Miss Westlake's Windfall by Bárbara Metzger Page B

romance. Viscount Ashmead was almost as close as a brother to Leo, despite their different circumstances, and Leo felt duty-bound to help. Hadn’t his lordship given him the funds to buy a bigger ship, to carry enough merchandise to make longer voyages profitable, to hire experienced seamen? No bank would have done that, not with a leaky old boat as collateral. Then Charlie had thrown Leo this plum, working for the government on the sly, ferrying information and turncoat Frogs back and forth, letting slip what information the toffs in London wanted fed to the French. In return the government turned a blind eye to the rest of Tobin’s activities.
    Leo was growing rich as a result, and he owed it all to his boyhood chum. He hated seeing Charlie so blue-deviled, besides black-and-blue. The least Leo could do was help get the viscount’s ducks in a row, if those ducks were at all willing to be herded by a wealthy, well-meaning wharf rat who knew nothing about dainty women. The little Westlake chit seemed perfect for the lad, a true lady who’d walk through hell for one she loved. Leo admired how she stood up for that soldier brother, and held the rest of her family together in his absence. Charlie deserved a woman like that, by Jupiter, and Leo aimed to see he got her.
    Leo thought about locking Charlie and Miss Ada in the captain’s cabin of his ship, let them settle their differences like two strange cats, and not open the door till they had. Then he thought of having one of his contacts bring Lieutenant Sir Emery Westlake home, willy-nilly. Both plans were about as cork-brained as jumping out of apple trees though, if the chit loved someone else. That was the only reason Leo could see for any female in her right mind turning down his friend, no matter what excuse she gave.
    There was nothing for it but for Leo to go in person to see which way the wind of Charlie’s destiny blew: a soft breeze to rock his ship, a sprightly gust to fill his sails, a hurricane to see him dashed on the rocks, or no wind at all, leaving poor Charlie with no hope whatsoever
    Now Leo Tobin was a brave man. One had to be, in his profession. He’d rather run a loaded sloop between the French garrisons and the British blockade, though, than face a house full of highborn gentlewomen. His trepidation might have come from all the times he’d been given the cut direct by Lady Ashmead when she visited the village to drag Charlie away from Leo’s befouling friendship. He might also be sweating because, while he could dress like a gentleman and speak for the most part like a gentleman, he was nothing but the bastard son of a gentleman.
    Still, Viscount Ashmead needed him, and Leo had never let a friend down yet. He rapped on the door of Westlake Hall, looking back to make sure his grays were safe in the hands of the oldest pair of grooms he’d ever seen. He’d swear one of the servants couldn’t see the horses, and the other one hadn’t heard his command to walk them.
    After an uncomfortable interval, a bald old man in house slippers opened the door. “The ladies ain’t receiving,” the butler mumbled, shutting the door. “It’s past time for morning calls.”
    Leo had commanded a crew of cutthroats and churls; he was not going to be denied by one relic of a retainer with bad feet and a bad attitude toward possible bill collectors. Tobin might look like one of the deceased Sir Rodney’s gaming partners, come to make good on the wastrel’s vowels, but he was not going to be left on the doorstep. He pushed the door—and the butler—aside. “I have come to see Miss Ada Westlake on a matter of business, to return something of value to her, and I am going to do so. Now. Understood?”
    Leo followed the old man’s hobbling path down a dark hall to a closed door, which the butler opened without waiting to be given entry. “Some flash cove insists on seeing you, Miss Ada. Should I fetch the musket?”
    Ada looked up from the novel she was