Virgin Star
by
Jennifer Horsman
SMASHWORDS EDTION
*****
PUBLISHED BY
Jennifer Horsman on Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Horsman
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Chapter 1
London, England,
The year of our Lord, Eighteen twenty-three
The naked girl felt heavy in Jack Cracker's arms, a surprise, what with her eye-poppin' beauty and figure as slim and firm as a lad's, all wrapped up in a potato sack—the only cloth they could find. Despite the steady drizzle from gray skies, Jack felt sweat on his brow, but if truth be told, it owed itself to arms that rarely lifted anything heavier than the ale cups at the Fire Fox down on Port Street. "Wait up, Redman," he called in a whisper. "Wait."
The tall redheaded fellow stopped on command. Holding the girl's legs, he turned to see his friend drop the rest of the girl in the mud and stand bent over, hands braced on knees and breathing heavily.
Jack's breath came in small puffs, disappearing in the thick London mist. "I got to catch me breath."
Lowering the girl's legs, Redman looked up and down the long tree-lined, cobbled highway, darkening now at twilight. Not a soul about. Blue-blood streets be as empty as a graveyard.
Jack's grubby gloves, minus the fingers, wiped the rain from his face. "Lord, wh't I woodn't do for an edge off me thirst now." Muck oozed into his worn boots, between his toes. He wondered if he'd get enough coin from the cap'n to buy a new pair.
A carriage raced past. A stream of mud splattered across their legs and the girl. "Curse ye to 'ell," Jack muttered, yet noticeably without enthusiasm. Too darn weary, he was.
"Eh, Jack!" Redman pointed. "Look up at that! Number four."
Jack looked over to see a large bronze number four hanging on the wall—he knew 'is numbers, 'e did, and so he figured 'twas only four or five more buildings. The slip o' paper said number nine, at least that's what the man said. He glanced at her hand, where they had returned the paper, tightly closing her bone cold fingers around it before lifting her up. He peered down the long street as if to see the ninth house. Not that he had to see it, for he knew about it. Everyone in all o' London knew 'bout Number Nine King's Highway. The Hanover House.
'Twas famous on account of its master, Cap'n Seanessy. Cap'n Seanessy raN the Far West fleet from London, ships that nearly supplied as much tea as the honorable East India Company itself, and ships that made the cap'n as rich as the King of Egypt. Lord the stories told about the cap'n: fighting and blue-blood relations and all the women—'twas said there weren't a wench between thirteen and rocking chairs that didn't fizzle to hot butter at the sound of his name. The man be famous all right. Half the merchants of Fleet Street owed their livelihoods to him. Even the King owed him. For 'twas the cap'n who paid for six of his ships to be outfitted for war and speed, and then he sent them to join the King's navy in the royal effort to finally rid the Arabian waters of lecherous pirates, which they did. That was why the King's men never did nothin' when half the town watched the cap'n ride up on the great beige steed and shoot the executioner dead to save the three worthless young pickpockets from a hangin', or when he and his "boys," as they was called—the meanest men on the dock—took out some or another whole crew and for no more reason than they found offense with the way the blokes conducted business.
The cap'n was the law on the streets, he was.
For all of it though, the cap'n was said to be as generous as a bride's father on his youngest daughter's weddin' day. 'Twas this they be countin' on. For the beautiful girl belonged to the cap'n. They had showed the note to five people before one of 'em was able to read the letters. Nine King's Highway, it said. Captain Seanessy.
Redman wiped his face with a wet sleeve. Jack said the cap'n would be thankin' them with gold but—"I dunno, I dunno." He shook his head. "Jack, wh't if the cap'n don't believe us? Wh't if 'e takes it to mind we be the bloody sons of sods who beat the poor lass or worse?" Slowly, in a frightened whisper: "Wh't if 'e thinks we took 'er rags off?"
Jack harrowed his eyes as if Redman had gone daft. "Do we look like blokes who'd strip an' beat a poor lass senseless? Where's yer 'ead, Redman?" He rubbed his fingerless gloved hands together. "'Twill be rainin' silver, 'twill! Wh't I could do with a couple o' more bob in me pocket! Come on."
"I dunno,' Redman shook his wet curls and wiped his face again. "I dunno ..."
Yet Redman obediently leaned over and picked up the bundle of the girl's legs, while Jack bent and, with a heave, lifted the girl's shoulders. Sinking ankle-deep in mud, they made slow progress down the street of London's finest townhouses until at last they came to the tall iron gates of Hanover House.
For a long moment the two men stood at the gates opening to a wide gravel road, which led to the entrance hall. They stared with awe at the splendor of the fine old house. Even in the impending darkness the colossal structure looked as reputable as the house next door, a house that belonged to the Duke of Windsor, cousin of the King.
Hanover House had once belonged to the Fourth Earl of Hanover and was large enough for that great man's frequent entertaining of the entire English court. The house rose up four stories—not including the cellar or the attic where many of the twenty-seven servants lived—and it reached half as wide as a proper cricket field, all surrounded by park like gardens and sky-high, ancient trees. Wild ivy covered both sides of the house, its long green arms reaching around the front as well. Four neat rows of shuttered windows filled the high-whitewashed frontage.
"Come on," Jack whispered. "Get on with it."
Worn boots crunched over the wet gravel of the road. Jack noticed the garden grew wild and untamed here—as if the gardeners had gone on a long holiday. Bushes, hedges, and trees burst with rugged green fecundity, though the neatly manicured lawn stretched out like a smooth green blanket. A longshore boat sat beneath a silver maple tree. Jack stared with incomprehension at the boat, parked like a carriage under the tree, wondering how in blazes it got there. Many of the windows were open, despite the steady drizzle against the thick brocaded curtains. A cat watched their movement from one sill.
Jack's gaze fell on a discarded sword sticking up out of the grass for no reason a mortal could figure. A number of lawn sculptures represented queer animal shapes, ominous in the darkening light: a great bird of prey with outstretched wings, a lion with an open mouth of gleaming sculpted-marble teeth, a huge monstrosity of a stag, its two-foot horns garlanded with blooming blood red flowers.
Jack swallowed while Redman tried to pretend he didn’t see these terrors. They passed an abandoned carriage, one fine enough for a queen, left like a velvet-lined corpse in the rain. Jack's gaze arched up and over the ivy-covered exterior as, with a heave, they lifted the girl up the short flight of steps to the porch.
The two men eased their burden onto the wide portico. Jack removed his cap, slicked back his hair, and set the cap back, noticing the pagan figures carved into the broad, wooden double doors. Redman's gaze widened. "Jack, look." He pointed to a man's shirt pinned to the wall by a dagger.
Jack paused at the arresting sight. He waved a hand in dismissal as he tried hard to keep in mind the pocket of monies and what that would be like. Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to lift the knocker shaped like a brass demon on the door. He glanced down at the tall barrel directly beneath the knocker. A cry rose in his throat as he realized first what the slithering creatures were, then that they were alive. He stepped away and turned. "Oh, God ..."
Neither man looked back as he ran.
Lust, pure and powerful lust.
Seanessy felt it in force, and as he pushed one large foot into his tall black boots, he silently cursed the burning ache in his loins. A primitive call to the wild, he knew, and it always came with a vision of his ghostly lover, an imaginary woman he ridiculously compared all others to. Long dark hair shrouded a larger-than-life, plump, voluptuous form. Dark framed dark blue bedroom eyes. He always imagined her lying in his bed like an invitation beneath a transparent sheet that revealed round/full breasts and sumptuous curves a man could sink his hands into.
He abruptly groaned, "I need a woman."
A preposterous statement, and Kyler's bright dark eyes filled with a blend of outrage and humor as, with a practiced movement, he pushed the metal spike down the barrel of his pistol. He knew Seanessy well, knew that about the last thing Sean needed was another woman. "Like a dog needs another flea, you do."
For women, all women, from the King's niece, Lady Margaret de Bois, to the comely barmaids in Port Street's inns and taverns, swooned as Seanessy passed. It was not just his handsome good looks: his shoulder-length blond hair that framed a unusually long thin face, the dark brows arching dramatically over widely spaced hazel eyes, his strong fine nose, and wide sensuous lips. Rather, his success with women owed itself also to the bounty of his wit and the wealth of his humor, a recklessness, and excitement that bordered precariously on danger.
Seanessy owned a notorious and much-deserved reputation with the ladies, and while he loved the fair sex a good deal more than most men, or at least a good deal more often, he rarely, if ever, entertained any lady in an upright position. Despite many subtle and not so subtle invitations otherwise, Sean valiantly steered away from any entanglements, exercising a trenchant preference for the working wenches, relationships that started and ended quickly, "unambiguous liaisons that I can neatly, happily, and conveniently sever with a pound note,"
Seanessy liked his women fast and loose.
Kyler rose to go to the window. In boots he stood a half-inch shorter than Seanessy, a good half-foot taller than most tall men, wide of shoulder and wider of girth, his formidable size crowned by a head as bald as a robin's egg. He peered at the drizzle falling over the front gardens, looking for Butcher and the horses. "Isn't Doreen upstairs? And I thought I saw Molly last night."
"Ah! Well, the lovely ladies had to depart. Molly had to interview two new girls. And Doreen has a performance at the theater tonight, didn't you know?"
"You won't have to feel bad when you miss it, Sean."
Merriment, as it oft did, danced in Seanessy's eyes as he stood to his full height and reached for his well-worn shoulder harness. "Why's that?"
"Bess and I saw Doreen’s Desdemona Tuesday night. In case you had any doubts, the lovely Doreen did not land the role for her acting talents."
Seanessy harbored no illusions about Doreen's illustrious talents. "Fortunately," he said, smiling as he deftly began working the leather straps. "She has all those other talents to fall back on."
"Fall back on. Right." Kyler nodded, amused despite himself, as Seanessy called out for his new butler.
Sean's voice sounded through the old house, and more than one servant gave a start. He moved through the reading room, one of the three drawing rooms that looked onto the black-and-white-checkered marble squares of the entrance hall, and called out again at the open double doors. "Charles, you rascal, where the devil are you?"
The spacious, two-story foyer was at the front of the tall building, rising above the neat manicured lawns, and no doubt its architect had intended the grand space as a greeting area for distinguished soirees, parties, and balls. Seanessy had never held a soiree, much less hosted a ball. He had bought the house for its sheer size and convenient location to the port, and then only after the owner of the distinguished Connaught Hotel politely and obsequiously objected not to Captain Seanessy—heavens no!—but to his insistence on housing his lively and ribald officers within the Connaught's plush apartments. This objection came after one of Sean's officers bought the favors of Madam Bushard's entire whorehouse for the Connaught guests. Patrons of the Connaught still talked about that night, remembering it with outraged curses or fond amusement, depending wholly upon the gentleman's inclinations and whether he had received the favors of one of the ladies. Yet the commotion brought by Silver’s singular generosity forced Seanessy to concede that private housing might be best suited for "the boys."
So he bought the historic Hanover House.
The most conventional use ever made of the grand entrance hall was the time Seanessy and one of his ladies played out an engaging game of chess on its checkered marble floor. The housemaids stood in for the lady's white pieces, while the gardeners and grooms stood in for his black. Seanessy was a master chess player, iconoclastic and nearly unbeatable and he would have won if only the treacherous maids had not cheated for the lady every time he turned his back.
Cursing silently, Sean gave up calling for the butler, cursing Tilly for having hired him—" 'cause 'e goes to my church, ye see"—and he turned to Kyler.
"Sir?" A proper accent sounded at his back.
Sean swung around to confront the older man. "Curse you, Charles! You move like a ghost through walls, but only after I give up calling your Christian name arid start cursing your mother."
"Completely unnecessary, I'm sure. She has after all been dead all these long years; one could hardly expect the good woman to answer your summons. Perhaps, though," he grinned widely, "I might be of help?"
A contrived smile and all farce, which Seanessy noticed. "Charles, you are full of more pretenses than an aging and fat whore. Now where's my cloak? It's still raining out there. I do have a cloak?"
"I'm sure I have no idea," the butler answered.
"Well, I'm making it your life's extraordinary mission to find out. And if I do have a cloak, I know you will be good enough to bring it to me."
"Indeed." Charles quickly withdrew, as silently as he had come.
Seanessy picked up one of his pistols from the polished mahogany table, a table, Tilly kept reminding him, that was meant to hold gold-engraved cards and a jeweled glove box, "not a man's armaments." He checked the fuse, a routine procedure ever since his last butler—not really a butler but rather a crew member filling in until Tilly could hire a properly trained manservant—fired one of his pistols at a large white rat. The bullet hit the rat, then ricocheted off the decorative knight's armor nearby to blow a hole in the portrait of sober-eyed Thomas Moore. The seaman set the pistol back down on the mahogany foyer and forgot the incident.
The next day as Seanessy rode through Covent Garden on his way out of town, he had come upon five brutes beating a young woman to the ground. Needless to say, the empty round he fired did little to deter the beasts. He had had to dismount and do the business by hand, which he would not have minded so much if not for the two daggers/a cracked bottle, and a rusty pipe they used. For his trouble he had received a neat slice across his arm and a ripped shirt, and he had almost missed the fourth birthday party for his nephew, little Sean.
He slipped the pistol into his shoulder harness. The night promised better than even odds of seeing it fired. They were first meeting with Keegan O'Connell, the leader of the Irish rebels, then they were to meet with none other than Robert Banks Jenkinson, Second Earl of Liverpool and Prime Minister of these merry ole shores. O'Connell no doubt wanted guns and money, while Earl—Seanessy's affectionate nickname for the man, one that never failed to irritate him—no-doubt wanted guns as well, the larger kind that came attached to a fast and sleek clipper or frigate. The earl would get a flat no, while O'Connell—bless his Irish heart—would receive, as he always-did, the full benefit of Sean's generosity.
For Seanessy was many things, but all flew beneath the green and white banner of Ireland. As the unlikely product of an illicit mating between an Irish peasant woman and Patrick Shaw, a rebel priest, Seanessy, like all his countrymen, owned a deeply felt love and passion for the Emerald Isle, despite the many fine trappings bought by his numerous relationships among the English aristocracy. One of these relationships was that of half brother to Lord Ramsey Barrington, for while Ram claimed the Barrington title, the identity of his real father was Patrick Shaw as well.
If O'Connell knew any one thing, it was how to exploit an Irishman to the cause of a free Ireland. Exploit them he did. All O'Connell, indeed all any Irishman wanted was a free Ireland. The first step was parliamentary representation in the English Parliament, with the fervent hope that someday this would lead to reinstitution of an Irish parliament and a separate country at last.
Sean wanted it as much as any Irishman living.
Watching the captain don the long cloak Charles finally brought, Kyler mused, "I doubt you'll convince Keegan of the wisdom of patience."
"You are no doubt right," Seanessy said. "The man's as stubborn as a mule looking uphill,"
"Like yourself Sean—'tis the Irish curse." Through the window Kyler caught sight of Butcher—one of Sean's first mates—and a groom bringing around their mounts. "Here's Butcher now."
"Dear Lord, is there a personage in our midst with the unconventional name of"—Charles forced himself to pronounce it, and did so with an incredulous lift of brow, "Butcher?"
"Don't look so alarmed, Charles." Sean slapped the old gent's back as he opened one side of the wide doors. "I'm sure the good man earned the name by a conventional use of the knife."
"Oh, aye." Kyler chuckled behind Sean. "A regular meat monger, he was."
"Meat monger?" Seanessy pretended surprise. "I was sure he told me he had been a tree pruner."
"A tree pruner, of course," Charles said, as if this were very likely. Though nothing in this house was very likely; indeed everything fell into one of three categories: fantastic, inconceivable, and absolutely unbelievable. Like the sheer volume of unattached females. Or the numerous oddities like the barrel of live snakes at the door, put there amid much humor the last time a group of religious zealots got past soft-hearted Tilly to interrupt the captain's supper hour. Of course, the most outrageous aspect of this house was the wild men who apparently made up Captain Seanessy's crew, men Seanessy affectionately called "the boys," an ill-fitting title for the dozens of barbarians who roamed this grand old house.
Men like Butcher, Charles saw as he stepped out behind Seanessy and Kyler. His gaze focused on the unlikely form of this meat monger or tree pruner.
Raven-black hair and a thick beard, a man as large as any person's worst nightmare. His face appeared badly scarred too, no doubt the result of his illustrious career hashing about with sharp objects. A number of archaic sabers hung from his wide black belt, this last fitted around animal pelts that only a savage might consider high fashion.
Charles pretended to look impassive, turning from Butcher to the captain himself. The unconventionally tall man had a startling, frightening, and yet somehow utterly imperial appearance; to see him once was to remember him always. Today he wore gray riding pants, tall black boots sporting gold spurs, a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, a loose neck cloth, and a wide belt, all covered in the long black cape that billowed out behind him. A wide-brimmed black hat topped his shoulder-length blond hair like a crown.
Charles placed his white-gloved hands behind his back, watching as Seanessy took hold of the reins of the enormous beige stallion. The wild steed turned in fast hard circles until Seanessy managed to pull him up. Yet Seanessy's hazel eyes abruptly focused hard on Charles, who straightened instinctively. "Charles, what the devil's that?"
Charles turned to see it. Despite his certainty that not a thing more could shock him, his face paled as he realized what it was. "Why, it appears to be a dead person." A brow raised, he looked rather dispassionately back at Seanessy. "Shall I send for the gravedigger's cart?"
Alarming words. Seanessy dismounted, handing his reins to the waiting groom before rushing up the steps to kneel at the side of the body. Butcher and Kyler followed.
Seanessy gently turned it toward him. Strong hands pulled the sackcloth apart to reveal a thick long stream of wet gold hair over a face. "My God, it's a child!"
He swept aside a good foot-long rope of hair. The hair was as thick with curls as a Negro's hair but colored dark gold, matted and bloodied about her head. Thin black brows arched over her closed eyes. Mud covered the deathly pallor of her pale skin.
Butcher took one look before swearing, "Good Lord! Seanessy, you are the only man I know who, when he gets a bedraggled and beaten lass dropped on the doorstep, she turns out as comely as a queen's jewel box. A little frail and too young, I see, and look at that bump!" He shook his head sadly. "May God damn the villain who did it."
Kyler asked, "Is she still alive?"
Sean laid a gentle finger against her month. He could not tell. He lowered his head to her chest, catching the faintest trace of a musky perfume, so incongruent with the battered, seemingly lifeless form. The faintest beat of her life remained. "Aye."
"Who the hell could she be?"
A powerful feeling washed over Seanessy as he stared down at the comely child, and this premonition was neatly summed up in the one phrase: "Trouble, that's who," he answered, irritated now, wondering just how much trouble she would be and if he could possibly avoid it. "Curse the blasted luck. Well, maybe I can give her back. Kyler, round up some boys and try to find the whoresons who dropped her off—-they can't be far. Butcher, go and fetch Toothless. She looks like she needs more than a bit of patching up. He should be at the Bear's Inn and if not there, try Lord Huntington's. And meet us over there." Because of Charles's presence, he did not say the name of the tavern where they were to meet O'Connell and his rebel outlaws. O'Connell was wanted by each and every redcoat, and if ever caught, he would no doubt be executed on the spot. Although Charles was probably no more than what he appeared to be—an aging manservant with absolutely no political interest or persuasion—Sean still did not know yet if he could trust him. "We're already late."
"Aye, aye."
The two mates stepped quickly out in the misty rain, mounted, and kicked gold spurs to their horses—-all Sean's men wore the ancient symbol of chivalry. Sean swept the girl up into his arms, and knowing Charles would be absolutely useless in this situation, he called out to Tilly, his favorite and so often his salvation. For Tilly, bless her grating, sensitive soul, loved nothing more than caring for and tending the multitudes of stray waifs and cats and beggars littering the streets of London.
Carrying two bowls of goat's milk for her cats, Tilly stepped into the hall from the kitchen when she heard the rich timbre of the master's voice. "Oh, no, trouble; I can always tell," she said in a whispered rush as she set the bowls down in the hall. With a sweep of her long black skirts, she ran into the spacious lower gallery, appearing in the entrance hall just as Sean and Charles entered.
"There you are," Sean greeted his head housekeeper. He knew the good woman's penchant for charity was nearly as bad as Butcher's; the girl would be fussed over and nursed like a babe. As if he offered a present, Seanessy said, "Tilly dear, look what I found for you!" "
The plump, middle-aged woman took one look and gasped. "My Lord! What is it—"
"Your new pet, Tilly," he explained, stopping as Tilly came close to see. "I found her on the portico."
"Good'eavens! What'appened to 'er?"
"I don't know. I don't want to know—that's where you come in." Seanessy moved toward the staircase. "Butcher left to fetch Toothless. He'll patch her up, and it will be your duty to nurse her back to health and good spirits, give her a bag of coins and some motherly advice about the company she's been keeping, and send her home."
"Oh, Lord, the poor thing, the poor, poor thing." Tilly rushed after him, stopping to tell Charles and two maids to fetch hot water bottles and bandages.
Seanessy waited impatiently through Tilly's quick orders. "Now," he said, looking down the long gallery, "where should I put her? What room is farthest from my apartments?"
Seanessy headed up the east staircase.
"Well, we just had the east wing waxed today— quite a chore 'twas too—"
Seanessy turned from the east wing rooms.
"And the upper gallery rooms be nearly all taken with th' boys this week, and la!" She imagined the crewmen mistaking the girl for one of the "others"— the numerous women who frequented the house and still made her blush. The horror of the men making that kind of mistake made her grab her heart. "Wouldn't do to set her among yer men now, would it?"
Seanessy stopped at the staircase and in a pretense of patience said, "Tilly, what room should I put her in?"
"Well, if ye ask me and I believe ye did, then I would say the green room, 'tis lovely in the fall light, an if'in I were an poor invalid tryin' to recover my 'ealth and spirits—"
"That's too close, Tilly—"
"Mercy, cap'n, mercy. Does th' poor, poor girl look like she's goin' to be a bother to ye now? And 'twould be convenient for me as well, for I wouldn't ’ave to climb three flights to wait on 'er and I can sleep right next door—"
Listening no more to the good woman's unnatural verbosity, and against his better judgment, he ascended the opposite staircase and quickly swept down the hall past his apartments to the door of the green room. He crossed the carpeted space to the four-poster canopied bed against the far wall. Gently he laid the girl on its soft luxuriousness. Then he removed his hat and cloak and tossed them on a nearby chair.
Two servants rushed through the doors. Instantly Sean silenced their excited exclamations. They started a fire in the hearth and lit the lamps, flooding the room with golden light. Another two maids came in with bandages, washcloths, and a brass bowl filled with hot water.
Tilly dismissed the other servants to their tasks before corning to stand by Sean. Her chubby hands covered her face in a habitual gesture of shock. Though God knew this was hot the first time a poor or lost soul had found the way to Hanover House for the captain's help and generosity in these dark days, it was, she realized with consternation, the first time anyone had been practically naked and unconscious. "I'm afraid to see the rest of 'er, I am. Do ye know the girl?"
Seanessy shook his head. He parted the wet potato-sack cloth, only to discover it was wrapped around the slender form many times over. Tilly turned to get scissors before she saw Seanessy had withdrawn a jeweled dagger. This was put to the cloth and he deftly cut a neat line down the length of it. With one hand lifting her limp form, and with Tilly's help, he pulled the wet cloth out from under her.
The young girl wore only a tattered and muddied chemise, the old-fashioned French kind. This, too, he cut from her cold skin, but as Sean felt just how cold she was, he whispered, "Tilly dear, we need those hot water bottles."
"Aye, at once."
He parted the cloth to reveal the startling nudity. His hand touched the vibrant silken skin along the delicate lines of neck and well-formed slender shoulders, skin astonishingly tender and utterly feminine, and his interested eyes widened as he took in the round, flattened mounds of her breasts, the unexpected enticement of large coral-pink tips.
Not quite a child after all.
Yet there was ample evidence of a bad beating: a bruise on her arm, and one purplish bruise on her rib cage. She was as thin as a reed and as pale as porcelain, appearing, he thought, to stand on death's portal.
Toothless might not be enough after all.
He leaned closer. His hand ran over the pink lines just above one of the tempting peaks of her breast, thinking them faint blood spots or perhaps a scar. Why, how odd—
Sean's brows drew together as he saw his mistake. A pink tattoo? On a woman? He looked closer still, seeing the tiny diamond with a point inside, and an odd-shaped face with two dots for eyes, one for a nose, and a straight line for a mouth, all of it less than thumb-sized.
Branded like a sheep. The child was...
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