The rain had been driving in sheets against the windows for some time and between kisses and giggles and flirtatious petting, the conversation had occasionally centered on whether they would all stay the night or begin the journey back to London. The dark-haired buck didn't seem to mind if they went or stayed. And while he kissed the lady clinging to him, he did it idly, like a man with other things on his mind.

As the heat from the fire seeped through Serena's tired senses, her eyes began drifting shut and the amusements of the party from London seemed to enter her consciousness from a great distance. Until a giggling shriek jerked her awake and a swift glance was enough to know she shouldn't look again no matter the instinctive impulse. The fair-haired blade, roaring drunk and laughing, was sliding the gown from his paramour's shoulders and it appeared as though he were intent on making love to her, public venue or not.

"You might want to shut the door, Charlie, unless you're in an exhibitionist mood," Beau mildly said.

"Sha'it yourself."

"Charlie-e-e," Lizzie fretted, her remonstrance ending in a giggle as the Marquis of Albington licked a path downward between her breasts. Then she softly moaned, her eyes drifted shut, and her hands came up to hold his head to her breast, the compelling sensations of his mouth on her nipple apparently overcoming any reservations she might have had.

"It appears we're about to be entertained," Beau lazily drawled, clearing the filled glasses from the tabletop in his immediate vicinity.

"Wake up the judge!" The cry from the street outside was dimly heard, and a second later, the front door of the Pelican crashed open. A rain-soaked man burst through the portal, shouting, "Wake up the judge!" his voice like a crash of thunder in the candlelit room. "Fanny, where the hell are you?" he yelled before glancing quickly into the parlor in search of the landlady. Not catching sight of her, he spun away, racing toward the back of the inn, his voice raised in summons. "Fanny, Cap'n Darby's been killed!"

Within minutes, the Pelican was a scene of pandemonium, a score of men wet from the storm crowding into the parlor, the alarm having been raised from the docks to the inn's front door. While everyone waited for the judge to come down from his quarters above, the dead man was carried in and placed on a long trestle table near the door. Even in the dim light, the brutality of the attack was evident. The man's head and face were a bloody pulp, distorted out of all human semblance, crushed flesh and bone bleeding onto the floor in a widening crimson pool.

"It was his first mate Horton, for sure. He and Darby been at odds for years," one man brusquely said, staring down at the corpse.

"Horton were drinkin' all day at the Bird's Nest," another noted, his voice gruff.

"Heard tell he were swearing to make the cap'n pay for them lashings he got back last year. It must ha' been him." The man speaking nodded his head with certainty.

"Seein' how he sailed off tonight without the captain, it looks likely."

"Someone has to notify Crawford's."

"And the widow Darby."

A sudden silence filled the room.

"Fanny can tell her," someone quietly said. "They's friends."

"Can they find Horton and bring him back?"

"Not the way he knows the seas," the man with the gruff voice bluntly observed. "Been sailing since he were ten."

"He could sell the Betty Lee in some foreign port and live the rest of his life in style."

"He were a violent man...."

The men's voices suddenly faded away in Serena's consciousness as the disastrous import of the words Betty Lee registered in her brain. The Betty Lee was her ship, she fearfully realized, the ship that was to take her away to Florence in the morning. It was gone, they said, which meant her luggage and passage money were gone. For a moment she couldn't breathe, so cataclysmic was the news. Everything she owned had been on that ship, including money she'd hidden in her paint box. Forcing herself to a calmness that threatened to erupt into a wail of despair, she desperately tried to deal with the devastating events.

Fighting back her tears, she reminded herself she was alive, at least, unlike Captain Darby, who was brutally murdered and still as the grave short feet away. However much ruin faced her, it was far from the stark reality of death before her eyes.

She needed options, she consciously deliberated, swallowing hard to stifle her tears. Think, she commanded her numbed mind. While she struggled to regain some modicum of reason, a cacophony of voices rose from the crowd, everyone speaking at once, when the local magistrate entered the room.

He raised his hands to quell the uproar.

As the clamor diminished, the elegant, young noble with dark hair came to his feet, his height and patrician presence immediately silencing the room. In a deep, temperate voice that gave no indication of the numerous bottles of Champagne he'd consumed, he said, "Perhaps I could be of help. Since I'm scheduled to sail soon, if you'd care to arrange an arrest warrant-should witnesses conclude Horton did the deed-I could see that the appropriate authorities in various ports of call are made aware of his crime."

Everyone's eyes were trained on the tall aristocrat, splendidly dressed by London's best tailor.

He stood in placid repose as if he were familiar with legions of gazes centered on him.

"Capital, young men," the judge exclaimed into the hush. "Bound to say Crawford Shipping would be beholden to you," he went on. "When do you sail and where?"

"My yacht is at the ready. I'm bound for Naples, but I'm at your convenience, sir." Beau bowed slightly.

"Well, then, come, my boy," the judge briskly said, "and you too, Camden. We need the particulars written down and the witnesses interviewed."

His yacht at the ready, Serena silently mused, the black abyss facing her shrinking by the second. Naples wasn't Leghorn, but it was a lifetime closer than Dover, she reflected. An option of sorts if she had the nerve. Trembling at such a blind bargain, she considered what other possibilities were available to her with her passage money gone, her ship set sail, and her purse so depleted she'd be destitute in a fortnight.

She could no longer apply for a governess post in London. Mrs. Totham would have put out the alarm with the greatest of pleasure too, she suspected. Possibly she could hope for employment in some outlying area of England where London gossip rarely intruded but such an undertaking required staying in rented quarters while she advertised for a position, depleting what little money she had left. What then, if no position materialized? And even should she find work, there was no guarantee her new employers would be an improvement over the Tothams.

Rising suddenly, she moved around the outskirts of the assemblage filling the parlor until she came to the windows facing the dock. Pressing her face against the cool pane, she made out the dim outline of a sleek yacht tied to its moorings, its pale raking form faintly visible even in the heavy rain.

3.

When he first heard the soft footfall in the passageway outside his stateroom, he glanced at the clock mounted on the ship's overhead beam.

Two o'clock.

He came fully awake.

A woman was on board his yacht.

He immediately recognized the tiptoeing gait as that of a female but then Beau St. Jules had vast experience with tiptoeing rendezvous in the middle of the night-as he had with women of every nuance and description. His amours rivaled-some said surpassed-his father's distinguished record. The Duke of Seth's eldest son wasn't called Glory by all the seductive ladies in London for the beauty of his smile alone.

That celebrated smile suddenly appeared on his starkly handsome face as he threw his legs over the side of his bed and reached for his breeches.

A female stowaway on his yacht. How serendipitous.

Entertainment, perhaps, for his voyage to Naples.

Creeping down the dimly lit passage, Serena hardly dared breathe. She'd waited until all sounds of activity had ceased on the yacht save for those of the night crew above decks. And if she hadn't been famished she wouldn't have risked leaving her hiding place in the small closet filled with female attire.

The scented fabrics reminded her poignantly of her mother's fine gowns. Long ago ... Before her mother's death.

Before her father's spiral into drink and gambling.

Before her own servitude as governess to the despicable Tothams.

A small sigh escaped her as she moved toward the galley she'd seen when she'd stolen aboard the yacht at Dover late last night. How far removed she was from that distant childhood-without funds, in flight from England aboard a stranger's yacht, hoping to reach Florence by the grace of God and her own wits.

Her stomach growled, the delicious scent of food from the galley drifting into her nostrils as she eased open the door and the more urgent need to eat drove away any remnants of nostalgia or self-pity.

She was adding a crusty loaf of bread to the cheese and pears she held in the scooped fold of her skirt when a voice behind her gently said, "Would you like me to wake my cook and have him make you something more substantial?"

She whirled around to find the yacht's owner lounging against the doorjamb. His smile, flashing white in the subdued light, mitigated the terror his voice had engendered although his state of undress, clothed as he was in only breeches, gave rise to another kind of fear. He was powerfully built, the light from a small oil lamp modeling his muscular body in shadow and plane, his virility intense at close range.

"Have we met before?" he softly asked, wondering if he should know the young lady, the blur of women in his life occasionally making it difficult to recall specific females.

"Not precisely," Serena replied, hesitant, not certain of his mood despite his soft voice. "I saw you in the parlor of the Pelican."

"Really." Genuinely surprised, he shifted slightly in his stance. He rarely overlooked women of such striking good looks. She had glorious golden hair, huge dark eyes, a slender, voluptuous form, and a sensuous mouth he was definitely interested in tasting. "I must have been very drunk," he added, half to himself.

"You probably were," she said, repressing an odd flutter induced by the graphic display of rippling muscle as he moved. "You didn't come aboard till almost dawn."

"Really," he said again, his voice mild. "Are we sailing mates then?"

"I'd be happy to pay for my passage."

His gaze raked her swiftly, pausing for a fraction of a second on the food bundled in her skirt. "But you prefer not taking conventional routes."

"My ship left without me after I'd already paid for my passage." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"Please don't cry," he quickly said. "You're more than welcome aboard the Siren." He was uncomfortable with distraught women and she was obviously without funds if she was reduced to stealing aboard his vessel.

"I can ... reimburse you for my passage"-she swallowed hard to stem her tears-"once we reach Italy." The tuition money she'd sent ahead to Florence should cover her fare.

"Nonsense," he murmured. "I'm sailing there anyway." He smiled briefly. "How much can you eat, after all?" Easing away from the jamb he stood upright, his height suddenly formidable to her upturned gaze. But his voice was bland when he said, "Why don't I find you some better accommodations and a real meal. Do you eat beefsteak?"

"Oh, yes." Serena salivated at the thought, her last food a frugal breakfast in London two days ago and a cup of soup at the Pelican. "Yes, definitely."

"Why don't you make yourself comfortable?" Beau suggested. "The second door on the right should do." He moved back into the passageway to allow her egress from the galley. "I'll join you directly I get my cook awake."

He didn't reappear for some time, sending a young lad with hot water and towels to his stateroom, followed shortly after by another servant with a decanter of Tokay and cookies. This would allow his beautiful passenger time to wash and refresh herself while he gave directions for a sumptuous meal to his French chef, whom he'd cajoled out of bed with a sweet smile and a lavish bribe.

Some sauteed scallops first, he'd requested while the young Frenchman had sulkily rolled out of bed. "She's very beautiful, Remy, and not quite sure she can trust me."

"Nor should she," the slender young man muttered, standing motionless beside his bed for a moment, still half asleep.

"But your luscious food will set her mind at ease."

"So I'm supposed to help you seduce her," the Frenchman grumbled, his chestnut hair falling into his eyes as he bent to pick up his trousers from a nearby chair.

"Now, Remy, since when do I need help there?" Beau murmured, his grin roguish.

"I thought you didn't like women on your yacht?"

"You haven't seen her." Dark brows flickered sportively. "And now I have this overwhelming impulse to make her happy."

"Then maybe you should serve her oysters first," Remy said with an answering grin as he stepped into his trousers. "And save the scallops for lunch tomorrow when her passions are sated."

"She wants beefsteak too."

Remy groaned. "You English have no subtlety. Served bloody, I suppose."

"With your mushrooms and wine sauce, s'il vous plait," Beau pleasantly added, "and I'll add another fifty guineas to my offer."

"Make it sixty and I'll give her floating islands for dessert as well. Women adore them."

"You're a treasure, Remy. How would I survive without you?"

"You'd be skin and bone with all your fucking, no mistake."

"And I'm deeply grateful." Beau's voice was amused.

"I suppose you need this all within the hour so you don't have to wait too long to make love to this female you've found."

The young Earl of Rochefort grinned. "After all these years you read my mind, Remy darling. An hour would be perfect."

But he gave no indication of his designs when he entered his stateroom a few minutes later. "My cook is grumbling, but up," Beau said with a smile, walking over to a built-in bureau and pulling out a crisply starched shirt from the drawer. "So food should arrive shortly. Are you comfortable?" he politely queried, slipping the shirt over his head.

"Yes, thank you." Serena looked up at him from the depths of a soft upholstered chair she'd almost fallen asleep in. "The cookies were delicious ... and the wine."

"Good." After glancing at the crumbs remaining on the plate, he gauged the amount of wine remaining in the decanter with an assessing eye.

"I'd like to thank you very much for your hospitality." The lanterns had been lit by his servants and Serena's fairness was even more delectable bathed in a golden light. And her eyes weren't dark but aquamarine, like the Mediterranean.

"My pleasure," he casually said, dropping into a chair opposite her. My distinct pleasure, he more covetously thought. Her lush beauty was tantalizing, more provocative perhaps after the conventional prettiness of the actresses Charlie had procured. How would she respond, he wondered, to his first kiss? "Where had you booked passage?" he asked instead, gracious and well-behaved. "Perhaps I could see that your money is returned."

"Do you think you could?" She sat forward, her eyes alight with hope.

And for the briefest moment Beau St. Jules questioned his callous pursuit of pleasure, her poverty was so obvious. But in the next flashing moment he soothed his momentary twinge of conscience by deciding that a generous monetary settlement once they reached Italy would more than compensate for his dishonorable intentions. And who knew, he considered in a more practical frame of mind, she might not be an innocent despite her enchanting delicacy. She'd stowed away, after all-not exactly the act of a proper young lady.

"I'm sure I could. How much did you lose?"

"Two hundred pounds," she said. "It was all my savings."

Good God, he thought, briefly startled. He gambled thousands on the turn of a card. "Let me reimburse you in the interim," he suggested, reaching for a wallet lying on his desk.

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly take money from you."

He looked up from the purse he was opening, not because of her words but her tone. A small reserve had entered her voice, and her eyes, he noted, held a distinct apprehension. "Consider it a loan," he calmly replied, gazing more critically at her, trying to properly place her in the hierarchy of female stowaways-a novel category for him.

Her navy serge gown was worn but well cut, her shoes equally worn but impeccably polished; her exquisite face and radiant hair couldn't be improved on in the highest ranks of society. Was she some runaway noble wife dressed in her servant's clothes or someone's beautiful mistress fallen on hard times?

"I'm a governess," she deliberately said.

"Forgive me. Was I staring?" His smile was cordial as he counted out two hundred pounds. "Here," he said, leaning across the distance separating them, placing the bills in a neat stack on a small table beside her chair. "Pay me back when you can. I've plenty. Do you care to divulge your name?" he went on, noting her necessitous gaze, willing her to pick up the money, wanting the distrust in her voice to disappear.