Blaike: Secrets Gone Askew (Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Book 4)

by Collette Cameron

  “Shamed.” Sternness tightened Blaire’s pretty features briefly. “Perhaps, but it was not of your doing,” she insisted. “I believe, even when dark secrets are exposed, honorable and decent people can rise above the gossip and stigma.”

  Easier said when you weren’t the one nearly despoiled and caught dishabille by Madame Beaulieu. Never mind that Blaike had been the victim of a calculated scheme, and that was why she’d determined never to be manipulated into doing anything against her will again.

  Despite her protests of innocence, she’d been judged, tried, and found guilty by the headmistress in mere moments. Compromised beyond redemption, her reputation and good standing utterly tattered, remaining at Les Dames de l’Académie de Grâce had been inconceivable.

  Much too convenient the headmistress happening upon Blaike in the gardens just then.

  Why, the despicable woman had implied Blaike had no recourse other than to become a courtesan. Another reason why Blaike suspected Madame Beaulieu was an entirely other kind of madam.

  “God forgive me, but I truly loathe Jonathon and Jacqueline Severs,” Blaike whispered. “And Madame Beaulieu isn’t far behind. They should all face imprisonment.”

  “Vile, all three to their foul cores.” Blaire tapped Blaike’s forearm.

  “But, think on it. We aren’t likely to ever lay eyes on the Severs again. They’re American, from a banking family, I believe Jacqueline said. And if we do, I’ll be the first to cork Jonathon Severs for you. In fact, I think I’ll take pugilist lessons. Fencing too.” She skewed her mouth sideways. “I suppose I’ll have to get Heath’s permission, since he’s our guardian. That’s a bit of a bother.”

  She struck a pose, her fist poised before her face, and giggled. “Do you think he’ll—?”

  “Agree? Not likely.”

  “Mademoiselles.” Again, the contentious driver harrumphed behind them.

  Blaike and Blaire swung to face the peevish man.

  “Capitaine de Port de Sa Majesté.” He pointed to an official looking building a block down and across the way before towing their trunk to plop it beside them.

  He couldn’t have stopped the conveyance in front of the building?

  Plain spiteful, that.

  Surely he didn’t expect them to haul the chest themselves? The trunk was far too heavy and cumbersome. Besides, they each already held a portmanteau, and Blaire also carried two hat boxes. Furthermore, with the riff raff scuttling about the docks, they daren’t leave the trunk unattended.

  “Port Captain? Har-bor Mas-ter?”

  Blaike pointed at the building, and Blaire frowned at the trunk. Neither had learned enough French to communicate well during their ill-fated venture.

  “Oui.” Mouth turned down, their driver summoned a sullen nod.

  Blaike mentally calculated her funds again.

  Could she spare a coin or two?

  Her tense stomach cinched further. She had no choice.

  After drawing her reticule off her wrist, and setting their meager food supply upon the chest, she loosened the strap.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mais puis-je vous offrir mon aide?”

  Use caution in befriending those who

  whisper secrets to each other in your presence.

  You can bet they’ll not hesitate to titter about you as well.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Blaike started and glanced up to see the man approaching who’d been watching her and Blaire earlier. Perhaps late in his fourth decade or early in his fifth, he bestowed a cavalier’s smile upon them as he sketched a bow.

  Three burly sailors accompanied him, each more coarse and intimidating in appearance than the former.

  Making a pretense of returning her reticule to her wrist, she eyed the trio from beneath her lashes. What she observed didn’t reassure her.

  The first, an enormous African his bulging muscles straining against the fabric of his partially unbuttoned shirt, grinned widely, revealing missing front teeth. The second, perhaps a Turk or Arab given his soiled cranberry-colored turban, fingered the hilt of a wicked looking saber belted at his waist. And the third seaman sported a long, braided beard and numerous tattoos on every exposed inch of flesh, including his face.

  She didn’t want to speculate what the rest of the crew was like if these three were the captain’s officers. Never having seen pirates before, she couldn’t be sure, of course, but these rapscallions fit every depiction she’d ever read.

  Right down to the gold hoop in the Turk’s ear.

  Blaire must have reached the same conclusion, for she edged minutely closer to Blaike.

  A prickly shudder skittered across Blaike’s shoulders.

  A renewed reminder why young women didn’t travel unescorted.

  Her nostrils quivered.

  A most unsavory—unbathed—lot.

  Except for their leader.

  Flawlessly groomed—togs of the first stare of fashion as she’d heard dandies described in London—he oozed charm as well as a faint, musky cologne.

  Attractive in an experienced, man-of-the-world manner, he wasn’t overly tall. In fact, she and Blaire each stood at least an inch taller. Nonetheless, he still exuded power and self-confidence. The scar lashing his face suited him in a bizarre sort of way.

  How had he come by it?

  He rather looked like a Barbary Pirate or corsair more than a respectable ship’s captain.

  A similar thought had sprung to mind the first time she’d seen Captain Oliver Whitehouse.

  Truth to tell, she’d had many fanciful thoughts about Captain Whitehouse these past months.

  The leader spoke again. “Est-ce que je peux vous aider avec vos bagages?”

  Not exactly certain what he’d asked, Blaike believed he might’ve offered to assist with their luggage. “Please pardon me, but I do not speak French fluently.”

  A delighted smile brightened his face, and he clasped one hand across his waist as he bent into an elegant bow.

  “Splendid. You’re British, as am I. I was but offering my assistance with your baggage.” He gestured to the chest. “Please permit my men carry it to wherever you might need.” He glanced, almost too casually given his hand resting on the carved handle of a knife tucked into his waistband. “Have you any other luggage? Perhaps a tardy traveling companion’s as well?”

  Fishing for information, that.

  He’d find his probing wouldn’t get satisfied.

  Blaike wasn’t born yesterday. Pure foolishness to reveal that no fire-breathing dragon such as Mrs. Hobbs, their chaperone on the passage from London, would join them shortly. And the lady’s maids who’d accompanied them from London had been sent home within a week of arrival.

  Madam Beaulieu didn’t condone her pupils being waited upon, most especially when other attendees didn’t have abigails.

  After withdrawing a few francs from his coat pocket, the captain passed them to the waiting driver.

  “Merci beaucoup.” The surly bear’s demeanor transformed into grateful servitude. He tapped two fingers to his forehead in a smart salute before shutting the coach door and climbing atop the seat. A moment later, the vehicle trundled away.

  Exchanging a resigned glance with her twin, Blaike stifled a sigh and forced her lips to bend upward into a grateful smile.

  “Thank you for your kindness. We’re going just there.”

  She indicated the Harbor Master’s Office.

  “Quaco. Demir.” The stranger picked up the food sack, then sliced his other hand at two of his gargantuan men, indicating they should lift the trunk.

  The African and Easterner did so with pathetic ease.

  “Eades, carry the ladies valises.”

  Definitely a man accustomed to giving orders and having them promptly obeyed.

  “Aye, Captain,” Eades said in a thick accent Blaike didn’t recognize. He extended his dirty, chipped-nail hand for Blaike’s portmanteau, his lecherous gaze drop
ping to her bosoms.

  Blaike reluctantly passed him her bag, as did Blaire with even less enthusiasm.

  She hugged her hatboxes close to her chest, however. “I’ll carry these.”

  Clutching their food bag in a fist, the stranger extended his elbows. He clearly expected Blaike and Blaire to take either arm.

  “Sir, while we do appreciate you and your crew’s gallantry, it would, nonetheless, be most unseemly to take your arm when we’ve not been properly introduced.” Blaike slid Blaire a sideways glance.

  Something akin to distress flashed in her twin’s sapphire eyes.

  So, she feels it, too.

  Unease flooded Blaike at being obligated to him.

  Annoyance cast a fleeting shadow over his face, hardening his craggy features for an instant. Just as swiftly, his peevishness disappeared, and he produced another amiable smile, the warmth not quite reflecting in his glacial pale blue gaze.

  Then, at their continued hesitation, he nodded, approval pleating the corners of his eyes. “Most wise to be cautious, especially when you’re traveling alone. I am Landon Abraham, captain of the Black Dove, and citizen of London when I’m not at sea.”

  Was it her imagination, or did he have the very slightest of accents? Was he truly British, then?

  For certain, Blaike didn’t want him to know no chaperone would accompany them, but neither could she lie outright. At the moment, she wasn’t sure her inability to tell a taradiddle without giving herself away was a strength or a curse.

  What to do?

  Perhaps a fellow female passenger—a married woman—might be persuaded to assume the role if promised payment once they reached London. Yes, indeed that might suffice quite well. It wouldn’t exactly be a lie to say they’d meet their companion on the ship. Surely others had booked passage as well. If naught else, they’d be traveling companions for the voyage’s duration.

  “Our companion and her husband are to meet us aboard the vessel.” That clever husband bit just popped into her mind.

  Blaike slid Blaire a telling look.

  Comprehension dawned, and her twin’s eyes rounded.

  “Indeed, they will. Our guardian always insists on the most respectable of chaperones.” She nodded a trifle too enthusiastically while shifting her hatboxes.

  An immense emerald-cut ruby ring glinting on his forefinger, Captain Abraham scratched his jaw. “Excellent. All manner of motley scoundrels roam Port de Lyon’s wharf. You can never be too cautious, Miss . . .?”

  Again, a hint as broad as an old dairy cow’s behind.

  If Blaike refused an introduction, she’d seem surly and ungrateful. Perhaps, however, revealing her peerage connections would detour any unwanted attention or misplaced notions he might have.

  “I am Blaike Culpepper, and this is my sister, Blaire. Our cousin, Brooke, is married to Heath, Earl of Ravensdale. He is also our guardian. Our sister Blythe is wed to Tristan, Marquis of Leventhorpe, and we’ve another cousin, Brette, who is Alexander, Earl of Wycombe’s wife.”

  Dash it all. That sounded more like an uppity boast than a deterrent.

  An unabashed grin tipped the captain’s lips. “You’ve quite a number of unusual names, and all beginning with Bs. Does it ever get confusing?”

  “Yes. Often.” A common occurrence, and something the Culpeppers had to explain time and again. “Unfortunately, our mothers continued a family tradition wherein the female offspring all receive names beginning with Bs.”

  Blaire piped up. “But Mama and Aunt Bess took it a step further and exercised what little power women of their generation had by selecting gender-neutral names. Surnames actually. If we’d been males, our given names would’ve been the same. It’s been a bit easier now since there are only two remaining Miss Culpeppers, Blaike and me.”

  None of this was any of his business.

  “Perhaps you’re acquainted with one or more of the lords?” A less than subtle reminder about who he was dealing with.

  Something more sinister than amusement or inquisitiveness lurked in his gaze as he answered Blaike’s question. “Alas, I have never had the privilege of meeting their lordships. Though I do occasionally call upon my . . . um, grandmother . . .” His intense gaze shifted to the right the merest bit, and he made a nonchalant gesture. “The Dowager Duchess of . . . ah, Brantham when I’m in England.”

  The Duchess of where?

  Sounded like a breed of cattle or type of chicken. Plus, he seemed rather hard put to recall his own grandmother’s name.

  “I would consider it the highest honor to assist two damsels far from our homeland.” Captain Abraham delivered another engaging smile while surveying the dock once more.

  Whatever was he looking for?

  Apparently satisfied, he drew his attention back to Blaike and Blaire. “Please, forgive my boldness, but I’ve never seen lovelier twins. You resemble angels or goddesses with your splendid hair.”

  Much, much too forward.

  Besides, given the five Culpeppers all possessed the same fairy-like shade of hair, they’d heard that pretty praise far too often for it to turn their heads.

  His compliment received thin smiles. Nothing more.

  Time to thank Captain Abraham and send the tenacious fellow on his way. Something about him set Blaike’s teeth on edge. Her nerves, as well. She, too, glanced around, searching for what, she didn’t quite know.

  Something out of the ordinary.

  Or someone to rush to their aid.

  No knight was going to come galloping along on his steed and rescue them. No chaperone with a heavy purse, a basket of flakey French pastries, and tickets for their passage would bustle across the wharf, hailing them. No dashing buccaneer—like the fascinating Captain Whitehouse—would sprint across the dockyard, order the captain to leave off, then escort the twins safely to their ship.

  After delivering the luggage to the harbor master’s doorway, Captain Abraham’s men lounged against the porch posts or railing, awaiting their leader’s instructions. They also repeatedly scanned the surrounding area, their postures alert, almost menacing.

  It struck Blaike then.

  Miscreants all, the seedy lot.

  Captain Abraham held the office door open, and jutting his square chin toward the weathered gray benches arranged before the dirty, low windows, wordlessly directed his men to wait there.

  To a man they nodded, yet sly grins quirked their mouths as they brazenly trailed their lewd gazes over the twins.

  Blaike’s nape hairs sprang upward in renewed alarm.

  Reluctance hardly described the sensation bombarding her. She didn’t want this man interfering in their business. Looping her arm through Blaire’s, she summoned her most beguiling smile.

  “You needn’t waste any more of your valuable time on us, Captain Abraham. I’m sure you’ve much to attend to.”

  She extended her hand for the sack containing their food, and he somewhat reluctantly relinquished it. They might have dire need of the pouch’s contents.

  “We are most grateful for your assistance.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Blaire scarcely bestowed a glance in his direction.

  With a dismissive nod, Blaike practically lugged Blaire into the dim office, refusing to look over her shoulder to see if Captain Abraham still stood in the entrance. From the flesh rippling up and down her spine—and across her bum, too—she’d bet on it.

  “I feel like spiders are skittering over my behind,” Blaire whispered. “He gives me the—”

  “Shivers. Me too,” Blaike acknowledged as her eyes adjusted to the darker interior. Why hadn’t a lamp or a taper been lit, for pity’s sake? “Let’s hope the harbor master speaks English.”

  A wiry little fellow with the most elaborately curled and waxed mustache she’d ever seen, opened his eyes and yawned as he unhurriedly angled his booted feet to the floor.

  Well, that explained the shadowy office. He’d been napping. Quite deeply too from the befuddled gaze he turned up
on them.

  After cutting the doorway a swift glance, and tipping his head the slightest bit—at the captain?—he sauntered to the counter.

  Heavens.

  Up close, the hair topping his upper lip was even more . . . astonishing. Blaike could scarcely wrench her focus from his ghastly whiskers as she placed the food atop the scarred counter. A full six inches or more extended to either side of his thin-lipped mouth, transfixing her in a grotesque way. Like an oddity at Bullock’s Museum of Natural Curiosities that repulsed and mesmerized simultaneously.

  However did he manage to eat or drink with that . . . appendage?

  A sudden vision of a dainty china teacup hanging from each ornate curl, followed at once by another image of the thickly waxed strands swaying about like tentacles sprang to mind, and only by sheer force of will did she keep from laughing.

  She drew her focus away for a moment to collect herself lest her trembling lips expose her struggle. Lips sucked in and eyelids cast downward, Blaire fussed with her hatbox straps, evidently as overcome with humor as Blaike.

  The harbor master rested his forearms atop the scuffed wooden surface, his lips bent into a tolerant smile. Or perhaps insolent better described his curving mouth.

  “Comment puis-je vous aider mesdames?”

  “Yes, please. Oui, s'il vous plaît.” Blaire set her hatboxes on the countertop.

  That was about the extent of Blaike’s French as well.

  “Do you speak English? Anglais?” she asked.

  “J'ai bien peur que non.” Giving a rueful smile, he shook his head. His stiff mustache didn’t move a jot.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Blaike muttered, exhaustion, hunger, and worry rendering her short on patience and politesse. Shouldn’t a port captain be multi-lingual?

  She met Blaire’s fretful gaze.

  No help for it.

  They would have to impose upon Captain Abraham after all. Blaike half turned toward the door.

  “Captain, I fear we must inconvenience you once again.”

  A prudent woman heeds this truth: a gossamer fine thread separates