So much for adventure.
Still, she could not find her voice.
He didn’t look any livelier, either, really.
“Of course,” she said finally after a moment. Her own voice surprised her. It was faint but steady. She heard it as if it were coming from underwater, appropriately enough. “Of course it must. We shall…keep our distance.”
She looked up at him for confirmation.
He nodded, bleakly, agreeing to the wisdom of that plan. “Distance,” he repeated.
And so the pot and the kettle parted ways, Violet to the vole hole. And something dully occurred to her as she marched for her quarters:
Lyon had likely been sailing in the very same storm.
But she hadn’t thought about his safety until now.
Chapter 21
In the days that followed, they kept their distance. And the weather improved, but only in comparison to the violent storm. It could be said that the weather sulked. The sky remained a ghastly, heavy iron gray, matted with rain-bloated clouds. The sea was a restless matching sludge.
As usual, miraculously, it matched Violet’s mood to the point of mockery. The only way to avoid sinking into emotional sludge was to look ahead: to finding Lyon. To uncovering truth in La Rochelle.
At least there was a wind.
It carried them swiftly and truly toward La Rochelle.
They sailed through the Pertuis d’Antioche on a day when sun was determinedly burning through the cover of clouds, and dropped anchor in the harbor. As usual she and the earl and Lavay were lowered into the launches and rowed to shore.
Past, unsurprisingly, The Olivia. Sleek, swift, beautiful, tethered. Mocking them with their ignorance and her enigma.
Once the launch reached shore, Lavay and two of the crew were dispatched to discover which ships were currently in port and what cargo they carried, and to haggle for some additional supplies.
A hack took the earl and Violet through La Rochelle’s ancient cobblestoned streets, trod by Huguenots and Knights Templar, to the profoundly English offices of Hayman, Hayman and Littlemont in the Rue d’Eglise.
The hack ride was short, the conversation between the earl and Violet absurdly polite, stilted, innocuous.
A harried, bespectacled, and skeletal Englishman dressed only slightly more impressively than a clerk—blue coat, brass buttons—introduced himself as Mr. Littlemont and ushered them into a parlor decorated in sturdy old English furniture. He rang for tea. It arrived in a delicate blossom-painted English teapot pot born by a maid.
Violet stared, disoriented, at the pink blossoms and porcelain. It seemed an artifact from a distant world, her world. She’d only been away just shy of a fortnight allegedly attending a house party hosted by Lord and Lady Peregrine.
Nothing had ever been less like a house party than her time with the earl.
She lumped in four sugars, just because they were there and because she could.
They all sipped genteelly. Very English.
But Violet realized that the earl hadn’t introduced himself with his new title. Strategically, no doubt. He’d simply introduced himself as Captain Flint. Likely thinking that Mr. Littlemont would speak more freely to a sea captain than to someone acquainted with the English king.
“You’re a trader, I understand. Are you perhaps a potential investor then, too, Captain Flint?” Littlemont was hopeful. “If this is true, you must desire an element of risk then, and I will be quite honest and say our fund was doing quite well up until a year ago. Since then we’ve been besieged by the most atrocious luck. Pirates have rather decimated our resources. Captains will no longer work for us. Perhaps your show of courage will inspire others to come forth.”
The earl cleared his throat “Yes, but Mr. Musgrove in Brest and Monsieur Fontaine in Le Havre suggested that I speak with you about possible employment and investment opportunities, and I trust their word implicitly.”
“…as did Captain Moreheart.” Violet said innocently, quite conversationally. “Didn’t he, Captain Flint?”
The sudden rigidity of his spine, the twitch of the earl’s fingers on his teacup: oh, she’d made him angry. The cup looked absurdly delicate in his hand. He could crush it with a squeeze.
She’d had to say it. She refused to dance around the possibility that his precious Captain Moreheart was among a group of investors they were beginning to suspect of despicable deeds. Of trafficking in human cargo. And she needed, for her own sake as well as Lyon’s, to believe her brother had a purpose to piracy beyond greed and destruction.
Littlemont, oblivious of the subtler byplay, beamed. “Of course. And Captain Moreheart, too. Moreheart was a good man.”
The blood slowly left the earl’s face.
He glanced down at his knees, held himself utterly still. Absorbing the blow.
Oh God. I’m so sorry, Flint.
But she’d been right.
And hope she had no right to entertain, hope that had very little to do with Lyon, and everything to do with the earl, began to stir.
The earl looked up at an oblivious Littlemont again, recovering with a speed Violet admired almost painfully. He was accustomed to blows.
“I was also warned of the risks of investing,” the earl continued smoothly, “but I’m persuaded of the potential for the profits seem immense. And there’s very little I wouldn’t do for immense profits.”
The two men laughed chummily together. Violet shot him a sidelong look of amazement. He’s a better actor than I am. But then, he’d acted the part of gentleman for years, while never really feeling like one.
Violet raised her cup for another bracing sip.
“And of course, I’m no stranger to risk,” the earl continued with an air of pleased-with-himself arrogance. “Still, quite a number of your ships have gone down. I believe he said they were The Caridad, The Steadfast…” He held out his hand, ticking them on his fingers, and paused.
It was a test. A prime for Mr. Littlemont’s informational pump.
Violet’s cup froze midair. She held her breath.
“The Maria Louisa, The Temperance, and The Oceanus,” Mr. Littlemont confirmed glumly. “Those are the ships. All ours. We shall be bankrupt soon, I fear. And it began as such a profitable endeavor. We’ve only two ships left at his point. The Prosperar sets sail for Cádiz this week, and The Grey Gull will head for Calais.”
“Which was why Captain Moreheart, rest his soul, thought I might be a likely captain,” the earl said somberly. “If anyone can protect a ship from pirates and discourage them from future attempts, it’s me and my crew.”
“Did you hope of captaining one of the coastal trade ships or one of the large cargo ships, sir? The large cargo ships seem the sort of challenge you’d be equal to, and the pay is considerably higher. As is the share of profits, from what I understand.”
Violet saw the earl hesitate. “Well, you pose an interesting question, Mr. Littlemont. I’m not certain. It may depend on the nature of the journey. The large cargo were headed for…”
Violet’s heart accelerated. She didn’t dare look at Littlemont. She examined the little flowers on the teapot.
“Well, the large cargo ships return from America, sir, but I’m uncertain about every stop on their routes. I believe the West Indies is part of the route. The purpose of the coastal route cargos are to purchase cargo for the larger ships, but I’m not privy to the nature of the cargo either, sir. The moneys from the sale of it are funneled through Mr. Musgrove and then to our firm, where we simply disburse and invest as advised. You’ll need to speak to Mr. Musgrove regarding this. But we’ve only the one ship now, and it’s at sea. It’s as though Le Chat has methodically cut off all of our limbs.”
Violet drew in a deep audible breath and settled her teacup gently, gently down on its saucer, overcome with a surge of emotion.
Lyon was trying to stop the slavers.
He was doing it for Olivia.
She’d been right! It wasn’t j
ust robbing and sinking!
It was unbearable not to at least elbow the earl at that moment.
Littlemont was still speaking. “So an influx of capital would be very welcome. You might wish to honor Captain Moreheart’s memory by following in his footsteps. For I know it’s what Captain Moreheart did—he captained ships and invested his own money at the same time, and he prospered until recently—so it’s not without precedent.”
Mr. Littlemont looked almost touchingly eager. He folded his thin long hands on his knees, almost in an attitude of prayer.
“Perhaps I ought to speak again with Mr. Musgrove and other members of your group before I commit funds,” the earl suggested.
“Please do let us know as soon as possible, sir.”
“Lyon is targeting those particular ships because they’re using the money to purchase slave ships?” Violet was stunned. “The Drejeck Group is running slaves.”
If she expected the earl to rejoice, she was wrong.
“It would very much appear that the Drejeck Group is running slaves,” he said calmly. His face was thunderous and abstracted. He tapped his hat rhythmically against his hand as the hack took them back to his ship.
“He’s doing it for Olivia Eversea, Flint. To prove himself to her! He must be. It’s her cause, after all. Good heavens, it’s—it’s—”
“Don’t you dare say romantic,” the earl snarled.
It was precisely what she’d been about to say.
She blinked. And fell abruptly silent. Belatedly she realized her joy and triumph and giddy sense of revelation was thoughtless: the earl had been dealt a blow.
He’d need time to become accustomed to his hero being a scoundrel.
But please care, she begged him silently. Surely you can forgive Lyon this.
Hope was a thing with teeth for her then. Barbed, breathless. She’d spent two days ruthlessly tamping it down. Accepting things as they were. And here it was again.
“Violet, don’t forget that Le Chat is rumored to have robbed and sunk other ships, too. Not just ships financed by the Drejeck Group. Recall the conversation in Le Havre at the Viscomte Hebert’s dinner table.”
She wanted to shake him. She wanted him to seize upon this hope the way she was seizing upon it.
“But why would he track these particular ships—slave ships, from the sound of it—all the way to their ports? He said—he said—only five. Two more. He has two more to sink, and The Drejeck Group has only two more ships. Surely you can see—”
“Stop it.” He said it low, vehement. “Stop it now.”
She was shocked.
He closed his eyes slowly against some wave of emotion, and then opened them again.
“Violet. I don’t care why he’s doing it. Whatever justice you or I may think Le Chat is meting out is a matter for the British Navy. Not the misguided quest of one man.”
“That one man is my brother.” Care, Flint. Please care. For me.
He groaned a laugh. “I am reminded incessantly of that.”
“But Flint…he’s doing it for her. And he’s deterring other slavers.”
“It’s still wrong.”
He was implacable.
Hope vaporized. Leaving her hollow.
“Of course.” The words so bitter they tasted acrid on her tongue. “I forgot that what matters is the bounty. And your plans. Lyon, my brother, the person I love, ought to hang. How would you know what it’s like, Flint, when you’ve never had a family? Even if your venerable Captain Moreheart was involved in all the nefariousness and deserved his fate.”
The earl’s head turned toward her very, very slowly. The force of his blackly furious amazement nearly pinned her back against her seat, and for an instant she knew real fear.
He visibly collected himself.
“I will forgive you for that.” It sounded like a warning.
She was silent. She knew she’d gone too far. She’d wanted to hurt him. She’d succeeded.
She gave a curt nod, an apology.
“Violet…” He gave a short, incredulous laugh. And shook his head a little. He was astounded he couldn’t make her see sense. “If Captain Moreheart was involved in running slaves, it’s nothing less than despicable. The notion sickens me. And I don’t know why he did it. It is indeed out of character for the man I knew but the need for money makes men do mad and desperate things—chase pirates up the coast of Europe, for instance—and that may have been the reason. I may never know. But in the same way it never mattered to you whether Lyon was indeed a criminal or on some noble quest, it simply doesn’t matter to me why Moreheart did it. It should. But you preferred to believe Lyon was on a noble quest. And you can call it now what you will. But you still would have tried to save him from me, and the gallows, had he been a criminal. Tell me you disagree.”
She didn’t. So she was quiet.
“If Moreheart perished in the launch after Le Chat sank The Steadfast, he was murdered as surely as if Le Chat ran him through with a sword. I have been charged with a duty that will reward me and avenge him. We both deserve that. Damn it, Captain Moreheart mattered to me.”
He filled his chest with air, and exhaled, bringing his hand up to shade his eyes. To steady his temper.
Then brought his hand down. His face was pale with fatigue and whatever other emotions he battled. He quieted his voice with obvious effort.
“And I am sorry. I am truly sorry if you ever thought this would be otherwise. The circumstances are what they are, Violet. I thought I made that clear to you. Forgive me if anything I did led you to believe otherwise. But I honestly don’t believe I did.”
She stared blankly, numbly at him.
Moreheart mattered to you.
And Olivia matters to Lyon.
The way I wish I mattered to you.
She understood now that, jasmine blossoms notwithstanding, she simply never would matter enough to him. After all, he’d had no real experience of love.
Just loyalty. Just steadfastness.
He saw her face. He sighed and sank back against the seat of the hack. And gave a short bitter laugh.
“Oh, I’ve survived worse than hatred, Violet. And I’ll survive yours. I’ve known for some time that yours would be the cost of my success, and believe me, I took no pleasure in that. I truly thought you understood. And this is the only thing I regret: that you ever thought otherwise. So hate me if you must. Nothing changes.”
He waited for her to speak.
But there was nothing else to say.
Chapter 22
The dark, relentless, infamous Bay of Biscay fog had set in the moment he’d irrevocably killed whatever regard Violet Redmond held for him. Flint felt mocked. It rather mimicked his internal state.
It had been inevitable. He would endure.
He was less certain that she would. He’d seen more promising expressions on men who’d just been shot. But he’d never lied to her about anything.
But almost as a punishment, as a way to mock him for being the rudderless man he’d been before he met Violet, for two days out of La Rochelle they’d sailed in this fog. Flint was far too seasoned to find it romantic or mysterious. It was nature’s way of colluding with attackers and hiders and smugglers, when it wasn’t causing shipwrecks. And though he could navigate this part of the coast easily enough—it had been thoroughly explored by sailors before him, every undersea rock formation upon which a schooner could founder painstakingly mapped—Flint always listened harder in the fog. Sound was deceptive; it bounced about in the mist, deceiving listeners.
And because he was listening harder, faintly, starboard, he heard a series of sounds in quick succession:
A grunt. A thump. Another thump.
“To the guns!” he screamed.
Because he knew even before he saw men spidering up the side of the ship. Knives held in teeth, pistols in waistbands, swords swinging at hips. He knew those sounds as he knew his own breathing: the grunt was likely Greeber taking a gunstock to the
forehead if not a knife to the gullet, the thump was his body falling hard, and the third was the pirate landing with both feet on the deck of The Fortuna.
Where was Violet?
He hoped to God she was below.
It was the last thought he had before his men swarmed the deck from everywhere on the ship, and the sound of pistols unlocking, swords unsheathing, feet slamming wood planks as they ran for positions of attack and defense. Flint leaped from the foredeck and shoved a boot into the chest of a pirate who had a leg over the side of The Fortuna; his body sent up a spray of water when the sea swallowed him.
His men, bless their sweet black hearts, were nasty, vicious, accomplished fighters and were hacking at any hands that dared cling to the sides of the ship as though they were vines in the jungle, hacking at the ropes they’d used to scale The Fortuna. Screams and oaths, splashes as bodies hit the water followed. The ring of steel against steel, and the brute thud of bodies striking other bodies in combat.
“Guns, Corcoran!” he screamed. “Man them!”
“Aye, sir!” Corcoran swiftly took up his position there.
For where there were pirates there was a ship, and once they fought back these men, it was only a matter of time before the pirates fired on The Fortuna.
Violet and Hercules, below in the heat of the galley, were arguing over how he should prepare the meat for dinner when what sounded like a herd of cattle thundered over their heads.
Violet went still, puzzled, tipping her head back.
But Hercules’s face blanked. His cleaver hovered midair.
And when slowly, slowly his lips curled into a snarl, she understood what hackles were, because hers certainly rose.
“What is it?” she asked faintly.
And then they heard screams, muffled through the layers of the ship.
He dropped the cleaver with a clatter, and dove beneath the table, emerging with something she’d never seen before: a scimitar, longer than his arm, with an edge sharpened for death. The blade flirted arrogantly with the dim lantern light. Winking.
The knife slipped from her hand. Her palms were clammy with terror.
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