Violet pushed back a heavy velvet curtain and peered out the Redmonds’ London town house window and thought: Rathskill. The “incompetent and cheeky” cook’s mate the earl needed to replace.
All was blackness below, as it was just past one o’clock in the morning. She had left the ball with her parents in the Redmond family coach; and her parents had gone up to bed…together. Simultaneously. This happened more and more frequently lately. Decidedly odd when their marriage had long seemed to be one of affectionate tolerance, where Isaiah invariably did as he pleased and Fanchette spent his money. In recent months some subtle shift of power had taken place, some fresh new fascination with each other had taken root, and Violet had begun to wonder whether she’d acquired her skills at managing men, such as they were, from her father, or from her mother.
She thought she could trace this back to one particular cozy family occasion, where all the Redmonds, including their young cousin Lisbeth, had gathered to watch Colin Eversea hang from a scaffold erected below the window. Naturally, since he was an Eversea, he’d instead disappeared from the scaffold amidst explosions and clouds of smoke.
It marked the first and only occasion she’d ever heard her father lose his patience. Specifically, he’d shouted “son of a bitch!” The sound of his control snapping like a taxed gallows rope.
The crowd had rioted and all of London took to singing a particularly insidiously catchy song all about Colin Eversea, a song that lived on and on and on, in theaters and pubs, everywhere.
The Everseas had the luck of the devil, it was said.
Colin didn’t hang. Colin had in fact married a mysterious dark-haired woman he brought to church every Sunday at Pennyroyal Green, and with whom it was said he was raising sheep and cows and the like. His brother Chase, who used to drink all night in the Pig & Thistle, occasionally even alone, was said to be marrying next. A very sudden thing, too, Chase Eversea’s engagement. He’d sent to Pennyroyal Green from London a boy named Liam Plum and his sister, Meggie, who now worked in the Pig & Thistle.
But yet another Eversea, Olivia, had driven Lyon away. And of all the secrets and grudges that bound the Everseas and Redmonds throughout the ages, some of which Violet knew of, others which were only intimated, some of which she was certain she would only learn when her parents were on their deathbeds, this one was the newest cut and perhaps the deepest. Colin lived happily; the Redmonds lived on, dignity, fortune, influence intact, but their family had been torn asunder. Like a mouth with a critical tooth punched out of it, everyone had slowly begun to lean and move in cockeyed directions and Violet felt more and more unmoored.
And as for Olivia Eversea, she seemed in no danger of marrying soon. She could marry herself to her causes, Violet thought bitterly.
Well, the Everseas may have the luck of the devil; the Redmonds were left to make their own luck, Violet decided. Her father, she suspected, often bought luck.
She was about to make a little luck of her own. And as she had told Jonathan earlier, things just…happened. She couldn’t leave it. She didn’t know what would happen next, or precisely how she would go about achieving what she’d just decided to do. She only knew she had no choice.
There was a whisper behind her. “I’ve brought the trunk down you ordered packed and called a hack as you requested, Miss Violet.”
She turned to the footman. “Thank you, Maurice.”
“Do enjoy your stay with Lady Peregrine in Northumberland. A fortnight is it, miss? The house party?”
“Yes. A fortnight. Thank you, Maurice. I expect I shall enjoy it.”
She pulled her cloak tightly about her and turned away from the window. She’d told Maurice she was leaving for Lady Peregrine’s house party at dawn in order to meet up with another friend at a coaching inn en route.
She knew a twinge of regret at leaving Jonathan behind, and knew her family would suffer torments when—if—word reached them that she wasn’t in Northumberland at all.
But she knew in her bones she would return triumphant.
One ship looked very like another to her, with their great masts and sails furled, massive chains tumbling down from the ships to anchor them in the water like restive beasts. Huge, hulking, intimidating when viewed from this distance. The water, black beneath the night sky and calm in the weather, lapped and slurped at the dock. It stank of sea and wood and tar; the air was cold, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her as a fetid breeze tugged at her clothes.
“Are you certain this is where ye’d like to be put down, miss?” Uncharacteristic, if perhaps understandable, concern from the hack driver.
“Very kind of you to question my destination, sir, but yes.” It was her most glacially imperious tone. “But if you would kindly wait for a time? If I do return to the hack and ask you to take me back to St. James Square, I will double your fare. And if you agree to wait until I…depart…I’ll pay you an extra pound now.”
“One pound, miss?” It was a fortune for a hackney driver.
“Yes,” she said. Her heart began to tick more rapidly. For luck, she crossed her fingers in the fold of her cloak she gripped.
He sighed happily, uncorked a flask, and slumped back in his seat to wait. Entirely blasé. Doubtless he saw all manner of behavior from the aristocracy at this time of the morning. The horses snorted and pawed the ground, then apparently resigned themselves to not moving.
She paid a dockworker to row a launch out to The Fortuna with her request.
And waited, head tipped back to watch clouds perform the Dance of the Seven Veils with a blue-white half-moon.
Within a few minutes the launch came rowing back, and a round, short-legged man in sturdy boots, a cap pulled down tight over his large head, a limp neck cloth tied about his neck in the manner of all sailors disembarked. His face was so pale it nearly glowed in the moonlight.
“Mr. Rathskill, I presume?”
“Aye,” he said slowly, suspiciously.
“Five pounds if you take me aboard The Fortuna.”
“Ye’d…like me to take ye aboard The Fortuna.”
“Yes,” she said impatiently.
He stared at Violet as if she were a ghost or a fairy. And then he apparently came to some sort of conclusion.
“Begging yer pardon, miss, but the crew they take their pleasure at The Velvet Glove. And t’aint a man among ’em who’ll pay five pounds for a bit o’ muslin, fine though she might be. And that include me, miss. Flattered ye thought to ask fer me, ’owever.”
Good God. Violet’s head swam. It was rather a lot of information to take in all at once, particularly picturing the crew cavorting at The Velvet Glove, whatever in God’s name that might be, and she’d never before considered how much the company of such a woman might cost a man for the evening.
Interesting to know that a woman could be gotten for fewer than five pounds, however.
“I am not a prostitute, Mr. Rathskill.” The word felt foreign and lumpen in her mouth; had any Redmond woman ever uttered it aloud over the centuries? “I mean to say that I will give you five pounds if you allow me to take your place on the ship, as I know you’re unhappy aboard it.”
This was sheer bloody bravado on her part and a very good guess. She crossed her fingers.
He gaped, eyes wide and white. And then gave a nervous little laugh. “’Ave yer been dared, then, madam? Did Greeber or Corcoran put ye up to it? The captain, e’ll ’ave me run the gauntlet! Strip the flesh from me bones, they will.”
“’E will? I mean, he will?” Barbaric!
“Aye. And worse,” he said glumly.
What could be worse than having flesh stripped from one’s bones? She didn’t ask; she didn’t have time to listen to a litany of gory nautical punishments.
“But if you weren’t aboard, this couldn’t happen, now could it? I heard a rumor you weren’t entirely happy with your position here, Mr. Rathskill, and I had a conversation with the captain that leads me to believe that your fate will not be an entirely easy one, regardless. I am quite serious about my proposition.” She crossed her fingers again against the lie. “You don’t want to be aboard The Fortuna. I do want to be aboard.”
He was instantly and rather touchingly alarmed. “Oh, I dinna think this is true, miss, whether or no the captain an’ I are overfond o’ each other, and I assure ye, we are not. ’Ave yer ever been aboard a ship?”
The never having been aboard a ship was rather the point of this adventure, so she ignored this. But the longer this conversation continued, the greater their risk of being interrupted or caught in conversation with Mr. Rathskill. The earl had said he’d return at dawn, but anything could result in his earlier return.
“He’s not aboard now, is he?” she asked carefully. “The earl?”
“Nay. Hasna returned.”
“Give your quarters to me. I shall pay you to abandon your post. Five pounds.”
He stared at her. “But…yer a woman.”
“You have eyes.”
He sucked his bottom lip noisily in thought, studying her shrewdly. “Well, seeing as ’ow ye’d like this so much, I might ask for a bit more of what a woman can gives me, if ye take me meaning.”
“I take your meaning, and you might ask for your throat to be slit by one of my brothers if you do trouble to ask for that sort of thing.”
“Where’s yer brothers now, miss?”
“Within earshot. In the hack.”
The driver coughed messily.
“I dinna believe you.”
“Test me. I excel at screaming. And kicking.”
“Life is cheap, ’ere in London.” He’d tried to sound menacing, but it emerged like something from a bad pantomime.
“Honestly, Mr. Rathskill,” she admonished, embarrassed for him.
“Ye’re an ’ard sort, ain’t ye?” He sounded wounded.
“No!” Absurdly, this hurt Violet’s feelings.
“You are,” he insisted. “One of them Amazons, like. Verra powerful.” He said this with startling and unexpected relish.
“Perhaps you mean a siren?” she suggested desperately.
“Dinna ken what a siren may be. Amazons are them women in the jungle who conquer men, like.” He looked hopeful. “The captain, ’e’s been everywhere, seen every kind of woman, and ’twould swear ’es seen an Amazon or two, and I reckon ye’re just like one of ’em.”
The captain had seen all manner of women, had he? Somehow she didn’t doubt it for an instant, thinking of the earl’s near indifference to her. It still galled.
“Sirens lure sailors to their deaths on rocks by distracting them with their beauty and sweet songs. It’s a myth.” She was still hoping, absurdly, he’d choose this description instead.
“Oh, now. I may not be pleased wi’ me captain, but dinna want to dash ’im to ’is death on rocks, necessarily. The Fortuna, she’s a bonnie vessel.”
“It’s a myth,” Violet repeated desperately. “A metaph—never mind.”
They’d reached a stalemate.
“Ye’re verra pretty, ’owever,” he humored.
“Thank you.”
“Mayhap ye’d care to pose as me wife in the pub as well as gi’ me the ten pounds?” His mind was working out ways she could be of use.
“We haven’t time.” The strategic use of “we” turned him into a co-conspirator. “And I said five pounds. My offer stands at five pounds, and I will give you one minute to decide.”
She was her father’s daughter in her ability to drive a bargain.
“Miss,” he said desperately, “I’m not ’eartless, ye sees. ’Tis just that I sleeps in an ’ammock wi’ four crewmates. And Greeber, ’e shouts in ’is sleep, and Lumley, ’e farts summat terrible—”
“Perhaps you’ve a spare cabin,” she interrupted desperately. “One with a lock on the door. Did you not leave a diplomat here in London, fresh from a trip to Spain? Surely he didn’t sleep in the hammocks with the men.”
He paused. “Aye, we’ve a cabin for guests of rank. The Distinguished Guest Cabin. And we carry none aboard this week. ’Tis empty now.”
“I’ll take that cabin. Take me there. Five pounds. One minute to decide.”
The little man was silent, craning his head toward the city proper, perhaps imagining his life away from The Fortuna and the terribly unjust Captain Flint, his lips worrying against each other in thought.
“Which one is it ye’re set yer cap fer, Lavay or the captain?”
She was startled. “Neither,” she said vehemently.
He smiled, and when he did only a few teeth winked on his mouth, like scattered stars in a tiny black universe. He studied her a moment longer, and then shook his head peacefully.
“I dinna believe ye. But in speakin wi’ ye, I think ye’ll be the best revenge ever I could ere take upon the captain. And I’ll take ye aboard and make meself scarce in the city. I’ll be gone by daybreak, and mark me words, as ’e’ll as soon feed me to the sharks as forgive me.”
As much as she disliked this logic, Violet was certain he was correct.
“I’ll deal with the captain,” she said confidently. She was certain she could…eventually. Every man could be managed, even baffling ones like the earl.
She looked behind her at the hackney. The driver hoisted his flask in a mock toast to her, and took a long drink. All the time in the world to wait for his extra pound.
If this carried on for one minute longer her nerve would abandon her.
“You’ve to the count of ten to decide, Mr. Rathskill. My trunk is on the ground near the hack. One…two…three…”
And then, in a motion she was certain she would remember her entire life, because it seemed so decisive, seemed to divide sanity and insanity, safety and the unknown, he hoisted her trunk up onto his shoulder with the easy strength even small men seemed to possess.
She took what might be her last look at London. And London looked like inky water slapping at the dock, shadowy outlines of ships and buildings indistinguishable from each other in the dark, in the distance rolling carriages taking partygoers home, and she knew a certain delight that she might never have to listen to ball gossip again, and fought back the twinge she felt in leaving her family, a family that had already suffered its losses.
She would come home triumphant—with Lyon, or with news of him. How, she had no idea. She seldom considered the “how” of things.
Or she wouldn’t come home at all.
And as Mr. Rathskill carried aboard her trunk, she handed up a one-pound note to the hack driver, who touched the brim of his hat, cracked the ribbons and drove off.
Violet followed Rathskill up the dock, which swayed and groaned in agonized protest, as though predicting a dire future for her. He held her hand while she stepped into the launch, and in the inky, chilled half-light, he rowed her out to the The Fortuna.
By half past eight, The Fortuna had lifted anchor and sailed from the London Harbor. Flint walked the deck, nursing a mug of delicious and poisonously black coffee and preparing to take the wheel from Mr. Lumley, just to feel his own ship beneath his hands again.
“Captain Flint?”
“Yes, Mr. Corcoran?”
“Mr. Rathskill, ’e brought ’isself a hoor aboard last night.”
Flint’s head shot up to stare at the man.
Then he dropped it again, perusing the charts. “Impossible,” Flint said absently. “He knows he isn’t allowed to bring women aboard.”
Corcoran sounded wounded. “But I seen ’im bring ’er up, sir. Crept o’er the deck, locked ’er in the Fine Gent’s quarters. They was in there fer a time, ye see, but I seems to ’ave fallen asleep, as ’e snores summat fierce and a body canna get shuteye unless ’e falls asleep first. I thought mayhap the rules ’ad changed and I jus’ and’t ’eard yet.” He sounded hopeful.
Flint looked up again.
“The rules haven’t changed. Whores are not allowed aboard The Fortuna. Mayhap you’re simply trying to cause trouble for Rathskill.”
Flint leveled his best honesty-extracting stare at the crewman, refraining from adding, as both he and Corcoran knew, that Rathskill rather did an excellent job of causing his own trouble.
“Wouldna dream o’ it, sir.” Corcoran whipped off his cap and slapped it over his heart to illustrate his sincerity. Though he didn’t address the remark about the whores. “But ’e asna been seen a’tall this morning. Mayhap ’es tucked in wi’ the hoor yet.”
Flint sighed. “What makes you think this was a woman you saw on deck with im? You’re certain you weren’t dreaming?”
“Well, nay, sir. I was trying to dream, mind you. Verra nearly asleep, But I saw the shadows creepin’, sir, along the foredeck, and at first thought naught of it. Thought ’twas men returning from shore, or the like. But then I ’eard sir, a woman’s voice, raised like.”
“Did you hear what she said?”
Corcoran cleared his throat, and recited: “‘What manner of godforsaken vile stink is this?’”
It was a startlingly creditable imitation of a refined woman’s voice.
Corcoran blushed and cleared his throat again, and gave a short nod, like a soprano concluding a performance.
And it wasn’t something Corcoran could have invented. He was a stalwart seaman and a creditably dirty fighter, but he had no hidden depths.
“She sounded that horrified?” Flint frowned.
“Aye, sir. And then I ’eard Rathskill shushing her, like. And the sound o’ the door shutting. An’ locking. Seems unlikely a hoor would object to stink, aye, sir? But I vow ’tis what I ’eard.”
“It does seem unlikely.” Flint was thinking rapidly now. What the devil was going on?
“And I reckon we’ve all manner of vile stinks aboard, but a man gets accustomed to ’em, aye, until dinna notice a’tall. But women, aye, they may get a bit of a shock? Eve if ye’re payin’ a woman, and she’s accustomed to sailors, a stink may surprise ’er.”
“Perhaps,” Flint allowed slowly. Something was afoot; all of his instincts were on alert now. “And you haven’t seen Rathskill at all this morning?”
“Havena seen ’im today, sir,” Corcoran confirmed. “Wasna in ’is ’ammock this morning. Didna collect his breakfast in the galley. So I think to meself sir, mayhap ’es still in wi’ the hoor. Or mayhap some ’arm ’as come to him.”
“Thank you, Corcoran.”
Flint was already striding past him. He all but threw his body down the foc’sle, wended his way to the Distinguished Guest Cabin door, and turned the knob.
It was locked.
And this, in and of itself, was indication that something was amiss.
Flint thumped a fist once on the door. “Rathskill!”
Picturing the crewman with a slit throat, murdered by a prostitute for his money. Picturing Rathskill and the prostitute inebriated, entwined, snoring. Imagining, with relish, running Rathskill through a gauntlet or tying him to the rigging, because he’d honestly had nearly all he could tolerate from the seaman.
He leaned forward and put an ear to the solid door.
Was that a shuffling footstep he heard?
Flint slipped his pistol from his belt and nodded at Corcoran to do the same, then tugged on the doorknob hard enough to rattle the door intimidatingly.
“Rathskill! If you’re in there and sound, come out or I’ll kick the door down and come in after you.”
He put his ear against the door again.
Silence.
He stood back, raised his arm, and was about to bring it down for a good hard thump when they heard a click.
The doorknob slowly turned.
His fist arrested midair. Absurdly mesmerized, he and Corcoran watched the progress of the doorknob.
Creeeeeak. The door at last creaked open a slow and tentative two inches.
An instant later, the crack revealed a pair of long-lashed blue eyes, two slim winged dark brows and a sliver of pale refined nose.
The eyes blinked.
They were intelligent, bright, expressive, and admittedly guarded eyes. There was something uncomfortably, deucedly familiar about them.
“Hoor!” Corcoran announced, triumphant with vindication.
“I am nothing of the sort,” came an indignant, elegant voice, muffled somewhat by the frame of the door.
Flint knew that voice. But the memory of it was less sound than sensation for some reason…a warm breath in his ear asking a provocative question…a creamy décolletage…the color blue? A woman in blue?
Why did he know that voice?
“Madam, I am the Earl of Ardmay and captain of The Fortuna.” It was a voice calculated to quail even the most stalwart of men, and to establish his supremacy. “Are you in any way harmed or unwell? Have you been brought here against your will?”
A hesitation.
“No, sir,” she said politely, tentatively. The door remained open just that one stingy inch. The eyes blinked again. It was very nearly an eyelash bat. A reflexively flirtatious gesture. Suspicion mounted.
“Very well. I must request then, madam, that you open the door and step out. We wish to ascertain that you are indeed sound. You have my word as a gentleman that you are safe in my custody. We’re also interested in the whereabouts of a Mr. Rathskill, as it has come to my attention that he may have been the means by which you boarded our ship. If he is there with you, we need to know immediately.”
“I am alone, sir.”
“Forgot ye was an earl now, Captain,” Corcoran murmured cheerfully.
“I occasionally do, too, Corcoran,” Flint muttered irritably. “Fat lot of good the title’s done me yet.” He raised his voice. “Madam? I must ask that you open the door and exit the cabin now, or I shall forcibly open it. Please do don a cloak if you are in a state of undress.”
Corcoran coughed in surprise, forgetting this was a tantalizing possibility. Flint scowled at him.
An indecisive silence crept by.
He heard the woman inhale at length. Likely gathering courage. But then she coughed out the breath again. Perhaps unable to tolerate the “vile stink” of the cabin entering her nostrils.
“Very well,” she agreed at last with elegant dignity.
The door began to move. She pushed it slowly all the way open.
Creeeaak. Thunk.
A dumbstruck silence followed.
“Mother. Of. GOD,” Corcoran said reverently. He plucked off his hat and placed it over his heart again.
For the doorway framed a tall, dark-haired, startlingly clean Englishwoman dressed in a gold-braided deep red walking gown and pelisse, which hung in the kind of effortless lines Flint recognized as both fashionable and bogglingly expensive. Her hair was dark, glossy. Blue eyes set deep beneath two fine very black brows. A ruler-straight nose. A pale, full mouth, fine, sharp jaw, a stubborn chin.
She was even wearing a bloody bonnet, albeit hanging on ribbons down her back.
They all stared at each other in a nonplussed silence.
Well, Flint thought. She was certainly different in this context.
She’d called him a savage. She’d been bored at the ball. She smelled of lavender, faintly, when she’d stood on toe and asked him to guess whether she was an innocent, and he’d known an instant of temptation, an infinitesimal sizzling sense promise, during which the veil of boredom and niceties had been dropped and they’d enjoyed an honest, if not entirely comfortable, exchange. But he’d known then she was merely testing herself. She was an innocent, indeed, one who could likely be urged to be wicked and reckless.
And there would also likely be a grave cost to any man who did urge her to do it.
Oh. And her brother resembled Le Chat. His nemesis.
The reason he was on this voyage at all.
“Miss…” He could barely get the word out for incredulity. He could hardly believe he’d even said the word miss. On his ship.
There was a miss on his ship.
Oh, God. A very unwelcome turn of events.
“Redmond,” she supplied with glacial dignity. As though she were accustomed to saying that name and then watching as everyone dislocated their spines in bows of obeisance.
Oh dear God.
Now he remembered. She was a Redmond. He’d been introduced to Isaiah Redmond last night; he’d learned all about the man’s wealth and influence and reach. Isaiah Redmond would have an armada sent after The Fortuna.
If he knew where she’d gone.
Flint stole a desperate glance in the direction of London, as though wondering whether he could plop her into a long boat and have one of his men row her straightaway back to shore.
They were emphatically at sea, of course. And the nearest port was days away.
She curtsied. He bowed.
It all seemed very ridiculous.
“Name’s Corcoran, madam,” said the midshipman behind him reverently.
“Delighted to meet you Mr. Corcoran.” Her voice was aristocratic and mellifluous.
She seemed sound enough, though she was definitely pale, and faint shadowed rings of sleeplessness curved beneath her eyes. He wondered if she’d been seasick in the chamber pot, but surprisingly she didn’t seem to be suffering unduly—her skin would have been more green than white. In fact, one would have thought she’d simply enjoyed a standard night of dancing and debauchery, apart from shockingly crisp clothing. And the bonnet. A woman who had taken great care, even in the absence of a maid, to groom herself scrupulously.
He peered beyond her.
He saw a trunk, a cloak draped over a chair and that lumpy uninviting mattress that appeared undented by a sleeping body. It was one of only two traditional beds aboard. His was the other. The rest of the men slept in hammocks.
Behind her the cabin exhaled the singular aroma of a space in which legions of sailors had sweat, broken wind, drunk, and aimed for chamber pots with perhaps more urgency than accuracy. It had always been cleaned to the extent possible but always with the occupancy of men in mind. In other words, it smelled like every other cabin on the ship, apart, perhaps from his own, which was spotless, as he was the only person who’d ever slept in it.
His own aim was impeccable.
“Miss Redmond…” he said very mildly, very gently, in a voice that belied the momentum of his gathering outrage. “Why the devil are you on my ship?”
Corcoran cleared his throat. “Captain. Perhaps you oughtn’t use the word devil in front of Miss Redmond, as she’s a fine la…”
Flint whipped a scorchingly quelling look at Corcoran.
Who clapped his jaw shut audibly.
Then Flint returned a deceptively mild gaze to Miss Redmond.
He gave her a moment more to respond to his question. She didn’t seem eager to do it.
“Very well. If you would just come with me, Miss Redmond, we shall speak in private quarters. Please return to your duties, Corcoran. Thank you for calling my attention to these…circumstances.”
“Aye, sir. Good day to you, Miss Redmond.” He made a bow so extravagant the top of his balding head nearly touched his knees, and he backed away, soaking up the sight of Violet Redmond as long as possible, though she were a healing vision and the fetid little cabin a shrine.
He turned and scrambled back up onto the deck.
Flint was certain he’d spread word of her presence to the other men on board as quickly, and with as much exaggeration, as possible.
Unholy, bloody mess.
Trust an Englishwoman to complicate things.
“Miss Redmond,” he repeated firmly. He gestured for her to precede him.
And after a hesitation, she tilted up her chin in a show of bravado—she’d certainly need that, he thought grimly—and obeyed.