"What are you doing?"

"Trying to keep your ribs in one place. Now then, to answer your earlier question about why they didn't kill you, the Frenchies are trying to keep you alive in case the British capture one of theirs—I heard one of the officers say you was a trump card they intend to use in case they want a trade. 'Course you're not doin' your share, which is to stay alive—not when you go around insultin' a guard and then rudely tryin' to steal his weapon. From the looks of you, I didn't do you any favors when I hauled you out of the ocean with me and onto that French frigate that brought us here."

"How bad do I look?" Jordan asked without much interest.

"I'd say one more beating like this one and you'll not find your two ladies nearly as amorous as they were when you left."

Unconsciousness was wrapping its tentacles around him, trying to pull him back into the familiar black pit, and Jordan fought against it, preferring the pain to oblivion. "What 'two ladies'?"

"I reckon you ought to know better'n me. One's named Elise. Is that your wife?"

"Mistress."

"And Alexandra?"

Jordan blinked, trying to clear his fogged senses. Alexandra. Alexandra— "A child," he said as a dim vision of a dark-haired girl brandishing a pretend sword danced before his eyes. "No," he whispered in pained regret as his life passed swiftly before him—a wasted life of empty flirtations and debauchery, a meaningless life culminating in his whimsical, impulsive marriage to a bewitching girl with whom he had truly shared a bed only once. "My wife."

"Really?" George said, looking impressed. "Got a mistress and a wife and a child? One of everything."

"No—" Jordan corrected hazily. "No child. One wife. Several mistresses."

George grinned and rubbed his hand across his dirty beard. "I don't mean to sound censorious. I admire a man who knows how to live. But," he continued, thunderstruck despite himself, "several mistresses?"

"Not," Jordan corrected, gritting his teeth against the pain, "at the same time."

"Where've they been keepin' you all this time? I haven't seen you since the Frenchies took us off their ship three months ago."

"I've had private accommodations and personal attention," Jordan sardonically replied, referring to the dark pit beneath the dungeon that he had inhabited between periodic bouts of torture that had nearly driven him insane with pain.

His cellmate stared at Jordan's battered body with a worried frown, but he tried to keep his voice light. "What did you tell the Frenchies to make them dislike you so much more than me?"

Jordan coughed and gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his chest. "I told them my name."

"And?"

"And they remembered it"—he gasped, fighting to stay conscious—"from Spain."

George's brows drew together in bewilderment. "They've done this to you for something you did to them in Spain?"

The semiconscious man nodded slightly, his eyes closing. "And because… they think I still have… information. About military."

"Listen to me, Hawthorne," George said desperately. "You were muttering about an escape plan when you came to a while ago. Do you have a plan?"

Another feeble nod.

"I want to go with you. But Hawthorne—you won't live through another beating like this one. I mean it, man. Don't anger any more guards."

Jordan's head dropped sideways as he finally lost the battle against unconsciousness.

Sitting on his heels, George shook his head with despair. The Versailles had lost so many men in its bloody battle with the Lancaster that the French captain had fished three men out of the water and used them to supplement his badly diminished crew. One of them had died of his wounds within a day. George wondered if his cellmate was about to become a second casualty.

Chapter Sixteen

By the night of Lord and Lady Donleigh's ball, during the third week after her debut, Alexandra was so miserable, and so tense, that she was numb inside. She felt as if she would never again laugh with joy or find solace in tears. On that fateful night, she did both.

At the dowager duchess' whispered urging, Alexandra had politely, but reluctantly, agreed to dance with Lord Ponsonby, a ponderous, mincing middle-aged fop who affected a lisp, dressed like a peacock, and pompously informed her while they danced that he was regarded as a man of superior intelligence. Tonight he was attired in orange satin knee breeches that swelled over his protruding midsection, a plum satin waistcoat, and a long yellow brocade coat—a combination that made Alexandra think of a large pile of overripe fruit when she looked at him.

Instead of returning Alexandra to the dowager duchess when the dance ended, Lord Ponsonby (who Alexandra had heard was in need of a wealthy wife to offset his substantial gaming debts) drew her firmly in the opposite direction. "You must accompany me to that delightful alcove over there, your grace. The dowager duchess mentioned to me last evening that you have an interest in things philosophical, therefore I shall endeavor to enlighten you a little upon one of the greatest philosophers of ancient times—Horace." Alexandra instantly realized that the duchess must be desperately concerned about her lack of partners to resort to actually boasting to Ponsonby about Alexandra's intellect.

"Pray do not alarm yourself," Sir Ponsonby urged, mistaking the cause of Alexandra's dismay. "I shall not forget for a moment that you are a female and, as such, unable to understand the complexities and subtleties of logic. You may depend upon me to keep the discussion very, very simple."

Alexandra was too despondent to be annoyed by his insulting estimation of female intelligence and too defeated to feel anything more than mild dejection at being treated this way by a man with no more sense than to attire himself like a tray of fruit.

Wearing an expression of polite interest, she allowed him to guide her into the alcove, which was separated from the main ballroom by a pair of crimson velvet curtains drawn back and held in place with matching velvet cords. Once inside the alcove, Alexandra realized there was another occupant, a gorgeously gowned young woman with a patrician profile and lustrous hair the color of spun gold. She was standing at the open French door with her back partially to them—obviously trying to enjoy a moment of solitude and fresh air.

The young woman turned slightly as Alexandra entered with Lord Ponsonby, and Alexandra recognized her immediately. Lady Melanie Camden, the beautiful young wife of the Earl of Camden had just returned to London earlier in the week from the country, where she'd been visiting her sister. Alexandra had been present at the ball where Lady Camden put in her first appearance of the Season, and she had watched from afar as the crowd of illustrious guests rushed to Lady Camden, welcoming her back with delighted smiles and eager hugs. She was "one of their own," Alexandra thought rather wistfully.