Silver lady, p.1
Silver Lady, page 1
Books by Mary Jo Putney
The Lost Lords series
Loving a Lost Lord
Never Less Than a Lady
Nowhere Near Respectable
No Longer a Gentleman
Sometimes a Rogue
Not Quite a Wife
Not Always a Saint
The Rogues Redeemed series
Once a Soldier
Once a Rebel
Once a Scoundrel
Once a Spy
Once Dishonored
Once a Laird
Other titles
Dearly Beloved
The Bargain
The Rake
Lady of Fortune
Anthologies
Mischief and Mistletoe
The Last Chance Christmas Ball
Seduction on a Snowy Night
A Yuletide Kiss
Published by Kensington Publishing, Inc.
MARY JO PUTNEY
SILVER LADY
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Teaser chapter
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Mary Jo Putney
This book was first published in September 2023 in hardcover and in simultaneous trade paperback and mass market editions in December 2023.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-5501-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-4684-9 (eBook)
For John, my ever-patient Mayhem Consultant, because
he is also a writer and he understands!
Acknowledgments
Luckily, the history of the Royal Navy is very well documented online and it’s possible to find lists of what kinds of ships were in commission during different time periods, complete with names, number of guns, and the size of the crew. Wikipedia, the online dictionary, has a lengthy and very interesting article on the shipyard under the title HMNB Devonport, complete with maps and photographs. It was always a major facility, with 2,464 employees recorded in 1730.
I was fortunate to find a Kessinger’s Legacy Reprint document that reproduced an original account of the Dreadful Explosion Of His Majesty’s Frigate Amphion, Of Thirty-Two Guns, in the Hamoaze, Plymouth Dock (1800) by One of the Survivors.
That was a very bad day in Plymouth Dock, but reading about it did provide inspiration for part of the Silver Lady plot. I was grateful to this Survivor for his first person account of this catastrophic event.
Chapter 1
London, 1780
The play had been good, but an icy wind bit to the bone as Rhys and Gwyn Tremayne emerged from the Theatre Royal. “Our carriage should be down to the left,” Rhys said. “And the sooner we get into it and head for home, the better! Shall we end the evening by sipping brandy in front of a roaring fire?”
“That sounds most appealing,” Gwyn said as she took his arm. Then she halted, feeling a powerful intuition. “But not yet. Let’s take a bit of a walk first.”
“You sense something that needs to be found, Lady Tremayne?” Rhys asked mildly. Since his wife was one of the best finders in Britain, he knew better than to argue. He merely raised an arm and gestured for their coach to follow them.
“Something, or someone.” Gwyn drew her cloak more closely around her as she purposefully started threading her way through the mass of waiting carriages and playgoers who were happily discussing the show they’d just seen.
Two turns took them from Covent Garden into a narrow lane. Halfway down, Gwyn paused, then turned left into a dark alley barely lit by capricious moonlight. It dead-ended at a wall, where a pile of rubble had accumulated against the dingy brick. Heedless of her expensive cloak, she knelt on the frozen ground and said softly, “You can come out now, my lad. You’re safe.”
There was a rustling sound, but no one appeared. “How does warm food and a fire and a bath sound?” she said in her most persuasive voice.
A child’s voice snarled, “Don’t want no bath!”
“Then we’ll start with the food and the fire,” she said peaceably. “Will you show yourself? We won’t hurt you.”
Rhys stood silently behind her, knowing a frightened child would fear a rather large grown man more than a soft-voiced woman. The rubble shifted and a small, filthy face became visible. A boy child, perhaps five or six years old.
Gwyn brushed back a lock of fair hair, then peeled the kidskin glove from her right hand and offered it to the little boy. He hesitantly took it. As she clasped his freezing fingers with her warm hand, his eyes widened and he sighed with relief.
“You can tell I’m safe, can’t you?” Gwyn said.
The boy frowned up at Rhys. “You may be, but not sure about him!”
“I’m safe, too,” Rhys said in his most reassuring voice. “I’m very good at protecting others.”
Unconvinced, the boy narrowed his eyes warily. As Rhys stood very still, Gwyn said soothingly, “I’m Gwyn Tremayne. What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated, as if his name was too precious to share. After a long moment he said, “Caden.”
“Caden. That’s a good Cornish or Welsh name. My husband and I come from Cornish families.” Knowing there was more to find, she moved her gaze back to the rubble pile. “Your friend can come out, too.”
Caden gasped and jerked away from her. For a moment she feared he’d try to bolt, but a thin, childish voice emerged from the rubble. “It’s all right, Cade. These are the people we came to find.”
An even smaller boy emerged from the rubble, his ragged garments almost indistinguishable from the trash around him. His gaze on Gwyn, he said, “I’m Bran.”
“For Branok?” Again Gwyn offered her hand and Bran took it without hesitation. His small fingers felt as if they were carved from ice. In the darkness it was hard to see the boys clearly. Though both were dark-haired, there was little other resemblance. Bran’s eyes were light, Caden’s were dark, but the color wasn’t visible in the shadows. “Are you brothers?”
The boys exchanged a glance. “We are now!” Caden said fiercely, challenging anyone who might deny that.
They both had soft West Country accents, and she wondered what their story was. How had they made their way to London? Bran seemed to have the ability to read people’s nature and to decide what must be done. Caden surely was gifted as well, perhaps in other ways.
Learning more about them could wait. What mattered now was getting the boys out of this vicious cold. “Come with us now and we’ll take you to our home, where you’ll be warm and well fed.”
Bran stood shakily and almost fell over from weakness and cold. Her heart hurting at the sight, Gwyn said, “I’ll start warming you now.” She leaned forward and scooped Bran into her arms, then rose to her feet. The child weighed almost nothing, and his torn shirt revealed something on his right shoulder blade. If she had to guess, Gwyn would have said it looked like a tattoo of a dragon.
It was a question for another day. She pulled him inside her cloak, covering everything but his head. His thin body was cold against her. “Is that better?”
He peered out of the folds of her cloak with a smile of great sweetness. “Much better, ma’am.”
“No! You won’t take him away!” Caden exclaimed as he lurched to his feet.
“Don’t worry, Caden, we won’t separate you,” Rhys said as he lifted the larger boy in his arms and tucked his own cloak around him as Gwyn had done with Bran. Caden struggled some, but the warmth seemed to soften him.
They carried the children back to the wider street, where the carriage waited. Their driver, Jones, gave them an expressive glance, but didn’t speak. This was not the first time he’d seen them rescue children.
Rhys opened the carriage door. Knowing Caden wasn’t comfortable with being carried, he set the boy in the vehicle. “There are carriage robes on the seats to warm you.” The child scrambled inside and there was a rustle of fabric as he pulled a robe around himself.
Rhys then helped Gwyn into the carriage. She continued holding Bran as she settled on the forward-facing seat. Before climbing in and closing the door, Rhys called up to the driver, “Home now, Jones.”
As the carriage rattled westward over the cobblestones, Gwyn asked, “How did you boys come to be here in London?”
The silence stretched so long that she wondered if either of them would answer. Then Caden said warily, “What’s it mean to be ‘gifted’? My da called me that before he threw me out of the house.”
Gwyn’s heart constricted at the thought of such a young boy being treated in such a beastly manner, but his question confirmed what she already knew. “Gifted people are just better at some things than most others are. Better at sensing emotions, perhaps. Better at persuasion, or maybe better at finding lost objects. Perhaps good at telling if someone is lying or telling the truth. Small gifts, but often useful.”
Bran asked, his small voice hard, “Why do people hate us?”
As Gwyn wondered how to explain bigotry, Rhys said in his deep, calming voice, “Sometimes it’s from fear. Sometimes from envy. Some people just need to hate anyone who is different.”
It was a good explanation. Gwyn said softly as she cuddled Bran against her, “Some people hate, but there are also those who love you exactly as you are.”
Chapter 2
London, Early Spring 1803
The British Home Office had broad responsibilities for protecting the public in general, but also for safeguarding the rights of the individual. It was not only concerned with all issues of law and order, but also very quietly operated a secret service to investigate potential threats to the nation and its people.
Bran Tremayne worked for the Home Office, which suited his more unusual talents, and he took his responsibilities to protect all Britons very seriously. It was vital, worthy work. The only part he didn’t like was writing reports.
He was halfway through a report about a problem he’d unearthed when he investigated a dishonest magistrate in Berkshire, and what he’d done to solve the issue, when a twinge of intuition made him pause, his pen in the air. His instincts usually manifested themselves in silver sparks and threads. The brighter the silver, the more urgent the situation.
This time he sensed a faint silver line to his parents’ house. He’d been planning to go there for dinner in an hour or so, but he realized he should leave now. He didn’t have a sense of danger, but it was definitely time to go.
He rose from his desk, happy to quit work on the report. After donning his coat and hat, he left the rooms he shared with Caden. His brother Cade was away, also on Home Office business, so Bran was in the mood for company.
The late afternoon was mild, and the fresh air was invigorating as he walked the ten minutes to Tremayne House. He was pulling out his key to unlock the door when it swung open to reveal his mother, her lovely face welcoming, her fair hair barely touched with silver.
He smiled. “In a family where everyone is gifted, there aren’t many surprise visitors, even one who is early for dinner.”
“Sometime there are surprises, but you aren’t one of them.” Gwyn Tremayne pulled him into a warm hug. Whenever he felt her arms around him, Bran remembered that magical moment, on a bitter cold winter night, when she’d embraced him and become his mother.
He hugged her back, then closed the door quickly before one of the household cats could escape into the wilds of Mayfair. “Are you implying that you’ve had a real surprise visitor?”
“Yes, you just missed him.”
“Should I be sorry?” he asked as she slipped her hand onto his arm and guided him toward the small sitting room. He caught a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror at the end of the corridor and felt his usual surprise at the image of a polished young gentleman. He never forgot his first view of the mirror, when he’d been a pale, scruffy child cuddled in Gwyn’s arms. The house’s spacious rooms and elegant furnishings had made him think he was in a palace. It wasn’t long before he realized that Tremayne House was even better than a palace. It was a home.
“I suspect you’ll be meeting our visitor soon.”
They entered the sitting room together. Tall and authoritative, Rhys was there, and he poured drinks for them all.
“Brandy?” Bran arched his brows when his father handed him the glass. “Is the news that dire?”
“You might find it so.” Gwyn accepted a sherry from her husband, and they settled next to each other on the sofa. They always liked to be within touching distance.
Bran took a chair opposite. “So tell me about this visitor.”
“Mr. Davey is a solicitor from Plymouth working on behalf of Lord Penhaligon,” Rhys replied. “He’s seeking a Cornishman around thirty years of age who has a dragon tattoo on his right shoulder blade.”
Bran’s hand jerked and brandy splashed on his fingers. “The devil you say! Why?”
“The young man he’s looking for is Branok Penhaligon, third and youngest son of Lord Penhaligon of Plymouth,” Gwyn replied. “Mr. Davey said that the boy had shown early signs of being gifted, so he was fostered out to avoid disrupting the household.”
Bran was known in Tremayne House for his calm and control, but Gwyn’s words caused his temper to flare. “Damnation!”
He drew a deep breath, then said apologetically, “I’m sorry for my language. But I wasn’t ‘fostered.’ I was sent to the worst kind of baby farm, where people dump children when they don’t care if they live or die! No heat, barely any food, larger bullies beating smaller children. I would have died if Cade hadn’t managed to get both of us out of there. Why would people who treated me as rubbish want me back?”
“Apparently, the two older sons have died, and you’re now the last direct male heir,” Rhys explained. “Lord Penhaligon’s desire for an heir of his blood must have overcome his distaste for those who are gifted.”
“He may rot in hell,” Bran said through gritted teeth. He lifted his brandy glass and tossed the contents down in one burning swallow. “You didn’t tell this lawyer about me, did you?”
“Of course not,” Gwyn said. “He called on us because we’re known to have helped gifted children in need. We said we’d make inquiries.”
“We understand how furious you feel,” Rhys said gravely. “But perhaps you should think about this before rejecting the possibility out of hand.”
“You’re right, of course.” Bran drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, centering himself so he could think clearly about the Penhaligons’ search for their despised and discarded son. A lawyer named Davey . . .
After he’d released his anger and considered what he’d just learned, he sensed a pulsing silver line that led southwest to Cornwall. Exhaling, he opened his eyes and said, “I think I have to talk to Davey and likely go to Cornwall as well. I’ve been feeling that there was something in Cornwall that requires further investigation.”
“Something personal, or something that relates to your work?” Rhys asked.
Bran thought a moment. “Both. I suppose that the first step is calling on this Mr. Davey.”
“The first step,” Gwyn said firmly, “is to have dinner!”
* * *
The next morning Bran called at Davey’s hotel at the earliest time that could be considered civil. The clerk confirmed that Mr. Davey was in his room, so on the back of one of his cards, Bran scribbled, I believe I’m the man you’re looking for, and asked that it be sent up to the lawyer.
