left it all behind, perhaps even as Julien had hinted, through some naval scandal.
So preoccupied was she in her reeling speculations that she barely heard the insistent voice at her elbow.
"Miss, miss," a voice said. "I do say, miss, I hardly think that is what you are looking for." Before she could stop him, the nosy clerk took the book from her hands. "Really, miss, this is hardly the section for a lady. Besides, we are receiving complaints. Now, why don't you let me find something more suited for you and something your companion would approve of?"
Maureen found herself reaching for her knife, more incensed at his superior attitude than she had been at the leering loafers in the front of the store.
When her fingers stalled over the lace at her hips, she remembered she was unarmed. Eyeing the clerk, she almost laughed.
As if she needed a knife to unman this barnacle.
"Give me back my book, you little flea," she demanded, her fingers pinching the fleshy part of the man's arm just above his elbow.
The clerk's eyes bulged, then watered. He'd all but risen up to his tiptoes trying to escape her grasp, but it was no use.
He might as well have fought the tide.
Still, Maureen had to give him credit. He continued to hold the book away from her.
"You're hurting me ..." he managed to squeak.
"Give it back, you maggot-ridden little biscuit, or you'll feel the pain of —"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," a rich deep voice whispered into her ear. "Do you plan on dismembering him right here in Piccadilly?"
She froze.
De Ryes.
Fine time for him to make his entrance.
Glancing over her shoulder, she found him standing right behind her, close enough so she looked right up into the wry gaze of his green eyes.
Blast him if he wasn't laughing at her.
"Release him, Maureen," he said quietly, moving to block them from the sight of the other patrons. "Do it before you actually succeed in pulling his arm out of the socket, or worse, someone sees you manhandling this poor fellow and it becomes an
on dit
that will put Lady Mary in vapors for a week."
"Not until he returns my book."
Julien held out his hand, and the clerk shoved the volume into his open palm.
Maureen felt cheated but released the fellow anyway, though not before giving him one last twist to remember her by. As she watched him scurry away, she felt some satisfaction in knowing that would be the last time he snatched a book away from a lady.
Julien turned the volume over and examined it. "I see you found my proof. Do you believe me now?"
She shook her head. "That book proves nothing that matters to me. So my father was in the Navy. That was over thirty years ago. It doesn't change the fact that you murdered him."
In the instant she said the words, she saw it again, the flash of something across Julien's face.
Anger. Denial. Or even, perhaps, guilt.
Guilt?
The Captain de Ryes she knew would never have felt guilt over a man's death. Not when it had assured him his fortune and future.
A fortune he so obviously wore now, what with his silver-tipped cane, perfectly
There were times when she'd thought her father had only brought the poor Jesuit aboard so he would have someone to talk to, not, as he claimed, to educate her.
And then there was the ring she'd found in his sea chest when she'd been just a wee girl. He'd been angry when he discovered her playing with it and had startled her by snatching the piece of jewelry away from her grasp. Only now did she look back and realize the ring had been the focus of his ire, as if the strange animals entwined in the heavy gold, not her misbehavior, had taunted him into his rage.
Her father had been a titled lord. And for some reason he had lost it all, left it all behind, perhaps even as Julien had hinted, through some naval scandal.
So preoccupied was she in her reeling speculations that she barely heard the insistent voice at her elbow.
"Miss, miss," a voice said. "I do say, miss, I hardly think that is what you are looking for." Before she could stop him, the nosy clerk took the book from her hands. "Really, miss, this is hardly the section for a lady. Besides, we are receiving complaints. Now, why don't you let me find something more suited for you and something your companion would approve of?"
Maureen found herself reaching for her knife, more incensed at his superior attitude than she had been at the leering loafers in the front of the store.
When her fingers stalled over the lace at her hips, she remembered she was unarmed. Eyeing the clerk, she almost laughed.
As if she needed a knife to unman this barnacle.
"Give me back my book, you little flea," she demanded, her fingers pinching the fleshy part of the man's arm just above his elbow.
The clerk's eyes bulged, then watered. He'd all but risen up to his tiptoes trying to escape her grasp, but it was no use.
He might as well have fought the tide.
Still, Maureen had to give him credit. He continued to hold the book away from her.
"You're hurting me ..." he managed to squeak.
"Give it back, you maggot-ridden little biscuit, or you'll feel the pain of —"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," a rich deep voice whispered into her ear. "Do you plan on dismembering him right here in Piccadilly?"
She froze.
De Ryes.
Fine time for him to make his entrance.
Glancing over her shoulder, she found him standing right behind her, close enough so she looked right up into the wry gaze of his green eyes.
Blast him if he wasn't laughing at her.
"Release him, Maureen," he said quietly, moving to block them from the sight of the other patrons. "Do it before you actually succeed in pulling his arm out of the socket, or worse, someone sees you manhandling this poor fellow and it becomes an
on dit
that will put Lady Mary in vapors for a week."
"Not until he returns my book."
Julien held out his hand, and the clerk shoved the volume into his open palm.
Maureen felt cheated but released the fellow anyway, though not before giving him one last twist to remember her by. As she watched him scurry away, she felt some satisfaction in knowing that would be the last time he snatched a book away from a lady.
Julien turned the volume over and examined it. "I see you found my proof. Do you believe me now?"
She shook her head. "That book proves nothing that matters to me. So my father was in the Navy. That was over thirty years ago. It doesn't change the fact that you murdered him."
In the instant she said the words, she saw it again, the flash of something across Julien's face.
Anger. Denial. Or even, perhaps, guilt.
Guilt?
The Captain de Ryes she knew would never have felt guilt over a man's death. Not when it had assured him his fortune and future.
A fortune he so obviously wore now, what with his silver-tipped cane, perfectly
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