Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(13)

a boat in sight.

“Tell me about your year at sea, Mr. Edward,” Lady Hervey

said, reaching over and touching Teach on his sleeve.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said, his face lighting

up at her request.

“Was it terribly difficult?”

“It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. In the past

twelve months I’ve encountered more danger than some men

experience their whole lives. We nearly sank in a storm off the

coast of Jamaica. We were attacked by a Spanish sloop with ten





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guns and a crew of fifty, and barely made it to port before our captain died from his injuries,” he said, aware he held the entire room captive with his voice. “Yet if the chance were to present itself, I would leave again tomorrow.”

Teach wasn’t sure who appeared more displeased at his

statement—Patience, Lady Hervey, or his father. Anne, for one,

looked thrilled. She was no doubt wondering if she could go

to the docks herself and commission a captain and a ship if

it meant she would be rid of him. Teach’s irritation with the

girl took on illogical proportions. She definitely needed to be

taught her proper place in this household.

“But surely you don’t mean that,” Patience said, leaning

forward and revealing a dangerous amount of décolletage, no

longer content to let her mother steer the conversation.

It was Drummond who spoke next, his face hard. “No, he

does not mean it. Edward’s time at sea has passed. I granted him one year, to get it out of his system,” he said, glowering. “He had a bit of excitement and adventure, but now it’s time to get serious again about his future.”

Lord Hervey took a sip of wine before turning to Teach.

“You spent several years at Eton, didn’t you? A most excellent

school. I remember my days there,” he said fondly, clasping his

hands in front of him. “What was your favorite subject?”

Teach shrugged but made no comment, knowing his father

would not take kindly to his saying he cared more for naviga—

tion than Latin.





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Drummond sat up straight. “At my request Edward was exposed to many different subjects, and he enjoyed them all.

He excelled at Greek and Latin. Mathematics also appeared to

be to his liking,” he said. “He read the works of John Milton

and other renowned authors. While I do not approve of Milton’s disdain for Catholicism, Edward learned a great deal.”

Lord Hervey slapped Drummond on the back. “If he went

to Eton, it was more likely gambling and drinking that he

learned.”

Only the slight tightening of his lips displayed Drummond’s

displeasure, but he was discreet enough not to correct the baron’s statement.

It was William who added a bit of levity to the conversation. “Oh, no, he was a model student. Despite my attempts to

lure him into shocking dens of greed, your son stayed clear of

the gaming tables and drinks so that the rest of us had something to be good at,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile.

Some in the party laughed, and the moment passed.

Teach shook his head, wondering how much longer this

inanity would continue. He did not feel well and wished

to retire as soon as possible. His head pounded, and he was

uncomfortably warm. But it was the lesser of two evils to obey

his father and simply remain where he was, a helpless bystander

in this farce.

Not to be forgotten amidst the talk of personal edification,

Patience cleared her throat. “Who is John Milton?”





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Teach groaned inwardly. She was a baron’s daughter. How could she not know of Milton? Teach’s mother had often read Milton’s works in the evening. He remembered sitting near the fire, listening, inspired by the prose so full of passion for freedom and self-determination.

He glanced at his father, wondering not for the first time if

he was still intent on joining his line with the Herveys’.

The fork in Drummond’s hand stopped midway to his

mouth, for Teach was not the only one surprised by her lack of

knowledge. “John Milton was a poet,” he said, speaking as if to

a child.

Patience nodded, pretending understanding. In truth,

Teach knew she cared far more about her appearance than her

education. She could paint a pretty landscape or stitch an altar cloth, but she’d once told him that literature and poetry would likely blemish her complexion with concentration lines.

Teach felt an inexplicable need to break the uncomfortable

silence. “Don’t worry, Miss Patience. I’d be happy to introduce

you to the works of Milton. Paradise Lost is one of my favorites, and I believe you’ll be a very quick study.”

“I look forward to it,” she said, smiling, no doubt remembering the last time they had been alone.

William spoke up. “That’s Teach for you,” he said, a grin