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

by Collette Cameron

  listening to gossip and listening to a secret. Make sure you know the difference.

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

  An I-told-you-so, just this side of gloating smile curved Captain Abraham’s mouth; he’d already strode halfway across the scratched floor in need of a good sweep.

  “What is it you need to inquire of Monsieur Meunier, Miss Culpepper?”

  “Please ask him what vessel the Culpeppers’ passage to London has been arranged on.” Blaike’s stomach took the opportunity to announce its dissatisfaction by rumbling loudly.

  Blaire sent her a compassionate glance.

  However, the captain didn’t flinch. Perhaps he hadn’t heard or he was playing the gentleman, for which she was grateful. He rattled off her question, and a swift discourse took place between him and the agent.

  Monsieur Meunier rifled through a couple of piles of papers on his desk, then the stacks behind the high counter. Every now and again, he posed another question to Captain Abraham before murmuring to himself, shaking his head, and inspecting more files.

  His attention frequently slid to Blaike and her sister.

  At last, he placed his palms atop the counter, and his expression apologetic, shrugged his thin shoulders. “Je ne trouve rien sur ton transport.”

  The captain removed his hat and scraped his fingers through his curly dark brown hair, the ruby in his ring, glowing blood red in the dim office. “Are you positive passage was reserved for you, ladies? Meunier cannot find any correspondence or payment confirmation.”

  Speechless for an instant, Blaike stood on her toes and scrutinized the disorderly mounds on the other side of the counter. “He must be mistaken. Our sister wrote and assured us everything had been arranged.”

  Sympathy softening the angles of his face, Captain Abraham shook his head. “He’s not. If Meunier says there’s no passage booked for you, then there’s not.”

  “Blaike, what are we to do? How are we to get home?”

  Blaire didn’t normally panic, but she knew full well what their circumstances were. It would take weeks for the mail ship to deliver another letter and then bring them a response.

  What were they to do in the meanwhile? Where would they live? How would they eat?

  Captain Abraham smiled kindly, almost in a fatherly way. Yet, within the depths of his artic eyes, Blaike glimpsed a trace of cunning. Not a man to trust despite his helpful overtures.

  “No need to fret, Miss Culpepper. Providence has smiled upon you.” He winked and returned his hat to his head. “As it happens, I have room for two passengers on my vessel. You’ll have to share a stateroom, of course.”

  Either they stay stranded in Port de Lyon for weeks without sufficient funds or board the Black Dove and risk whatever might befall them under the captain’s watch.

  The choice was akin to asking Blaike to choose between death by fire or by water. Clearly Blaire didn’t favor the captain’s offer either. True aversion glinted in her troubled gaze.

  As frightening as trying to find accommodations and the means to support themselves was, the other consideration cramped Blaike’s lungs and dampened her palms in dread. There was something to be said about women’s intuition, and hers fairly screamed, Refuse his offer.

  He pivoted to glance out the dusty window, his shrewd-eyed gaze darting here and there.

  Certainly a suspicious sort, wasn’t he?

  Honest men weren’t this paranoid or edgy. More confirmation they should depart his company at once despite their grim situation.

  Blaire gave the briefest negative shake of her head before he turned around again.

  An elbow resting upon the countertop, the captain raised a calloused finger toward Blaike and her sister as he said something to Monsieur Meunier in what sounded like Spanish. For certain it wasn’t French.

  The harbor master fingered his gaudy mustache, his gaze swinging between Blaike and Blaire before he at last gave a slow nod. “Oui.”

  Didn’t they know it was rude to discuss people in another language? And why Spanish and not French? All the more reason to bid the captain adieu.

  “That’s most generous of you, Captain. However, the plain truth is, we haven’t funds to purchase tickets. They were to have been prepaid for us.”

  Monsieur Meunier wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she narrowed hers.

  Was the scoundrel lying? But why?

  And about what, exactly?

  It did no good to insist on examining his documents either, since she read French even less skillfully than she spoke the language. That shortcoming had irritated Madame Beaulieu no end.

  How she’d railed at the twins, calling them bête comme les pieds.

  Stupid as one’s feet.

  Why, because they didn’t speak another language and hadn’t become fluent in French while in Geneva? There’d been no need to read and speak French at Esherton Green, the dairy farm that had been their home until a few months ago before their cousin, Brooke married Lord Ravensdale.

  Captain Abraham lifted a thick shoulder, then bold as brass, chucked Blaike’s chin.

  She inhaled abruptly and retreated a step.

  Monsieur Meunier gave a high-pitched feminine giggle, and she lashed him a chiding glance.

  “You are related to three lords, ladies. Naturally, I shall suspend payment until we arrive in London.” Captain Abraham extended an arm toward the doorway. “Come, you’re tired and given your stomach’s growling, hungry, too. Permit me to escort you to my ship. I can even arrange hot baths for you.”

  The notion of being naked within a mile of him sucked every drop of moisture from Blaike’s mouth.

  Blaire’s also, it seemed, for she swallowed audibly, and pale as alabaster, retrieved her boxes.

  Too blasted bad they’d never learned to shoot a gun, for the small unloaded pistol purchased as a gift for Blythe and tucked into one of the hatboxes might’ve been of some actual use about now. For certain Blaike would demand lessons once back in England.

  Blaire’s teasing about fencing and boxing lessons rather appealed too. Women should be permitted ways to defend themselves every bit as much as men.

  The thumping of heavy feet announced new arrivals. Blaike grasped the sack of food and cast a disinterested glance toward the entrance. What she saw plummeted her heart to the scruffy floor boards.

  Captain Abraham’s men had entered, and the expressions on their faces confirmed her burgeoning fears.

  His good-natured mien evaporated, sharpening the lean planes of his face as he edged closer, and an ominous shroud of trepidation descended upon her.

  “Captain, don’t force me to become rude. We’ve declined your offer.” She grasped Blaire’s elbow. “Now step aside. We’re not boarding your ship.”

  All pretense of civility gone, he seized Blaike’s upper arm in a crushing grip.

  “Alas, I must insist otherwise.”

  Incensed over the news Oliver had just received, he and his wiry second-in-command, Jack Hawkins, strode across the wharf, anger resounding in every click of Oliver’s boot heels upon the dock’s coarse wood. He needed a dram or two, mayhap an entire bottle of brandy to take the edge off his fury.

  This afternoon, two brokers in Lyon had reneged on shipping their cargo with him.

  Spineless poltroons.

  Oliver hadn’t been pleased when the twitchy silk merchant dressed like a damned canary stammered his feeble excuse, all the while mopping his chubby face with his handkerchief and darting fearful glances right and left. But when the winemaker babbled the same contrived reason for breaking their contract after years of satisfactory business association—his blood had boiled.

  Someone was set on systematically sabotaging and defaming him. Someone who also kept telling merchants Oliver’s name was Oliviero de Casabianca.

  True, de Casabianca meant Whitehouse, and Nonno had changed their surname to the English equivalent when he and Mamma had immigrated to England, over
forty years ago now. Oliver assumed his grandfather had done so because he’d wanted to blend into the new country he called home. Nevertheless, Oliver’s given name had never been Oliviero, so someone was deliberately spreading that lie.

  Someone who’d taken the time to learn of his Italian heritage.

  Every sign pointed straight to Landon Abraham, the cockscum.

  If Oliver owned a pirate’s treasure, he’d bet every last gold coin and glittering gemstone that the Black Dove’s captain had been besmirching his reputation and integrity once again. Third port just this past year, and the feeble tale was always the same. This targeting wasn’t new. Far from it. Abraham had beleaguered him for years; their mutual hatred had led to an ongoing feud.

  Too bad he hadn’t succeeded in ending the sod’s life those many years ago. God knows, he’d tried. But a small-for-his-age skinny lad had been no match for the strapping sailor who’d set fire to Nonno’s shipping office, also burning their living quarters above. At the time, Oliver hadn’t known Abraham’s name, and so the cur evaded punishment for murdering Nonno.

  At thirteen Oliver had found himself a homeless orphan.

  Well, not exactly.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, he clamped his teeth so hard.

  He had a father. George Theodore Talbot, sixth Viscount Willoughby. Willoughby owned several houses, carriages, dozens of horses, and had three legitimate offspring.

  Not willing to venture down that unpleasant, too-often-trod path again, Oliver turned his thoughts to the tale he’d heard more than once since arriving in port last week.

  Away on business, Monsieur Seaulieu, a wealthy textile manufacturer, had found his home torched when he returned. It seemed his daughters had rebuffed a ship captain’s advances at the theater. The culprit’s description matched Abraham, right down to the ruby ring on his forefinger and the scar on his face.

  God how Oliver despised the cur, yet he maintained his outward composure. Inside, bitterness and contempt roiled on. He didn’t need to hear another lecture on forgiveness from Hawkins at the moment, for he didn’t trust himself not to tell his mate what dark abyss he could cram his well-meaning sermon into.

  Hawkins didn’t deserve that disrespect.

  Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Oliver ordered the chaos hammering his ribs to cease.

  It ignored him, as it had for years.

  How he envied Hawkins’s serene disposition. Oliver would never understand why the gentle soul hadn’t gone into the ministry rather than taking to the sea.

  He’d asked, umpteen times actually, and Hawkins always smiled and said, “God’s plans are better than man’s.”

  Whatever the blazes that meant.

  Indignation roughened Hawkins’s usually gentle voice as he trotted beside Oliver. “The vendors’ insinuations are ludicrous, my boy.”

  He snorted, then spat into the dirt.

  Was he actually peeved?

  “Accusing you of sympathizing with Napoleon during the war. Because you’re half Italian. Pure . . . pure twaddle, I say.” Hawkins sounded like a prim and proper dowager or a poised spinster.

  “Twaddle? Not codswallop? Balderdash? Fustian rubbish?” Despite the severity of the moment, Oliver suppressed a grin.

  No matter how angry or outraged he became, his first mate did not curse. Unlike M’Lady Lottie, the vulgar-mouthed parrot Oliver had inherited last month. What that obnoxious winged termagant squawked made even his ears burn on occasion.

  Hawkins’s most outrageous expletive—one Oliver had only heard uttered twice in the many years they’d been acquainted—was bleeding son of a barnacle’s bum.

  Other than giving him a gimlet eye, his first mate didn’t respond to the jesting. “Not only have the wars been over for years now, you were scarcely out of short pants in 1815.” The older man chuckled as he hurried to keep up with Oliver’s pace. “I remember well the angry, scrawny whelp who signed on as a cabin boy those many years ago.”

  Oliver cracked a grin then.

  “And I remember well the Bible-quoting sea tar who kept lecturing me on forgiveness and controlling my temper. Oh, and honoring my father, though why you think I should is beyond me.” His grin faded into a scowl. “But it still means the cargo hold won’t be full, and we both know I need every contract filled to pay the crew and to make payment on the Sea Gypsy.”

  He’d already delayed payment twice. If forced to do so again, he might find himself without a ship to captain.

  Then what in hellfire would he do?

  “Aye, I know. But the good Lord has a reason for everything.” Hawkins fell silent, a sure indication that he was petitioning the almighty on Oliver’s behalf.

  Right now, he’d take help from any source that offered it. Even the Almighty’s, though Oliver wasn’t a believer in that sort of thing. He’d seen too much and experienced too much to believe in a loving God.

  The devil?

  Hell, yes.

  In the form of Landon Abraham.

  While Oliver had captained the Sea Gypsy for four years, he’d contracted to purchase her last year when her owner died and his nephew, Neville Longhurst, had inherited. Truth to tell, for once, fortune had been with Oliver.

  “Oliver, do you think Abraham’s behind Seaulieu’s house and warehouse burning?”

  “Aye. I’d wager the Sea Gypsy on it. And I pray someone saw him this time, and he finally gets his due. Two servants died in the blaze.”

  Shops. Houses. Granaries. Ships.

  Too many properties mysteriously went up in flames, always when Abraham was known to have been in the vicinity. Yet the bastare escaped justice again and again.

  Probably after offering someone a sizable bribe to provide him with an alibi. How a person could be utterly corrupt to their marrow, Oliver didn’t know. If Abraham ever had any redeeming qualities, he’d long since abandoned them.

  Oliver wouldn’t be the least surprised to learn the murmurings that Abraham had begun dabbling in smuggling and piracy were true. Smuggling, Oliver well-understood, and even he’d been tempted to accept offers to transport contraband. In the end he’d refused, not willing to risk confiscation of his ship, should he be apprehended.

  A hand pressed to his temple, Oliver considered his current options. If he sailed to Bari instead of London, might he obtain additional cargo?

  Perhaps, but he had no guarantee he’d be successful, and his clients waiting in England wouldn’t be pleased at the delay. He couldn’t afford to lose their patronage, too.

  He’d rather swab the decks with his bare arse than ask his sire to speak on his behalf to his cronies. Oliver was dogged in his determination to make something of himself without accepting a pence or any form of help from Willoughby, even if the man had offered numerous times.

  Offered too late to save Mamma or Nonno.

  Deep in thought, Oliver marched along, glancing up after a few moments to note his whereabouts.

  “Ballocks.”

  He’d been so absorbed in his ruminations, he’d strode past the tavern. As he turned on his heel, something compelled him to slice a fleeting glance toward Meunier’s office.

  Meunier, the greasy weasel. Another miscreant deserving of retribution.

  Wordlessly, Hawkins pivoted too, his lips still moving in silent entreaty to his Lord.

  The port master likely knew something of this latest treachery. Swimming from Barbados to London with one’s feet tied proved easier than getting that corrupt sod to confess to any underhanded dealings, however. Everyone knew he was easily bribed and often looked the other way at nefarious dealings occurring at Port de Lyon.

  A wonder he still held his position.

  Catching a glimpse of moonlit-spun hair, Oliver stumbled to an abrupt halt.

  A woman of honorable character knows

  full well there are people who gather secrets, swearing

  to confidentiality, while all the while, they contemplate who they’ll

  tell first. Such are to be av
oided lest they contaminate you with their duplicity.

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

  It couldn’t be.

  It bloody-well shouldn’t be.

  The Culpeppers in Lyon?

  Oliver squinted, peering into the dingy window’s small panes. Another equally blonde head bobbed into view for an instant.

  He planted his hands on his hips, his mouth flattened into a grim line.

  “Blast, damn, and devil a bit. What the hell are they doing here?”

  “Who?” Hawkins gazed about confused, then cocked a grisly brow. Pulling his cap from his head, he scratched his bald pate. “You mean Abraham’s vermin yonder? It’s not the first time we’ve encountered that plague in port. Best to avoid them, I say. The Good Book tells us not to keep company with fools.”

  “No.” Oliver made a disgusted sound in his throat and shook his head. “That’s disturbing enough, but I fear—and I hope to your God I’m wrong—I’ve just spied Blaike and Blaire Culpepper in Meunier’s office.”

  Hawkins replaced his cap while slowly rotating to face the building square on. “Burn me. That doesn’t bode well. For the misses Culpepper, I mean. Think Abraham’s in there with ’em?”

  “I would stake my life on it. Find at least a dozen of our crew as rapidly as possible and meet me there.” Hand resting on his sword hilt, Oliver canted his head in the building’s direction. “Webb, Melville, and Grover just went into the Le Savire et le Cygnet.”

  Hawkins gave a short, jerky nod. “Likely more are inside the ale house, too.”

  Oliver had meant to join his men in the tavern and drown his ire as he attempted to assess this latest obstacle before they weighed anchor tomorrow. “Send crewmen to ready the Sea Gypsy for defense and others to round the men up. We cannot weigh anchor until the tide turns, so we’d best be ready to protect her once the Culpeppers are on board. And Hawkins, say a prayer while you’re at it. I have a feeling we’re going to need reinforcements.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Straightaway.” Hitching his trousers at the waist with one hand, and grasping the crude pewter cross dangling from his neck with the other, the elf of a man set off at a brisk pace.