Glyncarn shook his head. Loathing sparked in his eye. “I don’t have the stomach for those kinds of games anymore. Too old. No amount of money would get me back in those waters.”
Beau could hardly believe the story. Not Mclean. He’d been a good friend, one of the best. No captain was more skilled or fearless. They’d both been officers in the Royal Navy and served together on the commerce raider, the St. Charles. Eventually they’d obtained commands on blockade-runners.
As he sipped his coffee, a vivid memory of the Roundabout’s capture came rushing back. Hate boiled in his gullet. He knew the Stampede well. Never would he forget the feel of cold steel jammed into his ear when Commander Rives hissed, “Swear you gave the command to fire on my vessel and your men will go free.” Twisted glee glinted in his eyes as he stood nearly nose-to-nose, his neatly trimmed beard and strangely prepossessing features pulled into a jackal’s grin.
The guards wrenched Beau’s arms up his back for the appropriate response, but he’d managed to wheeze, “We did not fire on your ship. Your shell hit part of our cargo and blew it back onto your vessel.”
Rives nodded to his guards who then beat Beau until he was nearly senseless. Afterwards, the commander shoved the gun into Beau’s mouth and cocked the hammer. His aquiline nose flared as he sneered and spewed spittle into Beau’s face. “You are a coward, a criminal and too arrogant to comprehend your incompetence. Swear or I’ll pull this trigger and hang your crew for piracy!”
So Beau confessed to Rives’s lie and saved his men.
Prison had been a series of dark and darker hells. When they finally released him, he’d a bagful of plaguey battle demons. Now when a memory of any of it crept in, he’d flex his fingers and imagine them locked around Rives’s throat.
Drawn back by Glyncarn slurping his coffee, Beau peered around the coffee house. “Is it my imagination, or is London crawling with spies?”
Glyncarn turned his head to follow his gaze.
At a small table in the corner, a fellow sat scribbling in a journal while pretending to read a paper. Even though the lighting had been dim at the inn, Beau recognized his face.
“No imagination, my friend,” Glyncarn said. “Plenty of Confederate sympathizers this side of the pond, lots of Union eyes too. Investors clamor to make money on both sides of the war.”
Beau slid off his stool. As he walked through the coffee house, he veered toward the man, strolled up to his little table, and looked him square in the face. “Weren’t you at the King’s Inn, night before last?”
The man squirmed and feigned confusion. “I don’t think—”
“I see you’re reading the London Parliamentary Review.” Beau reached down and slid the paper to the side revealing the London American, a pro-Yankee journal the man had hidden underneath. “Ah yes, keeping up with your fellow Yanks.” He tipped his hat. “Say hello to them for me, will you?”
As Beau turned to walk back to Glyncarn he heard the man mutter, “Swaggering villain.”
***
Beau strode into Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse under full steam. His little trip to the coffee house had answered more than a few questions and had helped make up his mind. “Jenkins, be a good man. Please arrange for a carriage. I’ll need it in fifteen minutes.”
“With pleasure, Captain,” the butler sniffed.
Beau marched up the stairs to his room and started throwing clothes into his trunk. Enough of this tomfoolery. The man he’d been had died when Rives forced him to surrender the Roundabout. It was a miracle he’d survived and still had all his limbs intact. Though tempting, the money C.C. offered would never be enough. Glyncarn spoke the truth. Life and freedom were far more valuable.
Death had stalked Beau too many times. His near miss with the gallows convinced him he’d used up all his good luck. Captain Mclean had been a better man than he—a man in his prime. His death made a sobering, cautionary tale.
For a short time Beau had the warmth and love of a family of his own. Millie and Freddie had given him so much joy. He’d been in prison when they needed him most. That guilt would haunt him till the end of his days.
Events over the last year had sated his urge for adventure, made him reconsider his life. There were safer, more stable ways to make a living. It was high time he stopped taking for granted the privileged world he’d been born into and the good family he still had.
Thomas had gotten him out of prison, hadn’t he? He should be with them right now, not charging back into a war across the pond. He didn’t need C.C.’s money. If he required more capital to build ships, he’d find his own investors.
Beau locked the trunk’s lid into place, fastened the straps, heaved it over his shoulder and quickly descended the stairs.
Jenkins stood in the vestibule at the ready.
“Please give Miss Collins my regrets.”
“You can give them to her yourself, Captain.” Her sultry voice echoed down the hallway.
C.C.’s vanilla and honeysuckle scent wafted over him, igniting memories of her coming to his bed in Grancliffe Hall. He dragged in the fragrance and turned. “I thank you for your hospitality, madam, but I’ve changed my mind and have a train to catch.”
“You’re very welcome, Captain. I’m sorry that our agreement didn’t work out.” A quaver entered her voice when she said, “Would you stay a moment so that we may say our proper good-byes?” Her smile invited discussions of a different sort.
His pulse stuttered. Perhaps one little harmless kiss wouldn’t hurt. Then he’d be on his way.
Slowly setting down his trunk, he found himself saying to Jenkins, “Please tell the driver I’ll be another minute.”
Beau followed her down the hall and into the library. Once inside, she shut the door and walked to a large desk. “Captain Tollier, this is Mr. Harvey Ledbetter, my man of business.”
Beau scowled between the two. She’d blindsided him again.
Mr. Ledbetter quickly approached him and offered a doughy hand. “Captain Tollier, I’m so pleased to finally make your acquaintance.” Small, tea-stained teeth filled a mustachioed grin. Pulling Beau over to the large desk, he pointed to the items sitting on top. “I’ve prepared a contract for your signature—”
Beau held up his hands. “I’m sorry but I’ve reconsidered.”
Ledbetter looked to C.C. as she quickly stepped around behind the desk.
She lifted the lid on a large valise sitting in front of her and turned it around. Sunlight slanting through the window flashed off solid gold. “Six thousand as promised, Captain. There will be another valise exactly like this one at the completion of the voyage.”
Beau couldn’t help the thrill of seeing so much gold. He forced a grimace. “I never doubted you’d be good for it. However, I’ve changed my mind.”
“What is different since we last talked?” she asked.
“I came to my senses. Thought it through. It used to be easy outrunning the Yanks. Their vessels were slow and stodgy. They had too much ocean to cover. Now there’s more of them, and they’ve gotten better at their job.”
“Mr. Ledbetter, why don’t you show Captain Tollier the Redemption?”
“Oh yes, capital!” Ledbetter quickly untied a large roll of paper and smoothed it out on the mahogany desk. Growing animated, he pointed to the technical drawings. “This is the latest design from Dinwitty shipbuilders in Liverpool. She’ll do twenty knots and can outmaneuver any vessel afloat.”
Beau looked at the paper and found his eyes devouring the lines and numbers. There, in front of him, lay the plans for a long, sleek steamship suspiciously similar to drawings he’d made over a year before. With a few minor modifications, this was his design. His pulse skipped with excitement as he said grudgingly, “Interesting vessel.”
“Oh, come, come, Captain, you’re more impressed than all that.” C.C.’s features were animated. “It’s a technological marvel. If it can do what the Dinwittys say, think of the exhilaration of dashing across the water on su
ch a vessel.”
The woman’s enthusiasm for the ship quite surprised him. Could she even fathom a seaman’s appreciation for superior engineering?
Pulling his gaze from her face, he let it settle on the drawings. Impossible. Women and especially C.C. couldn’t understand such an emotion. “If it lives up to their claims,” he growled. “But I’m not interested. I’ve better things to do. I returned to England to make a new life. I’m through with danger and destruction to life and property.”
“I can certainly understand your qualms,” she said. “The owners of the Redemption are well aware of the dangers and do not wish to lose their enormous investment. They are very particular about who they’ll allow command their new technology. Only the most experienced, most courageous captain will do. They chose you, Captain Tollier. Do you have the courage to command the Redemption?”
Courage to command the Redemption? He felt as if he’d been slapped. The muscles in his face worked into a hard scowl. If she’d asked him that question a year ago, he’d have snickered and called her daft. But a year ago he’d been a very different man.
Seeing professional drawings of his dream ship made him want to howl at the injustice. His design would have worked. Millie, Freddie…I could have been there for you with this ship.
Courage to command the Redemption? Bile churned in the dark, hollow place that used to hold his courage.
“Get someone else.” He shoved the drawings toward her.
She stood gazing at him. In a quiet voice full of compassion, she asked, “If someone you loved desperately needed help and you were the only one who could give it, wouldn’t you make every effort to save them?”
Beau’s face dropped. Then he clamped his jaws together hard. He would not stoop to show this woman the anguish buried inside. Of course he’d help. What kind of man did she think he was?
“Tell me, Captain, what about this ship makes you doubt its capabilities?” She gently slid the drawings in front of him again.
It was impossible not to gaze at the graceful lines of his dream ship. He rubbed the tight muscles in the back of his shoulder. “For starters, a ship is only as good as its crew,” he growled.
C.C. turned to Ledbetter. “What say you to that?”
The man’s mustache twitched in his efforts to hide his vexation. “The investors have already assembled and assigned a crew as is customary. I’m told the men are first rate. The ship only needs a captain.”
She seemed to read Beau’s face and glared at her man of business. “Ledbetter, I don’t think that’s what the captain wishes to hear.” She turned back to Beau. “What else would give a captain more assurance?”
“Let him assemble his own crew,” Beau muttered.
“Ledbetter?” She narrowed her eyes on him.
Her man of business stammered, “This is not…not, well, customary.” He frowned, shaking his head. “Highly irregular, Miss Collins.”
“Customary or hidebound?” She waved her hand. “If the captain feels more secure with his own men, see to it.”
Leaning over the drawings, Beau studied the measurements and turned the paper around to read the small print. The two propellers were exactly where he’d located them on his own drawings.
“Mr. Ledbetter tells me he’s secured passage for you on a merchant ship that leaves tomorrow for the Azores.”
Deeply absorbed in the specifications for the ship’s engine and counter rotating twin screw propellers, Beau hardly heard. His pulse thumped loudly in his ears, muting all other sounds.
How many times had he dreamed in prison about having a ship like this one instead of the Roundabout? It could have outmaneuvered Rives and prevented catastrophe.
What he’d give to even the score. That grinning jackal had taken the Roundabout as a prize and ruined his life. He found himself mumbling, “I couldn’t possibly leave so soon.”
“What else do you require?” C.C. asked.
“Mmm…I’m not quite sure,” he muttered, only half paying attention. “Need to decide on my own cargo to sell in Wilmington. Should buy it here. Too expensive where we’re headed.”
“Make a list, Captain. I intend to leave for Nassau in a few days on another ship. I will see that everything you request goes with me.” Pushing the valise full of gold his direction, she slid the contract in front of him, pointed to the line at the bottom where he should sign and handed him her jeweled purple ink fountain pen.
Chapter 9
Later that day, C.C. sat at her large mahogany desk hastily putting her affairs in order. Now that the captain had finally signed the agreement and taken his gold, she felt fairly certain he’d hold up his end of the bargain. But the scowl he’d worn when he left to take care of last-minute details did not fill her with assurance.
Plutarch lay sprawled across her lap in a boneless ball of fluff. Her fingers combed through his fur as she turned a page of her will. An estate the size of hers could give her heirs difficulty if she didn’t leave proper instructions. She intended her fortune to go to her family and cherished causes, not to sharks and officials who wanted to help themselves to her money.
The lengthy will included a large legacy divided between family members and servants, gifts to her various medical research foundations, bequests for charities, and the endowments for relief homes, retirement homes, ragged schools and orphanages.
C.C. realized long ago her convictions seldom aligned with society’s. Everything she did, she did because nobody else seemed to care. Where she saw hardship, she put her money.
Turning the page, she ran her finger down the list of programs.
One of society’s injustices had become a pet project. Old, broken-down seamen were outcasts, shunned as if they were a pestilence. Many had been impressed against their will and survived years of dangerous voyages to bring teas, spices and other luxuries to London’s tables. Their difficult work paid poorly and usually had no allowance for retirement. Once used up, old or infirm seamen were turned out in the streets to starve.
She reread the paragraph and searched the desk for her purple ink fountain pen. Unable to find it, she used a pencil to jot a note in the margin: “Clarify the funding for the two seamen’s retirement homes.”
Odd, she reflected, many women considered spinsterhood a stain. Moments like these reminded her of its benefits. She had the independence to act on her beliefs and spend her wealth as she saw fit. Marriage would give control of her money to a husband. She did not intend to haggle, or worse, beg to live her life the way she saw fit or where she put her money.
Fosco and Jossette lay napping in the pool of sunlight spilling through the tall windows. Rolling onto his back, Fosco squirmed and churned his legs. A chill draft seemed to blow across C.C.’s shoulders. Making a will didn’t strike her as being overly optimistic about this journey.
She flipped to the next page and read more legal jargon. It wanted explanation. Where was her purple ink fountain pen? The color made her notes stand out for her solicitor. She poked deeper through the desk’s top drawer; then she searched the side drawers again. “Where is it?” she huffed, frustrated.
Plutarch raised his head and woofed as if answering her question. Fosco and Jossette sprang to their feet and dashed to the library door.
Mrs. Arnold, her aunt, stuck her head through a crack in the door, a hesitant smile on her cherubic face. “C.C., are you in here? I came as fast as I could.” She bustled into the room. “Please tell me you haven’t done anything foolish.”
Snuffles, her aunt’s Bassett hound, bounded through the door after her.
C.C. looked up and smiled. “Auntie. Snuffles! You’re here.”
The hound loped over to C.C.’s chair. She reached down and gave him a scratch. “I’m sorry to have left the party at Grancliffe Hall so suddenly, Auntie. Were we missed?”
Her aunt frowned as she removed her traveling gloves. “The collective sigh of relief was perhaps a little louder than usual, dear. I don’t need to tell you it is un
wise to take on a politically connected man like Lord Falgate. Most men refrain from getting in his way.”
“I thank you for your concern, Auntie. He was under the mistaken impression I might want to do him a certain favor. Justice will never be served for poor Sarah, and her death should not be forgotten or whisked under the carpet. Hopefully tongues will now wag so loudly no other woman will be taken in by that blackguard.”
“You mustn’t wear the world’s cares on your shoulders, dear.”
“You know me, Auntie. When someone pushes me, I push back. I may not be able to change things, but I can certainly shine a light on the inequities.”
“You are fortunate to have powerful supporters. Lord Sutterland told me he was disappointed you left early. He’d looked forward to your daily chess games.”
C.C. shuffled her papers into a neat pile. “Did Amelia have difficulty explaining what happened to me?”
“I think she did quite well. She informed everyone Plutarch had taken ill and required his London veterinarian. Everyone knows how much you dote on that little dog.”
Hearing his name, Plutarch wagged his tail and got to his feet.
“And how did she explain Captain Tollier?” C.C. asked.
“She said business matters called him back to London. Hoping to avoid any other difficulties with the trains he accepted your very gracious offer to ride back with you and your attendants. She explained that your servants were accompanying you, so there should be no breach in propriety. I hesitate to mention it, but I did overhear one or two bets being placed that the captain would bolt at the next coaching stop and find his own way back to London.”
C.C. smiled and gently set her little dog on the floor.
Ignoring Snuffles and the other two dogs, Plutarch trotted over to the settee, jumped up and flopped on his cushion to continue his nap.
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