He shifted uneasily. “A lady like yourself doesn’t offer propositions to old sea captains, my lady.”
She wouldn’t allow the burning sensation that rose from her neck to heat her cheeks to deter her from her purpose. “If you accept my business, I will make it worth your while, sir. I need transportation to Canton.”
He didn’t hide his shock; she rushed on. “My brother serves with The East India Company there and can lend me consequence,” she said without any hint that she found the idea absurd. As if Thorn could lend anyone consequence, the lack wit. “Perhaps you know him? Lord Glenaire? Or he may use his family name, John Thornton Hayden. I, I ah—need to see him.”
Something troubled Oliver. His eyes had the strained expression of a man weighing his words. When he spoke, he didn’t remind her that the Chinese forbad Western women from entering Canton. “When did you hear from him last, Lady Zambak?”
“When he left,” she admitted. “That’s the problem. I need to see him.”
“December is upon us, my lady. The tea traders are concluding their business and beginning to drift back to Macao. Indeed, I concluded my own satisfactorily and early. Your brother may—”
“He may or may not be among them. There is something you aren’t telling me.”
“He may not be with the Company any longer,” Oliver admitted.
Her heart raced, outpacing even her thoughts. Resigned? Surely not dismissed. They wouldn’t dismiss the Duke of Sudbury’s heir, would they? She opened her mouth to probe for information but shut it quickly.
Charles stalked across the room. His scowl would have reduced a weaker woman to pudding. Zambak lifted her chin and sat up straighter, the baby in her lap and her heated cheeks hindering her efforts to mimic the haughty glare learned at the feet of those dragon ladies of the ton who knew how to dismiss encroachment.
Charles flicked a glance between Oliver and Zambak.
“Would you have time tomorrow for a private word, Oliver? I have much to discuss with you.” His eyes never left Zambak.
Much to discuss. The interfering sneak!
Chapter 10
The captain’s quarters of the Wild Swan, Oliver and Company’s flagship, reflected Dan Oliver himself: reliance on quality, honest workmanship, and no ostentation. Pleased that the captain’s evangelical beliefs didn’t extend to a ban on alcohol, Charles accepted a mug of rum, took a swig, and shuddered as it went down.
“Good sailor’s rum, Murnane, same as my men.”
“I admire your democracy in some ways, Oliver, but I might not extend it to beverages.” He made a mental note to have a crate of the whisky his uncle obtained from a small distillery in Scotland sent to the man when he got back to London.
Oliver grinned at Charles’s shudder of distaste. “You wanted a private word. It is yours to make,” he said.
“You were choosing your words carefully last night,” Charles said.
“Aaron and Temperance have good imaginations. They got my warning.”
“So you think it will come to war?”
“You tell me. Will your queen—or your prime minister—step in to stop it? Money talks here, and the money wants the Chinese to back off,” Oliver replied.
“And they won’t.”
Oliver nodded. “Not this time. They turned a blind eye for years, but the opium has infested their army, their regional government, and even—so rumors tell it—the Imperial court. This time they mean it, and it’s about damned time.” He shook his head. “Though it may be too late.”
“Will Macao get caught in the crossfire?”
Oliver puffed on his pipe. “Might. Hard to say. I don’t think they would attack the city outright—Portuguese get on with ‘em too well—but I can’t say for sure.”
Charles ran a hand through his hair. Half a dozen diplomatic officers have wives and families in Macao. God knows how many merchants do. Should Elliot be ordering them home? Will Zambak go if they order her to? Oliver waited patiently, puffing on his ever-present pipe while Charles thought it through.
“When do you think Elliot will return?” Charles asked.
“Any day. He might have more ideas about the situation, but he sent the navy packing. Doesn’t like the trade and isn’t inclined to support the war mongers and opium smugglers.” Oliver’s voice held an obvious note of approval.
“You like him?”
“Well enough. He won’t disobey orders though, no matter what his conscience tells him—and when he thinks it is time to act, well, he’s a navy man at heart. If British interests are attacked, no telling what he’ll do. Maitland left, but Elliot still has HMS Reliance under him. The captain reports to him, not Maitland.”
“So the question is, ‘what were his orders?’” Charles mused. Oliver had no answer to that. Charles could guess based on his knowledge of Palmerston, but he couldn’t be sure. They drank in companionable silence for a while.
“Is that what you came for—to ask about Elliot?” Oliver studied him with somber attention.
Charles stared at the polished sheen of the floorboards; tempted to keep his biggest question to himself, but need outran fear of embarrassment. With an indrawn breath, he forced out the question. “I understand a woman and her protector sailed with Maitland. Would you know anything about that?”
“Might,” Oliver replied warily.
“She presents herself as the Duchess of Murnane.”
“Is she?” The American peered at him intently under lowered brows.
Charles met his gaze. “Perhaps. Probably. She never reached Macao.”
“The German man with her—Baron something—fell overboard, dead drunk, one night off Lintin Island. Fell or was pushed. That’s the story I heard in Canton.”
“And the woman?”
Oliver watched Charles carefully, chewing the stem of his pipe, as if weighing what to say.
Charles didn’t flinch. “Sorry you have to tell me things you would rather not, but I am unlikely to be shocked. I need to know.”
Compassion softened the captain’s voice. “The person telling the story was well into his cups, mind you, but he said Maitland tired of her whining—and attempts to whore herself to his officers—and put her ashore.”
Charles closed his eyes and sighed. “It sounds like the right woman. What and where exactly is Lintin Island?”
Oliver rose, pulled out a drawer, and unfurled a map he drew from it. He jabbed one finger on a speck in Canton Bay. “Hunk of rock about thirty miles north east, at the head of the bay. They use it as a receiving station for the opium. The Chinese try to bottle it up there.”
Thoughts jostled for position in Charles’s nimble mind. He could easily reach Lintin. If I catch her without a protector, will it be harder or easier to coerce her back to England? Will it make the divorce harder? Nothing will make it easier.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to ask me?” Charles looked up to see naked sympathy in Oliver’s frank face.
Take me to Lintin, lay on the tip of his tongue. “Yes, one more thing, whatever Lady Zambak Hayden offers you, don’t take her off this island.”
Oliver’s brows rose to his receding hairline and dropped back over amused eyes. “The lady can be very persuasive.”
“Apparently not persuasive enough to convince anyone to take her to Canton.”
“Canton?” Oliver laughed so hard he spilled his rum.
~ ~ ~
Sometimes, Zambak really did sketch churches. At least, she did it often enough to have sketches to show Clara Elliot. In the dim alcove of the interior of Santo Antonio, she sat on a small campstool and blinked up at a statue. Less flamboyant than the ones lining the high altar, the very simplicity attracted her—that and the subject. She added lines in swift strokes, attempting to captu
re the strength of the woman if not the quality of the statue.
Boot steps echoed off the walls of the cavernous church, breaking her concentration and sending a frisson of caution skittering up her neck. No priest made such noise. She turned, alert to see who invaded her quiet, hoping Filipe followed the man in. He did not.
Sunbeams through clear glass made islands of white light down the main aisle. The invader strode purposefully into one and out into the shadow. Zambak stared at his polished boots and firm legs encased in buckskin. He held his hat under one arm and moved with confidence toward her, stepping into another island of white. Light danced off auburn hair, and Zambak clamped her teeth shut. Am I to have no peace from the man? She turned her back to him and resumed her work.
“Aren’t you expected at the school today?” Charles asked without greeting.
“How did you find me?” she demanded.
“That pink parasol’s green fringe is unmistakable. Filipe is lounging under it. Shouldn’t he be in here keeping an eye on you?”
She shot a baleful glance in his general direction and kept sketching. Perhaps if I ignore him he’ll leave me alone.
He stood for several moments running the brim of his hat through his hands.
If he wants an answer, he will wait a long time.
When she refused to face him, he sat in a pew across from her with a sigh. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Who is who?” she asked. She gazed up at the statue’s face. A few deft pencil strokes rendered the saint’s stance determined rather than merely peaceful.
“The woman in the statue. It isn’t the most interesting piece here,” Charles observed.
“Catherine of Siena.”
More moments passed with the scratch of her pencil the only sound. “Why her?” he asked. Irritating man.
“She interests me.” Again, he waited. This time she went on. “She took a vow to remain a virgin but didn’t retire to an abbey. She led a public life, commanded popes and the feuding houses of Italy, and she wrote the truth for men to hear.”
“Formidable. A waste, though,” he murmured.
She wheeled on him. “A waste? She changed the course of European history when she routed the pope from Avignon.”
“Not her work. The vow.”
“You think her virginity a waste? She owned the integrity of her own body and didn’t bend to the will of some man. It enabled her to live her life on her own terms.”
“On God’s terms, I believe,” he murmured softly.
“Good for God,” Zambak snapped. “I admire her for it. Pity the Church of England—”
“Pity the Duke of Sudbury won’t give his daughter that kind of freedom?” he asked.
She turned back to her work, showing him a shoulder rigid with outrage. Typical male. Again, the sound of pencil on paper, rapid this time in angry strokes, filled the air. She wondered, not for the first time, if Macao would provide her more freedom than London if she chose to live out her life there. I could be my father’s agent in China. I could . . .
“Temperance Knighton has both children and work,” he said. She kept eyes on her work. “A loving husband as well,” he added.
“Aaron Knighton supports his wife—a rare and unusual man,” she grumbled. He didn’t reply, and she finished the sketch. “Why are you here? Have you nothing better to do?”
“Elliot is back. I thought you would want to know.”
“Elliot? In Macao? Is Thorn with him?”
“Not that I heard. I don’t know that the East India Company clerks return to Macao.”
“Oliver told me Thorn may have left the Company,” she said. His surprise gave her the satisfaction of having one piece of information he didn’t.
“Elliot may have word, though,” he replied.
“True enough.” She rose in one fluid motion, bringing her drawing materials with her, and began to pack. “Then why are we here? Let’s see what the man knows.” She paused to make sure he heard the rest she had to say.
“You may have a commission from the queen, but my brother is my concern, Charles.” He didn’t argue. She was halfway out of the church before she realized he hadn’t agreed, either.
~ ~ ~
What goes on behind that flawless face? I can almost hear the clockwork that drives her thinking. Charles realized with a shock how much she resembled her father whose formidable brain worked ceaselessly. In Zambak, however, long lashes, perfect complexion, and delicate features covered the unrelenting analysis. Men rarely, if ever, looked behind the dainty appearance to the tough mind. Men see what they wish to see.
He tipped his head to glance at her composed profile again while they strode purposefully toward the English neighborhood. Behind them, Filipe struggled to keep up, the ever-present sunshade folded under his arm and the campstool in his hand. She had declined Charles’s arm and his offer to carry her drawing case, but the refusal owed more to distraction than churlishness. At the mention of Elliot’s name, she had withdrawn into her calculations.
I would give a small fortune to peer into her thoughts. Their conversation disturbed him. Virginity indeed! Even the little queen was under pressure to marry, however, although Elizabeth never had. Parties had lined up to push various candidates closer to the throne. He wondered idly if Victoria would retain any pretense of power once she did. Put in that light, he sympathized with Zambak’s desire to avoid being a dynastic pawn, but not her desire to avoid marriage altogether. It would be such a waste.
Her obsession with travel to the mainland worried him. News of Elliot’s arrival came to the Wild Swan soon after Oliver stopped laughing, and he had set out to find her. He hoped the superintendent’s return would put an end to her machinations, and it might if he brought positive news about Thorn. Charles would have to go drag the boy back to Macao if he hadn’t returned, if only to keep Zambak from attempting such a folly.
Chapter 11
When they rounded the corner and climbed the steps to the Elliots’ mansion, an agitated Hua opened the door to a chaotic scene. He did not take Charles’s hat or Zambak’s bonnet.
Luggage lay strewn across the foyer while servants carried parcels up the steps. In the midst, Clara Elliot lay weeping on her husband’s shoulder, and his son stood by with wide eyes, while Higgins hung back, his expression pained.
“Mr. Elliot, show more care in your speech,” Mrs. Elliot moaned while Elliot, a bluff man with military bearing in his middle years, patted her back awkwardly. Whatever news he brought had not been good.
When Charles laid a hand at the back of Zambak’s waist, she didn’t pull away. She studied the scene in front of them with troubled eyes. When his hand slipped to the curve of her hip, he couldn’t tell if she felt comforted, but he did—too much so. He pulled his hand back.
“Sorry, Clara. You weren’t meant to hear that,” her husband soothed. His eyes met Charles’s over his wife’s back, a question clear on his face. He glared at Hua who hurried over.
“Most sorry, Your Grace. Family is not receiving,” the old man said. At the mention Charles’s title, Elliot stilled, causing his wife to stand and accept her husband’s handkerchief. “You’ve caught us at a difficult moment, Your Grace,” she said with a sniff. Higgins hurried over to whisper something to Elliot who said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Sir.”
Charles inclined his head toward the man. “I merely escorted your guest back from her sketching expedition, Captain Elliot.” He longed to stay and offer Zambak his support; he longed to pepper Elliot with questions. He could do neither without pushing himself into a private family moment, and etiquette left him with no way in. He had to leave. “Perhaps we can speak tomorrow,” he suggested.
Zambak turned sharply toward him, and he raised his hand to touch her arm. “Perhaps…” she began.
Charles thought for a moment Zambak would refuse. Her shoulders sagged when she handed her drawing case and bonnet to Hua. “Of course,” she murmured. Only Charles seemed to notice the fire in her eyes.
Mrs. Elliot leaned on Zambak’s arm and allowed the younger woman to lead her upstairs.
“A moment if you please, Your Grace,” Elliot said behind the departing ladies. “And then, yes, we can talk more tomorrow.”
Zambak glared back over Clara Elliot’s shoulder, pleading with him, but Charles forced himself to ignore her. She’ll be hopping mad tomorrow, he thought. He smiled at the superintendent. “Of course, Captain Elliot. “I am—”
“I know who you are, Your Grace.” Elliot led him to the now familiar study toward the back of the house, shut the door in Higgins’ face, and got to the point. “I was not aware the government planned to send someone outside of channels. What do you have for me?”
Thoughts racing, Charles replied, “I am not here in an official capacity.” That’s true enough.
“Higgins told me you are making a tour of the Empire. Excuse me if I find it unlikely that a former Assistant Secretary for War and the Colonies stumbled by happenstance into Macao just as tensions spiked.”
Charles scored the thought in Elliot’s favor. No fool, he. He briefly debated opening up about his commission and decided against it. “I’m here for personal reasons, Elliot.” True as well. Elliot waited, brows high, for more. “The Duke of Sudbury is a family friend.” Another truth.
The superintendent relaxed a fraction. “His children? Well he ought to send someone. How he tolerated that girl’s hare-brained pursuit of her brother, I do not know—no offense intended.”
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