herself indelicately propped
against the desk. Gathering her wits,
trying to understand what had just
occurred, she heard the cabin door slam
shut. Angered that she had just betrayed
herself, she ran toward the door, latched
onto the knob and threw it open to spin
his head with her insults. But instead of
catching the man who’d just humiliated
her, she came face to face with a dirty
scoundrel bearing a toothless grin,
sporting eyes as round as glass beads.
“Well. Well. Look at the cat what’s
jumped in my lap,” the strange man
yapped like a gutter dog.
Constance backed into the room,
desperate to escape the filthy man. With
a sudden boost of courage, she slammed
the door in the jackal’s face. Then,
leaning back on the portal, she berated
herself for coming so close to giving in
to her enemy against her own better
judgment. It was apparent, now more
than ever, that she had to find a way to
regain her freedom. For all intents and
purposes, she’d been compromised. The
only hope she had for rectifying her
father’s downfall was making it to Spain
and begging for Aunt Lydia’s help.
London held no future for her now.
Things as they were, Constance would
rather die trying to help her father, then
return home in disgrace, and be forced to
marry Lord Burton and spend a lifetime
of misery in his household.
Yet how was it her body ignited
beneath her enemy’s caress when
Burton’s touch filled her with horrible
misgivings? Surely the opposite should
be true. Burton was a member of the ton,
the pirate wasn’t. Was she doomed to
end up on the streets, cast out of society?
She couldn’t allow it to happen. She
needed a plan.
First, it was imperative that she
contact Mrs. Mortimer. She’d been told
her childhood governess was in another
cabin. But with a guard posted at her
door, how would she be able to find
her? Her gaze scanned the captain’s
cabin until a thought sparked her into
motion. Hurrying over to the captain’s
desk, she pored over the various papers
there, hoping to find a blueprint of the
ship. Once found and researched, she
was sure it would provide information
she needed to locate Morty and collect
her. From there, she and Mrs. Mortimer
could escape using one of the gigs above
deck.
Yes, it was a sound plan. Once she
arrived in Spain, she would locate Aunt
Lydia and use her connections to report
the Striker ’s activities, to include turn in
the pirate who was a threat to more than
her life.
• • •
Constance Danbury was going to be the
death of him. Percy strolled out onto the
Striker ’s deck and inhaled a lung’s
breath of salty air, letting the stinging
breeze fill his nostrils and cool his
ardor. He loved the sea, had felt a
kinship to it since he’d enlisted in the
navy as a young man — against his
father’s wishes and rules of the peerage
— using a name that would not bring his
father shame. It had taken years to mend
the rift his rebellious act had caused
within his family.
Percy wanted nothing more than to
please his father, to make life right again
for the old man. For many years, he’d
consigned his soul to Simon Danbury,
director of a secretive group of patriots
bound to do anything within their power
to protect England’s shores and the
country from within. No sacrifice had
been too great. No deprivation too
weighty. He’d willingly cast the mold of
foppish Percival Avery in order to
maintain his secret identity. The creation
of his alter ego was his complete
opposite in every way. Underneath his
mask of disguise, nothing mattered but
revenge. To members of society,
publicly to his father and his many
acquaintances, frivolity ruled the day.
No one suspected he’d enlisted into
Frink’s ranks. His acquaintances thought
him away on sabbatical, venturing to
unknown lands before responsibilities
tied him to London and his future role as
the Seventh Duke of Blendingham.
Simon
against the desk. Gathering her wits,
trying to understand what had just
occurred, she heard the cabin door slam
shut. Angered that she had just betrayed
herself, she ran toward the door, latched
onto the knob and threw it open to spin
his head with her insults. But instead of
catching the man who’d just humiliated
her, she came face to face with a dirty
scoundrel bearing a toothless grin,
sporting eyes as round as glass beads.
“Well. Well. Look at the cat what’s
jumped in my lap,” the strange man
yapped like a gutter dog.
Constance backed into the room,
desperate to escape the filthy man. With
a sudden boost of courage, she slammed
the door in the jackal’s face. Then,
leaning back on the portal, she berated
herself for coming so close to giving in
to her enemy against her own better
judgment. It was apparent, now more
than ever, that she had to find a way to
regain her freedom. For all intents and
purposes, she’d been compromised. The
only hope she had for rectifying her
father’s downfall was making it to Spain
and begging for Aunt Lydia’s help.
London held no future for her now.
Things as they were, Constance would
rather die trying to help her father, then
return home in disgrace, and be forced to
marry Lord Burton and spend a lifetime
of misery in his household.
Yet how was it her body ignited
beneath her enemy’s caress when
Burton’s touch filled her with horrible
misgivings? Surely the opposite should
be true. Burton was a member of the ton,
the pirate wasn’t. Was she doomed to
end up on the streets, cast out of society?
She couldn’t allow it to happen. She
needed a plan.
First, it was imperative that she
contact Mrs. Mortimer. She’d been told
her childhood governess was in another
cabin. But with a guard posted at her
door, how would she be able to find
her? Her gaze scanned the captain’s
cabin until a thought sparked her into
motion. Hurrying over to the captain’s
desk, she pored over the various papers
there, hoping to find a blueprint of the
ship. Once found and researched, she
was sure it would provide information
she needed to locate Morty and collect
her. From there, she and Mrs. Mortimer
could escape using one of the gigs above
deck.
Yes, it was a sound plan. Once she
arrived in Spain, she would locate Aunt
Lydia and use her connections to report
the Striker ’s activities, to include turn in
the pirate who was a threat to more than
her life.
• • •
Constance Danbury was going to be the
death of him. Percy strolled out onto the
Striker ’s deck and inhaled a lung’s
breath of salty air, letting the stinging
breeze fill his nostrils and cool his
ardor. He loved the sea, had felt a
kinship to it since he’d enlisted in the
navy as a young man — against his
father’s wishes and rules of the peerage
— using a name that would not bring his
father shame. It had taken years to mend
the rift his rebellious act had caused
within his family.
Percy wanted nothing more than to
please his father, to make life right again
for the old man. For many years, he’d
consigned his soul to Simon Danbury,
director of a secretive group of patriots
bound to do anything within their power
to protect England’s shores and the
country from within. No sacrifice had
been too great. No deprivation too
weighty. He’d willingly cast the mold of
foppish Percival Avery in order to
maintain his secret identity. The creation
of his alter ego was his complete
opposite in every way. Underneath his
mask of disguise, nothing mattered but
revenge. To members of society,
publicly to his father and his many
acquaintances, frivolity ruled the day.
No one suspected he’d enlisted into
Frink’s ranks. His acquaintances thought
him away on sabbatical, venturing to
unknown lands before responsibilities
tied him to London and his future role as
the Seventh Duke of Blendingham.
Simon
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