The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  “No. Every man deserves a second chance. Even those two.”

  * * *

  When he and Merial walked out on deck a short while later, Christopher glanced about the crew, ready to reprimand, to bark orders, to demand they pay her proper respect. Instead of the condemnation he expected, he found them industriously working, their eyes down as though they had been chastened.

  “I will see you at lunch?” he asked quietly.

  “Unless you have been struck blind.”

  Merial offered him a grin, then she scampered down to the galley, and vanished. His hands behind his back, Christopher went about his rounds, his expression stern. He received knuckled brows in salute, tiny, frightened smiles from those who dared meet his face, and no defiance. Standing at the bow, he found Johns in his place, busy watching the eastern horizon.

  Mayhew joined him. “All quiet, M’lord,” he reported, his voice, his expression, as strong and fearless as it usually was.

  “Continue a sharp watch for pirates,” Christopher said. “We stung them, and now they may crave revenge, as you say.”

  “Already have eyes on every horizon, M’lord.”

  Christopher lifted his gaze to the huge masts with every available sail speeding them toward England, then to the sailor crow’s nest with his spyglass to his eye. He checked the wind direction, and their course. “Very good, Mayhew,” he said. “Maintain course and heading.”

  “Maintaining course and heading, M’lord.”

  He paced the ship on his rounds, his hands clasped behind his back as usual, inspecting how the ropes were coiled, the rigging, the cleanliness of the decks. The albatross had been thrown overboard with many prayers to ward off the curse, and the spot where it had fallen had been scrubbed clean. Every feather had been picked up.

  As he walked, he discovered Daunger and Benson working industriously together, and even from where he stood he saw them talking together, agitation in their expressions, their gestures. Frowning, he strolled on, accepting the crew’s salutes with grave nods. Plucking the spyglass from his waistband, he scanned the horizon for any signs of pirates, storms, or floating obstacles, then made his way back to the bow.

  “Mayhew,” he said, as his first mate stepped toward him, knuckling his brow. “I want Daunger and Benson separated for the rest of the voyage. They are to labor at opposite ends of the ship. When one is sleeping, the other is on watch. They do not dine together.”

  “I will see to it immediately, M’lord.”

  Mayhew left his side to follow his instructions, and Christopher once again checked the compass for their heading. Johns, his broken and bound leg resting on a cushion, peered through his glass while the helmsman kept his weather eye on the wind.

  Knowing Johns had thought the world of Merial before the albatross landed on the deck, Christopher pondered the idea of asking the man how he felt about her now. For if Johns now considered her a catastrophe in the making, the rest of the crew most likely would as well. Deciding against it, he continued to stand with his hands clasped behind his back.

  The crew started to line up at the galley for lunch, and, feeling a bit hungry, Christopher made his way past them to stand and watch. Waiting while Merial and Gauthier served the meal, as Merial would not eat until the crew was fed, his anger rose.

  No fewer than six men refused to take their food from Merial’s hands, clearly snubbing her. Her face flushed with shame and her own anger, she sent Christopher a flashing glance while trying to smile and proffer the stew to others. They accepted, even if they did not return her smile and kept their eyes lowered and avoided hers.

  After all the crew save those on watch had accepted their meals, Christopher went back on deck. “The following crewmen will stand front and center,” he bellowed. “Cooper, Daunger, Smithfield, Craddock, Burns, and Cotton. Now, gentlemen.”

  The men whose names he called blanched, but obeyed, sidling toward him from their spots around the deck. Mayhew, also, stood at his side, his expression neutral, his back stiff as he stared at the crewmen lining up in front of him. Merial came up on deck, and watched from near the steps that led to the galley.

  “You men appear to have a problem with taking your meals from Her Ladyship’s hand,” he growled.

  He watched their faces grow more pale, some shifting their feet nervously, others licking their lips, and almost all flicked glances toward Merial. Daunger and Cooper looked at one another with clear anxiety, and Christopher suspected they were the ringleaders of this tiny show of rebellion. He glanced around the deck, and felt a twinge of unease that he did not see John Benson.

  “Obviously,” Christopher went on, his voice still low, dangerous, “that means you six are not very hungry. Mr. Mayhew, these men have no appetite. Thus, they will require no food for the next two days.”

  “Aye, M’lord.”

  If he thought they were afraid earlier, now his sentence terrified them. Their eyes bulged, their mouths dropped as though they were about to protest, but his gaze skewered them on the spot. “Mr. Gauthier.”

  “Oui, M’lord?”

  “You will sleep in the galley to make certain no one tries to steal food.”

  “Oui, M’lord.”

  “If any of these men are caught stealing food,” Christopher continued, “they will hang. If anyone on board is caught giving them food, all involved will hang. Am I clear?”

  “Aye, M’lord.” Mayhew replied as the six in front of him knuckled their brows, frightened, shamefaced. Their mutters of, “Aye, Cap’n” did little to calm his anger, and he could not help but wonder what might get Merial back into their good graces.

  “Dismissed,” Christopher barked.

  The six shuffled their way back to their duties. Christopher gazed around at the other crew members who had accepted food from Merial’s hands, even if they could not look her in the eyes. He shot a glance toward her, and found she climbed the steps to the poop deck. Gauthier followed with a platter, and Christopher waved Mayhew back to his duties.

  Joining them, Christopher sat down at the table as Gauthier served them the hot, delicious stew, half expecting Merial to protest his harsh sentence. Instead, she picked up her fork and toyed with the potatoes, carrots, onions, and chunks of beef on her plate.

  “You feel I should not have punished them?” he asked after the cook had departed.

  She glanced at him, then back down. “I did not say that.”

  “You did not have to,” he answered, picking up his wine cup. “Your face says all I need to know.”

  “What do I have to do to prove to them I am not cursing this ship, or bringing bad luck?” she demanded, her voice low and fierce.

  “Work a miracle?” he replied, his tone light.

  “I am not jesting, Christopher,” she snapped, glancing at him with a scowl. “Those men cannot eat for two days, and you will hang them if they do. Will you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how can I eat when they are not permitted to? It is my fault.”

  “No,” he said firmly, “it is their fault. They chose to behave in this fashion, you did not tell them to.”

  “They did not disobey any orders.”

  “Perhaps not. How far will my discipline go if I let something like this pass? Had I ignored it, then by dinner, no man will take food from your hands. Next, the snubbing of you will affect all facets of the ship and chaos will erupt. I cannot afford that, and neither can you.”

  He stared her straight in the eye, seeing her uncertainty, her worry, her fears. “Can you not understand, Merial?” he asked, his voice soft. “Discipline aboard a ship is essential. I do not dare let the smallest infractions pass without swift punishment, for the next time, the crimes will grow.”

  Merial offered him a small smile. “I can understand that, Christopher,” she replied, her voice just as soft. “It is simply hard for me to watch as men are punished because of me.”

  “That is the whole part of it,” he insisted, “it is not bec
ause of you. If you were not even on board and the crew grew unruly, or careless, I would still inflict punishment. Mostly likely the results of their infractions would be far worse than going hungry.”

  Spearing a chunk of beef with her fork, Merial ate it. After swallowing, she asked, “Have you ever had to hang someone on your ship?”

  Though he wished she had not asked the question, Christopher refused to lie to her. “I have.”

  “For what?”

  He really wished she had not asked that. “Being drunk while on watch.”

  Merial’s eyes widened, and her fork dropped into her stew. “No.”

  Impatient, angry, defensive, Christopher snapped, “You are not understanding how terrible a matter that is. If a crewman is drunk while on watch, and misses something crucial, that puts everyone’s lives in danger. We could ram into a shoal, be attacked, any numbers of situations can place our lives in the hands of a watchman.”

  “And if that watchman is drunk,” Merial went on, picking up her fork, “then he is derelict in his duty. I think I understand.”

  “Believe me,” Christopher added, bitter, “the man was warned several times. He could not stay away from the rum.”

  “It is simply hard to see things from my perspective,” Merial said slowly, “without living the life you have, or having faced the dangers you have, to see drunkenness as a crime that deserves death.”

  “In the Royal Navy,” Christopher said, finally eating his own stew before it grew cold, “sailors are hanged for far less than that. By their standards, my discipline is lacking.”

  She smiled slightly. “Then perhaps they are blessed to be sailing under your command.”

  “I hope so.”

  As they spoke of lighter topics, Christopher kept his eye, as usual, on the horizon, the sails, and the direction of the wind. Merial ate her stew while asking questions about some of his adventures, and how he came to own the Valkyrie.

  “I had her built specifically to my specifications,” he replied, “for speed as well as the cannons for her defense. On her maiden voyage, she outran two French privateers.” Christopher chuckled. “They never got close enough to use their cannons.”

  Merial smiled, though this time it appeared weak, and Christopher observed her sudden pallor. Her eyes focused inward, as though pondering deeply, or if she were not feeling well.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered, swallowing hard. “I was fine until this moment, and now I think I—”

  Rising suddenly, Merial rushed to the bulwark and vomited over the gunwale. Concerned, Christopher followed, his mind tripping over the memory of Gauthier’s serving of the bad shellfish.

  Could she have gotten ahold of some bad food?

  “Merial?”

  When she straightened, the flesh of her face was ghastly pale, and alarm raced through him. Sweat dotted her upper lip, and when he took her hands in his they felt deathly cold. “Gauthier!” he roared. “Get up here.”

  As he heard Gauthier’s boots on the steps, Christopher helped Merial back to the chair, finding that she swayed on her feet, her eyes rolling back into her head. She dropped, her knees buckling, faster than he could catch her. He managed to keep her head from cracking on the wood, and knelt beside her as Gauthier loomed over them both.

  “Were you negligent in your cooking again?” Christopher demanded, glancing up.

  The cook, knelt beside Merial, and peeled her lid back from her eyes. His big hand picked up her wrist, his head tilted to the side as he felt her pulse. “Are you sick, M’lord?” Gauthier answered, bending over to smell Merial’s breath as she slowly inhaled and exhaled.

  “No.”

  Christopher stared past him to the obviously healthy crew, who watched, open-mouthed, even as they performed their work. Only Merial had been affected, and right after she ate her meal. Rising, Gauthier went to her plate, and picked up a fragment of meat left behind.

  He smelled it carefully, then tasted it, chewing it thoughtfully. “No,” he murmured. “It is not this.”

  Picking up her goblet of wine, he took a tentative sip, then instantly spat the tiny amount over the side. “Sacre bleu!” he whispered. “The wine be poisoned.”

  “What?” Christopher scrambled to his feet, and grabbed the cup from him. He took a sip, finding the flavor slightly odd, but could not determine why or what had caused it to not taste right. To avoid Merial’s condition, he, too, spat over the side. “How can you be sure?”

  Gauthier withered him with a glare, then gently picked Merial up. “I be French, no? I know wines, M’lord, and that cup have poison in it.”

  Chapter 20

  He suspected his butler knew things. Knew secrets, dangerous secrets. He watched the man covertly as the butler served him his breakfast with properly lowered eyes.

  Perhaps I should dismiss him. But then he would have no reason to hold his tongue, if he did indeed know things he should not.

  As he ate, it suddenly occurred to him that ‘twould be an easy thing to poison him—a dollop of the toxic stuff in his fish or his leg of lamb as the butler brought it to his table. He eyed the man standing, waiting to bring the next course, his eyes staring blankly ahead. As they always did.

  It takes a certain kind of man to murder another in cold blood. He does not have what it takes to kill, even by a subtle means such as poison.

  Despite his assurances, the Earl could not help but wonder if he underestimated the man. If he had motive enough, such as revenge…

  The door to the dining room opened, and a footman entered to bow. “You have a visitor, My Lord.”

  “Eh? Who is it?”

  “He refused to give his name, My Lord, but merely said he has information for you.”

  Ah, the hunting dog. “Show him in please.”

  The footman bowed and left. He continued to eat his breakfast, pondering whether or not to offer the man food. He decided against it.

  I pay him well enough, let him find his own breakfast.

  The footman returned to bow the little man in. The investigator bowed, his hat in his hand.

  He waved his hand at the attending butler and footmen. “Leave us.”

  The servants bowed and left the huge dining room, giving the men privacy. He beckoned the man to sit. “Any news?”

  “Good fortune smiles upon you, My Lord,” the little man said with a small quirk to his lips.

  “It is about time.” He wiped his mouth, then took a sip of tea.

  “A ship docked at the harbor early this morning,” the hunting dog said, eyeing the food as though hoping for an invitation to dine. “It carried a survivor of the Atlantica.”

  Growing impatient with the man’s hints rather than speak out, the Earl glared at him. “Cease your games, imbecile, and tell me everything.”

  The man blinked, but his expression did not change. “The Atlantica is the ship that took the girl, My Lord, if you recall. The survivor says it was attacked by pirates and sunk with all hands—save one. Himself.”

  He clenched his jaw to stop it from dropping, yet he knew he could not conceal his triumph. “The ship that sailed with her on board—sank? And the only survivor is that man who just came in? You are right, my friend, good fortune is indeed smiling upon me.”

  “Now that the girl is dead, My Lord,” the investigator went on, his little eyes on his, “I expect our relationship is now at an end. I will admit that working for you has been profitable as well as entertaining.”

  “Perhaps our business relationship need not be concluded, my good chap,” he replied, his joy at the revelation that he was now free from the threat the girl posed coursing through him. “Just what do you charge for a spot of—” He lowered his voice, “—shall we say, termination.”

  The hunting dog’s brows rose. “Just whom might be the intended target?”

  “A member of my household staff,” he replied, his voice soft. “I fear he may know things about me.”

&n
bsp; “I daresay we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement, My Lord,” the man told him with a tiny smile.

  “I do hope so, my dear chap.”

  Chapter 21

  Voices. Whispers. Bright lights flared behind her closed eyelids.

  Merial swam toward wakefulness, blinking, confused, her stomach on fire and nauseous at the same time. She heard herself moan, and forced herself to stop. The voices instantly stopped, and she felt a hand on her brow.

  “Merial?”

  Opening her eyes, she found Christopher’s blurred face close to her own, and she blinked again to clear her eyes. He came into focus, but her muzzy head made his face swim in her sight. “What happened?” she muttered, her tongue thick.