Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

Bloody hell, now they were all on their feet. Pumping fists, cursing Mallory, defending Gray, arguing over which one of them deserved the distinction of most bloodthirsty pirate. It would have been a heartwarming display of loyalty, if they weren’t all going to die.

“You see?” Gray recognized Brackett’s voice. “They’re nothing but lawless brigands, just as I said!”

Fitzhugh banged his gavel over and over, as though he were cobbling together a new bench up there. “Silence!” His voice cracked with the shout.

“Silence, all of you! I will have order!”

Eventually, a lull in the mayhem occurred—not precisely a pause, but rather a collective drawing of breath, that the yelling might continue. The judge took advantage of the moment, leaping to his feet and indiscriminately throwing his gavel into the crowd. This proved a far more effective use of the implement. The screech of pain from Mallory ripped through the chaos, and all swiveled to face its source.

“Anyone”—Fitzhugh’s breath heaved, and his wig was askew—“who participated in the unlawful seizure of the Kestrel will be condemned as a pirate and made to pay with his life. I’ll hang the whole lot of you, you miserable, bloody louts!”

This, Sophia took as her cue.

With a parting squeeze of Miss Grayson’s hand, she stepped into the courtroom. Lifting her voice, she called out, “Then you will have to hang me, too.”

Ah, now it was silent. Only silk and crinoline had the temerity to whisper as she advanced to the center of the courtroom.

My, how she’d missed this. Making an entrance.

Sophia smoothed one gloved hand over her rose silk skirt, guiding it around the furniture. How glad she was now, that she had surrendered trunk space to vanity and brought this gown with her. Extravagant beauty did come in useful, in emergencies such as these.

She felt the men’s stares on her as she glided through the crowd, chin lifted, carriage erect. It was tempting to meet their gazes, favor each of her friends with a warm smile. She resisted, however, saving her practiced debutante’s blush for the only man who mattered.

The pale, gawping man in a wig.

“Your honor,” she said sweetly, holding her skirt out with one hand as she made a smooth curtsy.

“Who … who are you?”

Sophia saw at once Mr. Fitzhugh would serve perfectly. Young and pale; rather unattractive and exceedingly awkward. A man with little confidence or experience where ladies were concerned. Gentlemen of his sort were easily led, easily deceived.

But then, deceit was not her purpose any longer. Today she would finally tell the truth.

“I am Miss Sophia Jane Hathaway, of Kent. And, from what I understand of these proceedings, it would seem that I am a pirate.”

“You, miss. A pirate?”

Sophia toyed with the neckline of her bodice. “You did say that anyone who participated in the seizure of the Kestrel would be hanged as a pirate?”

The judge swallowed, then nodded.

She moved her hand up to stroke the delicate skin of her throat. “My Heavens. Then you shall have to hang me, too. Perhaps my execution will not advance your career as some others’ would, but this is of little consequence in the pursuit of justice. Am I right, your honor?”

“Not at all,” he replied, incongruently nodding in agreement. His gaze jerked up from her throat to her eyes. “Er … that is to say …”

Sophia cocked her head and frowned. “You will need to question me, I presume? Obtain my testimony?”

“Y-yes.”

When the silence proved no questions were forthcoming, she offered,

“Perhaps I should simply begin at the beginning?”

He sighed gratefully. “That would be best.”

“Very well.”

And now—only now—she allowed herself a glance at Gray. She’d done her best to resist looking in his direction, even though his presence had pulled at her like a magnetic force from the moment she’d entered the room. She felt precisely where he was, understood exactly how many degrees she must turn her neck to meet his gaze.

She hadn’t counted on how difficult it would be to turn away. There were a hundred emotions churning in his eyes—questions and accusations, and pleas and promises, too—and now her own eyes welled with tears. Stop this. You have a whole life ahead of you to cry. With a bracing sniff, Sophia turned back to the judge. “Mr. Grayson has given you an accurate, yet incomplete account of events.” She pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and hastily dabbed at her eyes before pressing it to her décolletage. “I hope your honor will permit me to acquaint you with more of the truth.”

Just not quite all of it.

“As I told you, my name is Sophia Jane Hathaway, though the men in this room know me as Jane Turner. My father, Mr. Elias Hathaway, is a gentleman of considerable wealth and modest consequence. I traveled under an assumed name because I left England without his permission. Or knowledge.” Guilt pricked at her heart. The anxiety her family must have endured. Perhaps by now they believed her dead.

Fitzhugh squinted at her through his spectacles. “You were running away?”