“Not yet, but were I to become independently wealthy”—she held up the journal, the key to the treasure and her future—“I could do almost anything I liked, and no one could say a word about it.”
Now it was Westman’s turn to snort. “And you really believe that, don’t you?”
“Listen, Lord Westman, I don’t want your opinions of me or my plans. I’m eighteen, and I am ready to start living my life. All I want from you is help finding the treasure that will allow me to do so. Then we can each go our separate ways. You to seduce more trollops and whores, me to find more adventure.”
“Perfect,” Westman said. “Then we are in agreement.”
“Perfect,” Josie answered. “Now, I’m going home and to bed for a few hours. I’ll meet you here tonight.”
“I’ll be waiting.” As she walked by, he plucked the journal from her hand. “And I think I shall keep this for insurance, in case you read something in it and decide to hale off to parts unknown without including me.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Josie said, reaching for the book Westman held out of her reach. Dratted tall man. “I am not going to leave you out. I told you that before.”
He shrugged. “You have the map. I have the book. That seems fair to me.”
“It would.” Josie started down the stairs, then called as she descended, “And let’s not invite Alice along tomorrow night, Westman. Either that, or I’ll have to start bringing my prospective lovers along. And I know you don’t want that.”
She heard something crash and kept walking.
Chapter Eleven
19 May 1759
I hate leaving Margaret.
Truly, ’tis the only thing I dislike about life at sea. I love the wind and the water and the storms and even the dead calm. I love the freedom of owning my own ship, making my own rules, answering to no one. I love seeing new places and tasting new food and buying exotic gifts . . .
For Margaret.
My Maggie. How will I survive six months—mayhap more—without you?
As much as I want to stay, I must go. There are more adventures for me in this life yet, and she knew as much when she married me. Only, now with little Jamie, for that’s what we call James Jr., she’s not free to enjoy them with me.
I’ll sail the West Indies for both of us—all three of us. I’ll buy her silk cloth for beautiful dresses and spices for delicious food and rum for us to drink on cold London evenings.
And I’ll write in this set of six journals for both of us. This set Maggie gave me on the morning of my departure.
And mayhap, if I have a spot of the old Doubleday luck, Hale and I will stumble across a bit o’ treasure.
Stephen closed the book and let out a loud curse. Outside his library door, he heard something clatter and winced. He’d forgotten his housekeeper was about today.
But damn, how could he not curse? He had spent the afternoon reading the entire journal, and the first mention of treasure was on the very last page. Westman turned the journal in his hands. This couldn’t be his grandfather’s only writings. He was a man who obviously felt the need to put his feelings on paper. Stephen now knew he was a man who loved his wife, loved his son, but who also loved his freedom. He’d led a fascinating life, and Stephen had no doubt he’d captured that fortune in gold doubloons.
But where the bloody hell was the story about it?
There had to be more journals. His grandfather had mentioned a set of six. If this was the first, then there would be journals that came after.
But bloody well where?
He’d searched every inch of his house. He and Josephine Hale had searched the entire attic, and this was it. The only journal. These writings and a key that didn’t seem to fit any lock were their only clues.
There had to be more, but where?
Stephen ran a hand through his hair and tried to think where else his grandfather’s things might have ended up. He’d been sent to India eight years before by his ailing father, the Jamie mentioned in the journal. His father had threatened to have Stephen kidnapped and transported against his will if he did not agree. Stephen was a disgrace to the family—a dissolute rake, who finally ruined one woman too many. And maybe his guilt over that last act forced him to acquiesce to his father’s will. He left for India willingly.
He’d been in India when his brother, James, had become the earl. His mother’s letter describing James’s illness had been followed so closely by the news of James’s death, that Stephen had not even had time to think of going home. Given the choice, Stephen would not have returned. It was not as though he were welcome.
When he’d returned to claim the title that was now his, his mother, all her things, and all his brother’s things were gone from the house. But was that all she had taken?
