The Lady's Command (Adventurers Quartet #1)

by Stephanie Laurens

  The jarvey said something, then Humphrey looked at her. “The direction, ma’am?”

  “Oh—Eaton Square.”

  Humphrey shut the carriage door and conveyed her instruction to the jarvey. A second later, the carriage jerked into motion.

  Edwina felt her eyes grow round, felt excitement tempered by apprehension grip her. “I’m off on my journey,” she murmured to herself.

  She waited until the carriage slowed at the corner, then stood and rapped sharply on the trapdoor set into the hackney’s ceiling. When it opened and the jarvey said “Yar?” she called up, “When you turn the corner, you’ll see a woman in a black gown holding a portmanteau. Please pull up beside her.”

  The jarvey paused, then said, “’Ere—this isn’t one of them scandalous elopements, is it?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Huh. Pity.” The jarvey flicked his reins, and his horse stepped out. “I always wanted to drive someone setting out on one of those.”

  Edwina shut the trapdoor and sank back onto the seat, a very large smile spreading over her face. She wasn’t escaping to marry some unsuitable man—she was escaping to be with the entirely suitable gentleman she’d married.

  She was still grinning when the jarvey drew up alongside the pavement where, as she’d arranged, Wilmot stood waiting with the portmanteau. Even as Edwina opened the carriage door and took the portmanteau, Wilmot was darting anxious glances in every direction.

  “Don’t worry,” Edwina reiterated. “Now, don’t forget to give Humphrey those letters I left with you. They’re important, and it’s also important you don’t hand them over until six o’clock this evening.”

  She’d written letters to her mother, her sisters, her brother, and to Humphrey and Mrs. King, explaining where she’d gone and how long she expected to be away. Given her destination, she couldn’t see that they would worry; she’d be just as safe as she would be in London. Possibly safer, given Declan would be with her.

  “I won’t forget, my lady.” Wilmot bobbed a last curtsy. “I don’t know how you’ll manage with your hair, but I pray that you’ll take care.”

  Edwina smiled. For all her nerves, Wilmot was a dear. “I will. And we’ll be home before you know it. Now hurry back before you’re missed.”

  Wilmot bobbed again, whirled, and plunged into the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the houses in Stanhope Street.

  Edwina shut the carriage door, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. She’d managed to leave the house, luggage and all, without anyone but loyal Wilmot knowing.

  The trapdoor opened, and the jarvey asked, “So are we still headed to Eaton Square, mum?”

  Edwina shook herself to attention. “No. I wish to go to Mr. Higgins and Sons’ establishment in Long Acre.”

  “Right you are.” The trapdoor fell closed. An instant later, the carriage rocked into motion.

  “And now,” she murmured, “I really am off—off on a true adventure.”

  * * *

  Declan strode up The Cormorant’s gangplank as sunset was streaking the sky.

  He’d been held up at the London office when one of his searchers was late getting back. Subsequently, he’d delayed at Stanhope Street as long as he could, hoping that Edwina might return before he absolutely had to leave, but she hadn’t. Then on reaching the office here, he’d found more men waiting with verbal reports on the current conditions in Freetown.

  He’d hoped that somewhere amid all the information, he might have found some glimmer of a clue as to why four men—Captain Dixon, Lieutenant Hopkins, Lieutenant Fanshawe, and Hillsythe—had vanished, but no. Instead, the news from Freetown was entirely benign, with not even a hint of disturbance among the natives.

  On gaining The Cormorant’s railing, he paused to look across the harbor at the forest of masts set against the bright orange and scarlet hues in the palette the westering sun had flung up. Such sights never failed to steal his breath; there was beauty in the sky and in the promise of the ships bobbing at anchor, of the journeys they would make and the far-flung places they would visit before they returned to this port.

  His gaze moved on to the billowing sails of the ships sliding majestically out of the harbor and into the Solent beyond. Soon The Cormorant would be joining the line.

  His sailing master, the principal navigator, was waiting, smiling, at the head of the gangplank. As he stepped down to the deck, Declan acknowledged the master’s crisp salute with a nod and a matching smile—one of anticipation. “Mr. Johnson. How is she?”

  “Shipshape and ready to sail, Captain.”

  “Excellent.” With a nod, Declan acknowledged the salute of his quartermaster—Elliot, a burly Scotsman who was waiting by the wheel—then stepped aside to allow a pair of sailors to bring in the gangplank.

  Grimsby, the bosun, bowlegged and barrel-chested, supervised the stowing of the gangplank. He grinned at Declan and saluted. “Good to have you aboard again, Capt’n.”

  After replying to that and other greetings from his crew, all of whom had sailed with him before, Declan made a quick circuit of the deck, instinctively noting the ropes and sails, the set of the spars, and checking for anything not precisely as it should be. But everything appeared in perfect order; his ship stood ready to get under way.

  Finally, he climbed to the poop deck, located over the stern, and joined his lieutenant, Joshua Caldwell, by the wheel. “Right, Mr. Caldwell. Shall we get under way?”

  “Aye, Captain—ready and waiting at your command.”

  Declan grinned; he and Caldwell had sailed the world for years, and those words had become a habit between them. “It’s good to be on the waves again.”

  “I can imagine.” Caldwell raised his voice and called for a jib to be set. “There’s enough wind, I think, to get us out with just that.”

  Declan nodded in agreement. He waited while the ropes were cast off and the ship slowly slid away from the wharf; under Caldwell’s careful steering, The Cormorant’s bow came around, and the ship eased into the channel leading out of the harbor basin. “So what did Royd do this time?”

  His older brother was constantly tinkering with this and that, trying one thing, then another, to improve the performance of the Frobisher fleet. His favorite test subjects were his own ship, The Corsair, Robert’s ship, The Trident, and The Cormorant. Whenever any of those vessels docked at Aberdeen, the chances were good that Royd would have them out of the water.

  “He had the hull refinished in some new varnish—he claims it has less resistance, so the ship should cleave through the water more cleanly and therefore go faster. He also changed the set of the rudder, so be warned. It feels different—reacts a little differently.”

  “But…?” Declan prompted.

  Caldwell grimaced. “As much as it pains me to admit, Royd’s ‘improvements’ usually work. Wait until you take the wheel and see how you find it, but for my money, the altered angle, or whatever he did, gives us a touch more definite control.”

  “Hmm. Greater speed, better control. I’ll take it.”

  Caldwell chuckled.

  Declan grinned. He left Caldwell to his steering and walked to the stern rail. Gripping it, he stood and looked back at the receding town—in his mind, he looked further still, all the way to London. He wondered what Edwina had planned for the evening. Would she stay at home by the drawing room fire and think of him?

  Would she miss him?

  Or would she go to some ball with her mother and sisters and be surrounded by gentlemen who were drawn to her scintillating beauty like moths to a flame?

  His hand tensed on the railing; his knuckles showed white. He noticed and eased his grip, and told himself he could have faith in her if in no one else.

  In an effort to refocus, he filled his lungs. The wind ruffled his hair; the tangy scent of salt and the sting of spray flooded his senses. The tilt and roll of the deck beneath his feet was comforting, so familiar, yet…

  Something was missing. Not in the a
tmosphere around him but inside him.

  For a moment, he dwelled on the hollow sensation engulfing his heart.

  He pushed away from the rail. He flung “I’ll be back to take over once we’re into the Solent” at Caldwell, then went down to pace the main deck.

  Useless, really—he couldn’t run away from his feelings. He didn’t understand how it had happened, how it could be so, but already he missed her. This situation—him on a voyage with her remaining in London—was precisely how he’d imagined their wedded life would be, yet now he knew that couldn’t be. This wasn’t going to work.

  Yet what they might do about it, what other options they might have, eluded him.

  As matters stood, this was how things had to be.

  Wasn’t it?

  He was halfway down the length of the ship when Johnson came up from one of the companionways.

  “Ah—just who I wanted to see.” Johnson fell in beside Declan. “Is Freetown proper our destination, or do you want to stand off in one of the other bays?”

  Like Declan, Johnson had sailed into Freetown before; he knew of the many other bays that lay to either side of Kroo Bay, on the shores of which lay the port of Freetown, along with its Government Wharf.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Declan continued to stroll while he considered his orders and his mission. Then he grimaced. “I haven’t yet decided exactly what my plan will be. Let me think about it for a few days. Meanwhile, I want you to have us on the fastest course possible for Freetown.”

  Behind them, Caldwell called for the mainsail on the mainmast to be raised. Nearly at the bow, Declan and Johnson halted and looked back, watching as the sailors hauled on the ropes, hoisting the sail, but, under the bosun’s directions, keeping it reasonably taut. The wind filled the canvas, and The Cormorant surged, but almost immediately settled to a steady, if faster, clip.

  Declan looked up at The Cormorant’s three towering masts. Like all the Frobisher ships that sailed for “the other side of the business,” The Cormorant was a full-rigged ship, fitted to carry maximum sail. To Johnson, he said, “We’ll be going to full sail as soon as we hit the Channel. From there on, we’ll take whatever speed we can capture from the winds.”

  Johnson nodded. “I’ll check the charts and plot a course accordingly.”

  “Without checking, what’s your best guess?”

  Johnson wrinkled his nose in thought, then offered, “Thirteen days—but I’m factoring in the effect of whatever Royd did to the hull. We made the trip from Aberdeen three hours faster than I expected.”

  Declan heaved a put-upon sigh. “Looks like I’ll owe my annoying big brother another case of whisky when I get home.” That was the standing arrangement between the brothers—Royd’s way of inducing his siblings to allow him to tamper with their ships. If Royd’s tinkering worked, then whoever’s ship benefited—Robert, Declan, or Caleb—owed Royd a case of his favorite Highland whisky. If the improvement did nothing, then he owed them the same, but if the improvement resulted in any loss of performance, Royd had to put it right, and his debt doubled.

  It said something for his eldest brother’s inventiveness that Royd was knee-deep in cases of whisky.

  “Odd that’s his choice—I’ve never heard of him ever being drunk.”

  Declan shook his head. “It’s like some sort of guilty pleasure—he only imbibes in very small quantities.” Despite Royd having a reputation as the hellion to beat all hellions, not even Robert, the next oldest, could recall ever seeing Royd even tipsy, much less drunk. Declan snorted. “At the rate he drinks the stuff, it’s going to take the rest of his life for him to drink what he’s already got in his cellar.”

  Johnson humphed.

  Declan stood with Johnson close by the bow until the ship passed into the Solent proper. Then Johnson disappeared below deck, and Declan made for the bridge.

  He took over the wheel as the winds strengthened, bringing with them the first scent of the wide open sea. The tide was running strongly, and as they’d exited the harbor well back in the line of ships waiting to get away, there were masts and sails aplenty dotting the run between them and the Channel. From lumbering East Indiamen, to swift schooners, to smaller private yachts, every ship was tacking, looking for the wind and an opening in the hulls ahead of them, yet few had the power The Cormorant could command.

  Declan had steered vessels of all sorts out of Southampton harbor more times than he could count; he knew the way the winds clipped the surrounding hills, understood the differing levels of power hitting his topsails and topgallants compared to his mainsail. He kept the jib up, but as he steered a path between the heavier, slower vessels, he successively called for more sail.

  Finally, he had a clear run, and the open waters of the Channel lay ahead. He looked up, considered the tautness of the sails, then said to Caldwell, standing alongside, “Hoist the royals—foremast, mainmast, and mizzen. And tell Grimsby to fly the staysails once we’re out in the open—his call.”

  Caldwell stepped to the railing to relay the orders.

  Declan held the wheel steady as the sails unfurled, then caught the wind, and the hull all but lifted onto the waves.

  Caldwell returned, whistling through his teeth. “We really are in a hurry.”

  “Indeed.” His eyes on the sails, Declan called adjustments. Once they were in the Channel proper, he called more orders, then turned the wheel, sending the ship into a wide, sweeping arc, eventually straightening with the bow cutting cleanly southwest, heading for the deeper, darker waters of the Atlantic.

  Satisfied, he handed the wheel back to Caldwell. Grasping the smooth wood and retaking control, Caldwell asked, “So—did you feel it?”

  Declan paused to think, to compare, then nodded. “Yes, damn him. It’s a definite improvement—the steering’s tighter in some way.”

  Caldwell nodded. “Yes—exactly.” He cast a knowledgeable glance up at the yards. “What? No skysails or moonrakers? I thought you wanted speed?”

  Declan laughed. “I’m saving them for the open sea. Don’t call them early and risk my masts.”

  Caldwell made a rude sound.

  Still grinning, Declan swung down the stairs to the main deck. For a moment, he paused by the rail. He was standing at the widest part of the ship; looking forward, he could see the way the hull sliced through the waves. From experience, given the waves, given the winds, if he’d set his sails correctly, he knew exactly how that peeling wake should appear. Satisfied that all was exactly as it should be, he pushed away from the rail, opened the door to the aft companionway, and went quickly down the steep stairs, dropping into the corridor leading to the stern cabins.

  His verbal exchanges with his friends and his time spent at the wheel had calmed him. He was still aware of that new emptiness within, but there was nothing he could do about it—not until he returned to London and Edwina’s side.

  So he would concentrate on getting to Freetown with all speed, learning what Wolverstone and Melville needed to know, then racing home as soon as he could.

  His cabin stretched across the width of the stern. Before he reached it, he came upon Henry, the ship’s steward. “What ho, Henry! A lovely evening for starting a new adventure.”

  “Aye, sir.” Henry beamed. “You have that right. Pleasure to have you back aboard, Capt’n.” Reaching back, Henry opened the door of Declan’s cabin and waved him in. “I was wanting to ask if you needed anything more in here. If not, I’ll make a start on the meal.”

  Declan halted in the center of the cabin, drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He’d spent more nights here than anywhere else in the world, even his room at Frobisher Manor.

  Before him, the wide windows that ran the full width of the stern showed him the tumbling wake of his ship, the darkening evening sky over a pewter-gray sea, with the southern cliffs of England a distant smudge on the northern horizon. He glanced to his right, to where his large captain’s desk was bolted to the floor, surrounded by vario
us chart-lockers and cupboards for journals. A large ship’s globe sat anchored beside the desk. His sextant and other instruments were housed in a glass-fronted cupboard attached to the paneled wall.

  The entire cabin was encased in oak paneling; the curtains currently tied back from the windows were crimson velvet.

  All appeared exactly as it should. He glanced fleetingly to his left, to where a four-poster bed was built into the cabin’s corner, with a washstand and commode closer to the door.

  He was turning back to assure Henry that he had everything he needed when his mind registered what his eyes had actually seen. He swung to his left. Frowning, he pointed to the large traveling trunk set at the foot of the bed, with his own smaller and distinctly battered sailing trunk beside it. “What’s that?”

  Even as the words left his lips, even as he glimpsed the puzzled look his steward sent him, premonition rose and rolled over him.

  Henry looked at the traveling trunk. “Isn’t it yours?”

  “No. Where did it come from?”

  “It was delivered to the ship this afternoon. The porters said as it was yours and was supposed to be put in your cabin.”

  Declan didn’t know what he felt. A panoply of emotions were clamoring for prominence, shoving his wits into complete disarray. He stared at the trunk.

  She was his.

  Surely not. She wouldn’t.

  Would she?

  From where he stood, he could see that the trunk had a complicated latch—not one that would easily open—but it didn’t appear to be locked. He strode across the cabin, shifted aside his sailing trunk, then bent, studied the latch, then swiftly undid it.

  The instant the latch fell loose, he drew in a shallow breath, held it, and raised the lid.

  He looked down—into Edwina’s face as she blinked her eyes wide.

  Then she focused on him. On his face. He had no idea what she saw there, but her chin remained firm—her expression determined—and her first words in no way surprised him.

  “Please tell me that we’re too far from the harbor for you to turn back.”