April 4, 1851
London, The Mermaid’s Arms, a not-so-respectable pub on the dock serving mediocre porter.
“I think we should get some more ale,” Griffith said to his first mate, Clark, as he downed the rest of his drink. “That’s proper procedure,” he snorted ruefully.
Proper procedure in this pub meant that he would get more beer. But proper procedure, at least according to Her Majesty’s government, meant that innocent people would likely die, caught in the conflict between nations. Proper procedure meant that women and children would live in a ship’s hold for months, with meager provisions and unsanitary living circumstances.
So he’d acted improperly, according to the naval authorities. It smarted, being told he’d done wrong. But he had acted entirely properly when it came to Griffith’s own law, which demanded that people be free to live as they wish, not kept in captivity.
It was one of the many reasons, and the most altruistic, that he’d run off to sea when he was sixteen—he’d seen the inequity of his family’s situation, that they were blessed with wealth and land and power, and the families that worked for them were entirely dependent on their largesse. He would not stand by and benefit merely because of the lucky circumstance of his birth. Especially if he could do something about other people’s unlucky circumstances. That he would eventually have to claim his duties because of his lineage was a truth he refused to acknowledge.
Also there was the fact that he and his parents had not agreed on anything. They wanted him to follow in the footsteps of all the Davies sons before him, which meant getting the best education and then forgetting entirely about it since it wasn’t seemly to appear too intelligent.
Not that Griffith believed himself to be too intelligent—school had been difficult for him. He wanted to be outside all the time, moving his body rather than sitting in a wooden chair for hours.
Although after several months at sea, this chair in the pub felt quite comfortable.
“Clark?” he said again. “Another drink?”
Clark did not answer. Likely because Clark had already had enough and was currently sleeping on the table.
“More!” Griffith called as he downed the rest of his drink. One of the barmaids nodded.
“Excellent service, don’t you think?” Griffith asked Clark. “Very proper procedure,” he couldn’t help but add in a low aside.
Clark snored softly in reply. Not even appreciating Griffith’s wit.
Griffith shrugged, adjusting Clark’s head so he was lying more comfortably. That was one of the secrets behind being a well-respected captain: making certain your crew was taken care of.
He’d taken such good care of Clark that his mate was getting some well-deserved rest. Albeit in a pub, his nose pressed against a wooden table.
He didn’t see the point of being sober either if he was on land, but unfortunately it took a lot for him to get drunk, since he was so large—he towered over everyone on his crew and couldn’t get comfortable below deck. His jackets always felt a bit snug too, since it seemed tailors did not actually believe that a person’s shoulders could be as wide as Griffith’s.
The curse of the Davies family.
The barmaid placed another glass on the worn wooden table in front of him. “You need one for your friend here?” she asked.
Griffith shook his head no and tossed a few coins to her, which she caught handily. “Thank you,” he said as he took a long draught. The porter was fair to middling at best, but it was beer, so that made it all right.
They usually ran out of beer aboard the ship sometime around the second month of the voyage, and this most recent voyage had been over ten months. Too long without alcohol. Or a woman, to be honest.
He did feel slightly fuzzy around the edges, which was good. It also had the benefit of disguising the quality of the alcohol. And the lack of female companionship.
He might’ve attempted some sort of discourse with one of the barmaids, but several ships had docked in London this week, it seemed, so the pub was full to bursting, and the women were scurrying about with no time for flirtation.
And, while he’d engaged in anonymous couplings in the past, he found the idea distasteful now. He wanted something more, although he had no hope of finding more for the short time they were ashore. So he’d resigned himself to looking—discreetly, so as not to cause distress—and consoling himself with beer and sleeping in a bed long enough for him to stretch his entire body out.
That was heaven for him. Even if it was a solitary heaven.
Plus there was Clark to consider—it would be downright rude to leave his first mate here alone. Even if Clark was currently unconscious, so perhaps not the best company.
“It’s you and me, love,” he said to the glass, which was already nearly empty.
He, Clark, and his crew had made shore only that morning, and after filing the ship’s paperwork with the authorities, he had told his crew to do whatever they wanted until he sent word they were needed. He presumed they were scattered around London, doing exactly what he was doing, give or take a few ales and women.
Or, like Clark here, getting some well-deserved rest.
He took the last pull from his glass as he saw the door to the pub open. His mouth dropped open as he saw who had walked in—not that he knew the lady, how could he? Just that she looked like a glorious angel, a vibrant, dark-haired woman wearing a dark cloak of excellent quality. The glimpse he got of her face indicated she was truly stunning. And was entirely out of place in this dingy dockside pub.
“I wish you were awake for this,” Griffith murmured in Clark’s direction. “And I’m reconsidering my stance on anonymous couplings. Although she is clearly a lady, so that would not be possible.” Too bad, he thought. For him, not for her. He didn’t think a lady would wish to have anything to do with someone like him. Even though, theoretically at least, he was a gentleman.
The female wore an enormous bonnet, making her have to turn her head to glance around her, a newspaper tucked under one arm, while in the other she was brandishing a—a tiny sword? A poker for the fire?
Oh. A hat pin. Of course. Because young, beautiful ladies often ventured into disreputable establishments carrying only a newspaper and an accessory.
“The fool,” he muttered, shaking his head as he watched her movements. He felt his body tighten in an unconscious protective position. He wished he weren’t so determined to rescue anybody who seemed they might need help, but that was what had propelled him thus far, so he supposed it wouldn’t stop just because he was off duty. He shrugged, taking another drink as he accepted his own inability to stay uninvolved.
She held the hat pin in front of her, clearly apprehensive. As she should be. The only women in the pub worked here, and they were definitely not ladies. The noise had been growing steadily in the short time he’d been inside. There had even been a few scuffles, although there hadn’t been any full-fledged fights. At least not yet. She glanced around, her gaze, from what Griffith could see of it, intent. As though she were looking for someone or something. She picked her way over to the bar, a few tables away from where Griffith sat and Clark slept.
Griffith rose slowly from his chair, now relieved he hadn’t had more to drink. This lady had no idea what she was walking into, or she would have at least brought a Derringer pistol.
“Pardon me,” he heard her say to one of the barmaids in what was obviously a cultured accent, as though her clothing didn’t give her status away. She wasn’t able to finish her sentence, however, mostly because the barmaid she’d inquired of was too busy handing out the ales at the other end of the bar.
The noise in the room began to subside, as the occupants heard and saw the newest arrival. A lady in this disreputable bar would rouse the most determined sailor from his ale. Griffith grimaced as he heard the low hum of talk that wasn’t the rowdy conviviality of a few moments earlier. This conversation held a tone of suspicion and interest, both of which portended trouble for her. After all, she was clearly an interloper trespassing on their domain.
Damn it. It seemed likely he would have to interfere.
“Who’s this, then?” The voice came from behind Griffith, and he turned, seeing the man wobble up to his feet, a predatory tone in his voice.
It wasn’t one of Griffith’s shipmen, unfortunately. If it were, he could command him to sit back down. To ignore one of Griffith’s direct commands meant immediate dismissal.
“I am looking for someone,” the lady said, raising her chin—and her hat pin—as she turned away from the bar to face the man.
The man walked toward the bar, a lewd grin on his face. “Looking for me I’d say. How about we grab a drink and get to know each other? I’ve always wanted to have a la—” But he stopped speaking as she raised her arm and stuck the hat pin into the man’s chest, making him yelp as he took a few steps backward.
Well. He had to applaud her response time, even if her response itself was bound to cause even more trouble than just appearing in the pub in the first place.
“I am looking for someone,” she repeated, punctuating each word with a poke as the man grimaced. “And I suspect it is not you.”
Griffith’s body tensed as he anticipated how the man, and his companions, would react. She didn’t belong here, and they would protect their environment with force, if necessary. Even against a lady.
Sure enough, the man’s table companions rose, their postures clearly indicating violence. There were far too many of them to take out just with a chair. He’d have to try diplomacy. He rose from his seat.
And if diplomacy failed, he’d upend a few tables.
“Now, gentlemen,” Griffith began, walking toward the scene as he held his hands out in a placating manner, “there’s no need to make a fuss, the lady—”
The man grabbed the hat pin and pushed it back toward her, even as she struggled to keep it pinned in him. It must have hurt, Griffith had to admit.
“Stay out of it,” the man interrupted without glancing at Griffith.
“I cannot,” Griffith said, stepping up and grasping the pin, yanking it out from the man’s hand. “I will see to the young lady. There is no need for you to bother yourself any longer.” Sometimes there was a benefit to forever championing the underdog in a lopsided fight. Now he could get a better look, see if she was as beautiful as he thought.
The man opened his mouth as though to argue, then looked up—and up—at Griffith’s height and obvious strength and apparently thought better of it. He nodded at his companions, all of whom lowered themselves slowly back down into their seats.
Griffith exhaled. It wasn’t that he was dreading a fight, but it would be a shame to waste some of his precious free time busting sailors’ heads. There was beer to drink after all.
“And who are you?” she asked, turning her gaze to Griffith. Unlike the man, she didn’t seem intimidated at all by his size. That was a surprise; most people at least blinked twice when they saw him. Plus, he had just rescued her from an unpleasant situation. The very least he could expect would be some gratitude.
None appeared to be forthcoming.
She was as beautiful as he’d suspected; her dark hair was swept up underneath her hat, a few enticing strands falling down around her face. Her eyes were dark also, with delicate eyebrows that were raised in question. Her nose was perfect, and her mouth—her lips were full and red, and she had a mole to the right of her mouth that seemed—to Griffith, at least—a visual marker for where his own mouth should start kissing her.
“I am your stalwart savior,” he said. He gestured toward the table. “Would you care to sit down and have a cup of this pub’s finest ale? Which, admittedly, isn’t very good. But I promise, the company is superb,” he added with a rakish grin.
She glanced toward the table, and Clark, and looked back, a wry expression on her face. “I’m not certain I should, if that is what happens after having some ale. Or is it that you are such a dull conversationalist that he’s fallen asleep rather than talk to you?” Her expression was teasing, and he admired how full of aplomb she was, given that she was clearly completely out of her element here. And yet was still holding her own.
“I am an excellent conversationalist. When I am not rescuing damsels in distress—” he began.
“I was not in distress,” she interrupted. “Merely impeded by a ruffian in pursuit of my goal. Not the first time that has happened,” she added in a rueful tone.
He wanted to know more about that, but he suspected she wasn’t the type of lady to reveal her secrets all at once.
“I was doing just fine without you,” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest.
In fact, he suspected she would reveal none of her secrets. Which only piqued his curiosity more.
“As I said, pre-ruffian, I am looking for someone,” she said, glancing around the pub again, a frown on her lovely face. “Perhaps you can help me find him?”
“I would be happy to.” Griffith took his hat off, sweeping low into a bow, as genteel and respectable as he’d been taught so many years ago. “Captain Griffith Davies at your service. What is the gentleman’s name?”
Her expression was puzzled, and then it cleared as she whacked him hard on the arm, her mouth opening into a wide smile. He was definitely not expecting that reaction. “You’re Lord Viscount Whateverhisname! You’re the person I’m after!”
Griffith hadn’t heard anyone reference his title in so long he nearly opened his mouth to deny it. Then realized he couldn’t, because it was true.
“I am.” He sounded as surprised as she looked. “What business do you have with me?” He tried not to sound dismissive, but it was unlikely she wanted him for any good reason. He’d left his title when he’d run off to sea, and he was damned glad not to be that person any longer.
The lady didn’t reply, just grabbed his arm and began to walk him toward the door. Or tried to walk him toward the door; when he wanted to, Griffith could be an immovable object.
She turned and pointed at his chest with the hat pin. “Don’t make me use this,” she said half-jokingly.
“You need to tell me what you want first,” Griffith replied, folding his arms over his chest. “And I am sorry to tell you, but a hat pin, no matter how skillfully wielded, is not going to persuade me.”
“It’s important.”
She spoke in an urgent tone, and he couldn’t help but believe her, even though he still had no idea what she wanted. Besides, he was entirely intrigued, so he was willing to accommodate whatever she wished.
He softened his expression. “Important, is it? Why didn’t you say so? Lead on, Lady Hat Pin.”
She nodded, and when she tugged on him now, he walked with her toward the door. Because why not? It would be an adventure.
They both halted when the door suddenly sprung open.
A phalanx of men poured in, all wearing the garb of the Royal Navy Police.
Griffith did not think they were here for the ale. He positioned himself in front of the lady in an unconscious need to protect her. Was she wanted by the authorities? Was that why she was here, attempting to hide out?
In which case, perhaps he might want to know why she was looking for him in particular. And if that was one of her secrets.
Today was far more interesting than he’d suspected it would be.
“Captain Davies!” one of the policemen said, sweeping his gaze over the pub’s occupants. “We need to locate Captain Davies.”
“You wish to speak to me?” Griffith said, his tone skeptical. Because while he suspected they weren’t here to drink, he hadn’t thought they might want him. But perhaps this was the day when everyone came to this pub looking for the former viscount/current ship captain.
Maybe Queen Victoria herself would show up eventually. And he’d have a word with her about ensuring there was enough beer on board her ships. Not to mention discussing what proper procedure should be.
Two of the men went to either side of him, taking his arms. They did not want him for a polite conversation, then, unless they were determined to have his full attention. For that he could have told them a full pitcher of beer, a large soft chair, and the company of a beautiful, spirited lady could have done just as well.
He glanced from one to the other, considering whether he should shake them off. He could do it, but it would likely just be postponing the inevitable. And he’d hate to wake up Clark, just for something like this.
The man who’d spoken pushed through to step in front of Griffith, his face blanching as he looked up. “You’re Captain Davies?”
Griffith bowed, at least as much as he was able to, given that his arms were being held. “At your service. What’s this about?”
“You’re being arrested by the authority of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. If you’ll come with me?”
“As though I have a choice,” Griffith muttered. His improper procedure must have drawn the ire of Her Majesty’s Navy. He’d like to have a word with Her Majesty even more. It was unfortunate the queen wasn’t waltzing into disreputable pubs brandishing hat pins.
He glanced toward the lady who had done just that, nodding in her direction. “We’ll have to schedule another time to speak, my lady. As you can see, I am somewhat busy at the moment.” He winked as she glanced from him to the officers and back again, a frustrated expression on her face.
“Damn it,” Della fumed as she watched the police escort the gentleman away. She didn’t doubt but that he could overcome the policemen—he was certainly muscular enough, and she’d sensed his confidence when he’d stood up for her at the pub. Not that he’d rescued her, she hastily amended; he had merely hastened the inevitable conclusion. She had been doing fine by herself. Reminded, she tucked her hat pin back into her pocket, but kept her hand on it in case she needed it.
As she watched the group recede from her view, a part of her wished he would do something to escape. It would certainly be exciting to watch.
The most aggravating part was that he was the person she was hunting for: Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury, the mysterious nobleman who had turned his back on his aristocratic family and gone to sea. It wasn’t his viscountcy she was after; no proper aristocrat would deign to speak to her anyway because of her scandal.
And she was grateful for that, she assured herself.
It was that he was the captain of record for the ship her friend Sarah’s husband had been aboard before going missing. He was the only lead they had on where to find Mr. Wattings. And unlike Della, Sarah actually loved her husband, the father of her child.
Della was just relieved that the father of her child had not married her despite his promises, and that he had run away when the couple had run out of money. She would never be swayed by a charming blackguard again. She’d long ago resolved never to get involved, much less married, to anyone again. There was too much risk.
Besides, she didn’t lack for family and companionship—Sarah and Della’s sisters, whom she’d been reunited with in London after running away to a tiny town called Haltwhistle. Her sister Ida had come to fetch her, and Della had agreed to return, even though Society was certain to blackball her on account of Nora, her illegitimate child.
Haltwhistle was also where she’d met Sarah and her daughter, Emily. Her family, even though they weren’t related by blood. Sarah also knew just what it felt like to be on her own with a small child.
Sarah had rescued Della when she’d been at her lowest—no money, no food, and holding Nora, who was six months old and crying constantly, in her arms.
Della had never doubted her ability to survive, but in Haltwhistle, abandoned by Mr. Baxter, she’d begun to feel hopeless.
Until Sarah had given her food and a warm place to sleep. Eventually, Della had shared her story, while Sarah had shared hers.
They’d forged a bond of motherhood, lost love, and a determination to thrive, despite their birth families. Della would do anything for Sarah, and her friend would do anything for her.
So, if Della could possibly find a way to return Mr. Wattings to his wife, she would. And if it meant she had to storm the Navy Police headquarters to speak with Captain Enormous, she would do that also.
She just needed more than a hat pin.
“Sarah!” Della called as she burst into the hallway of the small but serviceable London house she shared with her friend, their daughters, and the assortment of people and animal rescues Della and Sarah had already acquired in their short time back in the city Della had grown up in.
The house wasn’t close to the luxury she’d been accustomed to when she had lived with her parents, but it had the distinct advantage of not housing either the duke or duchess. Neither of whom wanted to see her. Perhaps the only thing they had in common now.
The house—purchased with help from Della’s brothers-in-law, all of whom were besotted with her sisters—was comfortable, from the mismatched chairs in the dining room to the worn rug in the hallway. Neither she nor Sarah had to worry that their daughters would ruin the furniture by playing. The furniture was already well used, and it made for an altogether more relaxing abode.
It wasn’t in the most fashionable area of town, of course, but it was convenient to the shops and wherever else the ladies chose to walk. Their neighbors were friendly, but busy, and none of them had raised an eyebrow at seeing the variety of occupants.
That was definitely a refreshing change from what she and Sarah would have expected if they lived in a more fashionable area. Della because of her reputation, and Sarah because of the color of her skin.
Della ran into the dining room, narrowly avoiding a few pairs of discarded shoes, carrying the morning paper. Sarah was seated at the long wooden table, a piece of toast on a plate beside her.
“What is it that has you in such a state?” her friend asked, raising a dark brow. “You bolted as soon as the paper arrived.”
Della went to the other side of the table where Sarah sat, laying the paper in front of her and pointing at the news item.
“That’s the name of your husband’s captain. It isn’t the same ship, of course”—that one capsized, with most of the crew still unaccounted for, not that she needed to remind Sarah of that—“but the captain is here. In town.” She didn’t tell Sarah just how impossibly large and handsome he was.
That was not pertinent to the story.
Della put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s never been so close, he certainly hasn’t answered all those letters we’ve sent. This is the best opportunity we might ever have to being able to find out for certain.” She took a breath. “In fact, I went and found this Griffin person, though I didn’t get a chance to ask him about Mr. Wattings’s whereabouts.”
“Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury,” Sarah corrected in a soft, faltering voice as she stared down at the paper.
“Viscount Whateverhisnameis,” Della said firmly. Captain Enormous. “The point is I saw him. And I’ll do whatever it takes to speak with him, to find out what happened to Henry.”
When she was able to talk her way past the Navy Police desk officer. And persuade the rakish captain to hold off on flirting so he could actually assist her.
Only a minor impediment.
“Della,” Sarah began, her voice even softer. She stared up at Della, her eyes wide. “I’d nearly given up hope. If you can find out what happened, that would be . . .” she continued, her gaze unfocused, and then she swayed in her chair and slumped to the side, avoiding falling completely out of her chair because of Della’s hand on her shoulder.
Of course Della should have anticipated that Sarah would be overwhelmed by the shock.
She took Sarah’s deadweight into her arms, gently sliding her onto the carpet. It had happened before, so it wasn’t a complete surprise, but Della felt her heart thudding in her chest. If anything were to happen to Sarah . . .
“Damn it, Della,” she said to herself, “you are far too abrupt.” Not many people were as resilient as Della was, a fact she frequently forgot.
She settled Sarah on the floor, then rang the bell on the table before plucking Sarah’s napkin from the floor and fanning her friend with it.
“You rang, my lady?” Mrs. Borens said a few minutes later as she entered the room. “Oh my lord, Mrs. Wattings,” she said, bustling over to kneel at Sarah’s feet.
Sarah uttered a moan, and Della leaned into her friend’s face, watching anxiously as Sarah’s eyes fluttered open.
“Sarah? Are you all right?” Della asked. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast it felt as though it might just emerge from her chest. “I didn’t mean to upset you with the news, I just—” She shook her head. “I just got excited.”
“You always do,” Sarah replied with a slight tilt to her mouth.
Della exhaled and leaned back on her heels, relief coursing through her at her friend’s familiar joking tone. Mrs. Borens patted Sarah’s ankle, took the napkin from Della’s hand, and folded it instinctively.
“It will be too upsetting for you to come with me. But I need to go right away. I need to speak with the viscount,” Della said, pushing Sarah’s soft hair away from her face. “You can stay here; the girls will be downstairs soon anyway.”
Sarah nodded. “Thank you.” She made a vague gesture in the air. “For everything. I had given up reading the papers, it was too hard to be disappointed every day.”
Della felt her throat close at her friend’s sad tone. Dear Lord, she hoped this captain-viscount person would have something to tell her.
She took Sarah’s hand and squeezed it, meeting Sarah’s gaze. Her friend smiled weakly at her.
“Do you want to get up?” Della asked.
Sarah considered the question. “I think I’d like to stay down here for a bit.”
Della nodded. “You do that.” She looked up at Mrs. Borens. “Can you stay with Mrs. Wattings as she rests?” She looked back at Sarah. “Do you want tea?”
“That is all you British people can think about,” Sarah replied. “It is not as though tea is the cure to everything.”
“But it is,” Della said with a smile. “And besides, you were born here too.”
Sarah raised her hand toward Della.
“You want to get up so soon?” Della asked.
Sarah wrinkled her nose. “The carpet must have belonged to a family with a dog.”
Another reminder that Della was no longer living with her parents—a duke’s rug would be beaten regularly, and even if the duke had owned one hundred dogs, they would not have been allowed to do something so vulgar as to make it clear they were in residence.
This covering, however, they’d found on one of their foraging trips when they’d first arrived. Della couldn’t bear waste, whether it was worn rugs or people or animals whose families had decided they were unwanted.
Della took Sarah’s outstretched hand, helping her friend to rise. She wrapped her arm around Sarah’s waist, then sat her back down in her chair.
“Tea?” Della asked again, patting Sarah on the shoulder.
She grinned at Sarah’s eye roll.
“I was born here, as you remind me several times a day,” Sarah said, sounding more like her usual self, “but I wasn’t raised on tea. But we can’t get good coffee.”
Sarah’s parents had come from the West Indies before Sarah was born, but according to Sarah, her parents had maintained their West Indian traditions at home, even though all their children were British-born.
They’d grown up working on and around coffee plantations, and therefore tea was apparently not allowed in their household. They’d arrived in London to improve their situation, and now Sarah’s father was the owner of an import company that did a respectable business bringing goods, including coffee, in from the Caribbean. But since Sarah’s parents were speaking to Sarah as little as Della’s parents were speaking to Della, there was no possibility of obtaining coffee.
Like Della, Sarah had found an unsuitable man to fall in love with. Unlike Della, she had married him, at which time her family had disowned her.
Della nodded. “Fair point. I’m delighted that you are feeling well enough to argue national beverages with me. Stay here with the girls, and I will go hunt down the griffin viscount and see what he might know about Mr. Wattings.”
“Thank you,” Sarah replied. She stretched her hand out to touch Della’s arm. “Thank you,” she repeated in a more emotional tone.
Della’s throat tightened, and she nodded and rose, smoothing her skirts. She paused at the door, looking back at Sarah, who was watching her go. A pang of hope skewered her heart, and she felt her chest constrict. If she could discover Mr. Wattings’s fate—no matter what it was—Sarah would rest easier. Her friend had suffered so much from not knowing what had happened to her beloved husband. And Della, even though she was a scandalous disgrace, was still a duke’s daughter who could get answers where a woman of Caribbean descent, like Sarah, could not.
She just had to be able to ask questions.